indigo_angels

The title says it all really! Written for a challenge on the kink meme, five times Hannibal upset Face and made him cry and one time they were tears of joy, and dedicated to my own little Face at home, and anyone else who is different x

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I don’t remember my father. In fact I don't remember either of my parents at all, but I suppose it’s my father I’m really thinking about here. I do have one memory though, one that pre-dates all the definite stuff I can remember about priests and nuns and orphanages and all that stuff, and it concerns a man, so I suppose I could be some vague parental throw-back.

I remember crying, really crying, sobbing so hard like children do so that your head pounds and your chest burns and you honestly think you’re going to die. And then I remember a voice, no image, just a voice, a man’s voice, telling me to stop. I can remember the words, clear as if they were spoken yesterday, as they reverberate round and round my head, “Stop crying! Real men don’t cry! How will you ever be a real man if you cry?”

I tried to stop, I know I did, but it just made it worse, made each sob burst out of me even louder than the last. And with each sob the guilt, the anger, the total humiliation just rose higher, made me even forget why I was crying in the first place.

It’s the same every time I think about that memory now, and that unknown man, he was probably just a bus driver or something, but every damn time I think about it, it makes my cheeks flush and my skin crawl. Real men don’t cry? Well, that’s unfortunate, because it’s all I ever damn well seem to do.

..1..
First impressions count, yeah? Well, that’s what you are always told, so breaking down in tears in front of an entire cohort of potential Rangers first week in training school probably isn’t a good plan. Add to that the gaggle of COs come for their first look at the fresh blood, wanting their pick of the new recruits, and it’s probably professional suicide. It’s all very well knowing that, but telling your traitorous tear ducts is something entirely different.

I guess I am just wired up wrong somewhere inside my head; I don’t seem to work like everyone else. I can see things instantly, patterns, solutions, lies, potential, but I find it hard to listen, to concentrate on one thing for too long. If something pops into my head, I say it or do it, but at least I am quick enough to cope with the consequences. Sitting still is difficult and reading can be troublesome; I can read, I do understand, but then remembering anything five minutes later is a challenge. My IQ falls into the ‘very superior’ category, Father David had me tested when my elementary school said I was ‘learning deficient’, but written papers can be confusing, it all depends on the way they are set out.

The faulty wiring seems to spread right out into my emotions as well, the second things start to get too much, the tears start up. I cry if I’m hurt, sad, frightened, don’t most people? But also when I’m angry, frustrated, embarrassed, and they are the ones that are hard to take.

Living like I have for so long, where I am constantly on the edge of something, always trying to fit in, to be the person people expect me to be, or even the person they don’t expect me to be, is trying. Damn near exhausting really, but what choice do I have? What am I going to do with my life? Drift from job to job, home to home, looking for something that fits me? Or go out there and grab something?

I decided to grab, so at fifteen I sat down and thought about myself, really thought about me. I knew all the things I was bad at, so many years of people telling you make it kind of easy to remember, but finding things I was good at was harder. Eventually I had my list though, and then I thought about the type of person I wanted to be, and that was much easier, perfectly straight forward. I wanted to be a ‘real man’, one that would prove this guy, whoever he was, that he was wrong about me. So armed with the facts, the decision was simple: I would join the army. I would join the best part of the army, and I would be the best of those best. There was only one real choice; Army Rangers it was.

So, you could see how important this was for me, this was the difference between living and existing. So did I want to ruin it all at the first hurdle by losing my grip in front of everyone? Not fucking likely.

It’s hard to pinpoint where it all went wrong. We’d run the range, I was still sussing everyone else out so just tucked in and made sure I came home about a third of the way down. Didn’t want to show my cards too early, not until I’d had chance to work out who were the ones to beat. We were just milling around, taking on some water, checking out the competition when a couple of the senior officers wandered over.

I spotted him straight away, Lieutenant Colonel Hannibal Smith, a name that had come to me as part of my endless research into being the best, a damn near legend in the Rangers. It was vital that I made a good impression on him.

Not wanting to appear arrogant as Father David often warned me I could, I stayed back, necking my water and listening as he approached another one of the recruits, dark haired guy, called Santos or Santo or something and complimented him on the way he’d gone over the monkey bars. I hadn’t meant to speak aloud, hadn’t even realised I had until I’d felt everyone’s eyes on me and Smith had asked, “What was that soldier?”

I froze, hoping beyond hope that I hadn’t really said, “Only useful if the Bosnians install monkey bars on the approaches to all their camps,” out loud... and met the Lt. Colonel’s appraising blue eyes. “Sorry sir?” I asked, praying to a god I had largely ignored over the years that the ground would open up and swallow me.

Everyone fell silent, and the people in front of me split down the middle, leaving Smith standing right in my line of vision, a couple of other COs came over and stood at his left to listen to what was going on and I felt that traitorous, dangerous burn start up in the back of my eyes.

“I thought you said something?” Smith asked, his voice quiet, but carrying perfectly in the now silent morning.

“No, sir,” I replied, wondering if blinking would clear my vision or send all that unwanted moisture spilling out over the edges.

I decided against it in the end and the Lt. Col. tipped his head slightly to the side as he looked at me steadily before saying, “If I know anything about the Bosnians, and I’m certain I know more than you, kid,” a few sniggers sounded behind me and Smith’s face suddenly disappeared in a haze of moisture, “then I know that anyone who underestimates anything they might do is either stupid or dead.” My face was burning hot as I forced myself to keep looking in his direction, to keep standing up straight, to not let him see what was inside me. “So which are you then?” he asked, the mild amusement obvious in his voice.

“None, sir,” I responded immediately, hearing the roughness in my voice and the renewed sniggers behind me. And then the unthinkable happened. Despite my decision not to blink, to hold my head up high and steady, fucking gravity got the better of me and yanked all the damn liquid from my eyes. First one and then the other, I felt it rolling down my cheeks, tracking through the sweat and the grime and running right down to my chin.

All my hard work, ruined.

All my efforts to finally make something of myself, the studying, the research, the self examination, okay, the forged documents as well, all pointless now. I was crying in front of one of the most bad-ass Army Rangers in the history of the US army, a man whose unit I had, up to one short hour ago, been aspiring to join. And worse than that, he was about to dismiss me, I could tell from the now clear view I had of his face, and I would have to turn and face my fellow recruits, the clean tracks down my cheeks left by the tears blatantly obvious. And then it would all be over, I may as well pack up and head out; there was a room at the Y with my name on it after all...

The thought of all that made the tears run faster, but I held my ground, determined to look as much like a real man as I could, despite any evidence to the contrary, and he did dismiss me, but not in the way I had anticipated.

Silence had fallen all around and the other two COs were whispering to each other, obviously looking forward to Smith tearing a strip from the cocky, smart assed recruit, but that look was back on Smith’s face, the tilted head, as if he was weighing me up very carefully indeed. And then he made his decision. “Right then, soldier!” he snapped making me jerk to attention even though it hadn’t been asked for, “I think you need to run that range again, prove to me that you aren’t an idiot or a dead man. What time did you get first time round?”

“28.42,” I answered, knowing I could go faster without much effort.

“Under 28 minutes then,” he said, and I took a breath, squared my shoulders and, feeling the humiliating moisture on my cheeks, prepared to turn around and face the music. I never got the chance, just as I went to move, the Lt. Col. stepped back out of my way, his massive bulk blocking the view of the other two COs and making sure I could make my escape without having to turn around. For just a second I couldn’t move, and I felt that stupid burning start up again, this time in relief that it wasn’t all over.

But then he nodded at me and I took off like a hare, not even acknowledging him properly in my haste and by the time I’d got half way round, I had myself back under control.

In the end I did it in 27.10, but the Lt. Col. wasn’t there to see. Didn’t matter though, all I was really aware of was that he’d had the chance to cut me down, hang me out to dry in front of everyone, and he hadn’t. I wondered why, wondered what on earth he had to gain from that decision, and wondered if I’d ever get the chance to prove to him exactly what I was really capable of.

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