A/N: So I haven't posted anything in a long time, but psyche b. mused's story, What the Cat Dragged In, really inspired me and I've gotten really into this Victor Creed fic. Victor meets my character pretty much the same way he met her character, but I asked her if it was okay to post the story with that detail taken from it. There might be a few other similarities, too. I really hope she, and all of you guys enjoy this. It's a sort of mix between the movie-verse and comic-verse Victor, with details taken from both worlds.
I don't own any Marvel characters or any of the name brands that may be mentioned in the story. This is a Victor Creed/OC story. Enjoy!
ONE:
Snow. Blinding snow. It was all she could see, all she could feel. Well, that wasn't entirely true. There was something niggling at the back of Ayasha's mind, like she had forgotten something she needed to remember. She could also feel the distant burn of cuts on her hands, one clutched to her chest, the other trying in vain to shield her eyes from the blowing snow. Her black braid was mostly undone, whipping around her face and neck. Taking a breath that burned her lungs with cold, Ayasha forced herself to take another step, then another, and another. She couldn't tell if she was wearing shoes or not; all her extremities were almost completely numb. Hell, she didn't even know what clothes she was wearing.
She didn't know if it was day or night, or when the last time she'd eaten was. All Ayasha knew was that she was cold, and that she had to keep moving, that she couldn't stop for anything. She knew that she couldn't let herself get caught again. So she took another step, and another, unaware that her bare feet were leaving bloody tracks smeared through the snow behind her.
000
The smell of blood only reached the feral mutant because the latch on one of the windows gave way. The glass shook in its frame as it banged open, letting the snow rush in with the howling wind. The big man swore; he had been in the middle of a big glass of Jack Daniels in front of the crackling fireplace, immune to the bitch-fit mother nature was throwing outside. Swearing again, Victor Creed set the glass down, and shoved himself up off the massive couch. His unlaced boots thudded across the wood floor as he went to close the window. Then he paused, brows coming together slightly.
Blood was in the wind, a woman's blood. The cold numbed most people's sense of smell, but Victor about as far from "most people" as a person could get. He let the wind snatch at his shaggy, dark blond hair, closing his eyes and opening his mouth to taste the wind as well as smell it. Yes, there was a woman outside, not too far from the house. Beyond the blood, her scent was that of someone who'd been stuck in the same room for a long time, someone who hadn't washed properly for a long time. There was also fear. It was numb and removed, like an afterthought, but it was still in her scent. The rest was hidden by distance and snow.
'What the fuck would a frail be doin' out here in this shit?' he wondered, squinting out the window now. 'Fuck; what would anyone be doin' out in this?' Any other time, he would have shut the window and ignored any poor fucker trapped in the storm; why should he care if some idiot died? Victor gave a backward look at his tumbler of whiskey on the table beside his chair, grumbled a curse, and shut the window. He re-laced his heavy boots and yanked on his shearling coat. Not bothering with any other protection from the weather, he unbolted his front door and stepped out into the storm.
"Frail better have a fuckin' amazing story to tell," he muttered.
000
Ayasha heard shouting behind her. She almost missed it in the howling wind, but when it reached her, a jolt of fear stabbed into her chest. The man was still following. The niggling at the back of her mind grew more insistent, and she knew she'd forgotten something important. For some reason, she'd been made a prisoner, and she knew that she would do anything not to return to that. Even if it meant freezing to death. The shouting was getting louder, bits and pieces of unintelligible words carried to her on the wind.
"NO!" Ayasha shouted back, her voice catching in her throat and turning to a squeaking rasp. She started running, not knowing where the newest surge of strength came from. With it came more awareness of her body. There was pain in her feet now, numb and cold and heavy, but she ran all the same. She no longer bothered shielding her eyes, holding her arms out in front of her.
Finally, words reached her, choppy and disjointed. "Fucking no-good—cunt! Find you and—within an inch of your—!"
The rest was snatched away and Ayasha ran harder. "No," she whispered to herself. She felt like she was trying to run in sand; sand that reached for her feet and ankles with icy, biting hands. But she still knew that the pain was better than what was behind her, that room she had escaped. Her floundering movements were brought to an abrupt halt as she came up against something large and solid. What little air she'd had in her lungs was driven out of her, and she fell back, bracing herself for impact with the ground. Instead, she felt pressure around her wrist, and a hard yank on her arm as something halted her fall.
When the frail didn't try to get her footing again, Victor yanked again, pulling her up against his chest. There were fresh cuts all over her hands and forearms. His keen eyes could see the blood in the snow behind her as well. She was a little thing, her dark head barely level with his pectorals. When his arm cam around her back, holding her too him, she began to struggle, seemingly unaware of any pain in her hands as they beat weakly at his chest.
"Calm the fuck down, frail!" he said, raising his voice against the wind to be heard. "I ain't hurting ya." The girl seemed to sense the truth in him, because she stilled, and then sagged in his grip, body shaking with fatigue. He could feel her ribs through her shirt, as well as the bumps of her spine; she smelled unwashed and underfed, but there was plain relief both in her scent and her body language. She had buried her face in his coat, and was clinging weakly to him like a life preserver. Victor shook his head and laughed; frail had no idea how stupid she was being.
"I won't go back," Ayasha muttered stubbornly into the outer leather of his coat. "I won't, I won't, I won't."
Her voice was nothing more than a rasp, but he heard it all the same. Victor turned his attention to the scent of the man following her. He had the smell of a man who was impotent, angry, and in all likelihood someone who liked to beat on little girls. Granted, Victor was somewhat similar in the latter, but that didn't mean he was just gonna give the frail back. After all, she'd come onto his land, so she belonged to him now, and Victor Creed never shared.
"I'll give you ten seconds to turn the fuck around, and get the fuck off my property!" he shouted, seeing the shadowy shape come into view. Victor's voice was a baritone bellow, and easily cut through the storm. It was almost as if it scared the wind, for the bluster died slightly and vision cleared. The man that had been chasing the girl was dressed warmly, carrying a big flashlight in one hand and what looked like a knife in the other. He could smell the girl's blood on the blade.
"Not... going anywhere... without... that bitch!" the man wheezed. He was overweight and out of breath, pointing angrily at the frail with the oversized knife.
Victor bared inhumanly sharp teeth and laughed, a dark, frightening sound, but for some reason, the frail wasn't scared by it. "Not fucking likely," he said. "She don't belong to you, and you're trespassing on my property. Time's almost up."
The man moved forward, stopping when he was barely four feet from Victor. "I'm her legal guardian, and she ran away. I'm taking her back home!" Victor saw his hand tighten on the knife handle, and could smell his aggression.
Ayasha tried to stand up straight, clinging to her savior's coat and pressing as close to Victor as was physically possible. She refused to look back at the other man. "No," she said. "Not going back with you."
"Ya see?" Victor adjusted his grip on the girl, pulling his coat from her grasp and wrapping it partially around her, his hand moving down to her waist where her hipbones jutted sharply. "She's not goin' anywhere with you."
"She's mine, and I—!"
"Time's up." Victor's free arm lashed out almost faster than the eye could follow, clenching around the man's throat. His eyes bugged out, and he stabbed his knife into the thick muscle of the mutant's forearm. Victor didn't even flinch, snapping the man's neck backwards with as much effort as snapping a twig. Letting the man drop, he removed the knife, and lifted the frail up into his arms, her tiny body curling into the warmth radiating from his barrel chest.
"Thank you," she breathed, eyes closed and body starting to go limp.
"Never thought I'd hear a fuckin' frail say that," Victor muttered, turning around and heading back towards his house.
000
There was a folded blanket hanging off the back of the couch, and Victor wrapped Ayasha in it as he carried her through to the bedroom. He turned on the lights with his elbow, and dumped the girl on the massive king sized bed. She curled in on herself, shivering violently. Looking at her now, she looked more like a medical invalid than someone who had been starved. She didn't have the sunken eyes or dull, thinning hair of someone denied proper nutrition over a long term. She looked more like she had just laid in one place for a long time and eaten just barely enough. She had the darker skin, full lips, and slightly textured hair of someone with black parentage, the rest of her bone structure clearly pointing to strong Native American blood. It wasn't a mix seen every day, but Victor had been around long enough to have seen just about every ethnic mix there was.
The fact that she was wearing a soaked set of blue scrubs, and had bandages in the crook of each arm confirmed his guess about her previous location. But she certainly hadn't been in any hospital; she lacked the cloying scent of disinfectant and the sick. She shivered again, bringing him back to the task at hand. Putting one knee on the bed, Victor used his claws to shred the front of her top, and then to slice the waistband of her pants. She made a weak, pitiful sound that could have been a protest, and she lifted her lids to look blearily at him with brown eyes so dark in color they were almost black.
"Gotta get you dry," he grunted, pulling off the remains of her clothes. She had no underwear, but was too cold to have any concept of shame. He wrapped the blanket back around her, and yanked the covers back on his bed. Pulling her up with one arm, he tucked her swaddled body under the quilt. She looked even tinier in his massive bed. Victor turned to his dresser. He didn't have anything that would fit her, but he pulled out a t-shirt and returned to the bed. He sat at the head of the bed next to her, kicking off his boots and sticking his legs under the covers. Then he pulled her into a sitting position between them, putting her back to his chest.
"Arms over your head," he said, shaking the t-shirt in front of her eyes. She made a quiet noise and weakly tried to lift her arms. They had once been finely toned, but months of stillness had caused them to atrophy. Growling in annoyance, Victor lifted her arms for himself, putting first one and then the other into the shirt's sleeves before pulling it down over her head. He pulled off his own shirt, tossing it away and pulling the blankets up to the girl's chin again. When he pulled her back against him, she squeaked, connecting the shirt he'd thrown away to the elevated warmth against her back. He slid his arms under both her own and the borrowed shirt, putting his big hands on her bony torso, claws sheathed.
Normally he wouldn't bother with this shit. He was better dispositioned towards putting frails in such a state, not bringing them out of it. But he wanted to know what the fuck she and the dead waste of skin outside had been doing on his property. And she couldn't very well answer if she were dead or half frozen.
He started rubbing in circular motions, and the frail tensed for a moment. But her fear of assault quickly faded as Victor's body heat continued to seep into her. It was actually disconcerting for him as all fear left the girl, and she leaned back, welcoming the warmth he provided. He paused for a moment, looking down. There was nothing but trust on her tired face, and Victor couldn't remember the last time anyone had looked at him with that particular feeling in mind. Just how stupid was this girl? Couldn't she sense the danger? After all, he'd easily killed the man that had been chasing her. Even if he had rescued them, most frails would have been scared shitless by him anyways.
But Ayasha wasn't afraid; for the first time since she'd woken up, she wasn't afraid. She felt safe enough to close her eyes, to lean back into this giant of a man with a furnace in his chest. She didn't even mind that his nails seemed abnormally long and and sharp whenever they made contact with her skin. The massaging of his warm hands was bringing her slowly back to life, and she didn't even care when they brushed the bottom of her breasts.
Victor couldn't help but laugh; a full, deep, gravely sound that rumbled in his chest. "Frail, if you were a cat, you'd be purrin'," he chuckled. He could have done anything he wanted to the weak little thing, and she wouldn't be able to stop him. He was a stranger, a big stranger that could kill easily. But the stupid little thing felt safe enough not to stop him touching her. She wasn't even uneasy.
He dipped his head and breathed in her scent again. The first thing he noticed on the closer inspection was that the girl was a mutant, like he was. Her body gave no indication of what kind; he'd ask her when she was a bit more removed from death's door. He continued his massaging, working warmth into her trunk first before moving out to the extremities. He only stopped to microwave a glass of milk in order to put something warm in her belly. He had to give it to her like she was a baby, holding the glass and letting her take small sips until the milk was gone.
Eventually, after hours had passed, he began to feel a little warmth in her skin. Knowing that most of the danger had passed, Victor laid her in the bed on her own, putting a hot water bottle wrapped in a pillow case on her stomach. She was asleep almost instantly, turning onto her side and curling into a ball around the warmth. He stared down at her, taking a sip of the Jack he'd retrieved from the living room. Now what the hell was he supposed to do? He wasn't exactly in the business of rescuing damsels in distress; he was much more familiar with being the one putting them in distress. Rescuing them was Jimmy's thing.
Any other time, he would have gladly taken advantage of Ayasha's trust and weakness. But for some reason, the urge just wasn't there where this one was concerned. He was more curious about her. For someone who showed all the signs of having been in a coma she had put up a hell of a fight before she had run into him. He'd had to bandage her hands and forearms in several places; they were covered in defensive wounds. He'd also had to deal with her raw, bloody feet. The knuckles of one hand were beginning to swell under torn skin and a darkening, brown-purple bruise. Freshly woken coma patients didn't usually put up that much of a fight.
Victor sat down at his desk and turned on his computer, glancing over his shoulder at the little lump in his bed. The scent of a contented and peaceful female was not one he was used to. Even if they had come to his bed willingly, they always had some idea of how dangerous he was, and were never completely at ease. But this stupid little thing was lost to the world, breathing easy without any idea of what kind of man had saved her. Well, that would certainly change quickly. He had no intention on hiding what kind of man—some argued he was more of a beast—he was. Just because he'd decided to be generous for once didn't change anything.
000
When Ayasha woke up, she could feel considerably more than she had been able to last time. Every inch of her felt tired, like she'd done ten triathlons in a row. Just lifting her hand to rub at her eyes was an effort and caused significant twinging. She groaned, the shudder that went through her causing even more pain and turning the groan to a whimper. Memory snapped back with painful clarity, and she tightened her body, instinctively making her body as small as possible.
But everything was different. She wasn't laying on the lumpy mattress she'd woken up on the first time. There were no needles in her arms, tubes in her nose and throat, or the sound of monitors beeping in the background. She was surrounded by warmth, laying with her head on a massive pillow and body hidden under equally large blankets. Layers of them. Her fingers and toes were still chilled, but she felt almost human again.
She chanced opening her eyes. The dim blur slowly came into focus, and she blinked at what she could see from the pillow. There was a bedside table with a lamp and an empty glass on it, but nothing else. Beyond that was a desk with a dark computer monitor, tower, and keyboard on it. There were no lights on, but a dim natural light streamed in from a window between the nightstand and the desk.
Slowly, cautiously, Ayasha sat up, wincing as her joints creaked and protested. Her braid was still mostly undone, and she could feel her unwashed hair sticking up at odd angles around her head. She lifted a hand to it, and scowled. Though her mixed heritage had given her some leniency, her hair was far from easy to manage, and it had obviously gone uncared for for who knows how long. She tried to smooth it down with one hand, not quite trusting herself to stop using the other as support.
Looking down, she saw a multitude of adhesive bandages around her fingers, and gauze taped over spots on her forearms. She shuddered, remembering the man's knife. Fear sat like a stone in the pit of her stomach, and would have turned to full blown panic if she hadn't been certain that someone had taken her away from that. She could hardly remember anything from last night—had she only been out for a night?—and she knew that there was no way the man with the knife would have brought her back to a place so warm and comfortable.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to recall in more detail. She remembered a deep growl of a voice, and big, warm hands. Her cheeks heated as she remembered just what those hands had touched. Easing back down, she pushed back the covers a bit, and looked down at herself. The men's t-shirt she was wearing was far too big, turning into more of a dress on her. Her legs looked like they belonged to someone else; her knees were sticking out more than normal, the muscles gained by hundreds of hours of bike riding diminished. Try as she might, Ayasha couldn't remember anything about her coma. When it had happened... How... Her roommates would probably have filed a missing person report if she'd been gone as long as she thought.
"Can you walk?"
It took a lifetime of learning how to blend into a crowd and go unnoticed to keep Ayasha from jumping and squeaking in alarm. Tensed even more, she looked towards the voice. A man was standing in the doorway, one arm leaning against the frame. He was big, with shaggy hair and built of nothing but hard muscle. The light in the bedroom was too dim to see anything else, and the light on in the hallway behind him didn't help.
"Asked you a question, frail," he growled.
Ayasha sat up a little straighter. "I think so?" she whispered.
From the tone of his voice, he might have been raising an eyebrow, but she couldn't tell. "Well, c'mon, then. You ain't eating in my bed." He turned and started walking back down the hallway. She hadn't realized that she even was hungry until he'd said something; in fact she felt like she hadn't eaten in days. That wasn't strictly true, but sh didn't think that liquid nutrition pumped into your stomach through a tube really counted as eating. She could smell food too. Her mind was still too foggy to tell her exactly what it was, but her mouth was already watering. Untangling herself from the blankets was easy enough, and she swung her feet—they were bandaged too—around to put on the floor.
Or at least she tried to; the bed was a lot higher up than she expected. She slid down, her feet hitting the floor harder than she'd intended, making her hiss and grit her teeth in pain as the bandaged soles protested sharply. That only made her jaw hurt, so she forced herself to relax, and used the bed to straighten herself. She took one step, and then another. There was pain, but it wasn't anything worse than walking on torn blisters; she would manage. Continuing at a careful pace—she didn't quite trust her body to keep doing what she told it to—Ayasha shuffled out into the hall.
It was real hardwood under her feet, and the rest of what she could see—the walls bare of pictures or any other kind of decoration—had the feel of some kind of cabin out in the woods. The hall led out into a massive kitchen/dining room combination, but she failed to notice anything other than the thick table and chairs next to a peninsular counter. There was a steaming plate of food on the table, and the big man from before was sitting in one of the chairs, leaning back with a can of beer in one hand.
Victor looked the girl over in the better light. She looked even tinier than before, practically swimming in his borrowed olive drab shirt, the hem falling a few inches above her knees. It looked good against the dark, reddish, olive-russet of her skin, the collar trying to slide off one of her shoulders. The way she half leaned, half held onto the wall showed a bit more of woman's figure, if a little bony for his usual taste.
Most of the anxiety and fear that had been in her scent was gone, replaced and dominated by hunger. She was trying to keep her attention on him, but failing miserably, the plate of scrambled eggs and thick slices of fried ham always pulling her gaze back to it. A grin pulled at the corner of his mouth, revealing a pointed fang. He pointed to the other chair, and she got a glimpse at his claws. "Sit," he ordered. The only reaction the frail allowed herself was a widening of the eyes before she hobbled over to the table, walking around the side farthest from him.
She let out a breath of relief as she sank into the chair, before her almond-shaped eyes got even bigger as Victor slid the plate over to her, the knife and fork on the edge clattering slightly. "Eat. Yer way too fuckin' skinny."
Ayasha's stomach growled loudly and it was all she could do not to drool. Oblivious to the twinging in her hands and wrists, she picked up the silverware. For a moment she tried to remember her manners, but they abandoned her the second the first small piece of ham was in her mouth. The knife was forgotten as she tore chunks from pieces speared with her fork, alternating between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and gulps from the glass of water that was produced.
It wasn't quite the look of someone suffering from starvation in her eyes; she was still too aware of her surroundings for that. From the clothes he'd found her in and the smell of antiseptic, metal, general mustiness that usually permeated medical facilities, Creed guessed that the frail had been fed by tubes. And he didn't really consider liquid nutrition pumped directly into the stomach 'eating'. Plus, whoever it was had obviously done a shitty job. Her eyes were slightly sunken with dark circles under them, and her one exposed collarbone stuck out more than it should have, even for someone with her build. She only paused for a second when he chuckled before she continued wolfing down her food. Victor sipped at his beer in silent observation, her awkward awareness of him actually amusing. It had been a while since anything other than his prey's terror and blood had made him smirk this way.
There was something else that interested him too. A slight sharpness had begun in the air around him when she woke up, and had only gotten more noticeable when she came in and sat down at his table. He already knew that she wasn't any kind of psychic or empath; enough people had fucked around with his head for him to know when someone was trying to. The feeling wasn't anything like that. He waited until she had cleaned the plate and drained the rest of her water in one go before speaking.
"So what were you doin' on my property in the middle of that fuckin' blizzard?" he asked, voice a subdued rumble.
Ayasha swallowed and chewed on the inside of her bottom lip, brows pulling together. "Don't really know." Victor growled at her, anger flickering in his eyes. "I don't!" she insisted, shifting anxiously under his glare. "It's... it's complicated and... and fuzzy."
He blinked and raised a brow slightly, but the glare remained. "Fuzzy?"
"Everything is... hard to remember." She stared intently at the bottom of her empty glass. She swallowed again in an attempt to wet her suddenly dry throat. "Woke up with all kinds of I.V.'s and tubes sticking outta me," she rubbed the bandage in the crook of her left elbow, "and a bunch of monitors and screens everywhere." Fear was rising in her scent again, and the sharpness in the air around Victor was fluctuating. "Not sure how, but I got outside. I was in this big, walled-off parking lot; there was barbed wire along the top of the wall."
Creed sipped at his beer, staring at her when she looked up at him. She quickly looked away and continued. "There was an empty van running, but my vision was so blurry and I was shaking so much I knew I couldn't drive... Took a risk and hid in the back. Someone got in and drove it beyond the wall, but..." There was anger mixed in with the anxiety now. "Didn't realize how weak I still was, and I passed out. Woke up with that man yelling and trying to drag me out into that storm by my hair."
Her knuckles had gone tight and pale around the glass, and Victor could smell that one of the cuts had reopened and started bleeding again. "You fought 'im and ran," he finished for her. She nodded dumbly, and he took a swig of his beer, draining the can and crushing it like tissue paper.
"So what kinda mutant are you?"
That made her look up at him, brows coming together again and lip popping out from between her teeth. She looked awful tempting when she did that. "What're you talking about? I'm not—" He leaned forward and growled again, making her jerk back. "I'm not!" Fear quickly replaced the anger that had entered her eyes, but there was no lie there. However, the underlying tang in her scent refuted her words; she was a mutant.
Victor's eyes narrowed. Her powers had manifested already, he knew that for sure. Were they so weak and useless that they had simply gone unnoticed? With the way that sharpness was tingling around him he wasn't so sure. He sat back. "Yeah, you are," he said, tone shutting down any possibility of argument. He tapped the side of his nose with a clawed fingertip. "Can smell it on ya."
"You can—? Oh!" Understanding crossed her face. "You're a feral?" she ventured.
One brow lifted again. "You met a feral before, frail?" He gave her a wide, toothy smile, still leaning towards her. She tried not to squirm under his gaze, and the predator in him stirred. He wondered what kind of sounds she'd make when his claws pricked her thighs, or when he bit at the soft, dark skin of her neck.
The glint in his eyes was making her even more nervous, but Ayasha answered him anyways. "My best friend growing up," she murmured. As grateful as she was, she wasn't going to drag people she cared about into whatever dumbfuckery she'd gotten herself into.
Ferals weren't exactly a rare class of mutant, but they were usually loners, or ran with a pack of a few other ferals. Those that couldn't pass for human—like Victor—were practically never friends with humans, or in this case, a mutant that thought she was human. He wasn't sure if he liked the idea of the frail being friends with another feral. She'd shown up on his land; she belonged to him now. And even if she was still too fragile and easy to break for him to really enjoy that claim, that didn't stop him from getting pissed off at the idea of another feral sniffing around what was his. Even if she hadn't been his at the time.
A soft growl left him, and he took a deep breath, lids lowering slightly as he focused all of his considerable olfactory abilities on her. He was pleasantly surprised at all the information he was able to pick up on. Normally, it was just surface information that came through; wounds, general health of the body, recent locations, moods, etc. The rest was usually just little hints scattered throughout. His brows knitted; he'd never been able to read anyone so clearly.
Mutant, born and raised in the city, but that wasn't where she'd spent all her time. She did spend a fair amount of time around two different dogs, one a pittbull and the other some kind of terrier mix. She was older than she looked—between 19 and 23—and had exactly seven metal fillings. She had been in some kind of medical facility for close to eight months, but it hadn't been a hospital. The two people that had spent the most time around her were both males—Victor was already half imagining tearing out their throats—one white and in his fifties, the other Indian and in his late twenties.
The intensity of his eyes never wavered. No one had ever looked at Ayasha that way, so she would've had no idea what was going through a normal person's head, let alone Victor's. What she did know was that the look made her blush, and her heart beat a little faster. The wary anxiety never lefty her, but the majority of her fear was slowly ebbing away. Her stomach was full, and she was in a warm—and hopefully safe—place. The tension in her shoulders and jaw eased, and she leaned back into the chair, still avoiding Victor's eyes.
Now he focused in on Ayasha's personal scent. A strange mix of sweet, warm, and spicy, it wove through her anxiety and budding curiosity, hints of his own smell from the borrowed shirt hanging on the edges. It was a pleasant mix, and it made him wonder how she'd smell after he fucked her. The idea made his cock twitch. 'No, not yet.' She'd break too easily the way she was now, and he liked to have fun with his toys before he broke them. It was far too much fun to watch them get all flustered and confused... or scared out of their minds... But for the time being, Victor kept the more bestial part himself at bay. At any rate, the girl's nervous trust in him was almost comical; it would keep him entertained for a while.
That left him with a rather pressing question. What was he going to do with her in the mean time? She couldn't exactly wander around the place in nothing but his t-shirt; he'd end up fucking her before the day was out.
That, and Ayasha's eyelids were starting to droop, her grip slowly loosening around the glass. With her stomach full, her body was going into full recovery mode. Victor may have saved her from the worst of the storm's wrath, but her body—atrophied and underfed—had suffered significant trauma. Before her grip got any looser, he stood and took the glass. She started, but he was already next to her, gathering her into his arms as easily as a sleeping kitten. "Don't need you droppin' and breakin' shit," he muttered, one arm behind her back and the other under her knees.
Ayasha looked up at him, brows furrowed. The manhandling made her a little uncomfortable, but the large, warm hand felt good on her back. "Sorry," she mumbled, letting her head lean against his chest. It radiated the same comforting heat that had saved her from hypothermia. She couldn't remember having felt this safe in a long time. "Thanks for th' food, too..." Fatigue was starting to slur her words, and Victor simply shook his head as he carried her to the oversized green sofa that stood in front of the large wood stove. He lay her down, leaving the room and returning shortly with a blanket and pillow.
He tucked her in, the domestic nature of the acting rubbing him every sort of wrong way. She barely took up half the couch, even all stretched out. For a few moments, he thought about getting another beer and sitting down as well, but quickly changed his mind. He had things to do, and his guest—another disgustingly domestic term—would be sleeping for a while.
000
Ayasha's dreams were disjointed but strikingly vivid. For what seemed like ages, the black and white transparencies of x-rays and body scans hung before her eyes, muffled voices floating at the edge of her perception, hands pointing and changing images. She saw needles stuck into her skin, blood drawn and liquids injected again and again. There was the pressure of restraints on her wrists, chest and ankles, and something was forcing her eyes open against a blinding light. She never moved or struggled, and sometimes there was nothing but darkness and voices.
She could hear every sound with perfect clarity, but somehow couldn't understand a word. The dream anxiety slowly bled into reality, and her body began to twist and thrash on the couch. Coming awake with a start, Ayasha panicked as she felt the blanket tangled around her legs, impeding her movement. A raspy, undignified squawk escaped her and she tumbled face first onto the floor. She was quiet for a moment before groaning into the thick carpet that had somewhat cushioned her fall. After several long, colorful, and obscene phrases, she pushed herself onto her hands and knees and sat back. There was a low orange glow in the large stone wood stove in front of her, a comfortable heat radiating out into the room. She could hear a quite humming roar of flames inside, but beyond that the house was silent.
It was dark beyond the windows, but there was a dim light on in the open kitchen off to her left. A short hall led to a foyer and heavy wooden door behind her, the latter probably leading outside. The hall that she had walked earlier—yesterday?—was slightly to the left of the stove. Everything else was dark, furniture casting shadows that flickered slightly every now and then in the firelight. It was nothing like the apartment she'd called home for the last four years, but it was comfortable. There wasn't much sign of it being lived in other than the lingering smell of ham and eggs that she barely remembered tasting. The dishes were still on the table, and her first instinct was to get up and take them to the sink. But she was halfway to standing when her knees began to shake, and she sat down hard on the couch.
She dragged a hand over her face. "Shit..." Plastic rustled next to her, and she turned. Three plastic grocery bags sat at the other end of the couch, and she leaned over to peek inside. Packaged women's underwear and socks were in the first. Curiosity made Ayasha pull the other two over. Both were filled with simple things like yoga and sweat pants, along with short and long sleeved t-shirts in a random collection of colors. There were also two plaid flannel shirts and a collection of sports bras in the bottom of the last bag.
Ayasha looked around, then rolled her eyes at herself. 'What, did you see any other girls around here without any of their own clothes or underwear?' she thought, pulling out one of the packages of cotton underpants. Even though the clothes were, in all likelihood, meant for her, she was still hesitant about opening the package without it being directly given to her. She shifted to sit cross-legged and sighed. Going commando was fine every now and then, but she certainly wasn't about to go around a stranger's house in nothing but his borrowed shirt.
Ripping open a package, she selected a light green pair and pulled them carefully over her legs. The limbs seemed smaller than she remembered, and the size small black yoga pants she pulled on were almost too big. When it came to removing her shirt and putting on a bra, she paused. She felt like it had been months since she'd bathed herself, and the hair growth on her legs proved it. More than anything, she wanted to take a long, hot shower, but she doubted that her legs would support her enough for that. A bath would do just as well, and while it could have waited, her bladder was demanding her attention. A long-sleeved shirt and bra in hand, she got slowly to her feet. It took a moment before she trusted them with her weight, and when she did, she set out to find the bathroom.
000
Victor was awake the second Ayasha had squawked and fallen, and now he lay in bed, listening as she started shuffling around. It took her a little while to find what she was looking for, trying the two other locked doors in the hallway before she found the bathroom. She paused there, probably looking towards his bedroom. He didn't make a sound, and eventually she went inside, closing the door behind her. He waited until she had the water running before getting up and silently exiting into the hall.
The sharpness in the air had returned, and he breathed in the frail's scent, doubly amplified by the steam. Everything was as shockingly clear as before, but he focused on the surface. She was both nervous and curious, but those were only background compared to the excitement she was feeling, probably for the bath she was drawing. She probably hadn't had anything more than a wipe down in the last several months, so Victor couldn't blame her. He didn't mind dirt and grime—or more often than not, blood and gore—on his skin, but there was no denying the pleasures of washing with hot water.
Leaning against the wall, he glanced back into his room at the clock on the nightstand; it was a little after two in the morning. After he heard her lower herself into the tub, he left the hall, walking shirtless into the kitchen. First, he drained the last three-quarters of a gallon of gatorade, then got himself a beer. Then he returned to his place outside the bathroom door to wait.
000
It took Ayasha longer to wash and shave—she'd been pleasantly surprised by a package of women's disposable razors—than she would have liked. She had to be careful of her bandaged forearms and feet, and that threw a wrench into everything. But she managed. The water had been close to scalding when she had climbed into the oversized tub, but had cooled significantly by the time she got out, pulling on her new clothes again. She toweled off her hair and folded the borrowed shirt neatly. She would worry about brushing her hair and teeth later. She opened the door, and came face-to-chest with the feral mutant that had made her breakfast.
She quickly pursed her lips against a startled squeak, and squeezed the t-shirt to her chest as she looked up at him. Victor chuckled—a low, rumbling, and not unpleasant sound—and leaned in, putting one clawed hand on the doorway next to her head. "Scare ya, frail?" His voice was practically a purr, and that combined with the look in his lidded eyes made her already pink cheeks flush. She looked away, avoiding his eyes and tucking a stray wet tendril of hair behind one ear.
"A little," she grudgingly admitted. Then she held out his shirt with both hands. "Thank you... for letting me borrow it. And for the other clothes." Her feet shuffled in a clean pair of socks and she pulled at the hem of her shirt. Victor stared down at her, knowing that she was aware of his gaze. He'd guessed at her size, and everything seemed to fit her alright. Reaching out, he took hold of his shirt. Ayasha quickly dropped her hands and tried to move past him. But he had made sure to stand just close enough so that she had to brush against him as pushed nervously by.
He was just as warm as she remembered, and that combined with the chill of her damp hair rose goose bumps on her arms and legs, and for half a moment, she almost wanted to lean into him. Then she was past him and the urge faded. Victor watched her go, and lifted the shirt to his nose. Her warm, spicy scent greeted him, and he surprised himself by letting out a low rumble of appreciation. It had been a long time time since anyone's scent had appealed to both sides of him; both man and beast. Then he heard more water running, and the clink of dishes, and followed after the frail, hanging the shirt over one broad shoulder.
Sure enough, he found her rinsing yesterday's dishes in the sink. She had her sleeves rolled up, and was trying to to keep the bandages on her hands and forearms dry; she wasn't doing too well. Victor was behind her without a sound, big hands engulfing her wrists and making her drop the sponge and fork she'd been holding. He felt her little body go rigid between his chest and the counter. "You tryin' to put all that time I spent patching you up to waste, frail?" he growled quietly in her ear, his claws just barely pricking the skin of her wrists.
"N-no!" she squeaked. "I-I just—" Her voice cracked and anxiety spiked in her scent, but she wasn't stupid enough to start thrashing and struggling.
"You just what, frail?" His stubble tickled her ear and she shivered. But there was a good deal more to her scent than anxiety and fear. She seemed to be more flustered at being pressed and held so close. It was strange for him, and he drank in the uncommon scent. There was usually nothing but terror in a frail's scent when he was this close.
"I—I just didn't want to leave a mess," she said, trying to hide the hitch in her breathing. It had been a long time since she'd this close to another body, and heat prickled where his chest touched her back.
Victor chuckled. "Think I can't clean up after myself?" His chin was resting lightly on her shoulder, and he could feel her pulse racing beneath his fingers in her wrist.
"No! But you were feeding me..." Ayasha trailed off into silence, her tone reminding Victor of a dejected puppy's whine. She straightened and turned slightly, looking curiously up at him. Then, something akin to a smile danced quickly across her eyes, gone almost before it could be noticed. "Thank you."
Victor blinked and pulled himself up to his full height; she didn't break eye contact. He wasn't used being thanked or to looks of genuine curiosity. He released her wrists but stayed where he was, keeping her pinned against the counter. She pursed her lips and looked up at him almost indignantly. She wasn't sure she liked being called 'frail' all the time. Granted, she was feeling far from robust, but still... The stubborn indignant look was enough to make Victor laugh again, and he turned off the water before taking a step back.
She turned to face him, opening her mouth to ask him just why the hell he kept calling her that. Then she realized that she'd probably never actually given him her name. "My name's Ayasha," she offered.
The feral considered her in silence for a few moments. "Victor Creed." She was his, he saw no harm in what was his knowing his name.
"Thank you again, Mr. Creed," she said.
He almost laughed again. No one ever said "thank you" to Victor fucking Creed and and actually meant it. No one was ever actually grateful to him... Except her. This dark little frail was thanking him, and she meant every fucking word. Part of him wanted to show her that she should be scared, not grateful; to show her how completely stupid she was being. But it also amused him. How long before the observant little thing realized just how dangerous he was? What sense city life had given her had already kept her slightly wary of him. He scoffed, and retrieved his beer from where he'd set it on the table before going over to the couch. The fire wouldn't need another log until later in the morning, and there wasn't much point in going back to bed now that he was awake.
"You gonna stand there all night or you gonna sit down?" He put the bags of clothes on the floor and pointed a claw to the spot beside him.
The color stayed high in Ayasha's cheeks, but she complied with her host, walking over and sitting back down on the couch; if a little farther from him than he had indicated. He gave her a sidelong glance but said nothing. She hugged her legs up against her chest, resting her chin on her knees and resiting the urge to stare at him. Victor had let his usually close-cropped hair grow, but kept his mutton-chop sideburns and stubble beard much the same. He'd gone into business for himself years ago, and hadn't seen much point in keeping the military cut. He was also well aware that the shaggy, wild look made him appear all the more intimidating. Not that he really needed an edge in that department. Being well over six feet and being made of over three-hundred pounds of hard muscle, claws, and fangs did just fine.
Ayasha knew that she should be more scared of him. Everything about him clearly spelled out danger and violence. But he had saved her; protected her from the man who had wanted to drag her back to the room with the machines and tubes and needles. Fear rolled down her spine like ice water at the thought, and she turned instantly into a quivering ball of tension, jaw clenched and her overgrown nails digging into her legs.
The sudden stench of her fear practically slapped Victor in the face, overloading his nose for a moment. He turned his full attention to the frail. Usually, being in such a state would have been normal for a woman in close proximity to him. But this girl's fear and anxiety had nothing to do with him. He knew the look in her eyes. You didn't fight in as many wars as he hand and not learn to recognize that look on a person's face. It was pure terror born from vivid memory. He knew that Jimmy—Logan, now—would have tried to comfort her in his rough, awkward way. Victor didn't know shit about that. He was much more comfortable with putting women in need of comforting.
But the frail's scent was overpowering, almost strong enough to make his eyes water. He couldn't just get up and leave either; he knew the smell would follow him and fill the whole house. Growling his annoyance, Victor grabbed Ayasha by the arm and pulled her over to him. She cried out and started to thrash, her mind turning to fight or flight. Her flailing did about as much good as a moth with wet wings. "You're fine." It was all he said—all he was going to say—but for some reason he couldn't even begin to fathom, the words reached through Ayasha's panic and found her, dragging her back to herself. She stilled, her ear against his bare chest.
Thu-thump.
Thu-thump.
Thu-thump.
Everything but the strong, steady beat of Victor's heart faded away. The steady rhythm became her whole world, and her hand lifted to rest on his naked ribs.
Thu-thump.
Thu-thump.
Thu-thump.
She could feel the hair on his chest tickling her cheek, and his clawed hand resting on her shoulder. The heat of the fire returned to her face, as well as the cool dampness of her own hair. The world came back in large chunks after that, and Ayasha let out a shakey breath, closing her eyes.
The silenced stretched out, and Creed relaxed his arm around her. A frail calming down because he touched her? An incredulous half smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. It seemed that there really was a first time for everything. Not that it would last... He decided that he liked the way she felt resting chastely against him, and it seemed she liked it to. He never thought he'd find himself really enjoying anything remotely chaste to do with a woman. Ayasha's scent cleared and sweetened with relaxation, tension leaving her body bit by bit.
Eventually, Ayasha opened her eyes and lifted her head. "Thanks," she muttered sheepishly, She made to pull away, but he tightened his grip on her. She looked at him, confused and wary. He offered no explanation, taking a swig of his beer and drawing slow circles on her shoulder with a mostly retracted claw. He much preferred how she smelled like this compared to the stink of her terror. Though if it had been him causing her fear, it would probably have been a different story. But the frail was his, and the idea of someone else making his frail so fucking scared pissed him off.
Ayasha could easily tell that her savior was a rough man, not prone to displays of affection or kindness. She could only guess that him continuing to silently hold her was the best way he knew to keep her calm. And as awkward as the bodily closeness was, she couldn't deny that she felt safer now. That made her blush. Necessity had made her independent and self sufficient; wanting someone else to help make her problems go away was an alien, uncomfortable feeling. All the same, she stopped trying to pull away, adjusting herself to a more comfortable position. Victor found the extending silence fairly comfortable, but from the way Ayasha had started to tug at her pant leg he could tell that she was trying to think of something to say. He didn't give a shit so long as she stayed still.
After what seemed like forever, she finally asked, "um, where are we?"
He didn't see much point in keeping their location a secret. Who was she gonna tell? "Mistissini, Quebec."
She stared incredulously. "Canada? The fuck am I doing in Canada?" She'd been on a camping trip to Canada once with her grandparents, but that had been a long time ago.
"Fuck if I know," Victor muttered. He was no stranger to secret facilities, medical or otherwise, and he would have known if there had been anything of the sort in the area. However, he didn't know how far the van had been driving with unconscious in the back. There were all kinds of organizations that used mutants for experiments and research. Some were legal and above board, properly compensating the subjects and treating them with respect. There were more of the opposite type. The place the frail had managed to escape was obviously the latter. He knew that he could just as easily left it alone, but he was curious by nature. He also wanted to learn more about the girl's mutation, and whoever had had her locked up was probably the best bet for finding out.
Some of the less powerful empaths that Creed had met hadn't known that they were mutants at first. But they usually had at least some idea that something odd was going on when their abilities came into play. This girl was totally oblivious to the sharpness in the air that she created. One could learn a lot from simple observation, but in this case he knew that it would only take him so far.
But Victor's instincts had served him well over the centuries, and if he had been asked to guess, he would have said that Ayasha's mutation probably allowed her to have some affect on other mutant's abilities. After all, he had never been able to read so much into scent, and smells and sounds almost seemed sharper in a way he couldn't put his finger on. But guessing wasn't enough. He wanted specifics. When he looked down at the frail again, she had fallen asleep, her mouth slightly open and breathing slow and even. Victor chuckled and shook his head at the innocence of her.
000
When Ayasha woke up again several hours later, she was alone on the couch, the sun shining outside and reflecting brightly off the snow. Feeling a bit less like a walking muscle knot, she sat up and stretched. She could see her surroundings a great deal better now. All of the furniture that she could see was older, but in wonderful condition, the slightly battered and scuffed wood polished to perfection. Most of the walls were packed with bookshelves, with another long couch sitting under a window, and two of what looked like early hand drawn maps of North America and Europe.
She lifted a hand to run through her hair, and was with dry tangles and knots. There was even some slight matting on one side that she knew she hadn't gotten from sleeping on the couch, but also didn't want to think about the more likely cause. She made a face and got to her feet, folding the blanket that had tangled around her ankles before walking into the hall. She closed the door behind her before turning on the light and looking at herself in the mirror. "Eeesh!" She made another face. Wherever she'd been held, they obviously knew nothing about caring for textured hair. It was dry, frizzy, and full of split ends. She was struck with the powerful urge to just chop it all off and start over.
No... better wait. Instead, she rummaged quietly in the drawers beside the sink. All she found was a thick comb, but it would have to do. Pulling out the overstretched elastic that she'd somehow managed to hold onto, she went to work. Her mother used to tease her about being tender-headed, and probably would have clicked her tongue and shaken her head yet again to see her daughter struggling with her hair. It took well over half an hour, lots of swearing in two languages—English and a little French—and pulling three large wads of torn hair out of the comb. The matting on one side of her head would have to be shaved off, but she didn't have the tools. She looked at herself in the mirror again, then scowled. She'd gone and used the comb without any thought towards feral mutant it belonged to.
Mutant... Mr. Creed had told her that she was a mutant. The idea boggled her mind. She knew that her paternal grandfather had been some kind of psychic, but she had never met him, and no one had ever offered any details. She supposed that it was possible that he could have passed on the genes through his son... But Ayasha had never done anything all that strange.
But then, some people would call a three year romantic relationship with an older mutant girl strange. She sincerely doubted that bisexuality was a mutant power. She found herself wondering what her host would think if it ever came up. Men usually all thought the same thing, but some covered it up with babble about the Bible and damnation. There were also those that asked the sex questions. Personally, Ayasha pitied both parties in a relationship where the man couldn't think of a way to have sex with a woman without just putting a penis into a vagina.
She shook her head; this train of thought wasn't getting her anywhere. She'd ask Mr. Creed for some scissors and maybe a trimmer to cut her later. For the time being, she pulled it back into a rough side braid. She washed her face and left the bathroom feeling much more a wake and a bit more clear headed. Her mind still swam with questions and thoughts of course, but they didn't seem quite so daunting at the moment.
Her stomach gave a quiet gurgle of hunger, but she didn't just want to help herself; she was a guest, and wasn't sure how her host liked things. She allowed herself a tall glass of water before wandering over to the stove. When she opened the small door on the side—she didn't know to open the vents first—she was greeted by the blaze of flames and a face full of smoke. Coughing, she quickly shut the door, her eyes watering. "Great job, Aya'," she wheezed, taking several big gulps of water. After the coughing subsided, she started walking along the bookshelves. Her legs and weak and needed exercise; she wasn't snooping.
The books she found surprised her. Aside from the sheer volume of books themselves, she wasn't sure what she'd expected Victor to read, but... All of the classics she'd read in school were there, all old, well-worn hardbacks, and probably a few first editions. There were academic texts on history, psychology, physics and more. There was plenty of fiction, but she had no idea what a good chunk of them were, because they were written in languages from German to Chinese. Ayasha could speak a fair amount of french but the sheer number of languages—and every one looked as if it had been read more than once—was astounding. She was also fairly sure that there were a few volumes written in tongues that hadn't been spoken in centuries. There was a small section of what were obviously journals—all strangely old and leather-bound—that she left alone. They could have been Victor's, and she wasn't about to pry.
She had been an avid reader from an early age, and had always loved older books. The heft of them in her hands, the texture of the binding, the smell of the paper... She leaned in and breathed deeply, the familiar musty smell making her smile despite the thoughts that had begun leaking back to the front of her mind. Little bits of memory had become clear, and she remembered with frightening clarity the way the needles had slid into the crook of her restrained arm. She remembered the way her blood had flowed away from her, and the way a dark liquid had flowed in through a tube in the other arm.
A shudder went through her, and she felt her knees begin to tremble. She swore at the quick mental shift, all her joy from the books draining away. Another, stronger tremble, and she grabbed onto the shelf in front of her for support. Anger welled in her chest, but shook under the force of her growing fear. She was having another fucking panic attack! She dug her nails into the wooden shelf, one of them breaking badly and forming a bleeding crack up the middle. She hardly even felt it.
Blood thundered in her ears, thoughts and half remembered images swarming in her head too quickly for her to process, and her knees started to buckle. The fluctuating sharpness in the air went unnoticed by her. "No, no, no, no, no!" she hissed through clenched teeth. Some part of her was begging for Victor, for the calm that he had offered before. "NO! I don't need him!" She would not run to him every time a memory of her captivity made her anxious or scared. She'd learned how to take care of herself mentally and physically, and she'd be damned if she lost that ability now.
"Breathe!" she ordered herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Then in a softer voice, "breathe, Aya'. Just breathe." In and out, in and out. She forced herself to do it over and over, squeezing out the clamoring thoughts until there was nothing left but a dull hum at the back of her mind.
In and out.
In and out.
Gradually, she slowed her frantic breathing, and her pulse began to follow suit. Slowly, Ayasha uncurled her fingers from the shelf. She swayed for a moment, but after that was fairly sure she had her balance, so she let go. But a residual tremor rolled through her, and proved too much for her weakened body. Her knees gave out and she went down. Big hands grabbed her roughly under both arms, halting her descent. Victor's claws pricked the soft undersides of her biceps as he pulled her up and turned her around. Legs still unable to bear her weight, she instinctively grabbed onto him, hands curling into weak fists around olive drab cotton. He could smell the blood from her cracked nail from beneath the blanket of receding panic. Switching his hold to one arm around her back, Victor put his other hand under her chin and made her look up at him, his eyes scrutinizing her face.
It had been the same cold, desperate sort of panic that had hit her before, and he could still smell it just at the back of her mind; subdued but by no means gone. To be honest, he was surprised she'd been able to pull out of it so quickly on her own, when last time, it had seemed like Victor had been the only thing in the world that was able to calm her. Before he would wonder if he was disappointed that she'd done it without him, he realized that she had slipped his hand and was leaning against him, eyes closed. Her ear was to his chest, listening to his heartbeat again and syncing her breathing to his. Her scent sweetened and her knees stopped shaking. She let out a long, shakey breath, and opened her eyes. She was blushing slightly when she finally looked back up and met his eyes.
Ayasha had never known a gaze so piercing. It was like he was trying to learn everything there was to know about her just from looking, and it didn't seem all that unlikely that he'd succeed. She'd seen that he had blue eyes before, but now with a longer, much closer look, she realized that they were more stormy, the icy blue mixed with flecks of dark flint and pale gray. She had been on a day trip to the ocean once, that had been cut short by a sudden storm. Victor's eyes reminded her of the water when the wind first began to rise and the clouds opened with a clap of thunder. Her blush deepened and she looked away.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I started remembering things about the... hospital... place..." She trailed off and let go of his shirt, sucking on the finger with the cracked nail.
Victor waited for a few moments before taking a half step back. The air around him still prickled with sharpness, but it had stopped its wild fluctuations the second he touched the girl. The whole house had filed with the smell of her anxiety, and he wrinkled his nose. The smell of her blood was there too, sweet and warm. But it wasn't mixed with the terror he was so accustomed to in frails, and it set him strangely ill at ease. He grabbed her hand, turning it over to examine the wound. The crack started about halfway up the nail, the tender nail bed having been spared. He let go, a smear of her blood on his thumb. He made sure that she saw him lick the blood away, showing a flash of fang with his slight grin.
Ayasha couldn't help but jump a little. She suddenly remembered the first time a boy had actually stared at her with interest. It was the only thing she could think of that remotely resembled the gaze in Victor's eyes. The implication made her bite her bottom lip and look down at her feet. She had never been very good where such things were concerned. Not even with Terra...
Victor walked into the kitchen and tossed a box of band-aids at her, cutting through the memories and present awkwardness. She just barely caught it, and pulled one out. "How many eggs you want?" Her stomach growled loudly before she could answer, and he chuckled, smirking at her.
"Three, please..." she muttered. "Thank you." She shuffled over to the big table and sat down as he rifled through the fridge. Victor greasing two massive cast iron pans, filling one with chunks sawed from a huge leg of ham, and after turning on both burners, cracked eight of the biggest eggs Ayasha had ever seen into the second and began to scramble them with a spatula. Neither of them said anything else as delicious smells filled the house, slowly overtaking the stink of Ayasha's panic.