Tooth & Claw

by Kaylee

Thock! Thock! Thock! Thock!

Logan awoke to a rhythmic thumping...a hollow "crack!" that broke the quiet with steady regularity. Thock! Thock! Thock! Thock! He sat up, rubbing his eyes and fighting back a yawn. He was used to early mornings, but dawn hadn't even quite broken yet and the air was still bitterly cold once the warmth of the blankets slid down from his back. Blinking, he looked around the dim interior of the cabin. The bunk in the corner -- as rumpled as it apparently always was -- didn't contain a hulking form.

Thock! Thock! Thock! Thock!

He stood, this time letting the yawn escape, and stretched at length. Chill air nipped at him until he'd shivered his way into his clothing. He debated trying to go outside without the oversized sweater...but something told him the animal-man wouldn't stand for it. Face screwed up in distaste, he shrugged into the heavy thing and tried to make it less cumbersome by rolling the sleeves and belting the waist.

Thock!

Curiosity overcame him. He went to the doorway and pushed it open. The sun was rising to the east, golden rays creeping sluggishly over cold-clenched land. He shivered again and tucked hands into sleeves. The sound came from behind the cabin in the direction of the shed he'd glimpsed.

From behind the cabin.

Behind the cabin.

Out of line of sight...light still dim...or could the animal-man see as well as he could in the dark?

Could he...get away?

It was a tempting thought...until he glanced down at the snow and noted the huge boot tracks from the animal-man's passage. A scowl passed over the small face. The rising sun was melting the top of the fluffy layer of ice and making it crusty. It'd slow his going and make his progress painfully clear for any to see. He hadn't been able to escape even when he had a storm covering him. Not a chance in conditions that catered entirely to the enemy.

Enemy?

No. He was stuck here...at least for now. It would take watching, waiting...being as cunning as a brave.

Unconsciously, he stood a little taller and sucked air deep into his chest. A brave. Too small, too weak, too pale. But no one was telling him that now. No one spoke his language to remind him of his failings.

There was only him...and the animal-man. There wouldn't be any help from a kind-faced woman named White Deer or peace with a broadly smiling girl named Red Sparrow. He had to do it all on his own.

Whatever "it" was.

***

Thock! Thock! Thock! Thock!

The ax bit deep into the log. Thock! Corded wood split and gave beneath the sharp blade. Thock! Muscles were warm and loose, sweat glistening over his forehead and along his neck. Thock! He barely noticed the chill or the faint light as the sleepy sun crawled skywards. Thock!

This winter would be a cold one. The early storm told him that. He wasn't bothered by a little bit of frigid air, but the kid didn't have any meat on him at all. Would being able to heal so quickly save him from freezing to death if it came to that?

But Creed hadn't been little or weak in a long time.

There was a comforting sameness in the motions as he chopped wood. Steady. Thock! Rhythmic. Thock! Regular. Thock! Something to count on. Thock!

'Course, today there was something different, wasn't there?

The boy stood uncertainly beside the cabin, watching him. He caught glimpses from the corner of his eye, but didn't bother turning to face him directly. Even what little he saw made him snort in amusement. Kid looked like he was wearin' a damn dress, the way that sweater hung on him. If it weren't for the fierceness of his features and the half-braced, almost defensive stance, he might've been mistaken for a pretty sorry looking girl.

He didn't acknowledge the kid, and after a minute or two the boy took a few cautious-but-trying-not-to-look-fearful steps towards him. 'Not scared,' his body language tried -- unsuccessfully -- to lie. 'Calm. Confident. Brave.'

Not breaking his rhythm at all, Creed allowed himself a grim, amused smile.

Runt came closer...took a deep breath...closer still. Victor paid him no more attention than was necessary to make sure he wasn't in the way of his swing. After another moment, Logan fixed his dark eyes on the log he was busy splitting into kindling, face intent and interested.

"It's t' keep your scrawny ass from freezin' to death this winter," he explained, bored with the silence. "You're about as thin as they come, boy. Gotta get some meat on ya before the real weather hits."

Logan watched his face, not a trace of comprehension showing in his eyes. Creed snorted in disgust. He'd have to teach the kid language -- really teach him, like it or not. One more thing to add to the list of what he had to cover with the boy.

And he still had to decide just what he'd teach the kid before handing him back over to Paine's people.

The log split neatly. Victor propped the ax back against his shoulder and reached down to grab the pieces, tossing them into the growing pile to his right. Set up another log. Gathered ax handle between two strong hands, swinging... Thock!

When the split halves fell this time, one landed beside Logan's feet. The boy bent to it automatically and picked it up. Creed gathered up the other half and set it, then swung the ax to split it farther. Tossed the quarters in the pile and looked down at the kid.

Logan looked up, blinking, then stepped forward and carefully placed the half-log upright on the chopping block.

A blond eyebrow shot skywards. The boy stepped back and looked at him, at the ax, at the log, then back to him, expectantly.

"Huh." Victor shook his head. Raised the ax. Arced it down in a smooth motion. Thock!

Logan grabbed one of the split quarters and tossed it on the pile before walking around the block to heft another log into place.

So it went for a while. Creed swung the ax over and over again, a corner of his mind amused at the fascinated interest the boy was showing. Logan kept up with him and replaced the logs as rapidly as they were split, picking up the pieces and sending them soaring into the pile. Kid was stronger than he looked, too. He hardly struggled under the weight of the thick segments Victor'd chopped earlier.

The work went fast. Less than an hour after he'd started helping there was a respectable stack already piled up beside them. More than enough to keep a fire raging for a good long while, though Creed figured he could finish the logs he had stockpiled since he was at it. The rhythm took him -- safe, sane, regular. Swing -- Thock! Pull back. Raise. Swing -- Thock! For the first time in recent memory, he was almost...content. Lost in the work. Feeling like nothing more than a salt-of-the-earth fella preparing to weather out a winter.

Until the kid was slow getting his hands back one time as he set up a log. Until he saw the blade curving sweetly down through the air towards the bony wrists.

He jerked his elbows to the side, turning the blow. The boy snatched his hands back, but Creed didn't see.

His hands slipped away from the handle, trembling just a little. He tried hard not to look at them, not to see the way they'd appear too small, too slim, too young... No...not gonna...think you're gonna chop my fuckin' hands off, do ya? Kill you, you goddamn--

Fingers flexed. Claws slipped neatly out, gleaming wickedly sharp in the morning light. Strong hands. Firm hands. Muscle stretched across the pad of palms...tendons and sinew taut. Hair dusted the backs lightly, gracing sun-marked skin with the contrast of golden-blond. A man's hands...not a boy's.

But what kind of man owned hands like these?

The ax was buried at the edge of the chopping block where the deflected blow had landed it. Creed stared at it for a moment, then felt his lip twist in a snarl as he turned sharply. There was more than enough kindling already. No need to finish the rest today.

The boy was looking at him expectantly, a line of confusion between his brows. In a low voice Creed growled, "Watch your fuckin' hands, boy." He started back towards the cabin and the jug of mountain-brewed booze that waited for him, ignoring the words the kid spoke and the tone of question in his voice. Just as he was about to round the corner and step onto the porch he heard a grunt from behind him and the faint chuff of the ax-head being yanked from the wood. Face still dark and forbidding, he turned to see just what the little fool was doing.

Logan held the ax, looking all but ready to stagger under the weight. His small hands barely fit around the thick handle. He wasn't watching Victor -- was instead fully involved in trying to balance the tool and heft it over his scrawny shoulders. His back was to Creed, but the man could tell the boy's eyes were fixed on the log propped atop the block before him.

The boy braced his legs against the weight of the ax...raised his arms 'til the tool was arced over his shoulders and behind him...grunted again as he jerked his body forward a little to be able to swing the ax overhead...

Creed forgot about his distraction and laughed out loud when the tooth of the ax cleanly missed the log and glanced off the block, barely nicking that already-scarred wood. And oh, how that little body stiffened at that! Victor half-expected the boy to whirl around and give him that baby glare. He'd obviously hit a sore spot. Kid really didn't like being laughed at.

Who does? he thought mockingly, grinning fiercely.

But the boy didn't turn despite the tight set of his body and the moment of frozen-stiff anger Creed saw. Instead he hefted the ax again, raising the blade once more and beginning the whole laborious process again. Victor leaned a shoulder against the side of the cabin and settled himself to watching, reminding himself absently to remember any tidbits that might give him clues for how to train the runt.

Logan swung again. Missed again. Tried again.

Creed lost track of how many repetitions were run through before the boy stopped and leaned against the propped ax to rest. By that time Logan had done an absolutely beautiful job of mangling the log. The wood was scarred at every angle; every angle but the correct one, that was. Sweat had thoroughly soaked through clothing so that the sweater hung damply around Logan's neck. The kid's breath was labored at what was -- in his condition, at least -- hard work.

"Call it a day, boy. You ain't no lumberjack." The note of humorous approval in his voice startled him. He hadn't realized his dark mood had so completely lifted. "You're too damn scrawny. Need some meat on your bones 'fore you'll be able t' handle that thing proper."

Logan glanced over his shoulder at him, but when Creed made no move towards him the boy lifted the ax once more in arms that damn near trembled with fatigue, lugging it back to its improper position behind his back and preparing to try again.

"I said leave off. You're gonna chop off your goddamn foot."

Logan swung, ax landing almost squarely, but without the proper arc to let the weight of the blade do the work.

"You are a dense li'l shit, ain't ya?"

The ax rose again in that predictable, inefficient manner.

"Goddamnit," Victor muttered, trying not to smile. Stubbornness was a trait he knew well, and one he appreciated even in a flyweight bantam like this. "Damn halfwit brat. Stupid brainless sonuva squaw."

Another unsuccessful strike. Could set a fuckin' watch by the kid's reliable failure.

***

Logan would have been scowling if he hadn't already realized that the expression brought him only scorn from the animal-man. His pride was already smarting enough from countless failed strikes to avoid adding that to the burden. When the yellow-hide had swung the tool, it had looked light; almost easy. It wasn't all that different from a very large tomahawk, he rationalized. And he'd been better than most with that particular weapon after his days upon days of practicing to make himself more proficient. Natural disadvantages in size had meant that he'd had to work twice as hard to get half the respect, and he'd applied himself to the task with fierce concentration.

But he hadn't imagined that learning to use the giant tomahawk would be so hard.

The animal-man watched and laughed and mocked him as so many others had. He gritted his teeth and ignored the sting of the scorn. Let the creature laugh. He'd show the man. He'd be as calm and strong and skilled as any brave would be.

With a little-- Thock!-- practice.

His breath was loud in his ears and the man was quiet. That's why he didn't notice when the yellow-hide approached. That's what he told himself, at any rate.

Admitting that the man was more skilled at the silent approach than he was didn't really fit his idea of what a brave's image should be.

One moment he was hefting the weapon again, grunting under the burden, and the next he felt with a start the strong, solid hands that covered his and effortlessly raised the tomahawk. He gave an involuntary jerk forward away from the restraint, but the animal-man held him easily -- as easily as he'd confined him each other time he'd had the inclination.

Sounds came from the animal-man's mouth; words that made little sense to him, but that tugged at something beyond ready memory and made him think of another voice...one he couldn't really remember, but that was comfortably buried in his mind regardless. The big fingers were firm but not tight over his. His own hands were slid farther apart across the smooth, splinterless wood of the handle.

Over the pounding of his heart he listened to the tone in that grating voice. The threat was implicit, as always, but not dancing at the surface of the words as it had been no few times before. With effort, he made himself relax as the animal-man lifted his arms and raised the tomahawk. No escape...play along...don't show fear...

The last was very, very hard. Even for a brave.

Then the muscled arms that bracketed him arced out and downward, swinging the heavy weapon in a smooth, sweet curve, and Logan's eyes widened as the blade obediently landed squarely and split the log most of the way down the center.

It had worked. Angle...swing...arc... It had worked!

He grinned suddenly, baring small teeth in that expression so rarely seen by the braves he'd idolized. Frustration fled. He could do it. Size didn't matter. Only the angle, the swing, the arc...

Excited by this discovery, he squirmed until the animal-man took his big hands away. Then Logan tugged at the giant tomahawk until it pulled free of the wood, raising the tool and positioning it just as he'd been shown. His face was fierce with concentration. He didn't even pause to think of how the animal-man might mock him for that.

Thock! Off by a fraction, spinning the log and knocking it sideways. Impatiently he bent to straighten it, then set up again. Thock! Closer that time. The blade had missed the notch and buried itself halfway down one of the solid sides. He jerked it free again, panting, and raised it once more.

Thock-crack!

For a moment he just stared, heart still thud-thudding with the exertion. The tomahawk had wedged into the block after splitting the log into two nearly-even halves. His fingers still gripped the handle, now slick with sweat.

He whirled suddenly, tearing his hands from the handle and grinning again, pointing insistently behind him and opening his mouth to tell the animal-man what he'd just done, how exciting it was, how he'd mastered the giant tomahawk.

But the animal-man had vanished...hadn't even stayed to watch him. Hadn't accorded him enough worth for that.

His face fell, then was immediately schooled back into a blank stare. Eyes slid resentfully to the chopping block and the two halves that had dropped to the earth on either side. He glared at the thing that had been his small but needed triumph. Even in this he was given no regard. He'd emulated that disgusting yellow-hide...tried to show that he wasn't weak and helpless...and it had earned him nothing. Nothing.

Disgustedly, he turned his back on it and stared resentfully across snow-swathed ground past the cabin, debating once more the risk of making a run for it.

***

Creed knew wind patterns...knew them better than most of the animals he hunted. No matter how keen the kid's sense of smell might be, the boy wouldn't be able to catch wind of him where he stood so silently in the growing shadow of the shed. He was thirsty and hungry after spending the better part of the day watching the runt fuck up, and that didn't contribute to a generally pleasant mood.

But it had been...interesting...watching the boy. A helluva lot could be learned by observation, and that was a skill that he excelled in when his impatience didn't interfere. So once he'd shown him how to swing the ax properly, he'd slid back and sideways through the snow, carefully sticking to already tramped ground, and then he'd set himself to learning what he could about whatever more there might be to this kid than a pissy attitude and bullshit scowl.

The boy split the log, and the intensity on the young face suddenly turned to utter elation. For a moment Creed could only stare in blank surprise that he wasn't even aware bordered on wonder. Innocent joy had no place in his life. A child's pure happiness at something so simple, so...trivial...meant nothing to him.

But the expression caused him to wonder in some deep, half-forgotten place-- Had he ever felt that way? Had his face ever been empty of all but a moment's pleasure?

He knew the answer. He wasn't so old that he couldn't remember his beginnings or the events that had shaped his life.

And there'd been no room for innocence anywhere in his past.

Then -- face still transformed by that excitement -- the boy turned, pointing at the block...

And saw that he wasn't there to be impressed.

Poor baby, he thought, mockery layering the words.

Thin shoulders sagged for just a moment in a hint of disappointment. Didn't last long, though. After only a moment his head came up and his shoulders shoved back stiffly. Creed watched and waited, settling in patiently, and wondered just who the boy thought he was fooling. Pride? In a pipsqueak like that? Nah. He was too damn scared to be proud. Too lost and alone. Sooner that was disposed of, the better for his teaching.

But a horse with a broken spirit could never quite compete with a horse whose spirit was whole, but reined in. Maybe it wasn't so different with this boy. Maybe he could leash that spark and turn it fully on not just Paine, but also whoever Paine worked for. Make those people pay for thinking Victor Creed could be taken for granted like this.

As if hearing him, Logan turned back to the chopping block with an impressively impassive stare. If Victor hadn't seen the flash of fury and disappointment just moments ago, he might've bought it. Now what? A fit of temper? Would he turn from the block and skitter for the woods? Leave it be and head sullenly for the cabin?

Suddenly...snarl? And...pick the ax back up?

Huh. Yeah, that's what the kid was doing. The impassive mask slipped enough to show the anger and embarrassment on the young face as he jerked the handle of the ax to draw the tooth free. Teeth glinted when he set a half-log up to chop into quarters, eyes intent, body tight and furious. A slow grin creased Creed's face: That expression was too funny on the li'l guy. Pint-sized terror, his mind whispered, and for a moment he had to struggle to keep from laughing. Sawed-off fireplug... Savage li'l pipsqueak...

Oblivious to his amusement, Logan chopped. Again. And again. Mask slipping farther and farther away, eyes taking on as much pain as fury, little body quivering with exhaustion, but not quitting. He started talking -- chanting? -- saying something with every strike; something that sounded angry and bitter and not-quite-defeated. Again. And again. And again.

And again.

When the scent of the blood from broken blisters reached him and the early dusk was settling quietly into place, Victor crept silently from his vantage point and around the cabin, coming up behind the boy and intentionally scuffing feet through snow to announce his approach. Logan was gasping, sweating, shivering, and chopping -- ignoring him.

It really was almost cute.

"Enough, boy."

Swing-- Thock!

"I said enough, boy."

Swing-- Thock!

Irritation rose swiftly. Creed let his next word be carried on a low, nerve-jangling growl. "Enough."

Logan whirled, ax raised, eyes wide, lips drawn back in a rictus of startled fear. His hands clenched the handle tightly and the tooth of the (weapon) tool was drawn back over his shoulder, ready to swing forward with a pull and bury the business end in the most convenient target.

But he froze. Good thing, 'cause Creed was surprised enough that he didn't automatically jump outta the way. Boy might've actually nicked him if he'd tried.

But the boy froze, instinctive reaction held back by an even deeper-level realization of just what he faced. Boys like this didn't attack men like Creed. Not if they wanted to live. And whatever else Victor could say about the boy, he couldn't mutter a word about the kid not understanding that.

In that moment of startled hesitation, Victor's voice dropped very, very low. "You better just run this through your head a few times, boy. Run it through real quick."

Logan's jaw tightened briefly. He said something -- an excuse? Apology? Something, anyway, that accompanied the dropping ax. Creed didn't change expression at all as the tool thudded to the ground. He thought about it. I saw it in his fuckin' face. He thought about goin' for me!

With a single long stride Creed was right in front of the boy, bending swiftly and catching the ax handle in one hand, reaching and grabbing the oversized sweater that sheathed the boy in the other. He jerked Logan to him, turning him sharply and raising the ax blade directly before the startled eyes. Logan didn't even try to struggle this time. His breath shallowed. That familiar fear-scent rose up.

"Let's get this straight right from the get-go, boy... I'll put up with a lotta shit, but this..." He brought the ax blade closer 'til the edge was very near Logan's stiff and frightened face. "Nuh uh. Don't even think it." He shook the boy hard, once. "They ain't payin' me enough for that."

The boy started to babble. He shook him again. The words cut off to be replaced by nervous trembling. An animal in his clutches, realizing a heartbeat too late that the predator couldn't be evaded. For a moment the world threatened to swim red before Creed's eyes -- the heavy scent of terror, the shuddering of the small form in his grasp, the lingering anger and shock that the runt would even consider trying to hurt him...

Before the crimson could rise all the way to meet the pounding of blood in his veins Creed raised the ax and chopped it down hard into the block, releasing the boy in the same motion. Logan jerked forward and skittered back; just a few steps...he'd learned well enough that real escape was hopeless. Fear and shame and fury and bitter, shattered pride mingled freely in those hard, dark eyes.

For a moment the image of the kid's face upon his first success with the ax overlaid Victor's vision; that unfettered elation, the eagerness to share it.

The red receded more, sinking back down to nestle uneasily in his gut where it always waited.

He's a fuckin' kid, Creed reminded himself, truly making himself think about it for the first time. He don't know what t' think or feel or do...he's just playin' along an' tryin' not to fuck it up too bad. And had there really been threat there when he'd first turned, ax raised? Or had that been a runt's natural defensiveness against a dangerous world that didn't much like the puny ones?

Somewhere deep inside, Victor understood the last.

Shoving the realization as far from consciousness as he could, Creed stepped aside and pointed towards the cabin unceremoniously. Kid hadn't eaten all day, and work like this in his condition was a lot more wearing on a little body like that than on his own. Logan's eyes were resentful, flashing rebellion for only a moment...then dropping from his in what looked like forced submission. Without a sound or another glance, the boy walked past him. He wasn't quite successful in hiding his exhaustion; his feet faltered, steps fouled by snow, and his shoulders sagged despite his efforts to hold them squared. He was shivering again -- not from fear this time. The makeshift fix of the oversized sweater wasn't going to help him much at all this winter.

They'd have to go into town, then. Use some of the money he was being paid for playing warden to fit the runt with some decent clothes. Victor's lip curled faintly at the thought of that. Trips into town at the best of times irritated him; a visit with this kid would be worse.

He stooped to gather an armload of kindling, hearing the cabin door slam shut. Had to feed the kid...get him out of those sweat-soaked clothes...figure out just how he was gonna handle a wild Injun-raised brat in town...

"I'm tellin' Paine I want more money," he muttered to himself. He shifted the wood, and a splinter from one of the kid's poorly chopped logs gouged a small gash into his thumb. An irritable swear slipped out. He juggled wood until he could raise the thumb to sourly examine the rapidly closing wound. "A lot more money," he growled, finding some small consolation in the thought. "Heaps more."

It helped some. Not much, but some.

The only thing that'd make it more worthwhile would be the expression on Paine's pinched-up face when the little weapon he wanted so bad was finally handed back to him.

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