Rating: R for adult situations
Summary: Birdy finds out something 'unexpected' and tries to handle it before Mister Creed gets back.
Disclaimer: Victor Creed and Birdy all belong to Marvel Comics. If I owned 'em, Birdy'd be alive and Vic would be way cooler than he's been written lately. I'm not makin' any money from this. Like people are gonna pay me for this?
Author's notes: Thanks to Cable for the beta and telling me my story doesnt suck even though I think it does. I'm my own worst critic. This story partially deals w/ the socially violatile subject of abortion. If that aint your thang, then dont read it. Constructive feedback greatly accepted while all flames will be given to St. John. He's so much better at handling that stuff than I.
Ugh. Why'd I even bother to wake up this morning? Gotta shake this, whatever it is, before Mister Creed gets back from Spain. So getcher ass up, Birdy! Take a shower, get movin,' do whatcha gotta do and this flu crap'll pass before the week ends and Mister Creed'll never know. No biggie.
So, I slowly roll out of bed and head for the bathroom. On weak legs I manage to shower and get dressed before heading downstairs for a cup of coffee. Amazingly, the piece of dry toast I have for breakfast stays down for a whole five minutes before I have to race to the sink and throw it back up. This has been my daily routine for the past week. It actually started the day Mister Creed left for that big job just outside of Barcelona. I had walked with him to the gate at the airport and when he turned around to give me the usual "If you ain't here when I get back" threat he had the strangest look on his face, like he didn't recognize me fully. I'm sure it was nothing. Just one of those things that stands out in your head, ya know?
After brushing my teeth again and a quick touchup on the makeup, I head into the office to double check my "To Do" list next to the computer. I barely spare a glance for the desktop calendar when I stop. No, that cant be right. I flip the calendar a few pages back, then I flip a few extra pages forward. That's odd. I decide maybe I'm just wrong so I flip back four weeks to my last cycle. OK, the fifteenth. Come back to this month and nothing. I usually mark that sorta thing down so I'm prepared but… there's nothing written down for the fifteenth of this month. Or the sixteenth, the seventeenth, hell, nothing through the twentieth! Oh, God. Today's the twenty-eighth. How could I not notice that? OK, Birdy-girl, don't freak. It's probably nothing. Yeah right. And your daily worship to the Porcelain God is nothing, too. Oh God. Oh God! Oh shit.
It really is a beautiful day out. Too bad I'm too spazzed to enjoy it. Damn it! Cant this damn car go any faster? The sooner I get to the store the sooner I can get a test and the sooner I can tell myself that I have an overactive imagination and that the fact that I've been having unprotected sex for the last year has nothing to do with the fact that I missed my last period or why I'm all of a sudden sick after eating or why I'm tired All. The. Time. Sheyah right. Stupid, stupid girl! You knew this could happen. You knew you should have done something to prevent it, even after the first night. After he called you to his bed… wantin' you to take care of his demons, give him his glow. You knew you should have done something because you knew he wouldn't. It's not like he could find a condom to cover that monster dick of his anyway. They don't come in size "H," super freaking HUGE!
I park the car, race into the store and head right for the pharmacy aisle. Sheesh.. lookit'em all. OK, just grab two and get the hell out. The girl at the checkout gives me a sympathetic smile as she hands me my change. I ignore it. I don't need her pity because I'm not preg… I'm not preg... because I'm fine. I decide to get this over and done with right here and now so I head to the ladies room and hole myself up in the handicapped stall. My hands are shaking as I tear open both boxes and fumble with the little sticks. I set them down neatly on the back of the commode and read the instructions. OK, pee on the stick. Gotcha. Wait five minutes. Check. And now, on with the show.
This is excruciating! This is absolutely, positively the longest five fucking minutes I have ever known! Don't look at your watch, don't look at the sticks. Just pace and think happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Haaaaappy thoughts. I have no happy thoughts. Time's up anyway. OK, stick number one says… aw crap. Two lines. Two lines is NOT what we're wanting here. Howzabout you, stick number two? Do you have something different to say?
You know, I don't think I've ever actually whimpered before. And being with Mister Creed on the job sometimes has given me lots of examples. The different tones and what they imply by the Whimperer. There's the loudest of whimpers, which borders on a scream but doesn't quite make it because the whimperer doesn't have enough air in the lungs to scream. Usually because one of the two organs has been punctured. Then there's the wet whimper. That one is caused by liquid, usually blood, getting caught in the throat and the whimper cant get past the larynx. It's almost a gurgle. And then there's the puppy dog whimper. Now Mister Creed's never actually made a puppy dog whimper in my presence, it's just one of those sounds that you know. He mentioned something once about how he doesn't usually kill pets, like cats and dogs, because they're not doing anything wrong. And besides that, they taste funny.
So, if I had to identify the type of whimper I just made (my first ever) I'd have to say it was the puppy dog whimper. Sad, pitiful and scared as hell.
OK, I've got three whole days to take care of this little… situation, before Mister Creed gets back. I can do this. As soon as I got home I called some doctor's offices and inquired about the... procedure. Thankfully, they understand the urgency inherent in such matters and one office was able to pencil me in for tomorrow morning. I don't even want to think about how he'd feel about this. He's not exactly the loving father type. I cant see him with the patience it takes to care for a child. And he certainly wouldn't be makin' goo-goo faces at it. No way, uh uh.
I flop myself down on the couch in the den and try to relax and remind myself this is the only way, really. Even if I was cool with the idea of a kid, which I'm not exactly keen on at the moment, there's no way it could ever happen. Not while I'm Mister Creed's... whatever I am. Girl Friday, I suppose. Not to mention slumber party pal. Which is what got me into this situation in the first place. It's really his fault. He could just as easily go downtown and find some streetwalker, fuck her, gut her and then mosey on home. No fuss, no muss. Not for me, anyway. I think I'd offered up that option to him once and he told me that with legs like mine, why should he bother goin' anywhere else. There was something else about buying milk and havin' a cow at home, too. 'Cow' my ass. Although I'll admit, I got a body that just wont quit. How could he resist? The psi-powers help, too.
Oh, girl. Is this where you'd pictured yourself? Definitely not. I still remember the first time I saw him. There he was, in a double-breasted Bijan suit just tearin' up some clan boss in Hong Kong, in the guy's own house, and there must'a been 15 bodyguards with guns a'blazin' at him and that didn't do anything but make him madder. All I had to do was take him out, quiet like, with my psi-powers. Poke him in the head and he'd be down. But he had so much goin' on in that head of his, I got distracted with all these images of blood and this feeling of rage, I slipped. From the minute he got his claws in me, he hasn't let go.
A slamming door startles me out of my nap. I napped!? On the couch!? "Birdy, I'm home! Make me some dinner! That damn airline food just ain't cuttin' it for them transatlantic flights I'm always takin'!" I jump up quickly and find my way down the hall to the foyer. Mister Creed passes by me in a huff, shedding his Armani and dropping it to the floor as he stalks up the stairs.
"I'm takin' a shower. You best have my dinner an' a cold beer ready when I get out!" I pick up his trail of finely tailored clothes and take them to his room, placing them on hangers, ready to go back to the dry cleaners. The water starts in his bathroom for the shower and he calls out, "Stop fussin' around up here, girl, and get ta fixin' my dinner!"
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?" I whisper mockingly as I turn towards the door. A wet, massive-sized, clawed hand grabs my wrist and jerks me back a step.
"Yer lucky I'm so damn hungry or I'd have you in here givin' me a soapy rubdown," he breathes into my ear. He guides my hand to his crotch, forcing me to fondle his cock for a few strokes before roughly shoving me away. "Now go fix my damn dinner before ya really start ta piss me off." I rub my abused wrist and start down towards the kitchen.
I busy myself with fixing our meal and trying not to think of tomorrow and how I may need an excuse to get out for a while. And while you're at it, Birdy, remember to stay calm. He can tell when someone's panicked or spooked or lying or scared. Keep calm and he wont find out. Long minutes later the table is set and he's walking into the kitchen towel-drying his shaggy blonde hair. Absently, I pull a beer from the fridge and hand it over to him. He twists the cap off and tosses it onto the table. He yanks out his chair and sits down hard. "Well? My food ready?"
"Right here, Mister Creed." I set down a very large plate of meat in front of him. One thing I'll say for Mister Creed, he's easy to cook for. A big hunk of meat cooked only for a few minutes. He really doesn't like it over one-hundred degrees. Says it feels more like "fresh meat" that way. He starts in on his meal and I squelch down a wave a nausea. A few calming breaths and I'm OK.
"What?" He's doing it again. Staring at me. He huffs, then goes back to his steak. Oh man, he knows. He's gotta know! But he cant know. I mean, how would he know? I watch him a second longer, then go back to my dinner. I glance up quickly as I reach for the salt and he's staring again. "What?!" I slam my fork down and stare right back into those green depths. He squints his eyes at me, his nose twitches a little and he inhales. Then he inhales a little bit more deeply. What in the world is he...? I cant believe it! He's smelling me! Oh God, wait. I wonder... could he... I mean, do I smell pregnant?
"Somethin' different about you, Birdy. Cant exactly put my finger on it, but I will." He cocks his head to the side, "You ain't been cheatin' on me, have ya, Birdy?" he asks a little menacingly with a feral grin.
"No," I tell him forcibly to get the point across. I place both hands on the table on either side of my plate and lean towards him a little. "What's'a matter? You gonna get jealous if I find myself a boyfriend? Afraid your little prisoner's gonna attempt a jailbreak?"
He slams a fist down on the tabletop making me jump a little. "Haw! You aint got what it takes to ditch me, girlie! If you did, you'd'a done it a long time ago back when you hated my ever-lovin' guts! I'm more'n enough man fer you, Birdy, and you just cant getcher fill. You ain't never leavin' me! " He starts up in gales of laughter. Annoyed with his arrogance, I push away and get up from the table, taking my leftover dinner with me. His laughter dies down as he finishes his slab of meat. I hear an empty beer bottle tap down onto the table as I scrape my uneaten meal into the sink's garbage disposal. With my back to him, I start to wash the dishes. The door to the refrigerator opens and I hear glass clinking as he gets another bottle of beer. I loose myself in my chore when suddenly his breath is hot in my ear. "You know, I think I figured it out, darlin'." All at once I freeze, stop breathing and my heart starts a fast, nervous beat in my chest. I can feel his quiet, rumbling laughter vibrating through my back where he has his own chest pressed.
"What's that, boss?" I swallow nervously and close my eyes. His hands run a slow course over my body. Down my back, along the sides of my waist, over my hips and back up. He brings one hand to rest over my lower abdomen, his thumb lightly rubbing.
"Betcha thought I wouldn't find out, huh? I can smell it on ya, Birdy. Almost drove me nuts tryin' ta place the scent. Thought I smelled it at the airport, too. You got yerself a bun in yer oven, dontcha? Got my seed growin' inside o' you." I exhale a shaky breath and he turns me around. He places both of his hands on either side of the counter, pinning me between him and the marble top. Oh God, I'm so scared right now, I think I'm going to puke. I may start to hyperventilate any minute. He's looking down at me with this quiet, untamed look in his eyes and the most self-satisfied grin on his face. And that whole thing about me staying calm. That's right out the window. Better tell him what's up, girl. Let him know you got a handle on things.
"I'm uh.. taking care of it, Boss. I c-c-called a doctor and it'll be done tomorrow. So. Uh, that's it, really." I offer up a lopsided grin and a shrug. "No problemo, right?"
"Well, ya know, " he starts, "I could save ya a few hundred dollars there, Birdy." He brings a hand up to my face and extends one, long claw from his index finger. Oh God, he wouldn't. My eyes widen and so does his smile as he lightly trails the lone claw down the side of my face, down my neck, and between my breasts which rise and fall with my rapid breathing. He continues down my body and then down one leg. He stops. He looks up at me, that same psychotic smile in place. "Whatcha say, Birdy? I ain't really one for them role playin' games but I feel like playin' doctor tonight." He lightly rakes his claw up the inside of my thigh, breaking the skin in a thin line all the way. I put both my hands on his chest in a silent plea to stop. Thankfully, he does and his smile drops away. Gee, sorry I ruined your fun, Boss. He retracts his claw and we both stand there, watching each other. After quiet seconds, he pushes himself away from me and walks out of the kitchen. He gently calls over his shoulder to me, "I need ya upstairs, Birdy."
I've always found the best time to talk to Mister Creed was during his "clear time," as I like to call it. Those moments that only seem to occur after a glow session or orgasm. Of the two occasions, he's always calmest after sex. Probably because the activity wears him out, even with that increased stamina of his. Sometimes we lie there, talking about nothing in particular. I know, he doesn't look like a cuddler and he'd rip my throat out if I ever said he was, but it's the closest definition I can find of what we do after sex. Once, he even put an arm around me and played with a lock of my hair! It was like he was someone else. Someone who cared. He made me feel so safe, being wrapped up in those huge arms, held against that broad, solid chest. It's times like that that help me forget he's a cold-blooded killer.
"Mister Creed?" A sleepy grunt is all I get for an answer. I turn onto my side towards him. The moonlight coming in through the windows outlines his profile, making his strong features that much more attractive. I'd always thought it was such a waste. This big handsome man on the outside, a brutal killing machine on the inside.
"Didja ever wanna be a father? Ya know, raise a family, have a normal life?" I wait quiet minutes, he doesn't answer. Figuring he's already asleep, I close my eyes and settle into my pillow. I hear him breathe in deep and sigh.
"What's the point? 'Sides, the kid'd all ready be outta luck in the 'normal' department fer havin' a mutie fer a pop."
I prop myself up on my elbow and look down at him. "But what about just being a father? What about just being able to make a life instead of.. well.. " I stop and look away.
"Go on an' say it. 'Instead o' killin'? Instead o' takin' life?'" He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, scrubbing over his face and scratching at his whiskers. He turns on his side to look at me and I lower myself back onto my pillow. "It just ain't easy. Not fer folks like me. Which I'll admit are few an' far between." He reaches for a lock of my hair, rolling it between his fingers. "Why you even worryin' about it? You so eager ta be a momma ta my kid?" He gives me a soft lopsided smile. I return the smile with a small shrug.
"I just thought, I dunno.. it was a stupid idea." I cast my eyes down, waiting for him to laugh at the notion. Heck, I'd almost expect him to get angry. But he doesn't. His hand comes up to brush my hair back, stroking gently. Oh god. He's been abducted by pod people. I cant believe that this is the same man who not half an hour ago almost gave me an "at-home abortion" to match my "at-home pregnancy test."
"Look darlin', tomorrow you just take care o' what you gotta do and that's it. Got it?"
"Yeah," I answer quietly.
"And fer now," he says as he rolls onto his back, "I'd prefer it if my Little Birdy didn't think about mother hennin' anyone but me." I smile at the nickname and answer with a sleepy yawn.
"Sure thing, boss."