Work Text:
Raven mail, Emails, spam-mail, human males… too many deadlines and far too little time to complete them-
It’s manageable.
Brunnhilde spent five years babysitting one of the most powerful gods in existence. She's a Valkyrie, for Odin's sake. One who has bested Sakaaran bounty hunters, Kree terrorists, vengeful god-killers and god-fuckers alike...
She’s been to hel and back. Killed a few hundred Chitauri with nothing but a broken spear, so she can handle simplistic things. Taxes, capitalism, trade agreements, and foreign entities (though Marissa is a piece of work, and the Prime Minister of Norway can barely tie his shoe, let alone lead a country) align under the header 'easier than Hela.' Therefore, everything is clearly fine.
This is fine.
Being here. In her office. Surrounded by paperwork and a handful of dying, shriveling plants is adequate. Brunnhilde is having the best time of her life documenting property taxes and sorting out her schedule. Thriving, even. Until the intercom system buzzes,
"Uh... King Valkyrie- I've got exports on the line. Something about meeting those new requirements for Australia..."
and whatever optimistic plans she had for the afternoon immediately dissolve into the Great Beyond.
She slumps in her chair. "Send it to Jon."
"Yeah, I would. Except he's out for lunch and the Midgardian refuses to discuss this with anyone but you."
"That's not how this works."
(That's exactly how this works. How it's been working, anyhow.)
Michael clears his throat. "So, uh. Should I tell him 'No,' then? He seems pretty agitated about the updated protocols and keeps mentioning a bunch of quotas that we're apparently not... well.” He pauses awkwardly, no-doubt searching for the word.
Brunhilde clicks her teeth. "Meeting?"
"Yeah! That."
“Not my problem.”
“... He also threatened to disclose our lack of response to the broker.”
Brunnhilde palms her face.
Shit.
She quickly exits out of the 'property taxes' files to pull up the export logs. The system is running slow today, her desktop background peaking slightly through the windows of texts. She scans her eyes over the portrait decorating the computer screen- thankfully, the blue light filter does wonders for her vision- but it isn't enough to fully sate the headache that's been brewing for the past eight hours.
She touches the orange pixels of Goose's tail.
"What should I do?” she asks softly. "Tell him to screw off? Maybe... pretend I don't speak English? I could let you eat him. How about that?”
She taps the screen.
“You’d probably love that.”
Goose stares back at her the way she always does: angrily. As if Brunnhilde has committed an atrocity (doesn't pet her 24/7), resorts to war-crimes on the daily (feeds her at 6:30pm instead of 5:00pm), and is the worst person in existence for stealing her best friend.
(Brunnhilde can't fight back against that particular allegation.)
Goose’s plastered look refuses to let up. “Do your job. Payback for giving me dry food last week,” she rightfully demands, and Brunnhilde sighs: one part annoyance and one part acceptance.
Taking the call is the inevitable conclusion. An angry governmental agency complaining about DSGL vs EAR99 endorsement forms is one way to liven up her day. Or put her to sleep.
(And she hasn't slept well in quite some time.)
"Fine, cat. You win."
Moving her hand slightly to the left, Brunnhilde brushes her index finger over blonde curls and a crooked, beaming smile. She turns her face to the ceiling soon after and resigns herself to her fate. “Transfer him over. Let him know fifteen is all he gets and if he refers to me as ‘Princess’ or 'Queen' I shall be cutting his time short.”
“Acknowledged, your Highness.”
The secretary’s voice crackles through the ancient speakers, fizzing into nonsense every few words, and Brunnhilde closes her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she fakes a smile, exhales through her nose, and pictures herself strangling half of the General Assembly with no repercussions whatsoever.
“Let’s see how bad it is, this time.”
It's bad.
Brunnhilde. In all of her lovely, ‘What do you mean ‘ore falls into the ‘weapons’ category?’ It’s ORE! What happened to minerals and metals?’ glory is by and largely screwed.
Monumentally.
All of those tired nights studying the chain of command are henceforth rendered 'useless' by a small, dumb mistake. Luckily enough, Jon is able to mitigate the tension by sending the correct forms via password protected E-mail (not raven mail, no. Because ancient messaging systems are ‘an absurd way to send a government document,’ and the UN 'refuses to use such primitive methods as a form of communication'), which means while Brunnhilde herself is in the red, New Asgard is not.
“You almost cost us millions.”
(She didn’t.)
“Thor was never this careless.”
(He was.)
“Make another mistake like this again, and we will have to revert to extreme consequences. Next time, read the paperwork.”
(She tried.)
Extreme consequences, in this instance, are synonymous with Tariffs, not war. And the paperwork garbage refers to 262 pages of detailed import requirements, only half of which are even remotely applicable to New Asgard and all of which Brunnhilde has looked over many times.
Is it really her fault? That these tiny addendums and paragraphs sometimes swim across her eyes as the nights grow longer and the days lose their spark?
No.
… Yes.
… maybe?
She lays her head against the desk, nudges the mouse away with her forehead, and imagines Asgard as it was before: a planet steeped in lore. Thriving at a time where battles waged and skirmishes were settled with blood, not fine print.
Battles…
God, what Brunnhilde would give for a fight right now: a tiny one, of course. A small, itty-bitty, benign scuffle. Not a war- Hel no, never again. Not in that way- but a fight in which agreements were formed in a manner fitting for a warrior.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Carol’s voice is like music from the cracked doorway, encouraging Brunnhilde to open her eyes for a moment. She catches a glimpse of red and blue, a saddened smile peering down at her briefly, and immediately closes them again.
“No place else I’d rather be.”
“Mmmm, I can think of about ten other places you’d rather be.”
“Add it to my list of sins,” Brunnhilde mumbles. “Arrogant. Careless. Reckless. Stupid. Might as well be a liar, too.”
“Oof. That bad?”
Carol’s hands are already on Brunnhilde’s shoulders lightning fast as always, with thumbs that move in circles deep to shallow. She does her best to loosen two weeks of anxiety-induced muscle tension (pausing to kiss the back of Brunnhilde's head every once in a while), and as the fascia melts into place, Brunnhilde replies, “Worse.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not your fault, either. They’re… power-hungry, stupid, really dumb idiots who have nothing better to do. If they knew who actually kept this place running after the blip, they’d treat you differently. Put some well-deserved respect on your name.”
Brunnhilde appreciates the sentiment, even though it isn't true. “They wouldn’t,” she responds, and Carol hums, still sinking her thumbs under Brunnhilde’s shoulder blades in a painful but satisfying way.
“Their loss.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
"Maybe."
"No. Definitely."
“Are you going to keep contradicting everything I say?” Brunnhilde asks, tilting back her head. Carol redirects her easily, chin to chest, and increases the pressure two-fold.
She says with pride, "That’s my job.”
“Hmm.” Brunnhilde can't manage voicing much else, too blissful and starry eyed to care. "Sounds fake.”
“It was in the ceremonial rules, actually. According to the Law, contradicting the King when she’s being too hard on herself and making her see reason is one of my primary duties."
“Mmmm."
"I signed the document and everything... it’s- uh. I think it’s actually my life goal now; to be dramatic and talk back." Her laughter floats warm over Brunnhilde’s ear. “I have other skills as well. Solid 6/10 in Karaoke. A seven on a good day... I don't know what else- oh!" She eagerly taps Brunnhilde's shoulder. "I'm also a pro at reheating coffee, like- really good. Water, too. Can't believe I almost forgot about that... also my back rubs are all the rage.”
"You're quite the hot commodity."
"Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I have a big mouth, too- apparently. And if I recall correctly, someone once said I was pretty good at running it.” A kiss migrates to Brunnhilde's cheek as Carol says, suggestively, “In all kinds of ways.”
The smile plasters itself on Brunnhilde's face before she can stifle it. “You’re a menace,” she says.
Carol giggles, “Mena-cing.” She jiggles Brunnhilde’s shoulders to reiterate. “Just ask Monica about the Fury incident and you’ll see what I mean.”
“Which one?”
“I dunno- five? Seven?" Her smile is tired. "Gonna be honest, I am absolutely winging it here, babe. Are you coming home? Or are you going to keep pouting here in the dark until you fall asleep on the floor?”
"... I'm never going to live that one down, am I?"
"Nope." Carol be-lines her way to the exit in record-breaking speed, like a child as she scampers. She flips the light off before Brunnhilde can even stand, making it impossible for them both to see. That is, until her body outlines itself in glimmers of pure light like a human candle.
Hold my hand, she orders, fingers reaching out.
“Come on. I'm cold.”
Brunnhilde slowly but surely obeys. She melts slightly into Carol's side. The door clicks, the candle dims, and when the walking starts, her head inevitably follows suit.
"Liar,” she retorts, but her eyes are already too half-lidded to appear threatening. “You absolutely aren't."
Carol was telling the truth when she said reheating things was one of her top skill sets. A bath is merely hot water and soap; one of the most simplistic, basic tasks in the world, and yet, it's different when she does it.
Maybe it's the manner… perhaps the intention, even. The care she takes in measuring out bubbles- precise, like she's going to war- or how she meticulously adds Epsom salt into a cup of hot water first, because it ‘has to be premixed’ or it won't ‘dissolve the right way.’
(The verity that she's a living, breathing heat-source may also play a role. However, Brunnhilde prefers the former.)
“Are you falling asleep on me?”
“No," Brunnhilde says. "I'm wide awake.”
“Your eyes are literally closed right now.”
Brunnhilde’s lips stretch into a small grin. She cracks her eyes open and meets Carol's smile, resting her chin on the side of the tub. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Water's getting cold.”
“Feels hot to me.”
Brunnhilde leans back against the wall and stretches out her arms. She twirls a finger in the middle of a deflated bubble. Faking a shiver, she gives Carol a poorly fabricated pout and says, "It's quite chilly over here," as she pats the water beside her, shimmying over to make space. “You'll have to take my word for it."
Carol chuckles, already standing to shed her clothes. “I could always blast it, and the result would be the same, you know.”
“Then the temperature would be off. Hot in some places and lukewarm in the other; real shame to go through all that work for a mediocre bath.”
Carol's hair rebels- frizzy as her bra travels up and over her head. “I take offense to that statement.”
Brunnhilde badgers, “Yeah? What are you going to do about it, then?”
“I dunno. Maybe THIS-”
In one fail swoop Carol tosses her shorts to the floor and practically dives headfirst into the bathtub, slumping awkwardly over the outer edge with a huff.
The splash is messy, no doubt getting water all over the floor, but Brunnhilde just snorts. She tugs Carol's legs inside. They plop with a gentle “thu-thump” as the water immediately heats up.
Carol's lack of grace is astounding. Truly. The way she trips on air rivals Little Marv’s attempts to roller skate, but it simply adds to her charm. A fawn learning to run… proof that even beams of radiant light aren’t perfect. Brunnhilde shuffles a little more to the side and is rewarded for her generosity with the best clumsy blanket known to man.
She curls into Carol's body as strong arms wrap tight around her. Brunnhilde's eyes betray her with little effort, blinking a few times, each lengthier than the last.
“You're my personal space heater,” she murmurs, soaking in the sudden warmth. “You should add that to the list of Queenly attributes.”
“Already on there.”
“Good.”
"Mmmm."
Carol nuzzles her head into Brunnhilde's shoulder. She kisses her collarbone- softly- and the way she does so; how she lingers there, rather than pull away, is indicative of what Brunnhilde knows is soon to come.
She doesn't brace for impact, however. She lets the words flow through the air and into her chest without complaint.
“Are you okay?”
And that's the question, isn't it?
Carol doesn't ask very often. Actions speak louder than words, and Brunnhilde has never been much of a talker; especially when private things are involved, but Carol’s voice cracks a bit. She whispers the addending phrase, “Is it... too much?” and when the silence returns, Brunnhilde finds herself completely and utterly caught.
Is it too much?
Do you need me to stay?
Is my absence, leading them all… taking over the team instead of being here. Is it causing more harm than good?
The worry escapes from Carol in waves of shaky energy, unconsciously so, which only makes Brunnhilde cherish her that much more. She peers into the solemn face looking down at her and tries her best to smile. They’re deep- Carol's eyes are- with speckles of dedication pooling like an ocean. She's the picture of selflessness, and though Brunnhilde is an expert at fibbing, she finds she doesn’t have the strength, nor the willpower, to lie.
“It's hard.”
The arms around her clench tighter and Brunnhilde rubs them lightly.
“It's isolating, sometimes,” she continues. “Not having you here. It was different when Thor was around, but people move on. Life is nothing but change, I suppose.” She rests her head in the space beside Carol's neck. “The seasons pass, kids grow up to find their purpose. Five years ago, Axl was leading a revolution composed solely of middle school children to defeat a god-killer and today, he's meandering around the Great Lakes with Little Marv and company. It's just how it is.”
“It doesn't have to be.”
“I know.”
“Brunn,” Carol says. Stronger this time. “I'm serious.”
Brunnhilde taps her cheek. “I know," she stresses. "But. I'm not ready to cave just yet. I'm a strong, independent woman and you're the only thing keeping those knuckleheads together. If an incident occurs; another Thanos or Kang type of crazy… or something even worse, we need you out there.”
“They're capable. Sam is practically the head, and America is crazy enough to scare about half of our enemies away-”
"Baby, look at me," Brunnhilde orders. She takes Carol's head in hand, meets her eyes and refuses to look away- thereby holding the connection in an attempt to strengthen her words. “You are more than a consort.”
She licks her lips, running a thumb over the curve of Carol's cheekbone.
“You are more than Queen to a small refugee city state in what used to be referred to as lower Norway. You are... you're Captain Marvel-"
"Am I, now?"
"Leader of a bunch of idiotic superheroes," Brunnhilde stresses. "Ship-killer, demon killer, vampire killer, variant killer… bad guy destroyer in general, etcetera etcetera, whatever. Point is, you're more than a mere figurehead, or a silly Royal, or a-" Brunnhilde sighs, looks down. "Or a wife,” she says softly, and her head is snapped up with gentle force.
“No.”
Carol takes her cheeks in hand. “Stop that. Don’t you dare diminish my role here. I’m not trapped in New Asgard. Far from it- and pretending like I am does both me and you a disservice.”
“Marv.”
“Shhh,” Carol murmurs, lips coming to rest against Brunnhilde's temple. “Listen.”
Brunnhilde does.
“I am married to an amazing woman who once drank Thor under the table and who thinks brawling is an acceptable form of politics. She's a Valkyrie who stepped into a role whole-heartedly and who- despite her reservations- is positively killing it. Seriously, our people love you.” The buzz of Carol’s laugh is like a song, calming as Brunnhilde closes her eyes once more.
“You have a 92% satisfactory rate and Thor’s was barely sixty. If this was a democracy, I fear you’d be President forever, which is fundamentally wrong when it comes to a Federal Republic.”
“I hate democracy.”
“Yeah, yeah… can't have you submitting yourself to the people like a chump. I know.”
“Uhck." Brunnhilde wrinkles her nose in the name of dramatization. "Submission.”
Carol's smile is evident through her laugh.
“My role here is important, is all I’m saying." She rests her head on Brunnhilde's and intertwines their fingers. "This isn’t Aladna. Or Louisiana, as much as I loved them both. This is... this is my home. The roots are deep, babe. I’m talking middle of the Earth deep, so you better be King forever, because it took me a while to solidify myself. Dating you was not a walk in the park.”
Brunnhilde wafts her free hand. “Pshh, I was the easiest person to court," and the moment is broken.
“No, you weren’t. I had to crack you open like a... a pecan.”
“A pecan?”
“I panicked,” Carol says defensively, and Brunnhilde smiles. Try again, she insinuates with a rub of her thumb on pale knuckles. Once more chance. Carol pauses for a moment- thinking fervent and hard- “I grew on you like a fungus until a commensal relationship was formed right under your nose. And by the time you found out, it was too late." She lightly pokes Brunnhilde's chest. "You had no choice but to live with me.”
Brunnhilde gives it to her. “I suppose that was better-”
“And then I waited for you to make the first move. So, you’d feel in control… even though I knew. Under allll that anger, there was a teensy tiny, itty bitty little love-bug inside, who just wanted to feel like- Hey! Unhand me you... you wench!”
Brunnhilde is too busy laughing to think. “You are on one, today.” She grabs Carol’s wrists and pushes her against the wall of the tub. “Wench? Your words border dangerously close to treasonous.”
Carol doesn’t even try to get free. She boops Brunnhilde’s nose with her own in an attempt to lessen the distance, before saying cheekily, “I have diplomatic immunity.”
Brunnhilde reminds, “Which can be waived."
"The process is long."
"I have a well-established lifespan."
“Well sure." Carol smirks. "But the paperwork and subsequent publicity would be an absolute nightmare.”
And Brunnhilde’s hands immediately fall.
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” Her body inevitably slumps further into Carol's chest, a consequence of mild annoyance intertwined with a groan.
“Imports and exports are awful, yes, but the meetings are loads worse. Too much on the itinerary to even use the restroom, and I’m so behind on the little things... holding audiences and updating our Park Maps. Even Korg is offering to help.”
Carol shrugs. “Maybe you should let him.”
“Yeah, right. Because that worked out so well last time.”
“It doesn’t have to be with the maps.” She twirls a strand of Brunnhilde’s hair into a ringlet. “He’s pretty good at organizing things. And Miek can help with the more delicate responsibilities, labeling stuff and transferring old paper copies to electronic files. I think you should ask. We could also hire someone.”
“Hire.”
“Yeah. Like an aid. Lots of political figures have aids, and they make things easier. Maybe it can be a seasonal position or something longer, like an internship.”
“Me? Offer a college-aged student the glorious opportunity to work as my secretary?”
“Better than drowning under a bunch of busywork.”
"I think I'd rather drown for real," Brunnhilde mutters, and Carol brushes their legs together, a slight yellow haze peeking out of the soapy water. The heat transfers easily in a beautiful display of golden sparkles.
"Someone wise once told me I could stand tall without standing alone," she whispers back. "Maybe she should follow her own advice. Who knows. Something crazy and lifechanging might happen because of it."
Brunnhilde simply nuzzles her cheek into wet strands of blonde. "Perhaps."
A soft hand runs intimately through her hair. Little by little it works the conditioner in, and amid the pleasure ingraining itself into her skull bit by bit, she kisses Carol's neck and says- truthfully-
"I'll take it into consideration."
The dipping of the mattress is what usually causes Brunnhilde to wake; an early morning product of Carol's speedy return from the States and an indirect whisper of Brunnhilde's anxiety: "There's work to be done"- but this time, it doesn't.
This time, the alarm rings at seven, and when Brunnhilde's eyes open, they do so slowly. She turns off the blaring noise with a yawn and runs a hand over the nape of her neck, eyeing the mess of sprawling limbs on the other side of the bed. Carol is splayed out like a starfish, Goose loafing on her chest: tail whipping back and forth with a grimace on her face.
Brunnhilde merely smiles- cute- and stretches out her legs.
She can touch her toes this morning. Her muscles are more of a help than a hindrance. No pain or tension to be felt, and once she's fully dressed and dutifully headed to the Embassy, she drops a soft kiss onto Carol's forehead as a 'thank you.'
Carol moves a little at the action, which disrupts Goose's position.
"I can't believe you've done this," the cat glares. "The audacity. Go find yourself a secretary, already... maybe tell Australia to kiss your butt or yell at the wall," and with a chuckle, Brunnhilde gives her one, too.
(If Goose purrs a little at the action, nudging her head into Brunnhilde's hand until she's rewarded with scratches... well. That's her business.)
(Brunnhilde won't tell.)