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Cigarettes after murder

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I brushed my hair over my shoulder as I tried to calm down the butterflies in my stomach. It’s not like I didn’t like was just complicated. Complicated meaning that I didn’t even know he was my father until I turned 17. I’m now 18 and spent the whole year in foreign boarding schools, never staying in one long because I had a habit of getting kicked out after the first few months.

My life was relatively normal until I turned 15. Maybe it was my parents divorce or my older sisters constant bitchy attitude towards me, but it all became to much and I took a dive into the deep end. Paintbrushes in my pocket became cigarettes and my dreams of art school didn’t seem important anymore.

The coffee my mom poured into my travel mug every morning had more whiskey in it than creamer. It wasn’t until my family died that I truly changed and started reaching for the harder stuff. Heroin was the devil, soothed my broken soul for a while but came with a nasty hold. I graduated early - at 16 - and was now freshly homeless after my last tie to my old life, my last family friend, kicked me off his couch and told me to get to work. Finding a job wasn’t hard with tits as big as mine so the first strip club I found hired me on spot. James - the owner - wasn’t a complete sleaze bag and let his girls bunk in the basement for real low and always made sure that the back rooms had enough 5 hours of energy and cliff bars to get us through the night.

I found comfort in strangers arms, they felt more familiar than the hugs I got when old friends found me on the street and slyly slipped five dollar bills into my worn leather jacket. Tony was the one who found me, not the other way around.

I suddenly had a career change and went from my hand around a pole to around a gun overnight. Being a hitman didn’t do shit to me, I was good at keeping my emotions on lockdown. Maybe it was because my father (not Tony) was an army man and my childhood was filled with yes sir and no sir and don’t you dare cry but it came in handy when dealing with all the shitty situations I keep getting in.

One night I was hired to murk a high up business man that worked for Ozcorp but apparently the gods had another plan. I didn’t really expect Ironman himself to show but hey this was New York nothing should surprise me. It all happened so quickly to the point were I honestly couldn’t tell how I managed to blow up a building before even shooting the guy but it managed to catch Starks attention.

Glass shattered around me and even though I was mostly covered and protected a piece managed to scratch my cheek and left my DNA at the crime scene. And Tony found it. To say he was surprised when Jarvis tested the sample and came back with the news that the run away assassin is related to him is an understatement. After 3 months hunting me down and many awkward conversations and get to know you brunches later, he took legal custody.

When I first graduated I had a friend wipe everything about me from every database, hoping that I could get a decent job without my lengthy police record coming to bite me in the ass. Because of this it took some time to form an actual identity again.

Tony kept me a secret from everyone except Pepper, Happy, and Rhodey. Not even Fury knew about me. After the whole civil war fiasco the avengers managed to patch things up and were pardoned. Tony handled most of the damage control and the once outlawed avengers were now living back in the tower.

I took a deep breath and blinked away the smoke from the cigarette loosely hanging from between my chapped lips. I walked through the door.