Waiting

The lighter chinked. Click, and gas whooshed out, followed by the minute dull sound of the flame lighting it. The lighter would snap closed once more, and then the whole process would start again, echoing around the dank stone walls of this underground hellhole. Victor Creed snarled to himself; his fists had begun to clench and unclench with every sound, but the damned Aussie didn't even spare him a glance, fixated on the endless cycle of flame.

They'd been down here for six hours, waiting on a signal from Mystique. The transponder lay on the floor of the featureless underground dungeon, silent. The bitch'd put them down there saying wait, and then told them that they had a 24-hour leash. Victor's eyes had lit up at that; Mystique had smiled that bloodthirsty little smile she had, and coolly stated that in the event that she died, they'd wait twenty hours past the four-hour limit before unleashing hell. He'd tuned her talk of weapons and prep out after that, only coming back around when she'd told him he was taking Pyro with him.

That had got his attention.

The little Aussie fuck had been around for three months, alternately talking nonsense and making unnervingly keen observations. There was something going on in the punk's head; Creed would catch glimpses of it in the other man's eyes, but it was always immediately glassed over by that vacant, almost retarded expression of glee that Pyro wore when he wasn't doing anything in particular.

Chink. Whoosh. Snap.

Chink. Whoosh. Snap.

Chink. Whoosh. Snap.

"Will you fucking stop?" Creed finally snarled aloud, staring murderously at St John, who looked up in surprised.

"What? Oh..." he trailed off, then grinned insolently. "Not a chance."

Chink. Whoosh. Sn-

Creed, quick as thought, crossed over to where Pyro sat against the wall and whacked the lighter out of the Australian man's hand; it skittered across the stone floor, coming to rest in the opposite corner. St John Allerdyce looked up at Sabretooth, who held his right wrist in a grip made of steel, with a cross expression.

"Now what'd you do that for, you great bully? I'm only having a little fun to pass the time."

"Fun." Creed deadpanned. The Aussie wasn't smiling, but his eyes were still fucking vacant, and he wanted to backhand the other man until he'd look back with a spark of intelligence, God damn it. "It's driving me up the fucking wall, you little prick." He let go of Pyro's wrist in disgust, then pushed the man down forcefully as he tried to stand up.

"Don't you even fucking try to go near it," Creed growled. "Or I'll fucking gut you. I don't need you here; don't know why Mystique sent your crazy ass with me in the first place. Probably to avoid dealing with you herself." He got up and crossed to where he'd been sitting before, on the stone floor, back to the wall.

For his part, St John grinned. "Might've," he said vaguely, sending a furtive look over to where the lighter lay, the metal shining dimly in the half-gloom. Creed didn't say anything; just watched him.

They were like that for half an hour before Pyro made any move, but Creed was on him like a flash, this time slamming the punk back against the wall, and pushed his face right up into the Australian's, snarling "I said, don't fucking move, you stupid fuck. What part of that don't you understand?"

St John snarled and pushed back; Creed shoved the Australian harder against the stone wall, digging claws in for emphasis, hating the surprise that coursed through him. He'd almost been caught off-guard. Not once in his three-month stay had Pyro ever been physically aggressive towards Sabretooth, except in fun. This time, though, Creed could tell that the man meant it. He fucking dared.

"What the hell was that?" He ground out. St John didn't answer. He didn't have that idiot look in his eyes, but Creed still couldn't fucking read them, and frustration overwhelmed him. "God damn it, you Aussie bastard, what the hell was that?"

He received no answer, but could smell a grain of fear, as St John's eyes flickered over to where the lighter was and back up at Creed. God damn this fucking frail, who was scared of being without his fucking lighter and not scared at all of him. Sabretooth. Victor Creed. Anger burned hot within him, and he slapped John across the face.

"I want my lighter back," the man said, quietly, then suddenly yelled "I want my lighter back, you fucking bastard! Give it to me! Let me have it!"

Creed watched impassively; frenetic energy radiated from the Aussie as he jerked and twitched ineffectively against Creed's hold, his voice rising and falling without any cadence whatsoever, cursing Creed with an impressive range of vocabulary and inventive command of the English vocabulary. Eventually he fell into silence, glaring defiantly up at Creed.

"Let me go."

"Not a chance," Creed smirked fangily, concealing his irritation and enjoying the irony. St John bit his lip, casting another glance over at the lighter.

"You really fucking want that, don't you, flame-boy?" He inquired lazily, enjoying the fact that the man had nothing on him in terms of strength. Too fucking often he was up against adversaries with some form of enhanced strength. He didn't get to relish this kind of power play enough. St John held his tongue. Creed threw a glance over to the transponder; the clock on it told him they still had seventeen and a half hours left before they could unleash hell. Seventeen and a half hours of nothing.

But this. He could have fun with this. He dug his claws into Pyro's shoulders a little deeper, watched the man's expression darken from mulish defiance to downright murderousness. Still, he made no sound, not even when the blood began to trickle out and stain the cloth of his shirt.

"I wonder why that's so important to you," Creed drawled, breaking the silence. Pyro, unnervingly, didn't act as if he'd heard a thing; just kept staring over at the fucking lighter. "Maybe because," he leaned a bit closer, sneering, "you're fucking useless without it."

"Go to hell," St John spoke in clipped, rigid tones, and Creed smiled in self-satisfaction.

"Sore point, there, Crocodile Dundee? Feel maybe a bit inferior because you're nothing -" he shook St John slightly, satisfaction coursing through him as the other man's frame hit the stone behind him with bruising force "- nothing without access to fire?"

God damn, he hadn't realized he was so bitter. For what? He was Victor fucking Creed; he didn't get jealous of anything, or any one, because he was better than them all. But the Aussie bugged him, and he didn't know why. Maybe it was the loopy grin. The vacant stare. The nonchalance with which Pyro shrugged off Creed's threats, showed them to be hollow by playing the innocent and getting the bigger man to laugh at his mistakes instead of fucking crucify him for making them in the first place. And that look. The calculating look that St John got, whenever he thought nobody was looking; something wasn't right.

St John wasn't looking at him; Creed found this suddenly maddening. He wanted to look in those eyes, blue paler than his own, almost washed-out, and see the truth of just who this idiot thought he was. He'd been living with them for three months, and Creed realized that still didn't know a fucking thing about him, besides his power and place of origin.

"Look at me," he commanded, voice rough, then "Look at me!" he roared, fisting one hand in the other man's hair and twisting, forcing him to look up into Creed's eyes.

"Coward," St John said, his jaw set in a hard line, eyes like thin chips of sapphire. "Let me go."

Creed, in response, let go of the other man's hair and slugged him in the stomach, letting go as St John keeled over, gasping for breath. Creed let him lie there, his skinny frame heaving as his lungs tried to draw in air, legs curling up into the fetal position.

Sabretooth got up, then kicked Pyro in the stomach again, for good measure. The man flopped up against the wall, his wheezing breaths and choked epithets the only sound that filled the room as Creed walked over to the lighter and picked it up, careful not to open it again. He turned around to see St John watching him through slitted eyes, venom in his gaze.

"You want this?" Creed held the lighter up, waggling it back and forth, grinning.

Pyro said nothing for a moment, still wheezing, but then launched himself at Creed, who swatted him away easily. Pyro hit the wall and fell into a heap; Sabretooth walked over leisurely and poked the other man with his toe. "Come on, Johnny, I've seen you take more than that and still get up." He grinned toothily. "Why aren't you smiling? Aren't you having fun?"

At the last word, he yanked St John up by the collar of his shirt and punched the man back against the wall; he choked for breath and Creed felt a thrill of power go through him. God, this was fun. His enjoyment was tempered, however, by the fact that St John still said nothing; when the other man met his eyes, there was no fear in them, though Creed could smell it on him. Faintly. And it wasn't for him.

"You're not afraid of me?" Creed narrowed his eyes threateningly. The little shit had never been afraid of him. Not since day fucking one. It pissed him off, and his power trip was rapidly fading. He wanted to have the fucker cowering.

John still said nothing, and Creed shoved his face right into Pyro's, but the man stared steadily back, the expression in his eyes now that elusive, calculating look. He was weighing him. The scrawny putz was weighing him, judging, testing; actually daring to fucking measure him. Against what, Creed had no clue; the word coward rang around in his mind and he saw red momentarily before he was able to achieve coherence once more.

"I want my lighter," John ground up into his intimidator's face, hand around the man's wrist. "Give it to me."

"I don't think so," Creed said, and Pyro lashed out with his foot; Creed pinned him to the stone wall with his knee. St John squirmed, trying to escape the inexorable pressure, and Creed revelled in the Aussie's helplessness. The power trip was surging through him like a high, hindered only by the fact that the stupid fuck wasn't fucking scared of him.

Wasn't fucking scared of death.

The what the hell was he scared of?

Creed tried to think of what he might be scared of, if he were a scrawny putz with a fixation on fire and ridiculous red-orange hair. Also, insane, certifiably. He could stand pain. He wasn't scared of death. He was untouchable by defeat, and didn't seem to have any concern for anything besides his lighter. And he needed that lighter for later mayhem purposes; they were on a job, technically, but fuck it for now. He could break the Aussie and still have him fighting fit for later, if he needed.

Pyro hung from his grip, eyes flickering from Creed's to the lighter in Creed's hand to the ceiling to the floor to the walls back to the lighter back to the walls back to the floor, ceiling, walls, lighter, Creed - his breath was coming in shallow pants, and Creed felt St John's pulse hammering against his palm with every inhale the man took. His hair was flopping over his forehead into his eyes, and his jaw was set in a grim line.

It was turning him on; he hardened a little as John squirmed slightly under the pressure on his legs, and suddenly he knew how he could break the frail. Humiliate him. Teach him a lesson. He grinned.

Creed curled his fist around the lighter, then moved his hand to draw a line of blood down St John's face, in what was almost a caress, so gentle was the motion. "What would you do, Johnny, to get your precious lighter back?" He asked, taunting, then licked the blood up the side of the other man's face.

He was rewarded with John's fist meeting his face with considerable force; Creed roared with laughter at the mutinous look on St John's face before siezing him around the shoulders and throwing him to the ground.

"Never mind the bargain," he said roughly, gleefully. "It's more fucking fun when you fight, anyways!" He sprang at John, who'd been scrabbling away, tearing a swathe from the sleeve of the man's shirt. "You gonna take of your clothes or do you really want me to shred 'em?" He jeered, grabbing the other man and slamming him on his back on the floor.

"Get off me, you sick fuck," John said, and there was panic in his voice now; Creed relished it, sniffing deeply as fear assailed his nostrils, acrid and sharp and finally, finally there. What a fucking rush. He shoved Pyro's legs apart, bending over him, enjoying the way he eclipsed the other man.

What happened next was unexpected; Pyro bucked his hips up to meet Creed's, and the fear became tempered by... no, it wasn't controlled, it was contaminated. Sabretooth recognized the smell, but couldn't put a name to it for the life of him, and so put it aside as irrelevant. The punk was still scared, that was the thing. Humiliation was the key to putting the fucker in his place. Teach him to be scared. Oh fuck, yeah...

John had bucked his hips once again; his expression still defiant but his body beginning to writhe against Creed rather than away from him. That's when he smelled it. Lust. Fuck. The guy got turned on by being scared to death. Creed decided to dispense with formalities, and reached down to the buckle of Pyro's pants, only to find that the man was already wiggling out of them. He nearly laughed and stripped himself of his jeans with catlike grace.

Creed wrapped his hands around John's already hardening cock and squeezed, grinning down at him. "Looks like you're the sick fuck now," he taunted. John said nothing, cheeks flushed with sensation, and drove himself into Creed's hand. Creed himself was hard by this time already; the power he held in the situation, the heady scent of fear and lust, the fact that John both wanted and hated him all mingling to drive lust pulsing through him, hazing his brain. He spat on his hand, then worked a thick finger into the other man's ass, taking pleasure in the guttural grunt it drove out of John - whether it was pain or pleasure he didn't know, and didn't particularly care. Soon a second finger joined the first, and John was moaning like a bitch in heat, driving Sabretooth wild.

He withdrew his fingers suddenly and then stood, dragging Pyro up by the hair to kneel in front of him. "You know what to do," he smirked, then closed his eyes in pleasure as John's mouth went around his cock. He started to purr as the other man licked and sucked, and Creed took a large amount of satisfaction in the muffled noises John made as he rammed his cock down the Aussie's throat several times, using his hair as a handle.

Fuck, it was almost too good, and he had to stop before he fucking came all over John's face. He purred sadistically, and attempted to bend John over on his knees on the stone: Pyro, however, put up a struggle, knowing what was coming next. Sabretooth couldn't help but laugh as he expended minimal effort to force John down, and the scent of intermingled fear and lust washed over him again and again as he manhandled him to the ground. He thrust his wet cock into John's ass, and fuck, but he was tight, and hot, and yelling, but Sabretooth tuned him out as he began to move in and out rhythmically, and the yells turned to moans of pleasure, especially when Creed reached around John's body to grasp the other man's cock, working him hard.

John came first, gasping out a name that Creed didn't recognize, his muscle contractions sending Creed over the edge with a growl. He knocked John to the ground, then collapsed beside him, draping an arm over the other man's torso, claws pricking against his chest in slight warning. If the firebug so much as thought about moving, he'd know.

He drifted into a doze; Pyro stayed silent, or else was sleeping himself, and when Creed bothered to sit up again, the transponder told him they had two hours until the time limit was up. Creed fished around; grasping the other man's discarded overshirt, he tore it in shreds and used it to clean himself off, then put his jeans back on, throwing the rag onto Pyro, who took it and used it silently. He could use a fucking cigar.

He looked back at Pyro, smirking slightly. The other man was getting into his own jeans, looking worse for wear; a blue pattern of bruises was starting to appear across his back. Serve him right; Creed snorted. Punk was too uppity, thought he could -

John stood, his hand outstretched, palm upraised. Sabretooth raised his eyebrows in disbelief, in fucking disbelief, because the stupid fuck thought that he would actually...

"Hell fucking no," Creed grinned, and held the lighter up in one big hand. "You'll get it back the moment we see the enemy. In fact, I think I'll flick the damn thing for you, never mind - "

He was ready when John launched himself at him; what Creed wasn't expecting was for the man to go for his throat. Feet-first. John fell in a heap; Creed staggered, and Pyro kicked the man's feet out from under him, scrabbling to the side. Creed went down like a ton of bricks, rolling even as he fell, but he went to put his hand down and Pyro was there, kicking out, driving his toe into the soft flesh over the carpals, where palm met wrist.

The lighter sprang out of his open hand and John dived: Creed roared and leapt to his feet, into a wall of flame.

He couldn't see. He couldn't smell anything, he couldn't taste anything, except for the fire raging in a circular inferno around him - even on top of him. Fuck. Fuck, this was not - fuck. He could smell his hair beginning to crisp, his clothing becoming unbearably hot to the touch.

"All I wanted was my lighter," Pyro's voice came from beyond the curtain of flame, nonchalant and eerily conversational. "Not that it matters to you, you big bully. This is the part where I cackle and tell you I've won, haha, and you'll never defeat me, and here's exactly how I defeated you, you silly ass."

His tone was light, and Sabretooth snarled as the fire danced dangerously close, forced to back up, only to find that the fire was close enough to nip at his heels from behind.

"But I don't think I will," John continued, and there was a crunch; a moment later, the smashed transponder came sailing towards Creed's head from outside the flames. Creed stuck a hand through the wall, experimentally, and withdrew it in milliseconds - the fire was not a thin wall, but a thick radius. He wouldn't be surprised if it filled the entire room at this point.

There was a scraping sound, and Creed knew that John was opening the door that led further into the base they were to infiltrate.

"Now," came the Australian accent, glimmering hard with an indefinable tone, "should I bring the kitty to play alongside me? Or should I maybe just leave him right. Bloody. Here?"