Bonus chapter
Portugal won the European Championship against France!
Both teams did a great match, giving their best but
after all the insults, all the attacks, all the despise,
with all of our faith, all of our emotion, all of our heart,
turning weakness into strength as Portuguese are known to do
PORTUGAL WON
WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!
Stuff the mean criticism
We've heard it before and we don't care because we know who we are
we are the best!
Plus, we aren't sore losers
we had enough soul in us to celebrate alongside Greece when we lost the Euro 2004 final to them in our own home
because the real victory is to give our best against adversity
and celebrate!
GO PORTUGAL!
With no further ado, your bonus chapter
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.
22. Blizzard
Creed sat down in the armchair facing the TV but didn't switch it on. The wind kept blowing hard and he didn't feel like filling the house with the noise of whatever might be on the TV. After all, there was enough noise coming from the kitchen as Irbis finished cleaning up. Feet on the coffee table, he closed his eyes and relaxed, satiated and pleased with his life. He was already used to Irbis's rich meals, but today she'd gone out and fixed a banquet fit for a king, even if she had been particularly quiet. Besides the pork with clams, she had whisked up appetizers, entries, some hot soup, a generously served full-bodied wine, fruit (if you could call pears boiled in red wine and sugar fruit) and a warm piece of cake with some sort of hypoccras wine for digestive. Creed wasn't lazily full; he was beyond lethargically filled to brim.
So, when Irbis tiptoed through the living room he didn't stop her. He had promised her a second round in the afternoon, but the afternoon wouldn't be over any time soon, and it might be fun if she got to let her guard down. He was slipping smoothly into a nice nap when he heard the guitar. It had a different sound, which was normal with its overgrown banjo shape; very light and gentle. It wasn't the best sound in the world, but it wasn't irritating. However, he couldn't hear it very clearly because of the blowing blizzard outside, the woman probably having locked herself up in her room. Creed considered going upstairs but decided against. The woman sounded as if she was simply trying it out. So he made himself more comfortable and let himself doze off.
The ring tone snapped him out of his pleasant nap. It was his mobile, he recognised immediately. He glanced annoyedly at the watch before getting up. 4pm. Stretching, he decided to check it out instead of leaving it for later. Upstairs, he could still hear Irbis's guitar. In the hallway, he unlocked the inner drawer of a casual cupboard and retrieved his mobile. Isabel finished the piece she'd been playing and paused. The text he had received was an automated message, warning him he had an email message and that he should check it. He didn't, obviously. That was simply the way a recurrent employer had devised to contact him. He chewed on his lip, annoyed. That meant he had to leave and contact the guy before the blizzard was over, in case someone got the idea he was in the area shut out by it.
Creed shook his head. Time to leave the fun and games and head for serious work, then. Suddenly Isabel resumed her playing, now accompanied of her voice, and he followed it. The melody poured forward in waves of shivering notes to accompany her voice, loud and clear, making it more intense by the contrast of the guitar's high tones and Isabel's low tones.
"Não queiras gostar de mim
Sem que eu te peça"
She sang slowly, pronouncing each word very clearly, as if she were talking bitterly and mournfully rather than singing. Even without knowing Portuguese, it wasn't difficult to trace parallels to the Spanish to understand most of the verses: "Don't think of liking me if I don't ask you to." Like? A Portuguese love song, was it?
"Of whom I like, not even to the walls will I confess; and I'll even bet that I like no one…" Only without much love in the mixture, it seemed. Was he getting the meaning of the lyrics right?
"Who knows if I've forgotten how much I want you,
Who knows if it's for you, whom I'm waiting for,
If I like you or not, that's my own business,
even if you think
that you'll convince me,
I'll tell you nothing."
She really did abandon herself to the song. Expressive. That's what he liked about her performance, since the melody itself didn't quite strike his fancy; her voice was vividly expressive. He almost believed she was the one hurting with the need to keep her feelings private, even if it meant keeping her lover in the dark.
"You can smile
You can lie,
You can cry too
Whom I like
Not even to the walls will I confess."
She took a deep breath and sighed so heavily that Creed could hear her over the closed room door and the random notes she was now plucking. She was done with the playing, Creed guessed, and was pleased to hear her mattress moan under the flopping of her body. Out of nowehere, a piano started playing the opening notes of Waltzing Matilda.
Creed opened the door without knocking and was awarded a glimpse of the woman's relaxed figure sprawled on the bed, eyes closed, before she sprang and sat up.
"Mister Creed," she gasped, blushing.
"Ya've switched to a CD, huh? Guess ya've had enough of listening t'yerself playin' an' singin', then." He made a show of glancing at his wrist watch. "Suppose anyone would, after two hours listenin' t'themselves."
She frowned as her cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. "You… you can hear me downstairs? I'm so sorry, Mister Creed, I locked de door and I thought I wasn't going to disturbate you…"
"Disturb," he corrected. "An' no need ta worry anyway, ya didn't disturb me."
But his steady gaze on him disturbed her. She brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and picked up the guitar. She seemed uncertain for a moment, her fingers petting the six rows of double strings very gently while Rod Stewart sang in the background.
"You... you were listening me play?"
She didn't look up at him but her whole body was suspended, waiting for his answer. Creed shrugged. "I got good hearin', ya should know that by now."
"No," she looked at him abruptly, serious, her eyes trying to see through him. "I mean, you were listening... taking attention."
Narrowing his eyes, he studied her. Could she be on to the game he was playing?
"I paid attention as I was comin' upstairs," he pretended to give in. "That was an odd song ya was goin' on about. Ya wrote it fer yerself?"
She paled suddenly, her face assuming a deadly no-nonsense mask.
"Dat is an old love song dat was always my favourite," she explained as she got up, very straight and prim, and headed for the closet. There was a slight sense of discrete nobility as she did so that Creed had never seen before. No, he had. And many times, too; everytime she stubbornnely told him 'no', actually. "If someone is going to sing a song, love song or no, den he should sing like he means every word and every note."
She placed the guitar inside then caught herself and quickly returned to the bed to get two small pieces of plastic. Movements swift and sure, head level, eyes guardedly stubborn. She felt in control and it showed. If he hadn't seen it before, it was because he was too busy being aggravated by the 'nos' that usually accompanied it. Her eyes met his as she swiftly took the fingerpicks to the closet. "To play de strings. Make pretend is nails."
"Ya're afraid I'm gonna break yer new toy, girl," he grinned.
She stopped before putting the pieces of plastic by the instrument's side, but it wasn't a hesitation. "No. I finished play it; I put it in his place. I should be afraid dat you break it?"
He didn't answer. The game was afoot, as they would say in olden times, but she was on to it.
"You are here because you are bored," she said softly as she closed the closet. "You want to... mm... play to tiefs and victims."
He couldn't stop the grin. "Thieves," he corrected her, enjoying the way she quietly repeated his correction, the tip of her tongue teasing him as she pronounced the 'th'. "But ya don't like no games, do ya?"
She gazed at him squarely, holding her breath for a moment. Then she sighed. "I like children games. Tief... Thiefs and victims, dat sounds like a children game. Do you come here because off anoder game? An... adult game? Or maybe you want de two games."
His grin widened. "I knew ya was smarter than ya made it out t'be," he flattered her.
She humphed. In the background, Rod Stewart continued wailing.
"Waltzin' Matilda, huh," he grinned, not letting his eyes off her serious face. He was starting to get the impression she wouldn't let him toy with her again. At least not the way he had that morning.
"I am studying de music. I listen it until I know everything: letters, notes, everything. Den I can start play it in de piano." She breathed in. "I said I don't like games."
Creed's grin faded away. There was more than one way to skin this particular cat, and he enjoyed the sight of her, whether it were her cheeks or her eyes that were ablaze. "That's the piece ya gonna learn fer me? Just fer me?"
"If you want dis song, Mister Creed," and her eyes shone intensely, her heart beat rising somewhat. "Den no one is never going to hear me sing it. Only you. But I don't. play. games."
He could tell by her face she didn't expect to win this particular fight. But there was no reason why she shouldn't, really; for as long as he got the final prize, he could live without the toying. He didn't enjoy beating about the bush for too long anyway, and if she was in a hurry to get into a stand-off...
"Then let's cut t'the chase."
For a moment, Irbis wasn't sure if she was being wise, forcing the man out into the open. But then he took a step forward and slid a hand behind her head and she forgot all wisdom. Her body felt like it was melting as he pulled her up, forcing her to get on the tip of her toes and leaning against his body for balance; and when his lips touched hers, his tongue snaked in to find hers, she closed her eyes tight and let everything go.
It was a kiss like she had never felt: her whole body was tingling and she couldn't think. When he broke it, she blinked her eyes open, her thoughts running so fast she couldn't grab any, and felt dizzy. Those beautiful golden eyes were so close she felt... she didn't know how she felt. It was just too much. He leaned towards her again and she suddenly realised her heart was about to burst in her chest and that she wasn't breathing. His lips brushed against hers and a stupid moan broke free from her throat. This time, her tongue reacted – sluggishly, moronically – and she was able to become aware of the man's strong, warm body next to her, his muscles under her hands.
When he broke the kiss again, one of his hands swallowed her wrist and pulled it to the side. He then pressed her hand against his side, his hand huge and omnipresent over hers, and made it slide farther away – towards his back, she managed to comprehend. She continued that same movement instinctively when he released her hand, until suddenly her face was touching his T-shirt covered chest. "Damned T-shirt," was her first thought, but then her brain forced itself on her and tried to knock some sense back into her.
"I don't want dis," her throat claimed almost of its own accord. The man's body felt so strong, and warm, and safe. She heard a rumble purr through his chest and she tried to reach it, get closer to that bumping on the other side of his rhythmic breathing, even though her brain was getting angry.
"Look at me," but she wouldn't have if he hadn't snaked his fingers under her chin and pulled it up. "Yer body thinks otherwise, girl. Ya want this. Ya've been pratically beggin' fer this since Dallas."
It caught her unaware and sobered her faster than her mind could have. Dallas? Dallas?
"No," but her voice was hoarse and weak. He saw the grin pull his mouth sideways while the tip of his red tongue brushed teeth, and fangs and lips. Alluringly. And she grew alarmed.
"No!" She looked away, to the side, to gather her wits about her. What was she doing?
"Then how come ya ain't gettin' away from me, huh? How come ya ain't even pretendin' t' resist?"
She felt sick as she met his eyes again. He was right: she wasn't resisting, she was practically throwing herself in his arms. No, literally. She remembered that her hands were still enjoying the feel of his body and took them away abruptly. Stupid! The man's heat was still burning dangerously on her palms and it hit her she should get away from him before he... So damned stupid! And she stepped back, but hit against the closet doors and had to turn away from his mocking grin. Why the hell did she keep finding his mocking grin alluring? It was a mocking grin, for crying out loud!
She half-stumbled until she found the wall and then forced herself to get together, stop, think. She had gone through this before, damnit! She had decided not to let him mess her up again, like he had done that morning in their practice. She had sworn to herself!
"No," for once her voice sounded like her own, decided and stubborn, and she felt confident enough to turn back and face the man.
He had peeled off his T-shirt and she once more felt her body react. 'No,' she told herself, clenching her teeth and forcing every muscle in her to obey. 'He is a psychopath. You are not going to let him destroy what is left of your life. He'll play the nice guy, and then he'll enjoy crushing every ounce of free will you have. He'll make a puppet out of you. He'll make a mindless, miserable slave out of you. Hold your ground. He is not destroying you.'
Casually, he took a couple of steps to the side and sat on the bed, picking up the T-shirt he had probably thrown there and sending it farther off. 'He is giving you space, just to find a better way of trapping you,' her mind warned her.
"Mister Creed," and the formal title helped her to subdue her emotions a bit more, her heart beat almost normal again. "We have an agreement: no beating, and no sex."
"Oh?" The movement of his cocked eyebrow and head was sickeningly cute and she had to berate herself: how on Earth could she have fallen for the man? Was she a masochist? "If I remember correctly, ya said I couldn't beat ya unless ya asked fer it – by disobeyin' me or similar – and I couldn't entertain the though of sex with ya 'cause... well, 'cause ya didn't want it. But it has since become pretty clear ya want it, so..."
Her mind couldn't wrap itself around that reasoning. "No, I don't want to..."
He grinned again, mischievously, and flopped back on the bed, propping himself on his elbows. "Ya don't? Sure? Ya might wanna let yer body in on that, 'cause it sure thinks otherwise." A fang peeked boyishly as the grin grew wider, his eyes narrowing and taking her in from head to toe. "An' I'm more than willin' t'oblige."
"No," but what was the point of refusing the man? If he had decided to do it, no matter what she said, what... and if he was nice and gentle, she would give in. It made her sick that she couldn't control herself, that her body had more power over her than her own mind. So say what? "No, no, no."
She turned her back on him to escape his eyes glistening of amusement, his devilish grin, his... damn, his bare chest. She had seen tons of men with their chests bare at the beach, inclunding her boyfriends, but never had she felt the slightest attraction to them. Sure, they weren't as muscled, as strong looking, as... as... but was it normal that her hands were tickling with the need to feel it? It was like she was possessed or something!
She heard the mattress moan softly behind her. Was he getting up? Was he coming up to her? And then the lights went out. She gasped, surprised, almost afraid to understand why the man had switched them off. But then he grunted, annoyedly, still far from her.
"I knew the power would get cut sooner or later. With all this wind, t'was just a matter o' time till some tree fell over the electrical lines or something." The mattress complained sharply for a single moment. "The house is gonna get freezin' 'fore nightfall, without the heatin'. But there's no worry... I can think up a few ways o' keepin' ourselves nice an' warm."
He said it provocatively and Irbis closed her fists. "No. We have an agreement. No sex. You are my boss and I obey you in everything but not dis. I don't sleep wid my boss; I don't sleep wid you."
He didn't even think twice, and his voice vibrated casual and deep through the dark. "If that's the problem, then ya're fired."
She turned around but she couldn't glimpse where he might be, the darkness was too complete. "You can't..."
"Why not? Ya're fired, Irbis. From now on I ain't yer boss, no more. I suppose ya won't have t'obey me, either, but I will be free t'beat yer up, so don't disobey me too much. It's fer yer own good." How could he be so casual about it? "Oh, and ya'll have t'pay me fer crashin' my place, that's a given. In cash, preferably."
He was insane. But before she could say it what seemed like an explosion, complete with a thundering loud blast, rocked the house. Unable to see anything in the darkness, she heard the man's growled 'damn' and then a strong hand clamped over her shoulder.
"Ya ain't stayin' here on yer own. Ya'd probably just do somethin' stupid..." He said half to himself as he started pulling her along. But she tripped and nearly fell, making him hold her more securely and practically lift her off the gound. When he stopped and set her down, leaning her against the wall, he told her to stay put and disappeared.
Irbis tried to get her eyes used to the darkness and distinguish shapes around her. She knew she was in the corridor, but where had Creed gone to? And what could be happening? She was having difficulty to accept that something really had exploded. She couldn't smell any smoke or burning, after all. All she could feel was a cold air draft, while the sound of the wind outside seemed louder. She frowned when the light of a torch revealed she was right by the stairs, Creed inside his bedroom. The house was getting cold really fast, it occurred to her.
Creed didn't even look at her as he started going down the stairs, but she followed him without hesitation. The air became much colder, the wind much louder, as they approached the lower floor.
"Damnit," he growled again.
Irbis rushed to his side and saw that a pine tree had fallen and broken both shutters and windows, mangling the curtains in the process. Missing a heart beat, she thoughtlessly reached for Creed's hand.
"Hey, what..." but he had been caught by surprise and she effortlessly illuminated the corner where the piano, untouched by the pine tree, was starting to accumulate snow blown in through the broken window panes. "That's yer first worry? The piano?"
Irbis looked up, seeing his pupils shine like a cat's. Her hands were still gripping his wrist, but as pleasant as that touch felt, the spell she'd been under was broken and her tongue had no problem finding a quick answer.
"I clean and cook, Mister Creed, but dat's not fun. What I like is play de piano. Is dat dat is important to me."
He humphed as he shook her hands off his wrist and again placed a hand on her shoulder and pushed her towards the stairs. "And here I thought the guitar was what ya really wanted."
"Is not dat," she tumbled forward. "I love de guitar, but it only plays one type of music; de piano plays many types. Where we go?"
Creed was now opening the door to the small closet that hid the passage to the secret basement. "Ain't it obvious? We ain't spendin' the rest o' the blizzard in this giant freezer."
When they reached the bottom of the stairs he let her go. In the cold, grandly decorated room she saw the beam of the torch go over the marble fireplace – the mock fireplace, since it didn't have a real chimney, only an electric heater which was useless that day. The idea hit her suddenly: they needed warm clothes and blankets, if they were going to stay there for the rest of the day. Worst, the entire night, until the blizzard became subdued. Especially Creed, who was still naked from the waist up.
Without a word of warning, she turned and hurried up the stairs.
"Hey!"
The light of the torch was suddenly on the staircase and she was able to race through it without problems. Of course, what little light she'd had was gone by the time she reached the closet, but feeling her way with the hands, she found no obstacle until she tripped over the first step ot the stairs to the first floor.
"What the hell d'ya think ya're doin'?" Irbis turned to see Creed behind her.
"I go get clodes," she said, the wind that was sipping in chilling her to the bones. "Blankets. De basement is too cold. And food! After de clodes I get some food too. Please go down, Mister Creed, is too cold to you."
"Don't be a dimwit," he growled as he grabbed her arm and climbed the stairs with her. "A lil'bit o' cold ain't gonna do me no harm."
Nevertheless, he led her into his bedroom where he laid the torch to get a T-shirt and a flannel shirt. Irbis's eyes darted to his body but she quickly forced herself to look for some blankets instead.
"Ya got any candles about the house? Those batteries ain't gonna last forever."
"Yes, down in de... uh... despensa..."
Nem às paredes confesso, sung by Amália Rodrigues
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