Creed's Credo

Summary: Following the fight with Victor, Remy and Logan fall back in time, remembering. And Victor isn’t finished with them by far…



Author’s Note: This picks back up where Saving Her, Saving Themselves left off, namely the infirmary scene. I hope this doesn’t leave anyone with any gaps.







“Logan?” Hank tapped lightly on the door to the infirmary’s recovery room, regretting the late hour. The door creaked slightly as he leaned inside, just over the threshold and peered at his two charges. His patient was sleeping peacefully enough, but his visitor was having a rough time.



Logan was so lost in his dreams that he didn’t react to the sound of Hank’s footsteps or the addition of another scent in the room. Hank eyed him with concern as he gently murmured Logan’s name again.



*



Nineteenth-century Canada:





“Master James? Would you be kind enough to take this tray up to your mother?” Mr. Kenneth nodded to the object in question, sitting covered by a white linen towel on the kitchen table. A young face just on the verge of losing its baby fat nodded up at him solemnly.



“I will.”



“Careful with that, young master,” he reminded him kindly as the tray jostled slightly, rattling the covered dishes as James carried it from the kitchen. John Howlett’s old maintainer and favorite manservant smiled fondly after him. He reminded him so much of his father in temperament, even though James favored his mother in looks… Kenneth went back to polishing the silver, paying particular attention to a speck of tarnish on a gravy ladle.



James trudged up the stairs, juggling the heavy tray and narrowly avoiding tripping over the edge of the fine Persian rug in the hall. He paused outside his mother’s door, pausing as he heard the sound of soft weeping. He raised his hand hesitantly and cleared his throat, then rapped gently on the door. “Mother?” She didn’t immediately reply, but he heard her low, raspy sobs halt. “Mother? I have something for you.”



“Don’t disturb me,” she warned him. Her voice was weak but determined, and James felt shame and frustration wash over him in a hot flush. His blue eyes burned as he spoke again, trying to infuse cheer into his thirteen-year-old voice.



“May I please leave it for you?” He waited achingly long moments in the hall, staring numbly down at the tray, counting the fibers in the towel with amazingly sharp vision. The aroma of chicken soup wafted up from it, well-prepared but sickening him. Everything made him sick, lately. He hated it.



James hated himself.



Soft footsteps approached and the door was jerked open abruptly, revealing the face of his mother’s maid. She stared down at him warily, no trace of humor in her face. “Your mother said she didn’t wish to be disturbed.” But she took the tray from him carefully, about to back into the room and close the door on him again.



“Please,” he blurted. “Could…could you please…?” His words evaporated as he faltered.



“Please, what?” she demanded. Her own eyes were ringed with dark smudges, as though she’d lost countless hours of sleep. Elizabeth Howlett’s mental state boggled her physicians and frequently woke the household in the middle of the night, compliments of her nightmares and terrors. James tried to peer around the corner of the door frame, but her maid effectively blocked his view.



“Please…tell Mother that I hope she’s well rested,” he choked out. He nodded a goodbye and hurried back the way he came, feet pounding down the stairs. She sighed as she stared after him, heart almost breaking for him.



Really, the boy couldn’t help it if his mother had no love left for him. But she placed herself between him and her charge both as a means to filter Elizabeth’s contact with anyone who would unsettle her, and to protect him from her odd behaviors and rages. She turned and brought the tray to the side table, uncovering hot soup, tea and toast.



Elizabeth sat in the window seat, staring out at the main lawn. She wore the same white nightgown that her maid often had to struggle to remove, day in, day out so she could bathe her. Her long, thick black hair hung down in a fraying, messy plait down her back, and her gown seemed too voluminous around her wasted frame. She rocked rhythmically where she sat, murmuring bits and snatches of a one-sided dialogue that made her servant cringe.



“I said ‘Don’t go out into the swamp, John, you’ll ruin your good shirt!’ He never listened to me, the naughty boy. Bad boys get locked up in their room without supper. I locked him away, but he got out…he scratched his way out. I still hear him scratching, sometimes…can’t…lock out…scratching…” She dug her fingernails into her palm until her maid gently reminded her to stop. Hectic color rose up in Elizabeth’s cheeks as she grew steadily more agitated.



Her maid captured her hands, wincing as Elizabeth squeezed hers back, so tightly her bones felt like they’d snap. “Ssshhhh, shhhh, shhhhh,” she hushed sibilantly. “There, there…shhhh…” She began to hum tunelessly, forcing her into constant eye contact, and Elizabeth’s rigid posture finally softened as she picked up the melody and added the drone of her own voice. Her maid finally calmed her enough to spoon some of the broth into her mouth and to drug her tea. It was a relief to watch those large, haunted sapphire blue eyes drift shut.



They were so much like her son’s.





James ran outside, brushing past Rose as she helped the Howlett’s laundress hang a basket of clothes on the line. She stood and cupped her hands around her mouth.



“James! Where are you going?”



“I’m nearly done here, lass. Go. Take some time for yourself, it’s a lovely day.”



Rose needed no further invitation. She picked up her long, blue calico skirts and ran after him, ignoring the crush of weeds and brambles beneath her good, black leather boots. James started out at a quick pace, but his gait was uneven; Rose thought she could hear his wheezing, broken breaths on the breeze blowing her back. “JAMES!” She sneezed sharply from the pollen in the spring air. That realization quickened her steps, knowing that James was no doubt suffering miserably from his allergies. “JAMES! Come BACK!”



He stopped a meter or two ahead of her, leaning unevenly against a tree, eventually slumping against it like a rag doll. “JAMES!” Rose’s heart hammered with worry as she finally reached his side. “James,” she pleaded, “what’s wrong? What happened?”



“Doesn’t…love me,” he panted in short gasps. “Doesn’t want me.”



“It’s all right. I’m here,” she murmured soothingly, gripping his hand. He squeezed it in return.



*





In the infirmary, Remy stirred from a now fitful sleep, unsettled and worried. The emotions rolling off of Logan as he slept gnawed at him.



“’enry,” he slurred, rubbing sleep from his eyes, “what’s de matter wit’ Logan?”



“Nightmare,” Henry murmured, holding his finger to his lips. “He’s had a bad time of it since you came back and ended up here, Remy.”



“Can’t leave ‘im like dis.”



“But you can’t interfere with it. He needs to work through it, Remy.”



“Non. Not like dis. Not wit’out help.”



“Logan has to help himself. He’s bottling up all of his worry and it’s hurting him. Dreams answer all the questions your mind forces down that you refuse to deal with sometimes. Logan’s healing factor makes it worse, Remy.”



“Why?”



“He’s not a young man, Remy. You and I, we’ll eventually lose our faculties and memories as we age, and it will almost be a blessing. Your mind throws out what it doesn’t need so you can absorb more knowledge sometimes, or merely hold onto the information that’s most vital. But sometimes it throws out the most scarring memories so they won’t eat at you, or even bury you. Logan’s mind has ‘healed’ over his earliest memories. His dreams allow them to leak through. They haunt him.”



“Oui,” Remy whispered. “Dey do.” Sorrow flooded him on Logan’s behalf, sharing it with him to help carry the burden. Remy slowly began to project, and Henry tried to stop him from leaving the bed, but he struggled loose. Henry sighed in defeat, deciding his efforts would be more likely to physically strain Remy than the younger man’s own efforts. Remy hunkered down by Logan’s cot, not touching him.



“It’s all right, chere. I’m here.”





*



“Whatsamatter, blubber boy?” growled a voice too old and deep for the owner from behind them. James and Rose turned warily to meet Dog’s eyes as they raked over them, crowning a mean smirk.



“I’m not a blubber boy,” James argued, stiffening and raising up to his full height. At thirteen, he was barely five feet tall, a token of his illness according to the family doctor. His grandfather looked on him with disappointment. You’re small, James, but it’s up to you to be a scrapper. Independent. Tough. Being small in stature doesn’t mean you can allow yourself to be a small man. I won’t allow it from one of my own. Where his mother was merely indifferent, his grandfather scorned him.



“Dog, leave him alone,” Rose warned.



“Awww, is the little girl gonna stick up for the baby?” Dog drawled, clearly enjoying himself. “Change his diapers, Rose. He looks like he pissed himself.” His gait was rocking, an uneven, cocky lope. Dog was tall and rangily built, already showing his father’s broad shoulders and chest, even at fifteen.



“He’s more grown up than you,” she countered haughtily. He eyed her with amusement, then nodded.



“Sassy britches, arentcha? It’s that red hair. Pa says carrot tops have fire in their pants.”



“She’s a lady, watch your mouth,” James warned him. “Don’t treat her that way.”



“I’ll treat her however I want, squirt,” Dog muttered, grinning. James flushed and his fists balled themselves up at his side. His breathing finally slowed from his exertions, but Rose noticed the flare of his nostrils with alarm. “Same goes for you, sissy boy.”



“Calling me a sissy…!” Fire sparked in James’ eyes, fueled by his earlier rejection and the look of disgust on Rose’s face when Dog made his remark about her virtue. With a deep, ragged grunt, he pitched himself at Dog, head down and plowing his shoulder into the taller boy’s ribs.



“Shit!” Dog hissed, half-amused, more surprised. James didn’t have much meat on his bones from myriad ailments, but he didn’t lack strength or the center of gravity his shorter stature lent him. Stubby, hard fists barreled into Victor as he kicked his ankles, effectively tripping him.



“Leave her alone!” James’ voice cracked, growing hoarse with the effort not to cry. Heat suffused him and pain throbbed in his knuckles before he noticed, over the course of his rage, that Dog was hitting him back. He jammed his palm into James’ forehead and gave him a wicked shove, nearly snapping his neck back. He whined inadvertently, making Dog bark out a harsh laugh, too much like his father’s. Dog had longer reach, and in the blink of an eye, he returned James’ blows with more force and accuracy, making pain throb and burn his flesh everywhere they landed, leaving him raw. Rose watched with horrified green eyes.



“NO! Dog, NO!” She pushed at him from behind, pelting him with small fists that bounced off his back. Dog laughed again, neatly craning around and giving her a hearty shove, nonplussed that she was female. She landed so hard on her back that she bit her tongue, tasting coppery blood when she sat up, dazed.



James saw red, a blurry hot haze that tasted of bile and resentment. Rose gingerly touched her lip, then spat out a drop of blood into the desiccated grass. Her eyes widened as she saw him, dilating with fear.



He heard her heartbeat skip. Suddenly, he heard her very pulse, the low gulp of worry in her throat, down to the merest vibration of her vocal cords. Dog stared down at her, too, but with a look that James never witnessed before on his only other friend, sometime-enemy. Those eerie blue eyes raked over Rose, and he smiled, brandishing elongated canines, then licked his lips.



“Bet you taste good, Rose,” he purred. She shook her head vehemently.



“There’s something wrong with you, Dog Logan. You leave James alone, d’you hear me?” She leapt up nimbly and ran at James, tugging on his arm in an attempt to pull him away. James struggled, but she planted herself in front of him, effectively blocking his way to hit Dog again. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparked with determination and anger. “Don’t do this, Jamie. You’re better than that…Aaaannggghh!” Dog grabbed her again and ruthlessly jerked her back by her hair, fisting his hand in her long red curls.



James needed no further urging. He launched himself at Dog again, heart pounding in his ears. “Not Rose!” he grated out. “Not ROSE!”



It was the first fight the two boys ever had where they came to blows. It wouldn’t be the last.



*



“Not…not Rose…said…not Rose,” Logan mumbled, face straining in his sleep. Remy made low shushing sounds, then took a leap of faith. He opened himself fully to Logan, not content with just projecting his calm over him like a blanket. It was time for drastic measures, even if the experience left him raw; Remy made the firm decision that the man he loved wouldn’t suffer alone, trapped in his own mind.



He reached out to him, just grazing his essence with telepathic fingertips, and Remy stole away a portion of Logan’s pain, drawing it into himself. He trembled and began to break out in a cold sweat.



“Not…Rose…” Remy whispered hoarsely.



“Damn it, Remy,” Hank growled. He gripped Remy’s shoulder and held onto him, a physical anchor.



*



Later that night, Howlett Estate:



Jonathan looked up from the post with curious eyes at the sound of pounding at the front door. “Kenneth,” he cried out, “see who it is at this hour?”



“Indeed, sir,” he acknowledged, hurrying down the corridor. He undid the heavy bolt and opened the door to a seething Thomas Logan, clearly inebriated and enraged.



“Where’s that sonofabitch?” he slurred. “Where’s my Dog?”



“Your…dog, Mr. Logan?”



“DOG! My good f’r nothin’…son…gimme the little bastard. Gonna whip the hide off his sorry tail. C’MON!”



“Er…Mr. Logan, I haven’t seen him since this afternoon,” Kenneth stammered. “He isn’t here at the house.”



“I know he’s here! I can smell the sorry bastard! D’you hear me? I c’n smell ‘im…stinks ta high heaven.” He reeled in the doorway, sagging against the frame. His dark blue eyes were cruel, and his black hair was unruly, drenched in sweat so that it curled into cowlicks and horns. Thomas Logan was compact in stature but built like an ox. It puzzled the staff of the estate that Dog stood so much taller than his father, even though he showed the promise of a similar physique when he was fully grown. Thomas’s face was craggy and scarred, perhaps handsome at one time, but his skin was weathered and ruddy from drinking and a lifetime of working outdoors. His brows were heavy and beetled, and his beard grew in the oddest pattern, long tufts that licked down his jaws, sharpening the contour of his hard cheekbones and framing an unforgiving mouth.



Jonathan came to the door, piqued. “Do you see what time it is, man? We’ve already had supper! Dog isn’t here. And Thomas…I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about your boy-“



“Go t’hell,” he slurred, waving away the scold. “Be more worried ‘bout yer own lil’ bastard, sissy lil’ fuck,” he told him, pleased with himself. “Bet…if he wuz my boy…wouldn’t be such a sissy snot.” Jonathan’s jaw set itself at a stubborn angle. His patience had worn thin.



“Go home, Thomas. Please. Don’t make me call someone to escort you.”



“Wouldn’…*hic*…dare,” he accused easily, grinning and staggering to his feet. He pointed to him with a shaking hand as he laughed. “Don’ have the balls… you or yer sissy boy.”



“Who’s there?” a petulant, feminine voice demanded. “Who’s there?” Elizabeth repeated from the top of the stairs. She was garbed in her white gown, but this time she wore a pink wrapper over it and small house slippers on her feet. Her face was ashen and hair disheveled, hanging freely down her back. She stared down at Thomas and Jonathan in confusion. Her mouth gaped open, jaw working as she raised her hand.



“YOU!” she screeched. You RUINED ME! RUINED! Ruined, ruined…” she babbled. Her finger stabbed the air defiantly as she began her stumbling gait down the stairs.



“I don’t know how she got loose! Master Jonathan, I’m so sorry!” her maid cried out. Thomas leered at the scene unfolding before him.



“Got yer hands…full,” he slurred. He leered at Elizabeth again as she heaved and tried to claw her way loose from the maid and Kenneth.



Upstairs in his room, James listened at the door, trembling silently at the sound of Thomas’s voice mingling with his mother’s rambling screams. An ugly chill went down his spine. He jumped when the door slammed downstairs, and the cries faded to muted murmurs and soothing words. He heard his mother’s uneven footsteps coming up the stairs, assisted by his father and her maid. He clenched his fists helplessly. He wished he could talk to Rose, but it was late, thoroughly inappropriate for him to go to her room.



“Psst.”



“Holy Father!” James hissed, whirling at the brisk whisper.



Dog grinned at him from the window, where he was climbing inside from the thick tree branch he perched himself on. “Ya didn’t even know I was watchin’ ya, runt.”



“So?” James challenged.



“Gotta be more careful, sissy boy. Can’t be a man if ya aren’t gonna watch yer back.” His father drove the point home with his belt; Dog’s back was riddled with scars.



“I’ll be a better man than you,” James argued, “and I don’t have to watch my back. No one treats me like he treats you.” Dog’s grin faltered.



“Aww, shut up, crybaby. Here.” He thunked down a tall, familiar looking bottle of amber liquid. “Get a glass. Two of ‘em.” James’ eyes widened.



“Get out of here, Dog! You can’t bring that in here!”



“My old man ain’t here. He ain’t gonna miss it. Besides, he’s already had his share.” He picked up the bottle again, shaking it by its neck, tempting him. “C’mon. Don’t be sissy.”



“I hate you,” James muttered. “I could tell your pa you’re here.” Dog sneered.



“Go ahead.” But James could tell he was afraid of being found. “Don’t scare me.”



“Sure he doesn’t,” James blurted.



“Are ya gonna take a drink or what? This’ll put hair on yer balls, runt.” James eyed him levelly.



“Too late.” They eyed each other levelly as James’ words sank in. Both boys sputtered and broke into sniggers. Dog shook the bottle again.



“C’mon.”



“Wait.” James turned on his heel and crept into the hallway. He made his way to the wash room upstairs and retrieved the drinking glass the maid kept there. She was busy; she wouldn’t miss it. When he came back, Dog was staring at a Daguerreotype in a brass frame on James’ desk.



“That’s you and Johnny,” he murmured, nodding to it and pointing to the taller boy in the picture. James himself was about two, leaning over his brother’s lap and wearing a dark Sunday suit.



“Uh-huh.”



“He looks like yer pa.”



“I know.”



“You don’t.” James stiffened. “Sometimes. Just…nah.”



“We can’t have that here,” James interjected, growing tired of the conversation and the hot prickles spreading over his nape.



“Then c’mon. Climb.” Dog led the way, and James followed him with a small lantern, having a difficult time of it as Dog led them up to the gabled roof.



Once they perched themselves there, Dog removed his battered straw hat and ran his fingers through his thick, unruly hair. It hung almost to his shoulders, thoroughly unkempt. James noticed its color, musing that every year, it grew a bit lighter. The first day that Thomas arrived to work on his father’s estate, he brought a seven-year-old Dog with him to the house, a skinny-legged boy with scabs on his knees. He had mud brown hair that was just as shaggy back then. But little by little, by some trick of genetics, he lost that dark coloring, as though his body was rejecting his father’s hereditary influence. Dog’s hair was a lighter, honey brown streaked with blond.



Once his hat was off, James held the lantern up to his face and sucked in a breath at the bruises marring his skin.



“What’re you lookin’ at?”



“What’d he do to you?”



“Rode my ass,” he snorted, uncorking the bottle and pouring a generous finger of scotch into the glass, so quickly it slopped over the rim. “Got on me about bein’ late fer dinner.” He glared at James then. “And yer pa told him about today. ‘Bout Rose.”



“Serves you right,” James muttered. Dog grunted, shoving the glass at him.



“You gonna drink or what?” James grudgingly took the liquid, making a face at the smell of the fumes as they rose up from the tumbler. They tickled his nose sharply, making him sneeze. “C’mon, sissy.” James glared at him, then raised the glass to him in a salute before throwing it back in one gulp.



Several boasts and a handful of drinks later between the two of them, James was vomiting it back up, heaving over the edge of the roof. Dog sniggered under his breath, completely without pity as he pounded his back. James rubbed watery eyes and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.



“Dog…*kaff*…why’d…you pick on Rose?” James looked up at him accusingly. “She’s a girl. You don’t hit girls.”



“Tell that to my pa,” Dog snapped. He leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the stars. “He says they’re only good for one thing.” He peered at James pointedly, blue eyes solemn. “Even Rose.”



“Not Rose,” James affirmed.



“Yer an idiot,” Dog decided easily. He sighed. “Can’t hold yer liquor.”



“Why can you?”



“Pa made me take my medicine, like a man.” He sounded proud of that fact, even though something in his eyes was sad. Then he remembered something. He reached into the pockets of his shabby wool pants and pulled out two sticks. “Here. Suck on it.” He handed one of the hand-rolled cigarettes to James, who sniffed it suspiciously. “They ain’t bad. Like my pa’s cigars the best, but this’ll be almost as good.”



“Why d’you smoke?”



“Just because. I like watchin’ it burn.” Dog struck a match against the roof and lit up, puffing on it, then took back James’ cigarette and drew on it, lighting it with the ember of his own. James heard the crackle of the cheap rolling paper as he took it. He took a long, unpracticed drag. It didn’t make him throw up, so he took another.



“Dog?”



“What, runt?”



“Why’s he call you that?”



“Ask him,” he shrugged.



“What’d your ma name you?” James asked suddenly. Dog jerked his face to look up at him in confusion.



“Why do ya think my ma named me anything?”



“Just because,” James muttered feebly. He felt ashamed for lingering on a sore subject. They smoked in silence and listened to the wind pick up.



“Vic.”



“Huh?”



“Victor. Ma called me Victor.”





*



“Victor,” Remy hissed out between his teeth. He jerked beneath Hank’s grip. Hank shook him in an attempt to snap him out of it.



“Let him go! Let Logan go, Remy! Now! Let him GO!” Remy jerked sharply and his eyes flew open wide, pinning Hank.



“Can’t! Won’t let ‘im go! Needs me…” His voice cut off as Logan came rearing awake, flying upright, defying inertia. His breathing was ragged and he began to tremble, chilled. His eyes darted around the room and landed on Remy, who looked just as shaken.



“Remy?”



“Chere,” he confirmed, reaching for his hand. Logan took it and squeezed it in his familiar, solid grip. “Ya came back.”



“I felt you.”



“Ya needed me.”



Logan shook his head, and his eyes glistened with emotion. “I coulda hurt ya.”



“Ya didn’t. Ya never could, chere.” Remy looked as though he could come unhinged. Logan nodded silently and confronted Hank’s stare.



“Go. Give us some time, Blue.”



“Gladly. But rest,” Hank admonished with a shake of one furry digit. “Or I’ll sedate you both. No more drama. No more empathy. No claws. Got that?” He didn’t wait for a reply. The hem of his long white lab coat swished after him as he left the infirmary. “Communicate the old fashioned way, gentlemen. Talk. Then bed.”



Remy silently agreed, finally allowing himself to join Logan on the cot. Logan drew him close and just embraced him, lolling in the comforting feel of his warm skin and the scent of his pheromones. Remy’s palms slid over his back in soothing strokes, then covered his heavy heartbeat when he found it.



“Who’s Rose?”



“Someone I can barely remember. But she was important.”



“Why?”



“Because that sonofabitch tried ta take her from me. Know what the worst part is, baby?”



“Non.”



“She wasn’t the last.” His voice held a cold, hard note, and Remy felt Logan’s shields go back up, as though he was trying to protect Remy from the boogey man under the bed.



“Y’need healin’ jus’ as much as I do, mon coeur.”



Mindful of Remy’s stitches, Logan stretched out on the cot and gathered Remy close, reaching up and tugging the blankets off the hospital bed. He covered them both and simply lay there, listening to Remy breathing and stroking his hair. It helped, assuring him that he was there with him, safe. Loved. His.



But it also reminded him that he had so much to lose, and that the one bright light in his life had almost been ripped out of his hands.





*



Victor tossed back his fifth shot of Sauza and retrieved the pack of Camels from the nightstand. The hotel wasn’t anything to write home about, in one of the seediest neighborhoods with broken lights in the sign out front. Even the street sign on the curb looked riddled with bullet holes. But Vic wasn’t picky.



He needed a place to lay low. He wouldn’t put it past the runt and the Cajun to recon and double back to his cabin. Victor lit up a cigarette and sucked the smoke into his lungs, letting the curl of it tickle his upper lip as he blew it out. Lately he craved them too much, needing something to do with his idle hands, until his next kill. Soon.



Vic stood and crossed the room, leaning his elbow over the window frame as he looked outside and just people-watched. Bad neighborhood. Almost no cops. Whole street full of easy targets.



It was fun to see the runt so worked up. It was even more satisfying to see him bleeding.