Mar-Vell takes a shine to her test pilots immediately.
How could she not? In the face of an institution that told them they weren’t good enough and would never be welcome, they’d tipped their chins up and said, watch me. They’d gone against the odds, against what they’d been told and taught, and worked for what they wanted. It’s something Mar-Vell’s always admired, long before she’d had the courage to even think of doing the same.
Her pilots, for all their common drive, have their own specificities. Rambeau is unwavering, with a determination that Mar-Vell suspects could topple empires. But she’s grounded, too, tethered to reality and to herself and to the world around her: she keeps her cool, keeps her head on her shoulders no matter what, and can always, always be relied upon.
Her flights, too, are meticulously precise and controlled, and they match Mar-Vell’s specifications to the letter — even though she’s flying technology lightyears beyond her species’ technological capabilities. Rambeau almost never missteps, and if she ever does, she corrects the mistake so smoothly and efficiently it’s like it never happened. In a way, it’s almost like she’s preemptively countering any reason someone might try to use to pull her away from the place she’s carved for herself in this unwelcoming, hostile organization.
Pure, unarguable skill and carefully hidden weaknesses as tools against politics; Mar-Vell respects that.
In a way, Rambeau is everything Mar-Vell has been trying to be for years: firmly certain of her principles, steady, skilled to the point of being unquestionable. She cares for others, she keeps their safety in mind at all times, and she never takes unnecessary risks. Maria Rambeau would never have allowed herself to be a tool in an unjust war — and she would put the safety of the Skrulls before her own, ensure their freedom as priority.
Predictably, however, it’s Danvers that Mar-Vell can’t help but see herself in.
Danvers is just as determined as her counterpart. She’s worked just as hard, and is just as talented a pilot. Like Rambeau, she’s fiercely intelligent, sharply unafraid, and willing to put everything on the line for what she believes is right.
But there’s an edge to her — and Mar-Vell, for all the good it’s done her, has always liked a little bit of edge. It’s how she’s ended up here, after all.
Where Rambeau is tethered, Danvers is a spark — an open flame trying to fit down into the rigid mold the human military forces around her. Where Rambeau calculates risks and assesses appropriate responses, Danvers forges ahead blindly, with a drive that more often than not edges sharply into recklessness. Both of them want to do something that matters, but in Danvers, that desire has a taste of urgency, almost of desperation; like she needs it more than anything.
Mar-Vell thinks maybe the difference comes from the fact that Rambeau has her little girl: it’s a link, something unbreakable that always ties her back to reason, whereas Danvers is free to freefall with no safety net. Whatever the reason, the resulting attitude is dangerous and irresponsible; a risk to herself and to others.
And it’s impossible to look away from.
It shows in different ways. Some are subtle: a difficulty hiding her anger in the face of injustice or disrespect, a spark of wild interest in her gaze as Mar-Vell explains the potential reach and speed of her crafts, a complete lack of concern or questions regarding pilot safety and emergency procedures. Some are more obvious: the brash, co*cky attitude she wears like her aviator jacket when she’s sliding into the pilot seat; her grin as she runs pre-flight checks; the barely contained glee when she asks for the all-clear to take off, with no apprehension or hesitation.
Most obvious of all is the way she flies.
Mar-Vell tilts her head back, a smile pulling at her face as she watches the craft Danvers is piloting slice through the dawn-lit sky like a blade.
An uncharacteristically cold wind pulls at her hair as she sits outside the main hangar at Edwards AFB, in front of the control station she’s dragged out of her lab. The monitoring equipment she’s built has been rigged up to look like it belongs in this planet’s technological era, but it’s a lot more sophisticated, giving her access to the data she needs for her research through a much steadier signal than radio alone. In fact, she’s boosted the power enough that she doesn’t technically need to be outside for this, but, well —
Danvers flies like she has something to prove, and it’s always a pleasure to watch her prove it.
The radio crackles through Mar-Vell’s headset, followed by her pilot’s voice: “She flies like a dream, doc.” Danvers’ grin is audible.
Mar-Vell glances down at her readouts, taking in the mirrored instruments from the co*ckpit, and then moving to the video links she’s set up: two front flight cameras, one back, and two co*ckpit views, one showing windshield and controls, one oriented back towards the pilot and overhead. The picture is grainy — she’s had to scramble the broadcast to avoid detection — but even with the blurriness, even through the flight helmet she’s wearing, Danvers looks gleeful and relaxed. Mar-Vell watches with a fond shake of the head as she coaxes the craft into a gratuitous loop, bursting into quiet laughter as she goes.
“Glad to hear it, captain,” Mar-Vell says into the mic. “Keep on course, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Danvers’ voice sounds a little sheepish, and she rights the craft, realigning back into the planned route.
This flight isn’t technically approved yet. Mar-Vell had completed the last adjustments to the engines that very morning, just as dawn was breaking, and there hadn’t been time to get the morning’s test flight permit switched to the new craft before Danvers had arrived.
What she should have done was follow the actual test flight authorization she had: put Danvers on the backup craft, still equipped with the previous iteration of her engine, and get additional readings. That would have been the safe, reasonable thing to do.
Only… Danvers had gotten there and spotted the finished plane right away. She’d asked, because she always does, and Mar-Vell, still riding the high of a completed project, of pieces fitting together just right, had explained. She’d talked about the improved stability and responsiveness, about the increased speed potential and the glider-inspired control surfaces; about the progress it showcases and the hope it represents.
And when Danvers had predictably asked to take it up… She hadn’t found it in herself to say no.
She wishes she could say it was because of the young woman’s enthusiasm, because a refusal would have landed like a slap, like another show of mistrust in her piloting abilities. Because it would have discouraged her, dulled that spark that sets her apart. Or, maybe, simply because of the urgency of the situation — after all, the Skrulls are running out of time. They can’t afford delays, not when every hour could mean the Kree’s arrival, and the destruction of their last hope.
All those things, after all, are true.
But Mar-Vell is too old, has seen too much, and done even more, to still be able to lie to herself like that. And so, she knows the truth: the reason she hadn’t said no was because she hadn’t wanted to. Because she’d been just as curious, just as desperate to know if her adjustments were right; because she’d wanted to prove her work was moving in the right direction — that things were going to work out.
Back on Hala, that drive had gotten her in trouble more times than she can remember. It’d been deemed indecorous, as it’d pushed her to ignore protocol in a way that was unacceptable to the firmly regimented science division of the Starforce. She’d almost been dismissed for it, probably would have been, if not for Ela-Norr’s influence—
Mar-Vell shakes her head and brings her attention back to the technically unauthorized test flight she’s monitoring. She’ll tamper with the paperwork later, that’s all.
“How are we doing, Captain?” she asks, and flicks through her readings, keeping an eye on speed and power consumption. Most of the issues with the previous model had to do with unpredictable power spikes in the engine, which limited the speed that could be reached — the Tesseract was a temperamental energy source, and so were all its derivatives.
“Nothing to report,” Danvers’ voice announces, calm and level. “Cruising at previously established maximum velocity.” The screen under Mar-Vell’s hands confirms her assessment. “Permission to take her faster?”
The energy consumption holds steady. With a thrum of nervous energy, Mar-Vell nods and says, “You have a go.”
Danvers gives a confirmation and the craft soars to higher speeds. As per Mar-Vell’s instructions, Danvers keeps the ramp-up slow and steady, and with every knot gained, Mar-Vell feels some of the tension in her shoulders loosen. The power consumption is holding fast, with no signs of disturbances, and, after a few minutes, Carol brings down the acceleration, keeping the plane at the new maximum speed Mar-Vell had calculated.
Mar-Vell sits back in her chair with a breath of relief, the exhaustion of the past few weeks landing over her like a three-ton weight. It works. Her adjustments work.
“How we looking, doc?”
“We are looking very, very well, Captain.” Mar-Vell doesn’t even bother to suppress the relief in her voice. “Excellent work.”
Danvers laughs, light and happy. “This doesn’t even feel like work.”
“Glad to hear it.” Mar-Vell is smiling too, Danvers’ glee as contagious as it’s always been. “Turn back and keep on the route.” The rest of the test, stretching all the way back to base, will let her gather more readings, even though the real hurdle has been cleared now they’ve gone past the previous maximum with no issues.
The radio crackles, static-y and immediate. “Doc,” Danvers says, and she sounds tentative, almost hesitant. “I could… I could push her further? I think.” There’s a pause, filled with the roar of engines and wind. “She’s steady. I’m sure she can take more.”
Mar-Vell stills, her hands hovering over her screens.
She should say no.
The speed they’ve reached is enough to prove she’s moving in the right direction. It’s enough to keep working, to control her adjustments and modify them so she can get ever closer to lightspeed. They don’t need more speed for that. The objective has been reached.
But…
But she needs lightspeed. She needs lightspeed, and if her modifications did remove the power fluctuations, if they do allow for increased velocity beyond even what she’s calculated for sure — it would be a game-changer. It would take the completion time from months to weeks. Days, maybe, even.
It would give the Skrulls a real chance.
It would give her a real chance to make things right before it’s too late.
“Lawson?”
She should say no, because pushing this further would be unsafe. Because it would be reckless — because Carol wants to do it, young and sharp as she is — because Mar-Vell should know better by now.
But the Skrulls are out of time. The Starforce will be here any day now, with weapons she created.
And so, she presses the button, and she says, “You have a go, Captain.” She swallows hard. “Keep the acceleration slow and steady, and take her back to low speeds at the first sign of trouble.”
“Understood,” Danvers says and, to her credit, none of the smugness Mar-Vell can see in her grin on the screen shows in her voice.
For a breath-stealing set of minutes, Mar-Vell watches as the speed meter goes up. Following her request, Carol keeps the acceleration steady, and the power readings keep a matching neutrality as she covers the route back to base in half the time she’d taken to get to the turnaround point. Mar-Vell holds her breath as the readings edge closer to double the original max speed. Only a little more —
Mar-Vell’s consoles explode into warnings and alarms.
She curses, flicking between readings. On the screen, the craft’s co*ckpit has lit up in a flurry of indicator lights. The radio crackles, and over the sound of Danvers’ voice, Mar-Vell hears the blare of alarms. “Lawson? I’m getting pushback here.”
Starsdamnit. Mar-Vell navigates through the systems, trying to find the source of the problem. “On it, Captain.”
“Controls aren’t responding.” Danvers’ voice is steady, but tense. “I’m pitching down.”
That is clear enough from the mirrored indicators Mar-Vell has. The attitude indicator is devolving into something unreadable, trying to keep up with the craft’s sudden instability as pitch, yaw, and roll all start spiraling out of control.
“Bring her back to low speeds if you can, Captain,” she advises, though she’s pretty sure it’s unnecessary. Her gaze catches on the power readouts, jagged and uneven, and she swears. “You’ve had a spike in the energy source. It’s fried some of your components, but if you bring her back to a low, level burn, you should be able to—”
All the power indicators she’s staring at fall to a flat, unforgiving zero.
Danvers’ voice comes immediately. “I’ve lost engines,” she says, urgent yet still unbearably steady. “I repeat, I’ve got no engines. I’m losing altitude, and I can’t restart.”
sh*t, sh*t, sh*t. The altimeter set to Mar-Vell’s left is spinning wildly as the craft starts dropping like a stone. She skims through readings, looking for an explanation and—
Her heart stops. “Captain,” she says, seizing on years of training to keep her voice neutral, “your energy source spiked, and the engines overheated. They’ve shut down as a safety protocol.”
She’d had to implement it — an overheated overload in an engine powered by a Tesseract byproduct could easily lead to an explosion that would wipe the continent off the map, if it didn’t crack the planet entirely. It’d been a last resort measure, meant to kick in only if all other protocols, which would engage as the temperature would rise, had failed.
Except there hadn’t been a slow temperature rise. The energy spike had been so strong the engine temperature had gone past all the threshold values in a blink, forcing the system to go to shutdown right away. She hadn’t thought an increase that fast had been even possible.
And because she hadn’t, her pilot finds herself with no engines.
“Understood.” From Danvers’ even voice, you’d never be able to tell that she’s hurtling towards the ground at hundreds of klicks per hour. “How do I bypass?”
“You don’t.” Mar-Vell tracks the temperature readouts the engine sensors are transmitting to her console. “You’re still running too hot. Restart means overload.” Damn it. “Captain, bail out.”
It’s such a waste — weeks of work, if not months. She’ll have to head back up to the lab to recharge a Tesseract by-product to use as an energy source; she’ll have to refit the backup craft to the new standards; she’ll have to back-engineer the source of the spike out of nothing but scrap; all because she couldn’t wait. Because she got carried away. Because she wanted it to work so badly.
Ela-Norr shakes her head, the gesture fondly irritated.
“Just because you want it to work doesn’t mean it will.”
Mar-Vell wrenches herself out of the memory, back to the present. With the engine shut down, the temperature is slowly coming down — but it’s still too high for a restart. She clutches her headset. “Captain, acknowledge.”
Danvers’ voice comes through after a second’s delay. “What about the gliders?”
“What?”
“You said you fitted new primary control surfaces based on glider crafts.” On the small screen, Danvers is holding on to her now useless controls, steady and calm. “They’re mechanical systems, so I still have control. I can—”
Mar-Vell works out where she’s going and shakes her head, cutting her off. “You can’t.” She tightens her grip on her headset. “It’s a good idea, Captain, but the gliders won’t be enough to slow you down to land safely. Not at those speeds.” The altimeter and airspeed indicators are clear on that front.
“That’s not—”
“Bail out immediately,” Mar-Vell snaps, Starforce steel seeping back into her voice. “That’s an order, Captain.”
But Danvers, stubborn as she is, doesn’t execute. Instead, she cuts the comm.
“Damn it,” Mar-Vell hisses, and tries to force a reconnection — but the radio is pure Earth technology and correspondingly impossible to override. On the screen that looks into the co*ckpit, Danvers’ expression is set, mouth pulled into a tight, flat line, concentration evident in the set of her shoulders as she pulls on the mechanical controls for the primary control surfaces — rudder and ailerons and elevators.
The surfaces Mar-Vell had installed were far beyond anything this planet has come up with as of now, made of a mesh of her invention that affords both flexibility and resistance, and results in better control and augmented gliding capabilities. As a result, Carol’s maneuvering has an effect, even in the face of her increasingly fast drop: the craft stabilizes, as shown by the quieting attitude indicator. But she’s still dropping, much, much too fast for—
On the navigation screen, the craft trajectory starts shifting.
With a frown, Mar-Vell checks the reading, and then stands up and out of her chair, craning her head back, looking in the direction of the craft, squinting against the wind. The plane is still going down, of course, but it’s no longer on a straight trajectory. It’s turning, pitching and rolling as it starts facing South, and steadies. For a moment, Mar-Vell stares.
And then it clicks.
The wind.
She throws herself back into her seat, pulling up the temperature controls. The wind — they’ve been stuck in a cold Northern front for days, unfamiliarly cold air cooling the desert and bringing up dust clouds through blustering winds. At ground level, it’s not enough to bring the temperature down further than a few degrees at best, but up there?
Her communications crackle back on just as she finds the engine temperature sensor. “Doc,” Danvers says, voice flat. “I’ve realigned the engine with the cold front. Is it bringing the temp down enough for a restart?”
“Not yet.” Mar-Vell scans the readouts, glancing between temperature and altitude, trying to work out whether the cooling rate will be enough. “But it’s working. Temperature is falling.”
“Good.”
“No,” Mar-Vell snaps and runs a hand over her face. “Not good. Every restart attempt throws more heat back into the mix. There’s a chance you won’t reach the restart temp in time to level back out.”
“Tell me when, then.”
“What?”
Carol’s voice is grim, her grip on the controls steady as she keeps the craft oriented even as it hurtles down. “Tell me when the temperature hits the threshold, and I’ll restart then.”
“Danvers—”
“I can do it.” Her tone brokers no argument. Distantly, Mar-Vell wonders whether she’ll try and work out the restart timing herself if Mar-Vell refuses.
But it doesn’t come to that. Of course it doesn’t.
With all the guilt and regret and ruthless practicality that come from the years she’s lived, Mar-Vell squeezes her eyes shut and says, “If you hit 1200 feet before the threshold, you bail out immediately.” It’s as good as a surrender. “Any lower and you won’t be able to get out safely with your current speeds.”
“Acknowledged.” Carol reaffirms her grip on the controls and sets her shoulders.
Mar-Vell turns to the readouts and waits. That’s all she can do.
With her heart in her throat, she watches Carol go beneath 3000 feet.
The temperature goes down, cooled by the wind coming from this planet’s pole, cooled by the rush of air as the plane hurtles down towards destruction.
2000 feet.
The engines reach their earlier cruising temperature — but it’s too high to restart, because a restart means an energy spike, and a spike means more heat.
1500 feet.
1300.
1200.
The temperature is still above range.
Danvers doesn’t bail out.
Mar-Vell doesn’t tell her to.
1150.
1100.
Too late now.
The indicator slips underneath the safety value at the exact second the craft breaks 1000 feet.
“Now,” Mar-Vell snaps into the mic, and on the screen, Danvers slams her hand down on the engine controls.
There’s a second out of time, and then —
With a roar that echoes across the sky, that Mar-Vell feels all the way into her bones, the engines restart, glowing bright and blue and strong.
All her instruments come back to life under her hands as the sensors suddenly have new information to provide, but she doesn’t look at any of them. Instead, her gaze is fixed on the distinctive shape of the craft as it slices through the air, nose pointed at the ground, blue glow trailing it.
She’s not moving as she watches its descent before it slowly, unbearably slowly starts pulling up as Danvers regains control.
She’s not breathing as the plane levels out barely a few feet off the ground, and then back up, soaring back into the air after an uncomfortably close brush with the desert.
“All engines are back online.” Danvers’ voice sounds a little shaky — not that Mar-Vell can blame her.
She sinks back into her chair and slowly lets a long breath out. “Bring her in, Captain,” she says, and brings a hand to her face. “Nice and slow.”
*
They sit outside, on a set of low crates in the shadow of the hangar. The sun has fully risen, and heat is starting to radiate from the cracked gray asphalt of the airfield. The wind is still here, bringing some coolness to the breaking day, pulling at Mar-Vell’s hair as she clutches a cup of terrible coffee she’s not drinking. She knows it’s terrible because even though she’s had some great coffee since discovering the drink upon arriving on C-53, every instance provided by the Air Force has always been remarkably awful.
Danvers isn’t drinking her coffee either. She holds her own paper cup, shoulders straight, expression closed as she watches the horizon. The silence is only broken by the occasional roar of jets overhead, distant shouts from the runway crews, and Goose’s contented purr as she lies on the young pilot’s lap.
Mar-Vell still can’t believe how quickly and completely the flerken has taken to Danvers. Her usual behavior is much more distrustful — not to say aggressive. The only person Mar-Vell has ever seen her get close to on purpose is, well… herself.
Danvers doesn’t seem to mind. She runs a distracted hand through the creature’s fur, looking to the world like she’s deep in thought.
But Mar-Vell has worked with her long enough now to spot the subtle signs of tension — the upright posture with no hint of her usual relaxation, the carefully neutral expression, and, most telling of all, the way she’s not meeting her gaze. Danvers isn’t thinking; she’s waiting.
Mar-Vell sighs, looks out towards the horizon, and says. “That was irresponsible.”
Danvers’ response is immediate. “Unlike this very authorized test flight you ran?”
The words are sharp, ringing with a clear note of challenge as the young woman turns towards her. It’s offense as defense; leveling the playing field in the face of an anticipated reprimand. It’s a move Mar-Vell knows painfully well — it’d been a favorite of hers, a lifetime ago.
Instead of giving her the fight she’s looking for, Mar-Vell lets a smile pull at a corner of her mouth. “Exactly.”
Danvers looks thrown, her hand pausing mid movement as she watches Mar-Vell carefully. Only when her stance relaxes does Mar-Vell speak again.
“You disobeyed a direct order,” she says, and she lets the words come as they are, factual, with no accusation; just an observation. “Several of them, actually.”
Danvers looks down and shrugs. “Technically, you’re not my superior. You’re a civilian.”
Mar-Vell blinks. She always forgets about this; the sheer concept of a civilian member of a military authority is not something she’s ever seen outside of C-53. Back on Hala, she’d been a scientist and engineer, but more importantly, she’d been a part of the Starforce. The fact that she wasn’t a fighter per se wasn’t relevant — she was part of the hierarchy in the same way any soldier might be, and obedience and unfailing loyalty had been demanded in exactly the same way. Then again, that logic held true for much of Kree society, beyond even the purely military structures.
She gives Danvers a sharp look. “Don’t play the red tape card with me, Ace,” she says, one eyebrow up. “When it’s my test flight, I get to make calls and you get to follow them. The only time you can refuse to do that is if I order you to fly into the ground or if another superior officer gives you a contradicting command.” She allows herself a small smile at the show of surprise on the pilot’s face, and takes a sip of — really, really awful — coffee. “I’ve read the handbook.”
Danvers snorts. “That makes one of us.” She pauses for a moment, and then sighs, letting the impervious facade down as she puts her untouched cup of coffee down next to her. “It just… seemed like a waste.” She meets Mar-Vell’s gaze, her expression painfully open. “I saw how hard you worked on that engine. You’ve been at it day and night for weeks now. It’s important. Too important to just… give up on. Not when there was a way to salvage it.”
“Losing you would have been a waste, Captain,” Mar-Vell retorts; maybe a little too sharp, but she can’t help it. She understands where Danvers is coming from, recognizes that drive to let something she’s deemed to be right take precedence over herself. In a way, she respects it — but it’s also a little too familiar, a little too much like the complete sacrifice Kree hierarchy demands of its operatives.
Or, maybe, it’s just that Danvers is a little too quick to judge that something is worth putting ahead of her own safety.
Danvers isn’t meeting her eye. When she speaks again, it’s very quiet, but her determination burns, uncomfortably intense. “You said this was to end wars,” she says, barely audible over the roar of the jet taking off on a nearby runway. “That seems like it’s worth taking risks for.”
“Don’t go killing yourself for someone else’s cause, Danvers,” Mar-Vell snaps, much too sharp, this time, but it’s instinct. “Not until you get to make up your own mind about it.”
Danvers raises her head, gaze clever and curious as she scans Mar-Vell’s face, like she can tell there’s more beneath the words than Mar-Vell is actually saying.
She’s sharp — too sharp. It’s been a problem since the beginning. Mar-Vell isn’t particularly good at undercover; she’s never had to be. She doesn’t know how to become someone else, how to sink into a different person and hide the parts that make her who she is. It all comes up and through, mixes together and muddles into a mess.
She’s been Wendy Lawson for years now, and the truth is, she doesn’t really know where the line between Mar-Vell and Lawson might lie. She’s not even sure there is a line — or, worse, if there ever was one. Mar-Vell on Hala had been someone, sure — but someone who’d been under constant scrutiny, at war between the ideals she’d been taught and the ones she felt were just. In some ways, the person she is now, even under a different name, feels more like herself than any other version she’s been. She hides her name and her blood and her language — but in turn, she gets to live according to her ideals and fight for the cause she believes in. That seems more real, more her than anything else might be.
“I don’t know,” Danvers says eventually, slow and careful. “If it’s a cause you’re taking up, then it must be worth fighting for.”
And stars f*cking above, but she knows that tone. She knows that voice, and that look, and that quiet, hopeful smile, so earnest it hurts.
She’d been there, once — young and hopeful and looking up to the one person who believed in her ideas, in her potential. She’d sacrificed everything, given all she had, ignored all the signs that told her this was wrong, all because she’d wanted that person to nod, to look at her, and smile, and say, yes, I think that will work.
Ela-Norr hadn’t been perfect, as a scientist or as a person — but she’d believed in Mar-Vell, and that had been enough. She’d encouraged her and allowed her to grow as a scientist and engineer. She’d been so important to Mar-Vell, even, that, in a way, breaking away from her teachings and guidance had been at least as difficult, if not more, as breaking away from the Starforce and the Kree Empire.
Looking past that encouragement, past the advice and years of guidance to see the darker side of Ela-Norr’s involvement, of their contributions to the war effort had taken her years. Even once she’d reached a point where she could no longer ignore the destruction they caused, coming to that understanding had still felt like losing a part of herself.
The way Carol Danvers looks at her now is the way Mar-Vell once looked at the older scientist. Earnest and hopeful and relieved — to have someone who listens to her, who understands the drive that keeps her going, and who believes in her abilities.
Danvers doesn’t know about Mar-Vell’s past. She doesn’t know about the mistakes she’s made, the lives she’s taken, the destruction she’s responsible for. She doesn’t know about the guilt and regret she carries over her shoulders, about the atonement she desperately seeks with this project. She doesn’t care; she can’t.
But Mar-Vell does. She knows, and she cares, and she can’t take this. She lets out a long breath. “Don’t go trying to fight my battles, Ace.”
It’s altogether too fond, but Danvers bristles at her tone all the same, drawing up, challenge clear on her features. “Why not?” She gestures towards the runway in front of them. “It’s not like any of them will give me another one.”
Mar-Vell can’t hold back a small smile. “I’m sure you’ll find your own soon enough.”
But Danvers isn’t placated. That fire of hers is clear in her expression as it edges into recklessness, into something that would drive someone to stay inside a craft as it hurtles towards the ground. “I can take it,” she says, and it’s determined enough to bring down mountains. “Whatever it is you’re fighting for, I’m ready. I can take it. I can help.”
Guilt lodges in Mar-Vell’s throat, tight and dense and cutting off her breathing. Danvers believes in what she’s saying — there’s no doubting it — but she has no idea, none, of what she’s setting herself up against. Of the danger Mar-Vell, simply by involving her and Rambeau in her project, is putting them in.
The Kree will come. It’s inevitable, only a matter of time. One day, and soon, they will come, and they do not care about collateral. They’ll be here to destroy her and take her work, and they will blitz through anything standing in their way.
And stars but Mar-Vell hates the thought of Carol Danvers, eyes blazing, shoulders set back, resolve strong enough to set fires, being the thing that they destroy.
“It’s not a question of ability, Captain,” Mar-Vell says, and looks up into the blue, cloudless expanse overhead. She thinks of her lab, orbiting above, full of children and people who were chased from their home by her weapons, who have nowhere to go but the home she is trying to find for them. She turns a small, sad smile on the young pilot. “It’s a matter of responsibility.”
Her responsibility, to be precise. Her responsibility to fix the harm she has caused. To help, where she can. To put everything she has on the line, for what she believes is right.
Her responsibility to try and keep others safe and as far out of the line of the fire she’s drawing as she can.
Danvers is still frowning, but she doesn’t reply. Goose bats a paw at her hand and, automatically, she resumes the rhythmic motion through the flerken’s fur, still carefully watching Mar-Vell, presumably for everything she’s not saying.
Mar-Vell smiles, lopsided and amused. “Take it from me, Ace,” she says, and shakes her head ruefully. “You’ll work up your own debts in time. No need to rush ahead and try to make up for someone else’s.”
Danvers breathes a short, near silent laugh, and the last of the tension seeps from her shoulders. “Guess so,” she mutters, and gives Mar-Vell one last careful look. “If you ever change your mind — if you need help, or backup, or—”
Mar-Vell nods. “Thank you,” she says, and means it. Stars but she hopes she won’t have to take the woman up on it. “You’re already doing more than you know, Carol. Trust me.”
Danvers smiles, touched and almost unassuming, a million miles away from the co*cky facade she usually showcases.
In a quick deescalation of tension, Mar-Vell glances at her watch, and then back at Danvers with a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t your shift end an hour ago?”
Danvers blinks, and checks her own watch. Immediately, she scrambles to stand, Goose flying off her lap with an indignant meow.
“sh*t— I mean, shoot. I mean…” She trips against the toolbox left on the ground near her crate, and rights herself. “I’m supposed to be taking Monica to school this morning.”
Mar-Vell suppresses a smile. She’s never met the younger Rambeau, but Maria’s shown her pictures, of a grinning six-year-old with missing teeth and sparkling eyes. Plus, both her pilots frequently talk about the child, with such pride it’s difficult not to feel a sense of attachment, however far removed.
And, in a way, it’s another reminder: despite all the ways Danvers reminds her of her younger self, they’re not the same. Danvers, for all her fire, is following a different trajectory: she has a home she’s building and people who are starting to tether her to reality, slowly but surely. Mar-Vell gets the sense it’s something that’s still new for the pilot — and it’s something that’s completely foreign to herself — but she knows how important it is.
She makes a shooing motion with her hands and stands. “Go on,” she says, and stretches. “Skedaddle. You’re already late.”
But Danvers hesitates, paused mid-movement, still looking torn.
Mar-Vell breathes a short laugh and shakes her head. “I said go.” She gestures towards the inside of the hangar. “I’ve got paperwork to work through for this authorized test flight, and you’re in my way.”
Danvers cracks a grin and fires off a loose salute. “Yes, ma’am.” She turns on her heel to go but stops a few steps later, turning back with a raised finger. “By the way,” she says, and trails off.
Mar-Vell raises an expectant eyebrow.
“Could you maybe,” Danvers says, awkwardly shuffling in place, “not mention to Maria how this one went? I mean, the specifics.” She smiles, an odd blend of sheepish co*ckiness. “She probably doesn’t want to hear all the boring details, you know.”
Mar-Vell has to work not to laugh. “All test flights are confidential,” she says lightly.
Danvers grins and nods. “Excellent.”
“But—” and Mar-Vell drags out the pause on purpose, suppressing a grin in the face of Danvers’ alarm, “if Captain Rambeau wants to know why her daughter wasn’t taken to school on time, I’ll have no choice but to explain the situation. Including all specifics.”
“Understood,” Danvers shoots back, quick and amused and a little alarmed. She gives Mar-Vell one last nod. “See you around, doc.” On that, she takes off at a jog towards the main building.
Goose, unfairly abandoned, walks over to lazily wrap her tail around Mar-Vell’s ankles. Mar-Vell smiles down at the flerken, and then watches the young captain as she disappears through a doorway.
She designed this whole project with one single objective: to fix that which she has wrecked, to right all the wrongs she has caused. She believes in her ability to do so; believes her science is sound, her technology safe. She doesn’t know what she’ll have to sacrifice for that objective, but she believes the Skrulls will be free of the Kree’s reach, one way or another. What she might have to give for that — her work, her sanity, her life — has never mattered, not on this trajectory of atonement she’s committed herself to, to make up for the unforgivable.
But, for the first time, she allows herself a hope, personal and so fragile it hurts a little.
Despite everything she’s done, Mar-Vell allows herself the hope that she’ll be able to fix this without shattering someone else in the process. That she’ll be able to save the Skrulls without tearing apart a small, unlikely family that’s only just starting to build itself. That she’ll be able to do the right thing without having to break the life and spirit of a young woman who’s all too willing to step into the line of fire.
It shouldn’t be impossible.
But, as Mar-Vell shoots one last glance up at the sky, scanning once again for the sharp, angled shadows of the Kree fleet that will come for her… She finds she can’t shake a heavy sense of foreboding.
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