The evening air was alive with cricket-song and lightning bugs, August humidity so thick you could wear it like a blanket, and the kind of tranquility that neither Carol Danvers nor Maria Rambeau had felt in quite some time. Overhead, the sky had just begun to turn itself into a breathtaking tapestry of periwinkle washed with pink and gold, the sun just starting to dip down below the hilly line of the horizon. They stood out in the backyard, the two adults hanging back and watching contentedly as Maria's rambunctious, bushy-haired daughter raced about, bubble wand gripped tight in her hand. None of them seemed to mind the mugginess. In between sips of their lemonades and laughter, they knew that they would wake the next morning entire galaxies apart — they knew, and tried their best not to think about it.
Tonight, there would be no thoughts of war or destruction, nor the heartache that had spanned the six years they'd spent apart. Just the three of them — Carol, Maria, and Monica. If that wasn't what you could call a family, then damned if Carol knew what was.
It was as mushy a thought as she'd ever allow herself, but she couldn't help but feel that moments like this made it all worthwhile. All the toiling and climbing uphill she'd ever had to do all her life, all the pushback and the godforsaken grief that had been so generously given to her by so countlessly many — this, she realized, is what it was all for. She'd be kidding herself if she pretended that it wasn't nice to feel something close to a sense of purpose, of belonging; and she had never felt that more than when she stood here at Maria's side.
How very fitting that Maria Rambeau was the only woman who could ever give Carol the same feeling as soaring through the air behind the wheel of an enormous jet, as working alongside Talos to help continue Mar-Vell's work, to hide the Skrulls and make the universe a better place.
And the best part of it all was that her very dearest ambition was a shared one. Both Carol and Maria wanted the same things out of their lives — to make a difference. And together, she had no doubt that the two of them could accomplish it. What, with her own stubbornness and Maria's unfathomable smarts? If they wanted to, they could conquer the world together — worlds, plural even, no question. After what she'd seen of most of the worlds outside of Earth, she wasn't sure that many of them would be worth the trouble.
It was the softer times, the ones like this, just watching Lieutenant Trouble over there zoom around the yard, chasing soapy-smelling bubbles, that kept her humble. Every now and then, it was nice to have a little reminder that sometimes making a difference didn't have to be on such a grand scale as she tended to daydream it. Sometimes, it could be as small or as simple as lemonades and summer nights, as looping her arm around Maria Rambeau's strong, sturdy waist and leaning her head against her partner's shoulder.
Pretending that this wouldn't be their last night together — not for a long time, anyway.
Tough as she liked to stay on the outside, Carol had always hated goodbyes. She always felt too stupidly vulnerable whenever faced with them, knocked clean off her feet by the surge of raw emotion that always seemed to embed itself right in the pit of her stomach. You can't get through goodbyes with brute force. And how dare anything make her feel weak.
She tried her best to smother her fears in the rim of her lemonade glass, grinning mid-sip as she watched Nick Fury's car pull out of the driveway and roll off into the twilight.
"I hope that he'll be okay," said Maria, following Carol's line of sight and gazing after Fury's car, herself. "With his eye and everything, I mean."
"Don't you worry about Fury — he'll be fine," Carol replied, with a confidence in her new friend that felt so unshakable, it was a touch astonishing. "I'm just wondering what kind of story he'll weave up for the boys back at the office," she added with an amused snort.
Maria's laugh was soft, the kind that put a mischievous twinkle in her dark, familiar eyes. "That an alien race burned it out while he singlehandedly saved the world as we know it?"
"Singlehandedly?" said Carol. "Like hell!"
Another laugh, this one louder, spunkier than before, rose up like champagne bubbles from Maria's lips. She elbowed her partner gingerly in the rib cage — if there was one thing the years hadn't stolen from them, it was their love of playfully roughhousing and teasing one another — and finished the gesture with a roguish wink.
"That's my girl," Maria said, in a voice full of pride, and despite her indignation, Carol smiled.
A long pause spanned between the two of them, punctuated only by Monica's laughter pealing through the warm evening air. And yet, in the silence, so much seemed to be said all at once. Somehow, Carol knew that both of them were thinking the same thing — staring up at that vast, endless expanse of sky, it was hard not to — but some part of her selfishly wished to keep pushing all that aside. That part of her, small but relentless, and too tough to kill, wanted to hang on to whatever sense of normalcy she could contrive for herself for as long as possible. When she was out there, weaving her way through the stars, she wanted to be able to look back and remember moments like these most of all.
The illusion of perfection couldn't last long, though, and when Maria cleared her throat, Carol knew that the conversation she'd been dreading was about to happen.
Sure enough, what came next didn't exactly sound promising. "So . . . " said Maria, her voice uncertain, questing for all the answers that neither of them had. "You really don't know when you'll be back again?"
Carol narrowed her eyes, shifting her gaze to the stars once again, cursing herself for being too cowardly to look in the eyes of the woman she had loved so dearly for so long.
"I can't leave them behind," she said at last, "not until I can find a place where I know they'll be safe from the Kree." I owe them that much, for all I've done, she thought, but didn't have the strength to voice. Her response wasn't a complete answer at all, and she somehow knew that Maria would see right through her.
If that was true, her partner didn't mention it. Instead, she gave a wistful sigh, and Carol took another sip of lemonade, now watered-down by the melting ice, to hide the sudden emotion making a lump in her throat.
"Six years," said Maria thoughtfully, clutching her glass and staring into its sugary depths as if it might hold the solution to their little dilemma, "and despite everything, you really haven't changed a bit." The smile returned to her features, this time as its own rueful ghost. "I'm grateful for that."
At last lowering her gaze to meet Maria's, Carol took a step closer and whispered, "I am sorry, you know. For everything. I only wish I could stay longer. It kills me to have to leave you behind again." It was as raw an admission as she would ever make, and it had burned on its way out like hot coals scraping against the back of her throat.
The other woman seemed to consider this for what felt like an eternity. Carol nearly found herself dreading what Maria would say, it took so long — the suspense was positively maddening for someone as impulse-driven as she. But where Carol was all warmth and passion, wildfires and rage and untethered waves of emotion, Maria had always been cool, nuanced, precise. She loved to weigh every option, to take her time; it had been Maria whose guidance had taught her to stop and smell the roses, to really enjoy and savor getting to kick some ass.
At last, Maria reached out and her hand found Carol's, their fingers interlocking together as they had so many times all those years ago. How strange it was, for something to feel so newly exhilarating and so familiar, all at once. Carol Danvers found herself embracing the gesture gladly, a warmth spreading through her that she was certain had nothing to do with the summer weather.
"I always knew what I was getting into, being with you," Maria reasoned, her full, alluring mouth curving into a clever grin. "The woman I love volunteered to jump in a plane and take what she knew was a huge risk, just to be able to save the lives that were at stake. It wasn't just bravado with you, I knew that. You might be as hotheaded as they come, Danvers, but when you say something, you mean it." Her eyes searched Carol's gaze, and after a moment, she gave a slow, subtle nod of her head. "So if you say you're gonna be back for me someday, then I believe you." Another pause, and then, with a smile that was more genuine this time: "I just know damn well you better not take six years this time."
There was so much that Carol wished she could say — so much that she could have chosen to say. I love you too, or I promise I'll be back as soon as I can — something to convey the truth of the enormous breadth of her feelings without hiding behind her own cleverness. Was it for Maria's or her own sake that she seemed to want to tough this all out so stalwartly? She couldn't be sure. Either way, no matter what she tried, words seemed to be inadequate for what she intended to express.
In place of all that, all she could bring herself to do was squeeze Maria's hands — three quick squeezes, that had been their code for as long as she could remember. It had been one of the first little puzzle pieces to fall back into her head when her memories of life before had begun to arrange themselves back into something resembling normal. Even when she didn't have the strength to say everything she wanted aloud, she knew Maria would comprehend the meaning of this little gesture all by itself.
And then, with a smile — doing her best to ignore the sudden watery blurriness in her eyes — Carol nodded and said, doing her best not to waver, "You got it."