It's a Slow Fire of Sorts: Part I

Girls' night

On May 23rd, they all descend upon Louisiana for Girls' night, because- in the words of Little Marv- "Monica's TV is the best."

Carol and Brunnhilde swing by Jersey City to pick her up, making a brief pit stop at Hill's for Pinot and brownies. When Romanoff opens the door- shirt speckled with white powder- Brunnhilde gets a whiff of cinnamon and chocolate. "They're just brownies, right?" Carol asks, eyeing the Tupperware. "You didn't spike 'em this time?"

"Just brownies. Pinky swear," but Romanoff's face is awfully suspicious.

Carol crosses her arms, eyes growing serious for a few seconds. It's a little hot, the protectiveness she has for all things small and teen-like, and Brunnhilde finds herself leaning in a bit. She nonchalantly brushes their fingers together and, without looking, Carol instinctively opens her hand, allowing Brunnhilde full access.

"Nat," she's warning, eyes still focused on Romanoff's playful words. "A child will be ingesting these. A religious child, and if they have so much as a pinch of an illicit substance..."

"They don't!" Hill calls out from beyond the door. Probably the kitchen, based on the sounds. "I wouldn't let her! She's just being a brat-"

"Can it, Masha! You're killing the suspense," Romanoff calls back, handing Brunnhilde the wine and Carol the brownies. "Wouldn't even let me put a surprise gummy in it..."

Brunnhilde hollers into the apartment, "You're such a buzzkill, Hill!"

At the same time, Carol says, "I appreciate you, Maria!" and at Hill's response of, "See, this is why you're my favorite," both Brunnhilde and Romanoff roll their eyes.

"Responsible Lesbians," Romanoff mutters, a grin breaking out on her face. Brunnhilde gives her a fist-bump, before turning back to Carol, who quickly confiscates the bottle from Brunnhilde's fingers. With a smile and a soft nudge in the arm, she's trading Brunnhilde the brownies for Monica's red wine.

Responsible Lesbians.

***

When they pick Kamala up, Muneeba immediately gives Carol a hug. "Take her, Jaanu... take her and don't bring her back for at least a week." Her voice is serious- a night and day difference from when she threatened Marv's life for taking Kamala to space.

Teenagers, Brunnhilde assumes, will do that to a woman.

She offers a hug to Brunnhilde as well, but Brunnhilde declines, her threshold of touch reserved for four- legged equids and 5 '7 magical blondes with self-sacrificing tendencies.

"We're going to watch so much Twilight," Kamala tells them both, once they're all situated in The Hoopty. Her arms are full of miscellaneous candies and unpopped bags of popcorn. She drops a few, and as she settles into her seat with a slight humph, Carol nudges Brunnhilde in the side.

"What's Twilight?" she whispers, twiddling with the control panel.

"Vampires, Love."

"Ohhhh."

She turns back to where Little Marv is chomping on cavity- inducing chocolate, "Um, Kamala. Are you old enough to watch Vampire movies?"

"I'm seventeen."

"Right," Carol replies, and then she's turning back to Brunnhilde, whispering in her ear once again. Her voice is a little concerned. "Is that old enough for Vampire movies? I forgot."

"I made a strap-on joke the minute I met her, and on her birthday, I handed her a bottle of whiskey and said, 'go crazy," Brunnhilde reassures, "- so the answer is obviously yes."

"I can hear everything you're saying," Kamala mumbles via a mouthful of Milk Duds. Brunnhilde cringes. Milk Duds: the worst kind of candy known to Midgard. "But yes. For your information, I have full permission to watch any and all Twilight films." Brunnhilde gently elbows Carol in the side.

"Babe. Babe, she got permission."

"I will force these Milk Duds down your throat."

"I'll force my knife down yours."

"Nobody is forcing anything down anyone's throat," Carol says sternly, plopping into the pilot's seat. With a slight hum, she's tapping in coordinates, her fingers flowing across the screens and buttons without looking. Her ring is sparkling in the light of the afternoon, casting rays of sun onto the ceiling.

"It's beautiful... how'd you know?"

"That you wanted a small diamond with a shit- ton of sparkles? You're not very mysterious."

"I can be mysterious."

"Most of your wardrobe involves pastels and dangly earrings and you're literally a beam of cosmic energy."

"... that proves nothing."

Carol, in true Carol fashion, is wearing purple today... pastel purple. With Jean shorts and silver earrings and loose hair that curls in ringlets at the tips. She's chewing a little on her bottom lip, eyes focused on ensuring a safe take-off.

She's anxious.

She's anxious most days; a side effect of the memory loss, and the fact that every day of the year is at least some sort of anniversary... most negative in nature. So, Brunnhilde kisses the top of her head. "Hey, Marv?" she says, hands light on Carol's shoulders.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

And that's all it takes. The tension is gone; Carol's cheeks flush, her face is brighter again, and she's rolling her eyes with a gentle smile. "Shut up," she says, which is short for, "I love you, too."

A high-pitched voice cries out, "You're both disgusting," and Brunnhilde smirks. She gives Carol one last kiss before making her way to where Little Marv is pretending to vomit.

"You write fanfiction about us. You blackmailed Marv into letting you be our flower girl-"

"This isn't about me," Kamala interrupts, chunking a Milk Dud in Brunnhilde's general direction, but Brunnhilde expertly avoids the attack, shaking her head with a mock frown. She sinks into her chair, buckles her seatbelt because "safety is important, Val," and calls out,

"I'm glad Romanoff didn't waste her stash on you."

"Good," Kamala calls back, flicking another piece of Satan onto Brunnhilde's chest.

"I'm high enough on life as it is."