Carol's feet slowly lead her along the farmhouse's moonlit hallway, each step intrinsic, familiar, and she lets herself take in the drooping wallpaper; peeling from years of Louisiana humidity, the blue curtains; massive and frilly and no doubt now embarrassingly out of date, Monica's door; covered with photographs and drawings of airplanes. She pauses, brushes her fingers against the doorknob. Tries to swallow away the ache. Pulls herself away and continues down the hall until she is facing an antique pine door. (Original to the house, but sanded and re-stained.) There is no memory attached to this fact, to this door, to each and every part of each and every room. And yet she knows them somehow. Knows them like she knows the pieces of her suit, the scars that pepper her skin. She raps her knuckles against the wood, the knock blending with the summer symphony of cicadas and crickets.
The seconds stretch out in front of her as though weighed down by the thick, humid air. A part of her wonders what would happen if she turned around now; before this conversation happens, before she forces a shift in whatever this fragile thing between them is, and returned to the safety of the guest room, of their precariously balanced friendship. But she knows that that was never really an option. Not for her.
The door groans open to reveal Maria in a faded USAF academy tshirt that Carol's fingers itch to fold themselves in (the cotton soft and thin and smelling of Maria). Maria smirks, leans against the doorframe, "this is early even for you, Danvers." She tilts her head, her features softening to a gentle smile as Carol, fidgeting minutely; thumbs circling fingers, lets the silence settle between them. Maria reaches out and steadies her shaking fingers with a warm hand. "I'm here."
Carol takes in the hand resting over her own. Takes in the constellations of scars crisscrossing along fingers and knuckles, the callouses that catch against her own skin, the long, sure fingers (firm, strong, but so gentle) anchoring her as they curl around her own, give a reassuring squeeze. Carol squeezes back. Meets Maria's eyes. She had had a speech planned. Or an idea of a speech. Or, okay, a few buzz words that she could ramblingly build a speech around. But the words that she had picked out and practiced while staring at the popcorn ceiling (that she knew Maria hated) of the guest room seem woefully inadequate now that she is face to face with her ghost. Now that she is looking into those gentle brown eyes that have haunted her for six years.
She tries all the same, but the words catch in her tightening throat, on her drying tongue. The corners of her eyes prickle with moisture and Maria steps closer. Reaches out. Stops herself, her fingers hovering millimeters away from the goose bumped flesh of Carol's bare arms. Carol can feel heat radiating from them. Lets her eyes close, and for an instant she is back in her cold room on Hala. Alone. Haunted. She fearfully snaps them open, "I'm sorry I don't remember. I am so sorry. But I-" She swallows, breathes. Maria waits patiently, her presence anchoring, and Carol collects her scattered thoughts. "I know you."
She brushes her thumb over Maria's. "I know your hands are covered in scars from working on plane engines, because you never wear your damn gloves." Maria's lips quirk. "I know you drink your coffee with way too much sugar because your too stubborn to admit that you like my tea better." That gets her a smile, and Carol's heart skips a little faster. She bites her lip. "I know you like to sleep with the windows open, even in the middle of August." Maria's eyes widen and she opens her mouth to speak but Carol pushes on; "I know you like to sing along with the radio in the car, especially when you don't know the words, I know you like to slow dance in the kitchen, I kn-" her voice cracks, "I know-"
It is just like their hug in the yard and, Carol knows, the thousands of hugs that came before it. Her fingers fold into the impossibly soft tshirt as she buries her nose in Maria's neck and breathes her in. She mumbles through hot tears, "I know I loved you."
Maria pulls her even closer, "I loved you, too."
...
Carol groans, tries to blink away the sliver of sunlight that has somehow fallen exactly on her eyelids. The arm draped around her waist tightens and she becomes aware of the warmth of Maria's chest pressed against her back, the puff of her breath tickling her ear, and for the first time that she can remember, Carol does not wake up restless. Maria leaves a sleepy, open mouthed kiss on her neck, "go back to sleep."
And she does.