I'm baaaaaack! So, this fic is set several months after the New World. If you haven't read this one or the first fic, The New Recruit, I would advise you to do so, or else just try to follow along and see how that goes. Otherwise, you know the drill. So sit back, relax, and, as always, Enjoy! ;D

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my words! Thank you!

Chapter 1: Late Night Guests

It's raining outside.

I've never really cared for rain. Sure, it feels good, but with it there always comes a certain risk: Slippery roads, lightning strikes, flooding...I can hear the sounds of the ocean stirring down the hill from my home (a sturdy little cottage made of metal that appears relatively small on the outside, yet is two stories high and houses a master bedroom, a guest room, a living room larger than both bedrooms combined, but only one restroom—not that I need another one) and I can hear the winds rising and falling just outside my window—

But that's not all I hear.

I move to the window, hair standing on end, and peer through the curtains. I heard voices; low, muffled, distinctly male voices coming from just outside, around the house. No one really comes around here seeing as all homes are within Genosha's city limits, while mine is located apart from others. Tarina, her daughter Shay, rarely her husband, Aaron, Lorna, Tabitha and Dimitri are the only ones who come down every now and again, but they never visit without calling first and letting me know.

In short, no one should be here right now.

That familiar feeling of foreboding that has been bothering me all week returns with a vengeance. It's the same one I felt when Magneto invaded my College in Colorado eighteen years ago; the day my friends and I agreed to join him; a day that changed my life forever. And it's a feeling that occurs whenever there is imminent danger.

Heeding my gut feeling, I squint through the curtains, peering into the murky darkness for any signs of hostiles, and I inhale sharply, jerking away from the window when I see a large silhouette dart across my sandy lawn and melt into the shadows. But not before I catch the hint of a handgun sticking out of his belt. I freeze, listening.

…They're at the front door.

I hurry to the living room and dial the emergency number on my phone. The line rings and I call into it immediately, crying out, "Magnus!" But when I don't receive a reply, I try again, whispering urgently, "Erik? Erik, are you there?!" But he doesn't respond. Someone has severed my connection. I'm on my own.

I need to—

Damn it, I can hear them coming in! They've managed to pick the lock, and now they're in my house. I set down the phone and I slowly stand, listening intently, as their footsteps draw closer. I can hear the cocking of their guns; the hush of their voices; the sound of their heavy boots on my floor as they move to surround me. I recede into the furthest corner of the room, bracing myself for the attack. I was unable to astral project into my Mutant form, and I certainly can't do it now. My body would be completely exposed and I would have to worry about protecting both it and myself at once.

It looks like I'll have to rely on more unsavory methods of self-preservation.

The second they burst through the front door and into my living room—barking in harsh, Russian tones—I rain down upon them a hailstorm of gunfire from each hand. The shots are like cracks of thunder ringing in my ears and I struggle to keep from closing my eyes on impulse each time I pull the trigger. But I can't close my eyes. Not if I don't want to kill them. The men scatter, turning over couches and shelves to use as shields. (My furniture!) I use the metal coffee table for cover, kneeling behind it as I aim for shoulders, kneecaps, hands, and shins. I don't want to kill them, but I'm most definitely not going to let them kill me first!

I run out of ammunition a short while later (my aim always was terrible), and my attackers put away their own weapons just as I toss my guns away and stand, kicking up the table and sending it hurtling into the group as they make to grab me. The table bowls over a few of them, but the rest rush forward to catch me. Apparently, they want me alive.

Too bad for them.

I duck away and run for the fireplace, where a nice, sharp poker waits for me in its holder, and I dive forward to my right and snatch the poker with my left hand. It melds into my hand like a metal extension of my arm, and I swing around—mid-dive—and catch one man across the face with its sharp edge in one swift move. He's lucky I didn't have the chance to dig up my broad swords (which are currently put away in my bedroom upstairs), or else he'd have a lot more than a three inch gash in his face. I dive behind my light-blue couch, knocking it over (to provide me with a barrier between myself and the 8 or 9 men still standing) as the man falls away, screaming, and I crouch into a fighting stance, ready for the next round of men who want to dance.

The first guy to come too close gets a roundhouse kick to the face and the poker sinks deep into the shoulder of the second. Too deep. Before I have the chance to withdraw the poker, the man staggers back, taking it with him, and I'm forced to fight without it. Even so, I'm still quick and I'm still strong. Using my Deadlocke training, I begin moving in swift circles, using the infiltrator's size and weight against them. Strength waning, I begin to struggle as I'm forced to block blow after blow from one particularly large man with snowy blonde hair and blazing hazel eyes, using some of my own household objects (books, candlesticks, shelves) to give me the advantage. His tactics are strictly offense, causing me to focus my defense solely on him to keep from going down.

The large man with hazel eyes falls on one knee after one well-placed uppercut and a particularly brutal kick to the middle, but, while I'm busy with him, two other guys manage to sneak up behind me. Someone hits me over the head—presumably with a gun—and a blinding flash of light streaks across my line of vision and they catch me by the arms, yanking them behind me before I can slip away. Fighting past the numb ache in the back of my head and the black dots dancing in my line of vision, I rear my legs up and lash out fiercely as more men advance on me. I kick one heavily tattooed man so hard in the knee that I feel it dislocate beneath my bare foot and he goes down screaming as the man with blonde hair stands up once again and starts forward, eyes trained on me with violent intent.

He waves off his frightened comrades silently, wiping at the blood on his temple before deflecting a kick aimed right for his head with one hand, and landing a solid blow in my abdomen with a heavily knuckled fist. But before I have the chance to recover, He catches me one—two—three more times in the ribs before backhanding me once with a closed fist. The force of the combination of crippling blows knocks the wind out of me and I double-over, sinking to my knees while the men holding my arms continue to hold fast, keeping me in a kneeling position. The commotion settles down now that I've been subdued and only the cursing, groaning and moaning of the injured men sprawled about my living room can be heard aside from my own pained gasps.

Only five of them remain relatively unhurt and they remain wary of me, watching me like one watches a tiger on a loose chain. Even without my astral body, I am still to be feared.

As it should be.

Panting, I gaze spitefully up at the yellow-haired, bright-brown-eyed man, and I spit to show my displeasure, landing a nice spot of red on the floor. He knew I wouldn't be in my astral body. They all knew. The blonde haired man smirks through bloody lips and kneels down before me, asking in a surprisingly soft and charismatic voice, "Do you know who I am?" Definitely Russian, but with a much lighter accent than I'm used to.

I say the first thing that comes to mind, "Jehovah's Witness?"

One of the men holding me gives my hair a painful yank, cursing at me in Russian, but the leader (I'm guessing) waves him down and says in that eerily pleasant voice, "I am Krillen. I am—" He stops himself. "Was the right hand man to former Russian mob boss: Grigori Vahkrov."

I smirk, having suspected that this was the case from the start, and, without missing a beat, I respond with, "And I'm guessing you're not here for an autograph…"

At this, I feel the sting of Krillen's hand on my cheek for the second time, but I'm determined not to whimper. Instead, I lift my head proudly, cheek burning as fiercely as my ultra violet eyes. Krillens' hazel eyes narrow and his pleasant voice turns venomous as he says, "I had some misgivings about coming here, Ms. Hawthorne. I thought, 'how could such a sweet little girl do something so unforgivable?'…But I see now," His jaw clinches, a furious muscle working in his temple. "You are no little girl." He points a black, gloved finger at me, still on one knee, growling, "You are a demon and an abomination—"

"And what did that make your master?" I snap back, enraged. Abomination? Now that's just rude. "I assure you, he was no Saint, Krillen. He may have been Human, but he was more a Monster than any Mutant I've ever known—"

"Then you have not known many Mutants," States Krillen immediately, that muscle in his temple still pumping furiously as his temper flares. "I know Mutants who would tear you apart while your friends and family watch, and then kill them, too; Mutants we could have sent after you. But seeing as Grigori's murder was a personal offense…we only saw fit that we were the ones to avenge him."

"I'm flattered, really," I murmur viciously, bristling at the reverent way this man speaks of Grigori, as if the man truly had been a Saint. "I only hope you do a better job of trying to kill me than your boss did. You see, that was his one fatal flaw:" I pause for effect, eyes glowing ferociously, then say in a low hiss, "He underestimated me."

My mouth automatically shuts when Krillen gives a soft chuckle and draws his gun, saying, "Perhaps we ought to finish his work," He lowers the gun towards the hem of my nightdress and begins to lift it with the barrel of his gun. I flinch, inhaling sharply as a spike of fear shoots up my spine and my gut twists with sudden dread. His men laugh appreciatively, drawing in closer as a thick tension fills the room. "Don't you think?"

There are a few murmurs of agreement mingled with nasty laughter, and my chest heaves as I try to figure a way out of this. This needs to end. Now. "You're going to have to kill me, Krillen." I say in an equally soft voice. The men in the room stir anxiously, but whatever they're thinking isn't going to happen. I'll be sure of that. "It's what you came here to do. You don't want to make this more complicated than it needs to be."

"You do not tell me what I want." Is Krillen's cold reply, his mouth twisting with anger and genuine grief over the death of his boss; a murderer and a fiend. He jabs me hard with the gun in the hip, his gloved hand clamping around my jaw, and he leans in and hisses, "Make no mistake, you will die," He stands up, holstering the gun as his men change their hold on me and pin me, kicking and tugging and fighting, to the floor. Krillen moves to stand directly over me, withdrawing a blade from his belt, "When I say so."

Like hell.

My right leg lunges out faster than Krillen can avoid it and I land a shattering blow right between his legs, but before he can collapse on top of me—red faced and cursing through strangled gasps—I trip him up, entangling my legs in his, sending the large man crashing down into one of his comrades. I roll back onto my shoulders and catch one of the men pinning my right arm to the ground in the face. He loosens his hold and I take the moment to loop my legs beneath his shoulders. I use all of my weight to pull him forward and send him, head first into the wooden floor at my feet, using my knees to keep him from crushing me. I roll over and start wrestling with the other man for my arm. I manage to get behind him, locking my arm around his throat in a choke hold while I draw his gun from his own waist band.

Aiming an arm over my captive's shoulder, I shoot Krillen in the upper arm as he writhes on the ground, and catch two of the other men in the thigh and shin as well. They take cover with their tails between their legs while I aim the gun at my captive's head, staring intently into Krillen's eyes as he manages to get to his feet, one hand at his arm and the other between his legs. His pale-brown eyes give the off an air of fire, but they are streaming with pain and outrage.

It's just us now.

"Walk away," I command, my hand unwavering, "Or you lose another man." I cock the gun with my thumb. "It's your choice."

I know I won't shoot him, but Krillen doesn't.

Even so, that doesn't stop him from making his next move. I watch in shock and frozen horror as Krillen draws his own gun and aims it squarely for his own man's head. I can't see the look on my captive's face as it happens, but I can feel him tense with fear and understanding.

I dive out of the way just in time.

Bang!

"B-but—" I object as Krillen shoves the man's body out of the way and kicks the fallen gun out of my reach. I lost my grip on it as I was jumping to get out of the way. Now, I back away on the floor, having bet my life on that bluff, but it simply doesn't make sense. "He—he was one of your men!" Was this whole thing about avenging a lost comrade?!

Krillen's yellow eyes are ablaze with loathing as he advances on me, tossing the gun aside. All of his men are down except for him, but he limps noticeably from when I personally crippled his manhood. Another personal offense, it would seem. "I would rather he die at the hand of a comrade than that of a devil. What I did was an act of mercy." He spits.

My strength is nearly tapped out. My head throbs along with my entire midsection and I know a fist fight between me and Krillen won't last very long.

Unless one of us slips up.

I reach behind me for something, anything to arm myself with (anything to give myself an advantage), and I almost think I'm going to have to make a run for it when my hand dives into something soft and sandy. I grab a fistful, smiling viciously, saying, "Oh, I'm sure he would agree!" I look to his fallen partner, plastering a mocking smile on my lips and calling out, "What do you think, Vlad? Would you rather have been killed by a devil—" I look up at Krillen, smirking dangerously, "Or a dog?"

Krillen's face contorts with rage and the next second, he's diving for me—just like I expected he would. Once his face is perfectly in range, I lift my hand and throw a fistful of kitty litter right into his face. He cries out, rearing as his hands work furiously to dig the crystals out of his eyes, and I turn on my stomach and go to make a run for it.

Krillen, however, is more determined than I gave him credit for.

Blind, he lunges out on his hands and knees and latches onto both of my legs, dragging me back down. I turn over and kick out at him repeatedly, going for his weak spot as he reels me in closer, but his rage has lent him strength to endure my blows and with a final tug, I'm under him and he has his hands clasped around my throat. My hands go to his, prying at skin with my nails, but I can already feel my head growing light as I struggle to breathe. Grunting and growling like an animal, Krillen bashes my head against the floor, nearly knocking me unconscious, as he thrashes me about, hands constricting tighter and tighter around my windpipe. "A few more seconds of this," He mutters through clenched teeth peppered with kitty litter and blood. He shakes his head rapidly, blinding crystals still in his watery eyes, and groans, "And it's all over."

"No…"

I thrash harder against him, reaching up a hand to claw at his eyes, but he lifts his head just past my reach. My finger nails claw at the front of his black shirt and scrape his jaw just barely, but I can't reach his throat, his ears, his eyes, or anything else I can use to hurt him. And soon, my clawing becomes feeble and my hand falls. Knowing he's won, Krillen grins and stops throttling me, but keeps a steady hold on my neck. I can feel my pulse slowing under his fingers. He leans down and growls, "The Bastard sends his regards."

They're working for the Bastard? I thought—I thought the Bastard was with the MRD!

My shock is suddenly dimmed by a creeping darkness that begins to settle over me. My vision blurs, black dots dance in front of my eyes until they blot out my vision like paint spilling over a canvas, my ears are ringing to the point of deafness, and whatever breath I draw in comes in an odd, choking wheeze. And then it all just starts to fade, and, for a moment, I think it really is over.

Then Krillen's body is abruptly thrown off of me, his hands jerking and releasing their hold, and then he's gone. I roll onto my side, ears ringing, as I cough and wheeze and breathe, my throat aching unbearably, and the only indication of what is happening are the sounds of a scuffle, a shout, a groan, a gunshot, a roar of pure, animalistic rage, and a final, death-scream before the only sounds that can be heard are, once again, the agonized cries and moans of Krillen's injured men. And even those are silenced before long.

It takes me a while before I can sit up at last—before I'm brave enough to confirm what I've heard—and when I do, I find that I'm still not prepared for the massacre before me. Bodies mar my floor with bloody pools of death and there are no longer whimpers of pain but deadly silence. It rings in my ears even more so than the rushing of my own blood so that all I can hear now is my own, frantic breathing, and my heart beat…My heart beat…

I'm alive.

But who—?

"I knew you wouldn't kill 'em," His low rumble emerges, along with the rest of him, from around the corner at the far end of the living room. I sit, paralyzed, unable to speak or move as he says, "So, I took the liberty for myself." Stepping over bodies and fallen furniture, he moves closer, growing in size, before he stops, standing a few feet before me and seemingly several stores above me. His claws drip with blood and there's a gaping wound in his side where Krillen must have shot him before he died. It tears right through the leather of his jacket and the blue, buttoned-up shirt underneath, and his jeans and skin are painted red with the blood of my enemies. I stare at him a moment, shivering and still paralyzed on the floor, and my eyes end up going from his blue one's to the gaping wound in his side once more. "Why aren't you healing?" I croak finally, avoiding the obvious question of "what the fuck are you doing here?"

He shakes his head, dirty blonde hair falling messily about his shoulders, and he shrugs with a vague, "Dunno, must be their weapons. Heard about some guns that are made to slow us down." He shifts on his feet and I nod to myself. "Mm," I mutter in understanding; my voice is raspy and my throat painfully dry (like I just swallowed a pint of glass), but it still doesn't mask the awkwardness of my speech, "I've heard of those, too."

Again, I look up at him, unsure of what to make of this, then, finally, I manage to stagger to my feet, steadying myself against the wall with one hand at my throat and the other at my bruised stomach (I don't think anything's cracked or broken, thank God). He opens his mouth, as if to ask if I'm okay (or something crazy like that), but I turn away and say quickly, "C'mon, let's get you fixed up. There's been enough blood shed for one night."

My footing becomes surer as I attempt to walk off the beating I've just received, heading up the stairs and turning to the closet down the hall of my bedroom. He looms behind me, following almost silently save for the faint sounds of his heavy boots sinking into the carpet. I open the door and, groaning, reach a shaking hand for the large first-aid kit I invested in long ago but never bothered to put to use. But that's not to say that I haven't had need of it.

I go to close the door, finding my voice as I say, "I thought we had a deal—"

I give a startled gasp when I close the closet door and find his six-foot-something frame standing just on the other side of it. I hadn't heard him come up around the other side of me. I sigh in frustration, slamming the door shut. "Was a long time ago, frail." Creed replies smugly, a smirk curling his lip to show his fanged teeth.

Not that long ago.

"Oh?" Is my humorless response and he scoffs at me when I push past him roughly to get to my bedroom. "Then just what were you doing in Genosha?" I call as I head inside. I don't want to go near the living room; don't want to be surrounded by all of that death. At least, that's what I tell myself is the reason for taking this party to the bedroom.

"Just passin' through," Is his lame excuse as he follows me inside. He's not even trying to give a convincing lie! I pause, a reply caught in my throat, and just sort of stare as he sheds first his leather jacket and then his blue shirt, which he unceremoniously tosses over one of my dressers, but not before wiping some of the blood and sweat off of his bare chest and rippling forearms. My eyes travel down from his broad shoulders to his lower back where skin ends and his jeans begin, and I feel my pulse quicken in my neck (Dimples! I saw dimples!). I avert my eyes suddenly, face heating up, as he turns, saying, "Heard something going on and decided to see if I could join in."

My hand goes to my neck where bruises are forming around my throat, and I turn, kit in hand, and meet his eye, asking in all seriousness, "Why didn't you?"

He knows what I mean.

Still, he plays it off, "20 to one don't exactly sit right with me. Just be glad I hate Russians more than X-Men." I roll my eyes in response, wanting to slap him in the face for being so damned dodgy, but, instead, I set the kit on the table near the small reading couch in my room and busy myself with trying to figure out how to open the damned thing. Sabretooth moves to stand behind me, saying maliciously, "Speakin' of Commies, where is old Red?" I freeze, blink a few times, but don't meet his eye. Keeping my back to him, I open my mouth and close it a few times, trying to find the right thing to say, before I settle with a sullen, "Not here."

He chuckles just behind me, making my skin crawl and pulse quicken as he steps closer and asks, "Found a younger model, eh?"

My fingers slip on the stubborn tape that keeps the kit sealed shut and it flies open and nearly spills all of its contents on the floor. I bawl my fists to keep from fumbling the kit again and I shoot daggers at Creed over my shoulder, saying quietly, "I left him behind." I inhale deeply, feeling tired all of a sudden and straighten. Just the mention of him…I don't know if it saddens me, excites me, or angers me. Probably all of the above. So I push it from my mind all together. It's easier that way. "I had some things I needed to figure out. Alone."

His voice rumbles in my ear, "Yeaaah, we see how well that worked out—"

"I can take care of myself!" I snap angrily, whipping around to personally glare into his eyes, mere inches away. He glares back unwaveringly, placing his hands on the edge of the table just behind me, blue eyes narrowing maliciously as he growls, "Sure looked like it. Maybe next time you're takin' care of yourself I'll let the guy strangle you, then."

Enraged, I shove against his bare chest with growing frustration. The move hardly fazes him, but his eyes narrow at me in as I reply heatedly, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to recall having your hands around my throat on more than one occasion!" I pause, unafraid, but growing more and more frustrated by the second. God, he just—he just makes want to scream! "And what is it to you, anyway?" I sputter, knowing there's no denying that he did save my life, damn him. "I didn't ask for you to be here! And you still haven't told me why you're here in the first place." I scoff to myself, pushing past him roughly as I mutter, "Not that you'd tell me anyway..." I turn to the small reading couch in my bedroom, pulling him by the forearm with a firm grip.

He gives a pained groan as I shove him down onto the couch with a snappish, "Sit." I turn away as he chuckles darkly at me and fetch my own seat across from him. I pull the table closer and I busy myself with rummaging through the kit for a few minutes while our tempers run dry. I would have thought he'd keep pushing my buttons but he remains oddly quiet, a muscle working in his jaw. I let the silence build as my brain works a way out of this, through this, to explain this, but my mind draws a blank. There's a strange, building tension in the air that only gets worse the longer I remain silent, the longer he watches me with those farel eyes, but I just can't pin it. Why am I helping you? I think to myself and then, as always, I start to think aloud.

"You saved me," I state as I fumble through the kit, looking for bandages. I only need something to cover the wound while it heals. That and something to keep it from getting infected; I'll look for that, too. The sight of it makes me somewhat nauseous and I can't help but fear for how advanced the humans have become over the past year. New weapons; new ways to kill. "You could have died."

"Thanks, I didn't—ngh!—know that," He winces as I get up, bracing one hand on his shoulder, and begin to clean his wound with one, not-so-gentle hand. Smart-ass.

"Why?" I demand softly as his blood blossoms and soaks into the white towel. I fish around for some Neosporin and gauze. "You didn't have to get involved. You could have left me to die. Hell, you could have killed me yourself! It would have made sense." I glance up at his face, able to see levelly into his eyes for the first time. "But you didn't. That doesn't make sense."

He's quiet for a long moment, massive chest rising and falling rhythmically as I gently dab at the open wound, watching me, then he asks, "Would you have done the same for me?"

I think about this a moment, taken aback by the straight-forward reply. I look up with a sigh before saying with absolute certainty, "Yes, I would have. At least, that's what I like to think." I add as I dab at the gash where the blood has begun to drip. The bullet went straight through. It looks like a pretty serious injury but with his healing rate, it will be cleared up in maybe a few minutes to an hour. Until then, I need to stem the bleeding. Ugh, he's bleeding all over my couch! "But that doesn't answer my question." I look up, gauze in hand, and find his eye once more. "Why did you save me?"

He exhales deeply, studies me a moment, completely serious, then says, "Don't know."

I sigh and continue patching the big idiot up. Typical. This is pointless. I should just kick him out. He deserves as much but…I can't seem to bring myself to just stop. I feel like I'm making amends somehow. Not just with him, but myself. Forgiving myself for what I took from another living soul and allowing myself to move on with a fresh start and my old outlook on life: That all life is precious to someone; that we all have the right to live, no matter who or what we are. And that, deep down, we are all only Human—genetically mutated Humans—but Human nonetheless. That's what I've been doing all along. Why I needed to leave the Institute. And I'd say I've done pretty damn well for myself. I've got it all pretty much figured out. Who knows? Maybe I'll visit the Institute sometime soon.

"It's not much," I say at last, smoothing on the flimsy film of gauze over the wound. He doesn't flinch; doesn't move at all. So still. This must feel like a paper cut to him. "But it should—"

In a move that catches me off-guard in every sense of the word, Creed leans forward and takes me in his arms, moving me onto his lap with ease, and all I can do is freeze as he kisses me, long and hard on the mouth. The move is so unexpected that for a moment, I'm paralyzed; my hands raised awkwardly and my body rigid. Then he pulls back, hands on my battered waist, and just stares at me with those startlingly animalistic eyes. I never noticed how…blue they are. They look at me now, expectantly, but I'm still processing, processing…But the only word that comes to mind is, "What?!"

I blink several times, my hand going up to my mouth in shock, "Victor!" I whisper sharply, heart pounding furiously. I don't know what to make of this. I thought he hated me! One minute, he's threatening my life, then he's saving it, then he's yelling at me, and now this? What do I do?! What—

What do I want to do?

"Vic—" I start to say but he gives a pained groan and goes in for a second time, pulling me in even closer, tighter; his arms constricting around my midsection. I fidget, the bruises on my stomach still fresh; still painful. He loosens his grip in response, but hikes up my nightdress and continues to run his hands along my waist. The action isn't threatening or painful. If anything it's…passionate, gentle, and filled with need.

What do I want to do?

For once, I stop thinking. I kiss him back, and, after a brief moment of shock (like he hadn't expected me to be okay with this), Creed begins to pick up speed, cradling me to his body with a low growl that sends chills down the length of my spine. I claw at his back, almost angrily, combing through his hair as he starts groping at me. I feel his teeth graze my neck, his nails dig into my hips, but for whatever reason, I don't mind it at all. I want it to hurt. Oh, God what am I saying? What am I doing?!

What am I doing?What am I doing?What am I doing?

He winces, the cut on his side not fully healed, and I pull away from him, whispering through labored breath, "You're still hurt." But he just scoffs, saying roughly, "I can take it." He starts forward, then draws back, looking, for the first time since I've known him, uncertain, "Should be worried about yourself."

This time, I scoff at him and I sit back, still straddling his lap, and pull off my torn, bloodied nightdress to reveal the various scars and bruises all over my body; the one's I've worked so hard to conceal, "I've taken a few beatings myself." I take his hand and press it against the vertical, unmistakable knife wound between my ribs. It's about three inches long and a centimeter wide; a spine-severing death strike. His hands continue to wander curiously over my body, his claws sending shivers across my skin. His fingers linger on the scar cutting across my shoulder from where an early MRD onboard a ship leaving Stryker's Island shot me. He raps on it lightly, "I remember that." He murmurs, bringing his hand back down to my side where a jagged piece of metal sliced a neat gash out of me during my escape from none other than Sabretooth himself.

He's so…intrigued by my scars; almost envious, it seems. For all of Creed's years of violence and suffering, he hasn't got an ounce of scar tissue to show for it. That must be a serious blow to the pride for someone like him. He frowns, studying the wound, not quite remembering that one, "Did I do that?"

I shake my head, "No." The ones he's done can't be seen anymore thanks to Donovan the Healer, but they're still there somewhere in my mind…so why can't I seem to pull myself away from him? Why do I want this?

He chuckles softly, "Not such a frail anymore, are you?"

I give an unwarranted smirk as an insane notion takes over my actions, leading me to take his jagged face in my hands, fingers digging into the rough skin of his jaw, and I lean forward and whisper forcefully, ironically, "Shut up, Creed."

Soooo, that happened...

This is officially my longest chapter ever! Good job! Thanks for reading and please leave your "WTF's" in the review section ^_^ Thank you again! Until next time...

~THESCRIBE!;D