So here’s the deal.
Her thing is going small. Like a wasp, if you wanna get cute about it (which her dad certainly did, bless—and curse—him). She can pack a punch, sure, and even get an ant or two to hit for her if she wants, but that’s… it. That’s her entire thing. Oh, and the flying. She flies. And shrinks. And… gets into arguments with creepy-crawlies. Stuff that she’d generally rather not brag about.
Carol’s thing though— Carol’s thing is also the flying. Flying, and shooting goddamn lasers out of her fists, and controlling the kind of power that could easily destroy an entire planet if she so chose. Carol’s thing is making first contact with extraterrestrial life, negotiating peace between warring worlds, being a hero to an entire galaxy— things Hope would absolutely brag about if she could. Carol’s thing is just… being incredible in ways so much of humanity will never understand and looking damn good while doing it.
Right—the deal. So, if Hope’s going around shrinking and getting yelled at by bugs while Carol’s going around shooting lasers and getting honors from every corner of the galaxy—
—how’s Hope supposed to ask her out?
Kamala’s advice is bad. “Stage a crisis and save her life” this. “Get locked in a small room together” that. But the worst that she’s given so far? Probably “just go talk to her.”
“Oh my god, I can’t just talk to her!” Hope exclaims over her boba. “Like, just—just walk up to her? Say hi, nice weather we’ve been having? Also would you wanna go out with me? Just like that?!”
“I mean—yeah, basically,” Kamala says. She sips her own boba, the little beads of tapioca running dark up her straw. “If you seriously don’t wanna risk either of your lives in a grand romantic gesture—”
“No one does!”
“—then taking the direct approach is probably your best bet. I mean, you’re so good at it!”
Hope has to agree; she is. It’s how she got her suit in the first place: by putting her dad on blast until he finally gave up. But she sighs. “I can’t just… do that.”
“You can, Hope,” Kamala says. “You’ve done way scarier stuff than asking someone out. I mean, do you remember the giant army of Skullbots that tried to take over the world that one time? You can handle asking a question.”
Well. She can handle a life-threatening situation. When the choice she makes that moment means either victory or an early grave. When the people around her depend on her to get out alive. What she can’t handle is the red-hot shame of rejection from a red-hot cosmic superhero whose friends are all her friends, too.
“Easier said than done, Kamala,” Hope says. “I mean, have you asked anyone out?”
“That’s completely irrelevant.” She sips her boba again, loudly, before Hope can shoot off a retort, and then leans forward. “Just—next time you’re alone with her, ask her out. Okay?”
Hope chews on a tapioca ball. “Even if it’s during pingpong?”
“Especially if it’s during pingpong.”
“… Fine.” Hope sits back. “If that actually works, I’ll invite you to the wedding.”
Kamala’s grin is wide. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “You better.”
It’s not pingpong.
The pocket dimension is little more than a microscopic void. And it, appropriately, is tiny— a single lap around tells Hope that it’s a mere five microns by three, oblong in shape and completely empty. As far as she knows, this is the first time this dimension has ever seen a living thing.
Well. Two living things.
Carol’s with her. Because of course she is. Because of fucking course when the universe decided Hope should fuck up, Carol should be there to see it. God, Hope hates the universe sometimes.
“I’m sorry,” she says once Carol’s latest round of futile blasts has echoed away.
“For what?” Carol asks. Even behind her mask, her gaze is penetrating. “For using the last of your Pym particles to escape the enemy but miscalculating our trajectory and ending up stranding us here in this previously undiscovered and uninhabited dimension within the Microverse? You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
Hope winces. “That… actually sounds like a lot to apologize for.”
Carol shakes her head. “No—I’m serious, Hope,” she says, turning toward her. “Things like this happen. We can’t be the strong, perfect heroes all the time; it would drive us insane. We still make mistakes because we have to—even if they’re relatively big ones like this.” She sets a hand on Hope’s shoulder—warm, even through her glove, even through Hope’s suit—and gives her a sympathetic grin. “You’re still a wildly smart, wildly capable hero, Hope. And I can’t imagine anyone else I’d rather be stuck in a pocket dimension with.”
Hope stares. She can’t help it. And she’s so glad her helmet’s covering up what is no doubt a blush as red as Scott’s suit by now. There’s so much she could say, should say—a thank you for her patience and compassion. Another for believing so strongly in her abilities, for seeing her when so many have refused to. Or a rebuttal—no, Carol actually is the perfect hero, all the time, and the fact that she’s actually okay being stuck here with the shrinking fuck-up of the team is something beyond human reason.
“Do you wanna go out sometime?” is what she says instead.
Carol startles, her hand jumping from Hope’s shoulder. “What?” she says. “I—you’re asking that now? ”
“N-no! I’m not!” Hope quickly takes what counts as a step back in this void. “No, I’m—oh, God—forget I said anything! Just—forget it!”
Not to her surprise, Carol starts laughing. But to her complete and utter surprise, her laughter isn’t the loud, triumphant sound she makes after beating Hope at pingpong again. No—it’s soft, and comforting, and Hope wants to wrap herself in it and stay there forever.
“Hey, I’m not opposed to the idea!” Carol says. “It’s just—well. Not exactly what I expected from our current situation.”
“Oh—yeah!” Hope exclaims, and she hears a small laugh of relief bubble out of her own throat. “Yeah, that… that makes sense. Sorry.”
Carol’s grin widens—and now that Hope’s a little calmer, she can see a slight blush dust the skin beneath her cowl. “Seriously, no need to apologize. Okay? Let’s talk about this after we get outta here.”
Hope lets out a breath. “Yeah,” she says. She can’t stop grinning. “Okay.”
“… I do have a question, though,” Carol says.
Hope glances at her. “Yeah?”
“What about Scott?”
Hope blinks. “What about Scott?”
“I mean.” Carol waves a hand around like she’s trying to summon the words from the air. “Aren’t you two…”
“Oh God,” Hope exclaims. (Everyone asks that question eventually. Kamala did. T’Challa did. Even Scott did, and after she’d said no he’d let out a sigh of relief and said, “Oh, thank God, because—”) “He’s too busy making eyes at my dad, Carol. Do you know what that’s like? To have your superhero partner make eyes at your dad? Do you?”
“Jesus. Okay,” Carol replies, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Forget I asked.”
“Yeah,” Hope says.
“Sounds like a mess.”
“It is.”
“Let me know how it goes,” Carol says with a smile.
“God,” Hope says, but she smiles back.
In the end, Hope only gets two out of three. Locked in a small room (actually a pocket dimension)—check. Asked Carol out—check. But eventually Scott and T’Challa find them with the help of a Pym particle tracker and extract them back into their proper dimension. The moment, whatever it was, is over now.
She almost wonders if she’d somehow imagined the whole thing. But the next day, after they spend a long time resting, Carol gently takes her hand and says, “So. Wanna talk about it now?”
Looks like she might just owe Kamala a wedding invitation.