a/n: hello loves! ive written somethinnnnnnnngg im kinda excited about it bc i struggle with writing usually but i wrote this quicker than everything else ive done. i hope you enjoy! (dont mind while i flex my four years of french on you lol)
post-infinity war! pre-endgame! oc!reina fennel
“Ugh!” The woman exclaims. In front of her, there is an open document, which is blank except for a word written in a small front: « Sans titre » and under it, « Reina Fennel ».
Wide shot. The room is dark except for the glowing light of the computer and subtle streaks of dusk creeping in from closed blinds. And further, there are coffee cups. Several coffee mugs. Some tall, some short, some knocked over, some resting on unconventional surfaces, like the fish tank across the room. Reina shifts in her seat, and papers crumble: the scrapped ideas of yesterday rendering only useful as an uncomfortable seat cushion. It is clear that she has been at this for a considerable amount of time, perhaps days.
She exclaims once more, and BANG! Her hand goes on the smooth metal of the computer’s surface. She holds her head in her hands, pulling at the satin scarf tied around her hair.
I need a break, Reina tells herself, deciding to ignore the draft altogether. Rubbing her tired eyes, she emerges from her place on the couch and heads to the kitchen. She waters the small succulents on the small windowsill before filling the kettle and putting it on the hot stove. This is her life. And as mundane as it is, Reina loves it. She’s a plant mother, and there’s no duty more rewarding that.
KNOCK! KNOCK! Zoom on the door to her apartment.
She scrunches her eyebrows, curious as to who may be at the door, for since after The Great War, Reina decided to move out of the country to someplace on the outskirts of Paris. And she rarely had visitors.
« Qui est là ? » She inquires, grabbing a wooden baseball bat from behind the fridge and creeping her way to the door.
« Allô ? » But still, nothing. She grips the bat even tighter, her hands sure to form callouses the next day.
The knob to the door begins shaking as a dull whirring begins to sound from the outside.
Slowly, she begins to reach for the handle, but –
BOOM! The door bursts from its hinges on the wall and makes a deafening splat onto the ground. And through the specks of dust, there is nothing other than a battered robot with an “A” imprinted onto its left breast. The Avengers A. And subsequently, Tony Stark, appears from behind it. Grey hair grows from his temples and the wrinkles adjacent to his eyes have only become deeper, more prominent as he smiles a tight smile at her.
“Took you long enough,” He remarks, entering her home by stepping onto the fallen door.
“T-Tony?” Reina stammers, the bat colliding with the ground.
It has been years since she saw him last. Since her friends had been evaporated into nothing but dust. And in these years, Rei tried to put the past behind her, purging the memories and nightmares of Thanos snapping his golden-clad thumb, Vision taking his last breath before exploding into thin air, and the grasslands of Wakanda no longer green and vibrant but drenched in red blood. Not only the blood of her enemies, but also her own teammates. And she succeeded. She really did, becoming a writer at a popular French newspaper, Le Parisien. But Tony’s presence sends all of it crashing back, an ache forming in her mind.
Looking back at her, he shrugs, “I’ll have it replaced.”
Beat. Tony says, “I love what you’ve done with the place. Real homey.”
She should respond, but the words are trapped in her throat. So, she stares, studying him as he walks from her kitchen to her living area, picking up pictures in their frames along the way.
“Well,” He begins. “You’re welcome. You know, this is no way to treat a guest, Rei.”
But she can only look at him with disbelief. “How did you find me?”
He doesn’t answer. “I really do love what you have here, Rei, really.” A decoration on the wall catches his eye. “See! A poster that says,” He picks it up, « Ècrire, c’est une façon de parler sans être interrompu. » You’re a writer now? You? Assassin to…writer is quite a demotion, don’t you think?”
Zoom on the kettle as it screeches loudly from the kitchen, but Reina doesn’t break her concentration on the man.
“How did you find me?” She repeats, growling, each word more ferocious than the last.
“You can’t expect that it was difficult. I mean, with my technology and the fact that you didn’t even change your name…You must’ve wanted me to find you. Tea?” Tony sets two mugs on the kitchen table and pours them full of green tea.
“If I did, I would’ve never left. Now leave.”
“I swear, if you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.” Heat brews within her, her skin becoming hot.
“You can’t call the police if you don’t have a phone, N’est-ce pas?” He, with his head, instructs the robot to cut the cord connected to her landline.
“Then I’ll go.” Reina grabs her black leather jacket from the coatrack and makes her way to the door. She shrugs it on, the cool of the jacket doing little to pacify her.
“Stop her,” he orders the robot, it blocking the space in front of the entryway. “You have to hear me out.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
“Please,” he begs, his voice full of desperation, “Just sit.”
Reina eyes him, dubiously. She hadn’t seen Tony this distressed since before the battle, in his lab, sleep deprived, scanning over mission strategies and sketches for new weapons and uniforms. But finally—
She sits from across him, cupping the steaming mug of tea.
It is silent, the only sound the buzzling streets of Paris.
“Why are you here?” Reina probed, her eyes piercing into his, searching for an answer to this disruption. Truly, she didn’t want to know, for she feared the answer would further complicate her life, the life created for herself as a normal person, free from the burden of defending the human race from whatever domestic or galactic threat came its way.
“We have a problem. And I need your help.” There it is.
Reina didn’t care about what he needed. The day left she knew what she was leaving behind. She couldn’t stand the pain and grief painted her teammates faces, knowing that everyone gone would never come back. The only thing she regretted leaving was Steve, her heart throbbing every time she thought of him and the love they shared. But after a year, that feeling faded. She convinced herself that it was all for the best. They all just had to understand that she was never going back.
She marches to her the bedroom—
Sans titre – without title; untitled
Qui est là ? – Who’s there?
Ècrire, c’est une façon de parler sans être interrompu. -- Writing is a way to talk without being interrupted. (Jules Renard)
N’est-ce pas ? – isn’t it so?; right?
