There's a silence on the ship that not even Goose disrupts. The twinkle of stars in distant galaxies fills the void that lingers outside of the window Carol sits beside, her eyes are closed, a device adorned on her temples, usually for torture but no matter how painful memories are, at least she has some again.

It's hard, losing everything you knew in the span of six years, and then feeling like an imposter for the rest of the time, having to relearn who you are, what made you you, the constant avoidance of people who knew you because you're afraid they won't see you the same. That you're not the same.

Carol never told you any of this, of course, you didn't know the version of her on Earth, not the test pilot, or the woman who often frequented Pancho's with Maria, and dressed up like Amelia Earhart for Halloween because she always loved the idea of being in the air force. Of helping people.

But you still know her. And what she's been through. With the kree, the tesseract, her powers, how she destroyed the super intelligence and how she always seems to cut off before she can find the right words to speak about her problems.

It's frustrating, wanting to say something but you don't know how, afraid that it all might collapse. But they haven't had a mission in a while, and sometimes, Carol just wants to remember. Sad or happy, or angry, or anything, she just wants to catch a glimpse of her old life again, so much so that she barely even registers your footsteps, or the soft mewling from Goose when you enter.