The Warrior with No Name

By The Odd Little Turtle Named Froggie

(Marvel owns 'em. I'm borrowing.

Ta-da! Another chapter! Whee! Input highly recommended.

Thank you, everyone, for the suggestions and the reviews. Thanks to the ones who follow but don't speak, too.)

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Peter knows—knew Anya Makarova. The famous ballerina. My idol when I was a kid. God, why didn't I ask him more questions about himself? For being a certifiable genius, I'm not that bright. Is it because I'm physically attracted to the man that I can't think straight around him. That isn't good.

She left him for being a mutant. Can you believe it? What kind of sick monster would leave a man because of that?

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Piotr gave her a smirk, an eyebrow arching devilishly. "Want to play doctor?" he questioned in a lower, huskier tone.

Kitty shivered and narrowed her whiskey-colored eyes menacingly, and then she laughed, giving him an impish grin. "You wouldn't know what to do with me, if I said, 'yes.'"

"You have a dirty mind, Kitty," he told her playfully, held up a band-aid in his big hand. Irked for no conceivable reason, Kitty snatched the band-aid and marched out of the bathroom careful not to slip on the wet tile.

Piotr blinked as Kitty left in a huff, his playful smile fading. She retreated into her bedroom. She could feel his sharp eyes boring into her as she walked away.

"Kitty?" He followed her and leaned casually against the door frame of her room.

"I've gotta get dressed." She avoided looking at him, instead her odd-colored eyes zeroed in on Lockheed—who clutched a stuffed Gizmo plushy while he nestled in between the pink and lavender pillows on her unmade double bed—the wounds inflicted by Mikhail burning as she frowned down at him. She pointed a finger at the little dragon. "And you, you crazy dragon. Why did you chase the damn cat into the bathroom?" Lockheed burrowed further into the pillows, casting images into her mind, one after another. He hid behind Gizmo when she didn't return any.

She continued her verbal assault, ignoring her dragon's attempts to make amends. "Today of all days, Lockheed. Was it absolutely necessary to pick a fight?" She threw up her hands, rolled her eyes heavenward. "You know what today means to me. You could have at least made an effort to be nice to our houseguests." Kitty frowned, tugging her towel around her before it fell off. She winced. "And their cat. God, Lockheed. Now I have scratches all over my front. You don't have boobs. You have no idea how painful a claw or two to the boob really is." She groaned and caught her towel again.

Piotr regarded her with somber curiosity as she lit into her dragon, doing his best not to stare at her legs, casting an appreciative glance at the backs of her tanned thighs before looking away. Stealing another moment, he watched the way the calf muscles moved beneath the silken, tanned skin as she paced to her dresser, forced his eyes up her curvaceous body to her profile, appreciating her as an artist and as a man. Dark, damp tendrils curled about her face and neck from the messy but amusing bun secured with a neon green fuzzy thing on the back of her head. A small smile lifted the side of his mouth.

The smile faded when he caught sight of the scratches on her shoulder, his throat tightening. Mikhail had done that. Those needed to be treated, but she was still arguing with her dragon. He knew he should wait. In her ardor, Piotr was afraid she would go for the vital parts. The only time that he wanted her to go for his vital parts was when he was on top of her. That thought brought a sudden rush of blood to his groin, and he shifted his position to lean against the wall on the inside of her bedroom, bringing one bare foot up to brace against the wall, lest he embarrass himself in front of her. She suddenly turned on her heel and rushed back to the bathroom in a huff, grabbing her clothing from atop the toilet seat.

"Use your little mind tricks and get that cat to like you," Kitty ordered Lockheed as she came back into her bedroom. Lockheed looked at her questioningly.

Piotr had the decency to stare at the other wall when Kitty shrugged into her panties and blue jeans. He let out a strangled curse when he realized what he was staring at. There on the wall was a framed ballet poster that read "New York City Ballet". It featured none other than his ex-wife, Anya Makarova, in her red "Rubies" costume striking a dramatic pose. Her makeup was stark and striking, her blond hair pulled onto the top of her head and tucked beneath a red crown. She stood on one pointed foot, the other extended over her head, foot pointed, both arms up and out like a bird's wings. He swallowed hard, remembering the feelings of betrayal as she had walked away from him, taking their young daughter away from him.

"Papa," Zilya had cried, her eyes large and full of tears. The divorce papers had been served a few days later, leaving him with nothing but the apartment in the Bronx and half of the profits from his first gallery. Then Zilya had been diagnosed with the Legacy Virus… Piotr squeezed his eyes shut at the memory.

"If you can mind-speak with me in images, Lockheed," Kitty was saying, as she stood in jeans and holding onto a towel, "then you can mind-speak to a stupid cat."

"Mikhail is not stupid," Piotr defended, only to take his mind off the memories that threatened to unman him. He crossed his arms as his eyes caught and held hers. His stomach knotted, and he stiffened under withering glare. Starting a new fight was not what he wanted, but he had no choice if he wanted to avoid his past. And besides, Mikhail was running from her dragon. It wasn't really Mikhail's fault.

Kitty tugged her towel closer and put her hands on her hips. "You aren't helping, Peter. I'm trying to get him to be nice to your damn cat." Her reaction seemed to amuse Piotr, and a flash of humor flickered in his blue eyes. It served only to incense her more. She stormed out of her room and into the kitchen area.

His expression stilled and grew serious. He followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the refrigerator, practically boxing her in. The man was all shoulders.

"Relax, Katya."

"Relax?" Frowning heavily, she took her hand out of the cookie jar, a chocolate chip cookie in her nimble fingers.

"Da."

Kitty took a bite of the cookie, biding her time regarding him as she chewed. He only had a few inches to go before his head could touch the incandescent light in the center of the ceiling. "You want me to relax?"

"Da," he told her as he wagged his head in an affirmative and eyed the scrapes on her front, careful not to look at her cleavage. The thin marks still trickled blood onto the white towel, staining the terry cloth with small dots of red. They needed to be bandaged. "What is the American phrase? Take a frozen bath?"

If he weren't so damned cute, she would have punched him into next week. Relax? She was perfectly calm! His attitude of self-command and studied relaxation irked her as he leaned there against her fridge with an obvious monopoly on virility. She felt crowded in the little kitchen with his bulky form taking up most of the space, his body heat penetrating her personal space. Kitty had to fight to remain angry with him.

"I am not going to relax!" She looked at him incredulous as his words sank in. "'Take a Frozen bath?' I've never, ever heard of that one, pal."

"It's 'take a chill-pill,'" Illyana supplied helpfully from her position on the fold out couch. She appeared to be enjoying the exchange between the two adults immensely. Only her brother was dense enough to tell a woman to relax. That was like inciting World War Three.

"Illyana Nikolievna!" the dense one in question scolded, but dropped the subject when she pouted at him. Not having any make-up made her look like the innocent girl he tried so very hard to take care of and protect, and her expression of hurt—her too large, liquid blue eyes, her bottom lip protruding—ate away any defense he could possibly have. Feeling overwhelmed and outmanned—over-womaned, he thought irritated—he met Kitty's brown eyes. "Kitty, you need to relax. Be logical about this, and--"

"Logical?" Kitty's temper flashed, and her nostrils flared with fury. "Logical is ManSpeak for 'Stupidest idea. Ever.'" She made to storm out of the tiny kitchen. It proved difficult when he halted her escape with a firm hand on her arm, urging yet protective. Her skin tingled when he touched her.

"Katya." He cupped her chin tenderly in his warm hand. "You are bleeding. Let me help you?"

She sagged against his hand with a sigh, the fervor of anger leaving just as quickly as it had come. The burning on her chest, breast and ribs increased when he mentioned her injuries. Damn dragon. Damn cat.

"Fine," she said, and he dropped his hand. "I'll get the first aid kit."

Kitty grabbed it and entered the living room. Her eyes that were not so much brown and not so much green searched the small room. Illyana must be bored silly, she thought.

"Wanna watch TV, kid?" she asked. Illyana nodded, eyed Kitty's small collection of videos and chose Howard the Duck.

Kitty let the young Russian girl set everything up while Piotr looked over the cat scratches on Kitty's chest above the closed towel. The bleeding had stopped, but the cuts red and swollen. He swabbed them with hydrogen peroxide. They bubbled white and red.

She sucked in air at the irritating tingles of the solution. A suspicious line appeared at the corners of his mouth. Oh, he'd better not be laughing at me. It was all Kitty could do to keep from smacking him. She cast him a scowl.

"You have an impressive temper," he commented, a grin tugging at his lips.

She snorted. "Yeah, well, you're annoying."

He chuckled, a true smile forming, blinding her with its intensity. Determined not to be shaken, Kitty huffed and asked, "So who did you vote for in the recent Senate vote?"

Again a chuckle, this time he added a shake of his head. "You attempt to throw me off with your questions, little one."

"Did you vote?"

"Yes. O'Connor."

"But she's against mutant rights," Kitty protested with a frown.

Piotr shrugged, opened the package to a gauze pad and laid it on his knee. "There are only three hundred of us left, Kitty. I do not understand the difference."

Kitty was silent a moment as he wiped away the peroxide. "Us?" she inquired as he applied antibiotic ointment with a cotton swab. That stung worse than the peroxide. She hissed and leaned away from him.

He sighed and regarded her thoughtfully a moment, lowering the swab. The big Siberian's face was close to her face, his azure eyes full of life, pain and unquenchable warmth. His lips were firm and sensual, and the shadow of a beard against his square jaw gave him an even more manly aura. Kitty had but to lean closer, and she could kiss him. She willed herself to gaze into his troubled eyes. She waited for him to answer.

"I assume that you are a mutant, too," he told her in way of reply. "Since you are a pupil of Logan."

She nodded.

He gestured for her to lean forward again. He was quiet a moment more as he added more ointment. "I am ashamed of my mutation," he admitted finally.

"You shouldn't be," she said. Her fingers brushed his forearm, sending tingles up and down her spine. Piotr shrugged, tried to be indifferent. In reality, relief soared through him. Perhaps she would accept him as no one else had done. So far she hadn't shunned him.

She was curious, seeing the change on his face. She asked, "What's your mutation?"

"He's a mutant," Illyana said, looking up from her program. "What does it matter?"

He groaned. "Snowflake." He taped the gauze to the greasy welts on her chest, his fingers brushing her.

His sister only rolled her eyes at him. "Someone has to take up for you, dummy. Anya was ashamed of you, too."

"Anya?" Kitty blinked.

Illyana was only too happy to share information. Before Piotr could protest, she blurted, "Anya Makarova."

"The Anya Makarova? You know Anya Makarova?" Kitty questioned.

Piotr ducked his head, his face closing down. "Da."

"How--?"

"My ex-wife." He looked away, his blue eyes more troubled than they had been.

"Oh."

He looked back at Kitty, a black eyebrow raised. "You aren't even going to ask?"

"Well, you haven't exactly been forthcoming with information about yourself." She dug through the first aid kit looking for more antibiotic cream for Piotr's cuts. She gesticulated for him to remove his shirt.

He removed his shirt wincingly, the muscles of his chest rippling under his skin. His scratches weren't bleeding, but needed to be cleaned anyway. "That's because you don't let me get a word in edgewise."

Kitty stopped inspecting his wounds. "Now waitaminnit—" Her voice was inflamed and belligerent.

Piotr brushed a finger against her lips, spiders tingling through his arm and down his spine, his body tightening embarrassingly. Ignoring his lust, he carried on the conversation.

"I think I just proved my point, Kitty." His voice was soft, husky. Kitty's heart flip-flopped before settling back down to a more natural rhythm. "I think politics is a safer subject than my past." He scrubbed a big hand over his face, stroked his chin as if he just realized he needed to shave. "I would prefer an argument," he added somewhat sheepishly.

"Well," Kitty murmured, "we could argue about talking about your past then."

He laughed as if sincerely amused. "Or we could do that."

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(More coming soon. Hope you enjoyed it. Input welcomed and appreciated.)