Better Than Burroughs

AN: I changed the title of the chapters and I'll be adding everything I have posted on FictionPress. I got very behind with updating this site so I'm sorry to those of you on here that read this story. I'll try to be better about it in the future.

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Callum

I woke up with numb hands and I must have slept on them or something. I took some pain killers before they thawed out. I probably fucking tortured them. I also woke up with Marin’s soft body wrapped around me and it took all of my will power to get out of that sodding bed. I’ve been up for a little over an hour and she’s still out. I even made myself productive and went down to the store. Not to open it, just to tape a sign on the door that said I wouldn’t be opening at all on the account of a borderline, paranoid, masochistic breakdown I had the night before. People can take it however they see fit. Now I’m sitting at the island drinking orange juice. Actually, I’m nursing the orange juice and staring up at my bedroom. I want her to wake up. I’m a fucking wreck. I need to see her face and know that she doesn’t pity me. I don’t want her sodding pity. It doesn’t do anyone any fucking good.

We didn’t get to sleep till late and it’s only eight. She won’t be up for a while. I finish the rest of the juice and go upstairs, stepping lightly. She’s sprawled out on her stomach, one hand under the pillow and the other underneath her chest. The blankets are twisted around her legs, her bare fucking legs. They’re impossibly long and pale. She’s not one for the tanning process apparently. The shirt’s bunched up around her waist and her ass is so fucking perfect I can’t believe it. Well, at least she’s wearing underwear. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed. Upon closer inspection, I smile when I see the Batman logo. Never pegged her for a comic fan. The sight is too much and I pull one of the blankets up to cover her arse.

I take one more look at her and make the decision to get back in bed. If she’s going to keep sleeping, I’m damn well going to get back in bed with her. I pull my shirt off, my pants next, and keep the boxers. Not that I wouldn’t want to see her face when she found my naked body beside her. She makes a noise in her sleep as I slide underneath the blanket. She doesn’t wake up and I’m surprised. I wake at the slightest noise. I can’t even fathom not waking when someone climbs into bed with me. I want to hold her to me but I don’t. I’ll just hurt my hands and I must have been insane to cut my hands. I can’t fucking touch her now. Maybe that’s what I wanted. To get rid of the temptation. I should have just kicked her lovely arse out. Fuck, I should have just kicked my sorry arse out. I could have done something a long time go, I’m just too god damn scared.

On my back, I almost fold my hands beneath my head before I remember that it wouldn’t be a good idea. I’m finding that I can’t do the most important things now. I want to draw her. She looks like…well I guess like a goddess, sprawled across my bed. I doubt this is an image I’ll forget though. Somehow, she looks different than the others. I’ve never wanted to draw others and I’ve found myself drawing her far too many times. I don’t have it in me to stop or trash them when I’m done. They’re just piling up in one of my folders. What a way to get her pants off though. It won’t fucking happen. I don’t want her seeing that shite. Why not though? I don’t fucking know anything right now. I’ve spent fuck knows how long wanting her and now I just want to talk to her. I can’t even think of fucking her anymore, it just seems to damn crude. I want her, just not how I used to want her. I don’t just want to fuck her, I actually want the damn bird. What the hell did she do to me for Christ’s sake!? She’s scaring the absolute strength out of me. Saying that I couldn’t possibly love her is not only denying what most likely is the truth, but is completely just not giving her any credit.

She must read my damn mind in her sleep because she moves closer and her hand falls on my stomach. Below the belly button. Dangerously close to an area she doesn’t need to be around right now. She shifts closer and I can feel her warm breath on my shoulder. She finally seems to settle back down after she’s hooked a leg over mine. That’s one leg hook too many. I squeeze my eyes shut and count my heartbeats. She must be fucking with me. She’s probably awake and doing this just to fuck about. That explanation is a lot easier to believe than her feeling this comfortable with me in her sleep. What did I do in my sleep last night? I don’t even want to think about it.

I try to fall asleep and ignore the feeling of her body pressed against me. I’m completely mad for it, the fucking boxers doing nothing to tamper my raging fucking erection. I should have put jeans on. I need to fall asleep and dream of things of an unerotic nature. Although, I doubt it’s possible right now. Her breasts are pressed against my arm and I have no idea what the score is anymore. Not that I ever really did.

Marina

Opening my eyes, I find that I’m facing the window and the sun pretty much blinds me. With a groan, I flip to my other side and collide against Callum’s chest. I freeze, a hand braced against his stomach, and look up to see if he’s awake. He is. His head is resting on his elbow, his hand behind his head and he’s grinning at me like he knows something I don’t. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

“G’morning sweetness,” he says, his voice is raspy from sleep and a ball of lead settles in my stomach.

“How’re you feeling?” I ask, looking at the wrapped hand resting against his hip. Blood has soaked through the wrap and I’m pretty sure that he’ll need stitches. His left hand was cut far deeper than the right, probably because he’s right handed. I didn’t say anything last night because I doubted he would go. I still doubt he will, but I really think he should.

“Could be worse,” he says with a shrug of one shoulder.

“Will you go to Urgent Care and get stitches?”

“Do I need them?”

“I think you may for your left hand,” I say with a nod, resting my head on my hand and leaning on my elbow.

“That bad?” he asks, bringing his hand up to look at with a frown. I nod instead of saying anything because I don’t need to say anything. Does he wish he hadn’t done it? What is he thinking right now? I slept beside him all night, in a bed, and he didn’t try anything. Not to my knowledge anyway. He wouldn’t have really been able to anyway, not with his hands out of commission.

“Would you go with me?”

Smiling, I say, “Of course. I was going with or without your approval.”

“Not now though, now I lay here and listen to you talk.” He rolls over onto his back, resting his hands on his stomach and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say. After a few seconds pass by, he looks over at me and asks, “Did you love him?”

He doesn’t need to say Felix’s name cause who else could he be speaking of? Sighing, I roll over on my back as well, my shoulder pressed against his and my hands on my stomach. I stare at the ceiling, “I thought I maybe did.”

“How’s that work?”

“After…well everything died, I just didn’t...miss him like I should have, I was just relieved in the end,” I say slowly. It’s hard to answer the question because I don’t know how I thought when I was with him. I can’t even comprehend it. Callum doesn’t answer so I follow the train of thought, keeping the topic on romantic relationships. “Have you ever been in love?”

“No, I’ve never been in love,” he answers, putting an odd strain on been. “You laugh when by yourself.”

“What?” I ask, sitting up to look down at him. What’s he talking about? From my position, I have to wonder if he’s wearing pants. The sheet stops just at his pelvis bone and if he’s wearing anything, it’s riding low. I wish I didn’t have a weakness for that area on men and his is just too damn perfect. Combined with his own little ink addition, I have to force myself to look at his face when he answers.

“There are two types of people, love. One type only laughs out loud when others can hear. The other type laughs regardless. You laugh regardless and it’s impossibly arresting.”

I don’t know what to say and I flop back down on my back. It’s true, I do laugh at things when by myself. I never thought of it before though. Doesn’t everyone? But that’s a tad random. Unless he was just wanting to change the topic away from not being in love. If that is the case, I just won’t let him do it. I love when he’s honest. I think I’m becoming addicted to it, to hearing him speak from his heart. I don’t like that he’s never been in love. He deserves it. He really does. I wonder what sort of a partner he would be. All the crazy behavior and sleeping around, I don’t know, for some reason I just don’t think he’s the cheating type. He’s too passionate. I think that if he ever really found someone that he could love, I think he’d be faithful. Or at least maybe I hope. I don’t think he’d be able to deal with someone cheating on him. God knows what he would do.

Looking over at him, I’m struck by how beautiful he really is. Dark eyes that seem to be trying to shout things out all the time. Say things that he won’t let himself speak. I’ve never seen green eyes appear so dark. Sometimes they can be so clear and bright and other times, they just look so black. I love his eyebrows and his aversion to shaving. His jaw is strong and right now it’s not clenched at all. He looks relaxed. His eyes fall shut and I want to kiss his eyelids.

“Thank you for…I don’t know, dropping your guard I guess. Last night. You usually have so many walls built around yourself and it just seemed like there weren’t as many last night,” I say softly, wanting to talk about it but not wanting to tell him that straight out. I don’t want to push him.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. Finally he says calmly, “Not everyone uses them to keep people out Marin. Sometimes a wall’s purpose is just to find the one who’s willing to spend the time getting through.”

His admission hits me hard and I want to tell him that I’m willing, more than willing, to take the time. I would probably sound like a fool and it would be hinting at something far more than friendly behavior. Because honestly, I want him to kiss me. Ever since he had that outburst in which he told me he wanted me, I’ve been waiting for him to do something. Besides making his usual comments, he hasn’t done anything. Maybe he’s changed his mind. I don’t know. It’s driving me crazy. I don’t even really care about what happens afterwards. I don’t know if I want a relationship. My last one didn’t exactly work out all that well and I wouldn’t expect Callum to change. It wouldn’t be fair of me. He’s never pretended to be something else. I knew ofhis attraction to women early on. Felix pretended to be faithful. He lied. I think the difference between the two is that Callum would be honest about cheating. He’d probably never make the commitment to begin with. There’s something so enduring about that sort of honesty. Of course, I don’t think I would be able to get involved with him knowing that I’m not the only one he’s involved with. That’s a relationship isn’t it? So maybe that is what I want. I don’t care what it’s called. I just want to be with him.

I still think he needs to open up more, talk about his past. It’s therapeutic to get things out in the open and he gives the impression that he’s just waiting for someone to ask. Taking a deep breath, I ask, “How did your parents meet?”

“Why do you want to know?” he rolls over onto his side and his stare is almost too much. I shrug meekly and almost back down.

“Because I want to know who you are.”

“No you don’t,” he insists with a forceful shake of his head and I don’t believe him.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?” his voice is bordering on pleading and I don’t know what we’re really talking about anymore. His emotions have been all over the place and I don’t know what the right thing to say is. Should I go for humor and play it off or should I just tell him? I can’t crack a joke now. He’s looking at me and I can’t lie to him.

“I just…want to know you.”

He leans over me and I stop breathing. He’s going to kiss me. His breath is warm and I realize that he must have woken up earlier because it smells of orange juice. He woke up and got back in bed with me. He wanted to lay with me. I wait for him to kiss me but he stops and just looks at me. I want to erase the last kiss. I don’t want him to hesitate. Without giving it much thought and running on instinct, I slide my hand to the back of his head and pull him down, lifting my head in the process and kiss him. Unlike my reaction to when he did this, he responds immediately. His kiss is hard and demanding and I lean back into the pillow. I taste orange juice and toothpaste and oh god, I haven’t brushed my teeth. I turn my head to break the kiss but he follows after, not allowing me to end it yet. He’s not touching me anywhere else and I can’t follow suit. My hand clutches at his hair and it’s so soft and it only seems to spurn him on. His tongue slides across my bottom lip and I moan. He immediately takes advantage. I can’t even think. He’s just too much. I can feel him hard against my thigh and I can’t breath. He nips at my bottom lip and I arch my back into him and try to pull him more fully on top of me.

“Fucking…bullocks!” he shouts, tearing his mouth from mine and sitting up quickly, panting slightly. He shakes his right hand loosely in the air and I sit up beside him, worried instantly. I take his hand and ask if he’s alright. He laughs and turns his head to kiss my forehead, “I just leaned on it.”

“Hey,” he says, bringing his hand up to my jaw and brushing his finger across my skin. “You’re shaking.”

My breath catches and I realize that I am. I laugh it off but he looks so happy with himself that I can’t help but smile. He drapes an arm over my shoulders and guides me back down. I use his shoulder as a pillow and we stare at the ceiling. Everything is perfect right now. This moment is better than the kiss. It’s calm and charged with possibilities and my body tingles. The lead weight in the pit of my stomach seems to roll back and forth and I don’t know what it means. I’ve never felt this way before. It’s like he’s in my stomach. It’s not butterflies. It’s not light. He’s heavy and unyielding.

Callum’s voice is steady and soft, “My mum’s name was Anise and my father’s was Earnest. They met in London. My father was only there for a short while, visiting friends of his. He told me that he saw her beside the road, walking with her sister, and he fell in love with the way she moved. She was twenty three, he was three years older. My mum had never left the place before she met my father. Her family…they didn’t approve of their relationship. Actually it was nothing so civil, they didn’t approve of his being Irish. He stayed there for a month and when he went back home to Dublin, she was with him. They got married a few months following.”

Tilting my head to look at him, the fact that he misses them is the most obvious thing in the world. I want to make him feel better but I don’t know how. His parents sound lovely and romantic. I wish I could have met them. I can picture Callum as a little boy being doted on, endlessly. I can’t even imagine what it was like having that taken away. Twice. He keeps talking and I listen to every single word. He says that his mother’s parents didn’t like the Irish, something that wasn’t uncommon for people that age. I can’t imagine cutting your daughter out of your life because she fell in love with an Irishman. It’s ridiculous. I don’t ask about whether or not they had interest in him as a child.

“What happened to you…afterwards?” I ask timidly, wanting to know so desperately if he was alright. I know he ran off, but I don’t know the events surrounding it.

“My Aunt was supposed to get me. I had no interest in going with her. They never showed me any fucking consideration. I knew that they just wouldn’t accept my Irish blood. Something so fucking asinine as blood. Besides, there was money. I came with money. My father had quite a bit of it. Family business and whatnot. I would have rathered slit my throat than have those selfish prats gets their hands on it.”

“So is that how you can afford this place?” I ask with a smile. So he has money. Why doesn’t he want to buy this place then? The store? The Anderson’s thought he should.

“Yeah, not that Charlie and Betty charge all that much to begin with though. I don’t really do much with it. Actually nothing. Everything comes from the store. I make just enough there that I’ve never really needed to touch my family’s money,” he says, his voice sounding so much calmer and content. He’s relaxing and I think getting used to this, talking about his family. I’m glad. I love hearing about his life. I know that my turn will be up soon enough and I’m putting it off for as long as possible. I’m just not one to talk about myself too much. I always feel weird. Like the person I’m talking to is just wanting me to shut up already.

“You’re still getting stitches,” I remind, not wanting him to conveniently forget.

“Of course,” he groans, rolling over a bit to bury his face in my armpit. His hot breath tickles and I try to squirm away from him. He almost stops me, but shouts another curse word when he grabs my hip with his hand.

Sitting up, I cradle his hand in my lap, “You really need to stop forgetting about this.”

“I won’t,” he sighs, glaring childishly at his other hand. I smile and bring his hand up to my mouth. I kiss his palm lightly, extra careful not to exert too much pressure.

“Keep doing things like that Marin and the pain in my hands won’t stop me from…” he says thickly, letting his Irish side come out fully, not finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need to. I swallow, warmth spreading throughout my body, and nod in understanding. I feel a rush knowing that he still wants me. It’s addictive and I wonder what else I can do to bring this out of him.

“We can’t have that. The sooner you heal…” I trail off and he adds his own conclusion in his head because he grins like a predator. I have no idea what I’m doing right now. I feel like I’m seriously playing with fire. It sounds so cliché, but Callum is just too much. He tilts his head from side to side, crackling noises apparent.

He takes his hand away and gets off the bed, standing and stretching his arms over his head. My fingers itch to touch him. His skin sliding over muscle. That damn tattoo on his arm that all I want to do is touch. I look lower and the boxers are riding so low that I think I actually may see more than I bargained for if he moves too freely.

“If I have to get stitched up, let’s do it now,” he says, dropping his arms heavily to his sides. And maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear his boxers slid lower. I need to stop looking and he needs to get dressed. I still don’t move though. I nod and smile, but I don’t get up. His bed is just too comfortable and I’m scared that if we leave this room and go out into the world, things will go back.

I watch him look through his drawers and pull out a pair of jeans. He tosses them on the bed and I pick them up. They’re worn and I’ve seen them before. He looks far too good in them. Plus, he’s worn holes in the knees and it’s obvious that they’re real holes. Not holes that were made with the jeans or holes that he did himself on purpose. They’re holes that happen when he slides around on his knees on the roof. I know he likes to draw up there. He’s up there a lot. I’ve only been up there once and he wasn’t drawing at the time. I just wanted to see everything that the flat had to offer. Once he can draw again, I’m definitely crashing his party.

He grabs his jeans away from me and pulls them on, quickly zipping and buttoning them but still careful not to hurt himself worse. Picking a shirt up off the dresser, he pulls that on as well and I smile. It’s a plain white shirt with puffy paint sprawled messily across the front. It looks like a child went crazy on his shirt. There’s a colorful nature scene drawn across it. When he turns to get socks, I see that the scene doesn’t end on the front, the back is an under water scene with fish and dolphins. A sea turtle that is slightly out of scale takes over the entire lower portion.

He sits down next to me and I can’t help it, I reach up to trace the puffy paint on his back. He looks back at me but doesn’t say anything. I smile, “And the story with this shirt is…?”

“Gloria, a wee bit friend made it for me,” he says, busying himself with putting socks and shoes on. So he hangs out with kids? Where did he meet this kid? This is adorable. God, I’d let him have his way with me right now just because of that. Jeez, I’m way too easy. It’s just the shirt matched with his rough and tough personality, it’s so endearing.

“Up, get dressed, let’s go,” he says, standing up and heading for the stairs. Sighing, I drop back down on the bed, not wanting to get up. I want to go back to sleep even though I’m not tired. I close my eyes and the second I do, Callum yells from downstairs, “Get your Batman loving arse down here! Now!”

Almost throwing myself off the bed, I get down on the floor and crawl over to the edge of the overhang, laying on my stomach and dangling my arms over the edge. “How dare you look at my butt,” I scold, looking down at him in the kitchen.

He tilts his head back and smirks, “A tad hard not to, sweetness, not when you’re nubile body is sprawled wantonly across my bed.”

Not bothering to argue, I stand up and make sure my shirt is in its rightful place. Walking down the stairs, I deliberately ignore him, not looking him in the eye, and head straight for my room. So he looked at me while I was sleeping? The thought sends a thrill through my body and I wonder what went through his head.