AN: I just realized none of the other chapters had disclaimers lOL ooppsssiee. And I really enjoy reviews guys! They get me pumped to write the next chapters (: Sorry that this chapter seems so sad ;; Sorry for any mistakes!
Disclaimer: I own nothing but Irene Costa and any other OCs that pop up.
Translations:
*meu tesouro (my treasure)
Chapter 3:
Return To Reality
Irene can't help but crack a smile when she wakes up to see her blue, hospital slippers turned weapons on the chair beside her bed. She had spent the rest of yesterday barefoot because Emily didn't want her throwing any other slippers at unsuspecting superheroes. Apparently Hawkeye could break her bones with two fingers. Pfft, as if he'd actually touch her for throwing shoes. She puts on her glasses and notices an envelope tucked between the two slippers. On the outside in messy handwriting it read,
From Yours Truly
It practically screams Tony Stark.
"How nice of him to return the slippers." She rolls her eyes and hops out of bed, plucking the envelope and ripping it open pretty badly. She almost felt bad because even the envelope looked like it is worth more than her entire savings. Almost.
She chokes when she sees the check, bestowing a six-figure sum. It is enough to fully pay any payments for her bakery that her insurance did not cover (having a business in Manhattan is quite expensive) and her rent for at least six months. She could not believe—
"Guess who's being discharged today!" Emily opens the door, grinning ear to ear and waving a clipboard for Irene to sign.
She skillfully dodges the first slipper that flies at her face, "Irene, what in the world—" she doesn't see the second one coming.
"Were you hoping I was someone else?" Her nurse friend says flatly, bending down to pick up both slippers with one hand. Irene really needed to change her source of ammo. And also stop throwing shoes at unsuspecting civilians.
Irene hisses and crumples up the check, her fist closed so tight that she'll leave crescent marks on her palms. She stomps over to the trash can and un-crumples the check. She stares at it for a moment, realizing that she truly needed this but she didn't earn it. Sure, the Avengers are technically responsible for her sudden unemployment. But all she's done is wallow in self pity the past four days, and if she wasn't doing that, she was plotting the Avengers' demise. She could already see the looks on the face of her parents if she just ran to the nearest bank and deposited it. Her father, who is a pastor, would shake his head and raise his eyebrow, a look that could make any person fall to their knees confessing their sins. Her sweet mother, owner of the best pie shop in Cubatao, wouldn't speak to her for days. Pursed lips silently telling her that she did not have the right to freely accept Stark's money.
Feeling hot tears trailing down her face, she rips apart the check and watches the pieces fall to the bottom of the trash. She would get through this. She'd been able to survive living on the streets when she was nineteen, so that means she could get through this. Back then it had been either living in an apartment or going to college. Her parents didn't even know, believing that she had lived in the dormitory for the entirety of the four years she went to school.
"Irene are you alright?" Emily's soft voice reminds Irene that she isn't alone in the room.
She quickly dries her tears and clears her throat, feeling her face becoming red with embarrassment.
"Sorry you had to see that." Irene doesn't exactly look her in the eyes.
"It's alright." She doesn't comment about the obvious check that she ripped up. "Your clothes and personal items are right there by the bed in those bags, I'll be waiting at the front to officially have you discharged from the hospital."
Irene nods and doesn't move from her spot until the door closes behind Emily. Despite standing straight and squaring her shoulders, she cannot stop the sobs that escape her mouth. She promised her parents she would live a good life here—and she is—but she just doesn't know for how long.
Leaving the hospital with a promise to Emily to keep in touch, Irene can't stop her feet from moving in the direction of where her bakery is. Her heels (which were slightly damage from a) the blast that landed her in the hospital and b) being thrown at Iron Man) clack against the sidewalk, hands in her cardigan's pockets as she strolls through Manhattan on a rather chilly day for spring. Her first thought she have been to call a cab and go home to take a proper, warm shower that did not involve scratchy, hospital soap or strange shampoo that looked like it would damage her hair more than clean it. But she wants to see the damage, curiosity gnawing at her brain. Her bakery is actually more than a couple blocks away from the hospital, but she did not mind the walk. Years of walking around Brooklyn made it easier for her.
When she does get there, she almost immediately regrets it. The color drains out of her face when she sees the yellow police tape wrapped around the front of her bakery like a birthday banner on the wall of a kid's living room. Except instead of 'happy birthday' the banner would say 'wow, this bakery looked like it challenged the hulk to a bar fight and lost several times' but the banner probably wouldn't be long enough to fit all that. So just a simple 'RIP' would suffice.
Irene could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, threatening to fall and gather the attention of the citizens who walk around her.
"I'm sorry about your bakery, dear." A soft voice enters her right ear.
Irene slaps a hand over her mouth to keep the sobs at bay and she sees Marguerite next to her, the owner of the paint shop down the street. A nice, small old lady who was the first person to show Irene kindness almost ten years ago by giving her a warm meal after three days without food.
"What am I going to do?" Irene sniffles, hearing her accent slip through her teeth, which is something that does not happen unless she is truly upset.
"Your position at my shop is still open, you can come back to work with me until you're back on your feet." Marguerite, or Margie as she prefers, winks and pats her hand.
Irene smiles bitterly and pulls at the strand of hair on the side of her face. She is truly back at square one. Her first job in the States had been with Margie. Working that job gave her a small place in Brooklyn for years; it was better than the cold streets and homeless shelters. After finishing school and taking out a loan, she left the paint shop and opened a bakery. It was rocky at first, barely getting any customers. Gradually, her cupcakes and coffee brought in more and more people everyday. This bakery gave her financial security and a solid reputation for years. Now it is all gone. Irene could only hope that her savings would be enough to continue paying rent alongside the paychecks she'd be receiving from Margie until the bakery reopened. Despite living in a relatively okay neighborhood in Brooklyn, rent isn't cheap.
"Don't worry meu tesouro, I'll be back stronger than ever." She smiles and walks away from the remains of her bakery, not once looking back.
When Irene arrives home, she blinks at the bouquet of flowers sitting at her doorstep. Walking up the stoop, she stares at the flowers with caution. She looks around to see no one else besides her outside and she bends down to pick them up. A paper falls out and lands on the ground, reminding her of the envelope that was between her hospital slippers. Her blood runs cold and she prays that it's not a check from another Avenger. She's pretty sure she's not the only person whose business had been damaged in the fighting a couple days ago. Maybe the fact that she constantly throws shoes when she's angry is what made her special.
She unfolds the paper, thankful it isn't an envelope, and reads the carefully written note. A complete opposite of the messy scrawl from Stark.
Sorry about the bakery, ma'am.
There's no name. Just those words. She narrows her eyes and rereads it over and over again, trying to figure it out who sent it. She scowls as she looks at the paper, front and back. Nothing. Nada. She crumples up the paper and throws it into the trash.
Along with the flowers.
She grabs her keys and unlocks the door, stepping in and slamming it shut behind her. She huffs and throws her purse to the side and kicks off her heels. Irene breathes in the comfort of her home and tries not to fall to the floor and pass out. Not until five minutes pass does she run back out and scoop the flowers out of the trashcan.
The Brazilian looks around to make sure no one saw and steps back into her house, profusely apologizing to the poor lilies.