Disclaimer: Victor Creed doesn't belong to me. Property of Marvel Comics.
Note: Written some time ago for Unanon after we had a conversation about Victor rarely being shown in an everyday type setting. So here's to the Creedly love.
Just an Ordinary Day
ice princess deluxe
There were times when having enhanced senses made all the difference in the world. Victor Creed sighed contentedly as he stretched one leg out from his seat on the curb of the local Dairy Treat and enjoyed the sunlight. Some rich guy wanted another rich guy dead for reasons Victor didn't care about; he was just concerned about the briefcase of money that would follow the transaction. Since the soon-to-be-dead rich guy happened to vacation in Nowheresville, USA - which didn't really fit said rich guy's personality - Victor decided to cool his heels, play tourist and wait for the best moment to do his job. The place was a Rockwell cover for the Saturday Evening Post: family owned grocery stores instead of big chain supermarkets, kids running in neighbors' lawns screaming their lungs out as they played with dogs, little old ladies sitting on porches with other little old ladies and sipping lemonade. The place even had a working drive-in movie theater and gas station attendants that checked the oil in his car while he filled up.
And since he was biding his time on his job, Victor had decided that it was too nice of a day to be spending it tracking the boring daily habits of his target. They never differed from day to day anyway. So there he was, sitting on the curb with a burger in his hands and a cold drink next to him. He inhaled, filtering out the exhaust fumes from the running vehicles nearby and concentrating on the meal in front of him. He closed his eyes and took a bite, enjoying the crisp snap of thick cut tomatoes and lettuce, the tart tang from the heavy pickles and the sharp taste of the onions. The two meat patties were a tad on the overdone side, but they were thick and juicy and hot. Grease and mayonnaise had seeped out from the bottom, making the plain white paper wrapper soggy. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he chewed and dug in the similarly plain white paper bag between his parted knees for a handful of fries. They were salty and hot and they had turned the bottom of the bag dark with grease. He snorted, thinking that he'd probably develop some sort of heart disease without the aid of his healing factor, just like the old man sitting in the rusted out car to his right. Above the hum of the car's air conditioner and the AM radio station playing, Victor could hear the tick of a pacemaker and the sluggish flow of blood through the man's veins. The fact that the man's diet wasn't helping his condition any didn't seem to disturb the man, who took a huge bite out of his own burger, an errant pickle falling out of the bun and landing on his pot belly that was nearly touching the steering wheel.
Victor shifted, bringing his extended leg up as another car pulled up near him. He took a sip of his drink, savoring the bubbly feel of the soda going down his throat. A woman with two kids gave him a sideways glance, and then a longer stare when she was certain he wasn't aware of her. He shrugged, digging in the bag again for another handful of fries, shaking his head to the side so the shoulder length fall of blond hair would slide back out of his eyes. He knew her type: she was the young housewife chained to the kitchen stove with a baby on each hip and wondering dazedly where her life of unlimited possibilities had gone when she hadn't been looking. She was the one that had snuck out of her room at night to wander for all hours of the evening with her then boyfriend, now husband that wondered where all the fun and excitement had vanished to since they got married. Maybe she thought of Victor as the one piece of danger that would ever cross her life's path and light up her otherwise boring existence, that if she involved herself with him then she would have something dark and guilty to savor in her old age. If she hadn't had the kids with her, he probably would have gotten up and approached her, just for the sake of having something to do on a lazy summer afternoon. As it was, he turned his head and gave her a slow grin, appraising her from the top of his sunglasses. She gave a little gasp and blushed furiously, her nerve gone, unbuckling her children from the car and quickly making for the safety of the indoor seating.
Slowly chewing on his fries, he shrugged and let the heat of the afternoon sun sink deep down in his skin. He picked at the worn hole on his knee, evidence of some bullet's entry point at one time or another, the shooter probably aiming to take out his kneecap instead of killing him outright. Things like that happened to him on such a regular basis that he couldn't pinpoint the exact person pulling the trigger, or if he had killed them for it or not. More than likely he had, knowing his own track record. It was old, the material worn and frayed around the ragged tear. He fleetingly thought that he should have thrown the jeans out a long time ago, but they were comfortable and they fit him well. There was an old and deeply imbedded smear of engine grease on his right shin, more than likely from the bike he had recently been dismantling and reassembling as a side hobby. His boots were scuffed and dirty, gritty from ditching his car at the hotel he was staying at and opting to walk around town instead. The plain black shirt he wore was also old, it hugged his body as he sat there and he was suddenly stricken with a memory of a woman with indigo skin and ruby hair wearing it, the neckline sliding over her shoulder and the hem barely touching the top of her bare thighs. He grunted, taking the last bite of his burger. And here Raven had said he didn't have a sentimental bone in his body. That had been years ago, when they were still fighting and arguing and having fantastic make up sex afterwards. They still fought and argued, but now they were trying to kill the other and then retreating to lick their wounds afterwards instead. Oh, how times change.
Tapping his toe to the radio inside the kitchen of the burger joint, he winced as somebody inside butchered a Joe Cocker song. It was his favorite one too, so he tried his best to ignore the garbled up lyrics and the poor singing voice of the fry cook. He took another long sip of his drink, making a loud slurping noise with the straw as he hit the bottom of the cup. Taking off the plastic lid, he crumpled up the greasy wrapper and stuffed it inside. He stuck the lid back on and put the cup inside the now empty and similarly greasy bag. He stood up, ignoring the sighs of the teenage girls in the car to his left at his fluid movements. Again, he flicked his hair back over his shoulder and briefly entertained the thought of slashing all four of their tires for giggling over him for the past ten minutes. Couldn't a man sit and enjoy a meal in peace nowadays? He threw the bag over his shoulder, knowing without looking that he had hit the red and white striped wastebasket behind him. He dusted off the back of his jeans with his hands and rolled his shoulders. Checking his watch, he knew that his target would be parking his expensive car and stretching against the back fender in preparation of taking a solitary jog in the park as he had done for the past week and a half at the same time, just like clockwork. If Victor timed it right, he could walk back to the hotel, pick up his car, take care of his job, and be out of town in less than an hour. An hour and a half, if traffic was bad leaving. Rolling his shoulders again, he sighed as the muscles in his neck stretched. Then he'd hop a plane and grab the money from the rich guy that hired him before killing him for yet another rich guy that had offered him even more money. Victor could stay a bit longer in town if he wanted to, there were plenty of opportunities later on that night to do his job, but he decided against it. No time like the present, he thought.
Besides, all the wholesome air was getting on his nerves.