The Warrior with No Name
By The Odd Little Turtle Named Froggie
(If Marvel made them up, that's who they belong to. Be aware that I'm experimenting with tenses and points of view. I would appreciate some input.
Many thanks to those who have already given their input on the previous chapters.)
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And Logan! Peter knows Logan! And he knows about the X-men, before they were popular. How surreal is that?
I'm not sure what to make of Peter. He's sweet and good natured and attractive. But he seems like he has this chip on his shoulder, or maybe he's looking over his shoulder. Maybe Logan's after him? I don't know. I would like to find out though.
Did I say Peter was attractive? Man, oh, man! He's so tall and just—well, I guess sturdy would be a good word for him. Like a tree. His eyes—they're so blue. They see everything. Crystal blue and clear as the sky.
Peter has the most amazing hands, too. They're big and square. He's very sure of himself, his hands never waver. And his arms are big and muscular.
I think he might be a mutant. I told you about what happened right? About M-Day? No more mutants. Only a few of us can use our powers now. Kurt told me there are less than 300 hundred of us. Talk about endangered species. If Peter's a mutant, I wonder if his mutant gift is his anatomically correct body.
Dear, God, I am too old to crush on anyone. For crying out loud, I just lost my fiancé last year. Okay, so that's not "just lost", but he's gone. Pete's gone. It's been so lonely without him.
Wow. I just realized the eeriness of that. Pete died, but I meet someone whose name sounds like Peter. Now that is just too creepy for words.
I wonder if I should call him. We exchanged numbers this morning.
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Piotr tried not to openly stare at Kitty's mouth as she chewed his freshly cooked waffle. Not only was she beautiful, she had a healthy appetite. Her hair was disheveled from sleep, a dark brown aura encircling her head. He focused on his plate, his half-eaten waffle, sopping up the syrup and forcing himself to eat.
"Is this a secret recipe?" she asked after eating three. She looked at him with amused wonder, meeting hi s gaze with a probing gaze of her own.
His laugh was low, throaty, his face flushing unexpectedly. "No. It's from a box." She made him feel like a school boy with a crush. He was suddenly very conscious of her pristinely polished nails, her petite frame wrapped in his too large clothing. As an artist his fingers itched to capture the moment on paper. Kitty looked so content and innocent. She had lost the fragile, haunted look of last night. As a man he was aware of her as a woman, and he suddenly wanted her out of his apartment before he did or said something foolish. What a predicament. Perhaps it was because he'd only had five hours sleep.
Kitty acknowledged his comment with a nod and ate the last bite with relish, savoring the sticky sweet taste. For the moment she ignored the light pink flush across Piotr's face. The blush was endearing, cute.
She was still dressed in his clothes. They smelled faintly of detergent, cologne and something altogether male.
"Do you think my clothes are dry yet?" The clothes in question were draped over and near the white, old-fashioned furnace in the corner of the living room.
He gestured to the furnace with his fork. "Your jeans are still damp," he told her, again the faint blush touched his cheeks. "Everything else seems to be dry."
Everything? Kitty couldn't help herself. She knew why he was uncomfortable now. She willed herself not to smile. "Everything else, huh?"
"Da."
"Panties too?" she asked sweetly.
"Da—what? No. I—"
A grin and a musical laugh. She was laughing at him. Oh, she had to go. Now. This was madness. He was sure of it. He glowered at her. "I am seriously rethinking taking you in."
"Now, now, Petey," she said, "I was just kidding."
She watched him mouth "Petey" in consternation, like he was running it through his personal Insult-o-meter, and by gauging the look he leveled at her, it must have ranked up there with dick weasel or something. "Nicknames?"
Kitty let loose a peal of laughter. "Well, Piotr is hard to pronounce," she told him, her pronunciation of his name grating on his ears, "and I'm not even going to try to spell it."
"The anglicized name is Peter," he offered, then wondered why he did so. How could he invite trouble just that easily? She confused him and intrigued him all at the same instance. "There is something wrong with me," he spoke his thoughts aloud.
"Oh?"
"Da. I am never this way around anyone." He sopped up the last bit of syrup on his plate with the final morsel of waffle and chewed it thoughtfully, watching her with his blue eyes.
She couldn't read what was on the man's mind, so she grinned and said, "I'm just special, I guess."
Special. Perhaps. What was it about this woman with the sad eyes? The petite brunette finished her juice then took her dishes to the sink. She came back and took Piotr's dishes from him.
"I can do that," he protested. He may have been thinking rude thoughts of kicking her out, but she was still a guest in his home.
She waved his hands away. "Nah, least I can do." Her brown eyes met his blue ones as he sat on the black leather stool at the stainless steel topped kitchen island. He was still taller than her sitting down. "I don't want to seem ungrateful for your help. Cuz I am. Grateful. For your help." She held his gaze a moment before turning away and rinsing the plates, adding soap and washing them. Piotr, not really knowing what else to say or do, dried them when she finished and put them away.
"You look very young," he said as he put away the last dish. "May I know your age?"
"Didn't you know it's impolite to ask a lady her age?"
"Just getting to know you," he repeated her statement from the prior night.
Kitty sighed dramatically. "Twenty-four."
For a moment, he eyed her with a critical squint. Kitty felt like squirming, but refrained from moving, meeting his assessment head on. "You look much younger," he finally admitted.
"So that's why you helped me. If you'd known I was an old maid, you would have left me in the rain."
She made it a joke. He took offense anyway. "My intentions were and still are honorable."
"Never said they weren't, Peter," she told him honestly. His anglicized name rolled off her tongue smoothly, sounding natural.
He nodded, glanced at the clock. "David will be arriving soon. I do not mean to seem rude, but I should be taking you home. I will be accompanying him to the hospital to check on his mother."
"I'll get dressed. I'll just call a cab. If he's going to be here soon, then it'll take you too much time to get me home and get back. I live in Brooklyn."
"I cannot believe your boyfriend just left you here." Irritation boiled over into his voice, deepening it. Kitty felt like swooning.
"It's alright," she grinned at him as she collected her clothing. The jeans were indeed damp around a few of the seams. "He wasn't my boyfriend anyway. A friend of mine set us up. She said I was lonely. Needed someone. Shows what she knows."
"I suppose," he said, shrugging his shoulders, straining the fabric of his gray tee shirt. "However, if I find him, I will hurt him."
Kitty could only laugh. She touched his forearm, electricity slicing up through her fingers. "Only if I get the first punch."
"I will hold him down for you, da?" An easy smile passed over his features, softening his face.
"You better," she told him. "I'll be ready in a minute. Would you do me a favor and call a cab? You know your address better than I do."
"Of course." She hurried out of the room and into the bathroom. His arm was still warm where her fingers had grazed his skin. He inspected it for burn marks.
Regaining his thoughts, his composure, he shook his head. No more of this foolishness. She needs to go, he thought. There was a tiny voice in the back of his mind that reminded him she was single and lonely. He promptly told said voice where to go. He wasn't looking for a relationship. Women were trouble. If he needed sex, there were plenty of willing bedmates in bars.
He called for her a cab and gave the address. Fifteen minutes. He had fifteen minutes left with her. He didn't know if he should cringe or jump for joy. When Kitty glided out of the bathroom, Piotr's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. She'd tied her brunette locks into a tail at the base of her neck. Her blue quarter-sleeved blouse hid most of her curves, but she'd left the top two buttons undone. Piotr's eyes trailed downward, eyed her cleavage as only an appreciative man could. He watched her hips sway as she walked, each stride was fluid. The dark denim clung to her legs, flaring out at the bottom.
She no longer looked like the drowned kitten, but walked like a graceful cat.
Katya.
Perfect, he thought miserably. Now I've given her a nickname too.
Coming out of the bathroom, Kitty hadn't expected the intensity of Piotr's gaze. He looked at her as though he were photographing her with his eyes. She expected to be irritated that he was eyeing her the way he was, but instead she was drawn to him like a moth to a candle. Oy, vey. She should be running the other way.
"Your ride should be arriving in—" Piotr glanced at the clock on the stove—"ten minutes, Kitty."
"Thank you, Peter," she said, and meant it. "For everything."
"My pleasure."
Kitty wanted to melt. "The waffles were great."
"Glad you liked them."
"Wanna exchange numbers?" she ventured.
Piotr hesitated, pursed his lips. "Just friends, right?" he inquired. He had a peculiar look on his face. Kitty couldn't place the expression. Was that fear?
"Naturally," she assured him. "I've been through too much to really want anything else. Not that I think you'd dump me in the middle of nowhere to fend for myself. I just enjoy talking to you, enjoy your company. Any problem with that?"
"No. Not a problem." Yet, intoned the logical side of his brain. The illogical side was giddy that Kitty wanted his number and promptly smashed the logical side with a shiny metal fist. "I have enjoyed your company also."
#
The worn pad of his thumb pressed the numbered buttons of his cell phone. His other hand held a note with curvy feminine writing. Both palms felt sweaty, his breathing labored.
"You've called plenty of women before, Piotr Nicholaivich," he told himself as his thumb hovered dangerously over the "call" button. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why he was so nervous. He was only checking up on her. He should have been the one to ask for her number anyway. To make sure the cab driver took her home like he was supposed to.
Besides, Kitty had asked to keep in touch. That was what he was doing—trying to do if he could only get his thumb to press the final button on his phone. Nothing wrong with keeping touch with a friend. Kitty wanted a friend. He wanted a friend. Everyone needed a friend, right? That was okay. Platonic was okay. Romantic was not. He did not want romantic with anyone.
He scrubbed his hand over his face, groaning. There was nothing wrong with wanting to have a friend. Mikhail hopped into his lap mewling. Both paws on his chest, she nudged his chin with her head, purred when he patted her back.
"Did you like Kitty?" he asked her, rubbing her chin. "I gave her a nickname. Katya," he said it to try it out. It sounded good and it fit Kitty's grace and poise. "Logan knows her. Perhaps I should call Logan and ask him about her?"
Mikhail only head-butted his chin again, all the while purring. She curled up in his lap, her claws digging into his jeans.
He sighed looking down at his beloved animal. "You are no help."
She only looked up at him sleepily, her tail sloshing to and fro lazily. "Mew," she told him, and went back to gently kneading his leg with her claws. Her purring calmed him somewhat.
He took a deep breath and pressed the call button.
Kitty was maneuvering her black Volkswagen Beetle around an irritatingly slow driver when her cell phone rang.
"You have a stalker!" the downloaded ring tone sing-songed happily. "I don't. You do! I can sleep at night! You're gonna die! Neener, neener, neener!" The ringtone was her catchall for those numbers not programmed into her phone. A wide grin split her face in spite of herself. It was a fun ringtone, albeit embarrassing on crowded elevators. She let it ring, enjoying the squeaking tone. She'd call back whoever left her a message after she got out of traffic. One thing she didn't need was another citation.
"Hi, this is Kitty Pryde's cell phone. I'm not able to answer for one of the following reasons: One, stuck in traffic. Two, avoiding you. Three, don't recognize your number. Four, already on the phone. Five, beating the living tar out of bad guys. Leave me a message. If you feel you've reached this recording in error, call back later."
Piotr's lips pulled into a smile despite his nervousness. He waited patiently as the network voice told him to leave a message or press pound to leave a numerical page. Suddenly he was at a loss for words.
"Kitty," he began, thinking how dumb his voice sounded. "I, uh, was just giving you a call to see if you made it home safely. Mrs. Brogan will be coming home tomorrow. The doctors say she will be okay. I am having lunch with her tomorrow."
Belatedly, he realized he didn't give his name and the network voice was back. Did he want to try his message again? For certain. He pressed four.
"Kitty," he started again, "This is Peter. Peter Rasputin. I was calling to check if you made it to your home safely. I am home from the hospital. Mrs. Brogan will be coming home tomorrow. She is okay. We are—" The network voice interrupted him. Okay, so he would have to talk faster. No problem. He pressed four.
"Kitty. It's Peter. Mrs. Brogan will be coming home tomorrow from the hospital. I am calling to see if you made it home safely and if you would like to have lunch with Mrs. Brogan, her son, David, and I—" Again, the network voice interrupted him and he nearly crushed his phone. Gritting his teeth, he pressed four. Again.
"Hi, it's Peter. Just calling to make sure you are home safely. Mrs. Brogan, her son, and I are having lunch tomorrow and I wanted also to invite you. Please return my call." He hung up, tossed his phone to the side and put his head in hand.
"I sounded like an ass," he lamented to Mikhail, who only purred in return.
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(This chapter was so much easier to write than the last one. Hope everyone had as much fun reading this as I had writing it. The dialogue wasn't as stuffy and forced.)