It'd been a dismal 72 hours.
“I feel like a dead spark plug,” she’d confided in Natasha, bitterly tapping the keys on Cara's laptop. Her laptop. It might have been Cara’s name on the credit card that’d bought it, but since they were a two-fer now (Carol’s words, not Cara’s), Carol wasn’t dicing semantics all that much. Peter Parker, while wearing a different face than one she’d ever known, had been thrashed by Norman Osborn while she could only watch. Thor had thrown her over his shoulder like a rag doll, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. Semantics meant little in the face of a situation like this. The world was different, and it was under attack.
The encounters with her former teammates were all bitter pills that’d seemed like they were designed to cripple her ego while she’d been relegated to directing traffic, using what little command she had left in her lungs to direct evacuees where to go. It was humbling to go from one of the universe’s most powerful beings to one of the beings that needed the most protection, as had been pointed out to her -- both directly and indirectly -- several times over. The corners of her mouth dipped themselves downward into a thoughtful frown; not out of self-pity, but out of confusion. Why couldn’t she help?
She’d made herself useful while the San Francisco was falling to pieces, of course; she wasn’t completely useless as a leader in a crowd (powers be damned), and had done the best she could at the time. Danvers, however, wasn’t exactly known for dialing back her expectations of herself. Therein was the problem. She could’ve sulked about it, paced around, and moped until she ran out of tears, but as a woman who’d grown actual galaxies away from who she’d been, punching first and thinking later had become her signature. While other people thought, Colonel Carol Danvers preferred action.
What’d happened to her? How could she fix this? Carol felt her molars grind together as she pushed herself away from the computer, limping just slightly against the bandage around her ankle; she felt like a bird, fragile and baffled by the world.. Trusting only in her limited capabilities and nothing else. The injuries she'd sustained were healing quickly, thankfully, as were the scrapes up and down her arms, but not fast enough for her liking: not fast enough to make her feel capable.
The ice bath had been terribly unpleasant, the heating pad taped to her ankle had been nice, but ineffective. She dunked herself in another bath, this time scalding hot with epsom salts. She’d used some of those essential oils that Cara had stocked in a dusty box. Every at-home cure that Google had to offer, Cara Davies had seemed to invest in, and Carol Danvers was reaping the benefits of them, or lack thereof. She was, much to her chagrin, grounded.
Once she’d had her fill of (admittedly) grumping around the half-renovated house she’d be calling home for the foreseeable future, Danvers dressed and laced up her trainers before heading outside. In their neighborhood, at least, signs of the chaos hadn’t hit; in that, a pang of guilt did instead. Was Peter okay? Where were Rhodes and Jess? Her crew? Where was Chewie? Carol lifted her discontented glare to the overcast sky, sucking in an indignant breath. There were so many questions that she couldn’t answer, and the tension was starting to wear on her. Where did Danvers go when things started to wear on her? Somewhere she could expel all the energy from her body.
The familiar Crossfit location splashed across half of Davies’ activewear seemed like a good place to start. She’d go there tomorrow, after she was done creating a scatterplot of information for her new Other Half to find.
“I feel like a dead spark plug,” she’d confided in Natasha, bitterly tapping the keys on Cara's laptop. Her laptop. It might have been Cara’s name on the credit card that’d bought it, but since they were a two-fer now (Carol’s words, not Cara’s), Carol wasn’t dicing semantics all that much. Peter Parker, while wearing a different face than one she’d ever known, had been thrashed by Norman Osborn while she could only watch. Thor had thrown her over his shoulder like a rag doll, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. Semantics meant little in the face of a situation like this. The world was different, and it was under attack.
The encounters with her former teammates were all bitter pills that’d seemed like they were designed to cripple her ego while she’d been relegated to directing traffic, using what little command she had left in her lungs to direct evacuees where to go. It was humbling to go from one of the universe’s most powerful beings to one of the beings that needed the most protection, as had been pointed out to her -- both directly and indirectly -- several times over. The corners of her mouth dipped themselves downward into a thoughtful frown; not out of self-pity, but out of confusion. Why couldn’t she help?
She’d made herself useful while the San Francisco was falling to pieces, of course; she wasn’t completely useless as a leader in a crowd (powers be damned), and had done the best she could at the time. Danvers, however, wasn’t exactly known for dialing back her expectations of herself. Therein was the problem. She could’ve sulked about it, paced around, and moped until she ran out of tears, but as a woman who’d grown actual galaxies away from who she’d been, punching first and thinking later had become her signature. While other people thought, Colonel Carol Danvers preferred action.
What’d happened to her? How could she fix this? Carol felt her molars grind together as she pushed herself away from the computer, limping just slightly against the bandage around her ankle; she felt like a bird, fragile and baffled by the world.. Trusting only in her limited capabilities and nothing else. The injuries she'd sustained were healing quickly, thankfully, as were the scrapes up and down her arms, but not fast enough for her liking: not fast enough to make her feel capable.
The ice bath had been terribly unpleasant, the heating pad taped to her ankle had been nice, but ineffective. She dunked herself in another bath, this time scalding hot with epsom salts. She’d used some of those essential oils that Cara had stocked in a dusty box. Every at-home cure that Google had to offer, Cara Davies had seemed to invest in, and Carol Danvers was reaping the benefits of them, or lack thereof. She was, much to her chagrin, grounded.
Once she’d had her fill of (admittedly) grumping around the half-renovated house she’d be calling home for the foreseeable future, Danvers dressed and laced up her trainers before heading outside. In their neighborhood, at least, signs of the chaos hadn’t hit; in that, a pang of guilt did instead. Was Peter okay? Where were Rhodes and Jess? Her crew? Where was Chewie? Carol lifted her discontented glare to the overcast sky, sucking in an indignant breath. There were so many questions that she couldn’t answer, and the tension was starting to wear on her. Where did Danvers go when things started to wear on her? Somewhere she could expel all the energy from her body.
The familiar Crossfit location splashed across half of Davies’ activewear seemed like a good place to start. She’d go there tomorrow, after she was done creating a scatterplot of information for her new Other Half to find.