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.
25. Lisbon: Books
It was another marvelous sunny day in Lisbon. Just like every other June day. Or July, or August. Ah! This was the life!
Now if only Isabel didn't have to wear a jacket. Even if it was a light jacket, it was still a bit too much for the 2 pm temperatures of that particular day. She longed to enjoy the sun on her bare shoulders. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen any time soon and, for once, it was not because of any jealous possessive issues on the man's side. Apparently, rough angry sex with Victor Creed meant a bit more than just a sore pussy, namely, a few bruises and scratches. And although Isabel was sane enough to recognise she had better not let anyone see those marks, she was also ashamed to admit the scratches turned her on. What on earth was wrong with her?
She sighed. Although, truth be said, she had always enjoyed the feel of his claws cruising over her skin. She just hadn't imagined how hot it was when they actually broke the skin during sex, or how divine it was when he licked and sucked the cuts clean.
"What are ya sighing about, you little tease?"
Isabel smiled automatically at Victor Creed. He might be a brutish asshole but, sitting at that outside café, making his requests in nearly perfect (if very limited) Portuguese, he looked so stunning she fancied every passing woman looked his way. It was all that confidence that exuded from him, she was sure, which made her think that she really needed to focus on reeducating those insecurities of his that exploded in jealousy fits. She just needed to wait for the right time to start.
She crossed her legs and danced on the chair, very much aware she was wearing nothing under her dress. Well, under her underskirt, anyway.
She had never before tried it outside the house, wearing a skirt without panties, despite all her boldness when talking about it, or thinking about it. But since Victor had sulkingly told her, the night before, to go on and sing whatever she felt like – very ostensibly for their cover's sake – Isabel had decided he needed a reward.
"Nothing," she smiled. "It's just that I wanted a special dessert!"
She allowed a little smirk to pull her lips as her eyes dropped down his chest before she looked away with another loud, longing sigh. She'd be much happier if she could think of any place in the neighbourhood where they could vanish into for a quickie. Because if the man had had to readjust his jeans when he'd finally realised she was fully accessible, during lunch, Isabel wasn't any less eager to put that accessibility into practice. And yet, here they were, roaming touristy downtown at a provocating slow pace, hopping from café to café.
She couldn't stop wondering whether he was punishing her. Because he could smell she was horny – she had no doubt whatsoever of that – but he still hadn't put an end to the day out and taken her straight to a bedroom. In fact, he was the one pointing at the café patios and saying he could use some whiskey here, or those ice-creams looked tasty, or I want to try one of those Portuguese coffees. He didn't even like Portuguese coffees! Too short and too strong, he said. Well, he said. Who knows if he wasn't just keeping some weird reputation when it came to liking this or that type of coffee? Oh, men! They're such children!
"Say, who's that wimp over there?"
Isabel looked around.
"Oh, that? Skinny guy, isn't he? That's a statue in homage to Fernando Pessoa, the greatest Portuguese poet to have ever lived! I mean, after Camões. And, if I may say so, after Florbela Espanca. She had terrible bad luck at love, but she wrote poetry that is pure emotion. And they make great songs, too! Oh, and Ary dos Santos! He wrote lots of great lyrics for songs, not to mention he was an actual poet too. At least I think he was. Anyway, our dear Pessoa used to come to this café so they had the statue made. Or something like that. My interest in poetry at school was only for as long as the poems could be turned into lyrics, you know, so you have to take what I say with a pinch of salt."
The man grinned sideways and Isabel laughed. Oh, she was happy. Really happy! If only happiness could last!
"Come on, I saw a bookshop when we were coming up and I want to buy a book."
"A book?" She blurted without thinking. "Why do you want to buy a book?"
He stopped as he was about to get up and actually stared at her for a second.
"I don't know. Thought I could read it or something."
Isabel laughed. He could be so silly! Getting up to go after him, she insisted.
"You know what I meant! Why do you want to read a book?"
He put a hand over her shoulders and pulled her close to his side, and she quickly slid a hand into his jeans' back pocket.
"Because you learn all sorts of things from reading. You should give it a try."
Isabel was that close to put into words how much she dismissed the whole idea as a waste of time. And it wasn't that she didn't recognise people can learn stuff from books, very worthy stuff even. However, the only thing she enjoyed reading was music, and that she did learn from. She learnt a new song! But then they entered the old bookshop and she got a sudden craving.
"Ok! You choose a book for me."
He looked her over, clearly aware there was something underneath her request, then started going through the place. She was thrilled, wondering what book he was going to pick for her, and shadowed him all over the cramped shop as he scrutinised tables and cases.
Every time Victor picked a book to check the blurb or take a peek inside, Isabel held her breath. Was he choosing that for her or for him? She watched him as he inspected travelling books for tourists (did that mean he wanted to go holidaying through the country?), classic works (she had not taken him for a classicist!), novels (not one of those had the slightest suggestion of romance, though, being all mysteries and thrillers from the look of the covers), and even a couple of poetry volumes (poetry? Was he mocking her?). Finally, he handed her a book with the heavy sounding title of Portuguese Governmental Policies and Their Outcomes.
"I'm taking that one for me," he said. "Might as well see how much salt you've been pinching on what you tell me about the country."
Isabel held back a flabbergasted grimace and simply asked 'politics?'.
"Yeah," he shrugged. "The decisions of a government and how people react to them tells you tons about how a country thinks. It's a great mirror of its culture."
Right. Have fun with politics, love! If he asked her, street parties with local music were much better places to study cultural aspects of anything. Extra thick as that book was, and written in Portuguese on top of it, Isabel had the impression it would end up being used to kill a night of insomnia.
"And this is for you."
Her heart skipped of curiosity! Down the Drain. That was the title. In English. She couldn't even tell what it was supposed to mean! With a great effort, she tried not to show too much disappointment.
"I thought you said no English."
The man grinned. Evilly, if you asked Isabel.
"It'll help you improve your English for when we go back to Canada." Ah. How marvelous. She'd much prefer getting stuck with his Spanish than with English. Easier to understand and easier to imitate. "There's even a sappy love story angle."
How did he know that? "You've read it before?"
"Hell, no! It's in the blurb. The hero has to find a serial killer and save a hapless chick. See here?"
He turned the book around so she could read the blurb, but she wasn't really interested. Should she say she'd rather have something without a romantic angle? And, anyway, if he thought the tale was rubbish, why was he forcing her to read it? If she had to read something, then it might as well be good, right? Oh, what the hell! She would end up hating it anyway. Might as well hate rubbish than proper literature.
"Thanks," though she was aware she was doing a terrible job at hiding her true feelings.
Not that Victor seemed much worried. He carried on through cases and tables, one small room after the next small room, on and on through tables and cases. Isabel followed in a dejected mood.
"I thought you didn't like politics," she ended up muttering.
Not that he'd ever said anything specific on the topic, but he grumbled a lot whenever the news mentioned politics and policies and politicians… She'd figured he couldn't care less about those assholes.
"Something I picked up from a former boss."
He added another book he'd just been checking to the pile in her arms. A thick anthology of Portuguese supposedly best poetry through history.
"Oh?"
He leaned back with a grin as he entered yet another room and slid a hand over her shoulders, pulling her in and scurrying to the right.
"He'd have killed ya with a snap of his fingers," he whispered in her ear in English, his hand already groping her ass. "He hated humans."
Such nice guys he associated with.
"Well, I'm not a normal human," she moaned, grinding her pelvis against his body.
"But ya ain't a mutant," his hand got off her ass as he stooped to get it under the knee-length skirt. "That's what mattered t'him."
Still holding the books in one hand, Isabel groped the man's hard…
"He al… shit."
The books escaped Isabel's grip as Victor took a sudden step back and pretended to be interested in whatever. Someone had just come in. Damn, she was flushed! And she could really use a bedroom, or anywhere private, for at least a few minutes.
Isabel stooped to get the fallen books and Victor followed her down, taking the chance to grope her again.
"He always said that ya needed two things to understand yer enemies. First, know their recent history, which is basically a string o' political stands and how the country reacts to 'em. Second, know their art. Not the commercial shit, but the real thing. It's a window into humanity's soul, he said."
That explained the anthology. Whatever! Isabel was far more interested in keeping watch over the intruders and, the moment they left the room, she leaned over to kiss the man. Who cared what his murderous ex-boss thought? But Victor pulled back with a naughty grin and put one of the books which had fallen in between them.
"Hold it for me," he returned to Spanish.
Isabel groaned, frustrated.
"Dis is not funny now," she told him in English.
As if to prove her wrong, Victor laughed and got up, pulling her up.
"Well, you sure are amusing," he said, not even looking at her. "Let's go."
Oh yeah? If he was going to be an ass, Isabel saw no reason to be nice and accommodating. As they were making their way out of the store, a row of rooms one after the other, Isabel stopped.
"I have a better idea," she said in Portuguese.
When he looked back, she showed him the book he'd picked for her.
"I'm sure there will be many more, and better, books for you to choose from when we go to Canada. Right now, I think this is more interesting."
She dropped the English book and picked up a Portuguese one. The miracle of pregnancy.
"Far more appropriate, don't you think so?"
She regretted it the moment she saw his face. The man was literally holding his breath. All of a sudden, Isabel knew that his uninterest in talking about the doctor's information and the exam results, his dissmissiveness about the baby's impending death… it was all a front. A front destined to protect him from getting his hopes up only to be wounded by the inevitable. He wanted the child to be born. He wanted a son. He… And what was she doing, playing teasing games with such a serious matter?
She looked away, put the book slowly back to its place.
"I'm sorry I… I don't know what came over me. Stupid thing to do. I'm sorry."
"You're ten weeks and almost a half," he said quietly, coming over to her side and looking at the tens of titles on pregnancy spread on that table. "And there are absolutely no signs of a single problem. From what you said about the women in the project, I doubt they ever even reached the end of the first trimester or they wouldn't have talked about failing to get pregnant; they'd have talked about failed pregnancies."
She nodded. She had thought that many times too. Not to mention the doctor had mentioned that all exams were negative, that everything seemed to point this was to be a normal, healthy pregnancy.
"Besides… you're ten weeks and a half."
Another two weeks and the first trimester was over.
"It's starting to show, too."
It was? She looked up at him. Victor was frowning at the piles of books, his face expressionless.
"It's obvious when you're naked."
Isabel looked down at her belly. The man was hallucinating! If anything, she might look a bit bloated on some positions but… she looked bloated on some stages of her menstrual cycle, too. Or after a hearty meal. Or when she was feeling lazy and slumped her shoulders. And she knew because she'd been looking at herself on the mirror every morning, waiting for the baby bump to become visible. It definitely wasn't. Her breasts were bigger, yes, but not her belly. Even if she had put on nearly three pounds, it was still very much not visible.
"You probably…"
Victor picked up one of the books and flipped through it. Did he want this child so much he was already picturing her more pregnant than she was?
"This one has nothing useful," he grumbled, picking another one. "Nothing but pretty pictures, banalities and basic facts that even I know. Give me a hand find something with real information, will you?"
Creed couldn't sleep. It was way past 2 a.m. and he… in the not so far distance, the bells of a church tolled the half hour. 2.30 am. He was fed up with this.
Getting up, he closed the bedroom door and went into the tiny living room, switching the light on. The four books were piled on a side table next to sofa and they attracted him like a flame attracts a moth. He sat down and picked up the first one. Poetry. His brain suggested going through it, which would probably get him sleepy, but he set it down on the sofa and picked the second one. Politics. Now here was something to help cure the uncalled for insomnia. Creed went as far as to flick through it. There were occasional black and white photos and maps. He placed it over the poetry one and looked at the last two.
Why had he bought two? No matter what it looked like, there was no sense in getting hopeful before the first trimester was over. Two weeks is more than enough time for things to go wrong. He picked them up.
One was all about big pictures with snippets of inconsequential information, but Isabel had liked the profuse illustrations of the baby's growth. He opened the heavier one. This one had proper text. Creed didn't really understand the modern tendency to prefer big pictures and little text. Text is what gives real information, not mellow, smiling pics of mommy and unborn babe. Especially because unborn babies didn't really look like those pictures. He knew. He had disembowled a pregnant woman before, as part of a job. Not a pretty image.
He looked for the chapter on the tenth week. There was a diagram of a fetus with arrows mentioning which body parts were under development.
He had never enjoyed it, he told himself as the image of those gutted mum-to-be decided to pester him. Of course he yapped a lot about killing his victims' wife and children – it was the kind of thing that froze people's blood and anyone who knew him would believe he was dying to do so. What he had never confessed to anyone was that his animal instincts didn't like it. There was a scent emanating from pregnant women and young children that simply… he didn't even know how to explain it! It felt unnatural to harm them. Which was why he did. It was a weakness he wouldn't allow to control him. He particularly remembered Epsilon Red's woman. She must have been near term, because her belly was huge, and that scent all around her… The moment the Soviet had asked him for a mercy kill, he hadn't hesitated. Well, he had. He had meant to actually hit her full force on the belly, just to really go against his mellowing instinct, but had instead hit her on the torso. And in a not immediately lethal point, too. That was how bad his animal instinct got.
Anyway, the point was that fetuses aren't the cute, chubby critters these pics made them out to be.
The images of the killed mum-to-be kept haunting him so he focused on the text, trying to forget it.
The mother's pregnant bump was likely to become visible in week ten. That was a no-brainer he'd been on the lookout for, even if he hadn't known it was scheduled for their current week. Anyway, check. Breasts became visibly bigger. Another no-brainer. He'd noticed that a few days before, so check. Veins became more visible so as to better irrigate the baby. He had noticed the ones on her breasts were bluer but he hadn't known why. Anyway, check for the breast veins. He'd keep an eye out for the rest of her body from now on. Fatigue. Isabel had never shown fatigue, but she was good at pretending everything was fine, so he couldn't be sure. He'd have to be more insistent and ask her directly, that way he could smell any lies and know for sure. Increased vaginal discharge. He hadn't known about that one. He'd have to be on the lookout for that, too. Round ligament pain? Now that could not be something most people knew about, Isabel included, so the woman would have asked the doc if she had felt anything like that.
Right. What else? Weight. He did some quick math converting kilos to the more familiar pounds and decided he'd have to start controlling Isabel's weight. The doc was controlling it too, but he only ever said her weight was fine, no details added. He did not like that type of vagueness where his son was involved. Pregnant women are supposed to gain three to five pounds in the first trimester so, being in week ten, he decided that Isabel should have gained between two and a half to four pounds. Anything outside those parameters would mean she was either eating too little or too much.
The idea struck him then: what he needed was for Isabel to start a diary. That way, she'd have to write down her weight and volume increase, as well as anything else she felt. They'd been through one of those, in the bookshop. It had all those nice pics and banalities but it had space for taking notes plus adding photos and ultrasound pics and stuff. Damn, he had vetoed that one because it had no real information. He'd get it tomorrow.
Out of curiosity, he picked the cheesy one, which Isabel had preferred. It was a diary in itself, saying which changes and milestones to expect throughout the weeks, but Creed wasn't as interested in the averages as in whether Isabel was keeping within the boundaries of a healthy pregnancy. The book kept going all the way to the birth and the first six months.
For some reason, the images of the newborn reminded him of Graydon Creed. There was no reason for it to happen, since he'd never as much as glimpsed an image of the boy as a child, but it still happened.
Graydon Creed.
He'd been a puny human but he was no pansy. He'd made himself strong, physically and socially. He hadn't feared anything or anyone. Even as Creed had grabbed him by the neck and he had had no way of hoping to survive, even then he hadn't been afraid. He'd been too full of hate to feel fear. The boy had killed Birdie just to spite him, even as he had every reason to believe that would be his last action before dying.
It filled Creed with pride. His own son, carving his way in the world through corpses and mayhem. Fearless. Strong, at least for a human.
But it hurt too. His one and only son… and the boy hated him. An anti-mutant fanatic. Sure, Creed had been in plenty of pro-mutant and anti-human teams and so-called brotherhoods. He'd spewed the established propaganda as required, but he hadn't necessarily believed the whole party line. It was just part of the show! The only thing he believed in was his own superior power and strength, his superior instincts. Those were real. Graydon, though, he'd believed the anti-mutant dogma blindly. He should have seen that it's one's strength that matters. There are humans that are worth a thousand mutants, even if they're rare. As in, one in ten million. Graydon could have been one such if he hadn't been so blinded by his moronic hate.
Anyway, Creed couldn't help but wonder… what would it have been like to hit a bar with the boy? To go to games and boxing matches and… hunting! They could have gone hunting together. Animals or people, it made no nevermind.
He looked at the photo of a sleeping newborn.
Could he do it with this son, though? Hell, of course he could. He would! How else was the boy going to learn how to hunt? He'd go out into the woods with his Poppa, that's how. Obviously, Creed would have to keep in mind the boy wouldn't have a healing factor, wouldn't have heightened senses, but he knew how to teach the little one to overcome those weaknesses. He would…
…be human. And what if he ended up becoming an anti-mutant too? What if…
What the hell! Isabel was only ten weeks along and there were still two full weeks for the woman to lose the baby. Fetus. The weakling critter inside her.
Creed closed the book and dropped it back on the side table. He was getting ahead of himself, thinking about the future like it was guaranteed. There was a lot to happen between now and then, like… like having a word with that Zézé asshole.
Creed had ended up not leaving the house on the night of their fight. Hell of a lay that woman was when she was pissed! He really had to provoke her more often. She gave as hard as she got, or as much as she could, and no matter how hard he fucked her, she had just come up asking for more.
He had had to give her permission to sing whatever she felt like the following evening, obviously, but she'd behaved and sang only once. Then, as the folks insisted, Creed had permitted a second song before leaving. Zézé hadn't showed up. Once Isabel was asleep (and, now that he thought about it, she had fallen asleep rather quickly. Fatigue: check), Creed had left the house and stopped by Tasca Antunes, but Zézé had been with female company and he hadn't interrupted. His cover did ask for an upstanding guy, after all, and if the jerk wasn't obviously pestering Isabel, he'd have to give him a warning in absolute privacy. The street where Tasca Antunes stood was definitely not it.
Outside, the church bells were tolling. 3 a.m..
Maybe he should find out where the guy lived and drop by in the small hours. Isabel could certainly find that out for him.
Creed glanced towards the pregnancy book on his lap. He turned a page onto week eleven. Baby bump should be visible, though maybe not for first time pregnancies. Well, Isabel's was. Mood swings. Check and double-check. Leg cramps, more likely to hit at night. She hadn't had any yet. A potassium and magnesium rich diet was advisable to avoid it altogether or, at least, to diminish the intensity.
Well, if leg cramping was on for next week, he might as well get her pantry filled with stuff to prevent it this week. He got up and went into the bedroom. Isabel turned grumpingly in bed before he got his smart phone and left again, standing in the corridor as he opened an internet connection. Let's see, foods high in magnesium and potassium…
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