“Real fucking hilarious,” he bit out, turning back to the TV.
I washed him down, my gaze going to the TV a couple of times to see what he was watching. It was some old cowboy movie and I smirked and glanced over at Beast.
“I didn’t know you liked cowboy movies.”
“Didn’t know I liked anal either but hey I guess we learn something new every day, huh,” he replied without looking away.
I tutted. “You don’t have to be such a jerk all the time,” I mumbled, gently sponging down his thick thighs as carefully as I could.
His body was healing really well, and Doctor Collins seemed to think he was over the worst of it. There was still along way before he’d be ready to leave the hospital, but his bruises were finally fading and his skin was knitting together, leaving behind thick scars in their wake. He still refused to take off the bandage from around his head though, and despite what he said, I think he was scared that he was blind in the bandaged eye and just didn’t want to know.
Sometimes it’s better the devil you know. I wasn’t pushing him on it—no one was. He had enough to deal with right then.
I cleared away the water and cloths and unscrewed the lid to the cream to put over his burns when he suddenly jumped.
“Fuck yeah!” he yelled.
“Oh my god, don’t do that!” I yelled back, startled.
He turned to look at me, his arm snaking around my waist. “You see that, Belle? That there is John Wayne, goddamn brilliant actor.”
I looked over, a small smile playing on my face. His arm around my waist felt comfortable—natural, even. His fingers played with the material as he talked, telling me about the film he was watching. I’d never seen him like this—so unleashed of his anger—and I stood there for five minutes straight while he talked about the movie.
“I’m not a fan of cowboy movies. They’re all about shooting and riding and shooting some more,” I said, my fingers spreading cream over his forearm. “I just don’t get it.”
He snorted but didn’t say anything, and I stopped what I was doing and looked at him.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Women never get it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Some women must.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” I said, continuing to apply cream. He hissed as I pressed against one a little harder. “Sorry.”
“Whatever, just hurry the fuck up,” he grumbled, his good mood evaporated.
“You don’t have to be so moody all the time.”
“You don’t seem to get it, Belle. I am moody, and I am a jerk, and I really don’t give a shit, though those are two of the lamest insults I’ve ever been called, but whatever.” His jaw twitched as he clenched it tightly.
I pouted. “I don’t believe that. Everyone wants to be liked.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t a good laugh. It was a laugh that said he ate bunnies and killed kittens. The kind of laugh that gave you nightmares.
“I couldn’t give a fuck if people liked me or not.”
I pouted harder, not ready to believe that. “Well, you’re a mean, moody jerk and you should care.”
He shook his head. “There you again with those bullshit insults again, Belle. You need to call me something that really gets my blood pumping if you wanna piss me off.”
I finished with the cream and screwed the lid back on the tub. “Oh yeah, like what?”
“I don’t know, Belle! What kind of fucking question is that?”
I shrugged. “I’m just not good at the whole calling-people-mean-names thing.” I realized how pathetic that made me sound, but it was the truth.
