Strange as it may seem I really did enjoy Mickey Rourke's Ivan Vanko aka Whiplash. Y'know in some movies when you find people attractive but when they're not in the movie you don't. This is an example of that happening. Anyway this is a simple oneshot, where I am certain that the times are way skewed and this probably did not happen. However, there really is hardly any Ivan fiction out there and what can I say, I'm a sucker for guys with accents. As always Ironman and all its characters do not belong to me. Please read and review!
Pitch black, that he remembered. She was the darkest night, her skin polished opal. Her eyes were dark brown, glints of a golden hazel piercing through their dark color. She was curved, generously but not overly so and her braided hair settled gently on her back.
"Вы говорите по-английски (Do you speak English),"she asked carefully. He looked at her for a moment, eyed her figure again once more. She wore comfortable jeans and a thick hooded sweater. He shrugged, not giving her an answer. She sighed and then sat down at the table.
"I'll speak English because I really am terrible at Russian. I am also," and at this point she reached into her coat pocket. She held his glance as if to calm him. Surprisingly the look worked.
She retrieved from her coat a small envelope. She placed it on the table and slid it to him. He made no move to open it. He was genuinely curious about the woman and her purpose. Though his meetings with others, be they informants or dealers of various items, were very brief, he found that he wanted this one to last a bit longer. She was young, maybe fifteen years his junior, but there was a smooth pale scar that moved in a line across her throat that suggested she was not naive. If she had been, she would not have the scar as her trophy.
She took back the envelope and opened it. There was a sheaf of papers in the envelope and she pulled one from the stack.
"The arc reactor is just a way to get the hippies to shutup. Quoted from Obadiah Stane. This is the man that almost brought down Tony Stark. He had once been the man's closest ally and confidant but somewhere along the line hungered for more power. He contacted our organization and expressed his wish for Tony's downfall. He betrayed the faction that we had in Gulmira but we had suspected as much. Raza was too weak and in the end so was Stane."
She showed photos of Obadiah, his modified Ironman suit and several photos of his death. Ivan had not known the specifics of the man's death nor did he particularly care. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat.
"You and your father, both of you have the intelligence but not the means. Howard Stark took that from you both. However, I can get you started, help you get your chance at taking what's yours. Your father is sick. He won't be able to help you but I can."
He let her see his contempt and she grinned widely. She had pretty white teeth and dimples in both cheeks. She was too cute to be in the business of killing he decided. Though, looking at her neck once more he reminded himself that she was every inch a killer.
"This,"she said pressing two fingers to her throat,"is a reminder to never turn my back on anyone. I learned that there is only trust when you face your enemy and there is only trust if you count everyone as such. Even your own mother." Her eyes hardened, the hazel pinpoints darkening. Then she smirked, her full lips looking positively wicked.
"I am not the mind that creates Mr. Vanko. I'm the one that figures out how to destroy. Stark's legacy cannot be broken by just anyone, it has to be by someone that understands him. You have a brilliant mind, I've seen the weapons that you've made, commendable, easy to use, though I am a close combat kinda girl. Match him, get better, and we'll contact you. Here's something to start, not much, but we want you to prove your ingenuity."
She reached inside her coat once more, this time not looking at him and pulled out a manila envelope. He knew that there was a considerable amount of money in there. Though, it was probably child's allowance in comparison to what he really needed.
...
She came by not even thirty minutes after his father's death. She was in a long sleeve shirt and a hoody. She wore dark grey cargo pants over steel toe boots. He knew they were such because of the heavy weight and sound as she moved into the room.
"I am sorry...about your father."
He said nothing, already having unleashed most of his feelings minutes before. Maybe she had been listening until she knew he was at a calmer state. He didn't care to ask and it seemed that she would not be forthcoming about the information.
"I brought by a good bottle of vodka. Help me move your father and then drink up for awhile. You'll need it."
He glared at her, angry tht she assumed much, but she was not even looking towards him. She was looking at his father. She was looking at his father but Ivan was certain that that was not the man she was seeing, not really. She pulled the woolen blanket higher, to the man's chin and smoothed his hair gently on his forehead. Ivan decided that he would accept her drink, but only if she accepted one as well. He stood up and moved over to the small, makeshift kitchen. He returned with two tin mugs resting them on the workbench.
"Let us move him,"he said gruffly.
...
The first week proved interesting for Vanko. It was interesting because someone generally proved interested in he and his father's knowledge. After the makeshift burial she left quietly, albeit more unsteadily as she had entered. She slowly replaced the hoody that she had removed, as the burying had made her skin hot. She adjusted the hood, so that all could be seen were full lips and the tip of her nose.
"Till next time,"she said plainly. He nodded and she opened and then closed the door behind her.
She appeared at his bedside with bagels and hot coffee the next day. She bit into one corner of the bagel and then sipped from the mug slowly. She then offered both to him. He looked at her, wondering what it was that she wanted from him. Clearly it was more than just the finished product, there was no more money offered, no sharing of information, just her silent offering.
He took the bagel and coffee. She was the one that nodded that time. Then she left, once again her boots thudding heavily behind her.
Two days later as he had begun forming the RT he heard a knock on the door. He opened it, to find her holding a box in her hands. He stood there half a beat before she growled at him to get out of the way. He found himself letting her in and allowing her to place the box on his bed. He thought that she was a baffling creature, not showing a hint of fear at his presence. As far as he could tell, she bore no weaponry and she spoke just as few words as he did. In fact, after explaining the money she brought him, she'd been almost wraithlike in her appearances.
"What's in box?"
She smiled and opened the flaps carefully. He looked into the box unable to hide the smile that tugged at his resisting lips. It was a boa constrictor. It was albino, yellow and white patches scattered about it's scales. She hefted the creature out of the box and placed it around her shoulders. It flicked its tongue over one cloudy pink eye.
"This is my favorite girl, Selene."
Ivan watched as she pressed her lips to the snake's flat head. Irina sqwuaked at the predator, flapping her wings nervously. Ivan reached for her and chittered soft Russian words until she calmed. When she relaxed he petted the downy feathers.
"She won't try to hurt..."
"Irina."
"Irina. She just ate. But...would you like to touch her?"
Ivan eyed the snake and after a few moments reached out. He rubbed a calloused hand over the snake's flank. Irina sqwuaked again but this time the woman shushed the bird. She hummed softly, just under her breath. Her Selene responded as well, coiling it's tail around the woman's arm.
The woman.
"What is your name?"
"Jasira. Jasira Hunter."
"Hunter?"
"My name it means 'courageous hunter'. Yours means 'God is gracious'."
He chuckled at this. "You think God is gracious?"
"Full of grace, yes, to make me, to make you, to make Selene...to give me the strength to conquer my enemies. He is full of grace and though I stray he walks with me." She pulled her shirt lower down her neck. White ink was tattooed into her skin, it was a small cross, just beneath the scar that had once been her open throat.
She'd made a necklace. He found that he could respect her decision and in a large degree the woman herself.
...
The second week he was working on the metal alloy that would create his design. It involved precision and of course exact measurements. If he should fail he would be pushed back another week at the least. He began to pour but was interrupted by banging on the door. His hands were steady, holding the lavalike metal over the molding.
"It's me."
He was tempted to say 'me who' but shouted for her to open the door herself. She stepped in moments later, though it was with some trouble. He glanced at her, saw her left sleeve spotted a dark ruby color. Her eyes were blinking furiously as she made her way to his bed. She sat stiffly, leaning against the wall heavily.
He would not concentrate very well tonight.
"I'll just watch...till I feel better, alright."
"Suit yourself,"he grumbled as he began to pour.
Needless to say, he failed. His sure hands were weighted with something that resembled worry. He wrote it off as simple curiousity. However, this did not change the fact that he would once again have to melt down the alloys, mix them at the precise moments and once again pour them into the mold. He would do this later, after he examined Jasira's wound.
...
During the third week on the third day, she kissed him. She stood on tiptoe, him watching her warily and pressed her mouth to his. She did not explain the sudden affection, just acted upon it as if it were her right.
"Please,"she said.
He watched her for a moment, as if watching an animal about to bolt. She made no move to run and so he nodded slowly to her request. He removed the familiar hoody that hid her form. He ran fingers down the length of her torso, brushing over firm breasts, a stomach that was not quite flat. She was solid, not some waifish creature that posed in pretty magazines. He pulled up the shirt and she put her arms up to assist him, though she winced a little from the stitched wound. He said nothing of her pained reaction. He instead kneeled down, his fingers attending to the zipper of her jeans. He unzipped them and she shimmied out of them as his fingers rubbed circles into her hips.
No underwear, already wet.
He wondered at the exact nature of the woman he was going to bed. He really knew nothing about her, the only thing that he was certain of was that she loved her father, she loved her God, and that maybe her name was Jasira.
They moved to the bed eventually, but before that he had her against the wall. He kissed her this time, hungry, ravenously. He dominated the kiss, taking what he wanted as his tongue sought to conquer her mouth. She groaned hands yanking his hair, trying to pull him closer. He pulled away to remove his own clothing. Her eyes flicked over the tattoos that marked his body. There were many, all stories of his time in prison. Spiderwebs on his hands, marking his first four kills in prison, the cross on his thumb for his persecutions. Stars on his knees because he would never kneel, the ship across his stomach, his own private joke. He let her look him over, giving her the chance to change her mind. When he saw that she wouldn't move, he pushed her against the wall and lifted her legs to wrap around his hips.
"Please,"she whispered.
He entered her in one thrust and she cried out, her face buried in his neck. He gave her time to adjust, her body squeezing him like a vice. It had been long since he'd had a woman, much longer still since he'd had one that wasn't paid for. He knew that he was a very large size for most and he whispered nonsense in Russian to calm her. He felt her heartbeat slow, felt it beat a slow and steady rhythm into his chest. Finally, her fingers that were digging into his back, pressed down.
She was ready.
He moved into her slowly, both to savor the act and to get her used to the feeling. She made soft sounds against his ear and her fingers clenched and opened against his back. He heard a low moan escape and he honestly enjoyed the sound, the way it traveled to the base of his spine, more harsh than a shiver. Her legs moved, trying to urge him deeper. He chuckled his hands gripping her legs tightly as he began to pick up the pace.
As he moved within her he told himself that it was not love. He told himself that the act itself meant nothing, that it was a matter of chemicals in the brain, synapses and pheremones. She clawed at his back, as he drove into her continuously. His name was on her lips, begging for more. And then he felt her whole body shudder and she clenched around him. She came with a sharp intake of breath.
He was not done however and moved them both to the bed. It was the bed his father had died in, it was the bed she'd sat on when they drank together. It was the bed that he had stitched her wound closed on. He knew that she understood the significance and that she understood the words he would not say, that he could not. He laid her down gently and she kissed him again. They moved against one another once more, this time slower. She came again, his name once again on her lips, her eyes closing. He came after a few more thrusts, holding her name back from his lips, strangling the word until it was gone. This was nothing, only the brain and body begging release, it could not be anything more.
...
It was sex. There were no emotional attachments, even if sometimes when she reached her peak there were tears in her eyes. Even if sometimes he had to bite his lips harshly. It could be nothing more and they both knew it. What he was creating would probably in the end, take his life. He knew this to be fact, she knew it far better than he.
It was the fifth week, a blur of sex, science and booze. Sometimes, she stayed the night, curled into his body for warmth. Her fingers would press against his chest and her head rested against his heart. Her breath, left something akin to a tickle across his flesh but it was easy to ignore.
He knew that they were running out of time and that she was only using their time as well as she knew how. He kissed her head, as she slept.
"Я тебя люблю (I love you)."
He liked to think that in her dreams she could hear his declaration, because only there could such things be allowed. Only there could he hold her without fear.
...
He completed the whips and had run their diagnostics during the middle of the sixth week. He had not seen her since the week before. He had hoped to see her before he left for Monaco. He opened his door, knowing that he was to meet with another member of the Ten Rings shortly. He shrugged into his coat and opened his door.
A note lay on the ground. He bent to pick it up.
I have been reassigned. I believe that we will never meet again and this saddens me. I really enjoyed the time that we had, I think that I will never experience anything that real again. Kiss Irina goodbye for me, would you?
Jasira
P.S. I told you that God is gracious. He saved my life, he made me strong, he led me to you. I know that you bite your lips, sometimes I heard your voice when I was slipping into sleep. I feel the same.
As he lay dying, the explosives primed and ready to go off he thought it strange that he would never see her again. He supposed it was a fact that he would have to accept, that though he'd fallen in love he was still bound to die.
"Слава Богу, он послал мне тебя. (I thank God for sending me you)."
And then he knew nothing.