2014.02.23 - Even Monsters Deserve Love

It is...tomorrow. Well, it's today, but today is the tomorrow of yesterday. And, it's actually late afternoon. Probably around 4pm or something. Typhoid Mary did not come home the night before. No, after tying up Harley, Mary went out and had herself a lovely bender. She got shit-faced and carried home by a new acquaintance with very sharp claws. When she woke up the next morning, she had quite a few...wounds...and a killer hangover. She also had an early meeting with the Nextwave people. After suffering through a boring-ass presentation and a listing of rules, Mary left the building and went in search of a resolution to her claw and bite marks.

After meeting with her newly retainer-ed healer, getting her health restored, and making her way home in the rain, Mary enters the penthouse, leaving her umbrella outside the front door. She's holding a bottle with strange writing on it....and she calls out, "Harls? Did Wade untie you or are you near loss of limbs?" As she says this, she shoves Lou off the sectional and forcefully points at the stinky couch, where Bud's already sleeping. She settles on the already-warmed portion of the sectional and begins digging her phone out of her back pocket. She's in the mood for chinese food.

"WHAT?" comes Harley's shrill response, from the No Man's Land (so to speak) of the bathroom.

Harley emerges, heralded by plumes of steam, dripping wet with a towel that apparently belonged to a hotel in Jamaica wrapped around herself. "Ya gonna have to speak up, rasta, I'm wearin' a towel!" Harley walks into the sitting room, not much caring that she's tracking water everywhere. "Yeah, Wade came an' untied me. Woke me up, even." Harley holds the towel up around herself as she heads to the hyena-couch, where Lou has joined Bud, so she can pet them, scratch their ears, and make soppy baby talk that most humans would not use for hyenas.

Turning around, her wet hair in her face, Harley asks, "You have a good time doin' whatever it was you was doin' that I had to be all tied up for ya ta do?"

Victor Creed steps out of Mary's bedroom, wearing a pair of Wade's Looney Tunes pajama pants and a wifebeater of his own. He has a lit cigar, rolling it between his clawed fingers as he leans his massive body against the doorframe, an amused look on his face as he takes in the betoweled Harley and, of course, a freshly healed Mary, "Oh, she had a hell of a time," he says, his voice a husky growl, "Although I can see ya got rid o' my love marks already. If I had a heart, you'd 'ave wounded it," he says. "So this is your clown girl, huh? Not bad. Human, though. Tsk. So fragile."

Typhoid Mary leans her head backwards to look at Harley as she exits the shower, her dreads spilling down the back of the couch. "Oh, good. I'm glad, 'cause I promised I'd hurt him badly if he didn't remember to untie you. Fuckin' can't believe he showed up," she grumbles, lifting her head to follow the freshly cleaned clowngirl's movements through the room. Her mouth is open to answer the question when Creed comes out, talking. Mary...was not expecting this. She jolts in her seat, jumping up and spinning around. "What the....!" Her mouth is agape, "I thought you took me to your place! WHAT. I..." Turning to Harley, she says, "I..." Typhoid kneels on the couch, facing Creed and Harley. "Look, you did some pretty bad damage to me in your enthusiasm, Victor. I know I'm a great lay, but I could barely move and I definitely need new bedsheets," she scowls at the big man. To Harley, she sighs, "Harley, Victor, Victor, Harley," she waves a hand back and forth. "You, Victor, will not lay your claws on that clown girl. I was tryin' to protect her from you--what a laughable concept. How the fuck did you get me to tell you how to get here??" she crosses her arms over her chest.

You paged Victor Creed with 'Obviously, heart-rate spike at seeing him. Maybe from surprise, but it's staying steadily fast, considering. Pheromones are ramping up. She's even blushing a bit, maybe.'

The entrance of Creed makes Harley raise up on her tip toes, as if that would give her a better vantage point from which to observe him. (Then again: he is pretty big.) She seems surprised, certainly. Her eyes are wide and her brow is very slightly furrowed. But she doesn't seem alarmed or scared.

"'Scuse me, Vic, but I'm a clown /lady/," Harley says, turning up her nose in faux snootiness, like a caricature of a wealthy dowager. "An' when the two'a you face down the Bat we can have a talk about fragility, okay? Actin' like I'm yer Faberge egg or somethin'. You believe this, Bud?"

Bud is awake, sniffing at the air, and getting up to stare right at Creed. "'No, Harley, I don't believe it at all!'" Harley replies, in "Bud's" voice. She rests a hand on the hyena's back. "Easy, boy. Just 'cause his sausage is pressin' at those too-tight jammy bottoms like they're fit to burst don't mean you can bite it."

Victor Creed looks down at the hyena and gives a snarl of his own, far more vicious or terrifying than anything a hyena could possibly manage, his alpha predator vibe backing the animal away from him. "Scavengers," he mutters, then looks back up, "I ain't here to do any killin' or cuttin', just...wanted t'see yer place. Plus, if I'm around a bit, Wade can't pull his usual dodgin' your calls routine," He says, "An' don't worry, doll, you didn't haveta tell me...just went back to the bar an' followed your original trail back t'the source. An' then I found these nice jammies an' took a nap until ya got home. How was your day, dollface?" he says, taking a long draw on his cigar.

"Look here," Typhoid Mary starts, frowning at Harley, "I know you think you're invulnerable, but y' ain't. An', I dunno how Joker ever kept your fine ass alive, considerin' how much you love jumpin' in the line of danger. It's fuckin' exhaustin'. I gotta tie your ass up if I'm gonna protect ya. An' DON'T tell me you don't need protectin'. 'Cause you could'a easily died the other night. So!" Her chest heaves and her cheeks are pink. Her brows are furrowed and it's clear she means BUSINESS. Her pulse is rising.

Then, Creed's growling at Bud, and Bud's backing away, and Harley's probably getting angry... And, Mary grits her teeth. "Well," she says through those gritted teeth. "At least, I didn't tell you. You and your damned sniffer. Those jammies, by the way, are Wade's. So, your junk is touchin' where his junk touches," she points out. "My day...was very painful until about two hours ago, thank you very much," she says, turning around to sit on the couch more properly. "I'm ordering Chinese food. Work it out and without bloodshed or BAD SHIT'S GONNA HAPPEN," she says, punching in the number of her favorite takeout place.

Hyenas don't go into one-on-one fights they can't win. Bud backs down, lowering back onto the couch with an unhappy rumble. Harley continues to pet his neck with one hand while holding her towel up with the other. "What, with Ra's? Pff. Me an' Ghoolie go way back. I remember this one time, we was on a boat, an' I had just murdered Jude Law and was posin' as him to live his fabulous WASPy kinda life, an' I'm out on a boat with Ra's an' he laughs an' lifts his drink to me, an' let me tell ya, it was just perfect, me with my tennis whites, Ra's all blonde and kinda rotund..."

Harley pets Bud more, as she leans in, more talking to him than Mary or Creed, using her baby voice. "That totally happened, didn't it, Budsie-Udsie? Yes it did. Yes it /did/."

Harley stands straight, looking back at Creed. "Y'know, smokin' a cigar kinda loses somethin if you ain't wearin' one of those itty-bitty derby hats tilted to the side, too."

"Also- and I'm just spitballin' here- I'm sure those are a lot roomier in the crotch than you're used to." Hah! That's a penis joke. Yes, that's why it's funny. Haha. Penis! "Haha! Dick jokes." Deadpool leans sideways and bobbles his eyebrows at the women, standing about three feet behind Sabretooth. There's the distinctive click of a safety being disengaged, and it becomes apparent that Deadpool's got standoff on Sabretooth and one of his custom armor-piercing pistols aimed at the back of Creed's skull. He's smart- close enough that the moment Creed twitches, he'll get a bullet in the brain, but far enough away that the old spin and disarm isn't gonna work.

"You're just lucky those ain't my /favorite/ pajamas," Deadpool points out to Creed. "Those are just the ones I wear after Chalupa night." Penis!

"Enough with the dick jokes!" he says out loud.

"So, ladies, how bad is Creed annoying us? We talking seeing how much damage a fifty dollar bullet does, or more just seeing how effective Vicky's healing factor is?"

"If you're ordering Chinese, I'll have the cream of sum yung gui," he informs Mary. He sniggers.

Penis!

"I SAID, NO GOD-DAMNED BLOOD-SHED, WADE WILSON," Typhoid Mary bellows. "Put it UP or you won't GET dick, GOT IT? HAH. HAH." She resumes her attempts to find the /right/ Chinese delivery place, her favorite one--the one that never judges her about how much food she orders.

Victor Creed doesn't even bother to look surprised or frightened by Wade's arrival, even the press of the gun against the back of his skull not much bothering him. Creed stopped worrying about dying a long time ago, "Fer a guy makin' dick jokes, you sure carry enough phallic symbols," he snorts. "See, the problem with your little plan is, if I don't die, then you just pureed the part of my brain that keeps me from just rippin' you an' the clowngirl up for meat...I wonder, how does yer healing factor work if you're in my gut? Am I just full forever? Hmmmmmm..." he ponders and draws long and hard on his cigar as Typhoid interjects, "See, now, that girl...I like her. Knows what she wants, doesn't take any shit. You know you're on borrowed time with her, right? Not just 'cause we made the beast last night - although we did - but because she, like every other person with half a brain, gets tired of your schtick and your jokes and that roadrash you call a face and walks away." He chuckles, "Now, why don't you put down your boomstick, we order up some noodles, talk a little business and see if you can get Predator on Netflix. Damn, I love me some Arnie."

"Clown /lady/," Harley corrects Creed. She walks through the stand-off -- ducking under Wade's outstretched gun-arm -- to get to her bedroom.

The door swings shut, then back open, maybe a half second later, and Harley emerges with her hair done up, her make-up on, and some red and black casualwear that's still suitable for murder. "An' WHO, might I ask, would ever get tired'a jokes?" Harley flounces toward the sectional, vaulting over the back of it so that she can land on her back with a 'whump' and pretzel herself into a comfortable, compact resting position. "Predator ain't funny. Jingle All the Way? Now THAT'S funny. Y'know we never even see Sinbad's family in it? I bet he's makin' his whole Turboman sob story up! HA!"

Typhoid Mary sighs and rubs her face as the phone rings. When the person answers the phone, she begins ordering from memory. She orders a LOT of food. More than she could ever eat on her own. More than most people would order for a party. But, Wade's a big eater and Creed's a big eater, so. If she or Harley want anything to eat, it's gotta be a lot of food. She orders drinks, as well, even though she's clutching a bottle between her thighs as she sits on the sectional. She's holding that bottle very tightly.

When she's done paying with credit card, she hangs up the phone and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Please? Just... Please? I feel a monster headache coming on. The bitch is dying to get out," she groans, rubbing her temples. "So, everyone sit. Sit. The food will be here soon. Find something on TV. I'm going to try not to lose my shit. I am stressed the fuck out," she says, talking quickly. Very quickly.

"Yeah, but you've still got a little dick," Deadpool points out for Creed's benefit. He drops the FN 5.7 back into a holster and walks over to Mary, vaulting the sofa effortlessly and flopping on the seat next to her. Because he typed the pose out already, Deadpool lands squarely on Harley. There's some wrestling and kicking, possibly biting, and they resolve a jumbled, uncompromising position on the couch, fighting for the comfy seat. Deadpool kicks both his legs straight out in front of him and starts fiddling with the remote. "And no, what happens is I rip my way out your asshole like a habanero chimichanga from Paparelle's on 31st street," Deadpool adds, over his shoulder. He snorts derisively. "Heh. Like he's the first thing that's threatened to eat me," Deadpool chortles to Mary. Penis! Deadpool flails his arms overhead, trying to ward off the text boxes. "Harley! You look like a clown worse than death. And we're watching some Golden Girls," he adds, holding the controller out of arm's reach of the girls and trying to navigate the Xbox to the show. "Oh, Bea. So perfect," he sighs, trying to turn the show on.

As soon as Wade mentions ripping out of an asshole, Harley says from sort of underneath him, "Oh, good idea, see if Alien 3 is on."

"Species I," Deadpool counters. "All the alien killing, ten times the titties. Natasha Henstridge, RAWR."

"Seconded," Typhoid Mary says at the mention of Natasha Henstridge.

Victor Creed watches the interplay between the surrealist trio, unable to suppress a chuckle, "I'll be damned," he says. Harley might actually be as crazy as Wade, something Creed wasn't sure was possible. He'd make more of it, his nostrils catching the way Typhoid's pulse spikes when she mentions 'her', and figuring that maybe exacerbating the situation would be counterproductive. Yes, Creed can actually show restraint. He just usually doesn't feel like it. He moves around and drags up a chair next to Mary, interposing her between him and the Harleypool pile, "S'long as aliens rippin' up somebody, I'm plenty happy. Dibs on the potstickers," he says, acting like he just belongs there.

"I don't remember that Golden Girls episode," Harley says when Wade suggests Species. "Oh! It was a Golden Palace one, that's why. With pro golfer Don Cheadle -- crazy how he used to be an actor, back then."

Harley wriggles until she's sitting on the back of the sectional, and drapes her legs over Wade's shoulders, leaning down on his head like some sort of horrible Deadpool perch. She casts a look over at Creed beside Mary and the other two, and thoughtfully steals some of Deadpool's gum out of one of his pouches or whatever, thoughtfully unwrapping it and then thoughtfully chewing it.

Typhoid's body, for those sitting close to her, is really putting off some heat. She runs hot, but this is excessive for her usual, everyday feverishness. She's twisting that bottle in a circle between her thighs as she watches the TV flick back and forth. Golden Girls, a commercial, flick flick, flick flick. Creed is on one side, Wade is on the other and Harley is above Wade, chewing gum. The food. She's hungry. She'd like to eat, now. Why is she so strung out? What is this feeling?

She rubs her palms on her thighs and sighs, "Just.. Put something on and stop changing the channel. I feel like my skin is crawling. I've got to... I've got to cool off." Yes. She's burning up. She gets up abruptly and starts scooting past Creed with the intention of going to the kitchen to put her head in the sink and run some cold water over it.

SCENE: Typhoid Mary has set the pose order.

-]------[- Harley, Typhoid Mary, Deadpool, Creed -]<>[-

"Hey get me some cheetos!" Deadpool yells over his shoulder. He doesn't seem to mind Harley stealing his gum- in fact, he reaches up, fishes around in her mouth, and filches it right back, chewing happily. "And now I'm not all outta bubblegum!" Best. Fight Scene. Ever. He puts Species I on and promptly fast forwards to the part where Natasha gets nekkid, then jabs Harley in the thigh. "Hey spider monkey, grab me a beer, willya?"

Victor Creed lets Mary by, but then gets up and follows her into the kitchen, "She ain't yer wife yet, Wilson," he snarks, slapping the top of Deadpool's head, "but I'll be awful generous and get you a brew while I'm up," he says. He watches Typhoid rinse herself down as he opens the fridge, just pulling out the six pack, figuring it'll save trips, "You okay, girl?" he says quietly. It's not exactly concern, more an 'are you about to go all Hannibal Lecter up in this bitch?' kind of thing, but it shows he's at least paying attention to her. He tosses two cans casually over his shoulder and vaguely in Harley and Deadpool's direction as he cracks his own brew.

Harley catches her beer, but doesn't open it. She stays atop wade, throwing the beer from hand to hand. After a moment, she leans down, to murmur sweet nothings in Deadpool's ear: "I think somethin's up with Mare." She sounds downright compassionate. "I'm gonna take Bud 'n' Lou out for walkies. Do me a favor an' just... keep an eye on Mary. Lemme know if this guy is... y'know."

Harley disentangles herself from the sectional, and lets out a shrill: "BUD! LOU!" The two hyenas rise and bound over to Harley, who leashes them with industrial-grade chain. "Awright, I'll be back! Don't have TOO much fun without me -- I'll be checkin' Instagram, so I'll know!" Exit Harley, possibly because she senses violence on the horizon, and doesn't want her precious baby hyenas seeing it.

"Well, shit. I don't wanna be a third wheel, either," Deadpool grouses. "It'll just be me and Vic whipping our dicks out all night, and Mary'll enjoy that too much." He cracks open his beer and chugs it, then shotguns Harley's beer too. "Yo, Mar-Mar, kittykitty, I'm out. Try not to claw up the furniture, 'aight?" he tells Creed. He makes little finger gun motions at Victor and goes *pew pew*! and then heads out the door as well, a resonant belch marking his departure from the room.

Typhoid puts the bottle on the counter top as she makes her way to the kitchen. She does, indeed, shove her head in the sink and turn the faucet on fullblast cold. The second the water makes contact with her skin, she jumps a bit, almost cracking her skull on the faucet. And, steam begins to rise as she starts turning her head back and forth, letting the water run all over her head and neck. Without taking her head out of the sink, she shrugs off her jacket, letting it fall on the floor, and then plants her palms on the countertops on either side of the double-sink. She shivers as she forces her body temperature to drop. "Yeah," she says, eventually. "Yeah, I'm good. I think," she says, sounding slightly muffled inside the sink. Eventually, she pulls her head out of the sink and tosses her soaking wet dreads backwards, letting them slap wetly against her back--which brings on more steam... "Ahhhh, shit," she breathes, her face still streaming with water, rivulets dripping down her neck and chest. "Wa...Where'd everybody go?" she asks, looking at the couch and noticing the distinct lack of Harley or Wade. "They bailed? What the fuck."

Victor Creed shrugs, taking another sip of his beer, "Them? Please. Between them, they might have 10 seconds of attention span. Probably saw somethin' shiny out the window or heard about a circus in town," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, giving the assassin her space. "So...what's goin' on with you anyway? You act like you got a fever, but I'm pretty sure it ain't the kind yer nickname says. You can tell me to fuck off if ya want, but I also know people in our line o' work don't get to talk about shit much," he says.

"And, 'fore you say it, no reason you should tell me shit. You don't know me, I don't know you, ain't gonna pretend I do. Nobody knows anybody. Not that well," he says. "But that's why you can tell me shit. I ain't got no investment in it an' I certainly ain't gonna moralize at ya about shit. Isn't a bad thing in this world I ain't done tried out myself anyways. So, you wanna talk, talk. You don't, don't. Just lettin' you know I'm fine either way."

Typhoid Mary turns and rests her back against the counter, letting her hair drip into the sink as she regards Victor. "I'm crazy, Victor. I'm a mutant with a fractured mind. I have more personalities in my head, ones you haven't met," she says. Straight up. No beating around the bush. "One of them, Sweet Mary I call her... She doesn't know shit about shit. She's about as dumb as a box of rocks, too. Soap opera starlet. Or, would be, if her fucked up brain didn't make her life impossible. Only way she keeps her job is by blowin' producers and directors," she sniffs, brushing her forearm against her nose.

"Another... Bloody Mary. She's fuckin'... She hates men. All men. Any man comes in her path and she'll burn him to a crisp. She's...a bit of a serial killer, too. She only likes women and killin'. She knows about me, and Sweet Mary. And, we used to hate each other, but we kinda reached an understandin'. We keep Sweet Mary in the dark, though," she stares down at the floor. "Fever's just part of me being me, as Typhoid, I mean. I don't actually have typhoid fever, but... It just shows my level of crazy, I think. The stronger I feel about somethin', usually somethin' sexy or stressful, the hotter I get. An', I've found, in the past, that if I boil over... Bloody comes out. An', that would be...messy. Mostly for me. 'Cause I'd be dead," she sighs, grabbing the bottle and moving over to the couch. She plops down and rubs her face.

Victor Creed takes his own spot on the couch, laying the rest of the six pack on the table, "Well...that sounds pretty shitty," he says. "I been out o' my head plenty o' different ways, but never anything like that," he grins. "I admit, I have a harder time seeein' ya as the innocent little actress than I do as a man-hatin' murderdyke..." he says, opening a fresh beer and crumpling the predecessor in his hand. "Well, if you ever feel yourself gettin' that itch to go loppin' off a bit o' manmeat...gimme a call an' I'll get ya locked up tight. Least if she cuts off mine, it'll grow back," he grins.

Typhoid Mary laughs humorlessly, "Yep. Pretty shitty. Buuuut, that's what a shitload of child abuse'll get ya, I guess, when the child is a fuckin' mutant." She seems much calmer since having soaked her head. She lifts her head only enough to spot her piece on the coffee table, and see that it's still packed, and she TKs it to her. She stares at the bowl as she pops a flame on it without a lighter. She inhales deeply, "I find that," wisps of smoke escaping with her words, "smokin' lots of this keeps me nice and balanced. Sweet Mary..." She pauses and takes another drag, then looks at you, holding the piece, "You'd have to smoke a pound of this to stay high, huh?"

She goes on, "Sweet Mary... I think she comes out when I feel safe. Which is the worst thing, 'cause she wakes up next t' you, or Harley, or fucksake, next to Wade without his mask..." She shakes her head sadly. "That poor bitch. I kinda feel sorry for her, sometimes. Which is why I've been tryin' not to give her any face time, lately. I checked her mail and found out she's been fired from her last job. She's got nothin', right now," she sighs. "Nothin' but a therapist. Heh." She takes another drag. "And, havin' Bloody come out around you is somethin' that concerns me. She's nasty. She doesn't give a fuck and will say anything and everything to get you mad. An', we both know you could rip me up in seconds, flat," she exhales.

Victor Creed sighs and runs his tongue over his teeth, "I know my rep, Typh. Earned every bit of it, too. I've cut and clawed my way from one end u' this mudball to the other. An' yeah, I could rip you up, no problem. You'd make me hurt, no doubt, but ya couldn't kill me. But," he says, holdup up a razor-tipped finger, "I ain't a mindless animal. Have been at times. Can be, pushed to it. Hurt me deep enough, instinct kicks in and meat is meat. You told me 'bout your problem an' I can keep it in mind. You start goin' all superpsycho, I can remind myself that you ain't drivin'. I've had to deal with...similar shit. Used to work for an outfit that liked to toy with your mind..." he says, "In fact, that's where I met Wilson. They're the ones what scrambled his egg."

"S'probably the only reason I've ever been able to put up with Wade," Typhoid Mary sighs, hitting her piece again. "When we were together, he managed some decently lucid periods. Shit. Takes somethin' special to keep me with a person. I mean, a fuck's a fuck," she holds her hand out to gesture. "I'm good with that. Sometimes, you get an urge, you get an itch, you need to scratch it. Shit doesn't have to go farther than that. Usually doesn't, with me. So, he had to've done somethin' to keep me interested. Fuck if I can remember what that was, now, though," she laughs, her eyes lidded slightly as the drugs calm and relax her.

"But, I'd appreciate it... You not tearin' me up if I'm not in control. Best thing I can suggest is t' just... choke my body out. Put me down as fast as you can. 'Cause Bloody's good with fire--better than me, and I'm pretty decent," she offers. "Anyway. I wasn't meanin' to get all maudlin on you. I don't expect you to wipe away my tears and powder my ass. You asked what was wrong, I told ya. Not many people take the time or effort to find out. So, I figured I'd reward you with the truth.

"I don't talk about this to many people. And, I swear, if you use this against me, I'll... I dunno. Nuke your ass into the core of the earth or something," she sounds tired. Not physically, but emotionally. Like, it's all just a little too much to handle, sometimes, juggling all these balls, with all these fuckin' nutballs around her and people expectin' her to be somethin' other than what she is. She looks at the bottle in her lap and smiles. "Got myself a healer on retainer. Might be expensive, but since I don't have a regen factor.. Well. Worth it," she says, running her thumb over the label on the bottle.

Victor Creed takes down another beer, considering for a moment. He' not for touchy feely shit. People fuck you over, pretty much always, so Creed's motto's always been to fuck them over first. And he's not so much having...feelings as sympathy. His parents fucked him up plenty an' he's certainly got plenty of bad wiring in his head, even if hers might be a whole different level. Hell, that beast side of him doesn't sound that far different than Bloody, just less targeted and more pure killin' machine. Victor liked those times, though, the sheer freedom of it, to cut loose. No playing nice, no holdin' back, just everything simple. Predator and prey.

Typhoid was something in between. Another predator, but lower on the food chain and carryin' a bit of that residual prey part of her. Sweet Mary, he guessed. He could almost smell her in there. "Chokin' I can do," he says simply. "An' just 'cause I can do a thing don't mean I gotta do it. I ain't promisin', cause I don't do that and I got problems o' my own. But I'll try not to kill ya...or, at least, give ya somethin' worth killin' to satisfy the bitch."

Typhoid Mary nods, "Fair enough. Besides, if you kill me when I'm her, I'm not technically me, I guess, even though my body'll be in pieces and probably in your stomach," she muses. She stares at a spot on the wall. "Sometimes, I think a lot of my anger is because I was robbed of any hope of a happy life. I don't get to have what other people have. I fuckin' want it, if I'm honest with myself... But, I can't have it. And, that fuckin' sucks," she frowns.

Victor Creed actually reaches out and...pats. A bit awkwardly, especially since her dreads are still wet. "It ain't that great. Most of them don't even like it," he sighs, "Truth is, most people wanna be somebody else, but 'less yer a mindfucker or a shapeshifter, can't do much 'bout it," he says. "Gotta do the best whatcha got. You got a fucked up childhood an' a broken brain. You're also hot as lightnin', can toss fire and can put a man's eye out with a knife from 20 yards. So you ain't gonna have a picket fence bullshit life. So what? Those fuckers watch movies about people like us, they want what we got so bad. You're a wolf, girl, don't get jealous of the sheep."

Typhoid Mary turns her head to look at Creed as he talks, her rich brown eyes scanning his face...his eyes. Without much of an expression on her face, Typhoid naturally has that sort of beauty that others tend to envy--it's effortless. She lets her gaze drift around the man's face, handsome...feral...mutton-choppy. She exhales and nods, "Yeah. I'm a wolf without a pack, without a mate. 'Cause I could turn on my mate at any given moment if I stop paying attention, if I'm caught off-guard. But, it'd be nice... To have someone to come home to. To have someone to share meals with. Not wonder if the next lay I have is gonna be any good or not." She smiles wryly and pats Creed's thigh firmly, squeezing it briefly, before getting up to answer the door. "Chow's here," she says, coming back with two big bags packed full of food, setting them on the coffee table after shoving everything else off of it.

Victor Creed lets Mary get the food, settling back into the couch a bit, his long frame stretching easily. He's not sure what to make of this wistful, softer side of Mary. Last night, she was a psycho fuck machine, now she's almost tender. Sabes has had his share of women, even some romances. They all ended badly, though. He takes some of the food off Mary's hands, unloading the bags, "I hear ya. I ain't..." he hesitates, "I ain' the kind women love. Fuck, shit yeah, an' I got that bad boy thing. Hell, ain't nobody badder, I done things...let's just say ain't nothin' could wash all the blood off me. An' I don't feel bad or regret a lick of it, not even my own Daddy," he snarls at the memory of the old man, so long dead. "But yeah. I know how lonely goes."

Typhoid Mary sits down next to Creed, again, and begins digging into the bags, doling out the food. She listens as he talks, grabbing a beer, getting the utensils for various things. She digs into a big bowl of hot and sour soup, drawing her knees up to her chest--which is still only covered by those black X tape strips. She nods, "I can understand that." She pauses before continuing, "I mean, I can understand not bein' the kind someone loves. And, I don't regret any of the killing I've done--/ESPECIALLY/ my father. The things that fucker did... Well. Let's just say it's his fault my life was gonna be fucked up. My mother, too, for not leavin' him before he could do what he did... But, she fuckin' leapt out the window and left me to deal with it all by myself." She exhales and resumes eating her soup. "But, yes. Lonely. I think that's why I took Harley and Wade up on their offer to live together. But, it's really proving to suck ass more than anything else," she squeezes her eyes shut, trying to keep her temper in check.

Victor Creed takes a container, wielding chopsticks with surprising expertise as he selects a piece of beef and tosses it in his mouth, "You kinda had to see that coming. I give Wilson plenty of shit, but he's a damn fine killer. But livin' with him must be like sittin' in hell's asshole. Is that little piece o' clown pussy good enough to put up with that shit?" he chuckles, selecting an egg roll and tossing it whole into his mouth, taking long enough to chew it, "Didn't she somethin' about the Joker? I never met 'im, but his rep is the craziest of the crazy. Pure fuckin' chaos. Can't imagine his girl's gonna be much different."

"I know. I know, I know, I know," Typhoid Mary groans, dropping her head backwards. She starts in on steamed dumplings, also using chopsticks as she dips then in the sauce, biting into half and chewing while she listens. "Listen. Harley's a good lay, I won't lie. She's incredibly flexible. And, I thought...for a while, and still kinda wonder if....women wouldn't be a little easier on the ol' ticker. Men... I've had a real bad history with them. Starting with my father. I'm not kiddin', Victor. When I say he fucked me up, I mean it literally. He sold me for drugs, to settle gambling debts, he beat me up, he locked me in a tiny closet... I was fuckin' 10. It went on for years. Until Bloody woke up. And, she burned him alive. And, the dealer. And, the apartment. Sweet Mary doesn't know any of that, though, only that the apartment burned down," she says. It's dispassionate, but the damage is there. The pain is gone, but the fractured scars remain.

"But, Joker.. He's her main squeeze. Whatever she does with me, she'd do with him first, if he gave her the time of day. She's obsessed with him. I knew that when I went into it. Thought it'd be enough for me, but it's...turnin' out not to be. I want more. I may have been a whore in my past, but I'm more than a piece of ass, now. I deserve more," she says, shoving a whole steamed dumpling in her mouth and tilting some of the sauce into her mouth. She chews fiercely and swallows. She holds her hands out and a beer flies into it and opens itself. "I might be a monster, but fuck if monsters don't deserve their own kinda love, anyway."

Victor Creed lets that sit for a moment, both because it's a strong statement and because he's not sure what to say. He's always sort of pissed on the idea of love and romance, treated it as ridiculous. He's seen enough people die for love, kill for love, betray everything they believed for it. Seemed like a kind of chain to Victor, something to tie you down, make you weak. Needy. He didn't like needing anybody.

She wasn't wrong, though. Been through hell, she had, as much as Victor had, and if that didn't absolve her, it sure as fuck explained her. And, against all his normal instincts...Creed liked Mary. He didn't like many people, maybe four or five in the whole world. The person he was closest to was the worst enemy he had. That was fucked up. "We do," he says finally, not sure what he can add. She's given him a lot to think about.

Typhoid Mary lets /that/ sit, 'cause it's a heavy, hard truth that's difficult to come to, when one is a monster. Especially because, when one accepts that heavy, hard truth... The fact that one doesn't /have/ it...makes the ache a little keener. It focuses the loneliness into a burning hole in the chest--one that's been growing in Mary for a while, now. Fuckin' desperation is what she feels. She's drowning in her own loneliness, despite being around Harley (who's always missing the Joker) and Wade (who's always longing for Death). And, that's a sad fact. And, it makes her angry. Fuck anyone who thinks she doesn't deserve her own slice of happiness that doesn't involve directly murdering people. She just eats her food with her fellow monster in companionable white noise of the TV going. Natasha Henstridge. Mmm.

"Last night was amazing. Even if I hurt like hell in the morning," she says, in a way that says she's not flirting, but paying him a compliment--something someone as experienced as Mary rarely ever does. "Pass the sushi."