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Marvel Cinematic, "The Reminder" (Steve/Sif)
Steve's first hookup in the 21st century isn't as discreet as he'd like. He's just going to have to hope his partner doesn't mind being the subject of gossip.
Contains Steve/Sif. (I know, what?) Grown men being gossips, women being hard to predict, and emotions being somewhat difficult for a popsicle man from the 1940s with anxiety issues. Written for the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo square "wildcard [theme: bites/bruises]".
.the reminder.
There was no legitimate reason not to have breakfast. Steve Rogers never missed a breakfast. He woke up early, showered if he could, dressed and combed his hair, and then went to breakfast. His mother had always told him that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and she worked hard to make sure that he could always come down from the little room upstairs in their cramped two-story apartment rowhome to a hot breakfast. He'd even chastised Tony and Natasha for skipping if they were exceptionally busy or distracted.
So he steeled himself and went into the kitchen.
There was no reason not to have breakfast. There was nothing strange about today.
He made it to the refrigerator and was pulling out the milk before things got strange. "How'd you get that?" Tony asked.
"Get what?" Steve asked, straightening self-consciously, but not alarmed yet.
Tony leaned elbows on the table, finally turning his attention fully from the lined notebook he'd been doodling in. Steve had initially felt a certain connection to him when he'd realized Tony often carried around a notebook to doodle in, before he'd gotten a look inside its black leather cover and found what seemed to be complete gibberish with sketches of supremely basic shapes arranged into utilitarian designs. Their definitions of doodling were very different.
"The hickey," he said.
Immediately Steve's hand went to the base of his neck, and he was at a loss, lips parting on absolutely nothing as he tried to conceive of an excuse.
But the delay gave him away. Bruce lifted his head from his newspaper, and Clint paused on his trip to the sink, and Tony said avidly, "Oh my God, it is a hickey."
Steve felt heat creeping up into his face. "...I thought we were all supposed to be adults here," he said, trying to make his voice disapproving.
"Oh, we are," Clint said frankly. "And that makes us much better at gossip than some punk kids."
Tony asked him, "By the way, did you see the way Natasha did her nails? Is there any way that kind of yellow works with her skintone?"
"It's actually a luminescent nail polish we use for a particular op. I'll tell you about it sometime."
"Will you?"
"When you get the security clearances, sure."
He could just let them go on being ridiculous to prove their point, but he knew the moment he attempted to slip out they would just turn on him again. Struggling to regain control of the situation, he said, "It's really not anyone's business how I got it, fellas."
"Steve, you must know this isn't going to end well," Bruce said, his lips turned up in helpless amusement, as Tony chattered over him, "You've been in the twenty-first century for how long now, and you still think that celebrities are entitled to any sort of privacy? That's adorable. We should rename him Captain Adorable."
Clint leaned against the countertop. "Well, it obviously wasn't one of us. I think we can reasonably rule out Pepper and Happy." Tony muttered some form of agreement there, but Clint was giving Steve a measuring look that might not have been entirely congenial before determining, "And Natasha."
Steve decided it was best not to ask why he could tell at a glance it hadn't been Natasha. It was best, really, not to think about it being Natasha. Or Pepper. "I think speculating is kind of rude," he said. "You're not only questioning me, but everyone we know. And -- why would it even have to be someone you know?"
"Oh, please," Tony said, dismissively, and that was apparently the end of that.
"Guys, we're forgetting something very important," Bruce said, leaning back in his chair. His glasses were between his fingers, and he was twirling them idly. Steve waited for him to say something reasonable, feeling vindicated, but his expectations were crushed. "Considering Steve's physical enhancements, it's highly unlikely that any normal human could even have made that mark. Not without a lot of work. He'd have noticed it before Tony pointed it out."
"Not you too, Dr. Banner..."
Steve shifted, uncomfortable, as the other men both turned speculative gazes on him. This conversation was rapidly getting a little close to home, and he was seriously considering retreating rather than have to choose to either lie or confirm the truth.
"Steve," Tony asked, "was it Thor?"
"What?"
Tony leaned forward, deadly serious. "Did you. Lift. Thor's. Hammer?"
Steve felt himself flushing even further at the crude implications of that question, but Clint spoke up first, spreading his hands. "Nothing to be ashamed of here, Cap. I mean, let's just be honest. If we had to pick a guy..." He looked at Tony and Bruce; Tony nodded readily, and Bruce demurred, "Maybe after a haircut."
The dulcet voice of Jarvis interrupted, as smooth as ever but with his mechanical tone somehow thick with disapproval. "Sir, I hate to interrupt your bullying, but the Asgardian party is rearranging the furniture against my express wishes and they have broken two of Ms. Potts' antique pieces. Do I have permission to deploy riot foam on the guest floor?"
"Nah, it'd just make them sticky and angry," Tony said, getting to his feet. "I'll head down. Tell Thor, too, will you? Check Steve's room."
"It was not Thor!"
The other three men exchanged a significant look before Tony took off, and Steve folded his arms. But Bruce returned to his newspaper, and Clint turned back to the sink to finish with his dishes. The last comment on the matter was Clint's, "Well, congratulations, Steve. It had to happen eventually, right?"
And Steve preferred to pretend he didn't know what Clint was talking about, so he took his toast and eggs down to the exercise room to strain himself until he was drenched in sweat and couldn't think about it anymore.
*
There was a brisk knock at the door, followed by Jarvis's low murmured, "The Lady Sif here to see you, sir."
He had thought she might come again -- hoped, maybe. Steve felt his heartbeat quicken as he shot to his feet, dropping the sketchpad back on the sofa and fumbling for the remote control that would mute the television. He took a deep breath, and ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it down.
Keep cool, Rogers. Don't mess this up, he told himself.
He answered the door with a lopsided grin, but honestly it was an effort to keep it like that. Sif had her hair down, so that it curled gently at her collarbones and past her neck; she was smiling, warm, and there was a liveliness to her eyes that spoke of a simple love of life that felt almost foreign to Steve, but seemed to be second nature to the Asgardians. She was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, easily, and it took his breath away just to think that she was standing in his doorway.
Again.
"Hey," he said, light. "You lost?"
It sounded convincingly like something he'd say, and he was proud of himself for that, but immediately and without provocation he thought, What if she thinks I'm brushing her off? That I'm suggesting that she has no business coming around again because I don't want to see her again?
And then Steve shifted from his casual lean against the doorframe, quickly adding, "I mean -- not that you don't have a right to be here, if -- here's where you'd like to be."
The smile on Sif's face rapidly shifted from warm to puzzled. "Would I be here if I felt otherwise?" she asked.
He was definitely not keeping his cool. "Of course not." Steve cleared his throat nervously.
Sif nodded, and stepped forward, not hesitating for even a moment to step around Steve's body and into his rooms. She looked around with interest, studying the simple decor: mostly tidy, other than his jacket and wallet draped over a chair by the door. He had considered -- for a long time -- decorating with pictures of old friends, before instead putting landscapes and sketches up on the walls, neutral art that had no power to haunt or hurt him. The muted TV was displaying several correspondents sitting around a table debating immigration, on a news program with such aggressively self-centered jingoism that he sometimes ended up arguing at the screen. The coffee table was covered with a few scattered pieces of mail, napkins he had doodled on, and SHIELD missives that they insisted on printing out on paper for him as if he couldn't figure out how to operate the simple touch-activated electronics that almost everyone else used.
"I did not think to get a good look last night," Sif said, casually and yet the words sent heat into his face. "Did you draw these?" She picked up the sketchbook.
"Oh-- Yeah." Steve stepped closer. The page on top had a large sketch of a dog with a peculiar curly tail and a thick coat that he had observed out on the streets the other day, as realistic as he could make it, and a smaller one in the corner, of a giant perched on a hill with pine trees the size of daisies all around him, gazing up at a scribbled cloud.
"You have giants here in Midgard, too?" she asked, pointing at it.
Steve chuckled. "Only stories," he assured her.
She smiled, tilting her head. "You have many stories that come from fact," she said. "But you have a remarkable gift. I have never known anyone who could draw something that looked so... alive! I have never seen a dog like this, but I can picture it well in my mind."
The compliments were obviously sincere, her tone admiring, and Steve let the pleasure turn his attention away from those stories; he had read up enough about Norse myths to have a thousand questions that all seemed too personal to ask. "Yeah, I guess so. I went to school for it, so I have training."
Sif lowered her arm again, setting the notebook on the coffee table, and then turned, focused on him. "You are a man with many talents," she observed.
His heartbeat kicked up a notch as her hands settled on his hips, and then curved around, caressing over his khakis and his t-shirt before settling into an embrace. "Glad to be -- appreciated," Steve murmured, wrapping his arms around her in return, rubbing the small of her back.
She lined herself to his body effortlessly and tilted her head up. Her lips met his, soft and warm and enticing, and he let himself sink into the kiss, all those thoughts that he tried so hard to avoid melting away as he concentrated on this. She felt so good against him, and he could feel the vibrancy in her, the impressive strength.
He was feeling relaxed and careless when they parted for breath again, and he murmured, "I wasn't sure you'd want to do this again."
"Why wouldn't I?" Her eyes met his, amused, as she guided him a step backward, steering him toward the bedroom.
Steve let her, fingers threading through her hair, curving against the back of her head and thinking about how to phrase an idea that he hadn't meant to speak. He didn't know her as well as he wanted to -- couldn't really say what would offend or hurt her, and what she would laugh off or take in stride -- and to be honest, he didn't understand any women. He had always endeavored to treat them with respect (like his mother had told him) and found that often the best way to do so was simply to treat them like he'd treat any man, like they were all of them people before they were men or women.
But that course had sometimes resulted in women becoming angry with him, and he was dimly aware that if Sif were angry at him for reasons he did not understand, there was a very real chance he'd end up in traction.
"It seems a little bit arrogant to assume that a pagan goddess is going to be interested in a second dance with me," he said, lips quirking up awkwardly.
Sif chuckled, tugging his t-shirt out of the waistband. "Arrogant to assume with any woman," she agreed. "But even in Asgard, a woman who had a good time with a man may wish to go back and have another... And you have proven yourself a quick study, Steve Rogers." Her eyes were lidded and dark, playful.
It was extremely distracting, to say nothing of the anticipation that was beginning to heat his veins. He helped her pull the thin cotton shirt over his head, and then took advantage of the moment she spent admiring him to ask, "So, you guys are free with -- you know, that sort of thing?" Too, he thought belatedly; free with it... too, the way they also were here in America, now.
She looked up at him again, her eyebrows lifting. "Somewhat," she said, starting to lift her tunic over her head. "We take vows of marriage with great significance, and children still moreso, but I can think of no good reason why two adults, attracted to each other, should not entertain themselves however they like."
It seemed so simple, like a fairytale. "So," he said softly, "who you sleep with -- doesn't affect your reputation? You don't mind that people know about... this?"
That was the wrong question, he discovered. Sif's eyes narrowed, and her arms stilled, lowering the tunic again. "That is not what I said. Fearing what others may say of you is not a good reason," she said, her voice flat. "But if you are asking if I take no objection to you bragging about our--"
"No, no! That's not what happened!" Steve rushed ahead, holding his hands up. "This was private. I wasn't going to tell anyone unless you were okay with it. I mean -- maybe not even then."
Sif let out a breath softly, the tension easing from her. "So what you are saying is, someone found out, and you -- want to make certain it does not upset me?" He held his breath, and nodded, but to his surprise Sif only smiled. "I am not upset at that. Why should I be? I do not recall swearing an oath of secrecy."
She eased closer to him again, apparently content, and her arms wound behind him. Steve relaxed as well. "It's okay, then..."
"I do not mind it," she agreed. "Though I am curious how they found out. Is it because of... this?" She lifted a hand, brushing fingers over his neck where the bruise lingered, and gave him a smirk.
Some part of him was still nervous -- waiting for this to go wrong, or to have been wrong from the start, for her to change her mind, or grow bored, or regret her choice -- but Steve smiled ruefully anyway. "You got it. It was a little... obvious."
Sif laughed. "Because it was intended for you, Rogers. I thought you might enjoy the reminder later on, but I did assume you would cover it up."
Those easy words coiled in his stomach, confusing and tense, but not unpleasant. He didn't understand it. It felt intimate and fond, as if she were comfortable with this -- and that was something completely new to him.
But he should have known that she wouldn't flinch from discovery, at least. Everything he knew about Sif suggested it. Thor had introduced her as a warrior without peer, who had fought to be respected as much as any man with the same title and was now admired in Asgard as a goddess of war and battle. He had seen her fierce loyalty and deep resilience, impressing him far more than what she could do on the battlefield, although that -- her skill, the way she lit up and came alive -- was certainly also impressive. She was a woman who carved her own path in the world, ignoring what might be said about her, sure about what she wanted. It was what had drawn him to her: those familiar traces of someone he could never forget but didn't want to think about, unyielding strength without sacrificing kindness, in a woman so vivid that he could think of no one else when he was with her.
"I guess I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop," he confessed, turning his head to brush his lips over her fingertips. "There haven't been a lot of women who actually went for me."
Sif met his gaze, measuring, but she only smiled, something almost fond creeping into her expression. "There is every reason why a woman would choose to be with you. You are a man of rare nobility and courage, and you have a gentle heart. That you are a skilled warrior, and fine to look at, is certainly no point against you..." Her eyes dipped again, and he could almost feel her gaze skim admiringly over his bare chest, but her hands stayed still at his sides. "...it is far from the only point in your favor."
Then she resumed her tugging, pulling him into the bedroom, into the bed; Steve let her, feeling warmer than before, pleased and flattered and strangely shy all over again, not so differently than yesterday when she had made her interest known. He skimmed his palms over her back, finding the hem of her shirt and slipping beneath, pausing when his hands were on her skin to give her a questioning glance and make sure she was still willing. He told her, "I wasn't fishing for compliments, though. Just so you know," as he slipped it off.
"Just say thank you," she teased, settling above his hips.
Steve paused, looking up at her, beautiful and confident and willful and interested in him and unafraid to let the world know it, and he said to her what he had been thinking ever since she first spoken to him: "Thank you."
Contains Steve/Sif. (I know, what?) Grown men being gossips, women being hard to predict, and emotions being somewhat difficult for a popsicle man from the 1940s with anxiety issues. Written for the
kink_bingo square "wildcard [theme: bites/bruises]"..the reminder.
There was no legitimate reason not to have breakfast. Steve Rogers never missed a breakfast. He woke up early, showered if he could, dressed and combed his hair, and then went to breakfast. His mother had always told him that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and she worked hard to make sure that he could always come down from the little room upstairs in their cramped two-story apartment rowhome to a hot breakfast. He'd even chastised Tony and Natasha for skipping if they were exceptionally busy or distracted.
So he steeled himself and went into the kitchen.
There was no reason not to have breakfast. There was nothing strange about today.
He made it to the refrigerator and was pulling out the milk before things got strange. "How'd you get that?" Tony asked.
"Get what?" Steve asked, straightening self-consciously, but not alarmed yet.
Tony leaned elbows on the table, finally turning his attention fully from the lined notebook he'd been doodling in. Steve had initially felt a certain connection to him when he'd realized Tony often carried around a notebook to doodle in, before he'd gotten a look inside its black leather cover and found what seemed to be complete gibberish with sketches of supremely basic shapes arranged into utilitarian designs. Their definitions of doodling were very different.
"The hickey," he said.
Immediately Steve's hand went to the base of his neck, and he was at a loss, lips parting on absolutely nothing as he tried to conceive of an excuse.
But the delay gave him away. Bruce lifted his head from his newspaper, and Clint paused on his trip to the sink, and Tony said avidly, "Oh my God, it is a hickey."
Steve felt heat creeping up into his face. "...I thought we were all supposed to be adults here," he said, trying to make his voice disapproving.
"Oh, we are," Clint said frankly. "And that makes us much better at gossip than some punk kids."
Tony asked him, "By the way, did you see the way Natasha did her nails? Is there any way that kind of yellow works with her skintone?"
"It's actually a luminescent nail polish we use for a particular op. I'll tell you about it sometime."
"Will you?"
"When you get the security clearances, sure."
He could just let them go on being ridiculous to prove their point, but he knew the moment he attempted to slip out they would just turn on him again. Struggling to regain control of the situation, he said, "It's really not anyone's business how I got it, fellas."
"Steve, you must know this isn't going to end well," Bruce said, his lips turned up in helpless amusement, as Tony chattered over him, "You've been in the twenty-first century for how long now, and you still think that celebrities are entitled to any sort of privacy? That's adorable. We should rename him Captain Adorable."
Clint leaned against the countertop. "Well, it obviously wasn't one of us. I think we can reasonably rule out Pepper and Happy." Tony muttered some form of agreement there, but Clint was giving Steve a measuring look that might not have been entirely congenial before determining, "And Natasha."
Steve decided it was best not to ask why he could tell at a glance it hadn't been Natasha. It was best, really, not to think about it being Natasha. Or Pepper. "I think speculating is kind of rude," he said. "You're not only questioning me, but everyone we know. And -- why would it even have to be someone you know?"
"Oh, please," Tony said, dismissively, and that was apparently the end of that.
"Guys, we're forgetting something very important," Bruce said, leaning back in his chair. His glasses were between his fingers, and he was twirling them idly. Steve waited for him to say something reasonable, feeling vindicated, but his expectations were crushed. "Considering Steve's physical enhancements, it's highly unlikely that any normal human could even have made that mark. Not without a lot of work. He'd have noticed it before Tony pointed it out."
"Not you too, Dr. Banner..."
Steve shifted, uncomfortable, as the other men both turned speculative gazes on him. This conversation was rapidly getting a little close to home, and he was seriously considering retreating rather than have to choose to either lie or confirm the truth.
"Steve," Tony asked, "was it Thor?"
"What?"
Tony leaned forward, deadly serious. "Did you. Lift. Thor's. Hammer?"
Steve felt himself flushing even further at the crude implications of that question, but Clint spoke up first, spreading his hands. "Nothing to be ashamed of here, Cap. I mean, let's just be honest. If we had to pick a guy..." He looked at Tony and Bruce; Tony nodded readily, and Bruce demurred, "Maybe after a haircut."
The dulcet voice of Jarvis interrupted, as smooth as ever but with his mechanical tone somehow thick with disapproval. "Sir, I hate to interrupt your bullying, but the Asgardian party is rearranging the furniture against my express wishes and they have broken two of Ms. Potts' antique pieces. Do I have permission to deploy riot foam on the guest floor?"
"Nah, it'd just make them sticky and angry," Tony said, getting to his feet. "I'll head down. Tell Thor, too, will you? Check Steve's room."
"It was not Thor!"
The other three men exchanged a significant look before Tony took off, and Steve folded his arms. But Bruce returned to his newspaper, and Clint turned back to the sink to finish with his dishes. The last comment on the matter was Clint's, "Well, congratulations, Steve. It had to happen eventually, right?"
And Steve preferred to pretend he didn't know what Clint was talking about, so he took his toast and eggs down to the exercise room to strain himself until he was drenched in sweat and couldn't think about it anymore.
*
There was a brisk knock at the door, followed by Jarvis's low murmured, "The Lady Sif here to see you, sir."
He had thought she might come again -- hoped, maybe. Steve felt his heartbeat quicken as he shot to his feet, dropping the sketchpad back on the sofa and fumbling for the remote control that would mute the television. He took a deep breath, and ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it down.
Keep cool, Rogers. Don't mess this up, he told himself.
He answered the door with a lopsided grin, but honestly it was an effort to keep it like that. Sif had her hair down, so that it curled gently at her collarbones and past her neck; she was smiling, warm, and there was a liveliness to her eyes that spoke of a simple love of life that felt almost foreign to Steve, but seemed to be second nature to the Asgardians. She was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, easily, and it took his breath away just to think that she was standing in his doorway.
Again.
"Hey," he said, light. "You lost?"
It sounded convincingly like something he'd say, and he was proud of himself for that, but immediately and without provocation he thought, What if she thinks I'm brushing her off? That I'm suggesting that she has no business coming around again because I don't want to see her again?
And then Steve shifted from his casual lean against the doorframe, quickly adding, "I mean -- not that you don't have a right to be here, if -- here's where you'd like to be."
The smile on Sif's face rapidly shifted from warm to puzzled. "Would I be here if I felt otherwise?" she asked.
He was definitely not keeping his cool. "Of course not." Steve cleared his throat nervously.
Sif nodded, and stepped forward, not hesitating for even a moment to step around Steve's body and into his rooms. She looked around with interest, studying the simple decor: mostly tidy, other than his jacket and wallet draped over a chair by the door. He had considered -- for a long time -- decorating with pictures of old friends, before instead putting landscapes and sketches up on the walls, neutral art that had no power to haunt or hurt him. The muted TV was displaying several correspondents sitting around a table debating immigration, on a news program with such aggressively self-centered jingoism that he sometimes ended up arguing at the screen. The coffee table was covered with a few scattered pieces of mail, napkins he had doodled on, and SHIELD missives that they insisted on printing out on paper for him as if he couldn't figure out how to operate the simple touch-activated electronics that almost everyone else used.
"I did not think to get a good look last night," Sif said, casually and yet the words sent heat into his face. "Did you draw these?" She picked up the sketchbook.
"Oh-- Yeah." Steve stepped closer. The page on top had a large sketch of a dog with a peculiar curly tail and a thick coat that he had observed out on the streets the other day, as realistic as he could make it, and a smaller one in the corner, of a giant perched on a hill with pine trees the size of daisies all around him, gazing up at a scribbled cloud.
"You have giants here in Midgard, too?" she asked, pointing at it.
Steve chuckled. "Only stories," he assured her.
She smiled, tilting her head. "You have many stories that come from fact," she said. "But you have a remarkable gift. I have never known anyone who could draw something that looked so... alive! I have never seen a dog like this, but I can picture it well in my mind."
The compliments were obviously sincere, her tone admiring, and Steve let the pleasure turn his attention away from those stories; he had read up enough about Norse myths to have a thousand questions that all seemed too personal to ask. "Yeah, I guess so. I went to school for it, so I have training."
Sif lowered her arm again, setting the notebook on the coffee table, and then turned, focused on him. "You are a man with many talents," she observed.
His heartbeat kicked up a notch as her hands settled on his hips, and then curved around, caressing over his khakis and his t-shirt before settling into an embrace. "Glad to be -- appreciated," Steve murmured, wrapping his arms around her in return, rubbing the small of her back.
She lined herself to his body effortlessly and tilted her head up. Her lips met his, soft and warm and enticing, and he let himself sink into the kiss, all those thoughts that he tried so hard to avoid melting away as he concentrated on this. She felt so good against him, and he could feel the vibrancy in her, the impressive strength.
He was feeling relaxed and careless when they parted for breath again, and he murmured, "I wasn't sure you'd want to do this again."
"Why wouldn't I?" Her eyes met his, amused, as she guided him a step backward, steering him toward the bedroom.
Steve let her, fingers threading through her hair, curving against the back of her head and thinking about how to phrase an idea that he hadn't meant to speak. He didn't know her as well as he wanted to -- couldn't really say what would offend or hurt her, and what she would laugh off or take in stride -- and to be honest, he didn't understand any women. He had always endeavored to treat them with respect (like his mother had told him) and found that often the best way to do so was simply to treat them like he'd treat any man, like they were all of them people before they were men or women.
But that course had sometimes resulted in women becoming angry with him, and he was dimly aware that if Sif were angry at him for reasons he did not understand, there was a very real chance he'd end up in traction.
"It seems a little bit arrogant to assume that a pagan goddess is going to be interested in a second dance with me," he said, lips quirking up awkwardly.
Sif chuckled, tugging his t-shirt out of the waistband. "Arrogant to assume with any woman," she agreed. "But even in Asgard, a woman who had a good time with a man may wish to go back and have another... And you have proven yourself a quick study, Steve Rogers." Her eyes were lidded and dark, playful.
It was extremely distracting, to say nothing of the anticipation that was beginning to heat his veins. He helped her pull the thin cotton shirt over his head, and then took advantage of the moment she spent admiring him to ask, "So, you guys are free with -- you know, that sort of thing?" Too, he thought belatedly; free with it... too, the way they also were here in America, now.
She looked up at him again, her eyebrows lifting. "Somewhat," she said, starting to lift her tunic over her head. "We take vows of marriage with great significance, and children still moreso, but I can think of no good reason why two adults, attracted to each other, should not entertain themselves however they like."
It seemed so simple, like a fairytale. "So," he said softly, "who you sleep with -- doesn't affect your reputation? You don't mind that people know about... this?"
That was the wrong question, he discovered. Sif's eyes narrowed, and her arms stilled, lowering the tunic again. "That is not what I said. Fearing what others may say of you is not a good reason," she said, her voice flat. "But if you are asking if I take no objection to you bragging about our--"
"No, no! That's not what happened!" Steve rushed ahead, holding his hands up. "This was private. I wasn't going to tell anyone unless you were okay with it. I mean -- maybe not even then."
Sif let out a breath softly, the tension easing from her. "So what you are saying is, someone found out, and you -- want to make certain it does not upset me?" He held his breath, and nodded, but to his surprise Sif only smiled. "I am not upset at that. Why should I be? I do not recall swearing an oath of secrecy."
She eased closer to him again, apparently content, and her arms wound behind him. Steve relaxed as well. "It's okay, then..."
"I do not mind it," she agreed. "Though I am curious how they found out. Is it because of... this?" She lifted a hand, brushing fingers over his neck where the bruise lingered, and gave him a smirk.
Some part of him was still nervous -- waiting for this to go wrong, or to have been wrong from the start, for her to change her mind, or grow bored, or regret her choice -- but Steve smiled ruefully anyway. "You got it. It was a little... obvious."
Sif laughed. "Because it was intended for you, Rogers. I thought you might enjoy the reminder later on, but I did assume you would cover it up."
Those easy words coiled in his stomach, confusing and tense, but not unpleasant. He didn't understand it. It felt intimate and fond, as if she were comfortable with this -- and that was something completely new to him.
But he should have known that she wouldn't flinch from discovery, at least. Everything he knew about Sif suggested it. Thor had introduced her as a warrior without peer, who had fought to be respected as much as any man with the same title and was now admired in Asgard as a goddess of war and battle. He had seen her fierce loyalty and deep resilience, impressing him far more than what she could do on the battlefield, although that -- her skill, the way she lit up and came alive -- was certainly also impressive. She was a woman who carved her own path in the world, ignoring what might be said about her, sure about what she wanted. It was what had drawn him to her: those familiar traces of someone he could never forget but didn't want to think about, unyielding strength without sacrificing kindness, in a woman so vivid that he could think of no one else when he was with her.
"I guess I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop," he confessed, turning his head to brush his lips over her fingertips. "There haven't been a lot of women who actually went for me."
Sif met his gaze, measuring, but she only smiled, something almost fond creeping into her expression. "There is every reason why a woman would choose to be with you. You are a man of rare nobility and courage, and you have a gentle heart. That you are a skilled warrior, and fine to look at, is certainly no point against you..." Her eyes dipped again, and he could almost feel her gaze skim admiringly over his bare chest, but her hands stayed still at his sides. "...it is far from the only point in your favor."
Then she resumed her tugging, pulling him into the bedroom, into the bed; Steve let her, feeling warmer than before, pleased and flattered and strangely shy all over again, not so differently than yesterday when she had made her interest known. He skimmed his palms over her back, finding the hem of her shirt and slipping beneath, pausing when his hands were on her skin to give her a questioning glance and make sure she was still willing. He told her, "I wasn't fishing for compliments, though. Just so you know," as he slipped it off.
"Just say thank you," she teased, settling above his hips.
Steve paused, looking up at her, beautiful and confident and willful and interested in him and unafraid to let the world know it, and he said to her what he had been thinking ever since she first spoken to him: "Thank you."