She had been telling herself, for some weeks, that she was not going to come back yet.
She had been telling herself this with conviction.
She had told herself, in the morning, while she was getting coffee.
She had told herself during the briefing from the previous afternoon.
The man on the island had not been mentioned, but by her count, he was the implicit subject of about twenty percent of what was discussed.
She told herself this the previous evening, sitting in her New York apartment with the SHIELD-issued tablet on her lap.
The public Laws of Vantage were displayed on the screen, where she had kept them for weeks.
She read the kitchen-temperature law for the third time.
She had told herself, every morning of the past stretch, that she was not going to come back yet.
Then, on a Tuesday she would later admit was her own choice, she got up, had her coffee, put on regular clothes instead of her usual gear, walked to the roof, and flew toward the island.
She did not, as she lifted off, examine why.
She did not, on the flight out, examine why.
She did, briefly, think about why as she descended toward the island.
The answer she gave herself, in the quiet way she reserved for truths she couldn’t avoid, was simple: because I want to know how he handles his Tuesday.
She landed at the gate at half past nine in the morning.
Dara saw her land.
She was in the garden with a basket and scissors, gathering herbs for the morning.
Dara noticed the landing with just a small tilt of her head, then walked to the kitchen door to find Alaric.
Alaric was at the kitchen table with the morning’s paperwork.
Three residency applications were in front of him.
A follow-up letter from the federal court sat nearby; the case had been winding through procedural motions for weeks and, by his estimation, had about a month before it died.
A very polite letter from the British Foreign Office had, after some delay, acknowledged his original founding-period filing with a careful, dry note.
On first read, this had given him private pleasure.
He had not yet decided how to respond, but for the moment, the pleasure of having received it was enough.
Dara appeared in the doorway.
“You have a guest.” He looked up.
“Captain Marvel?” He did not, for a moment, react.
Then he closed the file in front of him.
Got up.
Brought the files into his office, where they would not be the first thing a guest saw on the kitchen table.
Came back.
Put the kettle on.
Set out two mugs.
“Thanks, Dara.” “You’re welcome.” “Where is she?” “She’s looking at the garden.” “Done deal.” She left.
He went out to the porch.
Carol was, in fact, looking at the garden.
She had walked up the path past the gate and stopped at the edge.
Dara was working on herbs nearby.
Carol watched her quietly, with the kind of attention someone gives when they haven’t seen another person do something ordinary in a long time.
She looked up when she heard the porch door.
She nodded at him.
He nodded back.
She came up to the porch.
She took the second chair.
He brought the kettle.
He did not, this time, immediately ask her a question.
He did not, this time, immediately offer an opening.
He sat across from her with the tea and let the silence settle as it would.
She let it be.
After a while, she said, “You’re not going to ask why I came.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because if I ask, you’ll have to answer, and the answer will be a thing you’re still working on.
I’d rather you sit with it for a while in a chair than try to give me a partial version of it across a table.” “That is…” “Annoying.” “It’s, actually.” “I know.” “You do this on purpose.” “Some of it.” “Hm.” She drank the tea.
This time, he didn’t pour the second cup with the same automatic ease as before.
As he made it, he realized the second cup was actually better than the first, because the kitchen-temperature law had learned Carol Danvers’s preferred tea over the past weeks, just as it had for everyone else.
He did not point this out.
She noticed it on the third sip.
“This tea is better.” “It is.” “Why?” “It learns.” “What does?” “The law.
The kitchen-temperature law.
I don’t know if I’ve used the word “learns” for it before.
I’ve begun to.
It seems to be the right word.
It picks up the preferences of the people who drink the tea.
The people who have come more than once get tea that’s more right for them than the first cup was.” “That’s a strange thing for a law to do.” “Mm.” “You’re going to have to write that down somewhere.” “I have.
There’s a small log file, in a drawer in the kitchen, where I’ve been writing down the things the laws appear to be doing on their own.” “Can I see it?” “Sometime.
Not today.” “Sounds right.” “Today is…
what is today?” “Today isn’t yet anything.” “Got that.” She held the mug in both hands.
She looked out at the water for a long while.
“I read your interview.” “I know.” “You answered the death question.” “I did.” “You answered it more honestly than most people would have.” “I know.” “You answered it more honestly than I’d have, in your place.” “That’s…” “Don’t say all right.” “I wasn’t going to.” “What were you going to say?” “I was going to say I disagree.
You answer questions honestly.
I’ve read enough of your statements to know.” “I answer some of them honestly.
I have a different category of questions that I don’t answer at all.
You don’t have a category of question you don’t answer.” “I’ve got a category of questions I don’t answer.” “What is it?” “I’m not telling you.” She met his eyes.
She, for the first time on the visit, smiled a little.
“That’s the answer to my question.” “You knew it was my question.” “I figured it might be.” “How.” “Because you’ve been here twice now.
The first time, you came as Captain Marvel doing her job.
The second time, you came as Carol Danvers doing her job, sort of.
Today, you came as Carol Danvers, in clothes that aren’t your job’s clothes, on a Tuesday morning, with no stated agenda.
The third visit is when the question is asked.
The question, when a person who answers questions as you answer them comes to the third visit, is some version of how does this man handle the question I don’t answer.” She drank her tea.
“I’m going to take that,” she said, “as an unusually long-winded way of saying you’ve been thinking about my visit before I made it.” “That’s…” “Annoying.” “Maybe.” “I know.” She set the mug down.
She sat in silence for a while longer.
The morning was clear.
The wind was light.
The flag, on its dowel, did its slow, constant thing.
From the kitchen, behind them, the steady sound of Dara putting away the breakfast dishes.
“Tell me,” she said, eventually, “about the people who live here.” “That’s the call.” He did.
He told her about Tobias, who could sense appliances and signals.
He talked about Celeste, immune to extreme temperatures and welding since twenty.
He mentioned Riya, who could only change her eye color; last week, she ate breakfast with eyes the same green as Dara’s new herbs.
He spoke about Amos, the structural engineer, and Jonas, the retiree who came for the quiet.
He described the Mellor family, a couple with two grown daughters who would move in together in late spring, as the island’s first family.
He also told her about Mara, a pyrokinetic in her twenties who arrived terrified, but by the third week, was calmer than ever before.
He shared these stories the same way he had been writing them in his journal for weeks: with care, and with the details the residents had shared with him over coffee, dinner, or in the conversations that had become part of his evenings.
He told her, in the telling, what kind of person he was going to be.
She heard it.
She did not immediately respond when he had finished.
She held the mug in both hands and looked out at the water.
“I’m going to come back,” she said, eventually.
“Hmm…
okay.” “More often.” “Stop saying all right.” “Quite.” She laughed.
It was a quiet laugh, a little exasperated but genuine.
Later, Alaric realized it was the first time he had heard her laugh, and it affected him in a way he couldn’t quite name.
He carried the laugh.
He carried it for a long time.
She left at one in the afternoon.
She did not, on the way out, say much.
She did not need to.
The visit had been the visit.
The next visit would be the one after that.
She walked to the gate.
She lifted off.
She accelerated.
She was a small bright dot on the western horizon, and then she was gone.
He stood at the gate for a while.
He walked back up to the house.
Dara was in the kitchen.
“She stayed for almost four hours,” she said.
“I’ve started a bracket.” “What?” “A bracket.” “A bracket.” “With a friend.” “A friend who.” “A friend, none of your business.” “Understood.” “I’m going to give you small periodic updates from the bracket, so you know where you stand.” “Where do I stand?” “Currently, on the bracket, you’re not doing anything wrong.” “Sounds about right.” “Keep it up.” She turned back to the dishes.
He stood in the kitchen for another moment with the empty second cup in his hand and the warmth of the laugh still in his chest.
He did not, then or later, ask Dara who the friend was.
I made her laugh.
Dara has a bracket.
I am, by the bracket’s current standards, not doing anything wrong.
He looked up from the page.
He turned the kitchen light off.
He went to bed.
The flag, in the dark, above the porch, did its slow, constant thing.
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