EDITED :)

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3rd Person's POV (Would say long time no see, but you inhale me every day)

          The previously purpling nose of America's First Avenger has since healed fairly well. However, no thanks to everyone's favourite assassin, some pretty gruelling burn imprints in the shape of hands are now curled around Steven Rogers' wrists, currently hidden by gauze as he finishes tending to the injury in Bruce Banner's laboratory.

          The Fantastic Four have since returned to the Baxter Building, gathering their own wits to see what they can do before returning with their results to SHIELD, but as for now, the Avengers are scattered throughout the Hellicarrier, Steve just unfortunate enough to be in the same room as everybody's favourite narcissistic billionaire.

          "One Eyed Wonder seemed pretty moody about losing the Ice Queen," Stark flippantly comments, leisurely leaning against the table Bruce is currently attempting to work on in peace as he snacks on some pre-peeled grapes. Clint is also sitting atop another table against the wall with his legs crossed, lightly tossing and catching a stress ball in the air. "I personally think he just needs to let it go."

          Tying up the last of the gauze around his wrists tenderly, Rogers shoots the billionaire a semi-simmering glance. "It's not funny, Stark. She got away again."

          "It's not like she's hell-bent on world domination or anything undeniably evil Spangles," Tony points out, fairly unmoved by the successful escape bar the partially wounded pride of his ice entrapment. "Didn't you hear her talking to Romanoff? She genuinely hasn't got a clue with what HYDRA has planned. Not to mention with what we saw over the security surveillance when Match Stick gave her pizza, that whole thing about her not being entirely heartless. Personally, I think she's capable of being saved. She's funny, too. More fun than most of you kill joys."

          "She's not the kind you save, Tony. She's the kind you stop," Steve asserts, his opinion of the assassin very low at the moment.

          "But we all love a bad girl, don't we Rogers?"

          Captain America's glare only intensifies at the rebuttal. "Not our enemy, Stark. And you have Pepper-"

          "Oh I wasn't talking about for me," the playboy intervenes, rather laid-back and aloof about it all. "Tell me Rogers, did you end up getting that strand of hair to clone her? You were definitely close enough to, unless you were just enjoying experiencing the real thing-"

          "Tony, now's not the time," Bruce attempts to salvage what peace there currently is in the room, gently pleading with his friend.

          Both heroes disregard the kind and gentle peacemaker of their team, opting to size each other up instead. "You really want to go there Stark?" Steve warns, tone forming that hard edge it gets when his disciplinary days from the army kick in.

          Straightening up in an attempt to meet the tall super soldier's height, in spite of falling very short of it, Tony Stark wears that determined, suspicious, inquisitive face that looks like it may twitch into an accusatory expression at any given moment. "Oh I went there, bought a house, moved in, and now I'm remodelling the kitchen."

          "You must think you're awfully clever," the super soldier presses, stepping closer and using his height to stare down the shorter man.

          "I am clever, Rogers. Thank you for noticing."

          "Will you two just sleep with each other already?" Natasha Romanoff exasperates in that always even tone of hers, wondering if she chose the right moment to enter the room or not.

          "We were just discussing how Nightshade should do that for me," the ever quick-witted billionaire fires back, breaking his stare off with the Ancient Flag to glance at the Russian assassin.

          Before anyone else can comment on the current topic on hand, Clint pauses from his throwing and catching of the stress ball as he watches the scene play out in amusement, having noticed the rather weary looking vials and test tubes in Natasha's hands with oddly coloured, questionable liquids filling them. "Natasha, please tell me you're not experimenting with those old Russian poisons again," the archer pleads, ready to bolt if need be.

          The red head rolls her eyes, answering in a reasonable manner "I only paralysed you for a week, Clint. You need to let that go."

          "Well this conversation has taken a strange turn," the scientist in the room mutters, electing to keep his nose in his work and refusing to make eye contact with any of his team mates should that prompt more conversation on his behalf.

          More banter and sharp camaraderie is thrown about the room as a result of the building stress from Lillian Nightshade, until America's First Avenger can't take any more of it.

          Look at what she's doing, he notes to himself, using his brief reverie to analyse their current situation whilst Tony's attention is elsewhere. Dividing us, just like Loki did. But was that her goal? To split us up from the inside? He doesn't know. The seemingly simple motives and acts of an immature assassin not only tearing up their team, but his thoughts as well. She's snarky and narcissistic, always has to have the last word. Her morals are more than skewed, she's willing to murder for a coin or two.

          And yet...

          "I'm not without a heart, Tinman... it's just black."

          "People like me don't usually choose to go into this profession, and when they do, it's usually for good reason or because of some sob story that 'damaged' us growing up. I'm no different."

          "Not heartless Tinkerbelle. Just using my heart less."

          Steven Grant Rogers holds no love for the assassin, but he knows, he just knows there's more to her. Something had to have happened to her to make Lillian Nightshade like this; no one's born with aspirations of being a criminal.

           So the real question is; what or who made Lillian Nightshade the woman she is today?

***

Lillian's POV

          "Roses."

          "Qué?"

          "Your roses," Simon Zackery repeats, sat atop a stack of firearms secured in their cases, twiddling one of my rather withering signature black roses between his fingers, admiring it like a critic before an exquisite piece of art. "They're black. I imagine you grow them yourself? Black roses aren't grown naturally, so they must be. Why black, though? Why not red? Why not white?"

          "I hate white roses," I have to refrain from snapping at the mere suggestion of white roses, taming my tongue to a more tempered level. "Blood stands out too easily on them. Plus, it offers an idea of innocence and purity. I may be an assassin, but I'm honest. Brutally so, sometimes. White roses send the wrong message. They're misleading."

          The momentary twitch of his lips for some strange reason seems to do everything but soothe me. "Hm. You're awfully principled for an assassin."

          From the moment Ally landed the jet in HYDRA territory, Sam was whisked away before anyone could even utter a puzzled inquiry or cry of protest. He tried convincing his fellow HYDRA agents to simply leave him be with Ally and I, but the request fell on deaf ears. I wasted no time trailing after the dragged off Hemmings, but partway through the HYDRA warehouse - near the opening, where all the cargo trucks and recently acquired weaponry sat - I was stopped by Simon Zackery himself. He sat quite contently atop the crates of firearms, cross legged, appearing rather childish for a man who was so high up in a terrorist organisation that has lasted since World War II. Not that I'm criticizing the man, it's refreshing working with someone who knows how to take a joke. Doesn't mean the display isn't... off-putting.

          Bristling at his casual, borderline whiny observation, I repress an eye twitch as he continues to whistle and play with my rose without a care in the world, replying "Ah yes, the principled assassin. The same principled assassin that broke America's Golden Boy's nose, stole from the Fantastic Four, steals more shit on a regular basis, enjoys partaking in daily exercises of creative and colourful ways in which to murder people, and even more so enjoys pissing off Earth's Mightiest Heroes - the role models of our fine and completely unproblematic nation. Yes, Zackery. I'm all about them principles."

          He ignores my little, painfully sarcastic rebuttal, the tips of his fingers tenderly brushing the withering petals of the black rose. They caress the flower, until abruptly; they sharply pluck one of the petals off, followed by another and another and another. "I kill her, I kill her not. I kill her, I kill her not-"

          Blinking at the very sudden turn of events, I practically stutter out the exasperated words tumbling in the back of my throat, struggling to form a coherent sentence. "Kill m-"

          BANG.

          I hadn't been watching his other hand. Rookie mistake. Fortunately, the shot misses my head, instead imbedding itself in the cargo truck a few meters behind me.

          Yelping at the unexpected gunshot, I practically fly a few meters more away from him, landing lightly on my toes and staring at the wacko with large, bug eyes. "What the shit Zackery!?"

          I risk my life for this asshole, fighting off freaking super heroes, and this is the kind of payment I get!?

          Appearing rather bored with the situation at hand, he crushes the top of the rose in his hand and tosses it carelessly to the side, making a sound similar to a horse as he breathes out of his lips with them flapping up and down. "I got impatient. Too many petals."

          "But wh-"

          "Don't play dumb with me honey," he admonishes, something in him snapping alarmingly quickly. "You were going to ask to leave. I don't like quitters."

          "Well yeah I was!" I shamelessly admit, gesturing wildly at where he nearly shot me. "You just tried to shoot me after I fought off two teams of super heroes for you, asshole!"

          His eyes roll on their own accord, treating me like I'm being a drama queen. "Don't be so dramatic Lillian; it was just a little bit of lead travelling one thousand seven hundred miles per hour."

          I snort rather dryly. "Ah yes, and the fire I throw is only a little hot. Don't worry, its friendly fire."

          "I hope you realise I don't tolerate this kind of idiocy."

          "Oh, is there another kind of idiocy you would prefer?"

          If he wasn't impressed before, he certainly isn't now. "You didn't kill Captain America. You didn't kill one super hero whilst in there, and you were caught. HYDRA asks for the best, HYDRA only accepts the best."

          "I'm better than the best, bitch," is my cutting response, hazel eyes zeroed in on the psychopath some distance from me, currently backed by several of his agents. The temperature of the atmosphere drastically drops in rapid succession, the lights flickering and wavering from the biting iciness gathering in the air. Zackery hesitates, still as a statue but eyes flickering about unsure.

          Inhale. The cold travels through my nose, waking up my lungs. Exhale. A breath of condensation breezes past my lips languidly, like a puff of smoke. "Sweet as sugar, hard as ice. Hurt me once," I pause, fists curling agonisingly slowly as my unblinking eyes cut through my former employer. "I'll kill you twice."

          His men anticipated it quicker than the man himself. Hand shot out, the blood inside of two of the men that launch in front of Zackery freeze to solid ice, the momentum of their lunge tipping them over as they freeze until the crash to the floor and shatter into shards. Gunfire automatically ensues, and I know that the moment Zackery disappears amongst the HYDRA agents escorting him away, that my opportunity to land a hit on the smug bastard is gone.

          Instead, I aim for an escape. Already near the large warehouse door, I bolt for the outside world whilst dodging bullets and responding to oncoming attackers. With a click of my fingers, a sheet of ice covers the floor for the next twenty meters until Ally's jet, where she's presently shooting a few of my attackers herself, the jet's engine already running. As I slide along the ice, the HYDRA agents stumbling and slipping like newborn calves attempting to walk on their legs for the first time, I spin like a figure skater.

          Inhale. Exhale.

          I breathe out a torrent of fire, searing in heat, similar to what a dragon would do if they were real. If it wasn't a violent, fatal attack, one may call it pretty. A figure skater surrounded by spirals of fire that she's breathing out as she skates and spins. The burns and cries of HYDRA agents, men and women alike, however, drain out any dangerous beauty the sight might have beheld.

          Reaching the jet eventually, Ally wastes no time getting the hell out of there, using the jet's artillery to target any of HYDRA's own jets before they even get the chance to start their engines.

          Ally's words and questions fall on my deaf ears as I heave for breath, crashing in the co-pilot seat. HYDRA just tried to kill me. HYDRA just tried to kill me. I screw up one thing, and this is how they retaliate? I don't just have SHIELD, the Avengers and the Fantastic Four on my ass now, I have HYDRA too.

          A fool would fight. A fool would tell the two biggest espionage agencies and super groups on the planet where they could stick their justice and revenge. But this fool? She knows when she's beat. There's no need to fight anymore, not without any cause or pay.

          I can feel the waves of anxiety rolling off her onto me. "Don't you think we have enough Lilly?"

          Occasionally glimpsing over to her, my brows furrow into a knot while I change lanes. "What do you mean?"

          "Enough money," she tiredly elaborates "we don't need to do this job. We have enough to set ourselves up comfortably for the rest of our lives. Why can't we just... disappear now?"

          I remember our conversation, the one we had after barely escaping Earth's Mightiest Weirdoes and the Fantastic Freak Show the first time at McDonald's. She wanted to leave. She wanted to stop and leave so long ago, and I always pressed for one more, one more I would tell her. Ally deserves better than this. She deserves better than all of this.

          Swallowing any doubt and apprehension that had begun to constrict my throat like python, I turn to my best friend in the seat beside me.

          "What were you saying about retirement, Allie-Cat?"

A/N: Fun Fact, the piece of dialogue between Natasha and Clint about the old Russian poisons is actual dialogue from the original comics. When I read it, I thought that I had never heard two lines that summed up their relationship so perfectly, hence why I slipped it in here.

QOTD: Pepsi or Coca Cola?

AOTD: Pepsi. Soz, Coca Cola.

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

~ T.L