Victoria doesn't do things on the whim. She plans her days meticulously. She's not going to spontaneously go out and get a bagel; she will, however, schedule that bagel in her very packed timetable and enjoy it (read: scoff it down) in her self-allocated lunch-break (three minutes) before promptly diving headfirst in either her political campaign, taking down terrorist groups, taking down the greatest Supes of the nations, and so and henceforth.

Which is why, now, walking into a glorified orphanage and walking out with an adopted kid is sending her head spiralling because well, fuck. What the fuck did she just do?

She'd been there to wipe the files of her own childhood, before anyone got their grubby hands on them. Blackmail was a bitch to deal with, and with the Singer-Neuman campaign in motion, she couldn't afford a liability as hefty as this.

Except, as she'd been perusing the files, she'd come across you. Blood manipulation, blown-up parents; what were the chances? You were like a carbon-copy. Her own backstory, transplanted on some other poor, innocent kid who would no doubt churn out from that shithole of a system something mangled. She doesn't know what possessed her. Doesn't know if her body was on auto-pilot when she opened her fucking mouth and sweet-talked all the way into signing your goddamn adoption papers, but here she was; and here you were.

In her house. Her brand, spanking-new child. Wasn't that a treat?

"So," She clears her throat, and has to internally berate herself because God, what kind of politician is she, getting tongue-tied. She softens her features, visibly, because there's a surge of protectiveness rushing over her and blanketing her bones and you know what? Mother the fuck up, Vicky.

"Hey, baby. You wanna see your new room?" Never has she been so grateful Stan kept her childhood bedroom intact for the sake of sentimentality.

Some people dye their or cut their bangs amidst a mid-life crisis. Victoria adopts a child.