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[color=#ffe599][h3] Beverly Flight Center, Beverly Massachusetts [/h3][/color]
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"Baby Danvers! It's been a while."

Despite her generally not approving of the nickname, Carol couldn't keep the smile entirely off her lips as the wizened figure of Larry Khan approached her. A second generation Pakistani-American, Carol had little doubt 'Larry' was just a name men like her father had thrown onto Mr Khan in lieu of actually learning how to pronounce the real thing, but it was the only name she'd ever known him by, or heard him use.

[color=#ff9900]"Hey Larry, sorry about that, I guess I … Just haven't felt the itch in a while."[/color] A complete lie, ever since her brother had snuck her to the airfield without her dad knowing she'd been in love with flying. She just didn't need Mr Khan and his Airfield to get that fix anymore. It wasn't the thought of flying that had brought her back to the airfield today. Grief never really seemed to leave her for good, flooding back in waves after months of being able to handle her life. Most of her better memories of her brothers were here, she'd just wanted to be where she could feel them most.

"It's ok, you don't need to explain that to me." Larry smiled, turning to open the door to the somewhat ramshackle office that made up the closest thing to ATC at the airfield. Once inside she was immediately hit with the sputtering noise of an ancient AC and the smell of slightly burned coffee wafting from the pot. It was enough to hit her with a wave of memories of the three Danvers' kids spending far too much time here and not at home. One half of the primary room of the simple structure was made up of office desks with ancient computers, the other half a series of beaten up couches and a few vending machines. The border between office and lounge was made up entirely of a rather low lying reception desk that was almost never manned separately from whoever just happened to be at one of the office desks.

Despite the presence of several dedicated seats, Carol moved to hop up onto the reception counter, her old spot when her brothers were crashing on the couches with their friends. Usually one of them gave her a hand up. Larry laughed slightly, but didn't protest, moving to begin pouring two cups of coffee from the steaming pot. The sorry state of the AC, which had certainly not improved in the long years of service, resulted in a hot enough room that Carol removed the comforting layer of her brother's flight jacket, resting it over her lap.

"I suppose your one doesn't fit anymore." Larry returned with both mugs, holding over one to Carol. Steam wafted from the liquid in an affirming torrent of its temperature. She took a sip right away, she had always enjoyed her coffee as hot as possible, that it could no longer burn her was an added bonus. As she finished her sip she let out a shallow laugh.

[color=#ff9900]"Not for a few years."[/color] When Steve had first earned his wings with the Air Force they'd celebrated along with Khan, his family and the other airfield regulars. It was then that they'd revealed what they'd done for her, a custom jacket in the style of her brother's to wear while he was away. It had been one of her most treasured possessions, until the good luck it was meant to bring her brother had failed. Now she had his old one to wear.

"That was a good day." Larry mused as he sat down at one of the desk, the embattled hum of the ancient computer stirring to life as he woke it up. Some of the tech at the airfield was a little less dilapidated, thanks to the effort of Larry's nephew, but he was still loath to throw away anything that still had some life in it. She knew that both of their memories of the past were tinged with the power of nostalgia, but it was hard not to get swept up in the feeling while sitting where she was.

Carol was about to offer another tidbit of their ancient history, before one of the doors in the back swung open. A taller and much younger version of Larry pushed through the creaking hinges, carrying a great bundle of wires in varying states of disrepair.

"Uncle, I told you, you've got to take better care of-" Imran Khan stopped in his tracks as he saw her, a look of shock and then a more icy distance passed over his features. He didn't mention anything further, simply focusing on pulling what must really have been a vast tangle of wiring free from the storage cupboard. Larry glanced between them, his weathered face crinkling into a confused smile.

"Imran, look who it is! Carol Danvers. You remember her, don't you? The four of you used to be inseparable when you were kids. Always running around the tarmac together."

Imran's jaw tightened. He yanked the last coil of wire free from the cupboard with more force than necessary, the bundle of copper and rubber slapping against his thigh.

"Yeah. I remember." His voice was flat, stripped of any warmth the memory might have carried. He turned toward the front door, the wires trailing behind him like a reluctant tail. "I'm going to work on the radio in the hangar. Don't wait up."

The door swung shut behind him with a definitive click.

Larry blinked, coffee mug paused halfway to his mouth. He looked at Carol with the helpless bewilderment of someone who had missed every beat of a song he thought he knew by heart.

Carol stared at the closed door. The coffee in her hands had gone from scalding to merely warm in the span of that brief, bruising encounter. She set it down on the counter beside her thigh.

[color=#ff9900]"I'll be back,"[/color] she said, sliding off the counter. The flight jacket slipped from her lap and she caught it one-handed, balling the worn leather against her chest before pushing through the same door Imran had disappeared through.

It was a deceptively far walk to the hanger, airfields being what they were it would take only a few moments in a vehicle, but on foot it was a rather more tiresome trek to catch up.

The hangar was cavernous and dim, lit by the gray afternoon light bleeding through the high windows and the sickly yellow glow of a single fluorescent tube that had been flickering for as long as she could remember. Imran was already at the far end, kneeling beside an open panel in the hangar's ancient radio console, wires spilling across the concrete like entrails.

She crossed the distance between them, her sneakers scuffing against the oil-stained floor. He didn't look up.

"Imran."

His hands stilled on the wiring. Then resumed. "I'm working."

[color=#ff9900]"I noticed."[/color] She stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked beneath the skin. [color=#ff9900]"You want to tell me what that was back there?"[/color]

He pulled a wire free with a sharp tug. "What was what?"

[color=#ff9900]"Don't."[/color] The word came out harder than she intended. She softened her voice. [color=#ff9900]"Don't do that. We both know you're not going to pretend you don't know me for Larry's benefit out here."[/color]

He set the wire down slowly, deliberately, and finally looked up at her. His eyes were dark and furious in a way that made something in her chest clench.

"Fine." He stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. He was taller than she remembered — they'd been the same height the last time she'd seen him up close. "You want to know what that was? That was me not being in the mood to play catch-up with someone who spent four years pretending I didn't exist."

The accusation landed like a slap. She opened her mouth, but he wasn't finished.

"Every day at school. Every hallway, every cafeteria, every class we shared. You walked right past me like I was a stranger. Like we didn't build that stupid model F-16 together in your garage. Like I wasn't at your house every weekend for three years." His voice cracked on the last word and he pressed his lips together, turning his face toward the radio console. "After Steve-"

He stopped. Swallowed. The fluorescent light buzzed and stuttered overhead.

"After the funeral, you didn't call. You didn't come by. You just... vanished. And then I'd see you at school laughing with those girls from the cheer squad and it was like — like Steve never happened. Like none of it ever happened."

Carol's throat had gone tight. She stared at the oil stains on the concrete, at the frayed edge of her brother's jacket clutched in her fist.

[color=#ff9900]"Imran, I—"[/color] Her voice was rough. She tried again. [color=#ff9900]"I'm sorry. I am. I know I was... I wasn't good to you. After. I wasn't good to anyone."[/color]

"Sorry." He repeated the word like he was testing its weight, finding it insufficient. "You know what sorry gets me? Years of silence, of watching you act like you'd never met me."

[color=#ff9900]"I said I'm sorry."[/color] The words came out sharper now, the guilt in her chest curdling into something hotter. [color=#ff9900]"What do you want me to do? Go back in time?"[/color]

"I want you to—" He threw his hands up, the bundle of wires swinging. "I don't know, Carol. I want you to acknowledge that it happened. That it hurt. That you weren't the only person who lost something when Steve—"

[color=#ff9900]"Don't."[/color] The word came out like a blade. Something in her snapped — a thread she'd been holding taut since she walked through the hangar door. [color=#ff9900]"Don't you dare stand there and tell me what I lost."[/color]

Imran's mouth opened, then closed.

[color=#ff9900]"You lost your friend."[/color] Her voice was shaking now, and she hated it, hated the tremor, hated that she couldn't keep it together in front of him. [color=#ff9900]"I know. I know you did. And I'm sorry about that — genuinely, Imran, I am. But you want to know what I lost? I lost my brothers. The only people in that house who gave a single damn about whether I ate dinner or came home or was still breathing."[/color] Through the pain of her own thoughts she could feel the desire to fight, to fly, blazing within her. She had enough of her senses remaining to fight it down, to keep it from burning into reality in the glow of her eyes. Even still, she missed that as she took a step forwards the ancient pavement beneath her forward foot began to blister and crack.

She was moving toward him without meaning to, closing the distance between them.

[color=#ff9900]"And after he was gone, you know who was left? My dad. My drunk, checked-out, couldn't-find-his-way-to-the-kitchen-if-you-drew-him-a-map dad. So yeah, Imran. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that your friend's little sister was a little mean to you at school. I'm sorry I didn't call. I'm sorry I sat with the cheer squad and pretended everything was fine while my father drank himself through every bottle in the house, because I was fourteen years old and [I]alone[/I]."[/color] Her voice broke on the last word. The fluorescent light buzzed and buzzed, filling the silence she'd left.

Imran stood very still. The anger had drained from his face, replaced by something else, something raw and open that made her want to look away.

"I didn't know," he said quietly.

[color=#ff9900]"Of course you didn't."[/color] She wiped at her face with the heel of her hand, furious at the tears, furious at herself for crying in front of him, furious at the whole miserable architecture of her life. [color=#ff9900]"Nobody knew. That was the point."[/color]

It was fortunate he was entirely focused on her, because as the emotion boiled within her, that same fluorescent bulb hanging on high began to glow with more intensity than it had in years, the old fitting practically screaming to contain the energy flaring from her.

"I would have come," he said. "If you'd called. If you'd let me in. I would have been there."

She laughed, a broken sound that wasn't really a laugh at all. [color=#ff9900]"Yeah. Sure you would have."[/color]

"I mean it." He took a step toward her, and the wires finally slipped from his fingers, pooling at his feet like something surrendering. "Carol, I mean it. I would have come. I would have sat on your porch every night if you'd let me. I would have—"

[color=#ff9900]"Would have, would have, would have."[/color] She shook her head, pressing Steve's jacket harder against her chest. [color=#ff9900]"That's the thing about would haves, Imran. They're easy. They don't cost you anything. You get to say them years later and feel like you did something."[/color]

"That's not fair."

[color=#ff9900]"No."[/color] She met his eyes. [color=#ff9900]"It's not. None of it is."[/color]

He opened his mouth, closed it again. Ran a hand through his hair, that same nervous gesture he'd had since they were kids, pulling at the curls at the back of his neck when he didn't know what to say. She remembered it so clearly it made something ache behind her sternum.

"Look," he said, softer now, and the anger was gone entirely, replaced by something that looked dangerously like the boy she'd known. "I'm sorry I didn't see it. I'm sorry I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I didn't look hard enough at yours. And I'm sorry I was an asshole about it just now. That wasn't … I shouldn't have laid into you like that."

The sincerity in his voice was like a crack in ice she'd spent years building. She could feel it — the warmth of it, the pull of it — the part of her that wanted to step forward and let the whole frozen structure come down.

She almost did.

For one breath, one terrible, vulnerable moment, she almost let herself soften. Almost let the words come — [I]I missed you, I missed this place, I missed having someone who remembered Steve the way I did[/I] — almost let the wall crack and crumble and let him see the wreckage behind it.

But then she thought of the chair she'd put up to block her own door. The empty bottles lined up on the kitchen counter like headstones. The way she'd learned, bone-deep and permanent, that the only person who would ever reliably be there was the one standing in her own skin.

She straightened. Pulled the jacket on, Steve's jacket, her armor — and zipped it to her chin.

[color=#ff9900]"Thanks for the apology,"[/color] she said. Her voice was steady now. Steadier than she felt. [color=#ff9900]"I mean that. But I didn't come back here looking for anything. I came back because I wanted to sit on a counter and drink bad coffee and remember my brother. That's all."[/color]

Imran's face fell. She watched it happen, watched the hope drain out of him like water through cupped fingers. She made herself not care.

"Carol—"

[color=#ff9900]"I'm fine, Imran."[/color] She turned toward the hangar door, Steve's jacket settling across her shoulders like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. [color=#ff9900]"I've been fine for a long time. I don't need anyone."[/color]

She turned to leave with more haste than could really be written off as someone who didn't care. Imran at first made to follow her but stopped in his tracks. The moment Carol had slipped out of the hanger, that ancient light fitting had finally given up, plunging him, and the ruin of their old lives, into darkness.