It's a Slow Fire of Sorts: Part I

Let's blow this popsicle stand

"I need to talk about the kiss," Kamala interrupts, sitting up on her knees. The cushions bounce as she readjusts herself on the couch.

"Before we go any further, I need to discuss the kiss."

"Is there any more fighting in this?" Chavez asks, poking Brunnhilde's foot. "I was promised more fighting... need Carol to mess some stuff up, I mean look at her." Carol freezes mid-yawn, her arms and lips fully extended. Chavez snaps her fingers.

"That's the face of a woman who deserves a fighting montage."

"No montages. More kissing. Maybe you can rewind and describe it all again?"

"Really?" Chavez murmurs, and Kamala narrows her eyes.

She crosses her arms.

"Yes, 'really,'" she responds hotly. "You guys are the ones who confiscated my notebook, and I need to cement this in my brain for posterity. This is romantic, and this is a slow burn, so I don't know when I'm going to get another kiss and I need to savor it. Carol understands. Don't you, Carol."

With a chuckle, Carol rests her head on Brunnhilde's shoulder. She doesn't respond to Little Marv's question, just yawns once again and Brunnhilde sighs. Locking eyes with Monica- who is swirling her almost empty glass of wine and tapping her wrist- she makes the executive decision. "Five minutes," she decides. "I'll speed through the actual escape and then we'll break for the night. No montages."

She peers over the top of Carol's head, to where Little Marv is pointing a scathing finger at Chavez, and continues her decree.

"No rewinding. No dragging things out. No more kissing-"

"Awww," Kamala whines, retracting her finger. "But the kissing was the best part."

"The kissing was the best part," Carol agrees, whispering into Brunnhilde's neck, and Brunnhilde smiles. She pats Carol's thigh as Monica clears her throat. There's a mischievous sparkle in her eye. She glances at Kamala- taking in her fake pout and downcast lashes- before swifty dropping her gaze to where Chavez is tapping the bottom of the coffee table with her fingers.

"Five and a half," she finally says, leaning back in her chair and looking at Brunnhilde once more. She smirks. "But only if you leave it on a cliff-hanger. You know, give 'em something to fret about for the next month."

Little Marv groans. Chavez cackles. Carol murmurs, "Definitely Maria's child," and at Monica's wagging brows, Brunnhilde grins.

"Monica Rambeau," she says proudly. "I like the way you think."

***

Brunnhilde thought she was ready.

She locked her arms, braced herself for take-off, took a deep breath... but the moment Vers is sky-bound, she has to stuff her fist into her mouth to keep from shrieking. Vers is already a minefield waiting to explode. If Brunnhilde screams, Vers will probably scream, and then they'll both be screaming. And then they'll both be dead, courtesy of sex-crazed rainbow soldiers and a bunch of fancy death ships. Brunnhilde is good with not being dead... surprisingly.

She spits out a piece of dry, bloody hair and swallows.

Flying, touching, making promises. Kissing her erratic best friend on roof-tops and having meaningful conversations with her eyes.

What have you done to me? What am I doing?

Who have I become?!

Her journey to self-revelation is cut short. With careful, cautious hands, Brunnhilde is swiftly deposited onto the ground: the real ground. The one with plants and garbage and rocks. Her ship is a mere few paces away, thanks to Vers' impeccable accuracy, so she scrambles for cover, grabbing Vers' wrist and pulling her along.