Title: The Victor
Chapter I: The Hunter, Part II
Rating: M for cussing, violence violence, and sex.
Summary: This is a rewrite of the Octoberverse (originally published in May 2009). Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of collateral.
Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…
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Creed reached her apartment scarcely five minutes after she did. He could tell from her fragrance, still floating down the hall. She smelled like almonds, and warm skin that he could cut through like butter.
He paused at the door marked forty-three. Someone had scratched into the surface of the door: Courtesy of the FoH. The carved wounds were deep and deliberate, cutting through the veneer and into the core.
His lips curled back. Though he kept himself well-educated for his own benefit—and for the purposes of knowing his employers—he didn't favor any specific set of politics. Nevertheless, the Friends of Humanity got under his skin just enough to make him itch. He'd like to pull the intestines out of the lot of them—had, in fact, once popped an activist's eyeball like a ripe grape, just for the pleasure of it.
There was something to be said for not killing someone, and just letting them live with the horror of seeing their own eyeball explode.
It was clear, however, that the Morgan frail hadn't even tried to buff the mark away, though it had likely been carved there to piss her off, back when she herself was a big name in the movement. Could be she'd kept it in some fit of defiance, which was both promising and irritating to a man like Creed. He bared his teeth at the deep, uneven gouges, more annoyed than he rightly understood. Confusion—rare for him, since he was a smart bastard—redoubled his anger.
He tested the knob—she'd left it unlocked. Foolish frail. His anger funneled into his smile and his already-flinty eyes turned colder, more calculating. Creed opened the door wide and stalked in, silent without even trying, and took in the surroundings.
The place was clean and pretty—quaint. He sneered. The kitchen table looked nice on first glance, but a second sweep of his gaze revealed that the leg had been broken and was being held up by two books: a copy of The Iliad and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Her keys were on the counter by the sink; he pocketed them deftly. Creed guessed the couch was old: it had been carefully covered by a chenille blanket, and though the curtains were clean white linen, they had frayed a bit at the hems. The fire escape and the space by the window were full of big pink flowers that filled the air with pollen and musk.
On a shelf over an old box-TV, there was a cluster of photos, mostly of three much-younger girls. They had different hair and body-types, but their mouths and smiles were the same. Something around their eyes—the way they curled up and sparkled—put him in mind of the Morgan frail herself. Sisters, mostlike. They looked stupid-happy. Another snapshot, this one blown up large, showed all four of 'em. They were all but climbing over each other, clearly laughing, their eyes curved into crescents of mirth. Seemed even the collateral had collateral, didn't it?
He liked to get to know things before he tortured 'em, killed 'em. Gave him more ammo, but also made the killing sweeter. Fuck, but that big picture—the one of the four of them—made his skin crawl. All of those privileged, pleased-as-punch faces. Dark, starry eyes. They were fat-cheeked, plump and soft, just waiting to whine. He felt his lips twitch in a sneer even as he reached out with one extended claw to tip the largest photo face-down in a gesture he didn't entirely understand. The frame clicked against the shelf gently, and he felt a kind of relief with it hidden. Silently he turned away, loping toward the hall.
The apartment was tiny, but so open and airy that Creed didn't feel the claustrophobia that usually struck when he was confined. Nevertheless, his claws itched and he found himself wanting to tear the place apart. Sunshine, flowers, photos of smiling sisters—it made his teeth grit so tightly that enamel flaked onto his tongue, bitter and dusty.
He moved down the hall. There was a bathroom, and two tiny spare-rooms that were more likely intended to be closets, each nearly flooded by a double-bed apiece. For the sisters when they visited, he guessed. The thought made his lip curl.
He could hear the sound of fabric rustling and humming in the far room, and leaned in the doorway when he reached it. His head brushed the top of the doorframe, and the breadth of his shoulders nearly filled the opening. He ducked, crossing his arms and lounging, watching through half-hooded eyes as she spread fresh white sheets on the queen-sized bed, humming something under her breath. It was fucking domestic as hell, which set his teeth on edge with something like contempt and rage. Still, when she twitched her hips, his eyes were drawn to the curve of her ass.
Fuck.
Never mind McQuay—he might make use of her anyway as a warning, have at 'er till she was broken and no good to him anymore. He briefly entertained himself with the thought of flinging her on the crisp white sheets, pinning her wrists as she begged for mercy and wriggled, pressing her soft breasts against him. She'd be trying to escape his claws, and he'd stain the sheets red.
Oblivious, the frail straightened, tossing back her tangled mass of brassy curls. They trailed down to the small of her back and he thought about grabbing a handful of that hair and pulling it back while he shoved his cock in her mouth. He grinned nastily, testing one fang with the tip of his tongue.
No biting, or I'll bite back. I promise mine will hurt more.
She turned to the doorway and choked back a startled yelp when she saw him there, dropping to a crouch with her fist pressed into her sternum. Her pulse spiked. Her breathing came in gasps. The room was suddenly flooded with the scent of her fear.
He savored it and grinned. What a flavor. "Scare ya?" he purred.
She laughed then, breathlessly, still folded in on herself in a defensive crouch. His grin collapsed and he narrowed his eyes at the unexpected response. The beginnings of a warning growl gathered in his throat.
"Definitely did," she gasped out, her voice still reedy with fear and laughter. She stood, and he could see her knees were shaky. When she extended a hand to him, her fingers only trembled a little. His eyes flicked back to her smile, which was uncomfortably warm and open. He tried not to snarl—not yet. "I'm glad you found the place all right."
He smirked, then. He wasn't able to hold that one back. I could follow your scent anywhere, he gloated a little savagely. Instead of saying it, he shook her hand, but couldn't stop himself from squeezing just a bit harder than he knew he should've. Her face paled a bit, and something strange happened to her scent—it deepened, thickened—but she only kept smiling and waited for him to withdraw.
Then she turned her back to him, gesturing widely to the tiny room. "This is the master bedroom. Obviously it'll be a little tight for you," she turned back and eyed his shoulders with a dry grin, "but it's the best I can offer for free."
She licked her lips and he tasted her apprehension. It eased some of the wrath he'd been carrying since seeing the stupid photos of her little family, and he let a bitter grin curl his mouth. She had to crane her neck back at a ridiculous angle to look up at him, and so he leaned forward just a bit—to make it harder for her.
"Do you have any luggage?" she asked, her voice suddenly reedy. He wondered if she felt small, standing so close to such a big animal. He took a step forward, pretending to look around the apartment while moving into her personal space. She took a step back and he bit down on a hard grin.
"Naw," he said calmly, after a moment of silence that he could tell unsettled her. "S'pose I'll go buy anything I need tomorrow."
She flushed a little and took a step back. He turned, facing away from her, but stepped backward into her space, herding her toward the wall. Cat and mouse, he thought, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"I don't know—if there are a lot of shops around here that would sell your size," she said from behind him, sounding apologetic. He stepped backward again, then heard her bump into the wall. "Not at decent prices, anyway."
He turned suddenly, leaning a forearm against the wood paneling so he could loom close over her.
"I can afford it," he purred. She stared up at him, eyes wide and dark. Her apprehension was palpable—he could curl his tongue around it. He held his other hand in front of him, examining the calluses and sinews as he let his claws lengthen, slowly and deliberately.
"Wh-who are you?" the girl asked suddenly, her voice very thin.
Idiot frail. Now she asks. Whatever was happening to her scent made his mouth water and his cock twitch. Oh, she was terrified, and he liked that, but there was something under it too. Whatever it was, he wanted more. He leaned in closer, crowding her. He could feel her body heat. Scared, trembling little Miss Morgan. Her skin would fall away like cut silk.
"I mean, I know you said your name was Creed, but—"
He grinned, baring his fangs at her and neatly nicking his own lip, showing off how deadly those teeth were. He leaned in, breathing in her fragrance.
"I'm a killer," he purred.
Inexplicably, the tension seemed to drain out of her. She seemed—relieved. Not surprised. "Oh," she said, her voice suddenly clear. "You were sent to kill me?"
He drew back, frowning. The sudden easing of her muscles was unexpected. Confusion crept into his throat and he shoved it back down, baring his teeth instead. "No," he growled, running one claw delicately over her throat. Her pulse jumped a bit, but she stayed still, and he glowered. Dissatisfied with her response, he drew his claw over her again, pulling blood to the surface this time. She trembled and the scent of her fear spiked even as the blood trickled over her collarbone in a thread of crimson, staining the low white collar of her tank top. There we go, he thought, soaking up the scent of her with a grin.
"Not for you," he corrected. "But I might do it anyway."
Still, the fear wasn't right. Not strong enough, and tempered.
He grunted. "M'here for your good friend, Dean-o." He lay his palm on her sternum, smearing the blood into her skin, then dragged it down and to one side. Her breathing hitched and she stood very still when he dug his fingers into her hip, slowly letting his claws lengthen. He could feel the whimper rising in her, the way she held herself tense as he punctured first the denim of her jeans, then drew blood from her skin. "You're just…collateral," he purred. "'F Dean-o doesn't do what I say, I get to break all your bones…one by one." He squeezed and she tried not to move. His grin widened, feral, when her fear grew sharper, overwhelming the confusing, musky scent that he couldn't place.
"I have your keys," he stated mildly, his tone deceptive. "You left them on the counter. Do you have a cell phone?"
She shook her head mutely and he stared at her, eyes narrow, as he tried to figure out if she was lying. She smelled clean of deceit, though. Still:
"If I find you're fibbing to me, I'll cut your face to ribbons and leave you alive," he informed her.
She gasped when he gripped her arm and whipped her around, yanking her through the door and toward the phone he'd seen in the kitchen. He grinned, still dragging her—he liked to be slow, to play with his toys, but sometimes speed could help keep 'em off-balance, keep 'em guessing. She stumbled after him, her legs a tangle beneath her. The clumsiness both annoyed and pleased him.
The phone was anchored in the wall. He pulled the receiver from it and held it out to her. "Call your work," he ordered. "Tell 'em you're taking an extended leave of absence."
She looked confused, dazed. "I can't—"
He rolled his eyes. "I can keep coming up with new and interesting threats, but it gets boring after a while." He leaned in, licked his incisors. "Soon I'll just skip the part where I tell you what's what, and go straight to bit where I tear you apart."
She lifted one pale hand, quivering, and took the receiver, moving toward the phone to press the large numbers on the cradle. He didn't move, and she had to sidle between him and the counter, her body crushed against his as she dialed.
"Mmm," he purred. "That's nice."
She shot him a surprisingly powerful glare and he almost laughed with the force and the shock of it. He hadn't expected that little spark. She might prove more entertaining than he thought. Might keep up fighting him when he fucked her, for longer than most.
"Hello? Hi, Jocelyn. It's Toby."
He was impressed by the control in her voice. He hadn't expected that. "I've had a—ah, an emergency, of sorts. I need to take my vacation time." A pause. "Um, possibly all of it. Will that be okay?" Another pause, and then—to Creed's utter astonishment—she chuckled warmly. Naturally. As though she weren't standing sandwiched nice and warm between a wall and a killer.
Fury drummed through him. His hand skated up and he wrapped his claws in her hair, yanking her head back. Her breathing hitched, and she spared him a glance, but it was more irritated than frightened.
"Well, yes, I know I haven't taken any of my time," she went on mildly, addressing the person on the line. "I understand if that's not going to work for the organization. If you have to lay me off—yes, yes—oh, well, thank you. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can, and I appreciate it. Okay—of course. Thanks, Jocelyn. I'll see you when I get back. Take care." She hung the phone up gently, then turned to glower at him.
Next time you dismiss me like that, I'll chew your pretty little tongue right out of your mouth, he wanted to say. She'd done what he'd wanted—raised no suspicions on the phone—but the ease with which she done it, the apparent lack of terror, somehow made his shoulders tense and his bones itch.
Who is in control of this situation? he demanded silently, the words a mental growl.
Furious still, and silky-dangerous with it, he leaned in closer. The feel of her body against his was worth relishing, and he felt her pulse pick up, smelled her fear spike. Without taking his eyes off hers, he reached out with one clawed hand, grasped the phone station that was anchored there, and yanked it directly out of the wall. October gasped and flinched as plaster and dust flew everywhere.
"We can do this two ways," he said quietly, his face set in a mock-serious expression. "You can be a good girl and do what I say and pray every night that McQuay pulls through for you. Or you can fight me, try to sneak out, try to tell someone what's going on. In which case, I kill them, and then make you live in pain for a very. Long. Time."
He paused, then leaned his face in against her throat. She grew very still, and very tense. Her scent was full of fear and that denser scent, lower and richer, and he lingered over the delicate skin. Her breath was so shallow he almost didn't hear it. After a moment, he opened his mouth, let his hot breath and teeth scrape on her flesh.
"I kind of hope ya choose the latter," he rumbled with a grin.
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Thirty-two hours later, and little Miss Morgan had yet to sustain more than a scratch or mild bruise. He was frustrated, and bored—he had been hoping she'd give him an excuse to hurt her. Ensuring McQuay's cooperation was his primary objective…but that did not preclude him roughing her up a bit.
He woke up, sliding into his black pants for the third day running, and moved to the kitchen to browse the fridge. The frail had nothing of substance in her goddam apartment—nothing but hot pockets and cereal, as far as he could tell. He'd devoured the extra hamburger she'd had tucked in a back corner of her freezer, but he was eager for some real meat: steak, porkchops, lamb. Also beer, because apparently all she had lying around was some shitty fruit-tea and soymilk.
He grunted, and slammed that fridge hard enough that the lone jar of pickles rattled in the door. He'd rather hunt than buy meat, but there was a sad lack of animals in the city, and he needed more clothes anyway. He'd spotted a place a couple blocks back where he could order pieces tailored to fit his unique proportions, and a butcher's on the way. The thought of a barely-grilled steak made his stomach growl and his mouth water. The meat still red, a little bloody—fuck. Delicious. It was a miracle he'd survived the last few days without gutting the Morgan frail on principle.
Hot pockets. Fer fuck's sake.
Still, he wouldn't go till she woke up, so he could remind her of the rules.
He leaned over the back of the couch, staring at her. He'd discovered quickly that first night that she was adamant against sleeping in either of the beds in the spare rooms—two double-bed that almost swallowed the tiny spaces they'd been crammed into. They're uncomfortable, she'd snapped at him finally. I'd rather take the floor.
He'd been tempted to make her do so, right at the foot of his bed like a dog. The thought aroused him. Part of him wondered why the hell she'd offered him the big bed in the first place, if the little ones were so uncomfortable, but he pushed the thought aside. He would have taken it anyway, whether she offered it or not.
I'll hear you if you wake up at all, he'd warned her. If I think for a second you're trying to run, I'll catch you and break your ankles with my bare hands so you can't run again. And then, just for security's sake, you'll have to sleep with me. He'd bared his teeth in a contemplative smirk, and she'd paled a little, that delicious scent of fear spiking. I'll have to keep you under me, so I know if you try to move.
Otherwise, they had barely spoken. Of course, Creed had no problem with that. As far as he was concerned, frails like October Morgan were only good for one thing.
He had to admit, though—the way she carried herself, in her fear, was unexpected. She generally curled up somewhere out of his way, warming her hands on a cup of tea, her big eyes drinking in every flicker of the leaves on the lilies, every tightening of his muscles and flash of his fangs. Creed wasn't prone to whimsy, but more than once he had caught himself wondering if even his claws could reach her through the complicated web of thought she'd wound around herself. He had the feeling her brain never stopped—that it worked busily, like a hungry little spider, connecting point A to point B with tenuous threads of light. In general, he scowled hatefully at her while flipping through the TV channels, waiting for her to say something, to get in his way, just once.
Now she wasn't thinking anything, though. She lay there on the couch, looking vulnerable, one palm resting upward next to her face, fingers slightly curled. During the day she seemed hyperaware—all that constant thinking—but for right now he'd bet that she didn't even have any slight vestige of primitive instinct, anything telling her that she all but had a predator at her throat.
He leaned closer over the back of the couch, thinking about these two things, grinning harshly. To frighten her awake—to hear her pulse pick up, watch her eyes go wide, feel her breath catch—well, the thought made him chuckle. He reached for her roughly, claws extended, but somewhere in the distance between him and her he found his fingers softening. Instead of the terrorizing grip he'd meant to clamp on her throat, he reached down with one finger, scraping a light, almost teasing line up her arm. A faint streak followed his claw, turning red and raising after a moment. She only shifted sleepily, and his claw nicked deeper, drawing blood.
No sense of self-preservation, whatsoever.
He rolled his eyes and gripped her shoulder tightly, shaking her roughly. "Wake up, frail," he snarled, jostling her. She twisted into her pillow, mumbling, and he grabbed a handful of hair and tugged sharply.
"Mmm?" she asked blearily, rolling on her back to face him. Her eyes opened slowly, delicately smudged on the upper lids with make-up, and she smiled, arching her back and uncurling her body as she stretched.
She smiled.
He blinked, and his hand loosened. The tangled knots of her curls slid heavily from his claws, and he found himself staring as a series of joints popped and snapped in her from her wrists to her ankles. She was wearing a thin white tank-top of ribbed fabric, with skinny little straps over her shoulders, and her heavy breasts pressed against the pale textured fabric. He could see the pink shadows of her nipples through the cloth.
She looked like a cat showing its belly. She looked like something surrendering, and not minding the surrender.
Why?
She crumpled in on herself once her langourous stretch was complete, then smiled again. "Morning, sunshine," she mumbled sleepily.
He stared at her incredulously. Was the woman an idiot?
"Do I look like a 'sunshine' to you?" he rumbled, furious.
She stretched again, her wrists crossing above her head, popping the fine bones there yet again. He thought of her sprawled on the bed in the back room, her wrists secured overhead while she arched and pleaded. He thought about how she wasn't there right now, underneath him, and it made him even angrier.
"Mmmmh," she mumbled, sounding at the height of physical satisfaction each time her tiny bones snapped into place.
The sound made him want.
He told himself it was the snapping joints.
That the sound of the bones clicking against each other made the predator in him salivate.
But fuck, her moan.
He was appalled. His hand shot downward and he gripped her jaw sharply. She yelped as he pulled her upright by her face, his fingers digging into the skin and bone. "Listen to me, little Miss Morgan." The words were low, a pleasurable purr of a threat running through them. "I'm gonna step out, get some clothes. Get some goddam decent food." His grip loosened, almost without him noticing, and his thumb stroked over the side of her jaw thoughtlessly. Her skin was velvety, he noted vaguely, and her jawbone was fragile by his standards. He could snap the pretty thing.
When he spoke, his voice was softer, but not kinder. If anything, he was more menacing in this feigned intimacy.
"I'm gonna check on our little friend," he murmured low, a sneer curling his lip. His eyes weren't on hers though: they tracked the path of his thumb, tracing her jaw with dangerous and deceptive gentleness. "I think you should use the rest of the morning to pray he's doing what he's supposed to, don'tcha think?"
She nodded mutely, eyes wide once more, her fear flooding through his senses. Clearly, she just hadn't been entirely awake before. She hadn't realized who she was greeting so sweetly, so welcomingly.
For a moment he felt a flare of rage, thinking of who she might have woken up with that smile and those words. 'Morning, sunshine. Who'd had that? Who'd had the fucking right to have that, to wake up to it? To wrap themselves in her hair and her warmth and her crackling bones and her stupid good mornings?
He hated her.
He shoved her face away from him, and she tumbled back onto the couch, the pillows. "Good," he snarled. "Don't leave, don't try to contact anyone, and don't do anything stupid."
She nodded again.
"That's a good frail," he sneered, and swept out the door, grabbing his coat with her keys in the pocket.
It didn't take him long to get measured and place his orders for pants. They promised him they'd be done in the next two days, and in the meantime he purchased a couple shirts. They would be too tight, but once he cut off the sleeves, he wouldn't feel restricted by them.
When he stopped by North Forest Avenue and slipped into McQuay's apartment, he found the mutant in the midst of stacks of papers.
"You doin' what I told you?" Creed asked, his voice making the fragile man jump.
McQuay scowled. "Are you being nice to Toby?" he shot back. "Because somehow I doubt you're holding up your end of the bargain. She's a sweet, sweet girl, and she's had a rough life—be nice to her."
Creed shrugged and grinned. "All things considered, she's holding up well," he mocked darkly, leaning on McQuay's desk. "So what are these, Crip?"
The man rolled his eyes and picked up a letter, waving it in the larger mutant's face. "Resignations," he snapped. "Apology letters."
The savage smile widened. "Atta boy. Now, tell me, friend, what security do I have that you won't turn back to your old ways once I'm gone? Maybe I should take the frail with me."
"Don't even think it," Dean hissed back, sounding awfully fierce for a man so weak. Creed roared with laughter, throwing his head back at the smaller man's bravado.
"Brilliant," Creed said. "You know somebody'll be following up with each of these bastards and confirming this shit," he added.
"It's confidential information," McQuay scoffed, and Creed grinned even wider.
"I have resources, little man. Don't think there's anything you can get away with." He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. "And if you step one broken toe outta line, I'll know, my tiny friend. And your frail will pay the price."
Blood rushed into McQuay's face. "She's not mine," he spat harshly, and the assassin chuckled darkly.
"Not for lack of trying though, eh?" he jeered, turning his back to McQuay and heading for the door. "I'll be checking in," he added, echoing his earlier statement. He ducked and grinned as a glass bottle whizzed past where his head had been and shattered against the doorframe. Creed turned, grinning and tsking as he backed out the door. "Violence solves nothing, bud. Don't worry, I'll take it out of little Miss Morgan's hide."
"Wait!—" McQuay shouted after him, but he was too slow. Creed was already striding away, chuckling under his breath and slamming the door shut behind him. The larger mutant stood for a moment in the sunshine, bearing his teeth in a hard grin and gazing up at the sky, scratching his chest with lengthened claws.
"I love this job."