What The Cat Dragged In Ch. 21

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The move to a new location at least provided a more comfortable chair. Almost as soon as he sat down with her, Creed found that he was everyone's favorite attraction. The large window that separated the frail's room from the rest of the space made Creed feel like they were sitting in a fishbowl. If there had been blinds, he would have closed them.

The weather witch was the first to show up. She just stood there, fucking staring. He stared back. She turned and left. Clearly the kids were back because the older, braver ones seemed to show up a couple at a time. They were always quickly chased out, but not before they'd had their look. The old man himself even rolled through a few times. After that, Creed felt like charging admission. "See Kelly Demmer, half mutant, half human!" Didn't take him long to realize the frail wasn't the biggest reason they showed up.

It was him.

They wanted to see the monster they'd heard stories about. The heartless bastard they'd grown to hate over years of conflict and battles. The fucking animal that had been invited into the clean, safe heart of their little slice of Westchester paradise. It pissed him off. He added it to the list and kept his eyes on the monitors. Each increasingly erratic and ineffectual heartbeat was traced out in vibrant orange. Blood pressure dropped more slowly, but even he could see that there was a steady decline.

He didn't need the monitors or the looks the caretakers gave him. He could smell her dying in slow inches. Every hour that ticked by he waited for some sign of improvement. A more rhythmic heartbeat. A deeper breath. Anything. Nothing came.

Nothing came for four days. The look on the ape's face told him that it never would.

"I don't think-"

He stared at the pale body in the bed. "Shut up. You don't have to tell me. I can smell it."

"If you want to go-"

"I said shut the fuck up." He got up and stood next to her. Most of the swelling had gone from her face, but the bruising was still there. He stared at the tubes and wires and hated them even more now than he had before. "Unhook all this shit."

"If I do that-"

The deep growl was out before he could stop it. "If you do it what? She'll die in ten minutes instead of thirty? You won't know the exact moment it happens? Unhook it all and leave me alone with her."

The ape nodded. It took five minutes to free her from all the tubes and wires. After that, Jimmy and the ape both left. The door was shut and a screen was moved in front of the outside of the window. When he was satisfied that he was alone, he wrapped the thin blanket around her and lifted the frail off of the bed. He sat down in the chair he'd spent the last four days in, her head resting against his shoulder. He forced a deep purr to rumble through his chest because he knew she liked it.

"I fucked it up, frail. We shoulda stayed in Chicago. Or Maine. Or anyplace I didn't have to trust some stranger with your safety. Even then, if I'd been paying attention it wouldn't have happened." He had no idea if the last part was true, but it felt true to him. Her breathing was getting shallower. He shifted his hand so that one finger rested against the pulse in her neck. It was weak and irregular. Each thready little flutter cut him deeper than Jimmy's blades had. None of his second-guessing would matter now. He'd have centuries alone to tear himself apart.

He rested his cheek against her forehead and felt the warmth draining from her skin. Her shallow breathing slowed until it stopped all together. Her pulse fluttered twice more under his finger, then that stopped too.

He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the wall. For a moment, he was numb. Then the pain of loss tore through his veins like a white-hot fire. It was worse than anything physical he'd ever suffered. It was even worse than the loss of Jimmy. He dug his claws into the upholstered arm of the chair, barely containing the roar that rose in his throat.

Creed sat there for what seemed like hours, the weight of the frail in his lap, the pain of her loss ripping through him. When he trusted himself, he looked back down at her. The only way he could assure himself that she was dead was to look at her. He tilted her chin up and thought he noticed a lessening in the bruising around her eyes.

Imagination. Had to be.

Her chest rose and fell weakly.

The misfiring of a brain that doesn't realize it's dead, he told himself. Seen it a million times.

Then it happened again, only it was deeper and more sustained this time. He studied the bruises on her face again. Most of the ones that were still purple were taking on a greenish-yellow tinge.

Another, stronger breath. This one looked almost normal.

It was stupid. Probably a hallucination. But what if it wasn't? He touched the side of her neck and found her skin warmer, a pulse fluttered under his fingers. It was weak, but regular. With each little throb it seemed to grow stronger.

As he sat there transfixed it grew into a normal rhythm. So did her breathing. The scent of death receded and he thought he caught the scent of sweet vanilla. This was not a trick of his mind. He could imagine death and torment with a clarity that shocked most people, but to imagine life was beyond his capacity.

The bruises that had been nearly healed were gone. The ones that were still dark and angry were fading. The wound on her head was beginning to knit together.

He shook her shoulders carefully. "Frail?"

Her eyes fluttered, but didn't open.

"Frail?" He spoke louder and shook her shoulders again.

This time she opened her sea-glass eyes and focused on his face. "Victor?" Her voice was raspy. She reached up to stroke his cheek. He covered her hand with his. "I thought I only dreamed that you came for me."

"Wasn't a dream frail." He held her tight. She snuggled against his chest, fitting as she always had. One hand covered her ear. He turned toward the door. "McCoy! Jimmy!"