Creedless Assassins; takes place post-Infinity War, pre-Endgame (Diverges from Endgame quite a bit, but pulls from the canon of the comics, so maybe that's ok?)
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It starts off as a cold. At least that's what Clint says when he talks to various medical professionals about the genesis of what came next.
Steve had called it a headcold. Apparently he'd spent most of his childhood with the stuffy ears and sinuses gone to shit, exacerbated by a perpetual low grade fever and sore throat.
Nat had called it a hell cold. Maybe because it made Clint feel like hell. But probably because it made him give her a lot of hell.
Steve had tried to get them all together in a sort of bucket brigade, stopping by with soup and Kleenex whenever they happened to be at the tower. It didn't take long for Thor to start making himself scarce. Then Tony, even though the tower is technically his permanent address. Bruce turned up every other day for almost two weeks before he snapped and sent Clint an 'anonymous' email in all caps and green text, accusing him, in more efficient language, of being a poser. After that, everything fell on Nat.
"It's been almost a month," Nat says, annoyed. She lays upside down on the foot of Clint's bed, head hanging off the edge and a comic book held up an inch from her nose.
Clint coughs wetly. "Not my fault."
"I didn't say it was."
"Huh?" Clint looks up and wrinkles his nose, then puts his hand behind his ear.
"You still all congested?" Nat asks. "Because you really should be over that by now."
Clint shrugs. "It's not my face, really." He gestures to the prominent bones beneath his eyes. He's thinned out lately, so everything on him is prominent now. "It's more like my..." He claps his hands against the sides of his head.
"Ears?" Nat guesses.
Clint nods.
"You probably have an infection." There's a hint of 'duh' in Nat's voice. "With that hell cold, I wouldn't be surprised if you had some... stuff. Bronchitis. Ear infection."
"Doesn't hurt, though," Clint protests, determined to be fine, despite evidence to the contrary.
"You need to go get it checked out," Nat says. She gives Clint a hard look.
"But--"
"Humor me." Nat's expression turns to a gentle smile, even though she's on the losing end of the argument. She's giving Clint a gift, not fighting back. She must realize how awful he feels, and Clint immediately feels guilty for hiding it.
"Yeah," Clint sighs. Nat could probably tell him anything and he'd agree right now, in the vulnerable position he currently holds.
Her words make sense, though. His ears don't seem to work. Haven't all week. Maybe longer. Clint isn't sure.He doesn't need his sense of hearing much whilst he's lying in bed, all his energy absorbed in raising his body temperature enough to host the antibodies and force them to work against the intruders. Or maybe it's the other way around. Yada Yada. Clint doesn't care.
"If I make you an appointment, will you go?" Nat asks, a little desperation in her tone.
"Maybe?" Clint imbues the word with as much honesty as he can
To be completely candid, his mission days are over. SHIELD can't trust him to stick to the script in the field anymore, so he's basically defunct. They use him as a paperwork pusher, signing and stamping, because he can read and write and he's a level six.
Mission reports from [Name redacted] SHIELD Agent/Enhanced Person, passed, damages, casualty count don't phase him. Shit happened. Yeah, it sucks. The families of the dead are due recompense, lest their asses be sued (again). The success to casualty ration will be added to a long list of MS Excel data with automatic unfolding equations that define the company metrics.
Then Clint will snap up his briefcase, for god knows he has one now, a gift from Nat last Christmas. After that, he'll go home and... heat up canned soup. Maybe send a text or two. Go to bed. And wake up the next morning to do it all again.
Clint doesn't have Laura to fix his breakfast and dinner anymore. Nor does he have his children to run around in the yard with during his evenings and weekends.
His ears have been stuffy for so long now that he barely recalls Laura's voice. He thinks he holds onto her laugh, but then when he gets Nat started on a giggle fest, Clint thinks they sound eerily similar.
He's lost Lila completely. Nothing young and girlish remains in Clint's dwindling sound library, and he keeps mistaking the boys for each other, pushing Cooper back into babyhood as he tries to remember something Nathaniel said the other day before school.
Except it wasn't the other day. They vanished better than 90 days ago., and lint's been sick for at least the last month. Sometimes Clint wonders if Laura had been sick when she'd died, or been dusted or vaporized or whatever had happened. Had she been putting on a brave face to fight a fever? Had she passed on mono to her only bewedded husband? Did Laura have a secret boyfriend that no one knew about?
But no. No. Clint doesn't want to know. He thinks one more time about asking Nat, but changes his mind again, sticking to the high road.
"I need a better answer," Nat says. "If I make you an appointment, " she flips her phone between her fingers. "Will you go?"
Clint draws in his breath. "Will you take me?" he finally asks.
Nat grits her teeth. "Yeah. I guess."
"Do you think something's really wrong?" Clint furrows his brow.
Nat's molars continue to grind together, and her incisors push forward into the flesh of her lip. Clint expects to hear the awful sound, but instead there's nothing until she clears her throat and finally says, " Yeah. Yeah, I do."
Clint lets a beat of silence pass. "Ok.... Make it, and I guess I just..."
"Just tell them how it started, then what you're feeling right now," Nat says, as if it's that easy.
"You mean, the cold?"
"Yeah." Nat nods. "I don't mean to jump to conclusions on you, but that's a possible side effect of mono. If that's what you wind up having."
"Huh?"
"Don't know or didn't hear?" Nat looks concerned.
"Neither." Clint shakes his head.
"Going deaf."
"...Ok." Clint sighs. "I guess I knew that, but..."
"Hard to let it sink in when it's happening to you?"
"Yeah. Like jumping without a chute, or something."
"Nothing like that feeling, electrifying your veins." Nat shudders. "But similar, probably. I don't know."
"I don't know either. A fucking cold." Clint shake his head. "'S what I deserve, I guess."
"Hey, I never said that." Nat stares harshly into his eyes. "We'll come out the other side."
Clint reluctantly nods. "You know I haven't forgotten you yet? Like, the sound of you?" His eyes begin to fill with tears.
Nat presses her lips together again. "That's--" She shakes her head. "That's not fair. You deserve to keep her. To keep them. I don't matter." Nat waves her hand in front of er boy, as if to accentuate her worthlessness.
"It is what it is," Clint says, "And right now, I'll take what I can get."
"That makes me--" Now it's Nat's turn to wipe away tears. "I'll come see you tomorrow, ok?" She lifts herself up from Clint's bed in a push up position. She scrubs her face into the forearm of her hoodie, then shoots Clint a wan smile.
He returns the gaze, then pulls his blankets up to his chest. "I'll miss you."
"No, you won't," Nat scoffs. She squeezes lint's foot through the quilt before she turns to go.
"Hey, thanks!" The words are out of his mouth before Clint realizes he's shouting. He's hyperaware of his problem, now. His cheeks go pink, and he offers Nat an awkward wave.
Nat turns, then waves back, over her shoulder as she exits the room, leaving Clint alone in the silence.
Title: Guardians of Alpha Centauri
Word Count: 8551
Read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22381912 or below
Summary: Set in the post Almost End of the World from Good Omens and the Post Infinity Wars from the MCU, Crowley and Aziraphale are living their lives as normal when suddenly they are summoned halfway across the galaxy to help deal with the pressing problem of one Galactus trying to consume everything in his path. However there is a small problem in the fact that the act of summoning cut them off from the source of their power. Will they gain their powers back in time to save the world yet again?
Text: There were so many things that Aziraphale and Crowley had lived through in their lives. The Fall from Grace, humans leaving the Garden of Eden, even the almost Apocalypse. However all of that paled in comparison to the current state of events. In fact had it not happened to them they would have sworn that it was only a fanciful tale told to them by a human who had imbibed too much.
However there was no deny that one minute the two of them were strolling through Piccadilly Circle and talking about how their day was and in the next they were aboard a spaceborn vessel of some kind. It took a few seconds to register that the scenery had changed, but when it did the conversation fell suddenly into an awkward silence as both the angel and the demon processed what was around them.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked slowly, looking at the burnished steel walls around him and trying to process if this was some avante garde art performance, “Did the lower side just do something to displace us?”
“My side? Why would it be my side? It’s not like yours is without its fair share of underhanded gestures and cold hard steel is much more the upper side’s aesthetic than the lower side’s,” He growled, turning around to see hallways stretching into the unknown depths of….wherever they were, “And no, at least nothing that they sent a memo to me about.”
“Could it be the archangels then?” Aziraphale muttered, “They were awfully displeased about the whole Apoca-wasn’t. Maybe since holy water failed, they have attempted to put us in a sort of time out?”
“Doesn’t sound like their style either. Not with Gabriel around.” Crowley prodded a purple glowing rod and was repaid for his curiosity with a sharp zap of electricity. He withdrew his hand with a hiss of pain, his forked tongue curling upwards in pain.
His silver haired companion strode forward towards a black plane only to realize that it wasn’t part of the wall, but instead was a window. A grin spread over his face as he saw the great expanse of space and stars before him. Surely if they were anywhere within their world, Crowley would be able to know these stars and then they could find out where they were. Excitedly he gesticulated his arms and Crowley came over to him, not sure if it was a gesture of excitement or pain til he stood beside him.
The demon gave a long low whistle of amazement as he gazed upon the glowing green nebulae around them. “What a beauty.” A whisper with the closest thing to reverence that a demon could manage escaped out of his mouth halfway unconsciously. It was too much to immediately expect him to rush past the magnificent vision in front of them and the two sat for a minute, basking in the ethereal glow of the cosmos.
Softly after a minute of reverence, “Do you know these stars, my dear?”
“Never seen them before in my life.” Crowley shook his head, his red locks flipping about his shoulders as he did so, “Not that I’m surprised. There are far too many stars for me to have built all of them.”
“Odd,” crooned Aziraphale, “I thought we had seen them all.” His face brightened, “Well it’s no matter. We should probably be heading home. There’s a lovely chef’s show tomorrow with chefs from all over the world coming to impress the public and two tickets just cleared up for us, so we should get home with enough time to be able to properly prepare.” He pulled his hand downward, feeling for familiar energies that….were somehow not there. Thinking that perhaps he misfelt things, he snapped his fingers and tried to get the piles of holy energy that he was definitely manifesting to explode in the usual manner it did when he created a miracle. To his own surprise, even given that he could feel nothing coming forth, nothing happened. In vain he tried again, going through the motions but meeting with the same sort of success that running a car with no gas would meet with.
“Crowley! I can’t contact the powers that be!” The angel said, his voice a barely controlled panic.
The demon smirked and attempted to pull the swirling energies up from below, only to find his connections likewise confounded. No this couldn’t be. He simply wouldn’t allow such a thing to come to pass as it was physically impossible! However the powers that had brought them to this point had seen to it that even the prodigious power of Crowley’s will couldn’t pierce through the fog around them, which was truly an impressive feat considering that his will had been enough to put Satan himself in his place not that long ago. Loudly he swore, “Cursed bloody bollocks! What in The Devil’s name has gone wrong?”
A voice from behind them whined, “These are the two that are supposed to help us save the Galaxy?”
A tired, deep voice responded, “According to my calculations, they are the only ones who can.”
Turning away from the green light of the nebula, the pair of them beheld a ragtag group. There was a brown haired human dressed in a bright red leather jacket, a grey t-shirt and pair of black jeans. Next to him was a green skinned humanoid dressed in a body suit of black leather with some sort of newfangled ray gun pointed at them and a burly looking grey skinned humanoid covered in red tattoos who had decided to opt out of shirts altogether, going instead with just a pair of black jeans and rippling muscles. A small furry dog of some sort with a gigantic red button smirked on top of some sort of mobile tree as the tree attempted to communicate with another humanoid with antennae dressed all in green. A human dressed in long blue robes with a flapping red cloak that went out of style in the 1800s looked at the two of them with tired eyes.
“Mortals!” Aziraphale hissed to Crowley as he tried to drop any talk of miracles and former apocalypses, taking on what he saw as a much more innocent demeanor, clasping his hands over his belly. “Hello there.” He grinned uncertainly and gave a tittering laugh, “I’m afraid I seem to have lost my way a bit.”
“I’ll say,” drawled Crowley, trying likewise to seem casual as he stuck his hands into his pockets and tried gauge the extent that they were currently in the proverbial fire. Though he wasn’t exactly afraid of being discorporated, it was a lot more worrying when he couldn’t feel the pulse of Hell below him as now he was unsure of where he would go to reform. Thankfully the crew in front of him, even given the green woman’s gun pointed at them, seemed to be very uninterested in killing them.
The man in the robes spoke up first, “You’re probably still under the teleportation sickness, caused by the spell that brought you here. I am sure-”
Crowley’s face wrinkled in disdain, “Spell? Like Allister Crowley or something?” The demon asked, knowing that most mortals wouldn’t recognize the name of a real magician but he knew that a few decades back that Crowley figure seemed to be big in the media circles.
“Who’s that?” the grey skinned man asked earnestly, his body language reading as unsure if this was an insult or not.
“It’s a magician. A pretty famous one. Wait didn’t he work with Satan?” The human with the red jacket added in, now turning his head towards the robed man, “Strange, do you work with Satan?”
“I don’t-“Started Strange before he was once more cut off.
“No, I can assure you he doesn’t. I would’ve seen him at the staff meetings.” Crowley fired back matter-of-factly.
“Wait you both work with Satan?” the man incredulously fired back, with a look on his face of utter betrayal.
“Oh! What’s Satan?” the grey man asked, getting even more confused, “Is that a threat to us, Quill?”
“Only the biggest threat known to man if that was the case!” Quill fired back, his body language getting more aggressive but with an underlying tone of fear to it.
“Bigger than Galactus?” asked the green-skinned woman, tightening her grip on her gun and looking down the sights at them.
“I certainly do not work with that sort of man!” Aziraphale puffed up his cheeks and raised his voice to be heard over the din that had engulfed the ship, insulted at the very idea that even a misguided human could have mistaken him for a demon of any sort.
Crowley gritted his teeth, “Not exactly on the best terms with him and his crew either. Bit of a row we got into. Artistic differences and all that.”
“Yes, he is a magician like Allister Crowley!” Piped up the big-eyed humanoid, trying to be helpful as she pointed at the Strange man. Aziraphale could feel the effervescent joy pouring out of her as her antennae glowed. It was touching how sincere she was, even as he could feel the inward cringe of the recipient of her praise. Surely they couldn’t be all bad if she was with them.
“No, I’m nothing like that,” The robed man pinched the bridge of his nose, elevating his voice with a soft orange glow of his hand til all their voices became muted in comparison to his, “If you all will let me talk, I can explain a little of what has happened.”
It looked Quill was about to argue but a wave of the magician’s hand and a brilliant glow of blue brought his voice’s volume down to barely above a whisper. In fact all of their voices were down to barely above a whisper, as Crowley quickly realized when he went to launch a witty retort. The human with a black goatee, Strange, pinched the bridge of his nose and had a look on his face that the Archangel Michael had given Aziraphale far too many times, a look that said that they had been trying to give a mission report for several hours but no one would stop talking long enough for them to get a damn word out. It was not a look that beckoned questioning.
He looked up and lifted a finger, parsing his words carefully. “Just one minute is all I ask.” Lifting his head, he straightened his posture and moved his shoulders backwards to give himself a more intimidating pose. Aziraphale could swear that his cloak moved itself to billow behind him and make him look more impressive, but of course that would be ridiculous as on most planets clothes didn’t move themselves. The man spoke, his voice resonating loudly, “You two have been summoned by a magic as old as the cosmos themselves. You have been chosen because you are the sole hope of this universe for survival as gifted by the old magics. There will be five days before life as we know it, every part of this universe is swallowed up by a horrific man known as Galactus-”
He waved his hand a purple armored man appeared around the floating image of a star. With a look like a child stealing all the cookies out of the cookie jar, he shoved a planet into his mouth. There was no chewing, no sound and he made it look as effortless as popping a gumball into your mouth. Any snarky replies or questions were chased out of the collective minds of everyone who witnessed it happen. Crowley cast a sidelong glance at Aziraphale, who looked positively terrified. The demon did not envy him. The angel’s gift from God was the ability to feel the emotions of those that he was around, though he needed to be within eye’s gaze of them. It was not often they got to behold whole planets, it was overwhelming to be surrounded by so many feelings. To feel all of those and then to feel them suddenly snuffed out would be an unimaginable thing. Rage flowed through Crowley, not specifically towards the giant who ate a planet but also to the callous man who forced this image and pain upon them. The woman with antennae seemed to notice and made her way silently over to Aziraphale. Her antennae glowed and his body grew less tense, his eyes slowly falling half lidded. Crowley started towards them, but Aziraphale raised a hand. No, stay your hand, this one meant no harm, it said silently. The demon once more stood with crossed arms, watching the presentation of the only one who could verbally speak.
The sorcerer continued like nothing had happened, “-He is known as The Destroyer of Worlds. He doesn’t stop until he has eaten everything that the worlds have to offer. And if we don’t stop him then he will consume us all.”
The man waved his hand and a blue glow came from his hands once more. There was utter silence that still reverberated throughout the ship before Crowley’s voice broke it, as he turned away from them all shaking his head, “No. You got the wrong guys. We’re not your saviors. We didn’t even stop the other one, not really. That was all the Anti-Christ, really. It’s him you want.”
“The magics would have summoned him if he was the one that could help.” Strange’s cloak flapped for emphasis as he carefully said each word like he was explaining the whole thing to an impetuous child.
“Well, uh, we can’t really be of any help even if we wanted to.” Aziraphale kindly interjected, looking more than a little nervous. It was terribly uncouth of him to admit to having powers around the mortals, but he figured there had to be an escape clause if the mortals in question had magic powers and had summoned him, “I already tried to use my powers to miracle us home and it didn’t work. We’d be little more than sitting ducks if we were thrown at that…giant.”
“That’s likely from the summoning. It creates a poisoning effect on magic, which is why we don’t use it to summon answers to all of our problems. If you are mortal it might even kill you in the process. Provided it doesn’t do that, it should wear off in three days which will give you plenty of time to get ready for Galactus.” Strange said.
“I don’t suppose the spell you had was written in Aramaic was it?” Crowley asked, his attention captivated as an idea occurred to him.
“As a matter of fact it was,” The sorcerer answered.
“Beelzebub, damn you.” Hissed Crowley, intending for it to be under his breath but finding it to be far louder than he intended it being. It was just like that demon to offer power to the mortals but then poison them and take away their powers before they’d be able to utilize it properly. She always did like Aramaic, she said it sounded like the words were growing in a venomous garden- whatever that actually meant.
“Hold on a second, let’s take it back a few steps” Anti-Christ?! Beelzebub?!” Peter Quill exclaimed, looking around to see if anyone else heard that and finding no reaction from his non-Earthling crew. Aziraphale lifted a finger to explain but was quickly drowned out in blind rage.
The Captain went on, “You mean to tell me that the fate of the galaxy rests in the hands of a pair of Satanists? Is that what you expect me to believe, Strange? Because this whole magic thing seems real suspicious as it is without getting Satan involved.”
“Oh put a lid on it, Satan’s not exactly on good terms with us either after the stunt we pulled.” Crowley drawled.
“Did I not prove my competency with the Infinity Stones?” Strange said, his voice shooting out like daggers, brushing past Crowley who shrunk back to give him space. Though he was only a mortal, the power rolling off Strange was palpable to someone like Crowley. It was not something to be trifled with, especially not without their powers readily accessible.
“Well yeah, but now’s different.” Quill said, weakly trailing off as he realized he no longer wanted to go toe to toe with a man who had seen millions of outcomes of a destroyed universe and lived to tell the tale.
“Maybe the magic got it wrong?” The green skinned woman suggested, shrugging and holstering her gun. Apparently if they had not attacked her by now they were not a big enough threat to be worried about.
“I am Groot.” The tree said, likewise confused.
“None of you look like saviors either.” Sniped Strange, “I can assure you the magic is correct. Now if you are all done questioning my every move, I am going to sleep. Summoning things from halfway across the universe takes a lot out of you.” Without waiting for a response he turned on his heel and exited.
“Oh! A Flora Colossus!” Aziraphale preened with his eyes lighting up with excitement, upon hearing Groot speak once Strange had left the room. The woman with antennae stepped back to allow him to move now that his mood had changed for the better, “It has been ages since one of you have been around. How is life on Planet X?”
“I am Groot. I am Groot.” The tree responded, with a touch of anger in his voice.
Aziraphale’s expression took on one of awkward family dinner where someone asked a question about a spouse that had been divorced, “Ah, well it seems you are better off without them then, wouldn’t it?”
“You understand Groot?” the raccoon spoke up, his attention now fully captivated by the angel.
Placing his hands on his belly to show his pride at connecting to the creature he elaborated, “I understand all sorts of languages from all of God’s creatures, though I have no clue what species you are. You have all the markings of Procyon Lotor, yet I know that species cannot typically speak the Queen’s English and doesn’t have such metallic legs.”
“That’s because there’s only one of me,” He jabbed a finger at his own chest, “Man-made, through and through. Name’s Rocket. That’s Groot.” His paws gestured to the tree man who grinned and waved a branch.
“I am Groot.” He stated.
“You trust him that much?” Rocket looked at Aziraphale suspiciously but relented, “Groot seems to think you are good people. Anyone that’s good in his book is good in mine.”
“I am Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gates.” The angel bowed his head in respect.
“What Eastern Gates?” Rocket looked perplexed, “Like the spaceport on Libris 40?”
“He means Hell, Rocket.” Quill jumped in, looking sour.
“I most certainly do not! I am angel good sir! There’s no need to-“ Aziraphale sputtered, “slander my good name calling me a Satanist or saying I live in Hell. I earned my place in the Heavens and you would do well to acknowledge that.” He remembered his manners belatedly and added in, much more gently, “Please.”
“You both are angels?” Quill’s tone changed, becoming stunned amazement as he looked back and forth between the white suited angel and then back at his black leather clad companion, who was currently in a bit of an argument with the large grey skinned man about whether or not fire was a valid solution to most battles.
“Well, after a manner of sorts. I am an angel in active duty. Crowley is an angel who has fallen from his line of work into a new one. Think of it like a different office building rather than anything terribly big.” Aziraphale placed each word delicately, afraid that the wrong move would send this man into a spiritual paroxysm of rage and disbelief. It was of course a very big thing to fall, but it wouldn’t do to panic the mortals about something that happened thousands of years ago. Sometimes it was ever so trying how temperamental mortals could be, thought the angel who would throw a fit if someone moved a book in his library without telling him exactly where it was going first.
It was delicate enough for Quill as he looked between them before his eyes lit up with a rare kind of fire that made Aziraphale know exactly why he was the Captain on this ship. “So we have God and Satan on our side?” He let out a large whoop of joy, “Man’s there’s no way we can lose then, right?”
“Ah.” Aziraphale swallowed the factual correction that neither he nor Crowley worked for God or Satan at this particular time, “I suppose not then.”
“Guess all that god blood came in handy after all!” Quill exclaimed to no one in particular and Aziraphale decided not to question it. Too many mortals thought they had the blood of God herself running through them and over the years he had found that it was practically pointless to tell them otherwise. They never believed you even if it was true.
The angel and demon pair were led the rooms which they would reside, two silvery rooms that were connected by a doorway between them. There was a large fish tank along the side of Aziraphale’s room that had some sort of strange purple fish in it. He grinned brightly and applauded as they made loops around each other, loving the way that they made bubble trails as they swam. Though he had been there at creation he still loved being reminded of all the variation, just so long as the slimier and more grotesque creatures stayed away from his immediate sense of touch.
“So what do you think of it?” Crowley growled, leaning against the doorway that separated the beds that they would never in all honesty use.
“Oh they are a most delightful creature. Just look at the little bubbles.” Aziraphale laughed, tracing the path of one with his finger in the air.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it, angel.” The demon responded, moving closer, “I meant about saving the world all over again.”
“Again?” Aziraphale turned away from the fish, frowning, “My dear boy, we didn’t save the world the last time just to watch it be devoured by this Galactus monster, did we? I mean, I’m not going to pick up a sword and swing at him but we’ll figure it out, won’t we?”
Crowley nodded thoughtfully, glad to see that the years of humanity had finally sunk into the angel’s thick skull, but said, “Think it will take more than a sword this time. Your powers come back after the jump?”
“Ah, no. Not yet, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale stopped short as the door opened to his room. Standing there in the doorway was the raccoon and the green woman, looking.
“Oh good. You haven’t left.” The woman said, but her voice sounded more like an attack than a greeting.
“I was just thinking of going for a stroll among the stars actually.” Crowley responded with a drawl, his hand lazily pointing over the rush of stars that were outside of their window. The colors all melded to one at this speed. Even to one such as them a discorporation would be most likely to happen, even were all their powers in perfect working order. Which of course they weren’t, but that was beside the point. He also was not terribly sure if he currently needed to breathe atmosphere like a mortal. Crowley wasn’t sure if a demon, even an underpowered demon, needed to breathe but he sure didn’t want to find out this way.
The raccoon sniped, “Wouldn’t try that if I were you bub. Last guy that tried we ended up scraping off the windshield for a week.”
Aziraphale gave a watery smile, “Oh no that wouldn’t do.”
“Follow me, you’ll need weapons training before we find Galactus.” The green woman motioned with her arm for them to follow. She walked down the hall without waiting to see if they would follow.
“I’d follow her if I was you. Gamora knows what she is talking about. Last thing we need is you guys blowing yourselves up as you try to fire one of the ship’s guns.” Rocket said, looking at both of them curiously. “You have fired a gun, right?”
“Yeah, back in WWII. I was a wicked shot with a .45” Crowley smiled despite himself at the memory of training to use it. It was utterly unnecessary of course with all the miracles they could do, but it sure was exciting to learn how to use. All the power of an explosive right in the palm of your hand.
“What’s a World War II? What world?” The raccoon said. He actually sounded earnest, the poor thing.
“Never mind.” The demon’s expression soured. He didn't have the strength to describe such a period of darkness in human history at the moment.
Slowly, Aziraphale and Crowley followed, not wanting to be impolite in their newfound floating home.
“So I gotta ask, don’t angels and demons have wings or somethin’? I don’t see any of them unless you are hiding them in those coats of yours. The pictures Quill had all had wings.” Rocket began as they followed down the metal hallway.
“Common misconception.” Crowley drawled, “Wings get in the way of fashion. We did away with them when togas fell out of style. You have to keep up with appearances.”
“So you just cut them off? Just like that?” Rocket stated skeptically. He didn’t know enough about angels or demons to correct them, but he knew enough to sense a liar.
Aziraphale stated gently, “You think wings are a physical thing, like an eyeball or a leg. They’re not. They are more like…a dream-“
“Or a nightmare-“ interjected Crowley
Aziraphale continued as if he had never said anything, “-given form. They are always there even if you cannot feel them. They exist metaphysically and eternally. They are here now, but we simply choose not to show them.”
“So when you cut them off, do you keep them in a jar or somethin’?” Rocket continued, clearly finding that more plausible than the idea of metaphysical wings.
“I had mine mounted.” Crowley smirked as Aziraphale sighed in defeat, “I keep ‘em right over the wall in my house just in case I ever need to reattach them.”
“If you guys are done, this is the rooftop energy cannon.” Gamora stated, patted gently a stick with a large blue ball mounted to the top of it, “You steer it with the stick and then press the ball to fire it. Look through the targeting system, not the window when firing it.”
Walking towards a door she pointed at it, “That’s the airlock. Don’t walk out of it unless you want to die.”
“Right. Breathing. That’s something we need to do.” Aziraphale said, trying his best to sound as if he was taking the whole thing seriously. They had never needed to breathe, it would make creating the stars rather hard if you needed a bubble around your head to do so. He saw no reason why things should be different now, even without their powers.
“There are two guns on this ship. One on the top, one on the bottom. There’s also one at the front of the ship, but that one is already claimed by Drax.”
“Wait, you ever fired a gun before? You never answered me before.” Rocket stopped, staring at Aziraphale as he stared at nodded vacantly at Gamora.
“Not quite. I almost did once, but…thought better of it.” Aziraphale stated weakly. Their new companions didn’t need to know that he had almost killed a child while possessing a woman. The state of the world was at stake and it was completely understandable in the moment but the description sounded utterly unforgiveable.
“Oh boy.” Rocket said, pinching the bridge of his nose with a paw.
“Let’s do some target practice first.” Gamora said, loading up a training program for a basic recruit. Crowley took aim first, the kind of wild grin that he got when he drove the Bentley on his face. This was going to be a blast!
His proper companion shuffled from side to side as the shrill scream of the laser started firing. Small talk! That was what mortals loved! “Odd lot aren’t they? This whole crew.” Aziraphale smiled.
The green woman “Seems like it. I’ve only known them for a few months myself.”
“Ah! A new recruit like us then?” His tone became more chipper. Perhaps they were not going to be entirely out of their depth if there was someone else who was equally as out of sorts on board.
“No, not like you at all.” Rocket responded before she could responded, but there was a note of pain in his eyes. “Gamora…” he trailed off and shook his head, “She just went through some changes. It’ll all work out in the end though.”
Gamora shrugged, “They claim to know me. Said they knew me in another life. Not sure I believe if, but I do need a ride and a job so they are good enough for that.”
“I’m sure it will all clear up one day.” He said and let the conversation die there. You didn’t need to be an angel to feel the waves of grief coming off Rocket at the mention of her being a new recruit. There was a history there that he was not comfortable uncovering outside of a confessional. It almost felt like a death, but there she was standing right in front of him so it couldn’t be that. Perhaps it was some sort of memory wipe? He knew those were used as a punishment on some planets and it was entirely plausible that she had got put into prison on one those but Rocket did not.
Several hours later they were no closer to being expert marksmen, but Aziraphale had cleared his way through several asteroids. Not the asteroids he were aiming at mind you, but other asteroids that definitely had it coming. Gamora and Rocket stood in stunned amazement at how someone so old could be so incompetent.
“I’m much more useful with a sword.” Aziraphale stated, stubbornly, “What’s the point of all these flashing lights and big booms anyway?”
“Let me try again, angel.” Crowley said, slithering his way around the flustered angel to take the seat. At the laser fired he gave a wicked grin. Yes! This was the very thing he loved mortals for. The power, the sheer roar and punch of the machine was palpable. He could feel the pull of energy hit him like a comforting punch in the chest as he whirled around and fired. If their weapons packed this much of a punch, he wondered what driving the monstrosity. It’d be like the Bentley had a city’s worth of engine power attached. The thought of him made him grin wider, the mad grin he got when he had a bad idea that he didn't stop from manifesting. It was a look that could burn cities down if he wished it.
He spun in his chair, running a hand rakishly through his hair as he expertly fired at the intended targets. If he was doing to do this, he was going to look like a damned movie star as he was doing it. Given the whoops and sighs of joy from Rocket and Aziraphale he guessed that he was nailing that imitation expertly. Good, that was all he wanted.
“I’m glad at least one of you has some useful skills.” Gamora said, giving the smallest of grins that was her mark of approval.
Week one and everything appeared to be going well. The angel and the demon fell into the step of things. Aziraphale kept to the company of the one known as Groot and talked about literature and magic with Doctor Strange in way that made the others become bored and wander away. Strange, despite being a technical mortal, definitely had knowledge well beyond the scope of his years and seemed all too eager to get away from the typical vapid meathead type discussions that tended to circulate about Quill’s ship.
Crowley for his part was content to talk music with Quill or share war stories with Drax. By war stories, of course, it is understood that Crowley didn’t tell a single true story and just told whatever would be the most interesting thing to make an alien believe about Heaven and Hell. He would have the man believing that the streets of Earth were plague filled rivers before they came along. There was no description of the crowded halls of Hell or the stark, cold cleanliness of Heaven but instead of burning pits of bile and rust to be compared with fluffy clouds of eternal light that birthed unicorns.
It was going well, far too well perhaps for God to be satisfied that her subjects were being tested thoroughly enough. Halfway through the second day a large blast rocked the ship, knocking everyone on their side as the ship spiraled with the force of the blow.
“What was that?” asked Quill, as everyone climbed to their feet and rushed to get to their battle stations.
“We got company, right side.” Rocket said, tweaking a few buttons on his arm to release a few rocket propelled explosives towards their visitors.
“You think?” barked Quill, annoyed that they hadn’t caught the enemies before they hit the ship with their lasers.
“Oh, oh no.” Aziraphale said quietly, his face going pale. He felt their minds, like nihilistic holes coming upon the horizon. No not a mind. Like a black hole.
“You feel it too?” Strange asked, looking at the angel with a careful regard. He was not used to having magical peers on board this ship but the prospect of it enticed him even with death staring them down.
“They are…empty. Completely and utterly. Not a soul among them even though there are living things among them.” Aziraphale stated, staring out the windows as Gamora returned fire upon the five purple and green ships. They exploded but it didn’t feel like death. It felt just like a spark being swallowed by space.
“Their souls were eaten. Seen the signs before when a few people messed up real bad down below.” Crowley responded, reaching out with his own senses. Given the state of poisoning they were in it wasn’t like he could do more than sense and watch. Angels might be able to feel emotions but demons could feel all sort of mental wounds upon the soul.
Someone up in the front of the ship decided to be a bit more aggressive with evasive maneuvers without warning anyone. The ship began to spiral, almost sending that demon and the angel sprawling, but Strange caught them in some sort of green bubbled magic and stopped their tumble.
“If you are going to do something, now would be the time?” He spoke, as he launched an impressive fireball at the enemy ships.
“I can’t.” Aziraphale yelled, realizing just how soft his mortal form was as metal shrapnel flew into his hand.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Strange roared, his voice becoming one with the shattering metal of the ship. The muscled one known as Drax took out the ship that wounded them as Rocket flung a bomb out of a canon.
“Listen, it is all very sudden and our powers never really came back.” The angel looked ashamed. Never before had God been so quiet before.
“And you didn’t think it prudent to mention this before?” The Sorcerer Supreme looked livid.
“Oh yeah, toss that in right after we figure out who the Hell we are fighting and how to fight back with nothing but our backsides to our name.” Crowley sniped, taking a position at a gun and doing his best to aim. It was hard without Hell on his side, but he managed well enough, “Great job by the way, bring us on to save the world but don’t even let us have our powers to be able to save it.”
“Now is really not the time. Get to work and shut up! We can deal with this later!” Gamora screamed as they bickered. Survival took precedence and they focused upon staying alive rather than arguing.
“Really? All this God and Satan bit and they can’t even help us against some basic ships sent by Galactus?” Rocket gritted his teeth as he tried to repair the ship as quickly as possible, “This is great, just great.”
“It’s not my fault!” Aziraphale urged, “Trust me, all this is rather new to me as well.”
“Quite.” Crowley concurred.
Stephen Strange, looking nearly dead on his feet looked at them from a chair that looked rather more like a throne in this light. A king with a broken crew upon a throne heading towards oblivion in a sparking ship.
“Something the magic must’ve severed your connection to the source of your power.” He murmured, halfway to himself.
“If I had known mortals could cut me off from God and Satan’s touch I would have asked them to do so years ago.” Crowley chimed in, reaching for that fire that usually would come to him and make his will into iron. Nothing, the same as before.
“Uh, hello. We’re heading toward our almost certain doom with a useless demon and angel. Not the time for jokes,” Quill responded from a seat upon the stairs, his head in his hands.
“Who said I am joking?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“He is very serious,” Mantis added in, her antennae glowing.
“Great. I’m glad he’s serious. We can all be grateful of that as we explode in a ball of fiery doom.” Quill’s head snapped up as he glared at his fellow ship mate, who shrunk from his rage.
“Easy Quill, it is not her fault that they are incompetent,” Drax stepped in, waving a placating hand, ”Disgusting in form though she may be, she is not to blame for all of our troubles. We will find a way to crush Galactus the way that we crushed Thanos.”
“Last time we didn’t get away without casualties,” He said, casting a weighted glance at Gamora who was studying a battle map and oblivious to his gaze. “And I don’t think we have an infinity gauntlet to bring people back if we fuck up this time around.”
“We need to find a way to reconnect them to the source of their power,” Strange spoke up, “If we can find a way to kick start their magic, their spirits should be able to do the rest.”
“So we have to pray really hard?” Aziraphale asked, “I don’t know if She will be able to hear me all the way out here, but I can try.”
“Something along those lines. Whatever it is, we better think of it fast. We are two days from Galactus,” With a great effort he clambered to his feet, “Let me rest. We’ll start trying to fix you two once I am a little more clear.”
The next few days were spent in a sort of training montage from beyond. Stephen Strange dove headfirst into his mission and there was little time for banter or cajoling with the other members of the crew. He poured over books at a lightning fast pace, looking for something involving angels or demons that wasn’t written by some religious scholar with an agenda. Even for someone of his learning finding accurate information was very hard. Often he would go to Crowley and Aziraphale to confirm something and get a long speech about why that monk had a grudge against them and fundamentally misunderstood the purpose of Hellfire because of it or that witch had it out for angels after half of her family was burned by mortals claiming to be in God’s name so you shouldn’t take her too seriously. In all honesty he was not sure if the accurate answers he got were more infuriating than the false leads considering how often he had to go back to square one.
They tried everything that they could think of. Crowley tried lighting himself on fire to remind himself of Hell and only ended up with blisters. He tried to stand at the front of the ship and pretend like he was driving his Bentley as the stars arced past them but only made himself more dizzy. He tried to eat an apple to remind himself of the garden or lay in the lamps to try and remind himself of the sun on the day that Aziraphale sheltered him with his wings and for a moment he could feel the ghost of his power returning, but once he tried to pull upon it the whole thing vanished.
Aziraphale tried praying as loud as he could but only drove his fellow crew members half mad with his pleas. A large sigil was inscribed upon the floor to try and make a portal to heaven but it ended up only making a loop that took Aziraphale elsewhere in the ship. He tried to read their books, but they were all trashy romance novels that didn’t particularly inspire feelings of divinity to come rushing towards him. There was no amount of tentacled bodice ripping that could make him feel more than mildly amused at the lack of understanding of physics the authors had.
“There has to be something that appeals to you! Something that motivates you to move forward when nothing else will!” Strange advocated, feeling at his wit’s end. Hours of work with very little sleep and food had driven him to the edge.
“I dunno.” Crowley responded, his blistered hand holding a brown bottle of whiskey as he dramatically sprawled upon the ground, “I really thought the drink would do it. Usually put me and Aziraphale in a pretty good mood and we bonded like this the last time the world was ending and it turned out pretty alright.”
“Just got us besotted this time, I’m afraid,” The angel slurred, trying in vain to get his eyes to focus, “Can’t even sweat it all out this time and instantly become sober. Just gotta ride it out like a mortal I’m afraid.”
“How long will this last for?” Crowley tittered, imagining how Beezlebub’s face would be turning red if they saw him so incapacitated. He wished they were here just so he could take a shot right in front of them out of spite.
“Hours,” Aziraphale said dismally, “We’ll have reached Galac- Glax- the purple bastard by then.”
“Oh good. Maybe when we all die I can at least die drunk.” The demon toasted, “Here’s the ineffable plan.”
“Gimme some of that,” elbowed Rocket, taking the bottle of whiskey from the demon and drinking some himself, “I’m not dying sober if the plan is to drink ourselves to death.”
Stephen Strange let out a dramatic sigh, “The plan is to not die at all.” He hovered the bottle of alcohol to a rooftop ledge and anchored in place with a charm. With a wave of his hand a mountain of sobriety hit the three who had been drinking and they all glared at him simultaneously.
The ship beneath them lurched unpleasantly, sending all of them toppling to the ground save for Crowley who simply rolled.
“What’s the big idea?” Rocket snipped as he stood up, rubbing his head.
“He is upon us,” Strange said, his eyes focused on a thousand realities that were not this one. His gaze turned towards the angel and demon, “Now is the time. You learn or we all die.”
“No pressure.” Crowley grumbled, but he felt his heart begin to flutter with nerves.
Strange’s cloak moved behind Aziraphale and Crowley, urging them forward. Like a mother taking care of her babes it wrapped an air mask in its folds and pressed it to their face.
Rocket ran off to find the rest of the crew deeper into the ship yelling over his shoulder, “We’ll hold him off for as long as we can.” With bravado he screamed, “Come and get some you big purple grape!”
The rumble of the guns firing went off, vibrating the whole ship. Chaos exploded around them in flames and sparks. With a lump in his throat, Aziraphale stepped into the airlock with Crowley trailing after him.
“I don’t suppose you have a plan, dear boy?” the angel asked, manifesting his wings with a blink of the mortal eye.
“My plan is to dodge until I can figure out a way to miracle my way out of this problem.” Crowley began to stretch his own forth, black feathers and white ones mixing together and sending small sparks of electricity when they touched.
The doors opened and they flew forth, breathing deeply in their atmospheric bubbles. Around them soulless ships swept about, trying their best to end them. However even a soulless soldier was no match for two winged beings who had wings since the dawn of all creation, or rather a little bit before. The larger ships had a quite a time trying to hit him as they darted and flitted about.
“Hey, come on, come get me!” Crowley taunted one and it launched a volley at him. With a great push of his wings he rose up and the blast went into the enemy ship behind him instead.
Aziraphale grabbed an asteroid with his hands and spun about, hurling it into the engine of the enemy ships. In short order it exploded.
If it wasn’t for the fact that they were two steps away from death with every breath it would almost be fun, this game of dodging and flinging. It was very rarely that they ever got a chance to use their powers without having to fill out mounds of paperwork later, so it was liberating to be able to do so without feeling bad about the casualties.
“I think we might actually stand a chance,” Crowley grinned, turning around to face Aziraphale. But what he saw behind the angel made him freeze, his grin stuck in a rigor stiffness. Coming over the horizon was a giant purple bloke who was eating the stars as if they were fairy floss. He opened up a mouth the size of a black hole and in went in a star, leaving only blackness in return. It was a thing that should not be in either Heaven or Hell, but yet there was no denying that he was right there in front of them.
“That’s him, if you are going to do something, now’s the time.” Echoed Strange’s voice in their heads. They were not expecting him to be able to do such a thing, but considering the fact that they had gone all of their existence with someone to answer to knowing that he was there was almost comforting rather than surprising.
Aziraphale looked over at Crowley as the stars began to vanish around them. “Looks like this is it, my dear.” His voice sounded heavy, his eyes shone with helplessness and grief. “There’s no one else I’d rather be at the end of the world with.”
“It’s been a pleasure, angel.” Long taloned hands found the angel’s soft one, wrapping themselves there tight. With a free hand he grabbed one of Aziraphale’s shoulders and pulled him closer, “Just once, in case we don’t make it. I need to know.”
“Goodbye, my dear.” Aziraphale softly pressed his lips to the demon’s. They were warm and surprisingly delicate with the after taste of whiskey still lingering.
It was like being struck by lightning as their lips met. That isn’t a matter of metaphor either. White hot currents power arced out of them and into them and all at once the voices of Heaven and Hell were with them once more. The one thing that had kept them going all these years, their anchor that kept the world in place the first time around was right in front of them the whole time. Why they had been but fools to not see it in the first place.
Hands still linked and smoke pouring off of them they turned towards Galactus. With a snap of their fingers in unison, the power they had just taken in, the rough rush of it, came pouring out of them in a beam towards the purple monstrosity. Galactus burst like a piñata spilling stars and planets all around them. Heaven and Hell’s powers combined were enough to deal with him, at least once. The amount of power it took exhausted the angel and demon to the point that they could not move. They drift loosely about, hands held with tired grins on their faces before the ship picked them up.
If saving the world was exhausting, then it was nothing compared to the after party. Drinks flowed like water and everyone drank more than they should have. It was fun, but by the end of it all Aziraphale wanted to do was go back home.
“You are fearsome warriors, worthy of respect!” Cheered Drax the Destroyer.
“Ah, many thanks. But we really must be going. Lots of worlds to save and all that.” Aziraphale politely turned down the offer of yet another drink. He pulled himself on to the sigil made by Stephen Strange’s magic
“Next time the world ’s in trouble, I’m calling you guys first,” Quill hooted and howled in celebration.
“Yeah, maybe,” Crowley agreed, knowing that he would do everything in his power to never be left on a floating bit of metal in space again.
With an understanding nod Aziraphale made eye contact with Stephen Strange. It wasn’t much, no more than a moment really, but in that moment they both understood each other perfectly. In no way would either of them ever want to travel with such brash mercenaries ever again even if they lived several lifetimes. It was all a bit much, really.
A ripple and a blink and they were once more in Crowley’s apartment. A bird softly sang outside and the sun cast a golden light over the black apartment.
“You still want to see that play?” asked Crowley, hoping the other would say no.
“Not in the slightest,” Aziraphale sighed, “To be honest, I just want to sleep for a week. Those people make my bones feel tired”
“Need any company in bed, angel?” Crowley gave a crooked smile that seemed like it only meant trouble.
Walking hand and hand with the demon they made their way down the black halls, “In general no, but from you I think I would rather like that.”
Together the two of them wound their way to the bedroom, for rest and quiet as well as a fair bit of snogging. They can hardly be blamed. After all, their snogging saved the world so even Heaven and Hell couldn’t be that mad at them for doing it again.
“No, please. Wait. Please. Can’t we just talk? Please? Let me talk.” and Clint Barton?
Nothing to Say
Clint packs his one bag with the last of his clothes and zips it, ignoring your approaching footsteps. He’s itching to get out of the compound, his initial reprieve from the farmhouse. It wasn’t enough of a distraction - he had to find something else, keep his hands busy, skirt the line. Anything to feel alive after all he’s lost.
Your footfalls falter. “Are you… are you actually leaving?”
He brushes past you through the doorway, bag over his shoulder. All he gives is a casual “Yep.”
“No, please. Wait. Please. Can’t we just talk? Please? Let me talk!” your efforts to cut him off, to tug him to face you, are futile. He sticks to his path straight for the garage.
“Talking wouldn’t do much. I don’t have anything more to say.” That was a lie and he knew it.
Your voice borders on shrill as he approaches the vehicle. “You can’t just leave-”
“I’ve got nothing left.” The trunk is opened, filled, and closed before he looks you in the eye. Eyes that are swimming with anger.
“… Nothing? That’s what this,” you motion between him and you, “has been? Nothing?”
His resolve was breaking, he had to get away from you. “I- that’s not what I meant.”
“But it is what you said.”
He knew what he said. It was easier to hurt you - to repel you - than it would be to make you watch his descent further into darkness.
So he pretends not to see you pleading with him through the car window. Pretends there aren’t tears on your face. Pretends that driving away is the best choice for everyone.
When had he turned into such a great actor?
Probably the moment he had to pretend like he wanted to keep living in a world that had taken everything he loved.
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)
word count: 1.1k
warnings: none
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.
No response.
« 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.”
“Can’t, sorry.”
“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—
“Reina!”
—and shuts the door.
.
.
.
.
Sans titre – without title; untitled
Qui est là ? – Who’s there?
Allô ? – hello?
Ècrire, c’est une façon de parler sans être interrompu. -- Writing is a way to talk without being interrupted. (Jules Renard)
Do you ever think what happened to Venom after the snap?
Do you think it was Brock who disappeared and left his Other all alone, scared and confused?..
Or was it the Other who turned into ash, Brock trying to catch ash coming up from his skin, not understanding what's going on, until looking around and seeing others evaporating into nothing?..
Tony had always known that being Iron Man was going to kill him one day. He'd come to terms with that. He'd accepted it. It was a part of the job of being a superhero.
He just never thought it was going to be from lack of food, water, and oxygen while floating aimlessly on some dead guy's spaceship through an unnamed galaxy with a blue and purple robot alien. Spoilers, obvs. Hopeful ending. No character death.
Tony closed his eyes and pressed his forehead more firmly against the cool glass of the Benatar. Light flared behind his eyelids as the ship turned toward the sun that lit up the galaxy they were in. His stomach grumbled painfully and he wrapped his arm tighter around himself and brought his legs up closer to him, curling up in a ball against the window pane.
Six months. It’d be six months since the others had died. Four months since they had gotten the ship into the air. Two months since they had run out of fuel and started drifting aimlessly through space. They were running low on food and water, and he didn’t even want to think about how long they had until they ran out of oxygen. It was only by rationing their food and water that they had made it this long. Thankfully Nebula didn’t need as much to survive, but once again Tony’s very human body was working against him. Where Nebula could go a couple weeks without food and drink, Tony could only go a few days.
His stomach rumbled and cramped again. He had eaten yesterday. Tomorrow he’d be able to eat again.
At least he had that to look forward to.
He opened his eyes and looked out into the space around them. He had been dreaming and having nightmares about space for years, but being here... drifting aimlessly, hoping for a savior but waiting for death, he couldn’t help but think it was beautiful. The way the colors mixed together. The infinite, endless sea of stars. You could never see something like this on Earth.
He wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of the stars. The stars couldn’t hurt him now.
Not anymore than he already hurt.
He heard movement behind him as Nebula came back into the cockpit. He felt her stop behind him and could feel her eyes resting on him for a couple minutes before she finally spoke.
“How long can humans go without food and water before death?” She asked quietly.
“A week I think, at absolute most. Probably between five and seven days.”
He heard her shuffle her feet a bit before she spoke again, much gentler this time.
“After you eat tomorrow... you’re going to have to cut back. Eat every third day instead of the second. Water should last longer so long as the waste filtration systems keep. I’m cutting back too. I did the math, it should make the food last a couple more months.”
He thought about the pain in his stomach. The dryness of his throat. He swallowed heavily and nodded, but kept his eyes on the abyss before him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning forward to touch his shoulder lightly.
“Not your fault,” Tony said, his voice raspy from lack of water and use. “Actually, biologically speaking, the human body is rather vulnerable when you think about it. If anything it’s biology’s fault. Did you know a human can drown in just a tablespoon of water?”
Nebula said nothing, but moved over to take a seat in the pilot’s chair. She examined his face closely. The way the light cast on his face accentuated the gauntness of his cheekbones. His hair had lost it’s curl and was lying flat against his head. His beard had filled out from his intricate shape and was now full. She could see the sockets of his eyes. He’d lost some muscle mass and his arms and legs were skinnier now than they were on Titan. His forehead was shiny with sweat.
If what he said about human biology was right, she wondered how long he’d really be able to survive, living like this. She just knew it wasn’t as long as she was hoping it’d be.
She followed his gaze out into the wide space before them. Watched the sun as the Benatar crossed in front of it. The light hurt her one natural eye, but she couldn’t look away.
“I’m sorry about your sister.”
Nebula turned to look at him once more, but he refused to meet her eye. She lifted an eyebrow at him, knowing he would see it.
“I just-” his voice broke, and he swallowed, trying to gather moisture in his throat, “I realized I never said it. Gamora, right? Star Lord was looking for her, too.”
“Yes,” she said, examining Tony’s eyes closely. He wasn’t looking at her, but she could see they were glassy. His face was blank, his eyes looking without seeing.
He may have been looking out the window, but he was seeing something only in his own memory.
“I’m sorry about your son,” she said in return.
For just a flash of a second his face filled with anguish before it was gone again. It was the most emotion she’d seen from him in a while. He lifted a hand to wipe at his eye before the wetness had the chance to gather and fall.
“Thanks.”
“What was his name?”
She sat in silence for a few minutes before realizing he either didn’t hear her or he simply wasn’t going to answer. She went to turn back to her stargazing.
“Peter,” he whispered. “His name was Peter.”
She looked at him for a moment before nodding and turning back to the window. They sat in silence for a long time before she finally spoke again.
“We’ll get out of this,” she said quietly. “We’ll get back to Earth. Somehow.”
This time he didn’t bother answering her. She didn’t blame him.
She didn’t really believe her own words either.
Three months later
“Hey, Ms. Potts...”
She could hear him in the cockpit, recording a message in his helmet. Potts. The woman he loved. He was supposed to marry her, she thought. She couldn’t really remember. With no food and water in four days (and even longer since she’d last had any) it was getting hard to think about anything these days.
She knew this moment was supposed to be private and she didn’t want to listen. She turned to go back to her bunk, to leave Tony in peace and wait for morning to come and take them away from their suffering. To let Tony say his goodbyes.
She didn’t have anyone left to say goodbye to. He deserved this moment alone, at least. She’d be with him in the end anyway.
“If you find this recording... don’t feel bad about this. Part of the journey is the end....”
