Creed's Credo

Disclaimer: I don’t own the X-Men. I’m not making any money. Seriously, I’m dead broke…



Mature ratings for language and adult themes. Additional note: Thanks, Jamie. I’ve missed this fic.



"Ya can only get the jump on a man so many times. After a while, ya get sloppy. Ya get too confident." Logan’s words came back to Remy in a rush as the blond giant ambled inside and approached the hostess’ counter. Remy’s blood froze in his veins as time stopped. Beside him he felt Logan share his reaction fully, but his heart pounded at the first taste of his rage.



Logan’s nostrils flared at his enemy’s familiar, unwelcome scent and his swagger. The sonofabitch just looked like they did, a man of leisure out for some fish and chips. He was fresh-scrubbed in denims, with his normally shaggy mane pulled back in a ponytail that hung down his brawny back. He shared Logan’s taste for flannel, wearing a bright red and black plaid shirt, well worn and frayed here and there, as though it was a favorite that he couldn’t bare to throw away. He almost looked civil, but he still scanned the room with predator’s eyes, restless, hard and cold.



They narrowed when they landed on the two men at the back table. Unseen to Logan and Remy, the hairs on his arms stood on end. His lips drew back slightly from his teeth, and he hunkered a low snarl that made the hostess pause and cringe where she stood. The menu she held hovered in mid-air between them as he sized Logan and Remy up.



Logan moved quick as lightning, rising from his seat, planning to launch himself out of the booth and clean the parking lot with Victor’s ass. But Remy was faster, and his fingers snapped around Logan’s wrist. His hand quivered, knuckles barely flexing, and Remy knew it was by the grace of God that those claws were behaving themselves and staying put.



“Cher,” he murmured. “Non. Not here.”



“Then when?” Logan growled. He wanted to shout at Remy “Are ya NUTS?” But he felt Remy’s frustration and the shallow roots of fear seeping through their link, even smelled it on him, and it raised his hackles. He didn’t look down into Remy’s face, knowing if he did that the kid would win. He could wrap him around his finger with a look… and those soulful, hypnotic red eyes that saw right through him.



“Don’t egg him on, cher. Don’ let ‘im get a rise outta you, neh? Dat’s what he wants.”



Logan considered his words, and the beast inside him strained at its chain and gnashed its teeth. Logan’s chest was rising and contracting sharply. His fingers clenched one last time before they relaxed, and only when he sat back down did Remy release him. Remy’s tension ebbed only slightly. He dragged his eyes away from Logan’s stony look and they flitted back to Victor.



The giant feral narrowed his eyes and the flesh over the bridge of his nose drew back, bunching up dangerously and resembling a rabid dog’s muzzle. The hostess dropped the menu back onto the counter and stepped back.



“Y-you can sit anywhere you want,” she assured him as she hurried back to the kitchen. Victor huffed, then sneered at her departing back. Ditz…



He didn’t hesitate. His strides were cocky as he made his way to the booth. “Squeeze a cheek,” he grunted to Remy. He enjoyed the looks on their faces, but he felt a pang of guilt at the scar on Remy’s neck. He looked alive and well, something that both relieved and annoyed him. He hadn’t taught him a good enough lesson the last time, if the rebellious gleam in those damned red eyes was any clue. He didn’t doubt that Remy would move over for him, but he stifled a chuckle when Logan jerked Remy against him. He knew the runt was that much shy of switching places with him, even if it meant dragging Remy out of the booth first. Pride made him stay in his seat this time. Remy felt Logan’s drumming pulse where he gripped his hand.



“What the hell are ya doin’ here, Vic?”



“Whaddya think? Guy’s gotta eat.”



“Big bad wolves eat lil’ girls and dere grannies,” Remy muttered. The corners of Victor’s mouth quirked.



“Cute. Real cute. Keep it up, Cajun.” Victor reached into his pocket, making Logan growl at him again; he wanted the asshole’s hands where he could see them. Victor shrugged at him, then fished out a pack of cigarettes.



“Can’t ya read de sign?” Remy muttered.



“No one’s ever accused me of bein’ too bright,” Victor countered as he pulled out a Zippo that was almost identical to Logan’s. He lit up a Lucky Strike and waved the box. “It’ll put hair on yer chest?” he offered on a mumble as he sucked in the pungent smoke. The waiter tending the next table frowned at the scent of smoke, but he turned away quickly when he got a look at the huge blond and the other two men that were glaring at him. He knew enough not to rock the boat.



“Already had my nicotine fo’ de mo’nin’, mec.”



“Bet ya have.” Victor watched him thoughtfully. “Ya always liked lightin’ up when ya woke up. It’s a wonder we never burnt the fuckin’ bedroom down.” At the mention of “we,” Logan’s scowl deepened.



“What the fuck…?”



“Take it easy, chere.”



“What’s this ‘chere’ shit, Rem? Ya gonna whisper sweet nothin’s in his ear? Get a room.”



“Nah. Let’s get back ta what yer doin’ here.”



“Grabbin’ a bite.” His eyes roved over Remy like there was something else he wanted to snack on, and he knew it pissed the runt off. He was enjoying himself.



Logan was nearing the end of his tether. Remy wasn’t refuting any of Vic’s innuendoes. He wanted to turn to him and demand, Tell me he’s lying. Tell me ya didn’t mess with this sick fuck. But he read the shame in Remy’s eyes, and a hint of relief that he didn’t have to hold back his secret any longer. Logan throbbed with the betrayal.



*



“Yer gonna burn the fuckin’ bedroom down,” Vic accused as Remy lazily reached for the ash tray on the bedside table. The lanky thief grinned blearily up at him, twisting around after he tapped off the ashes. Victor envied his Marlboro as Remy took another hungry drag and blew out a row of neat smoke rings. Victor was unimpressed. He sighed in annoyance and shook his head. “Brat.” He reached over and tugged a lock of Remy’s hair to scold him – not quite enough to hurt.



“Ain’ much of a loss. Ya hated de curtains, anyway.” And over the past few days, the room was little better than a dump, despite Remy’s half-hearted attempts at cleaning. To Victor’s credit, he didn’t own many superfluous knick-knacks or trifles, but he never put anything back where it belonged. They’d come back from one of Sinister’s “jobs” and they both needed a chance to unwind and center themselves. Remy lost himself in booze and cards; Victor let the memories of his latest victim’s terrified eyes and low, gurgling death rattle follow him into sleep over the past few nights, on those rare occasions where he slept at all. And both men used each other as their favorite distraction.



There were a few items here and there that Victor took as trophies from his kills. There were pocket knives, watches and rings, wallet-sized pictures of loves ones, including some of spouses he’d tracked down and stalked, sometimes to regrettable results. Remy shivered the first time he saw Vic’s “collection,” particularly a glittering brooch that looked expensive. It unnerved him.



Like everything else, Remy just allowed himself to get used to it and to let each job jade him a little more. Growing up in the Guild, he gradually lost the heart-pounding excitement of getting in, getting close, and getting away with his take without getting caught. But don’t get Remy wrong; he still treated it like an art form, reveling in the technique and the elegance involved in finessing his way past complicated locks or encrypted passwords.



Victor’s way was more direct. Sometimes he snuck in; other times, he just busted his way in, and to hell with the consequences. You could try to take Vic out, but he’d be sure to take you with him. He never let himself get too close to anyone. But he’d let them get close to him, or let them think that, right before he pounced. He needed his fix. Every time he heard Thomas’ voice in his head or felt those phantom blows or lashes of his belt, he needed to cleanse it away and wipe that look off the old man’s face. He despised that remembered sneer and the disdain radiating from the man’s dark eyes and longed to rip it away…



He felt himself breathing hard and shivered at the cold sweat that broke out across his skin. Remy dashed out his cigarette and reached for him. Victor’s whole body tensed as he grabbed his wrist. “Mec?”



“Get away from me,” he warned him on a low growl. “Ya don’t want any of this, Rem… it ain’t good ta be near me right now.” A fierce amber gleam flickered in Victor’s blue eyes, growing into a subtle mask over his irises.



“It ain’t any better fo’ Remy t’let ya be like dis right now, ei’der, Vic,” he countered. Remy’s elegant jaw was set and his eyes narrowed as he took in the subtle changes in Victor’s body. His muscles were knotted and tense and his skin took on an odd flush. The hairs stood on end along his limbs, and when he kicked aside the sheet, Remy noticed his erection had returned. His chest huffed, rising and falling unevenly, and the low snarl that escaped his lips was merely a warning. Remy’s earlier postcoital glow vanished, replaced by a tinge of fear. He mastered it, however, and quickly. Victor despised fear, and it only made the beast taking control of him angry, especially when it emanated from one of the few people he trusted.



“Ya sound so smug,” Victor muttered in disgust. “Think yer so bad? Huh? Ya can’t handle me,” he claimed.



“Den I t’ink ya’ve got me confused wit’ all de ones who came befo’ me, mec.”



“Yer just another fuck.” Remy stiffened, but he hardened his resolve. Victor’s emotions were leaking out despite his efforts to control himself, and Remy struggled with revulsion at the anger and hatred roiling inside of him, as well as remembered betrayal. He wondered who Victor saw when he looked at him.



Long red hair… fair skin… but the voice was wrong, all wrong, especially the accent… Victor growled again and stalked Remy, and his talons extended inadvertently when the thief tossed aside the covers and rose from the bed. The striking young man in front of him wasn’t afraid of him, even though he should be. Victor didn’t pity him if he got in the way of what was gripping him. No. Not at all.



“Keep tellin’ yerself dat,” Remy shrugged. His red-on-black eyes glowed with that odd radiance that was similar to when his kinetic powers were charging, but Victor shivered at the sense of being invaded, of someone slipping past his defenses.



“Get…out,” he grunted, clutching his head and digging his nails into his scalp, trying to claw out the presence enveloping his mind, almost like a warm blanket.



“Ya don’t wanna throw me out,” Remy chided him.



“Quit fuckin’ with my mind! I don’t want any of yer tricks, Gambit!” Vic seldom called him by his codename, something that always pissed him off when they were in the field. He stomped over to Remy and grabbed him, flinging him back against the wall. Remy hissed as he hit the plaster, feeling it bruise his bare, chilled flesh, but he wouldn’t let go and wouldn’t stop talking.



“No tricks, cher,” he assured him. “Let it go. Ya hear me? Let it go, mec.”



“I…won’t…” Victor’s jaw worked furiously, and a rapid tic was beating over his brow as he grabbed Remy’s shoulders and banged him back against the wall again, making his teeth click together. Remy’s own hands reached for Victor, fingers digging into his narrow hips to keep his attention focused on him, on his eyes, on his smooth, calm voice. He loved that voice, even when he hated him, the way it licked over him when he talked him to sleep on bad nights.



Remy was his light. His glow.



Birdie was his fix back in the day, the one thing that kept him on point, more centered. She gave him a hit of her psychic pheromones, almost like a drug, usually after she’d calmed him down with a rough, no-strings fuck. She pulled at him, easing the memories and dimming the screams, making them float away into the ether. She stroked his inner child, telling him that his rage was justified, that he was the one who was wronged and used, and that it wouldn’t happen anymore. Birdie promised him that he’d be vindicated, and that the pain would go away…



When she was killed, all Victor was left with to fix it was blood. Only blood would cleanse him and fix him. It took skill to kill for pleasure instead of survival, and to survive, he only trusted his own instincts, not the mercy or promises of other people.



He didn’t love Birdie, but he needed her. She knew that about him, knowing full well that kept her in his good graces and kept her alive, and in return, he gave her protection.



He wondered if the Cajun was using him for the same purpose. As though Remy sensed his faltering loyalty, he shook his head at him, smirking.



“I can wait ya out all night,” he purred. Victor was growling, right up in his face and baring his fangs. His talons bit into his shoulders, just short of drawing blood.



“Gonna…take this outta yer ass. I’ll tear strips outta yer hide, Remy. Quit fuckin’ with me!”



“Tell me I ain’ jus’ a fuck, den,” he challenged. His foot stroked the back of Victor’s calf, then hooked itself at the back of his knee. Victor hissed when his knee buckled slightly; he was rock hard and leaking, arousal mingling with anger in a wicked brew that he tasted when he licked his lips.



Remy wanted to gloat when Victor crushed his mouth, mauling it with little grace and no manners at all. Remy’s leg hooked itself around Victor’s as the giant feral rocked his hips against him, smothering him in his hardness and heat. Remy’s hands roamed over his back and his blunt nails raked themselves down his back. Victor approved of the rough play and gave back as good as he got. He felt the young thief’s amusement and a hint of affection that he frequently held in check, knowing it would likely piss Vic off. But deep down, he craved it.



He craved Remy.



*



“Saw de news,” Remy interjected, not liking where the conversation was going. “Guess ya didn’ learn much from de last lil’ shindig we had.”



“Ya mean ya think ya taught me somethin’? Well, fuck me. I’m impressed that ya think that much of yer methods,” Vic shrugged. The waitress stopped by this time with a menu, but he shook his head. He changed his mind briefly. “Beer,” he barked after her. She paused a moment, then turned away, deciding not to ask him what kind. He chuckled. “She’s gonna wet her pants.”



“Ain’t our fault if ya don’t wanna get it through yer thick head. We’re gonna put ya down, bub. Like a fuckin’ old, mean dog, cuz that’s what ya are.”



“Naw. That ain’t what I am. Know what I am, Jimmy?”



“Don’ call ‘im dat,” Remy suggested. He looked tempted by Vic’s cigarette, even though he didn’t want to encourage him.



“I’m you. I’m the way you’d be if ya’d just fuckin’ let go. And ya hate that. Yer too much of a fuckin’ hypocrite, and yer a pansy because ya think ya’ve gotta protect the pretty boy here from what ya’ve got inside.” Logan chuckled and downed the rest of his coffee. Inside, though, he fumed. He eyed Victor’s neck, still sporting a vestige of the scar left from when he slit his throat. But he glanced at Remy and saw those marks on his, too, a too gruesome reminder of what almost happened…of what he almost let happen…



“Remy can protect ‘imself jus’ fine, m’sieu,” Remy told him haughtily.



“Layin’ down with this fucker’s yer idea of protectin’ yerself?” Logan snapped. His voice was a dull blade, but it still cut deep.



“Fuck you, cher.”



“Layin’ down with me’s his idea of a good time. If ya wanna count the times we did it standin’ up, too, be my guest.”



“Shut up.” Remy grabbed Victor’s cigarette from him and blew it up, letting a vestige of kinetic energy spark from his eyes. His nostrils flared and there was a vein bulging in his jaw. “Answer my question. Why? What’ve ya got ta get from dese kills? No one’s payin’ you. Dese ain’ women dat’ve done ya any wrong.”



“Whole world’s done me wrong, sweetie.” The endearment lacked affection and was out of character for Vic, anyway. He looked amused at Remy’s show of bravado, enjoying the anger in his movements and gestures.



He looked hot.



“Ain’t like ya’ve never used a woman before, pretty boy,” Victor continued. “They like how ya lure ‘em in and sweet talk ‘em. Eh, Rems? Find ‘em. Fool ‘em. Fuck ‘em. Leave ‘em. Make ‘em promises while they’re starin’ into those pretty eyes, and pretend ta play the hero while yer gettin’ ready ta bend ‘em over.”



“In m’whole life, an’ in my career as a t’ief, I ain’ ever treated a woman wit’ disrespect, mec.”



“Sure, ya haven’t. Jump in any time ya want an’ start tellin’ tall tales with yer boy toy, Jimmy. Have a little contest.” The waitress looked uneasy as she brought over the beer, setting it down gingerly and quickly, as though all three men had SARS. She didn’t have to tell Victor not to smoke, thankfully, but she didn’t stop to ask them if they needed anything else.



“Yer de one blowin’ smoke,” Remy pointed out. “T’ink ya got stones cuz ya don’t try ta rein it in. De beast inside. Dat mean lil’ voice dat tells you dat you ain’ shit. Whole mess of voices, neh?” Victor’s smug grin dissolved like piss in Clorox.



“Fuck you.”



“Non. Fuck you.”



Logan watched the conversation like a ping-pong match while his anger ebbed and receded over and over.



“Only way ya know ‘bout those voices is cuz ya like pokin’ around where ya don’t belong. That’s why I fucked up that little purple-haired bird and tore up her uppity ass. Some tough telepath. She’s a Brownie Scout.” At the first mention of Betsy, Remy winced at the low, quick SNIKT at his elbow and the flash of metal he saw out of the corner of his eye. “Some fuckin’ heroes,” he sneered. But Remy felt it, just a brief flash of emotion from him beneath the scorn. Victor felt betrayed.



And to feel that betrayal, he had to have cared once. He had to have trusted Remy and valued what he had to give…



“Cher,” Remy murmured, staring at Victor, but Logan knew full well he meant him, since he knew every note and gesture that Remy conveyed with his voice by rote, “dat’s enough.”



“Ya ain’t leavin’ this table until-“ Remy held up a hand and stopped Logan’s ultimatum. Logan opened his mouth again, pissed and impatient, but Remy hissed at him and twisted around in his seat, glaring at him. They stared each other down, and Victor huffed to himself. The squirt was hot and bothered, and the air between them seemed to sizzle with energy. Logan’s jaw worked and his eyes narrowed.



…then, he lowered his face, staring down at his clenched hand resting on the table. SNAKT. Victor grunted in surprise, a sound Remy never heard him make. Nothing ever surprised Victor. Ever.



Remy turned back to Victor, the man he’d been unable to love and who now stood between him and the trust of the man to whom he’d given his heart and soul. He expelled a deep breath and pinned him with determined eyes. “What’s it gonna take, Sabertooth?”



“Yer wastin’ yer breath,” Victor muttered. “I got places ta go an’ people ta kill, pretty boy. Thanks fer lunch.” Victor tossed back his beer, downing it in thirsty, deep gulps. Remy shrugged.



“What’s it gonna take ta shut out de voices?” Victor paused at the last foamy remnants of brew and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, sucking the last drop from his upper lip. Remy’s eyes tracked the gesture, briefly, remembering, but he focused his energy on the words.



“I’ve got my own entourage up in here,” Victor joked, but his face was closed and brittle. The feral, amber gleam was back in his eyes, and Remy knew their brief interlude was almost over, and that the chase would begin again in mere minutes.



For all he knew, they might not even make it out to the parking lot before his boyfriend took his old lover’s head off and hoisted it up on his claws like a pike.



“What’s gonna give ya de glow?” Remy asked quietly as Victor rose from the table.



He froze and stiffened. Victor’s hand balled itself into a fist at his side. Logan smelled the change in him immediately. Victor’s inner animal was confused, scenting the air and determining the threat. “Ya ain’ slept in a while, have ya?” Victor’s other hand fumbled in his shirt pocket for another cigarette. He’d never admit that he’d smoked his way through a case of Lucky Strikes in the past three days.



He couldn’t stop thinking about the damned Cajun, and it was killing him. The kills hadn’t helped. The voices hadn’t stopped, and worst of all was seeing that smug fucker Jimmy’s face in his head, mocking him, sneering at him that he’d won.



“I don’t need fuckin’ sleep. Yer the one’s gonna be losin’ sleep tonight.” He turned back to them, eyeing Logan slyly. “Happy huntin’, runt.” Logan knew what was going to come out of his mouth next. Don’t say it… “Tag. Yer fuckin’ it.”



A hand shot out and snapped around his wrist. Victor growled at the fucker who dared to hold him back when he wanted to go, and he wasn’t expecting Remy’s cool, hard glare.



“Ya ain’ playin’ wit’ ‘im, mec. Yer playin’ wit’ Gambit. What’s it gon’ take?” Remy felt Victor’s muscles tensing, almost thrumming with power like plucked guitar strings. His skin felt hot, and Victor bared his fangs in warning.



“Ya can’t handle it. It don’t matter.”



“Try me.”



TBC… *Roe, the next hand is yours. Deal those cards, bub.*