Borden 2 (Borden 2)

I closed the glass door and sat down on the toilet seat, watching him intently. He rinsed himself off, scrubbing beneath his fingernails, glancing at me every few moments as I waited for him. When he finally finished, he stepped out and didn’t bother with a towel. He stood in front of me, dripping wet, his beard now a few inches long, his hair curling over his forehead, water lines trailing down his face. He glistened all over, his black and grey chest tattoos prominent against his tanned skin.

“We’re going to bed,” he stated simply. “Come on.”

“No,” I stubbornly replied. “What happened to you?”

He fisted his hand for a beat. I caught the movement, and my eyes flickered between his fist and his angry face. He’ll never hurt you.

“Marcus,” I whispered, catching the way his body began to tremble, that anger of his spiking alarmingly. I felt my fear climb, and I had to remind myself over and over again that he would never hurt me. He wasn’t like that, even though he scared me when he was this angry.

I hesitantly reached my hand out to him. “Marcus,” I said in a soft voice, “it’s okay.”

He took my hand and I pulled him down to me. He went to his knees, looking back at me with this disconnected look I couldn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized swiftly, resting my other hand on his face. “I shouldn’t have pushed. I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me. Don’t get angry, Marcus. It’s not worth it.”

He didn’t react to my words. He was so distant. Something was wrong, and I didn’t know how to fix it. I let go of his hand and rested it on his face too. I stroked his bearded cheeks, trying my best to distract his anger with my touch.

“Hey,” I continued, “don’t go distant on me. Come back.”

Every time he looked away, I repeated my words, until his eyes were drawn back to mine. We stared at each other for what felt like forever, until slowly the anger he felt began to wean. His eyes gained focus, and he started to really look at me.

I smiled softly. “There we go. That’s the man I love.”

He inhaled sharply at my words, the blues of his eyes glistening. “I’m sick of it,” he hoarsely said. “I’m sick of it so much.”

“Sick of what, Marcus?”

“Sick of washing the blood from my hands.”

I swallowed hard at the pain in his voice. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he replied vehemently, his lips quivering. “It’s fucking not okay. I can’t keep doing it. I thought I was numb. I thought I couldn’t feel anything, but every punch I gave tonight, I felt something inside me tear open. I felt this sick twisted feeling in my stomach, this fucking kind of remorse I couldn’t shake. The fucking realization I’m going to be doing this to people who cross me all my life; fighting them, torturing them, killing them, burying them and washing my hands clean of them. Washing the blood. Washing it away, but it’s still everywhere. I can see the red everywhere, and I can’t end it. I can’t fucking end it until I find this prick and tear him open.”

He was shaking. His face had gone pale, his lips turned blue. I quickly grabbed the towel off the hook behind the door and draped it over his ice cold body. Jesus Christ, his skin was freezing everywhere. Like he’d been washing himself in cold water.

“Let’s get you to bed, you’re tired,” I told him, feeling shaken by his words. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow when you’re thinking clearer.”

He gripped me by the shoulders, squeezing me tightly. “You’re not listening! I’m going to be doing this all my fucking life, Emma.”

“Then stop!”

“I can’t just fucking stop. People like me can’t stop. I’m stuck in this power, stuck fighting to stay on top. If I blink, I’m fucking dead. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you –”

“And you still want to stay? You still wanna be with a fucking target your whole life?”

“Marcus –”

“Answer me!”

“Yes!” I shouted, tears stinging my eyes.

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

He dropped his arms and collapsed to the ground, his back against the wall. He banged his head back, glaring up at the ceiling as another wave of anger tore through him. Moments passed in silence. I watched him every second, wondering what the hell had happened earlier to make him this way.

“Your grandmother was right,” he finally whispered to me bitterly. “I couldn’t fucking protect Kate. How the hell can I protect you? How can I save you from all this bullshit, Emma?”

I shook my head at him. He didn’t get it. “You can protect me and you have. Graeme and Hawke have never let you down. You didn’t have the support then as you do now, and I know what I’ve gotten myself into. I’m willing to live this way. It’s just…I’m doing this because I get to be with you and…I don’t want to be rescued, Marcus. I just need to be loved.”

He looked vulnerable. Torn open. Conflicted. He swallowed hard and said, “Years ago when I used to really hurt people, I’d shoot up after. It got bad when Kate died. That’s why I need Hawke. He’s there. He’s always been there to clean it up for me when it got too bad. He made me put the heroine away. He made me do clean kills and had the guys do the really dirty work. Tonight I was without him, and tonight I tortured a guy, and I had no way to get this feeling to go away.” He paused and finally looked at me, his warring face cutting holes through my chest. “And then there’s you. You see my ugly side, you see me like this, fucking split open, a man washing his hands clean of somebody’s else’s blood, and you still stay. You…don’t fucking leave for one second, and I bet you haven’t even thought it too, huh?”

I blinked back tears. “No.”

“Because you love me.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.” He shook his head, his face pained. “You rip my heart open. You fucking rip it apart, Emma.”

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

“I’m addicted to it, doll. I fucking love you for it. I fucking love every inch of you, and there’s not one inch of you I deserve.”

My heart squeezed in my chest. I felt lightheaded by his words. I moved to him quickly and wrapped my arms around his torso. I held his cold body to me, burying my face into his chest to silently cry. It mattered so much to me that he loved me. They were happy tears, and he wrapped his arms around me, comforting me when I should have been the one comforting him after his breakdown.