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Author: bishonenworks@attbi.com Pics to go with fics can be found at:
http://www.bishonenworks.com Disclaimer: the X-men belong to Marvels... Note from author: Sabortooth's looking for Wolverine and finds Gambit instead. A rather brutal few days follow in a secluded cabin in thenorth country. Rating: NC-17 Warning: Major Violence, Rape The towering northern pine flashed by like soldiers on
parade, all straight boled and unbending even under what might have been a
perpetual burden of snow. Remy Lebeau had no idea. No slightest notion whether
it ever thawed here. He hadn't bothered to ask such a mundane thing on the
drive up. It looked like it snowed year round, but there had to be a break in
the winter sometime. Didn't there? The snow underfoot was almost knee deep where it was
loose enough to break through the layer of crusted ice that lay on top. Most of
the time, he skidded on the surface of that hard, slippery layer, not heavy
enough to break through to the softer stuff underneath. It was hell for
running, it made grace an impossible achievement and grace might have gained
him something in this desperate flight. Might have made it a little less of a
hunt and given him a little more of an edge. He stumbled on a skeletal black
limb protruding from the snow and went down, rolling to keep from taking the
impact on his hands, breaking through the hard crust of snow and finding
himself chest deep in the softer stuff underneath. The sweater soaked it up,
chilling his skin to the bone. The silver cross on its chain beneath became a
frozen brand against his flesh. He pushed himself up and swore, cast a wary
look behind him into the stark shadows of tree boles and snow drifts - - and
saw nothing. Heard nothing. He took a shaky breath and pulled the damp sweater
away from his chest. Shivered and rubbed chapped, numb hands. Cold enough to
turn a body into one miserable shivering mass - - he'd been colder, though.
There were places more desolate than this. There was a logging road somewhere abouts. He
remembered that -- had been trying to head towards that and the possible lure
of civilization - - but somewhere along the way, he must have gotten turned
about. Or been herded away from that inviting direction. Something made his heart thump faster in his chest.
Nothing heard or seen or scented - - more like intuition that made him spin and
let him catch the flash of movement that came at him out of the trees like
death on two legs. Death carrying a grudge and eager to carry it out with a
feral savagery that fit all to perfectly with this rugged terrain. He leapt backwards, and the leverage he might have
gained to somersault away was lost as the ice crust gave way beneath his
Timberlands. It ended up an inept tumble and claws raked his side, shredding
the thick weave of the sweater and slicing into the skin beneath. He hissed and
even as his back hit the ground his fingers were clawing for the bits of
crumbled snow and ice around him -- it was more reflex than concentration that
tapped into the reserve of kinetic energy that dwelled within him. One
heartbeat - - two and he flung two fistfuls of charged ice into the face of the
monster descending upon him. Explosion that rocked him back into the furrow
he'd made in the snow. A shrill roar of pain/outrage/shock from the
hunter. The feel of it like the whispery caress of something static and coarse
across his skin. The coppery smell of blood in the cold air. "You fuck. You fucking little shit - - fucking
little cunt - -" Fouler things said as the man beast staggered away,
clutching his face, blood dripping out from between thick, long nailed fingers,
blood soaking the coarse, wavy golden hair, streaking down the left side of a
massive chest where coat and shirt had been blown away, along with a good deal
of flesh. "I'll fucking kill you, Lebeau - -" As if that intent hadn't been crystal clear to begin
with. As if Remy hadn't figured that out the moment Sabortooth had started this
nasty little game. "You ain't man enough, genou-mordant batard."
He hissed that, some small bit of faith restored in his own abilities. Creed roared, ripped his hands away from his face and
snatched a leg sized limb sticking up from the snow and swung it at Remy. Remy
darted out of the way, dancing backwards. One stride. Another. And the ground
gave way under his feet. Just disappeared and it was all he could do those
first few seconds to windmill his arms and try and twist to see what bottomless
cliff he'd blundered over. No cliff at all, but a steep, tree dotted slope that
he hit the face of shoulder first and toppled pell nell down the rest of the
way. No control. Not even the vaguest whiff of grace and dexterity. What the
snow didn't rob from him, the trees did. The first one he glanced off of stole
his breath. The second one practically brained him. The third one he didn't
quite feel, still reeling from the second, but he thought he'd heard the
sickening pop of ball sliding out of socket and the pain that flared in his
shoulder when he finally did come to a sprawling rest at the bottom only
strengthened the suspicion of a dislocated shoulder. Who'd have thought to put a practically vertical slope
just there, where there had been very little of hills before that? Godforsaken
place to have one, with the snow and the pines hiding it from casual
observance. He was a city boy at heart. He'd never argued the
fact. Never had much use for the wilderness and all the natural glories it
offered. Jungle, forest or desert - - hot, cold or luke warm - - he'd still opt
for the concrete wildds each and every time. How he'd been talked into this was
still a mystery - - --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Dis ain't 'xactly what I was thinkin', when I
said I wanted to get away, mon ami." Remy stared morosely out the
grime streaked window at the tops of swiftly passing trees just seen over the
piles of snow plowed off to create cliffs along the side of the road. He hadn't
said anything, actually, about wanting to go anywhere -- just been tossing it around
in his head, miserable and restless stuck where he was -- feeling that all too
predictable itch that crept up on him sometimes - - that was more pronounced
now that the delectable allure of Rogue seemed - - just beyond his reach. It was exhaustive -- wanting her, fighting with her -
- making up and then starting it all overr again. She'd call it quits. He would.
Then the draw of one or the other of them would create those niggling little
second thoughts. Those uncontrollable little wants and needs. She'd slept with
other men -- through one miracle or another. So he'd done her one better and
slept with every warm body he could coerce into bed. Not a hard task for him,
what with the face god had gifted him and the charm that had most decidedly
been a boon from the devil. He had folks falling over themselves to get into
his bed. There'd been a while there that it had almost been an addiction. Not
so much the sex, though that was generally good -- it was more the fix of being
wanted. Of seeing and feeling and sensing that somebody else, some other human
soul was for at least the moment fixated solely and completely on him. If he
couldn't get the emotional love, he could most certainly get the physical. He could have just as well taken a gun to his head,
what with all the chances he took. More dangerous to sleep with the scum of the
earth than to fight them. Maybe that was even part of the draw. The danger of
it. The thrill of letting himself be swept away with it. He slept with the
women because he loved the feel of a woman's body, of her scent, of the sound
of her soft moans. He slept with men when he wanted the control and the
responsibility taken out of his hands. When he wanted a little pain along with
his pleasure. Last time he'd seen her - - it had been hard. As hard
pretending that he didn't want to go and start something he'd regret -- that
the both of them would regret - - as it had been seeing her smiling at somebody
else. Tilting her head in towards somebody else to exchange some intimate
secret. Life sucked. And escaping to some crowded city -- to
the depths of its seamy underworld where he was only one in a thousand -- in
tens of thousands suffering souls -- that was what he'd been quietly
contemplating. Go and sleep with a dozen nameless bodies and drive away the
memory of the one that meant something. Didn't matter who when he was in such a
mood. Didn't matter how wicked - - they would feed something in him - - and
he'd get his fix and maybe keep his sanity for a while until the next time the
darkness called. Only this time, Logan scented out the closing shadows
and sauntered up to him one afternoon, with a duffel over his broad shoulder
and a half smoked cigar nestled between his lips. "Pack your stuff, Gumbo, we're goin' up
north." Remy blinked. "Actually, I was thinkin'
downstate. What you headin' north for?" "Old friend wrote - - Haven't seen her in a
couple o' years. Its a long ride and I figured you'd be as good a company as
any." "What? I look like I'm in a cheery mood, or
something?" Remy snorted and turned his attention back to his bike. "No, you look like you're about to bolt and it
ain't ever gonna do you any good." "How you know what good it do Remy? How you know
anythin' 'bout what I do?" "Last time you took off, you came back smelling of
ten dollar whores and a mountain of cheap booze. You're gonna catch something
nasty one of these days." Remy grinned and wiped the rag over the crome of a
fender one last time. "Remy got the luck o' the angels. Been around de
block so many times it make your head spin, ol' man an ain't never picked up no
creepy crawlies." "There's a first time for everything, kid." "What's up north that I'd want to see,
Logan?" "Peace." Logan said simply. "And no
people. A little solitude can go a long way." "Yeah, but I like people. People de spice o'
life, my friend." Logan's face never twitched. Not a muscle or a line
changed in that unshaven, craggy demeanor, but the eyes bore into Remy with all
the knowledge of the ages. The eyes said that Logan wasn't buying that line --
that Logan knew more than Logan would ever waste the breath saying. Old eyes.
Not always wise as the saying went -- but mon duei - - you knew when he was
staring you down, that Wolverine had been around a lot longer than he ever let
on. Stupid to let himself be swayed into it. But Logan in
his own abrupt way, was persuasive. Logan didn't offer such things often or
lightly. Surprising that he did now. Shocking, really that he thought enough
about Remy Lebeau at all to notice the black mood. More so that he offered to
do something about it. To ignore that offer of camaraderie - - gruff as it was
- - was beyond Remy's capacity. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It hurt so bad, he had to grit his teeth to stop the
cry that surged up his throat. When he stood up, the world swam and he
haunched, one hand clawing at the throbbing shoulder, trying to regain
equilibrium and sanity. He heard Creed this time, crashing down the slope in
his wake. Creed wasn't making any efforts at silence. Creed had given up
playing and was simply out for the kill. Remy darted through the trees, holding the one dead
arm close to his body, using the other to fend off whipping branches - - to
catch at the occasional tree trunk when balance was threatened by either
treacherous footing or the infuriating betrayal of his own body. His head hurt.
There was wetness running down his temple next to his eye. A little bit of
warmth in the midst of all this cold. He figured he'd cut his scalp when he'd
hit that one tree head first. Figured it wasn't that bad since he was up and
moving and not leaking his brains all over the pristine white of the forest
floor. This time when Creed caught him, he didn't have the
time to turn and meet the attack full on. This time claws raked down his back,
ripping though the sweater and scoring the flesh beneath. Remy gasped and went
down with Creed's weight on his legs and Creed's clawed hands scratching
furrows down his ribs. "Son of a bitch - - " he hissed, reaching
for ice and snow to charge with his good hand. He half turned to fling it and
Creed's fist hit his wrist; a smashing, roundhouse blow that sent the half
charged ice scattering. It discharged itself against the base of a nearby pine
and pineneedles and snow rained down from the explosion. Even as they were
pelted with debris Creed's big hand caught Remy's hand and with a savage wrench
and a sickening sound, snapped the fragile bones of his wrist. "Throw somethin' at me now, you little
fuck." Creed leaned close, a blood streaked warmth over Remy's back, still
holding his throbbing wrist captive. "Fuck you - -." "When I rip you open and pull out your guts,
Lebeau - - man, its gonna make my day -- hell, it'll make my year." The claws of one hand trailed down Remy's side where
the shredded sweater bared his skin. Creed's knee pressed into the small of his
back, driving him deeper into the churned snow. He bucked, trying to twist out
of the grip, but the pain in his trapped wrist was considerable and his other arm
was numb from the dislocation. All he did was piss Creed off. The big man
growled and slammed his free hand down onto the back of Remy's neck, pressing
his face deep into the snow, smothering him with the flesh numbing coldness,
suffocating him with snow smashed into his nose and mouth. "Gonna yank out your intestines and eat 'em like
they're link sausages - - god, you smell so good - - spicy - - hot - - " It was then that something in his attacker's demeanor
shifted. Maybe not physically, the weight didn't change, the pressure on his
back and his wrist remained the same - - but that unpredictable empathic sense
of his pricked at the change and murdering rage, turned into something else
altogether. Oh, the rage and the violence was still there, but now there was a
tinge of something more frightening mixed in. Lust. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"You call dis a town?" Remy lifted one
elegant brow at the single road that cut through Fargone township. The scruffy
collection of buildings that flanked the dirty, mud spattered central thoroughfare,
the single road sign that read "Main Street." The half dozen jeeps
and pick-up trucks that sat parked alongside the one very large, very high
stacked lumber truck outside the town tavern. "Dis is not a town. Dis ain't a spit in a
bucket." "Watch yer tongue, Gumbo." Logan took a last
drag off the nub of his cigar and stumped the end of it out in the ash tray.
"I spent a lot of years comin' and going from this spit in the bucket. Got
good friends hereabouts." "Where dey live, in de woods?" Remy peered
through the grimy windshield looking for houses and saw none. There was nothing
but trees and wilderness surrounding the little town that had popped up like
unexpected roadkill off the desolation of the main road. "Yeah. A good deal of 'em." Logan agreed.
"A lot of 'em work in the lumber camps up in the hills. Some of 'em just
don't take much to civilization and like it out in the wilds with nobody
tellin' what to do." "Ah,
your sort o' folk, den." Remy surmised and Logan gave him a feral grin. "My sort o' folk." Logan pulled up in front of what might have been a
general store of sorts. A supply outpost at the very least. There was a huge
set of antlers over the outer door and various pelts tacked onto the wall.
Rustic, was the word that came to mind. A day and a half of driving and Remy
was more than grateful to get out of the jeep and stretch his muscles, even if
it was in a backwater Canadian hole in the wall. His back popped and his bones
creaked. He stretching his arms over his head and arched his back, wincing at
sore muscles. He ran two gloved hands through his hair, looking down the street
and wondering if there was anything worth seeing in the local bar. "Don't even think it." Logan grunted at him,
stomping up the steps to the supply store. "We ain't here for no
party." "You ain't here for no party, monsieur
servel." Remy clarified. "Women up here'd eat you alive." Logan
advised. "They like a little meat on their men." Remy lifted his brow. The side of his mouth quirked up
in amusement. "Oh, I like de sound of that. Kinky, huh?" "Shaddup and come help me with the
supplies." "Why we need supplies?" Remy obediently
followed his shorter, heavier companion up the plank steps and into the store. "Cause I ain't been up to the cabin in close to
five -- six years and you ain't the sort, it strikes me, that'd be much good
livin' off the land. Specially not with winter coming on." The old man behind the counter perked up when he saw
them, he narrowed his old eyes and stared at Logan a long moment before his face
creased into a delighted grin. "Why if it ain't Logan come up to see us after
all this time." "Hey, Jaques, you randy ol' bastard. Good to see
you still kickin'." The old man laughed and hobbled out to clasp Logan's
hand. "You up to do some hunting?" "Maybe. Mostly come to see Doreen Mucullah." "Ah, Ranger Dorey. She's got the highland post.
That's a right long hike up the mountain." "Yep." Logan agreed. The old man gave Remy, with his dark shades and long
hair, a dubious once over. "You taking this one up the mountain with
you?" "Nah, gonna let him stay at the cabin while I'm
gone. We'll need supplies." Logan picked out the supplies, Remy helped him cart
them back to the jeep. A grizzled man with all the earmarks of a tried and true
professional truck-driver greeted Logan on the street. "Everybody round here know you, homme."
Logan shrugged. "Did some work up here a while
back. Ain't so many folks go through these parts that the local's forget
faces." "Yeah, I don't imagine so. So where's dis cabin
you're plannin' on stranding me at?" Logan lifted an arm and pointed northward, where the
main road slowly climbed towards higher land. There were mountains in the not
to far distance. Snow covered slopes crowded with pine and fur. Twenty miles off the main road Logan veered off onto a
rugged little service road that delved into the heart of the woodland. Might as
well have been the heart of nowhere. Almost two hours ride, up a road no wider
than the jeep and sometimes not even that, at the snail's pace the snow forced
them to take. They had to stop twice and move downed trees or large limbs from
the track and once to dig out the jeep when even 4-wheel drive would not budge
it from the drift it had been trapped in. It was cold, but it wasn't bitingly so. A warm spell,
Logan said, had caused a good deal of thaw, but the low temperatures of night
froze everything solid again by morning, causing a thick layer of ice to crust
the trees and the top layer of snow. The cabin, when they finally reached it, was like
something off a Christmas card. A rustic, log number, with snow blanketing the
room, and piled in drifts against the sides and the door. There were several
unidentifiable lumps to the side. Maybe a shed, maybe a supply of fire wood.
One could only prey one wasn't an outhouse. "Tell dis place got indoor plumbing?" Remy
cast Logan a pleading look. A grin twitched at the corner of the older man's
mouth. "Its indoors. Can't say there's plumbing." "Oh, lovely. Jus' lovely. Dis is soundin' more
and more like a bad idea." "Live with it, kid." Was Logan's advice, as
he cut the engine and stomped out into the unblemished snow to crack the ice
crusted shell of the cabin. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He'd had a spot of business in the north country. A
few old business associates that had dealt him a sour hand and needed
reprimand. The feel of their steaming intestines in his hands had been
recompense enough. It had been in a sleazy roadside bar that he'd overheard a
lumber truck driver mention a familiar name. Course, it could have been any
number of Logan's this guy was mentioning, but the hair that stood up on the
back of his thick arms told another story. Victor Creed always had relied heavily
on that sixth animal sense. It had served him well enough in the past. So he'd
ambled over and pried the details he wanted out of the man. A description that
was beyond doubt. A place. The blood on his hands already this week would be as
nothing compared to the feel of Logan's life slipping through his fingers. So with a cheerful demeanor he'd headed south, towards
Fargone. Reached that armpit of a town half a day later and found an ample
source of information in a gimp legged old shopkeeper. Another friend of Logan's, huh? Yeah, he's got a cabin
up in foothills. Directions? Yeah, I can give you directions. He'll be real
surprised to see you, huh. Be like old times. Only Logan wasn't there. Wasn't a sign of him. Not
even the whiff of a scent. Oh, there was smoke from the chimney of the cabin
and the smell of something cooking from inside. But no Logan. Old man at
Fargone had said he'd brought a buddy up. It was just a matter of seeing who.
Logan had some friends that Creed would just as well not tangle with - - unless
he had to. He skirted the edges of the cabin, surreptitiously
scouting for some sign of Logan. Found finally, what looked like day - - maybe
two day old tracks leading north towards the high country. He contemplated
following, but the curiosity of who Logan had brought up here with him and
left, prompted him to linger. Logan would be back eventually. It was afternoon before the cabin door opened and a
figure emerged. Tall and lean and about as out of place up here as anyone Creed
could imagine. He almost laughed at the incongruity. Almost laughed at his good
fortune. Logan might be the main course, but - - oh, Lebeau would make a fine,
fine dessert. Lebeau had miles and miles of payback coming to him. At heart, Creed was a predator. And for the most part,
he had the patience of one. He could lie in wait for hours if need be, for a
satisfying kill. Lebeau might be a greenhorn up here in the cold Canadian
wilderness, but he was still dangerous. He still had the instincts of a thief.
So Creed waited until the first sign of dark to take out the jeep. He slashed
all four tires with the razor sharp claws that passed as his fingernails. He
waited even longer, out in the shadows of the trees, with the moon obscured by
thickening clouds, for the light to go out under the crack of the single
shuttered window. Another hour, sitting crouched in the snow, hardly feeling
the cold through the layer of jacket and flannel shirt, so weathered to harsh
conditions was he. Long past midnight and into the prehours of dawn, he crept
towards the cabin. There was no lock on the door. Why bother, way up here. It
creaked a little when he pulled it open, and it was like a blaring jambalee to
his hypersensitive ears. For a moment he froze, listening for the sound of disturbed
sleep. He heard none. Heard instead the even timber of soft breathing. Smelled
the familiar scent of Lebeau. Full of spices and tobacco and the underlying
flavor of the whisky that he'd probably had a shot or two of that evening. He
smelled good. Had always had a scent that made Creed's fingers curl, like he
either wanted to rip into Lebeau's guts and bath in his blood, to consume his
flesh - - - or maybe just fuck him. Weren't many guys that made that thought
cross Victor Creed's mind. He didn't have a problem with cornholing a man, it
was a damn good way to get a point across, to break a man's sense of dignity
and spirit -- he just didn't get off on it as much as he did with women. He
liked his fucks to be pretty. He liked a nice set of luscious lips wrapped
around his cock. Men, for the most part didn't have mouths like women. For the
most part men weren't pretty. Well, not grown men. Lebeau was pretty. Lebeau
had a face that made you look twice. Lebeau had a wide, sensuous mouth, he had
thick, shining hair worn just past his shoulders at the moment, he had a way of
moving that made even malicious eyes take note and appreciate. A pretty, pretty
kid wrapped up in an attitude that just wouldn't quit. Always thinking he was
just a little bit quicker and a little bit smoother than the rest of the world.
Creed had reason enough to hate him. Had reason enough for the attitude to
always overpower the rest of the package. Might be a pretty boy with a scent
that made his fingers curl and his cock twitch a little in his pants, but he
still wanted to rip his guts out and bathe in his blood. His eyes were already well adjusted to the dark. Easy
to make out the interior of the cabin. Kitchenette on the one wall, a hearth
against another with a fire that had burned down to embers. A few pieces of
hand built furniture on the other side, maybe things that Logan had hammered
together himself. A bunk, low to the ground with a few chests stuffed under it.
Another big chest at its foot. A figure on the bunk lying on his side, the
shallow dip between hip and waist, the jut of shoulder, creating gentle curves
under the blanket. Creed licked his lips, baring his sharp teeth and
leaned closer. "Hey, baby -- daddy's come home." And rather suddenly the blankets flared up, both legs
jack knifed out and caught Creed squarely in the gut, staggering him backwards
and a very awake, very pissed off Arcadian thief glared out of the darkness at
him, twin cards sandwiched between long fingers. "Hey baby, dis." He hissed and flung the cards.
Creed saw the glow of kinetic energy hurled at him and dodged, crashing into
Logan's hand made amoire. "You little, shit, I'll make you eat those
cards." Creed figured close quarters better than playing moving target to Lebeau's
unerringly good aim with his cards. He hurled himself towards the bunk,
reaching out for Lebeau's legs to take him down with him. Lebeau was having
none of that. He launched himself up and over, somersaulting over Creed's back
to land gracefully on the floor behind him. Predictable. Slippery as an eel,
this Cajun cutpurse. "Creed." Lebeau snarled, but there was the
distinct note of confusion in his tone. Off balance mentally from this late
night surprise. He'd be reeling from more than that in a moment. Pain wasn't a thing Creed let hinder his movements.
He'd lost limbs and never flinched from an attack. The kid could deal him
damage, but he'd take him down during the dealing or afterwards. Creed would
heal and quickly, Lebeau wouldn't. He didn't stop when he hit the bunk, just
used it as a launching pad and surged backwards, barreling into the slimmer man
and sending the both of them crashing across the floor, coming up short against
the kitchen side of the cabin. Lebeau slammed the heel of his palm into his throat,
jacked a knee up and caught him in the gut, just shy of his groin and eeled his
way out of the hold Creed had upon him. Not undamaged though. Blood running
down from behind his ear where the back of his head had connected with the edge
of the sink. Staggering a little. Probably seeing a star or two. "What's a matter, Remy. Hurtin'?" "Fuck you. What you want, Creed?" He didn't answer. Just bared his sharp teeth in a
humorless grin. Lebeau let a hiss of air escape through his teeth, angry
but not stupid enough to lunge in close to Creed's long arms and sharp nails.
He didn't have another card up his sleeve, though there were countless things
within his reach that could be snatched and charged and flung. "You know you ain't good in such close quarters,
Remy." Creed purred. "You know I'll rip you to shreds, cooped up in
this little space." "You think?" Lebeau glared, those red eyes
of his almost glowing in the scant light. "Get yer boots on, boy and lets take it outside.
Make it a bit more even, huh?" Which was a base lie. Out in the snow and
the woods, Creed was at his best. It was his element. Even Logan wasn't as at
home in snow covered wilderness as Sabortooth. It wouldn't
be a battle, it would be a hunt. |