Author's Notes: This is based off the movie universe. I know its not specifically stated that he suffered this kind of abuse in Wolverine: Origins, but I'm certain from the early scenes in the movie that his father was a drunken, abusive lout. He could easily have suffered this until he was old enough to work around the house while Howard Creed drained the bottle, at which time Howard could have exacted a promise from his terrified son to trim his claws and pull his own teeth out...hence what we see him doing, first thing in Jimmy's room before the fire. Anyway, I can't excuse Sabretooth for all he did...but I can CERTAINLY not excuse his father. Anyway, a small insight into the extreme damage dealt to little Victor Creed, and the animal it helped him to become.

Just Like Home

"I swear there was more pork than this," Logan growled, clutching the flimsy tin plate with strong, dirty fingers. The plate squeaked as he raked it with his spoon, trying to get every single particle of food for his ever-hungry stomach. Then, finished but barely satisfied, he tossed the plate towards the prison door. It clattered mournfully against the bricks.

He turned his head to glare sharply at his cellmate, who sat further back in the darkness. His eyes narrowed. "I sure hope that rat of yours didn't eat it, for your sake."

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Victor sneered, completely unimpressed, ""He's coming over to check you out right now."

Great. "The fact that you know it's a 'he' is really messed up," Logan muttered to no one in particular. He stiffened uncomfortably, pulling his feet back as, sure enough, his sensitive ears picked up the tiny scritch-scratch of rat claws dragging across cement, the peculiar squeak of breath as the rodent sniffed its way through the darkness.

It was coming towards him along the cement platform that hugged the wall…the one Victor was sitting on. As it came closer, Logan squinted towards the sound, fervently hoping he'd see it before it saw him. There. That emerald green glow that made critter's eyes look like alien spotlights. Victor's eyes glowed too, when he wanted them to. One of his favorite hobbies had been to sneak up on the sentries at night and freak the heck out of them, laughing quietly as they fired their weapons off at the empty, black jungle.

With a sudden, darting motion, the rat was between his feet. It sat on its haunches, staring up at him. Logan stared back, knowing Victor was watching him from the shadows with that contented smile, like a cat watching a bird get gutted.

The rat's whiskers twitched, its mean, beady little eyes so black he couldn't hardly tell whether it was really looking at him or not. Logan wondered if the rodent would accept him like he accepted Victor…because they were animals. Slowly, he poked at it in an awkward attempt to stroke its head.

Next minute he felt a sharp, piercing pain in his finger as the rat bit him hungrily. Logan yelped, sending a four-letter word echoing out into the prison corridors as he jerked his hand up and the rat with it. Landing on its feet, the rodent wisely turned and zipped off into the blackness towards Victor.

Victor laughed, that deep, trickling laugh that sometimes annoyed Logan to no end. No one had less to laugh about than they did and yet Victor was always doing it.

There was a shuffle and a hand with strangely sharp nails came out of the shadows and pressed down against the cement as Victor swung his body into the light. The rat was clutched safely in his other hand. Victor clucked as Logan sucked his finger; the wound healed even before he tasted blood. "Probably could tell all the nasty things you were thinkin' about it, Jimmy."

He talked as if he could hear his thoughts too…Logan wouldn't have been surprised. He wrapped his arms around his knees bad-temperedly, glaring at the critter from where it sat sniffing at Victor's manacles. Logan growled from deep inside his chest, like a belligerent wolf, "Keep that thing away from me, or I'll take its tail off."

The hand tightened protectively even as Victor smiled, showing his teeth. Something hungry inside him thrilled at the challenge that wasn't really even a challenge. "Then I'll take yours."

"I don't have one." Logan groused.

Victor's smile never faltered. "Oooh…that is a problem, isn't it?"

They stared at each other.

Then, Logan broke into a reluctant chuckle, simply because the entire conversation was ridiculous. Fighting over a rat's butt. His head dropped as he closed his eyes and shook his head, still laughing.

Victor's smile changed. Morphed, almost. The teeth disappeared and a sort of sparkle came into his eyes. The rat, forgotten, crawled out of his fist. Victor relaxed, enjoying the sight as Jimmy had one of his rare fits of laughter. Runt didn't laugh enough these days, wasn't happy with who he was. Never had been, but it'd gotten worse in recent years.

Finally, Logan calmed down. Like a bored kid when the show is over, Victor closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. His close-cropped hair wasn't any sort of pillow against the bricks, but Logan knew Victor could sleep and had slept like that many times.

Logan gazed at him a moment, then, "I don't get it."

"Hmm?" Victor didn't open his eyes.

"This…place," Logan gestured over his shoulder at the small cell around them, "drives me stir-crazy, nowhere to go, nothing to do…but you just accept it. You, of all people." Victor's eyes slit open and he looked at Logan. In response, Logan gestured with one hand as his chains rattled, "You just sit there and close your eyes and think forever." He raised an eyebrow, "Since when did you start thinkin'?"

Victor grinned mischievously. "You want me to tell you what I'm thinkin' about?"

"No, I don't," Logan rebuffed him with a sharp wave of his hand, a faint smile struggling on his face, "You're just crazy."

Victor laughed out loud. The rat, startled, skittered down his arm and clung to the iron manacles, balancing there. Victor turned to look. He stared at the rat, then at the chains. His face grew dark.

The chains clinked dully as he suddenly held both hands out, palms upwards. Even as he stared at those hands, giant hands, killer's hands, hairy, dirty, terrifyingly strong and sharp and stained with so much blood…even as he stared at them, they changed.

Hands that were smaller, so much smoother, small and timid…with tiny, delicate points on each finger, like the dewclaws of a cub…lightning flashes…the white fire bounces off the thick, rusty manacles clamped around those little wrists, too heavy to hold up for long, too heavy….

The rat screeched as it raced by his ear and clambered wildly up the wall. Victor's fist had clenched onto its tail. Taking a deep breath, he glanced over at Logan and saw he was staring at him.

"What…" Logan began to ask.

"Yeah, I know a bit about prisons," Victor cut him off with a strange laugh that made his eyes seem wild and empty, "know how to handle myself in 'em, know how it is to feel stir-crazy. Fact is, we're pretty luck. Thick stone walls between us and them. Now, they've got a chance at runnin' before I finally come for 'em." He was grinning, his sharp, white canines pressing hard against the skin of his lower lip.

Logan was quiet, just watching him. Disgust and confusion chased themselves around and around in his mind as he considered his impossible older brother. The one who loved blood, who rarely laughed, who never shared about himself and never expected Logan to. The only person to care about Logan for a hundred years or so. With a deep sigh of resignation, Logan dropped his head back against the wall with a thunk. "Your fault we're in here."

Victor shrugged, not really caring. They'd had this argument before, almost every day since they got in. Logan didn't understand how…how hungry a man could get sometimes, how good it felt to satisfy that hunger. Besides, that girl had been Viet-Cong…the enemy. Who cared what happened to her? Wasn't like he was gonna kill her. They all shoulda known better than to try and hold him back when he was hungry. No one did that. Not even Jimmy, unless he tried really, really hard, hit Victor hard enough to make him fumble, give the prey time to run. Jimmy did that a lot, actually. Ruined his hunts. Stupid kid-brother. "Your fault you're in here with me," he snarled angrily.

Suddenly alert, Logan looked at him sharply. Victor's snarl wasn't like the snarls of most men, accompanied by cussing and words of rage and fury. Victor's snarl usually came with spiteful clawing and scratching, slitting open skin and letting blood run out as punishment or even just for fun. Logan wasn't in the mood for a fight…not right now.

Victor swept his arm towards him threateningly, claws extended, like a cougar batting at a bear. The chain on his arm rattled. He stopped, eyes fluttering down to look at it. For a moment, he seemed sick and confused, dropping shakily back again, slumped against the wall, unable to tear his eyes away from the manacle.

Logan remembered that reaction; the same reaction Victor showed when they first riveted the chains on them. He'd been, for want of a better word, stunned. He became almost…passive, allowing them to shove him into the cell and bolt the door without any trouble.

That was one thing Logan still didn't quite understand, unless it was that someone who loved runnin' and fightin' and killin' as much as Victor just really, really hated bein' caged. But then why didn't he fight back? Then there was the rat. Victor befriended it just a few days after they were first locked up. He'd hold it and let it run all over him, talk to it about stuff Logan really didn't want to understand. He only accepted the creepy pet because he sensed Victor sort of needed it, needed it to cope.

Victor swallowed. The slight tremble in his arms had stopped, and he glanced back at Logan with an I-don't-really-care smile pasted on. He shifted a little closer, pretending it was cause his spot was kinda damp with who-knew-what. Then he casually began carving a smilie-face into the wall, his claw gouging a furrow through moldy, soft rock. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Logan. "You know, Jimmy," he said finally, noting how his brother gave him a tired, exasperated look, "glad you are here, though."

Logan raised his eyebrows skeptically at him, wondering what brought that sappy comment down from the moon. He grimaced. "I ain't."

Victor barked with laughter. "You don't like my company?" He got on his knees so that he could both reach the wall and see Logan better.

"You smell," Logan sneered. He suddenly lifted himself off his seat and stretched out full length on the floor, pillowing his head on his arm, wishing he couldn't feel the damp spots.

"We all smell in here, Jimmy boy," Victor grinned, as if he really could tell Jimmy's thoughts, to heck with him.

With lightning speed and a rattle of chains, Logan kicked at him. "Good night, loser!"

Victor easily dodged, but he smiled even wider, happy to be kicked at if the kicker was Jimmy. "Night, runt."

Logan rolled his eyes. A few moments passed. Jimmy was a light sleeper who loved shamming just so he could make sure his older brother didn't run out on dubious midnight errands but Victor always knew when he was really asleep. There was a sort of change in the air, a presence and a feeling that just went cold and quiet.

Nothing came through the door's barred little window except inky blackness. The night outside was thick and sultry. All those critters outside would be chirping and calling, soaring through the empty sky or running, running beneath the trees, blood pounding, pursuing their eternal hunt.

And Victor was here, tied with man's pitiful iron chains, shut up in his pitiful stone box.

It was pitch black now, but he was okay with that. Once, a long time ago, he'd gone for days on end without seeing a sliver of light. Hadn't gone blind because of his healing factor. He always could see well in the dark, sure, but you can't see when there isn't even enough light for a bug's eye to pick up.

Jimmy was finally asleep. Victor watched his chest rise and fall, his eyes traveling up to Jimmy's face. He remembered how Jimmy used to be a snot-nosed little kid with big blue eyes. He remembered…how he used to be a kid.

Little hands groping in the dark, searching for that vent into the icehouse so he can block it, the one that's always sending a cold draft up through the cellar to pool against his bare skin…never did find it.

It's a long time to be chained by your wrists. He's always trying to shove his fingers under the manacles, to touch his skin, wonders if he even has any there anymore, that the iron band hasn't grown until that's all there is, clinging to the end of his arm like a heavy lump of metal. Only one thing reminds him that his bones and flesh are still there. The pain. The red, ravaged skin that heals every hour, like a swollen bracelet around his wrist.

The panic of those first few nights, weeks, months…years…riding despair and hope every time the door opens and the light comes in, the air from outside, the smell of food and leaves and living things. Knowing those things still exist, knowing he'll never touch them again.

The terror that writhes through his stomach when he sees his father, striding down the stairs with deliberate, unstoppable movement. The pliers are in his hands, and all Victor can do is pulled back against the wall, flatten himself there, never meet his father's eyes…and the pliers come closer, closer…

His father bends down. "Smile for me, boy."

He can't smile. His father will see. He tries, he barely lifts his mouth, like the painted smile of a corncob doll, while tears stream through the glass shield his wide blue eyes have become.

Huge fingers crush his cheeks. A wild face, red with drinking, stiff and hairy, warm, wet breath spraying his face. "Smile for me."

Thick fingers, looping around into his mouth, stretching his lips into a huge, painful smile until his cheeks feel white-hot, like they'll rip. But he doesn't feel it. Because his father knows now…he knows.

"The devil's fangs…yore sin, boy, sin incarnate. I should know…I created ya!" His father wheezes with laughter, his eyes bright with crazed fascination. Suddenly he lets go of Victor's mouth and wraps his arm around his neck, bending him back against his huge knee.

Victor's little neck bobs as he swallows. Choked words come out. "No…P-Pa…n-no…no...please…fwaagh!"

The pliers cut him off. A half-scream, half-sob is torn from his throat. Cold, hard metal socks him in the jaw as it works its way into his mouth, not even giving him the chance to resist. Clamping down. Breaking, chipping. His gums scream with pain. His own blood trickles down his throat, choking him.

His father lets him go, throwing him on all fours so he can cough and wretch, letting the blood stream from his mouth, pooling on the ground, dribbling down his chin.

Two large, perfect, white teeth splash into the pool. Bits of them float like shards of porcelain. The wracking pain in his jaw throbs through his brain and it hurts…but not as much as the pain of his father doing it to him. Doing it…and enjoying it.

He can heal from anything, given time. You can't find a single scar on his body, like it never happened. Victor doesn't believe in souls, but there has to be something, hidden in that black, roaring darkness he's made up of. Something that wasn't always there. Something that claws its way through his dreams, sings to his pounding blood…"yore sin, boy…sin incarnate."

He can heal from anything. But he knows he'll never heal from that.

Victor breathed in sharply, blessing whatever had startled him from his memories. He looked down at his leg and saw the rat there. It sniffed at him a moment before turning and scuttling towards that crack in the door, running off to find food, running and free. Free as he never was as a child…free as he isn't, free, as he never would be. For a moment, Victor hated that rat more than any thing in the whole of creation.

He lowered himself to his side, pressing his back against the cool stones as he curled in on himself. The chains clacked against each other and propped his wrists up painfully. He stared at them a moment, recalling the horrible feeling of pulling, pulling…but never breaking free. The moment when 'protector' became 'tormentor' and 'home' became 'prison. The moment when it hurt so, so bad to be weak, that he never wanted to be weak again. People like him didn't give people like them an inch, cause the minute you do they'll cage you. Reject you. Destroy you. It's why you had to kill, to be the best and strongest, to stay on top so no one could pull you down and chain you up. Jimmy hadn't seen it, Jimmy didn't know. But Victor did.

"Just like home," he growled under his breath, bitterly, ferociously, curled up on his side as he had curled up so many, many times before. In the dark, in chains, with a heart that was quickly shrivelling into black hatred.

But hidden beneath his fierce brow, his blue eyes were red and wet with pain.

FINIS