Laundry Night
A/N: A little bit of fluff combined with plot moving things. I love little Logan and Victor. There's some Kitty + Rogue bonding. More thanks for the reviews, favorites and alerts. With another big shout out to Desy who pointed out my A/N mistakes. Also if you are in the mood for some wondrous Victor angst, love and sheer genius I suggest you read Fyrefly's "The Victor" and all the other stories that go with it. Seriously, read them. I bow to her writing prowess – it almost made quit because nothing I write could be that intense. This chapter - mainly the laundry scene - was actually written a while back as a one shot that never got posted and so I expanded on it because it was a fun idea in my mind.
Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men, though I desperately wished I did. I do claim Doyle, Alex and Bradley. The title belongs to a wonderful band, Ludo, whose song inspired this chapter a long while ago.
Rated: M for language, violence and naughty thoughts
Marie and Kitty rushed out of dinner and straight to Kitty's room in the dorms. They were far too old to get this excited about cutting up construction paper, but who really cared? Not them for sure.
"Logan's going to be so pissed when he sees another decoration on his door," Kitty tittered and dug out a pack full of different colored paper.
"Ah know! Wait…you carry that stuff in your bag?" Marie asked confused.
"Duh," Kitty replied and gave a look that clearly questioned whether or not the girl was an idiot. It was lightened quickly as she laughed and Marie – who had begun to think Kitty seriously thought her stupid and was going to give her a piece of her mind – joined in with her.
"Y'all are so strange."
"Coming from the girl who wears fishnets," Kitty replied easily and with no real bite. At first they had really disliked each other if only for the extreme difference in style, but it quickly let up (after they faced several near death experiences together) into a friendly and familiar banter. Kitty laid out the paper on the floor and picked out a deep blue color and began to outline 'Wolverine' in large block letters. It was done so many times before that she almost didn't have to think about what she was drawing.
"So," the slow southern drawl stretched out the word even as she mimicked its lazy air by laying on her stomach on the floor. "Butterflies or flowers?"
"I always like butterflies, but the soap bubbles were pretty funny too."
"Yah know…maybe we should just make him a real one and see how that works out," Rogue mused half-heartedly.
"And break tradition?" Kitty was scandalized and put a hand to her cheek in a mocking gesture.
"Throw him off balance for the next attack," Rogue simplified. "He's gonna tear it down anyways, yah know he hates," here Marie accented her voice with a growling deepness and sat up again putting her hands on her hips with a lip curled back in distaste – an obvious attempt to impersonate the Wolverine; "That stupid girly marker shit."
Kitty dissolved into a fit of giggles. "Oh. My. God," she managed through the laughter. "You're an awful Logan."
"Hey now, I try. Sides, there's only one Logan and we both know that," she replied with a chuckle grabbing some silver paper from the stack. "Whatdaya say?"
"Sure! I'm all up for new stuff," Kitty replied and began to expertly maneuver scissors around the words while Rogue traced three large slash marks in her paper. Rogue finished her masterpieces and held them up for Kitty to marvel over.
"Perfect," the girl said with a decisive nod while jumping to her feet with the dark letters. "Is there any tape in the bag?" She asked even as she dug through the desk at the window looking for some
"No, there's some sticky tack though." Rogue offered holding up a box of the yellow stuff that Kitty had looked over.
"That will work," Kitty said walking back to the center of the room.
"Yah know. I'm not too fond of being shut away here. It's not like we haven't dealt with Sabertooth before," Rogue's voice was mildly annoyed as it shattered the silence. It had been itching to be said, but she knew better than to try and argue with Logan. Not only would she not win, but she'd probably succeed in making him go into that annoying funk where he felt bad about making them do something they didn't like. She hated that wounded puppy look he'd give her if she voiced her irritation along with the heartbreaking 'm just tryin to protect you darling.' Her eyes were fixed on the paper that she was cutting trying to focus on something other than Logan.
"You know, it's not really for our protection," Kitty said out loud. "The kids need someone to watch out for them. We are good here because we have dealt with Sabertooth before…" they both lapsed back into silence; the only noise was that of their scissors.
"I never really thought about it tha' way," Rogue conceded and set the last slash mark to the side. It was true too, which came as a surprise; Rogue was always the more critical thinker out of the two girls. A crunch could be heard as she crumbled up the paper and tossed it in a trashcan.
Kitty smiled and looked up from the yellow backing she was connecting to the original letters. "What do you think he'd do if he got a sign?" Rogue didn't have to ask to know that the 'he' involved was Sabertooth.
"Throw a fit. Smash his door," Rogue stated dryly.
"Right," Kitty sounded a little disappointed. "It's sad, don't you think? That they are so closed off from each other?"
"Logan and Sabertooth?" Rogue asked incredulously and Kitty nodded. "I guess so, but I can't imagine that any sane person would want to try and connect with him; family or not." Rogue quickly rose to defend Logan's personal choices, but luckily for Kitty it didn't seem like the conversation on that subject would be going much further.
"True."
"Ah'm done." Rogue said quickly, looking up expectantly at the other girl.
"Me too," Kitty responded brightly and they each held up their finished products. "They'll look great," she said, "He won't know what hit him." They both picked up the rest of the trash and put everything away before walking out the door and across the lawn to the main house.
The two girls booked it through the rooms, down the hallway and made their way quickly through the house. They made no extra attempts at being quiet though.
Rogue knew that Logan surely wasn't back from his ride yet. He was a wanderer at heart and when he wanted to get lost; he made sure he was lost. He'd be back by morning though, she thought pleasantly with a fond smile; he always was. Kitty agreed and they chatted the entire way there.
"When we get back we'll unpack your room," Kitty said as they arrived at the familiar door. It was strange to look across the hallway and see Alex and the empty nameplate instead of Scott and Jean; they both felt a flicker of remorse course through them.
"You think Alex is home?" Rogue broke the solemn silence.
"She wasn't at dinner." Kitty said with a swallow and turned to look at the door. "He didn't even take off the sticky stuff from last time," she scoffed picking at it with a manicured nail.
"Just re-use it, Kitty."
"Oh yeah!" The girl responded and chuckled while rearranging the tack to better fit the new design.
After a few minutes of repositioning and tweaking the girls stood back and admired their work. Wolverine was in big blocky letters with a thin outline of yellow. On the right side they had strategically placed the silver slivers of paper to make it look like the paper was being cut through by Logan's signature Adamantium claws.
"Next time we go with butterflies and bubbles," Kitty observed as she tugged on Rogue's sleeve to exit the floor.
"Agreed. I think that fits him far too well. He may not take down for weeks!" She complained and they both fell into laughing at the idea of Wolverine letting any of their art projects stay up for more than three or four days; if that.
Ding. Swish. Thump.
The door of the elevator sounded off as Victor reached the familiar floor that had become his place of residence for his stay in the mansion. He took a swig of the beer he had nabbed from Jimmy's stash and began the short walk down the hall.
The fluorescent bulbs lit up the doors around him until he finally reached his room. After fiddling with his keys for a moment – though, for the life of him he couldn't remember why he bothered locking the door; if they wanted to search his room they had a master key – and the wooden door swung open. His boots were heavy on the tile that covered the small kitchen and he flicked the light on while placing his extra beer in the fridge.
The place was still bereft of anything that would make someone believe that another person lived here. A black bag on the floor and a growing pile of dirty laundry in a portable laundry basket was the only thing that gave away the fact that someone called it home.
He knew that most people expected him to be a messy person, but truth was that before Creed had gone free lance with his work he had been a government guy. He'd been a part of more wars than anyone could count and the military cleanliness shit that they had drilled into him before every one of those wars had become part of his persona. Sure, he may make a mess of the people he was asked to kill but it was often done systematically – according to whether he wanted information, if the employer wanted it a clean kill…the list went on.
The next thing he did was open the bag that Doyle had given him and pulled out a Mac. He opened the top and waited for the backlight to flicker on and the computer beep. After a few moments he was connected to the internet.
Creed had a limited knowledge of computers – his answer for any computer problems was control, alt, delete. If that didn't work then he made one of his computer guys to fix the god damn machine. It wasn't that Creed didn't like technology (he had adapted well to it, in fact) he just wasn't particularly interested in knowing the inner workings of every machine that had ever been created. He was happy enough to let that crap fall to some lab geek that only got off from chicks they saw on porn sites or Star Trek.
He dug through the bag and picked out a shiny new cell phone. As he set up the computer at the bar that served as the table for the room he looked at the only missed call on his phone. Apparently, his employer was trying to contact him. He glanced at the clock – it was getting late, but he had a feeling that the asshole trying to get in touch with him would be waiting up all night until he called. This job was important or they wouldn't have hired him.
Creed pressed the call button and listened as the dial tones sounded off. A few rings later and a familiar voice picked up.
"You've got Doyle," an extraordinarily happy tone for such a late call answered. The man on the line swiveled in his chair and leaned back to rest his feet on the desk in front of him.
"It's Creed," Victor said darkly; automatically in work mode as he sat down in a chair.
"Ah, I'm glad you called. You haven't turned on the computer yet, it seems," Doyle observed casually.
"It's on now," the feral remarked looking at the screen. "How the fuck you know that anyway?"
"I have my ways," Doyle said with an added 'tsk' that just served to make the feral on the end of the line snarl with annoyance and grip the bar tighter; his claws scratched the top as it was not made to withstand such abuse from sharp objects.
"I don't appreciate being fucking spied on," Victor voiced irately; if the blonde government man had been in front of him he would have ripped his throat out. "You hired me for this job and I'll do it however I fucking well want to."
"Listen, I can't control what they bug on you. I'm just a delivery guy," Doyle's tone was ingratiating now, as if he sympathized with Victor's problem. Like hell he really cared. "The computer has a program that should be able to allow our guys to hack the security system and student files," he continued conversationally.
"Alright. Just so long as some fucker doesn't try spying on me through that damned camera," Creed said with his chilling slate gaze fixed on the camera just to get the point across. If a guy was sitting on the end of that picture he probably pissed himself and turned off the camera function on his end.
"Ah…" Doyle sounded like he might just be the poor sap on the end despite his delivery guy comment. He coughed to regain his senses. "We'll see what we can do, kay partner?" More colloquial nonsense thrown into his distinctly city accent.
Creed couldn't say if he had ever hated a man more than he hated Doyle. His false niceties and stolen sayings made his blood boil and set his teeth on edge. Victor may not have been a people person to begin with, but one of his pet peeves was when people lied to him or tried to play him for a fool. Of course, Victor had cultivated the image that he was nothing but brutish muscle and no brain. Those that hired him quickly learned better, but those he hunted often didn't get a chance to learn that they were mistaken when they assumed he was nothing but a stupid brute. Still, guys like this were supposed to know he was capable and having them treat him like a rookie made the idea of going rogue all the more enticing.
Victor had learned early on in life that knowledge was power, he had learned to read when he was young and kept up with the times and his education as time went on. Jimmy was actually the one to teach him to read when his was younger. Something about being in a place that constantly smelled of Jimmy and being around him catapulted him back into the past with such force that he couldn't even struggle against the memories – he didn't normally indulge in a stroll down memory lane, but the ones taking over his mind, now, begged to be listened to:
Victor and James were young boys. It was snowing outside and James was sick, as he tended to be in his youth. They lived in a time when the poor could not achieve anything other than the hope of finding work, and education was a luxury only available to the rich.
"Mother!" James cried out as he looked outside into the cold, dark day where clouds covered the sky and snow fell ceaselessly.
His eyes were fixed on a scrappy looking boy with a serious face who was definitely not dressed warmly enough. The older boy was, of course, Victor and he was sweating from his arms swinging continuously through the day as he split firewood and hauled it off to the growing pile. His father was in the barn – a much warmer environment with the horses giving off heat – feeding and watering the beasts inside, he also took the only lamp they had leaving Victor in the bleak day without any comfort whatsoever.
Victor still found it preferable to the beatings he received at home when his father was in one of his moods. No other child his age could work like he could or had the same features he did and his father would try and beat the strangeness out of him, only to find that his beatings hadn't even left a mark on the skin – they certainly made an impression in the young boy's mind, though. It had made Victor the town misanthrope, after all if his father didn't love or like him then how could he ask it of anyone else? He knew that he was strange and after a few years he had learned that everyone who lived around them would not welcome his type of strange in their house or around their children. It had turned him bitter and quiet and solemn; it was the beginning of the Sabertooth. He still craved love and attention, but was now afraid to seek it for fear of being rejected.
"Yes, James?" His mother cooed and brushed a few strands of hair from the child's face.
He looked back at her with tears in his eyes – how James had developed a fondness for the strange Logan boy was beyond her. She knew what was coming next and yet she also knew she would be powerless to say no to her sick child who she felt she could lose at any moment.
"It's too cold out there for Victor!" He cried out his bright eyes going back to their original focus.
"He's a strong boy. He will be fine," Elizabeth Howlett reassured him, rubbing his back in a comforting manner.
"No! He'll get sick, Mother. You have to let him come and play with me. I am so bored, it would be good for both of us," James reasoned with such finesse that his mother found it impossible to find a reason to deny him. She brushed her dark skirts and went to the door glancing back at James to see him grinning from ear to ear.
"Victor," she called out over the whistling wind blowing forcefully through the trees. The boy's cold stare caught her and she shivered, there was something wrong with him…she could feel it. Still, the excited look in her child's eyes made her gesture for Victor to come over to her
"Yes mam?" Victor said as he approached the door, leaving the axe buried deep in the stump he had been using as a flat space to chop the other wood.
"Come inside. James would like to see you," she replied.
Victor shifted from one foot to another, a little nervous, but he was nothing more than a servant and he couldn't refuse the woman's orders. He felt strange and out of place in the large and luxurious house of the Howlett's. Like he was somehow desecrating a sacred space, the disdainful looks he sometimes received from the lady of the house made him feel even worse, but he couldn't say he didn't like the company of her son. He was a smart kid unlike the other ones in the village and could keep up with Victor's wit despite his younger age and somehow Victor knew that they were connected – he just couldn't pin point how.
"Just keep it to reading, James," Elizabeth said sternly as Victor sat on the couch next to James who already had picked a book out and had it open on his flannel blanket covered lap. Victor dropped onto the couch heavily and looked at the sickly pale boy with an awkward smile.
"Thanks," he muttered. "For getting me out of cutting wood," he clarified. James looked pleased with himself.
Victor couldn't remember the name of the book, but it was about pirates and gold and adventure. He loved it, that night his father had been too tired to give him a piece of his mind; Victor fell asleep and dreamed about sailing the high seas and having adventures of his own.
When he arrived at work the next morning Mrs. Howlett hurried him inside once again. He was brought upstairs this time – Jimmy felt particularly bad and couldn't make the walk downstairs. He had the same book out and opened to the point they had left off – Victor was pleased that the younger boy hadn't read ahead without him.
"Would you read today, Victor?" James asked quietly, sinking into his pillow as Victor sat in an ornamented chair by the bed. He looked ashamed for a moment and ground out a 'no.'
"Well, why not?" James asked a little petulantly.
"I dunno what it says," the older boy admitted his head hanging down in embarrassment he hated that the boy was smarter than him; that he would be able to read all these things without help – Victor hated having to ask for help.
Once James got over his initial shock he sat up again and grinned. "It's fine Victor!" He reassured the other boy. "I can teach you," he offered and Victor looked suspicious but intrigued all the same.
"Honest, I can," James promised.
"Alright, Jimmy. Teach," the boy said and although it wasn't a thank you James could tell by the interested light that illuminated Victor's normally solemn or sour features as a sign that he was grateful. Jimmy didn't admit it then, or ever, but it was also one of his favorite times – it was the first time that he ever felt useful.
It became a tradition after that day. Victor didn't even have to pretend to go to work in the morning, he'd just knock on the door to be let in by the ever watchful lady of the house – who was thankful for spring and the fact that it got Victor away from James – and was led to wherever James deemed and appropriate spot for the day. By the time the snow melted and the first sprigs of green could be seen on the tress Victor could read anything James asked him to and they would spend hours pouring over books and imagining what their lives would be like with such grand adventures.
" – Mr. Creed?" Doyle's glossy voice filtered through his memories and spoiled his reminiscence. Outside his door he heard a few voices followed by some laughter, but after a few moments it was gone – he figured it to be a TV.
"Yeah?" Creed deadpanned, unable to muster up enough cruelty in his voice after the poignant and nearly happy memory still lingered about in his mind.
"I lost you there for a second, bucko," the pitchmen said with a laugh. "Good to have you back though. I have some instructions for you, they're pretty simple. You ready?" He sounded like a kid about to surprise his mom with some homemade nonsense.
"Do I need to close my eyes for this?" Creed remarked with a role of his eyes.
Doyle laughed a little too long at the joke. "No, no. Just keep that computer running, okay? We are going to do all the hacking for you – you just need to keep up the cover."
"That's all? Seriously, you should have gotten someone else for this shit. I'm going crazy just to leave a fucking computer running?"
"No. You are perfect for this job," Doyle quickly reassured. "We still need you about to maintain the cover. If the government was going to get involved with the school then we would be expected to send the best…and we both know that you fit that."
"I've never been much for protection jobs," Creed responded, the ego stroke calming him just a little bit.
"Well, money does strange things to people's sensibilities, Mr. Creed," Doyle chuckled and Creed found himself smirking which he quickly stopped because he realized that the man was getting to him.
"Keep the computer running and keep the disguise up. Got it. Anything else?" Creed tried to make it clear that he was in a hurry – what he was in a hurry for didn't matter.
Doyle apparently got the hint and on the other side of the phone he spun about in his chair and twirled the phone cable in his fingers with a wide smile on his lean features. On his desk sat a computer very much like Creed's. The screen was alight and he could see the entire room that Creed was staying in.
He had been watching the mutant since his own screen turned on and was judging if he might be thinking about anything that could jeopardize the mission. He was satisfied that the man's curiosity had not taken over him, he supposed that the goings on in the mansion were sufficient to keep the feral interested. He hoped that it would last throughout the mission. If Creed got too interested then it could be trouble for them.
Doyle grinned and ran a hand through the thin blonde locks at the tope of his head. "Nope," he said cheerily. "That's about all, but I'll be keeping in touch so keep the phone charged. Bye, Mr. Creed," Doyle said with a grin he heard a grunt on the end of the line that he assumed was Victor's way of saying goodbye.
The man glared around his room looking for something to occupy his hands while his mind was buzzing. Finally they settled on the laundry hamper which was getting a bit full for his taste. With a heavy sigh he stood fluidly and scooped up the hamper by the handles. Lucky for him, Ororo had included laundry detergent in her list of necessities and it was in the small pantry cabinet in the kitchen for lack of a better spot to put it.
Victor pulled open his door and trekked down the hall it smelled different than before the scent of Ororo and Logan had faded and a fresh smell lingered by Logan's room. He recognized the mixed scent of the small brunette that could walk through walls and that girl that Magneto had kidnapped before. He noted the new decorations on Logan's door and chuckled while looking about for the culprits even though he knew they wouldn't just be standing around in this hallway. He sniffed and adjusted his hold on the laundry basket in his arms and continued to the laundry room.
It would certainly be a surprise for anyone to see Victor Creed with a blue mesh laundry hamper seeking out an empty washer and dryer. Not that it should be surprising. Victor may be more in touch with his animal side, but most animals were not so fond of being dirty – yeah, they might get dirty and do it without the same human distaste for it, but they almost always found a stream or something like it to clean off afterward. The same could be said for Victor, his clothes got bloodied, soiled with dirt and God knows what else; he always washed them afterward though.
The laundry room was only a couple of feet from his room. So, he barely recorded the inconvenience of not having one in his own room again. The fact that it was nearly midnight probably helped to assure an open washer. A small notice was taped to the door telling him to use no more than one washer at a time as this was a communal place.
"Fuck that," he said and shouldered the door open. His nose was immediately assaulted by the crisp smells of detergent and starch. It was a dull room, painted completely white with no furniture. There were only four washer dryer sets about the back wall and an ironing board on one side. Above the board was a shelf labeled helpfully for emergency detergent.
Once again he felt annoyance and disgust slither into the pit of his stomach. It was weird, this domestic little house with all if per-fucking-fection that drove him up the wall. He reached up and bent the shelving unit just enough to make it nearly impossible to keep the detergent on the shelf. The next person who tried to place it back up there would probably get nailed in the face by the same detergent. He smiled at the thought of one of the X-men howling in annoyance as their nose spouted blood.
He didn't particularly care about his clothes – with the exception of his coat which was always dry cleaned – but he wanted to piss someone off so he took up two washers just because he could. He felt stupid that he was resorting to such low acts of defiance, but every little bit of it helped keep him sane so he did it despite the taste of juvenile delinquency. The doors to the wash fell closed with a clatter and after a few seconds of fiddling with the knobs Victor's wash was on.
He went directly back to his room where he took a long shower in hopes of using up hot water and upping the bill – hell, he got free food, laundry, appliances, internet it was kind of like staying at hotel but cheaper.
The hot water poured down his back and eased the tension from his muscles which felt like they were constantly coiled and ready to spring which they were. It was rare that Victor ever went this long without a good long fight that eased his tensions and his body was beginning to rebel against the stagnation as much as his mind had done already; was still doing, for that matter. He exited the shower only after the water ran cold and goose bumps began to rise up on his skin.
The feral took his time toweling off as he felt sluggish from the shower. Once he was sure that he couldn't be any drier he pulled out a pair of clean sweatpants and a wife beater and put them on. His boots were once again forgotten back in his room along with his socks and he padded down the hall to switch his clothes to the dryer.
"This year is going to be awful," Alex complained into the red cell phone held at her ear. She was slouched down in the driver's seat of the car one hand on the wheel with her dark eyes fixed on the road. Her grocery shopping trip had morphed into a midnight joy ride and an excuse to call her older brother and vent about her problems.
Not to mention you are hiding from the sociopath next door. Her inner self taunted brutally. Alex frowned, she wanted to lie to herself and pretend that she wasn't hiding, but after years of enforcing brutal honesty with herself it was beginning to get hard to turn off. Her frown deepened at the truth in the words. Before any other thoughts could pound her self assured safety into the ground Bradley took over the conversation.
"What's the problem this time?" He asked dully – as an older brother he was obligated to listen to his sisters' problems, but sometimes calls in the middle of his REM cycle did throw him off. Couldn't they wait?
Bradley – who was the oldest of the three Deggins siblings was also the only one who shared their mother's lack of any power other than regeneration; both Alex and their youngest sister Samantha had a power that expanded on their father's psychic abilities. Samantha was telepathic and had a powerful regenerative ability like the rest of the family. Alex was the only one who didn't heal immediately, Dr. McCoy had a feeling that it was due to the fact that her body rarely needed it because of the shields she could form, while her sister and brother did not have something else to protect them. Regeneration, he theorized, was a trait that almost all mutants have in some form; it was likely the beginning of all the mutations which were – evolutionarily and still theoretically – just the next step in evolution. Naturally, longer life and health were a goal of any species and so regeneration met both extremely well, all other mutations, he said, didn't begin until after the first healing factor. After several studies he had yet to see a mutant that didn't at least carry the healing factor gene.
"I don't get along with a few of the faculty members," Alex mumbled irritably. She decided that it was the best way to phrase it considering she didn't know how secret Sabertooth's stay was supposed to be. That and she just wanted to complain about the situation, not give her brother a heart attack.
"Seriously? Is this all about Melanie, again? I thought we talked about this, Alexandra," he said with a heavy sigh. "It doesn't matter that she doesn't like you or you don't like her. It just happens when you get out into the real world – you can't get along with everyone. Not to mention if you leave the mansion then you'll just be letting her win," he reasoned while moving to a sitting position in his bed.
Alex chewed on her lip. "It's not just Melanie," she tried to explain. "There's this new guy and he's really difficult to get along with and he's taken a shine to bothering me about everything." She twisted her hand tighter around the steering wheel watching as some of her annoyance, fear and anger seeped out of her whitening knuckles locked around its leather grip.
"Do I need to repeat the aforementioned advice?"
"No, but –"
"No buts. Listen, you have a ton of people who like you and who you like there and you are going to give it up because you are having trouble with two of them? Honestly, weren't you supposed to be the smart one?" He teased – it was a running joke in the family: Bradley was the nice one, Alex the smart one and Samantha was the – as she and Zoolander so brilliantly stated, "the really, really ridiculously good looking," one.
"Just book smarts. You and Sam are supposed to be my common sense."
"Well, please, just steal some of mine."
"I don't want to leave you defenseless in New Orleans without your street smarts."
"I'll be safer," Bradley said with a smirk leaning back onto his headboard and brushing his thick curly brown locks away from his face. "At least I'll have a full night's sleep to work with while you use them."
"Touché," Alex conceded with a flick inward of her wrist and two fingers. "Well, I guess I'll let y'all go. Talk to you later, brother."
"Alright, little sister; be careful," he said fondly.
"Only if you are," she retorted.
"We'll see," he remarked back quickly before the line went dead. The phone clicked into place as she slid it shut and threw it to the side a little more harshly than she intended.
Whatever, it's indestructible, she thought as she turned off of the interstate onto the winding, tree lined road that quickly turned into the gates of the Institute. She reached up and groped a moment for the device that let her into the grounds. Once found she pressed the button and waited for the gates to swing open.
During her walk to her room she realized how much she smelled. In her need to get out and go she had forgotten to change out of her barn clothes and shower. Her nose wrinkled in distaste, normally she did laundry right after riding simply because there was no way she was letting those clothes stink up her room – it had happened once and it took forever to get the sour smell out; not even a whole bottle of Febreeze would cover it.
She showered quickly and threw on a sports bra and a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. It was a stupid thing to do she would think later, while Logan and Ororo could care less what she was wearing the serial rapist next door would have a field day if he had found out that she didn't have a real shirt underneath her jacket.
Along with her gross barn clothing she had a book and an iPod was plugged into her ears.
Sure she could have done the normal thing and watched television while waiting for her clothes but it was late, too late for anything but crappy reality shows and infomercials which she had seen hundreds of times before. So, she settled on listening to music and reading a book while she waited for her laundry to finish – it wouldn't be the first time that she had done it and – as dorky as it was – she enjoyed the time to read and dance around out in the open despite the fact that she was as alone as she was in her apartment. Her drying hair bounced on her back – free from the confines of the austere bun for the second time that day.
She frowned at the taken washers that were running. "Logan," she muttered annoyed – he was the only one who disregarded Ororo's notice. Her assumption was wrong of course, but she didn't know that until it was too late to escape.
Creed smelled her before he saw or heard her. It was the overwhelming scent of lavender with the faint ocean breeze mixed in – he still couldn't figure out why that strange combination came off her, but both the smells soothed any creature and Creed couldn't help but feel a bit calmer. He didn't have to open the door to hear the voice leaking from the room loudly singing a doleful tune.
And with this long last rush of air we'll speak our vows in sorry whispers. When the waves came crashing he closed his eyes and softly kissed her. Alex's voice rang out with her eyes closed and she twirled. The Decemberists' The Hazards of Love continued to play out the sad finish of their hero and heroine.
Creed pushed the door open quietly and slipped inside to see the pajama clothed girl making a fool of herself. The iPod, he guessed, switched to something happier that caused the girl to sway back and forth like Creed had seen so many girls do in night clubs. Somehow the feral didn't find himself so intent on taking her then and there. The girl was a cute thing – not that he used the word cute to describe many women – but she didn't make his mouth feel like cotton when looking at her. Just wasn't his type – tall blonde, busty with a good bit of their own blood on their skin.
Her dark locks were still partially wet and flipped about as she moved to take clothes out of the wash and move them to the dryer. He stood behind her and wondered if he grabbed onto her if he would feel skin or the strange tingle of a shield. His mind sparked at it, the first time he had startled her she hadn't turned on that fucking blue, shiny shell – she hadn't seen him coming.
Creed pounced.
He grabbed her around with both his arms and pulled her to his chest in a tight embrace that felt like she might get crushed. One of his large paws reached up and pulled the earphones from their spot and he purred mockingly in her ear as the familiar scent of fear replaced her normal smell. She was warm against his chest and there was no mistaking the rub of fabric from her sweatshirt and the wet spot – slowly growing on his shirt from her damp hair – on his chest for the feel of a shield.
"Hello neighbor." Alex felt her blood run cold as she was swept backward, but she dared not struggle – like many crazed mutants the X-Men dealt with, Creed got off on people's fear. Not struggling, she knew, would be better for her in the long run. Although her mind fought to maintain control the closeness of the man brought about bad memories, memories of the dark and gunshots and a complete loss of control; these memories were the real reason for her extreme dislike of invasions of personal space. She pushed them out of the forefront of her mind and kept her body stock still.
"Let me go, Sabertooth," she ground out.
Victor curled his lip at the codename. Although it was a testament to his power that people felt the commanding force that had been the Sabertooth of prehistoric years was a perfect description of him, it wasn't his name. It was simply an alias.
His grip loosened though despite himself; he didn't want the stupid bitch running off to Jimmy or any of the other freak show members after this. So, he'd let her feel safer. It still wasn't loose enough for her to escape, but he felt the fear and tension sink away though he was loath to lose the deliciously maddening smell from the air.
"Where's your little shell, Turtle?" The man sneered. "Having a bit of trouble controlling yourself around me?" He asked lasciviously.
"Let me go, Sabertooth."
"I thought I told you," he jostled her roughly and she coughed in an attempt to hide the jolt of pain. "'ats not my name."
"Victor, let me go."
"Beg for me, girly. You don't sound so desperate. I think I can stay here for a while longer." He leaned forward a little so that they were flush against one another once more to accent his point and Alex felt panic coiling in her stomach. She had to get out of his grip.
"Victor, please," Alex said in her best attempt at pleading which was more of an annoyed grunt.
"Huh," he said with practiced falsified surprise, "I like the way that sounds. Maybe'll make you say it again;" Alex felt then that he had done this before. The tone and jokes were too flippantly said – practiced and outlined; she suspected the last girl to hear the jokes hadn't made it out alive.
She felt the huge man slip his grip from her and she was legitimately surprised when she didn't feel any unwanted groping. She had expected him to take his hands a little to far up or down for comfort. That he had just dropped them told her that his heart wasn't really in the taunting – it was good news for her.
Still, she whirled around directly her shield glinting around her as she pulled herself onto the dryer she was using so that she would be a more difficult thing to pick up with her hand wrapped around the side of the machine it to became enveloped in the blue shield and now acted as an anchor for her. If Victor wanted to pull that stunt again he'd have to drag the unit with him.
"So that's how it works?" The feral said interestedly.
"What're you doing here?" She questioned forcibly, ignoring his query – like hell she would tell him how her mutation worked.
"Quid pro quo," he quoted.
"We're playing twenty questions now, Hannibal?" She asked tersely and she expected him to snort and deny it quickly – after all, Victor Creed wasn't the type of guy to play a game with a kid while doing laundry.
He tilted his head and looked at the washers he had placed his clothes in and snorted. She thought that he had decided to completely ignore the question as he threw the clothes into a dryer.
"No," he replied as he turned a dial on the dryer and he grinned as he thought about how he was about to twist her perception of him. All it took was a little show of humanity - there were still a few shreds in him that he found useful – and then most people were fucking falling over themselves hoping to save the beast. The dryer began to hum and he leaned on the wall opposite of her perch.
"Now we are," he said and watched, smugly, as her mouth fell open in surprise. He smirked – always worked.
Not to mention that he didn't have any-fucking-thing else to do besides play a game in the laundry room. He thought of the look on Jimmy's face when Alex, inevitably, ran to him and told him what had happened between she and his dear, dear brother. Priceless. He also thought about that hurt look she'd get on her face when he tore through her throat and he betrayed them.
Even better.
"You first," he said with an opening of his arms.
"Uh. Let's play ten questions. I don't have twenty things I want to know about you," she said bluntly and Creed didn't know whether to be insulted or laugh. So he simply nodded to her expecting her to start.
"One: Why are you here?" She asked and Creed rolled his eyes.
"Laundry."
"Right," she felt a little stupid and her shoulders drooped.
"Your shield doesn't work if I touch you before you have it up?" This was important. If he wanted her dead later he needed to get past this barrier. "Don't lie," He warned darkly. "I'll know and you'll get to find out first hand what happens to people that try to cheat me."
"Yeah," Alex said with grudging honesty. She may have been surprised by Creed's willingness to play the stupid game but the threat was expected and – as she wasn't an idiot – she would answer. What she didn't tell him was that if she had tried to put one up while he was touching her he'd just get thrown into it.
"Two: Why do you hate Logan?" It was here that she realized her count was actually not in her mind and that she was no where near as creative as she had thought.
"That's original," Creed responded sardonically, with a roll of his eyes.
"Answer," she amended the order as she saw Creed snarl "please."
"He's an asshole," he stated and he waited to hear her complain that it wasn't an acceptable answer that it wasn't deep enough. Like hell he would tell her the whole story; you didn't just up and tell strangers your deepest feelings.
"Fair enough," she replied. Creed felt his intense hatred for the girl wreathed in blue fade…minutely; if only because she understood that reasoning. "Your turn."
"Why do you hate Melanie?" He shot back nastily and was pleased with the frown that took over the girl's face.
"She's a bitch." She responded figuring that she could use his answer against him. He didn't look pleased, but let it go since she had earlier.
"How do you like it here?" Three, the count was internalized now.
"It's fucking boring. I've had more fun on trans-Atlantic flights."
"Harsh," she said with a chuckle. "It'll get better when the students return."
"I doubt it."
"Shouldn't you be in college?" He spit out after a small lull in the conversation. His assumption was that she was a kid right out of highschool, she certainly didn't look her age.
Alex looked a little put out. It wasn't surprising that he would get the age wrong. "Just got out, I'm saving up for law school."
"No shit," he said with a raised brow like he expected her to change her answer, but he knew she wasn't lying he'd dealt with people far too long not to recognize that; he also didn't expect her to want to deal with his anger if she did lie.
"Nope, none at all." The conversation was far too easy, she thought and she wished she hadn't gotten into it to begin with – it was dangerous to spend time with someone you were supposed to hate on principle.
Still, he wasn't being awful; he hadn't attacked her, he was being – Stop that, her mind scolded roughly; this is how Stockholm syndrome starts. He tried to kill you; he's a rapist and a murderer. Nothing will make him your friend. Alex thanked her inner thoughts; it was true. She couldn't get comfortable of she'd end up dead.
Four. "Favorite color?"
"Seriously?" Creed said, he found the conversation quickly going south. He shouldn't have started it.
"I'm bad at thinking of good questions. I wasn't lying when I said I didn't have twenty things; barely have ten. Just answer," this was all said in such quick succession that he had trouble deciphering it. The brunette had begun to turn a bit red in embarrassment, which was just too fucking perfect.
"Black. Yours?" He asked after realizing that he didn't have ten questions either.
"Oh wow. We're just repeating questions now?"
"Best way to get to know someone is to ask the same thing," he said with a grin – it was a bull shit answer and from the way that she had her brow raised she knew it too.
"Uh huh," she stated dryly.
"Answer the question, Lexy," he snarled the name but she hardly looked phased by the sound now.
"Green or blue. Depends on the day," she responded with a nod.
Half way mark. "Where are you from?"
"Canada."
"America's hat?" She asked; for a second she looked a little like a kid with her hair down, swinging her legs off the edge of the dryer.
"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" He said, but there was more amusement than aggravation.
"Just a play on where it is on the map…my sister told me the joke once," she explained and her shoulders dropped again. She looked duller somehow and it aged her.
"Fucking weird," he muttered.
"A little bit. Question…" she reminded.
He picked up the hint easily. "Where are you from in Louisiana?"
She rolled her eyes at the apparent lack of original questioning. "New Orleans."
"I've been there before. Not half bad," he admitted. New Orleans had been his type of place. It was filled with booze and broads and so much crime that any murder he committed would more than likely get skimmed over. He'd take a trip down south after this mission was done, he thought.
Silence fell on the conversation once more and Alex struggled for a question that wasn't too probing or weird – before she found out about her mutation her go to question had been "If you had a super power what would it be," it didn't seem to fit into a conversation with another mutant…
Bizzzzz Came the insistent alert from the dryer that let Creed know his things were done.
"Well, neighbor," Alex started – grateful that the buzzer had sounded before her next question. Now that the chore was done Victor would certainly be going back to his room; no doubt he was tired of her company. "Looks like your done here. We'll play again later."
Creed wasn't entirely certain he was tired enough to go to bed, but there wasn't any way in hell he'd be staying in that room and playing some fucking stupid game. He tried it and found it to be lacking; the girl was giving him a way out and he was taking it. All of his clothes got stuffed unceremoniously into the hamper and he stalked to the doorway. He had every intent on stalking out of the room without saying a word but the stupid bit of humanity that he thought he had used up during the game stopped him as the door was about to close.
"Night." He grumbled half-heartedly. That night while nightmares plagued his sleep as usual he could have sworn that in between some of them he caught glimpses of New Orleans with shining lights in the French quarter.
A/N: Yay! Another chapter done. This one is admittedly a little more fluffy than I had intended. It does give a small snippet of Alex's almost-phobia of having her personal space invaded and the reason for that. Also, before anyone tries to correct Rogue's use of y'all when talking to one person. We southerners will use it that way, I'm sorry. It just happens. Next chapter promises for some fun Rogue/Logan bonding and tension plus a little more Melanie – y'all missed her right? Also, a fun game: What would you ask Victor in twenty questions? Good ones may spark my muse and end up in the story.