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Brunnhilde thrusts an empty bottle against the wall. She was the new king of Asgard. The new king of New Asgard. Not that the confirmation meant much, she was always Asgard’s leader in Thor’s... absence. She looks over at Korg, who nods along to the music, raising his archaic fists in the air, whopping and cheering. He spots her and waves. She smiles. She finds herself in this crowded room celebrating and her smile fades.
When she wakes, Brunnhilde half-expects Thor to be hovering over her, gleaming down on her with an mischievous electricity in his eye, ready to start the day, leading together. Not that ever had happened. The moment Asgard was saved, Thanos descended upon them. Brunnhilde and Korg evacuated a good portion of the Asgardians, and followed Thor’s instructions to go to Earth. A marvel had come and guided them to safety. The Asgardians called her Valkyrie. It was slightly less uncomfortable when they said it in gratitude rather than awe. It still didn’t feel right. She had helped them, but she had help. Thor settled the Asgardians here after his excursion to the Farm, but he was already gone when he came back. Brunnhilde didn’t blame him. It took her centuries to overcome her own tragedies and even now they haunt her, wake her in the night, squeeze the happiness out of her. She wouldn’t have been strong enough to do what Thor did –– Stay. For as long as he did.
“Hi, Helga.”
Brunnhilde suddenly realizes she’s sitting on the thick, dark, oaken chair, just elegant enough to pass as a throne, only it sits at the head of a long dining table. Silence consumes the hall. She was siting alone with her thoughts. Quiet. Alone. Lost. Yet, she was grounded, right here.
“Helga, hi.”
She finally sees who stands at the far end of the hall. Her hair is at the awkward stage of growing out a pixie, just covering the bottoms of her ears had she not tucked it behind them.
“Marvel,” Brunnhilde put up her walls almost immediately.
“Yeah, it’s either Captain, Carol, or Danvers. Marvel isn’t -- isn’t me,” she chuckles. She looks around the hall with an impressed frown.
“Carol.”
“Brunnhilde. You know where Thor is?”
“He’s not here. He left.”
Carol nodded, “You Queen then?”
“King.”
“You know, you’re on Earth now, a lot of their factions don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“The gender bending thing, not conforming to gender roles, or whatever.” She touches her hair gingerly.
“That why you’re growing out your hair?”
Carol drops her hand to her side and frowns. “No.”
“It looked good short.”
“I looked like a lesbian.”
“You are a lesbian.”
“I don’t have to look like one.”
“But, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Carol––“
“What, Val? Am I not allowed a change?”
“You’re allowed changes, Carol.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, I think everyone is,” Brunnhilde chuckles.
_______________
Brunnhilde protected her sacred Sprite and Mexican Coke cocktail as she watched Carol. She downs a shot, slams it on the bar, and waves for another. Brunnhilde takes a sip of her soda.
“You’re not drinking?”
“I don’t --“
Carol laughs and thanks the bartender. She drinks again. “Here -- just, can you just give me the bottle.” She pours herself another shot. Carol glances at Brunnhilde. “Sorry, what?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Oh, come on,” she reaches over for her soda, but Brunnhilde moves it to the opposite side. “Where’s that fun gone? Did it die in the snap?” Carol smiles at her own joke. “We reversed it now, come on.”
“Carol, no, I -- Asgardian rulers don’t have a good track record with it, I don’t want to follow in any of their footsteps.” She touches Carol’s hand and smiles.
Immediately on defense. Carol sits up and away from Brunnhilde. “Are you implying something here, Helga?”
“No, no, I’m –– nothing.”
“Wouldn’t matter anyway. Can’t get fucking drunk.” Carol takes a gulp from the bottle and exhales.
Brunnhilde nods slowly. “Where’d Helga come from?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No,” Brunnhilde smiles.
“Man, Asgardian liquor must be good.” Carol shakes her head, she’s feeling it now. “I couldn’t -- I can’t -- I can’t remember either.” She grins, laughing. She slaps the table.
“Is it because you can’t say Brunnhilde?”
“I can say Breen held day!”
“Brunn-hill-day.”
“Brenhilldee.”
“Brunn-hill-day.”
_______________
“Brunnhilde –– oh, fuck!” Carol exclaims. She breathes heavily, trying to recover. “Why the fuck did I call you fuckin’ Helga.”
“Can you stop cracking jokes for like an hour. Please.”
“Jesus fuck, fine.” Carol grabs Brunnhilde by the waist lazily, but forcefully, and pulls her into a straddle. Carol still breathes deeply as she watches Brunnhilde lean forward to kiss her. Carol moans, taking control of Brunnhilde again, and pushing her onto the bed.
Brunnhilde gasps, shocked by her assertiveness. She shouldn’t be, but she is. Carol goes to work like it’s routine. “Carol, have we done this before?”
“Do you want some –– uh, fuck, what’s it called, fucking,” she shows Brunnhilde her hands, allowing photon energy to bubble at their surface.
“Yeah, yeah try that. Wait––“
“Okay,”
“OH, no, stop that, don’t do that.”
“Okay,”
“Carol,”
“Like this?”
“Oh, that’s good, no, Carol stop ––“
“Huh? What? Why? Is something wrong?”
“Carol, how drunk are you?”
She climbs up to Brunnhilde’s level and smiles at her. “I can’t get fucking drunk.”
It oozes out of her mouth like nectar, drawing Brunnhilde close, yet something about it is...off. She’d smell it. She would smell like it. She doesn’t. “I know.” Carol starts back, but Brunnhilde stops her, wrapping her around herself. “Can we just––“
The levity escapes Carol. “Uh...” Carol separates herself from Brunnhilde. Brunnhilde sits up.
“You don’t have a partner, do you?”
Carol stares at the ceiling, suddenly just as cold as the night outside.
“Carol.”
Silence. Carol looks at Brunnhilde deeply, fighting off something that doesn’t physically show itself. “No.” She looks away.
Brunnhilde almost asks about it. Carol rolls on her side, facing away from Brunnhilde. A careful choice. Brunnhilde watches her back move stiffly, an out of control conscious fighting to stay in control of the body. She moves closer under the sheets and laces her arm around Carol.
Carol rolls over. “What are you doing?”
“It’ll make you feel better,”
“No, it won’t,”
“Trust me, Marvel, you’ll feel better,”
“I don’t trust you,”
“Yes, you do.” Brunnhilde moves Carol’s body into place easily.
She drapes her arm over Carol and strokes her limp hand quietly. Carol pulls the sheet up to their necks, tucking it under her chin. She sniffs and presses herself into Brunnhilde.
_______________
Brunnhilde fell asleep quickly, breathing softly against Carol’s skin, but all Carol can think about are the bottles of rum tucked under the floorboards. Her presence reminds her too much of Maria and even after all the times she has done this, she had never done this before –– it scares her. She slides out of the bed seamlessly. Brunnhilde is too far gone to even notice she’s gone. Carol rubs her neck and squats by the side of the bed. She plucks open the floor quietly and pulls out a bottle. She sits against the bedside and drinks without a thought. Naked with her alcohol and her memories.
Squeeaakkk –– Monica opens the door slowly. She’s much taller than Carol now, much more mature, much older. Maria’s room is still and quiet. Pictures of the Rambeau-Danvers family rest, smiling on the end table. Carol sits on the floor against the bedside and stares at the curtains. Tears sting her eyes and the mere sense of Monica threatens Carol’s stability.
Monica wants to be angry with her, but she can’t. She kept coming back all these years. She came back for today.
Carol glances at her. She can barely look at her daughter. Daughter. She drinks. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” she says to the curtain.
Monica lingers in the doorway, uncertain. “You did your best.”
“Did I?” Carol shakes her head. Even Monica can’t believe her.
“You tried, at least.”
“I guess. Doesn’t feel like it sometimes.”
Monica takes in Carol now. It’s been a while since she’s seen her like this. The diagnosis was... almost a decade ago. Even then, Monica had barely caught a glimpse of Carol, the woman, who despite her lack of emotional suppression, had always done her best to hide her darkest moments from Monica. She sits next to Carol. “We all try. Sometimes we fail.”
“Sometimes,” Carol whispers. “Maybe for you, Trouble, but not for me.”
“You can’t blame yourself for this.”
“I don’t.”
“There was nothing you could’ve done -- nothing I could’ve done.”
“I know.”
“This was out of our control.”
“I know.”
“It was inevitable.”
“Why aren’t you upset?”
“What?”
“What is this? Since when are you like this -- since when do you not care?”
“Not care?”
“You’re -- you’re acting like this happened years ago, like she’s been gone since the dawn of time, like she was never your mother!”
“I’m not -- I’m not acting like that, M-- Carol.” For the first time, Carol’s offended to hear her own name.
“She died, Monica, she’s dead, and you’re not having a reaction to this? None at all?”
“I am!” Monica shoots up.
Carol looks up to see Brunnhilde looming over her with a face marked with concern. Carol blinks, hoping her face disappears. She doesn’t.
“What’s she like?” Brunnhilde asks.
“Who?”
“Your... whoever?”
“Dead.” Carol drinks.