A/N: Hey lovelies! So sorry for the delay – as usual, it's school (ugh). I'll try and get later chapters out a little faster in the future, though the next few weeks are essentially my hell weeks for the semester so it'll be a lot of writing at midnight (sorta like I am now lol).
Anyways... the Viper (or as we'll come to refer to her, Victoria/ Vic) is officially legal! Sexiness will ensue! Scandalous! The Asset does not make an appearance in this chapter, BUT stick around to the end for the introduction of a character that will be very, very important to the fate of this story.
Thanks again for reading, and enjoy!
Four
8 years later ~ 2012
"Is that the best you can do, little girl?" Brock taunts her, bouncing loosely from one foot to the other. His skin gleams with a thing sheen of sweat, only serving to further define his biceps. Shit,she thinks, settling back into fighting stance. She really has to do something about her sudden, inconvenient crush.
"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not a little girl?" she grins, tossing her ponytail behind her with a well-practiced flick. "I'm just going easy on you."
He snorts. "Yea, right, princess." She lunges at him, knowing that he'll anticipate her swinging with her preferred left hand. She uses this to her advantage – when he ducks sideways to avoid the punch, she switches hands, letting out a little squeal of triumph when her fist hits something solid.
He grunts in pain and surprise, looking at her with an expression she can't quite name, before aiming a few punches of his own. She dodges with ease, darting backwards to avoid his swings. "You think maybe you're getting a little old for this?" she teases, though her smile quickly slips off her face when he charges her, all but backing her into the gym wall. She jumps sideways just in time, landing lightly on both feet.
He smirks at her, conceding defeat as he uses the towel hung to the side of the mat to wipe his face. "This doesn't mean you win, for the record," he warns, watching that familiar shit-eating grin edge its way onto her face. "I just wanna get a shower in before tonight."
Victoria feels her heart begin to burn, and it's not just from the mental image of Brock in the shower. "You should see the dress they've got me in for tonight," she says, following him out of the gym and down the hall to the locker rooms.
"Oh yeah?" He turns to look over his shoulder, clearly amused. She tilts her chin defiantly, allowing her lower lip to pout slightly in the way that always works with the older guys. "Yeah."
"Let me guess…" he leans lazily against the door to the men's room, looking at her pensively. "You're gonna have a Jessica Rabbit thing going on."
"Jessica Rabbit?"
Brock sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus Vic, you've been here eight years and still haven't caught up on pop culture references. Just picture the most low-cut red dress you've ever seen and you'll be close enough."
She playfully bumps her hip with his, pushing past him to the door to the women's locker room. "It's not like I really have free time to research every single American movie that's been released. And you're not even right. It's green."
He rolls his eyes. "Figures. They always have you in green."
"It's a Viper signature," she calls as the door closes behind her, grinning in spite of herself. Mostly, she can't wait to see the look on his face when he does see the dress.
She has the room to herself this evening, which isn't surprising. As secretive as S.H.I.E.L.D. is, they still run fairly regular office hours – a good thing, since Vic isn't sure how the agents would react to Secretary Pierce's "niece" sparring for hours with a STRIKE team member every other night. She strips quickly, stepping into the closest shower cubicle and turning the water temperature to cold. She runs too warm-blooded for regular hot showers.
She isn't much of a singer, but she hums a little tune to herself, lathering body wash onto a loofah and sighing contentedly as the cool droplets tingle her scalp. The song is familiar to her, yet she can't place her finger on exactly where she heard it. She isn't even sure she could remember the words.
She slips into a contemplative silence, deciding firmly not to follow the strands of memory back to where they may take her. There are much more pressing things ahead – her mission his evening, the prom that everyone at school seems to be talking about, and of course, her impending graduation. Throughout the day, her classmates were called to the front office one by one to try on their cap and gown, and Vic had felt ridiculously grown-up standing there with the hat balancing precariously on her curls as the fitting ladies fussed around her.
"Will you have other family coming out for the big day?" Mr. Richardson, the secretary, asked her politely. She wanted to laugh, but instead offered him a bright smile and said she wasn't sure yet.
"Hurry up, princess!" Brock yells, his voice close enough that Vic knows he's entered the changing room. Asshole."I don't have all night!"
She rinses out her hair quickly and shuts off the water, wrapping herself in a towel and padding barefoot to her locker. She is unsurprised (if not a little excited) to see Brock still standing there, eyes meeting hers as she rounds the corner.
"You know, I'd change a lot faster if you'd give me some damn privacy," she huffs. He smirks in response, letting his eyes dip brazenly before meeting hers again.
"My apologies," he replies mockingly, hands held up in surrender. She rolls her eyes, waiting until he's out of sight before dropping her towel to the floor and changing into her sweats, ignoring the burn of her chest.
She and Brock take the elevator to the ground floor, stepping out into a brightly-lit atrium. Though she's had her doubts about S.H.I.E.L.D., Vic has to admit that she loves the Triskelion. Maybe it's the sheer size of the place, or the fact that so many important agents are stationed there. Whatever the reason, she feels important when she's inside its walls; as if she's a part of something much bigger than herself.
Which she is, she reminds herself. She is an integral part in restoring order to the world; Pierce tells her so every day at least once. She has sacrificed a normal life to let others live out theirs. The thought brings a smile to her face as they exit through the front and out onto the courtyard, where a black van awaits them.
"You're quiet this evening," Brock remarks, eyes flicking to her as he drives. She shrugs in response.
"Just thinking about tonight. I've been briefed about four times this week, and I just want to make sure I get it right, you know?"
He raises a dubious eyebrow. "You always get it right. It's the other assholes we've gotta worry about."
She giggles, practically glowing from the praise. "I know. I just wanted to hear you say that."
"Shut up." They both laugh, settling back into comfortable silence as Brock takes a turn onto the highway.
Vic looks out the window so she won't have to look at him and swallow down her unrequited desire. Rush hour traffic has calmed enough that they'll be home in the next twenty minutes or so, but there are enough cars on the road to make people watching interesting. She watches a toddler bouncing happily in his car seat and smiles, waving a little as they drive past.
"Do you have kids?" she asks, struck by how little she knows a man that's fought with her side by side for years. Brock seems taken aback by the question, running a hand over his chin thoughtfully.
"God, I hope not. Why, looking to babysit?"
Vic shudders. "Just wondering. I don't think I'd do very well with kids."
"Yeah, when I think caregiver, I don't tend to go with the assassin either." After a pause, he adds, "but who knows. Maybe motherhood will really take to you."
She feels her beat a little bit faster. Damn this crush. "I don't know. I feel like people either make or destroy things."
"You can do both," he argues. "Look at us – we destroy things all the time and from that we're building a better world."
"That's different from a baby."
"I guess neither of us would really know, now would we?" she smiles, turning her head to look out the window.
Vic has zipped up the back of her dress and is standing in front of her full-length mirror when there's a brisk knock to her bedroom door. She can tell by the heavy-handedness that it's Pierce.
"Come in."
"Is that what we've chosen to put you in?" he asks immediately upon entering, eyes surveying her in a way that suggests she'd be more clothed if she were standing there naked. With any other man Vic may have found the gesture flirtatious, but she knows her adopted uncle well enough to recognize the calculations going on behind his light-colored eyes.
She frowns, turning her head to peer at herself once again. "You don't like it?"
He sighs. "Sometimes I just forget that you've grown up."
Vic smiles fondly, letting him tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Is that a bad thing?" She feels like she's spent her life waiting to grow up.
"Not necessarily. But you know we will expect more of you now."
"I'll do it," she says immediately, her mouth smoothing into a thin line of determination. Pierce smiles at her, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"I know you will." Clearing his throat, looks down at his watch. "I just wanted to make sure you're clear on your role in tonight's mission."
She nods. Pierce takes her hand in his, guiding her toward the door. "If you're ready, then it's time."
The ballroom is busy, packed to the brim with wealthy and important men and women making their rounds beneath a gigantic crystal chandelier. Vic is sure she has never seen so many diamonds in her life… but then, she thinks that every time she attends one of these galas. Her life in America is so different from her humble beginnings, she thinks to herself with a smirk, taking a lute of rosy champagne from one of the ushers that weave through throngs of the well-dressed elite.
"Aren't you a little young to drink?" She turns her head delicately, finding Brock standing just slightly to her left. Her smile widens as she tips the glass to him.
"It's all part of the character," she says softly, turning so he'll experience the full effect of her skintight dress. His eyes waver from hers for just a moment, taking in the sight before him, before he remarks, "green really is your color."
She knows this is a dangerous game she's playing. Any minute, her target will walk through the grand double doors and she will have to pretend that she has eyes only for him, but damn if she doesn't like this heady feeling that seems to overtake her when she's around Brock.
"Thanks," she says instead of the millions of things that she's thinking, swallowing down her frustration and willing herself to behave. "You don't look so bad yourself."
He materializes into the crowd once more, and she finds herself perched on a stool by the bar, quietly surveying the scene before her. Pierce always says that she has the uncanny ability to make herself invisible, and in a way, he's right, but to Vic it's all a science. A slight hunch of the shoulders, a lowering of the eyes and a down tilt of the lips, and suddenly everyone leaves you alone.
"Target has arrived," comes the crackling voice in her comms earpiece. She slides off her stool, straightening her shoulders as a young, dark-haired man appears in the doorway. His suitcoat looks like it was hastily buttoned, hanging off his broad shoulders at an awkward angle. The inky tendrils of some kind of tattoo are visible at the neckline of his shirt. There's something about the way his shoulder-length hair hangs into his blue eyes that reminds her of someone else, but she pushes that memory away as quickly as it comes. She hasn't thought of him in years, and she isn't about to start now.
She realizes she's frowning and plasters a pretty pout onto her face, moving slowly but purposefully through the crowd until she is sure he can see her. His eyes trail her body – clearly, he is an entitled man, and doesn't bother to hide his appreciation of her. When his eyes find hers, she smiles languidly, inviting him to come and talk to her.
"What's a pretty girl like you doing all by herself?"
"Waiting for someone to come distract me from my boredom," she replies, letting her Russian accent thicken. He raises his eyebrows, gesturing down to the glass of champagne.
"What are you drinking? Next round's on me."
It's an open bar, but she accepts the invitation graciously, her hand caressing his arm. "What a gentleman."
"Good girl," Brock says into her ear, and she flushes, looking for him in her peripherals. She can just picture him chuckling to himself at his clever little remark.
Luckily, her target takes it as a sign of tipsiness. "Had a lot to drink, eh?"
She decides to go with that, nodding her head bashfully. "Well… maybe one or two."
He chuckles, one hand coming to rest on the small of her back. "Looks like I've gotta catch up to you then. I'm Erik, by the way."
"Sasha," she replies, ignoring the way that Brock's eyes burn holes into her spine.
Her target is so drunk that by the time their taxi has pulled up to the front of a rather luxurious apartment building, she is covered in vomit and trying not to retch herself.
"Thanks so much," she says apologetically to the cab driver, reaching into Erik's wallet and pulling out a twenty-dollar bill. She hoists her target, still dry-heaving, out of his seat, all but dragging him toward the door as the cab speeds off. She wishes there'd been another way to get back to his home; something a little less conspicuous. But she worked with what she had, as always.
"We'll take care of him," she hears in her ear, as if Rumlow has some way of reading her thoughts. She smiles, knowing he can't see her.
"Let's get you to bed, tiger," she sighs, rummaging around in her target's suit pockets for his keys.
"Depends on if you'll be joinin' me," he slurs, looking at her with bloodshot eyes. He leans in to kiss her, but she pushes him away gently.
"We should clean up first."
The door opens to a dark living room that smells a lot like leather and floor cleaner. He must have a maid, she thinks to herself, helping him onto one of the stools in front of the bar.
"You know, you're nice," he mumbles. "Most pretty girls are real fuckin' bitches. Not you though."
She tilts her head, letting her hair tumble down her shoulders to fan out across her exposed chest. The dress is sweetheart cut, low enough to see the swell of her breasts beneath it. "Nice?" she says lowly, reaching down to unbutton his tie. "Not always."
"How old are you again?" he asks, eyes on the shifting neckline of her dress.
"Does it matter?" she asks, letting her head fall slightly to give him permission to kiss her.
She lets her mind drift a little as he kisses her, all thoughts of cleaning up disregarded. She knows she needs to move this escapade to the bathroom, where things will be easier. She asks around his tongue dipping into her mouth, "mind a shower?"
She shimmies out of her dress while he sits on the toilet, eyes drooping drunkenly. "You'll be extracted in ten minutes," her comms crackles.
"Well, am I going to be showering alone then?" she asks, hands on the smooth skin of her hips. He smiles lopsidedly, practically falling out of his suit and tie. She undoes his belt buckle, ignoring the newly naked man in front of her. Her mission isn't sex. She needs to focus. She fidgets with the controls of the shower, turning the temperature all the way up.
His hair hangs in clumps around his face when it's wet, looking almost black. Another memory fights to the forefront of her mind and clamps down. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Metal. Burns.
"Whatcha thinking about?" he asks. Her returning smile is almost condescending, maybe even with a tinge of loathing to it.
"You remind me a lot of an old friend," she says, sliding her arm backwards until it reaches a built-in shelf. Two inches to the left, and her hand touches the razor.
"How so?" He looks confused.
"The hair, mostly." She presses the tip of the blade into her palm, letting herself overheat under the steamy water. "Though when I think about it, you're not like him at all, are you?" She brings her hand to the side of his neck, feeling the blood slide down her wrist. "He is a soldier, and you're nothing but a traitor."
She is fire. She feels the skin beneath her palm melt away, but she blocks out the screams. When she feels the familiar tingling of her body beginning to stitch itself up again, she makes another cut, letting the blood coat her fingertips before she sticks the pointer and the middle into his eyes, pushing softly until she finds the brain. And then it's all over. She doesn't feel the cuts, but her blood roars and turns in her body, setting fire to every nerve ending.
She turns off the water, staring down at her mission with interest. She knows that she is a medical wonder, especially once they discovered the effects of warm temperatures on her. She knows, scientifically, that her blood is one of the hottest substances to exist on Earth, but it's always something different to see its effects on her missions. There is no blood; there is nothing, in fact, except the body, which she knows will be removed before long. She grabs the towel hanging beside the shower door, patting off the water that clings to her skin before redressing and heading out to the living room to wait.
"Mission report." Dark brown eyes meet blue.
"Target eliminated. Extraction was met at twenty-three hours and forty-two minutes. The body has been removed." Pierce turns to Rumlow, who adds, "his computers were tapped and scanned for intel – all sensitive files were retrieved and disposed of. It seems that Erik Chappelle never made it home after a night of heavy drinking."
"And the witnesses?"
"There was one – a taxi driver that was easily persuaded to corroborate our story. A wife and child are involved." Pierce nods, finally satisfied.
"Go home." He regards the Viper, not missing the way her legs tremble slightly, as if it's taking a massive effort to hold herself up. "And you, Victoria. Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."
Vic feels her shoulders slump as if of their own accord as she follows Brock out of the office. Her blood boil has subsided, leaving her with the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. And yet, she knows it will be hard to sleep tonight – it always is after a mission.
"You did good tonight," Brock says, breaking the silence between them. She watches him watch her with an indescribable look on his face. A comfortable, familiar warmth blossoms in her chest, sliding down until it's right between her legs.
"I did my job," she replies, breath hitching as he takes the smallest step forward. One large, calloused hand rests on her lower back, its weight inviting her to relax and fall into him.
"I meant what I said earlier," he murmurs, hand tracing lazy circles over her back as his breath tickles the shell of her ear. She shivers, looking up at him quizzically. He bites her ear gently, leaving a light, wet kiss just below her earlobe. "Green really is your color."
The door to the study opens with a bang, startling them apart from one another. Vic desperately tries to calm her racing heart, turning to meet Pierce's wide eyes.
"Is the mission compromised?" she asks immediately, mentally preparing herself to spend the night cleaning up Hydra's mess. Pierce opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, then closes it a minute later.
"Are you having a stroke?" Brock asks dryly. Vic knows his eyes are on her; she ignores him. His question, fortunately, seems to bring Pierce back to himself.
"It's not the mission," he says. "There's been a… discovery."
"Is Hydra compromised?" Vic asks, confused.
Her adopted uncle clears her throat. "Not necessarily. Though the situation is not ideal."
"Sir?"
"They found Captain America, and… well, and it seems as if he's still alive."