"The hell was that Nightshade? Are you purposefully trying to disobey my orders?"

Ever wanted to murder your double-crossing boss and hide the body where no one would ever find it?

Yeah, I've had that feeling on several various occasions, including now.

One month into being an official SHIELD agent and I already want to rip off Brock Rumlow's nasty head and dump it into a sewerage pipe. Him and his STRIKE team are all smiles, all happy, all trigger happy, but I know what kind of traitorous bastards they are, so does Sam. In situations like these however, I am grateful they don't recall who I am. Otherwise we would all be knee deep in shit.

I understand that as the new kids on the block, team Enhanced don't possess a very high clearance because we have only been active for a month – and we still need to attend training sessions, because you know, apparently the majority of my life and eight months on Asgard isn't enough for them – but that doesn't mean I like being kept in the dark about every damn thing we're told to do. Mystery on one side of a mission I can handle, but both sides? Give me a break.

Unfortunately, I am forced to hold my little nineteen year old sister back from making poison ivy grow out of Rumlow's eye sockets when he heatedly yells at her, her petite, affronted face scowling even more at the man. "The real orders were to get the target out alive, not throw him down a motherfucking mountain slope!"

Ooph, language sis. Steve would not approve.

I think I can see one of the veins on Rumlow's forehead pulse. "He is alive, Nightshade—"

"Barely!" Adelaide glares, fighting half-heartedly against my restraint over her.

Mm nope, forget pulse. That vein is about to burst. "Take a cool off Nightshade, you and the rest of STRIKE: Enhanced will need to fill out your parts of the mission report within the hour. Then go home, you're dismissed for the day." Evidently, Rumlow has had enough of our shit as well.

Still standing in the cockpit of the jet we had all arrived in, the three of us stand silently fuming at Brock and his lackeys as they exit the quinjet; the whole group of them like a swarm of locusts amongst ants as other SHIELD agents in the loading bay part like the Red Sea for them. Although quiet so far, I can feel small amounts of static jumping from Sam in his ire, yet surprisingly, I'm rather level headed myself on the outside.

Slowly and painfully planning Rumlow's dutiful demise in the most agonising way possible, but rather chill about it all. I only comment "Hey Adelaide, feel like burying a dead body with me? I know loads of places to hide it, and I think it could be a fun, sisterly bonding exercise for us," once, but I don't know if Addie heard me over the anger slowly seething off of her in what would definitely be steam if she still controlled and created fire.

Adelaide huffs a strand of her wavy, dark, chestnut brown hair from her equally brown eyes, her glare hot enough to melt Logan's adamantium skeleton and claws. "I know I'm supposed to be the embodiment of all things good, happy and light and shit out rainbows or something like that – but that man makes me want to do such indescribably excruciating things to him that the Joker himself would need to hold me back."

"O-kay, that's enough coffee for you before a SHIELD assignment," I worriedly mumble, loosening my restraint on her once Rumlow's out of sight. "Keep talking like that and our biological father is going to pop out of a quinjet and claim how proud he is of you for converting over to the dark side."

"Well they do have cookies," Sam reasons, managing to calm himself to a more tolerable level as the static begins to fizz out.

Sighing, for the first time in my life I decide to take on a serious air of responsibility and sincerely order "Right, fine. Enough of this. You two go home, I'll fill out all three of our parts for the mission report and pass by the target – who, may I remind you and the long gone Rumlow, is actually called Henry – to check up on him with some lunch if he hasn't any. You two need to chill, mentally deliberate the one hundred and one ways to murder your boss with a spoon, and have some hot coco. I'll be home before dinner."

All I receive are two very blank looks that are mixed with such a surprise it's as if I've announced I'm pregnant. "Are... Are you sure?" Addie double checks, probably waiting for me to go 'Psyche! Just kidding! I'm an irresponsible bitch waiting for you to do that for me whilst I binge out on Pop Tarts and Tootsie Rolls (because who doesn't love that crap) and watch the new season of Sherlock on the TV'.

"Yeah yeah, you're both a bit emotionally compromised at the moment. I've got this," I dust off, attempting to reassure their evident nerves in the most nonchalant manner possible.

They exchange worried glances, as if I'm preparing to burn down the entire building and convert back to HYDRA, before muttering their thanks and goodbyes as I attend to my promised duties.

I spend the next hour or so writing out the mission report, actively avoiding all members of STRIKE like the plague, and then turn in to the cafeteria for some of their provided lunches. Swiping a couple chicken chipotle wraps – one for Henry of course – as well as some water, my long legs unconsciously guide me towards the interrogation waiting rooms where he'll no doubt be, until I round a sharp corner and almost collide head long into a fumbling, unsuspecting scientist.

Papers almost scatter in the abrupt, attention demanding collision, but my reflexes snap my one free hand into action and make it shoot out so quickly Parker would be proud, and adeptly catch the cluster of folders as if I had planned and practiced the accident several times over.

"I'm so s-sorry, I didn't see where I was going –"

"Whoa, hey, dude, it's fine. Contrary to what the gossip in this place may say, I'm not going to bite your head off or incinerate you into oblivion," I try to ease the man, my eyes devouring the semi-tall scientist before me.

He's rather cute for a scientist; beautiful reddy-brown curls that are generally kept short but occasionally stretch long enough to dust in front of his eyes; enough freckles dappling his cheeks and nose that it wouldn't take long for me to spot a couple constellations in them; and eyes such a warm yet startling pale green they can't help but remind me of spring. Wow, bit poetic there Lilly, let's dial it down a bit.

The distracted man seems to possess a fear or problem with maintaining solid eye contact, with shoulders slightly sagged and an air of awkwardness about him that would make Sheldon Cooper look like the God of Confidence. Okay, maybe not that much, but you get the general idea.

"M-Most agents around here do bite my head off when I run into them, especially the STRIKE team. I don't know why, but I tend to annoy people," he dishes out an explanation for his moment of stumbling apologies, lime orbs darting from the floor to the wall to the folders in my hand and occasionally my eyes in the jumble of things. Hmm, I can definitely detect a lilt of a British accent there. Gotta love the Brits. He has a rather soft voice, yet the man as a whole is so innocently adorable that I could scoop him up in a hug and try and protect him from the demons of this world. Though, I could probably be classified as one of those demons so I wouldn't be much help.

His eyes hold my own for more than five seconds as he continues. "I didn't mean anything by it. Sorry."

I smile at him in a way that I hope conveys all the warmth and comfort in the galaxy. "Like I said, don't worry about it. I've noticed some of these guys can be royal pricks, especially the STRIKE team. Not the friendliest people in the world..." Neither am I, but I think if I even mention that I've murdered a couple hundred people at the age of twenty five, the poor guy may faint.

His smile is as awkward as him, yet also as very endearing. "Commander Rumlow seems like he gives Dementors a hard time, considering he has no soul for them to suck."

I let out a thoroughly amused laugh that stirs in my gut at his innocently spoken opinion. "Yeah, he spent the last mission raiding candy from babies and kicking puppies in the corner."

A cute, graceless snort of a laugh manages to escape his lips, an adorkable smile lifting them up to showcase even cuter dimples. "The other agents get rather angry about anyone down talking him. But it could just be because I'm the one doing the down talking... or any talking at all really... Did you know you have these speckles of green in your eyes that are far darker than the average pair of green or hazel eyes? They even glisten more than the br – sorry, distracted again."

Getting over the initial surprise of the subject change, I chuckle. "Eh, don't worry about it. My friend Sam has the attention span of a goldfish most of the time so I'm used to it. And feel free to down talk Rumlow as much as you want to me. I can probably dish out complaints a thousand times worse," I offer him, delicately handing him his folders and grinning like an idiot. "Name's Lilly, by the way. Lilly Nightshade."

"Dr Lewis Thompson. The Director keeps me around because of my advanced work in Microbiology, Wildlife biology, Forensics science and... well, biology and a bit of chemistry as a whole, really," Lewis introduces rather characteristically, finding meeting my gaze easier and easier, but still occasionally casting it elsewhere.

Some strangely benevolent part of me revels in the good mood I've surprisingly been experiencing all day, despite the sour comment thrown here or there. And, in the spur of said good mood, I gesture a hand down where I am heading and reply "Well, as the honorary new kid on the block, I believe it is my indisputable duty to associate myself and form bonds with my fellow co-workers. When I'm done taking some late lunch to a man in the interrogation waiting room, and if you've finished work for the day, would you care to come over to mine for some drinks and later dinner? My sister and friend Sam live with me, and they could probably do with some new friends as well."

He stares at me, dumbfounded, like I've asked him to assassinate the President or something. Which, considering who is currently running America with a racist fist and twitter-trigger happy fingers, may or may not prove to be beneficial. "Me? You wish to spend time with... me?" The incredulity in his tone almost pains me like a twisting dagger to the feels, the British, soft, purity of his voice only emphasizing the poignancy of it all.

"Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Oh, I don't – it's just... like I said, I tend to annoy people. I find company of the more mammal, reptilian, avian and marine variety to be more accepting. Books are rather gratifying as well, particularly the more outlandish fictional worlds that defy the laws of science and reality."

I quirk an eyebrow, interest piqued. "You're a scientist that prefers the irrationality and imaginary machinations of fictional worlds over the logic and reasoning of science?"

The charming smile tugs at his lips, yet his gaze remains pinned over my shoulder staring into nothingness. "I like to think I'm a doctor of science but a man of fiction and fantasy. To love learning how the world rationally works, but able to appreciate the creativity and magic the imagination of the human mind can infinitely create."

"Poetic," I mumble, putting a stray stand of my amber waves back into place behind my ear. "And interesting. So, what about it Doctor? You free for some down time with the rookies?"

He thinks about it for a moment, and the small knot furrowing between his brows and indecisive flicker in his eyes almost makes me believe he'll decline, but with a confidence I have yet to see from him, he meets my stare and brightly smiles. "I think I would like that. And Lewis is fine, no need for formalities."

"Oh I wasn't being formal," I shamelessly admit, waving off the assumption. "I meant 'Doctor' as in you remind of someone who would make a good Doctor Who. I think I'll shorten it to Doc though; I can be lazy like that. But sounds good! When do you get off?"

"In a couple hours. I can make my own way there if you want. I don't want to be a bother."

"Eh, like I said, I have some things to do around here. I'll swing by the science labs in a couple hours. Good?"

"Sounds wonderful, thank you." The pure happiness touching his smile and voice finds a way to elate my heart, those damn freckles adding to the overall adorkable bundle of joy he is. Awkwardly waving each other off with a farewell, I once again continue my way down the hall with a clichéd skip in my step. Perhaps not everyone in this place is a complete and utter douchenozzle-jock-asshat-Rumlow.

Within record time I drop by the interrogation waiting rooms – after shooting a text about getting the apartment ready for company to Addie, she'd murder me if I didn't foreworn her about people coming over – and the poor man whom we saved not even two hours ago almost praises me like a god for being an 'at least semi-familiar face that isn't trying to intimidate information which I'm willing to anyway give'. Though, I personally think it's because I came bearing food and drink.

We idly chat for a while, and he seems like a pretty decent guy. We're half way through a rousing discussion on why Hulk would pulverise a sentient-blue whale on steroids when none other than my future husba— *cough* Captain Rogers walks on in, that air of America's Golden Boy forever encompassing him like a halo.

"Nightshade."

"A berry plant that has both poisonous foliage and berries. The Nightshade family includes common food plants, including potatoes, tomatoes, eggplants and chili peppers. In fact, all of these plants contain toxins — usually in their foliage — that can be harmful. In particular, humans and pets should avoid potato and tomato foliage and vines in the garden—"

"I meant you."

"I know, I just like being a pain sometimes."

Ah, there's that exasperated-unimpressed brow furrow he used to give me before we became romantically involved. The way he tilts his head like a puppy, trying to make me behave. I know what you're doing Rogers, you ain't getting a one up on me this time.

Those baby blues nail on me, his tone firmly assured but kind. "You have a moment?"

"For you my dear Captain, always," I playfully respond, hand warmly over my heart as I jump up with a spring in my step – wait, I already used something similar to that. Ah well, you know what I mean.

The two of us traverse into the hallway, the thick silence not entirely suffocating but not bearing the comforts of welcoming either. Turning so abruptly on his heel to halt and face me in the middle of the desolate, metallic hallway of SHIELD, Steve Rogers wears the face of a father who is about to chide a child for being sent to the principal's office. "Commander Rumlow has come to me with complaints about you and your team on several occasions now. Fury seems to have told him that any problems involving your team are to be sent to me; for what reasons I'm not sure, but because of that I'm seeing even more of Brock Rumlow than I usually do. Is it really that hard playing nice?"

"I am nice," I immaturely defend, crossing my arms across my chest like a defiant, petulant child.

I'm unsure whether his brief chuckle is out of exasperation or mild amusement. "Lilly..."

I sigh, the fatigue gnawing at my face momentarily ageing me by several years. "I'm trying, okay? I'm trying to keep the peace, and control my loud mouth, and follow orders like a good soldier. But it's hard doing that when a) I'm not a soldier and b) Rumlow isn't trying at all on his side. Jack Rollins isn't any better either. I mean, everyone has the right to be stupid, but he abuses the privilege."

His stare intensifies into something that nearly makes me want to retract into my non-existent shell and apologies profusely, so as you can imagine, I'm quick to flip the switch of my immaturity off and sincerely apologise. "I'm sorry Steve. I'll try harder. We all will."

I'm momentarily staggered by the cheeky smile that tilts his lips up. "So you can take something seriously?"

Jaw agape like a trout; I breathily chuckle with my open mouth before shutting it. "Oh you're good. You're hilarious. Here I thought your ran a barbershop quartet back in World War II, but evidently it was stand-up comedy."

I find it difficult remaining perturbed when a proper, toothy smile breaks out across his face, arms casually sliding down from where they were crossed over his chest. "Well you make it too easy sometimes."

"Oh it is on Rogers, just you wait. I'll pop out of nowhere and roast your ass so hard that you'll need that seventy years worth of ice to put it out," I candidly warn, accentuating my point by pointing a finger at him earnestly.

He laughs good-naturedly, clapping his right hand across the left side of his chest from the amusement as he leans back for a moment. "That was good, I'll give you that. But I didn't just come here on behalf of Brock." My eyebrow quirks at the sentence tagged on at the end, intrigued and silently prompting him to continue.

Almost immediately he's calmed down, yet that comforting smile remains plastered on his face. "SHIELD's Headquarters are stationed in Washington D.C, as I'm sure you're aware. It's a bit of a short notice, but tomorrow morning we're heading back up there because there and Fury suggested I pick an agent or two from our station here in New York to come up with us. I was wondering if you'd be alright to accompany us on such short notice?"

Sometimes I wish my brain would filter and process information quicker than my mouth would react. "Of course, I'd be happy to. Are Adelaide and Sam to be tagging along as well?"

"Fury has a couple things he needs them to attend to here first, but I checked with him and I'm allowed to steal you early and they'll be joining us in a few days, a week at the most."

I shrug, content with the answer. "Then all is right with the world. I'll head home and start packing. How long are we expecting to stay in D.C for?"

"A while. As you know, SHIELD doesn't have many enhanced, so travelling will become a normality for you and your team now."

"It's always kind of been a normality," I truthfully amend, reminiscences of my assassin days flickering before my eyes like a broken, old black and white movie. "In fact it's strange just staying in one place. Not being on the move feels too calm, like I'm missing out on what's going on elsewhere."

"I can understand that," he nods, and judging by the distant glaze clouding his baby blues, he's currently reliving old memories similarly to me. "We'll be taking off at 4:00. Try not to be late, otherwise Fury may finally lose his patience and Nat may just lose her bet."

I can feel my eyes bulge at the time I need to get up, but even more so at the latter statement. "There's a betting pool on how long it will take me to make Fury blow his top? How many people are in this betting pool?"

Unfortunately, Steve has already begun his departure, placidly walking back a few steps before turning and heading down the hallway properly, all the while grinning like the gentleman that he is. "A lot. Have a nice night Lilly."

I repress the urge to blurt out anything more, resorting on "You too Rogers." For once, maybe, just maybe, things may just turn out my way.

Or you know, go to shit like it always does.

Probably the latter.

Definitely the latter.

***

Apparently, Lewis is also on the list of people who received a short notice of hauling ass to D.C the next morning, so we had to cancel both ways with the drinks and group dinner. It'll be nice to have someone I can tolerate – besides Captain Kill Joy of course – for the next few days within range, though after the two hour flight it took to get to D.C, I can understand why he politely despises the very presence of Brock Rumlow.

On a couple occasions I had to intervene from the frankly bully like behaviour of Rumlow, his second in command Jack Rollins, and the majority of the STRIKE team. It was like the hallways of high school – not that I know what that feels like – but without all the physical violence that jocks tend to partake in. Mainly just verbal, which, now that I think about it, is rather a womanly approach to abusing someone.

I can think of several ways to ridicule Rumlow at the end of that sentence right now, none of which I can openly convey in a still somewhat family friendly novel. But I'll tell you what; one of them has to do with a domestic animal you can own.

Addie helped me pack whilst Sam just watched the new season of Sherlock without me (bastard). Fortunately, Stella managed to hook me up with the penthouse suite of the Parkcorp Hotel over in Washington, and I'm really looking forward to using all those little soaps and complimentary bathing toiletries and smelling like a freaking floral shop or a Victoria's Secret fragrance store.

However, I barely step into the suite which is three times the size of our apartment in New York – with a view that could outdo Stark Tower – when at 6:39 (still in the goddamn morning) I receive a fairly unwanted text from Rumlow.

Mission Alert. Extraction Imminent. Meet in Lobby. – B. R

"Five minutes," I huff, feeling the same irritating strand of short hair dusting my vision again. "Is it really too much to ask, for five goddamn minutes?"

Within another two hours, I find myself fully suited up and in a jet in the Indian Ocean surrounded by the STRIKE team, Nat and Steve, all adorning equally concentrated and solemn expressions on their faces. Officially, this is the first mission I've been on with either Tasha or Steve, so it's fair to say I'm quite on edge and raring to prove my mettle.

"Target it a mobile satellite launch platform, the Lemurian Star," Brock demonstrates, and for the time being, I find myself able to push my distaste for the man aside and observe him point out and present the layout of ship on the screen before us. "They were sending up their last payload when pirates took them, ninety-three minutes ago."

Steve beats me to the standard question for a situation such as this. "Any demands?"

"Billion and a half," Brock doesn't hesitate to answer, and I'm pretty sure I can taste a small amount of bile at how politely he treats Steve. Traitorous bastard.

This time, however, I beat Steve to the next question. "Why so steep?"

When Rumlow replies to me, it's nowhere near as friendly. "Because it's SHIELD's," he states, as if I'm supposed to be aware of everything and anything like some kind of clairvoyant. I spare him a withering glance, one which he fondly returns.

I can easily detect the sigh in Steve's tone. "So it's not off-course. It's trespassing."

With a fist resting against her mouth pensively in thought, Nat jumps to the defence flatly. "I'm sure they have a good reason."

"You know, I'm getting a little tired of being Fury's janitor."

Amen Steve. Now that Nicky and I don't have the fatherly-daughterly bond I grew up on with him, he's kind of an ass. It's not fun being on the receiving end of his infamous death glares and covert secrets.

"Relax, it's not that complicated." Natasha reminds me of a mother attempting to placate her tempestuous child, and barely spares Steve a glance in the entire exchange.

"How many pirates?" I jump in addressing Brock, in hopes to steer the conversation back to relevancy.

"Twenty-five. Top mercs led by this guy." His finger glides across the screen, zooming in on the dossier of a man that looks like the lovechild of Tom Hardy and Brad Pitt. "Georges Batroc. Ex-DGSE, Action Division. He's at the top of Interpol's Red Notice. Before the French demobilised him, he had thirty six kill missions." Only thirty six? "This guy's got a rep for maximum casualties." We'll see about that.

"Hostages?" A brief smile ghosts my lips at how quick Steve is to ask that question, a sense of warmth flooding my chest at his endearing, virtuous ways.

"Oh, mostly techs. One officer; Jasper Sitwell. They're in the galley." He talks about the technicians as if they're not that important. Even as an assassin I knew and respected every life I took or endangered, and here we are, rescuing a fairly sizeable crew of technicians, and Rumlow sounds as if he's deliberating chicken or pasta for dinner. Thought I couldn't hate him more, but I can.

Steve adjusts his gloves in the corner of my eye, that familiar frown furrowing his brows. "What's Sitwell doing on a launch ship?" He moves on so quickly, that it causes me to think that his little question was mainly a one-sided conversation with himself. "All right, I'm gonna sweep the deck and find Batroc. Lilly, you'll join me, but your main concern is securing the deck. Nat, you'll kill the engines and wait for instructions. Rumlow, you sweep aft, find the hostages, get them to the life-pods, get them out. Let's move."

"STRIKE you heard the Cap; gear up."

Already suited and geared up to my full potential, I politely wave off the parachute one of the STRIKE members hands me, grinning and assuring "I'm good, but thanks."

Turning back to attention, I notice Nat and Steve in the midst of idle conversation. "Did you do anything fun Saturday night?"

Steve adjusts his earpiece for what must be the one hundredth time that night, the beginnings of a friendly smile blooming on his face. "Well, all the guys from my barbershop quartet are dead, so no, not really."

"So you did stand-up comedy and ran a barbershop quartet," I inquire, encouraging and watching the smile on his face grow. "I suppose you're going to tell me that you won your fair share of dance competitions and ran a malt shop while you're at it?"

"Only on the weekends," he replies, a soft chuckle coming from Tasha from where she stands a few feet in front of me.

"Coming up on the drop zone, Cap." The pilot radios in, prompting Steve to punch the button for the hatch open and retrieve his head gear as he ambles on over.

Nat adjusts her own earpiece, making me wonder if I'm supposed to adjust mine a million or so times as well to be fully accepted into this little community. "You know, if you ask Kristen out, form Statistics, she'd probably say yes."

Yeah well Kristen can take a seat and go screw herself, he's secretly taken.

"That's why I don't ask." His voice raises above the almighty roar of the jet and the air that whips past us so impossibly fast, and I have to smile at his response. Good boy.

"Too shy, or too scared?" Even I'm interested in how he'll respond, waltzing on over to join him by the edge and staring at him expectantly.

He smiles, both at me and at Nat. "Too busy!"

Then the motherfucker goes and gives me a heart attack as he jumps off the freaking plane without a parachute.

Without a damn parachute dammit!

Glaring at the clouds he emerged and disappeared into, I power-walk the rest of the way to the edge, scowling irritably under my breath. "He's going to give me grey hairs by the time I'm thirty."

And with that being said, I of course jump off after him.

A/N: Do you know how many times I've written and re-written this chapter? Twelve.

Twelve freaking times.

I don't what, or why, but I really seemed to struggle with this chapter. I don't even know if I'm 100% happy with it now, but I'm the happiest I've been with it, so it'll have to do. Because it's my last year of school, I have more homework and assessments than you can imagine, so updating will be a bit slow this year but I'll try where I can :)

Btw, wHO SAW THE THOR: RAGNAROK TRAILER!?!?! Cuz I think I died at least forty two times, and afterwards I was a bit like "Civil War Who?".

Please, if you haven't seen it, watch it. Reverently.

Picture of Lewis above. Yes I know it's Eddie Redmayne in his Newt Scamander outfit, but it's the only pic I could find where he had the red curls almost in front of his eyes.

Thanks for reading, and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~ T.L