Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.


Hi, there! Since Hidden Years has a ton of chapters, determining how Creed and Isabel's relationship evolved from abusive to... let's call it near-civilised, I've decided to start uploading two chapters a week. I'll upload on Wednesday (evening) and Sunday (whenever I get the chance to sit at the computer, which can vary greatly).


4. Alberta: Paradoxes

Isabel would never get used to this: dry cabins. How on earth could anyone enjoy living in a dry cabin? It was beyond her. And yet, there she was: getting water from a jug onto a pot to heat up, and then pouring it over the lunch plates, piled up in a mini-sink which leaked into a bucket. Grey water bucket, Victor had called it. What was the whole point of it?

Not that she was going to stoop down to complain for anyone to hear. She didn't even allow herself to groan the slightest sound of annoyance near his ears. This was a temporary hiding place, after all. Why complain against something that's temporary, especially if it is keeping one safe? She had voiced her opinion once – because this was not a hygienic or sanitary arrangement anywhere in the world – and had not mentioned the topic ever again.

Although she did groan – very audibly – every time she had to use the out-house in the middle of the night or when it was snowing or, even worse, when it was raining. It was beyond her strength. She had used communal toilets in camping parks, the closest thing she'd ever seen to an out-house, but those had had proper sewers and running water, not to mention that it had been in summer. Portuguese summer. Temperatures never below the 60 mark not even in the coldest night, and definitely no rain in the horizon, ever. Well, maybe once, but that had been a freak accident of nature.

Ah, Portugal!

Isabel sighed at the plates as she poured clean water over them, to wash away the detergent.

If Victor were to…

She stopped and organised her ideas. He was not going to let her away from him. She was his woman – a decision she'd made herself – and he was not the type of guy to let go of something that belonged to him. Not while she was alive, at any rate.

But what if…

She had been supposed to go back to Wausau. He hadn't been constantly around, back then. He'd come and go; he'd stay away for weeks and months, stick around for days and weeks. When she had made that decision, to leave the X-Men and go back to live with him, she knew what it meant.

First of all, it meant she'd never have a family. Parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces, godparents and godchildren… That was the family she'd lost and would never get back. She could have married into one, but not once she'd become Victor's woman. And she couldn't have children. Family was definitely off any plan.

It also meant she couldn't have close friends. Sure she'd be free most of the time to do as she pleased, within the boundaries he saw fit to set, and then she'd get to play houses when he stopped by, but close friends share bits and pieces of their lives, and how could Isabel ever present a friend to Victor? The man would go nuts at the prospect of such a thing. She could just see him, raging about the unnecessarily dangerous breach in security. In his head, complete seclusion was the safest option. Seriously! And anyway, how could she ever forge a close friendship if she had to always keep her private life under tight wraps?

Wherever Victor decided it was safe for her to live in, she would always end up living much like in this cabin: alone. Absolutely alone.

Well, at least she'd have running water and electricity. And a proper bathroom! Friends or no friends, any civilised town was better than living in a backwater cabin.

But what if, in a year or so, Victor got fed up with keeping her? Or what if he decided Portugal was the safest place for her to live in? Good food, proper weather, and a language she could understand. It would be easier to make friends, there, in a community she knew and understood. She would know how to balance sharing and hiding parts of her life. She would know how to…

Only, Portugal… These woods were home for Victor, and Portugal couldn't be further from this godforsaken place in every little thing. In his head, Portugal would never be a safe place for her because he didn't know the place and the culture well enough to feel in control of the situation. Home is always a safe haven. If Victor wanted her safe, he would keep her near his home, not hers. In the woods. There are lost towns in the middle of the woods. With electricity, sewers and running water, hopefully. She could only suppose he'd take her to one such town, eventually. But what are people like in such towns? What are houses like? What is life like?

Whenever she thought about her future, Isabel always ended up unable to picture her life. It unnerved her, to face a blank future. She needed to organise her life, feel herself back on her own two feet, stable and strong. But there was only uncertainty. First, Victor had to finish getting her documents, her new identity; then he'd find her a house. But where? When? What type of house and neighbourhood? That was not important. Not for him, anyway.

It wasn't that she couldn't understand his wisdom of living in the present. There's more freedom and fewer worries, that's for sure. No uncertain future to fret about; no unpleasant past to regret. She could definitely understand its appeal. Obviously, though, she couldn't do it. Present does not exist without a past, no matter how unpleasant, and to forsake the future was to go through life blindly. It was not for her.

Even her attack. It had happened and it could not be erased. Victor seemed to expect her to forget about it, but how could she? It was as part of her life as her beloved childhood and youth. No. She had to face it, make peace and then put it aside. Not to be forgotten, but to keep out of the way. There were worse things that could have happened after all. She had gone through pain – such terrible pain! – but that had been it. She should even look back at the whole experience and feel glad she had come out of it physically unscathed. Or nearly physically unscathed. She was confident that, once she was able to look at the whole thing in that light, the nightmares would vanish for good. That sickening phantom of an unwanted touch slithering through her skin.

Isabel shook her head with a shiver of repulsion. She was dawdling! With an air-clearing exhale, she finished the dishes and wiped the sink clean. Then she dried the tableware and put it away. Finally, she got the grey water bucket and took it outside to get rid of as Victor had taught her to do.

The door whined like a child. Victor still hadn't oiled the hinges, though he kept saying he had to. Sitting on the old wooden deck, gaze lost in the woods ahead, the man acted as if he hadn't heard anything.

Isabel hesitated just a second as the smile bubbled to her lips. He reminded her of a boy, sometimes. He'd leave for Toronto early in the day, he had said, a week ago or so. The evening before, he had told her he'd leave immediately after lunch. And today, here he was: enjoying his wooded peace and quiet as if he hadn't planned to be long gone by now. A boy who does what he pleases when it pleases him. He only ever followed his plans to a T when he absolutely had to. Like when he had a job with a specific deadline or something like that. Although, to be fair, once he started on a course of action there was no stopping him. Whether he stuck to the plan or sent it to hell, he'd have his will done. She'd been with him long enough to know that. Flexible. Guess living in the present means you're flexible above all.

As Isabel walked by his side, on her way to empty the bucket, the man once more failed to react to her. He had his elbows on his knees and he seemed to be utterly relaxed, a lazy bottle of beer in his hand and gaze steady on the trees. Even as she walked past him again. She might have been an invisible ghost.

The smile was still on her face as she placed the bucket in its place. Isabel was grateful for the man's apparent disregard, because she knew it was apparent and that it wasn't disregard at all. Back in Wausau, he had never ignored her. Not once, whether she was coming into view or out of view, had he acted as if she wasn't there. He had always glanced her way, often a slight frown, his eyes always studying her, measuring her gestures, guessing her intentions. Now, though, it was as if he trusted her. Now, he accepted her presence around him. Maybe even welcomed it.

The man often sat on the deck, especially after the meals. A beer never too far off. Up until today, Isabel had respected such moments of contemplation, keeping away from him even if she longed to sit alongside him. Because she always did. Neverthless, she didn't want to impose herself on him and it was usually too cold to sit on that deck for too long anyway. She only ever did it when he was chopping wood. It was never too cold, then.

Today, though, the sky was clear and the afternoon sun was gracing the deck with… well, to be honest, that inviting sunshine probably had very little warmth, but Isabel was tired of the fire stove. She got her personal deck kit – a thick, soft blanket to sit on and a light, warm one to put over her shoulders – and supplemented it with two beers, then she went out and placed both bottles next to Victor. He did not react. She climbed down the two steps of the deck and adjusted the seat-blanket at a careful distance from Victor, neither close nor far. Finally, she opened the second blanket and covered herself before sitting down.

Ah, the sun was warm after all!

She felt the smile spread across her face at the warmth, but not the sun's. It felt good to sit like this, side by side, in silent contemplation. No words, no glances. Just that steady presence, the nearly unaudible breathing, the sound of the beer dancing within the bottle every time he took it to his lips. Isabel felt a shiver up her spine. It was heavenly! She wondered if he would say something, eventually. She hoped he did, even if she wanted the silent presence to last.

She used to sit on her grandmother's doorstep, when she was a little girl. She would come from school to grandma Lilia's for bread with butter and some milk, and find her crocheting on the stone doorsteps. They'd sit there in silence, the two of them, until Isabel felt ready to tell grandma what had pleased or annoyed her during the day, or until grandma decided to spin a tale from her younger days.

The deck of the cabin was wood, not stone; and Isabel's companion was not old grandma Lilia but a man who possessed as many secrets as, to a child's eyes, the quiet grandma had possessed. For as long as they sat there, silently, just enjoying eachother's presence, Isabel felt a little bit as if she was home.

How odd, wasn't it? To feel home just because she was sitting at Victor's side. Would it still feel a bit like home if it were any other person?

Isabel took a deep breath and tried to focus on the trees ahead. What could possibly entrance Victor in that landscape? The quiet and the peacefulness, perhaps. She'd rather a bit more movement. Watching people going by, perhaps. Neighbours. Putting together the puzzle of their lives from afar.

Perhaps he was puzzling together the lives of the neighbouring animals. Maybe he could follow their movements from sound and scent, while she was limited to vision alone. She'd like that, to be able to know what type of animals lived nearby and their routines. Maybe he'd suddenly tell her there was a squirrel going up and down that particular tree to feed its young. She'd really like something like that. Actual people would have far more interesting and puzzling lives, naturally, but squirrels and… what other animals could live here? Eagles and hawks?

Isabel got one of the two bottles standing between her and Victor, her body very keenly aware that her hand had come so very close to his body, and popped the cap. The drink was cold but, wrapped up in the blanket and bathing in the weak sunlight, she could enjoy its cold bitterness.

"I've been wonderin' where all my beers been disappearin' to."

Huh? Victor was looking at her sideways, not a shadow of a smile or grin, but his voice was amused and her heart paused alongside her breathing for a fleeting instant.

"Dis is de first beer I drink here," she told him, a stupid blush heating up her cheeks. "And you know dat, Mister Victor."

He chuckled and swapped his now empty bottle for the full one.

Isabel held back the sigh that filled her chest.

It was stupid. Was that what love felt like? Stupidity? Because, once upon a time, she had admitted to having a crush on the man. Lust, he had called it. The hots. No loving feelings, but simply a physical reaction. Horniness. All very sexual and heartless. She had told herself over and over that the man was right. Horniness and no finer feelings at all.

And yet she remembered that poem she'd studied at school: love is a fire that burns unseen, a wound that aches yet isn't felt, an always discontent contentment, a pain that rages without hurting. Opposites and paradoxes, that's love. At least in that poem. And Isabel… Isabel sat there, calmly gazing at those boring trees, and she felt her heart beating in a rush. She was thrilled that he'd returned to his contemplative silence by her side yet hoped he'd say something to her again. And it was stupid because, when he had provoked her just a moment ago, she had wished for him to go back to silence so she could enjoy his quiet presence.

But how could it be love? She barely knew the man! Knowing how he liked his house kept, or his food cooked did not count. Nor did it count knowing a few of the things that sent him berserk or that amused him. And she must keep in mind how very few of those latter ones she knew. She did not know the man well enough to be in love. It was still a harmless infatuation. And more lust than infatuation, too.

Isabel breathed out the excitement raging in her heart. Or at least tried to.

Stokholm syndrome! That could be it. Add horniness to the mix and it explained everything. Because he made her body burst into flame with the slightest touch, a hungry glance, a… Hell, even in his sleep he could get her in the mood. When she woke up before him and he was still asleep, relaxed and naked from the waist up. Naked from the waist down too, as he always slept stark naked under the blankets. And he knew it. He knew the power he had and, worse, he knew it was easy to get her wet. That Izzie nickname he'd come up with was a clear indication. No matter how supposedly different those sounds were supposed to be, easy and Izzie, any sane person would connect one and the other. And although she could live with him thinking she was easy to arouse, hell would freeze over before she'd allow anyone else to as much as dream it.

Isabel took another sip from the bottle and rested her elbows on her knees. (Ah, they were almost mirroring eachothers' position!) She could feel it, even if he was a palm away from her. The power and strength of the man. All her life she had loved bulls because of the raw power they irradiate: wild and proud. Solid. Unstoppable. As mighty as a thunderstorm or the breaking waves of Nazaré. As uncaring as nature on the wake of a devastating storm. One wrong move, and those piercing horns would either mark you for life or actually kill you. It is all the same for the bull. One wrong move. All her life she'd loved the tension of calling out to the bulls, the excitement of evading their charge. She felt strong and powerful every time she faced them and came away unscathed. Hell, she felt even more exhilarated when she came away limping and bleeding, but standing on her own. Four scars, she had collected in her youth, and she was proud of every one of them.

Victor made her feel almost the same. That body of his was as solid, as mighty and as unstoppable. His soul was as wild, as proud, as uncaring. It sent shivers up her spine, because he was life and death all rolled into one and that made her feel intensely alive. It made her feel giddy with the possibilities. And it made her feel so absolutely safe. Ah, another paradox!

Ever since she could remember, she had wanted to touch a bull. Even as a child she had known it was insane. Even today! But once she was a teenager and could play with the bulls in the streets, she had done it. Once, she had actually placed the palm of her hand on the face of the bull and kept it there for a second which still felt like an eternity in her memories. The price had been a long scar on her arm, which had ended up broken, two broken ribs and bruises everywhere. It had been so worth it. The bargain of a lifetime.

Isabel focused her gaze on the towering trees.

She couldn't help but feel the urge to touch Victor. Not physically, though. That wouldn't have been a challenge. It wouldn't have been dangerous. But her heart fluttered at the thought. To touch his… she wouldn't be foolish and say his heart. The man's was either made of ice or stone, if he even possessed a heart. His soul. She wanted to touch his soul and to hell with the price.

She wanted to touch his soul and his heart.

To make him hers.

Isabel took a long sip to cool down the feverish madness of such a thought.

But she couldn't help wondering… if he were to suddenly say 'go'. Go home to Portugal and forget everything. Remake your life. Get married, have children, raise a family. Let's imagine for a moment that she could have children. Find a man and start a new family, he'd say, in another universe. Where would she ever meet a man that could make her feel like he did? What other man could ever make her heart and her body react the way he did?

She thought of Miguel. She had thought she loved him, once upon an even older time. They had even entertained thoughts of marriage. She had loved being with him. After Victor, though, men like Miguel were nothing more than dust. To be courted by one would have made her despise him; to be touched by one would have sickened her. Weak and lifeless, powerless, insignificant. Because even if she had loved Miguel (or had thought she did), she had always known she was stronger than him. Just as she'd been brought up, she had allowed him to think he made all the important choices. She had allowed him to feel that he was stronger than her, her protector. She had allowed him to think he controlled her. But when she got mad, when she told him 'it's this way', when she glared at him, when he hesitated in a conflict and she took over… he had always known he must bow to her. He had never been able to face her anger. Had never been able to stand his ground.

No boy she had ever met could. Because every other male was nothing more than a boy next to Victor. The Victor she could never say was hers.

If only she could touch his heart and soul… a moment. Just a moment. Then he'd be hers. Even if only for that fleeting moment.

Isabel took a greedy gulp.

Suppose he set her free.

She didn't want him to.

She wanted to be near him. Near the strength and power that made her feel alive and safe. She wanted to feel his hands on her body. She wanted him to sit by her side, silent and steady. She wanted him whispering her name under the covers and actually calling her that stupid nickname, Nesi, Nesita, even if she kept telling him she didn't like it. She wanted…

"There's a doe around."

Isabel's heart fluttered in stupid happiness that he had indeed shared what he was seeing, or smelling, or... uh… what's a doe? Probably an animal, at any rate.

"Dat is good or bad?"

Victor shrugged. His gaze was still on the trees.

"I was thinkin' I might as well hunt it down. It's been hangin' 'round fer a couple o' days already, and it'd be nice t'have some fresh meat."

It was the fifth time he casually told her what he was planning to do. Not as in 'I hereby inform you because you must be aware of it' but as in 'I have no reason to tell you this but I feel like doing it anyway'. The fifth time in a month and the second in that week.

Isabel was so thrilled she couldn't think of anything to say until he put the second empty bottle on the deck and got up. He didn't even look at her. He simply started walking away. It was as if the sun had suddenly disappeared and the warmth had turned to ice. It was as if comfort and safety were suddenly replaced with loneliness and insecurity.

"Can I go too?"

The request was out before she could think twice. Victor turned abruptly with a surprised expression.

"What? Ya wanna got hunt the doe?"

Right. Stupid idea, huh? He had taught her how to track, but hunting…

"Yeah! Why not?"

Like hell was she going to admit she'd spoken stupidly. Why couldn't she learn to hunt anyway? If he was going to keep her a prisoner of the woods, she might as well.

Victor looked at her thoughtfully then glanced at the trees. When he looked back at her, he was scratching his neck.

"Does are fidgety. It'd probably hear ya an' take off 'fore I could get close enough ta snatch it."

Duh! Stupid. He knew how to walk silently in the woods so he could jump an animal, much like wolves and bears and… predators, in general, do. All she could do was make a racket and spook away any likely prey.

"Ah, right! Sorry. Didn't think about dat." Because she was stupid. "Don't want destroy your hunt."

"No, no! Actually, it's a good idea." Really? "Tell ya what, I prob'bly couldn't hunt it an' skin it and quarter it all, an' still take off t' Toronto 'fore nightfall anyway, so I'll hunt it down when I get back. Better yet, I can get ya a riffle and ya can hunt it yerself."

Isabel felt a wave of cold wash over her even if her cheeks were burning almost painfully. He was giving up hunting the animal and offering to let her hunt it?

"If ya want to."

Was he kidding?

"Yes, yes!"

Of course she wanted to! He went out to hunt, or recognise the terrain, or track animals, or clear his head, or whatever he did when he took off from the cabin on foot, while she was always stuck in the house, near the woodstove. Did he have the slightest idea how much she ached to go with him? Even if it was cold and wet and snowy. It was worth it just to be near him!

"Are ya sure?" He grinned mockingly. "Ya know ya can't take the stove with ya and I don't want ya dyin' o' cold or anythin'."

What did she care about cold when she would be with him? She laughed delightedly.

"I take an extra blanket."

Victor chuckled and shook his head, which got her wondering if he was only teasing her.

"I'm serious, Victor. I want go hunt wid you. And learn to take de skin and prepare de meat and dat all." Especially if he was more relaxed and chatty while hunting, as she suspected he would be. "I really want."

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.

"Ok, then. I'll get ya a riffle and we'll go out first thing when I get back."

She nodded excitedly.

Or perhaps he wouldn't be chatty. Perhaps he would give her basic instructions and they would just wander through the snowy land in conspiratory silence, united in their hunting mission. That would be even better.

"Go get my bag, will ya? I might as well take off t' Toronto 'fore it gets any later."


Poem by the Portuguese poet Luís Vaz de Camões (1524-1580)

Translation by Richard Zenith taken from pi/site/poem/item/8436/auto/0/Love-is-a-fire-that-burns-unseen

Love is a fire that burns unseen,
a wound that aches yet isn't felt,
an always discontent contentment,
a pain that rages without hurting,

a longing for nothing but to long,
a loneliness in the midst of people,
a never feeling pleased when pleased,
a passion that gains when lost in thought.

It's being enslaved of your own free will;
it's counting your defeat a victory;
it's staying loyal to your killer.

But if it's so self-contradictory,
how can Love, when Love chooses,
bring human hearts into sympathy?

Note: This is one of the basic school staples of Portuguese literature. One can flunk at Portuguese and still know the first line of the poem. If one's keen on poetry, one may know the first stanza, but that's less common.


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