EIGHTS
Ok another "Where was Creed during the other two movies?" plot, I know I know, I've done them do death – but there are SO many interesting possibilities.
I don't own them; I don't own him – aside from wishful thinking that is. Thank you Marvel for creating such wonderful characters to play with and a wonderful world for them to play in. I hope my minor contributions are appreciated.
Chapter 1 – Moving Day – Five Months after Liberty Island.
"Christie – will you quit already. I am NOT coming to dinner tonight. I told you…" She paused as she opened the door to the building.
"Blow it off, I mean this is one of the most eligible bachelors in New York, and you would rather hang out with your neighbors with ten kids and the geriatric ward." Her sister's tone was sharp.
"I don't care if it's the most eligible bachelor in the world – and he looked like Hugh Jackman, I am NOT interested. Period. End of subject." She said as she walked to the elevator.
OUT OF ORDER. She groaned at the sign. Eight flights of stairs were never fun. She'd call the super and complain in the morning. She had to get dinner ready for tonight.
"You OWE me, Christian." Her twin snapped into the phone.
"No, I don't."
"One night, dinner – it won't hurt a bit, I promise. He doesn't even bite." Her sister was pleading now.
"No. I am not going to sit there and be bored out of my skull while David rambles on about business to some guy you are trying to pimp me out to – just to close a deal. I am NOT doing it."
"HOW DARE YOU!" Her sister shouted.
"I'm tired of the game, Christine. Your last 'bachelor' let me in on the deal. You and David can close this deal without me having to fight off an octopus." She snapped. Three more floors, damn. She heard someone coming down and moved to the side.
"Please, Christian." Her sister was desperate, pulling out the 'P' word. It wasn't normally in her vocabulary.
"No. I am hanging up now. Goodbye." She clicked the phone closed just as she passed the person coming down. She didn't see much for the pile of boxes he was carrying but she got a definite impression of size – and yellow, tawny yellow. She finished her climb and opened the stairway door. She wearily made her way to apartment 805 and slipped her key into the lock. The door across the hall was open, someone was moving into 804. She shrugged, she had dinner to cook.
Her phone was ringing when she walked in the door. She glanced at the caller ID and didn't answer it. Christie would just have to learn to take 'No' for an answer. She dropped her purse on the table in the bedroom and kicked off her shoes.
"I know you are there." Her sister's voice came over the answering machine. "Pick up."
She ignored it and went into the kitchen to start cooking. She tied on her apron over her suit, and cursed as she caught her toe on the bottom corner of the cabinet. These stockings were toast.
"CHRISTIAN AMANDA CHARMICHEL pick up this phone now." She poured rice into a baking dish with a couple cans of cream of chicken soup and pulled the chickens she'd set out to thaw that morning from the refrigerator. She pulled a large cleaver from her butcherblock and started cutting up the bird
"Dinner won't hurt you, it's not like those dweebs on your floor will miss you anyway. They are LOSERS! You are blowing off TONY STARK for some LOSERS! Working class LOSERS! I KNOW you can hear me." She ignored her sister as she slammed the cleaver through the backbone of the chicken.
"Fine – don't come crying to me when you need money for rent." Her sister hissed, and then the room was quiet. She sighed. Peace at last, for the moment. Her peaceful moment was interrupted by a resounding crash from the hallway.
She ran to the door, cleaver in hand and opened it
"DAMN – I just dropped a box, don't cut my head off." She looked down at him as he picked up the greasy auto parts from the floor.
"Sorry was cutting up a chicken, forgot I had it in my hand." She said sheepishly. He stood up and she followed with her eyes – up and up and up.
"Victor." He held out a hand but realized it was covered in grease.
"Christian." She said.
"Movin' in." He said.
"I see that." She replied.
"Right – I'll let you get back to dinner." He gave her a slight smile and leaned down to pick up the box on the floor.
"If you aren't busy, it's Eighth Night, the floor gets together every eight evenings for a potluck, and you are welcome to join us." She said.
"I ain't even been shopping'yet – I don't have anything to bring." He said with what she would swear was a growl.
"We don't expect new people to bring anything the first time anyway; it's at eight in the rec room, if you are interested." He just nodded and picked up the box. She turned and went back into her apartment, blushing at the way she'd noticed the muscles straining under his tight black T-shirt.
She finished cutting up the chickens and placed the pieces across the top of the bed of rice in the two casserole dishes she'd prepared. She put them in the oven and went into the bedroom to change clothes. She glanced out the window and saw him unloading more boxes from a truck on the street outside. He was bending over the bed of the truck and she couldn't help but admire the way his jeans clung to the thick muscles of his thighs.
"Get a GRIP!" She hissed at herself. "He's probably married with three kids."
She climbed into the shower and washed her hair, anything to keep from looking out the window.
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He grumbled as the box tried to slip from his grip again. Eight flights of stairs wasn't fun, not carrying all these damned boxes. After the statue incident he'd been picked up by SHEILD, given two choices, work for them – or be the guinea pig for all the new weapons they developed. He'd chosen to work for them. Last month he'd managed to get free of them – sort of.
He still was pissed about the whole thing. He'd done what they told him to do, gone in, taken out the damned idiot causing all the problems in that damned African country – couldn't remember which one, and even ended up rescuing Fury for his trouble. Fury had cut him loose, with a warning about getting caught, and a suggestion that he stay in touch, in case they needed him again.
He'd been pardoned, and now was cut loose, on his own. They wanted him to lay low, hell HE wanted to lay low for a while. He was TIRED! That last mission had pushed even HIM to the breaking point. He'd checked on Erik but he was still in the plastic bubble they'd put him in. Myst wasn't returning his calls, and he hadn't heard a word from Toad. He cut his ties to the Brotherhood and was planning on freelancing again.
He was seriously considering just kicking back in a recliner with a case of beer and a big screen TV for a couple years, but he knew he'd get bored. He NEEDED to work – to hunt, like it or not. He carried the box into the apartment, almost dropping this one to see if she'd come out again.
He had to admit his new neighbor was cute – petite, blonde with red tints, but he couldn't tell if it was natural or not – he might get a chance to find out, if he played his cards right, from the scent he'd picked up from her apartment. Her eyes weren't brown or green but something in between with gold flecks in them. He was surprised he'd noticed, but she'd been so cute with the cleaver in her hand, business suit covered with an apron, and what ever she was cooking smelled divine. The apron only emphasized her curves, and he'd even noticed she'd had a hole in one toe of her stockings. He'd felt her watching him from the window when he'd been at the truck, and could smell her in the hallway outside the apartment. She was very interested.
He just might go to the dinner thing tonight. He didn't have any other plans, and these were the last boxes from the truck. He looked around the apartment. His mattress was on the floor in the bedroom, his recliner and TV were set up in the living room and a desk with his computer was against one wall in what was supposed to be a dining room. The phone and internet guy would be there tomorrow to install his hookup, so he couldn't really do anything until then anyway.
He glanced at the stuff in the box, mostly old coffee cups and chipped plates. He'd never had much in the way of personal belongings in the first place, at least not anything that he couldn't replace easily. It wasn't that he didn't have the money – he could probably buy and sell the egg head several times over. He just never did anything with it. He hadn't even lived in an actual house or apartment in years, living on the streets, or where ever his current employer had room for him. It was strange having his own space, without having to share. It had to have been fifty years or more since he'd been on his own like this.
He went into the bedroom and unpacked the bags of clothes. All his suits were already hung in the closet. He didn't give a shit where he lived, but he needed to make an impression on his clients – one way or the other. He had two sets of clothes – two personas. One was cool, all business, tailored suits and shirts, expensive and tasteful. The other was rough, all jeans and leathers, T-shirts and leather jackets and boots.
His real 'work' clothes were piled in a corner of one closet, hand tanned leathers, with the handmade duster over them. He had three finished sets, and about five pieces and parts in various stages of construction. The set he'd worn at the statue had been almost completely destroyed. It was just easier to deal with blood and other bodily fluids in the leathers, easier to clean up, the way he treated them. He'd tried working in denim but he just ended up having to burn the clothes after a job. He knew how to re use the leather and make sure the blood stains didn't show.
He could smell whatever she was cooking across the hall and it was making his mouth water. He glanced at the clock and made a decision. There was a deli on the corner; he wasn't going to go to this 'Eighth Night' empty handed. He had about an hour to get down there and back with something for dinner for the potluck.