She would ask when they were teenagers, laying in the cargo bed of Maria’s dad’s pickup.
Carol would lay with her hands linked behind her head, staring up at the stars in her flannel and Nirvana snapback.
“Where’s your head at?” Maria would ask, part joking, part soft. Inviting Carol to speak without demanding that she did.
And sometimes, Carol would tell her; about her parents, about the latest smackdown they’d had, about the need in her blood to fly, to get up and out of this place, this time.
Other times, Carol would mirror the question back at her, and Maria would know that comfort would be found in her own stories, her own hopes and dreams, so she gave them like sweet medicine to her best friend.
She would ask during flight training, when Carol would go all uncharacteristically quiet, contemplating her next move, visualizing her next maneuver.
“Where’s your head at?”
And Carol would flash her signature smirk, and she’d show rather than tell, wowing Maria and Lawson with her precision and power and the utter grace she brought to her flights.
She would ask, eventually, when they were laying in bed together, mostly or entirely naked, still breathing heavily, still damp with a sheen of sweat over their skin.
“Where’s your head at?” she’d ask, her voice tender and sated, intimate and inviting.
And Carol would hold her, and kiss the top of her head, and stroke her bare side with gentle fingertips and tell her how much she loved making her scream like that, how beautiful she was, how she couldn’t believe they’d waited so long to do this, because this was right, this was perfect.
“Where’s your head at?” she asked, for the first time in six years, approaching as Carol sat silently at the bottom of the staircase, watching Monica and Fury swap notes about Nine Inch Nails songs and aerospace engineering.
Carol smiled softly, the phrase jogging a pleasant feeling of coming home deep inside her. She didn’t take her eyes off Monica and Fury, but she inclined her head toward Maria and scooted over so that she could sit next to her.
She sat.
Carol spoke.
“I missed so much. She was so small when I was taken. And you. God, I missed so much of you, Maria.” She turned, then, to look at her, and their faces were closer than either of them had expected them to be; but neither of them moved away.
“How could you ever forgive me? Just coming back here and expecting you and Monica to drop everything and - ”
“Hey, no. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to apologize for something some bastard did to you. Not to me. And certainly not to Monica.”
Carol’s eyes shifted back to the girl in question, just as she let out a full belly laugh that she definitely got from Carol.
“I missed so much,” she repeated, and it was then that Maria stood up.
She offered Carol her hand, and Carol took it without hesitating. Their eyes were locked into each other’s.
They didn’t notice Fury and Monica noticing them and giving each other hopeful and knowing smirks.
“Come upstairs,” Maria invited, and Carol wordlessly obeyed.
They didn’t stop holding hands until Maria needed both of hers to reach up to the top of her closet, pulling down a simple brown box.
“Monica didn’t show you all the Carol boxes we have in this house.”
Carol tilted her head in question, in wonder, as Maria sat on her bed and opened the box.
“We took photos for you. And we kept things.” She sifted through movie tickets and Polaroids, spreading them all out for Carol to see. “We didn’t want you to feel like you missed out, when you came back. Because we knew you’d come back. Monica especially.”
“Toughest kid around,” Carol choked, and Maria nodded.
“She gets that from you.”
“And you,” Carol insisted, covering Maria’s hand with her own.
They both stared at their hands for a long, long moment, but neither of them went to move.
“Where’s your head at?”
It was Carol who asked, this time, soft and tentative and hopeful.
“How we used to be. What we used to have.” It was as honest as Maria could be, right now. As honest as she could be without rushing Carol, without assuming she would still want what they’d had, even if she could regain the memories.
“I was lucky to have you. I still am.” She said this because she knew, even without all her memories in place, that it was true.
“Monica and I were the lucky ones,” Maria shook her head.
Carol squeezed her hand slightly, and their eyes locked.
Neither of them moved.
“We were all lucky to be a family. Because we were, weren’t we? A family.”
“Still are, if you want to be.”
“Always.”
They let the word hang between them like a promise of all that was and all that would be.
“I’m sorry I missed so much.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you before they took you.”
“I’m here now.”
“Good.”
Because it truly, truly was.