I'm sorry: I did it again and failed to upload the chapter last Saturday. I really have to stop doing this late at night. I'm uploading last Wednesday's chapter today and Sunday's tomorrow.

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.

35. Alentejo: Moving In

Both houses that Isabel had chosen were old farms. They had land with some trees, they had yards with flowers, and there was a small, anything but wild, pine tree wood lining the end of both properties. Unfortunately, they were also stuck in a labyrinth of such narrow, ditchless roads, that Creed had no idea how they were still considered roads with two lanes. There was no way you could cram two cars side by side.

Isabel had waved that concern impatiently. There were plenty of moments when the roads were not lined with walls, so that a car could easily get off the road to give way to incoming traffic, if need be. It wasn't as if there were tens of cars going by every hour. Most cars were even small vehicles, nearly half the width of their monster jeep! No. The only problem might be when a local farmer drove his tractor along the road. But how often would that happen?

Creed had chosen the house closer to the end of the narrow labyrinth.

On the day of their arrival, at two pm on a scorching August day, Isabel had gone out of the car and marched straight into the yard, inspecting each tree. Then she'd turned to him and smiled.

Isabel was on her 19th week, four months and a half. Her belly was starting to be obvious and he loved both the look and feel of it. He couldn't wait for the fifth month, when the baby started kicking about. Since Creed did not want Isabel wearing clothes that were too loose and kept him from enjoying the view of his growing baby girl, and since the weather was extremely hot, she had decided to wear a loose midriff top.

A hand on her hip, and the unforgiving light of the sun hitting her full force, Isabel's body looked perfect.

"The fig tree, the lemon tree, and the peach tree are loaded. We've got the basic fruit covered for the summer. Come October, it'll be orange time. Better than this, only if there was a pear tree. Good choice, my love."

As if she hadn't been the one choosing the finalists he had picked this one from.

"Get out of the heat and int' the house," he told her, getting the keys.

There was a grapevine planted next to the entrance door, growing over a small rustic trellis and heavy with grapes.

"Ya fergot t'count another fruit staple," he said, opening the door.

Isabel laughed and stopped to pick a bunch.

"Get in already," he grumbled.

"I'm going! I just got a craving for some organic grapes, that's all."

It was an old house, even if it had been completely recovered. The walls were slightly irregular and extremely thick so that the interior was cool even without need of air conditioning. Unfortunately, the rooms weren't very spacious, but it was still far better than the Lisbon shit hole they'd been living in. And best of all: no neighbours! Well, there were neighbours, but their lands were several feet away. He could speak in his native English as loud as he felt like that it wouldn't harm his cover in the slightest.

"Ya can quit speakin' Portuguese all the time now," he said. "There's no one t'hear us."

"Love of my life," She snapped immediately. "Get some sense in that soul of yours. I'm Portuguese, my language is Portuguese and I am in Portugal. I'm not giving up my language just because people can't hear me. You don't want to speak Portuguese? Fine by me. But since you understand me well enough, I am not going to turn English all of a sudden. Have saintly patience, love! I have plenty of years to bury myself in English."

She sighed, upset, and sat down on the sofa.

"I'm going to relax for a few minutes, if you don't mind."

Of course he didn't mind her resting! That stubborness about not speaking English, though… But it was still no problem. He'd find some motivation to get her off her linguistic bastion. He'd realised by now he could more easily get her to do as he wanted when he didn't try to force her. That only got her more stubborn and unreasonable.

"I'll go get the bags," he warned. "Get yer feet up. That was a long trip and I don't want ya gettin' swollen feet nor diminishing the blood flow t'the baby."

"Yes, love."

He knew that tone. It meant 'I totally disagree with you, but have it your way'. It didn't bother him because it meant she was going to obey so it was actually a good thing to hear her say.

Outside, it looked as if they were stranded in a little farm in the middle of nowhere. It was amazing that they were actually less than a ten minute drive from the hospital, and less than a fifteen minute drive from both the market and the supermarket. It might not be as convenient as Dona Ana Maria's grocery's around the corner, but it was worth the peace and quiet.

Creed took the four suitcases out of the car and once more frowned. When they'd come to Portugal, they had brought a single suitcase each. Sure, there had been some shopping for the woman in the meantime, and plenty of shopping for his baby girl in the last four days, but that still didn't justify the two extra suitcases Isabel had packed. Nor how heavy they were.

He carried them to the bedroom wondering how baby clothes and toys could weigh so much. Curious, he opened the suitcase instead of leaving it there for Isabel to unpack. What the… Isabel had packed books amidst the clothes? Isabel, the anti-book? He picked one up.

"What are you doing!"

Creed turned at the horrified gasp. The woman was petrified at the door, face so red it could burst at any time, especially as she was holding her breath.

"Kamasutra?"

She remained petrified for a long minute, clearly trying to decide what to say. Creed stiffled an urge to laugh and crouched to pick up another one. Basic sex positions and variations. He dropped the first book and flickered through the second. Plenty of illustrations, just the way she liked her books.

Creed did not offer resistance as he heard her steps running to him and then got the book taken out of his hands. He laughed when he looked up, though. She was flushed with embarrassment and almost in anguish.

"Stop it!" She finally snapped. "That's not for… uh… Give me that!"

She stooped to grab the other book he'd dropped and then kicked the suitcase aside, getting in between it and him.

"Go away!"

Like hell he was! He got up and grabbed her chin, but she shook her head and stepped away, too flushed to hold his gaze. Creed grabbed her arm and pulled her to him.

"Why d'ya wanna keep yer books away from me? I can't join in the fun, is that it?"

"Stop it," she grumbled sulkily.

"Fer a sex hungry lil' minx, ya're actin' way too bashful."

Creed pushed the books out of her hand and pulled her into a kiss. She wasn't aroused just then but that wasn't a problem. Half the time the woman teased him into dropping his pants, she was everything but aroused. Not that she wasn't easy to get wet, but when the woman wanted to be held or comforted, she asked for sex rather than a snuggle. He had always assumed she was aware he wasn't big on that cheesy kind of stuff and he actually appreciated she didn't ask him to do it. Creed showed it by prolonging the foreplay till she was spiced up. It was no trouble getting her in the mood anyway.

"I say it's high time I join yer private fun."

She was still resisting, though, and he couldn't fathom why. He picked one of the books and pushed her onto the bed.

"Let's see… Missionary and variations… cowgirl and variations… No wonder ya've been so creative lately."

He really should have figured she was getting ideas somewhere.

"Stop it, Victor. I'm serious!"

She was? Creed looked away from the book. Isabel was sitting on the bed, still bright red, and she seemed a bit tormented. He didn't get it.

"What's wrong?"

The way she glared, she must think he should be able to guess what's wrong.

"Don't gimme that look! What the fuck is wrong? I mean, if ya bought the damned books, and ya've obviously been gettin' tips from 'em, why the hell can't I see 'em?"

She looked away, pouting.

"Look, woman," he growled. "I wanna get laid, not have a fuckin' argument. Now spit it out already!"

She glared at him and frowned stubbornly. Not what he was looking for, but much better than bashful shame.

"I don't know why I have to tell you anything about this. It's not like you do."

This kept going down the ridiculous guess-the-problem road.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Admit it!" She got up, eyes burning. "The only thing you like is that I'm always willing to have sex, because in everything else I'm a stupid inexperienced chick who has no idea how to satisfy you!"

O-kay. Creed took a step back at the unexpected charge.

"Don't you dare say I'm exagerating, Victor. You know that's exactly what you think so be a man and say it to my face!"

"You are demented," he growled.

"Oh, so I am not inexperienced? I satisfy you completely, hun? You don't ever feel like you'd rather be fucking a well-rounded whore, is that it?"

"Damnit, woman, ya was a freakin' virgin half a year ago, I don't expect ya ta be a knows-it-all in such a short period! And yeah, a whore knows what she's doin' and she sure as hell knows how ta add spice an' variety, which ya obviously don't. I mean, there's a reason virgin chicks ain't my thing. They are a hell of a nice, tight fuck, but it's touch an' go with 'em. It gets boring fast when they don't know what t'do an' need pointers all the freakin' time."

The woman paled.

"So I am boring."

"What? I didn't say that!"

"You've just said virgins are boring!"

"Yeah, but I wasn't talkin' 'bout you."

And definitely not now, anymore. Though the first time he'd fucked her had been a prime example of why virgins should be kicked out the moment you've popped their cherry.

The woman took a deep angry breath.

"We spent over a month in that supid cabin, and you had to always tell me what to do, and…"

"That was different!" He interrupted. "Look, ya're blowin' all this outta proportion! Yeah, ya ain't skilled, I know. But you are a fast learner and I'm sure ya'll be a great lay soon enough."

The woman snorted.

"So the idea is for you to put up with a bad lay while you're waiting."

"Ya ain't a bad lay, damnit! Ya just ain't at the level o' the women I like t'bang! That's all!"

She stood in silence, her glare morphing into a firm 'I knew it all along'. You aren't at the level of the women I like to bang. It occurred to him that might not have been the smartest thing to say in this particular context. He breathed out. Reassuring. The woman needed reassuring. Here was another thing that made experienced women a much better choice. Those don't ever need no reassurance.

"I should start unpacking," she said with stiff smoothness.

At least she was past yelling. He had only wanted to fuck the woman! Honestly, why did he have to put up with drama when he just wanted a nice, relaxing fuck?

Creed grabbed her by an arm and pushed her back onto the bed.

"Let's get somethin' straight."

Only he didn't really know how to set it straight. He needed to set her apart from all the other women, he'd realised that much, but say what? He held her pissed gaze trying to… That was it!

"Look, ya ain't very skilled. Yet. That's a given. And I ain't about ta stop fuckin' whoever I feels like no matter how skilled ya ever become. That's another given and ya better never even dream o' givin' me no shit 'bout it."

"I know," she grumbled.

"Good. Now, I don't give a shit that ya ain't as skilled as some o' the women I associate with fer two reasons: first, ya're gonna be gettin' more skilled as time goes on. Second, ya're mine. The other women are just… random women. I fuck 'em an' move on. They ain't mine, the way you are, get it? If the other women drop dead, I don't give a damn. There'll be someone else t'take their shoes. Not you. You are mine; you ain't goin' nowhere. That's why I didn't get annoyed, back in Alberta, putting up with yer incomp… uh… lack o' skills. 'Cause ya're mine. Is everythin' clear now?"

She seemed a bit softened, though maybe not fully. He'd let it sink in.

"Keepin' all this in mind, can we now move on t'somethin' a bit more satisfyin'?"

Isabel shrugged and Creed growled, picking up the book.

"Yer problem here is skills, right?" He flipped the pages over. "Then I say we get these books of yers ta good use an' make sure 'em skills improve as fast as possible."

Variation, variation, variation…

"Since, apparently, ya've been followin' the order o' the positions in this book, it means today's lesson is the… uh… I'm gonna go out on a limb an' say this is Portuguese for corckscrew." He turned the book around so she could take a look. "See? Two in one. A new position and a new word."

Isabel didn't repeat the English word so he doubted she was going to recall it later, but she was reading the description. Creed started stripping. He had never imagined her to be ashamed of her failings, even because she'd been working hard to overcome them, especially in the last month or so. But even before that, all the way to when he had her in the cabin in the woods, she had always been enthusiastic and adventurous, confident in her experimentations even when she needed pointers.

"Done?" He took the book and threw it onto the floor. "Get rid o 'yer clothes, then."

She still didn't look her usual self so he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.

"Quit bein' an ass, Nesi. I much prefer it when ya're a devilish self-confident tease."

The woman breathed in softly and held her breath. What now, he growled.

"Devilish," she asked softly, suspiciously.

"Yeah, like a devil."

She had better not get religious about it.

"And you like dat I'm devil," she asked in English.

There! All she needed was some motivation and she willingly went back to English. It was all a matter of not forcing her when she got stubborn and then waiting for a sweeter disposition.

"Especially when ya're an English speakin' devil."

She chuckled, unanmused, and got up as she slipped the top over her head.

"Den maybe you like dis."

She walked over to her suitcase and opened it, pulled out two other books. The cover of the first one said oral sex, which explained a lot. She handed the second one to him. Sex in pregnancy.

"Because I'm almost in month five, I think is better dat I… we start read dat."

Creed flipped through it. It mentioned pros and cons for each suggested position and each unadvised one too. It occurred to him he had never fucked a pregnant woman before. Well, very pregnant. As he looked at some of the pictures, it dawned on him things were going to get real limited, real soon. He flipped back to the fourth month. It was vague enough to allow for almost anything. Better make the best of it while he could.

How could such a fast rhythm be so soothing? Keeping his eyes closed, it was as if the world didn't exist beyond his child's beating heart and his woman's lazy playing with his hair, her scent enveloping him in a protective bubble of ease and pleasure. Creed could have stayed like that forever. The hot afternoon filled with the crackling song of the cicadas and a warm breeze stirring the white curtains over the bedroom window.

"Are you awake?"

The woman's whisper nearly rose above the cicadas.

"Sh," he answered back. He hadn't grown tired of listening to his daughter just yet.

"Sometimes I'm afraid."

He lifted his head up immediately.

"What're ya afraid of?"

"That I end up like my mother."

Her mother? The only thing she'd mentioned about her was that she had tried to curb Isabel's death-wish and so they'd ended up fighting a lot.

"How did she end up?"

"It's more like how we ended up. By the time I was thirteen, we could barely have a conversation that didn't end up in an argument. She was much too strict and never tried to understand my point of view, but I wasn't exactly easy on her. I really regret how difficult I was for her, you know, and I do not want to be like that with my daughter, always fighting."

Ok. He wasn't exactly sure what the woman expected him to say to that.

"I want my relationship with my daughter to be like the one I had with my grandma Lilia. She listened to me and she tried to understand me. She criticised me too, and she upbraided me a lot of times, but it was so different. I could talk to my grandma about anything."

There was a long silence and Creed ended up just saying 'ok', hoping that had been the end of it, before going back to his position.

"And you? Are you going to teach her to hunt?"

"Damn right I am!" He rested his head on her belly again, but facing her this time. "An' ta fight, too."

Isabel smiled softly but then frowned.

"We must be careful. Expectations are dangerous."

"What d'ya mean?"

"One of the problems I had with my mother was her expectations. She had very specific expectations for me: to be a good student, to go to university, to get a good career… The problem was that I was never a good student. My mother was a teacher and she was always, always, always going on about homework and studying and school marks and… God! It was a nightmare. In a scale of 1 to 5, she wanted me to have mostly 4s and 5s. I was happy with having 3s and an occasional 4 so I never bothered to go beyond it."

Creed frowned at the news.

"My baby girl has better not take after you."

Isabel laughed.

"Yeah. So… are there any chances you were a good student? Because if you were like me, we're screwed."

He didn't answer immediately. The question didn't seem the least staged but it still felt like she was trying to pry into his past.

"Anyway, I'm going to guess you have 'good student genes'." She smirked, as if she had never really expected him to answer. "You have that look when I see you reading papers and stuff to prepare a job. Or when you want to read poetry and those politics books, or studying stuff about pregnancy and spewing every tip and rule without a hesitation. Prime student material! And then you have that 'knowledge doesn't take up space' vibe which is not me at all. So, yeah, you have 'good student genes'. I'll light up a candle to Our Lady of Fatima to see if our baby gets them too."

Prime student material? Ha! The woman was nuts.

"Ya used t' go t' the library back in Wausau. Wasn't that studyin'?"

"Of course not! Well, yes, but… it's not something that comes naturally, or easily. I had a good motivation to keep myself focused in de library: I needed to learn stuff about how this world of mutants worked. But I'll let you in on a secret: it was horrible. Reading all those texts in English gave me headaches! When I started, I was pretty much checking every other word in the dictionary."

"Was that why ya was readin' Spanish stuff, too?"

"Yeah. So much easier! Anyway, I only kept on doing that for so long because I'm stubborn, or I would have sent it all to hell. In fact, I set an hour to go in and another to go out because, otherwise, I'd have found an excuse to end the studying early and go to the piano. Especially when you weren't around."

Creed frowned as the idea occurred to him

"Does that count as expectations? Wanting her to be a good student, I mean."

And did it really matter?

"Not necessarily. If she likes studying naturally, it'll be easier for her in general. Anyway, I am not going to demand high marks. For as long as she gets positive marks, it'll be fine by me. It's like my grandma used to say: you are born to be what you're born to be, and that's it. I just want her to be happy and explore her abilities and… and be happy. If she turns out to be a bookworm… I'll never understand the appeal of books, but if that makes her happy, great. And if she ends up as a tomboy who only wants fighting and cars, that's fine too."

A bookworm? He was not going to have his baby girl be a bookworm!

"I won't even say anything if she turns out as a fashionite, even if that would break my heart. She'll be what she's destined to be. And I really think you should have that in consideration, too. It's one thing to make sure she tries out all sorts of different things, from hunting to surfing and to… I don't know, home-made jewelery. It will help her discover who she was born to be. But the moment we try to force her to be what we want her to be is the moment we will lose our daughter."

Creed frowned at the idea. It made sense. If she turned out as stubborn as her mother, for example, the more you pressed her one way, the more she'd go in the opposite direction. He couldn't have that.

Isabel sighed deeply.

"I'm getting hungry. What time is it?"

"Nearly five," he grumbled.

He helped her up then put on a pair of boxers. It was hot enough that he decided to stay that way rather than putting on the jeans. Isabel went to her bag and got a breezy summer dress out.

"I'll make myself a sandwich and I'll unpack after eating. Shall I fix you up something too?"

"Yeah, sure."

As she hummed a tune down the corridor, Creed got his own suitcase to get his tablet. He hadn't checked his email all day long and Clone Boy should report a completed mission any time. Hmm… Not yet. Well, he still had a few hours to finish it.

He went to his two business emails and came across three dozen jobs waiting for an application. These job requests had a window of 48 hours to receive hitmen applications and the OP would then choose the most qualified candidate. Creed had soon realised that newcomers to both job board sites he'd signed up with had to nearly work for free taking shitty jobs until they got enough reputation to be able to apply for bigger, serious ones. The type of job where OPs cared more about a good result than saving money.

First of all, he erased the jobs happening outside Europe and then the ones taking longer than five days. That left him with four jobs on one email, and five on the other. Let's see… five in London, two in Rome, one in Madrid and one in Berlin. Forget the others. He would apply for the five London ones and take as many birds with one stone as he could. The shitty jobs he was being forced into could easily be done in one or two hours, max, and the more hits he took on, the faster he'd reach the higher tier of the site.

"Bacon, chorizo and cheese sandwich," Isabel grinned from the doorway. "It's waiting for you in the kitchen. I don't want bread crumbs spread everywhere."

Thank you for your application. The OP will choose the most qualified candidate in 13 hours.

"I'm just finishin' this," Creed said as he applied to the next ones.

He'd get the answers to the five applications in between seven and twenty-five hours from now. Isabel remained leaning on the door frame. Once he was done with it and switched off the tablet, she asked when he was leaving.

"Either tomorrow or after tomorrow," he got up. "But I won't be longer than four to five days."

Isabel trailed him to the kitchen thoughtfully, and as they both sat down at the table to eat their sandwiches, she breathed out resolutely.

"I'm causing you professional problems," she said in English.

Creed frowned at her.

"I'm not stupid, Victor! You pass your time wid me, and when you leave to work is two or four days. If you only choose short jobs because of me… da causes you problems, right?"

"It's my choice," he told her. "I don't wanna leave ya alone fer too long."

"Yes, I know, and I thank you. But dat made sense in de beginning, when I was afraid to be alone, and den when we didn't know if de baby was going to die. Now, is different. I'm not afraid anymore, I have no nightmares, and we know de baby is fine. You can accept longer jobs."

"It's my choice, woman, not yours."

"I know is your choice, Victor. But I want dat you know I'm well again. You never worried about leave me alone in Wausau for weeks. Is de same now. If you want accept a longer job, I don't want dat you think I need dat you are always wid me."

Creed didn't tell her there was no comparison. She was his woman, now, not to mention she was carrying his child. It made no nevermind whether she needed him around; he needed to be around both of them as much as possible. He needed to make sure both were perfectly safe all the time.

"Good t'know ya think yer back t'yer old self," he grumbled. "I'm still not stayin' away fer longer than four t'five days."

Isabel nodded and went back to her sandwich.

"I don't feel like goin' nowehere today," he told her. "But I'll take ya shoppin' tomorrow so ya won't need ta leave the house while I'm away."

He noticed she had held her breath for a second then swallowed and breathed out stiffly. She didn't say anything, though. Creed could barely believe the woman wasn't going to fight him over the topic. He really should have taken her out of Lisbon sooner. However, once the sandwich was over, she leaned on the table and gazed stubbornly at him.

"Victor, love, I know you want dat I am safe. I know dat you know how to keep me safe better dan anyone, and I obey everything you say when the problem is safety. Is your specialty: fighting, killing and keeping safe."

"Good," he said, though he knew she was going to aggravate him next. "That means ya know it's safer fer you ta stay in the house when I ain't around."

"My specialty is making people think we are a normal couple. Is creating a net of contacts so we know what is happening in de city and wid de neighbours. Is guarantee dat every neighbour knows dat Victor Creed-Kredall is a Spanish guy dat travels a lot because of his job as a management consultant. Dat is my job. And I can't do dat if I'm locked in de house everytime you leave."

Creed growled.

"Ya're safer locked in the house."

She gazed steadily at him. Stubbornly, rather than angrily.

"I understand you want keep me safe, but lock me in de house is dangerous to our cover story. Can I suggest dat I phone every time I leave de house and den when I return? So you always know where I am."

It annoyed him that she wasn't wrong. The cover story was what would keep their identities safe if anyone thought of looking into them.

"I send you a message," she continued. "I say how long I think I'm going to be outside and den I send anoder message when I return. You think dat is balance enough to keep me safe?"

"One outing every two days or more," he grunted. "And never longer than one hour."

"Every day, Victor. I need fresh bread."

"Ya can bake it yerself," he growled. "Ain't ya the best cook ever under the sun?"

The woman sat back on the chair.

"For now, yes, I can. But make good bread means effort. You have to… what's de word in English? Beat de dough? You have to use streng and I am not doing dat after month six."

Creed had no idea how hard kneading dough could get, but he could smell she wasn't lying. She was probably thinking about going for the hardest, least practical recipe. He could get her a bread-making machine. Every now and then there was a flurry of online ads for that type of stuff. However, he got the impression she'd refuse to use the machine because it was not the way to make proper tasty bread. Damn cooking manias.

"Fine. Ya can leave the house once a day."

"Go to de market or de supermarket can be more dan one hour," she said. "But buy bread and milk is half an hour or less. I send you a message wid de time I think I'm going to need when I leave."

She always took ages doing her weekly shopping!

"Ya can only leave in the morning," he growled.

"Oh, yes! In summer, I only stay outside during de cool morning hours. But when gets cold, I prefer leave late in de morning or early in de afternoon. Is more warm."

Creed hated that he couldn't lock her in. He hated it! Damn the cover story.

"Ya'll text me before ya leave and when ya get back," she nodded, saying she promised to do so. "And ya text me every half an hour when ya stay outside fer longer."

The woman breathed out.

"Every hour," she grunted. "Is a deal."

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.