It's a Slow Fire of Sorts: Part I

Fight Club

The pizza is ready quickly, courtesy of Monica's new oven, and about thirty minutes after their arrival, everyone is finally in the living room, arms full of cheesy bread and trashy snacks. Carol and Brunnhilde are on the couch. Monica is on the recliner. Little Marv is on a beanbag and Chavez is sprawled out on the floor. Monica's voice is low, dripping with seriousness.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she says, hands raised. "I'm sorry... he did what, now?"

"Let me battle giant monsters in an underground fight club about half a mile below the streets of Macau," Chavez deadpans. "Keep up."

The lore of America Chavez, Brunnhilde has determined, is her favorite part of movie nights.

"No- no, see, that's the part that I got-" Monica says, but Chavez interrupts, counting on her fingers.

"I fought Blonsky and won, became like a thousand credits richer, and learned how to power stomp out of a metal cage," she says proudly. "Wong wanted to split the cash, freaking loser, but all it took was me spoiling another episode of 'The Sopranos' and he and Mads kicked me out." She's dusting her hands off and sliding to her knees.

"Great Thursday evening, if you ask me," she finishes, and Brunnhilde raises her beer.

"Here, here."

She bites back a grin when Carol whacks her in the leg. "See, Val gets it." Chavez says. She raises her can of soda in response as Kamala rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, but Val's a terrible influence."

"She's the worst influence," Carol murmurs.

"You guys are only just now coming to that conclusion?" Monica finishes, and Brunnhilde shrugs. Smiling, she stretches out further on the couch, her legs resting halfway on Carol's lap. It's true, she's a terrible role model. She probably shouldn't be trusted around children of any sort, to be honest, but Chavez waves Kamala off, coming to Brunnhilde's defense.

"Meh, Wong has her beat," she explains, and then she starts cracking up. "Actually, Strange is the worst, if you can believe it, because I once stole a U-HAUL truck from Ritson's backyard and all he said was-"

"You stole the President's car?"

"U-HAUL, Kam," Chavez laughs, sitting crisscross on the floor and meeting little Marv's eyes. "Also, I didn't steal it. I just borrowed it... for like an hour."

There's a quivering on Brunnhilde's legs. Carol is practically shaking, every sentence from Chavez's mouth breaking down her composure more and more. She was laughing at the first story, cringing at the second, and frowning at the new 'Fight-club' revelation.

"There were a lot of guns involved," Chavez continues.

"Made a bunch of secret service agents mad. They all suck at shooting, though, like Stormtrooper level bad... then I drove it straight into the Hudson, had to call Kate- ya'know, to shrink it back down to an acceptable size-"

Carol's lips are in a tight frown, the vein in her head pulsing in waves as her breathing picks up. She clenches her fists and closes her eyes, an obvious attempt to control herself, and she's doing surprisingly well...

Brunnhilde is actually impressed.

but Chavez casually finishes her story with an, "Oh, and once we returned it, I spray painted his entire bathroom orange-" and apparently, wrecking private property is the final nail in Carol's resolve. She sets her plate of god-forsaken fruit bread down on the side table.

"America?" she says, gently.

Firmly.

The room gets quiet. All eyes are hyperfocused on her words; everyone excitedly waiting for the inevitable moment when she finally breaks.

"I love you. I really, really love you," she assures, completely oblivious to the entire situation. A surge of agitation is clearly coursing through her body as she cradles her head in her hands, trying to compose herself. "Okay? I really do... you're smart and talented and perfectly capable of anything you set your mind to..."

"Aww, thanks."

"... but why, in the ever-loving 'Sh'irl', would you steal a U-HAUL from the president!?"

Monica slams her hand against the table. "Time!" she screams, jumping up from her chair. With a chaotic laugh, she's bolting to the kitchen. Brunnhilde follows her with her eyes, taking in her glee as she turns back around. "Yes! 6:34... I had 6:25, so I think I'm the closest. America, you were 6:50 right?"

"Damn it... thought she'd last longer."

"Wha-" Carol starts, eyes swirling with confusion, but Brunnhilde just pats her leg. Smiling, she raises her hand and points at Kamala.

"Little Marv said 7:30, which is all kinds of wrong, so she's out of the running." Kamala groans.

"I really thought it'd be Edward's stalking that broke her."

"Wait... you guys- you guys made bets. On my cursing? Are you serious?!" Carol asks, face flushing into an incredible shade of pink. Her voice has risen at least an octave, and when she looks at Brunnhilde- mouth slightly open with widened eyes- Brunnhilde sets down her beer. Carol is easily embarrassed, easily flustered, and even more easy to predict. The moment Brunnhilde's hands are free, she's instinctively drifting closer. It always starts small- a tiny shuffle, a light brush of the arm- but the end result is the same.

She doesn't realize she's doing it.

That's what makes it even better.

"Wha... how... wh-" she's still sputtering, sliding into Brunnhilde's side, well on her way to an embrace, and Brunnhilde just laughs. She opens her arms and wraps them around Carol's shoulders, lightly kissing the back of her head. Monica is still grinning from the kitchen, but one sentence from Kamala, "Val actually said 6:30," and the joy is gone.

"Really?" she says with a frown. "How?"

Brunnhilde smirks, grabbing her beer with one hand, the other still wrapped around Carol's neck. She ignores the bitter comments, "I can't believe this. After everything we've been through," coming from Carol's mouth.

"What can I say? I'm the expert on all things Danvers," she says, taking another drink.

"Yeah, but there's no way you could have planned that."

"I just want you to know-" Carol interrupts, nestling further into Brunnhilde's chest, "- that I hate each and every one of you." Chavez scoffs.

"You love me. I'm a gift to humanity," but Monica shakes her head.

"Yeah. A gift I'd like to return," she mumbles, eyes homing in on the red speckling the hardwood floor.

There's pizza sauce everywhere. When she walks back to the living room, she tosses a few napkins Chavez's way, pointing to the stains and then to her mouth. America rolls her eyes, but dutifully complies. To her right, Little Marv is forming a stick figure out of Twizzlers. "I should have poured pineapple juice on the entire pizza," Carol is whining, still focused on their betrayal.

"I mean, was any of that even true?"

"The cage-fighting part, yes. The Ritson part, no. Sadly."

"Thank God," Monica says. She plops back into her chair with a relieved sigh. "I can accept underground Fight club, but I draw the line at petty larceny."

"That's where you draw the line?" Carol groans, incredulously. She's palming her face with her hands and sinking her head sideways into the couch cushions, ignoring the, "I think we broke her," coming out of Little Marv's mouth.

Brunnhilde squeezes her a little tighter.

"You're all horrible influences," she adds on. "Now, are we going to watch a movie glorifying predatory vampires or not?"