It's a Slow Fire of Sorts: Part I

Rizz

They arrive at Monica's a little early, mainly because Carol hates being late. Brunnhilde is usually on time as well, but she's the King of a Norwegian city- state, therefore, punctuality is an expected consequence of her position. As are political debates, meetings, commercials, public appearances...

Manners.

Movie nights- though she'll never actually admit it- are a refreshing break from it all, and Carol also loves them. The minute Little Marv brought up the possibility, Carol was the first on-board, and if it makes Marv happy, it makes Brunnhilde happy by mere proximity.

"Hey, you-" Monica says, greeting them at the door. She quickly gives Kamala a hug, and then Carol, lingering on her embrace a little longer, per usual. "Missed you guys last month."

"Missed you, too."

"Still can't believe they went to space without me. The audacity of these two," Kamala says, sliding by all three of them and throwing open the door. A few bags of chips are falling to the ground.

"Hey, Stars and Stripes! Come help me with this."

"I'm busy!"

"Sling-ringing into Kate's place doesn't count as being busy!" she yells back. "And if Yelena catches you, I'm not calling Peter to bail you out again." She disappears into the house, voice still loud, "- also, I brought you Twizzlers-" and as she leaves, Brunnhilde looks to Carol with a raised brow.

"She's joking, right?"

"No... no, I think she was serious."

"Oh yeah, she's serious," Monica laughs, hands on her hips. She's wearing one of Carol's old SHIELD shirts, the cloth so faded that it looks more like a 'SHE' than a 'SHIELD,' which is probably why she likes it so much. "She wanted to hide in your suitcase," she continues. "Thought I was going to have to reiterate the concept of privacy and stammer through the itinerary of what a honeymoon entails..."

"I was actually more concerned about America."

"Yeah," Brunnhilde agrees. "That girl drops by the Embassy with little warning and absolutely no invitation. Freaking magic hands... the next time she apparates into our bedroom 'by accident,' I will be banning her from the premises."

"You say that every time," Carol responds. She's peering into the house, a slight smile on her face as Chavez's voice echoes from the living room- something about a pizza dog, 'accepting the consequences,' and then a, "HEY- get your butts in here!"

"We're being summoned," Monica says.

"King of an ancient civilization," Brunnhilde replies. "And I'm being bossed around by young adults who can't legally drink."

***

Making pizza is the easy part. Deciding on pizza toppings, however, is apparently more difficult than running a country.

"Pepperoni," Chavez demands.

"No pepperoni for me," Kamala reminds. "My half with extra cheese."

"Veggie would be healthier," Monica chimes in, but at the death-stares she receives from both Chavez and Kamala, she's raising her hands in submission and carefully backing away. Brunnhilde doesn't really care. Midgardian pizza is Midgardian pizza, regardless of what toppings go on it.

"I'm good with whatever," she says, sliding into a seat at the table. Chavez gives Kamala a high five.

"Yes! Half and half it is."

"... with pineapples," Carol murmurs, and everyone looks at her, dumbfounded.

"Absolutely not," Monica immediately says. At the same time, Chavez mutters, "Oh my god, white people and their affinity for awful food," so of course, Brunnhilde is going to come to Carol's defense.

"Pineapple on pizza is a completely normal thing to like," she lies, because it's not. Pineapple on pizza is actually the worst thing known to man, perhaps even more so than Milk Duds, but a small look from Carol, and she knows her words are appreciated. She leans against the counter, popping a chocolate pretzel in her mouth as Kamala throws Goose a piece of pepperoni.

"Discussion settled," Monica says, declaring herself the sole authority on the matter. "Half and half pepperoni with extra cheese."

She's looking at Carol with pursed lips, but Carol gives her the puppy dog eyes, lowering her lashes, and Monica easily folds, "Fine. I'll put pineapples on a few slices, alright? Two slices. That's all you get."

"Wow," Chavez drawls. "So, Carol can have fruit on pizza, but when I want to put tabasco on the popcorn, everyone loses their goddamn mind." The whole room groans.

"You're literally insane."

"I'm completely normal."

"You tried to portal to Narnia, once."

"Yeah, well... Strange says I'm an absolute pleasure."

Carol laughs at that. The sound is light and gorgeous, laced with a sense of peace. With a slight hum and a tap of the foot, she's placing her hands on Kamala's back, squeezing by her on her way to the pantry. "I know for a fact," she says, opening the door and searching for something... probably canned pineapple. "That Stephen didn't say that."

"Ahck, I forget you guys are actually friends."

"Yeah, it's kind of weird. You two have nothing in common," Kamala says, placing cheese on the dough.

She's serious, and at that statement, Monica locks eyes with Brunnhilde and makes a face- the kind with aghast eyes and tender fondness. Can you believe these two? she's saying without words, and Brunnhilde shrugs, digging through the bag of Twizzlers.

Kamala and America are two sides of the same coin: both a mix of chaotic good and lawful evil, depending on the day. Different values, different humor, different views on life... and yet, the exact same person. One writes fluffy fanfiction and sends Carol 'Captain Marvel' memes, and the other has Carol down in her phone as, "Mother energy," which kind of explains their whole relationship.

"You're right," Brunnhilde finally replies, remembering Carol's speaker call with Strange about the confusing world of teenagers.

"What does the word 'lit' mean? America has used it on three separate occasions, and the context clues aren't helping..."

"Sorry dude, I'm still trying to figure out 'Rizz.' Apparently, it's something I lack, but something Val has."

"Carol. Even I know what 'Rizz' means- and yes, you would be correct in your assumption."

"Their friendship makes absolutely no sense," but no one is listening.

Chavez is maneuvering around Kamala, switching positions so she can pour a shit-ton of pepperoni on her half of the pizza. Carol is still struggling to open a can of sliced pineapple, looking incredibly cute, and Monica is shooing Goose out of the kitchen. It's a chaotic picture, full of domesticity and color.

It's nice.

"Hey, Brunn? Can you help me with this, please-" Carol asks, blowing a strand of hair from her face. She's flustered, a bit red from her battle with canned fruit.

She can open it easily- that isn't the issue. The issue is her inability to gauge it right, meaning most of her attempts result in fruit juice instead of fruit slices. Her smile is crooked, her hair is messy, and when she meets Brunnhilde's eyes, a soft look on her face, Brunnhilde reaches out. She ghosts over Marv's fingers, collecting the metal can of horror that should absolutely never go on bread. As she applies firm pressure to the lid, Brunnhilde concludes that Strange is wrong.

Carol Danvers- in all her pineapple glory- is full of 'Rizz.'