In retrospect it probably was sick and twisted, but in all fairness not too many things in his world were sane or pure. It made perfect sense to seek out the nearest sleazy bar with sleazy chicks and crappy booze once the fight was over. And it made even more sense to search for very particular brand of girl. Girl, not a woman. Younger than the red headed goddess he had slain. More pliant and less dangerous than the crazed entity that had played him like a violin until Jean had pushed through at the last possible moment. Pure. Untamed and untainted.
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He wasn’t completely sure of what he had expected when he had paid for the whole night. Certainly not getting the wind knocked out and waking couple of hours later with a pounding headache and strange feeling of… Numbness? Weightlessness? Weakness.
The girl was already gone, probably left as soon as she had gotten him cleaned up. He sat up from where he laid, surprisingly comfortable bed squeaking slightly. For some reason his mugger had seen it fit to cover him with a warm quilt before emptying his pockets. Rather thoughtful. She had left him in the possession of the keys to his motorcycle as well.
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Next night he found himself sitting at the same bar, his eyes scanning the crowd. He could smell the girl. Vanilla and peppermint, both scents artificial, masking something underneath, something he couldn’t quite grasp a hold of, no matter how hard he tried.
He wasn’t all that sure of why he purposefully sought her again; certainly he wasn’t after his money. He could always make some more, and the girl looked like she would need every penny she could scrounge up. Perhaps he was just curious.
Or plain horny, after the only thing he hadn’t gotten from her for the previous night.
Whatever the reason he felt his body respond to her proximity on a completely new level, growing heavy and weary as soon as she laid her hand on his shoulder. The whole world got suddenly awfully narrow. Tiny. As tiny as the amateur hooker wannabe that was whispering her promises in to his ear until he felt the need to nod, to agree anything and everything she proposed.
And again he woke up from a dingy motel room alone, fully clothed, warm blanket tucked protectively around him.
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Third night was no exception. Girl picked him up effortlessly; he paid for the room, and woke up few hours later. But this time there was a tall glass of orange juice on a nightstand next to the bed. He drank it greedily, feeling parched.
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At the fourth night he had adamantly decided to stay awake through the whole deal. As soon as he felt the scratchy cotton of the bead spread under his back his resolve crumbled like a house made of straw, and he woke up couple of hours later, seriously pissed off.
He had known her several days. He had paid for her to have sex.
He didn’t have the slightest idea of what her name was.
He didn’t have the slightest idea of what happened during the hours he spent unconscious, but he was dead on sure that he wasn’t getting everything he had paid for. Actually, he had inkling that he wasn’t getting anything at all. Only one winning was the girl.
He decided not to go looking for her anymore. From then and there, he wouldn’t step in to that bar. If he went, he wouldn’t be sitting at the same booth as before. If he sat there, he wasn’t going to drink. And if he happened to order some beer, he wouldn’t be expecting company. And if she came, he…
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…Woke up. Slowly. He wasn’t feeling too well. Not good at all. He was cold, shivering and covered in cold, sticky sweat. There was no blanket on him, nothing to cover his bare chest. When he turned his head expecting to see the now familiar tall glass of orange juice he nearly fainted from the effort. And there was no juice. But there was something else. A tissue, and on top of it something red and white.
He narrowed his eyes. Teeth. They were teeth. Two sharp canines, one of them slightly cracked, both carrying scratches and dents from some kind of a tool. Blood on their roots was still fresh. He sat up carefully and clutched the bed spread underneath him when world tilted alarmingly. Weak. So fucking weak.
Sudden commotion from the outside made him curious. He threw on his shirt that he found neatly folded from a chair next to the bed, then went to the door and pushed it open. Slowly. Quietly. What he saw on the dimly lit parking lot outside made him discard all caution and barrel out, enraged roar forming somewhere deep inside of him.
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The girl wasn’t faring too well. He knew Storm would most likely have his hide as soon as she learned that he had brought a stranger in to the house, but he was out of options. He was just about loosing his mind, trying to figure out what was the deal with the girl, and now the goddamned chick was about to die on him.
He cradled her against his chest, trying to ignore how cold and lifeless she felt, trying his best to sneak in undetected. Right now his main concern was the girl, he couldn’t afford to get stopped by angry and irrational Storm. The girl needed… She needed… He knew the girl needed something. It was right at the tip of his tongue, but somehow it seemed to slip from his reach every time he was about to grasp it.
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Safely in his room he laid the girl on to the bed, then shrugged off his torn and bloodied jacket. The strange preacher that had been maiming the girl had gotten few pretty accurate strikes in on him as well. But there was no harm done. Nothing permanent at least. Sharpened crucifix the preacher had used had merely scratched his skin. The girl was whole another issue. She was bleeding from her mouth and numerous stabbing wounds all around her torso. Majority of the wounds were focused on her chest and upper stomach.
He sat on the edge of the bed, intending to open her shirt to see the extent of her injuries when her eyes fluttered open. They zeroed instantly to his face, fear and plain hunger shining in their brown depths.
“I’m so sorry…” She lisped. He had the time to see the gaps behind her lips, two bleeding, gaping holes at her upper jaw, then she lunged forward, tearing open his shirt.
She managed to force him down on the floor, her face buried to the crook of his neck, blunt teeth gnawing and tearing, breaking the skin and muscle, aiming for the jugular. After a few seconds he could feel more efficient tools locking on to place, her sharp canines sliding easily in and keeping the wound on the side of his neck open as she ate.
It hurt. Hurt like a bitch, but he was strangely reluctant to pry her off. Like it was important to take care of her. Take care of her needs. So he cradled her against him, trying not to squirm, trying not to pull away from her as she kept devouring his life drop by drop.
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When she was finished he could only lay on the floor, every limb lax and heavy. He felt sick. Empty. Cold. His heart was doing overtime, trying to circulate the little blood that was still left in him.
“I’m so sorry,” the girl whispered, then hauled him up from the floor, nearly dropping him before she managed to jostle him on to the bed. She took a thick blanket from the foot end of the bed, spread it over him and tucked it firmly around him, then stopped and just stared at him for a moment.
“What’s your name?” He managed to croak.
“Marie. My name is Marie,” she said, then turned towards the window. It struck him that she was going to leave when she pushed the window open and climbed on to the windowsill.
“What? No OJ?” He rasped, but when he managed to turn to look she was already gone.
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Story Notes:
First of, I took some major liberties with Marie's mutation. In this one she doesn't even have a mutation per say, but... And, she meets Logan for the first time after X3. So in a manner everything else except Marie and Logan meeting has happened prior this, and this story picks up after X3.