Owner	Pose
Sif	Time spent in Asgard is never wasted. However, sometimes, the Princess of Vanaheim wishes for simpler faire and fond company on the world of Midgard instead. A summons on her phone via text set the time and place for the rendezvous: Caitlin's condo in Queens. Sif arrived not so long ago looking as if she'd fit in on the streets of New York City itself rather than in any high court of the Asgardian palace, but she did bring two things: a bag of more comfortable clothing yet and a corked jug of Asgardian honey-mead. Now, she sits enthralled by the vision she's seeing on the television screen. Within the oversized terry-cloth robe, its color black as night, the Aesir woman can't help but put her fingers to her mouth against a smile. It breaks: Caitlin won't miss the sudden riot of laughter. "By the Fates, that bird, it is -- it is -- hanging upside down with its plumage awry and bubbling its chest! These things exist here on Migard?!" Of course, David Attenborough continues urbanely narrating the fine mating dances of tropical birds of paradise all the while.
Caitlin Fairchild	"I keep forgetting how little of Mid-- Earth you've seen," Caitlin says to Sif. She's dressed in much the same attire; ochre brown yoga pants that flow loose past the knee, rolled down to her hipbones, and a sleeveless halter tee sporting very washed out pink and yellow horizontal stripes. Her hair's pinned up behind her head as if she's ready for bed, but instead stands in the kitchen with a gallon-sized bowl on her hip and an egg beater in her right hand that moves like a powered whisk. "I think they're in Bermuda?" she hazards. "Or South America. I've been to the African jungle, I was part of an envoy to Wakanda once," she tells Sif. The whisk is lifted and she gives the dripping chocolate batter a critical eye, gauging consistency. "But I've never been to the Amazon, and I haven't see much of India or China or anything like that." "We could go to the zoo sometime," she offers, and starts pouring the mix into a stack of muffin molds. "They've got a lot of wildlife there. Stuff from all over the world, even. The New York Zoo is one of the best in the country."
Sif	Sif continues nibbling on the very end of a fingernail and watching the continued escalation of 'ridiculous' bird of paradise mating dances. Her shoulders jilt soundlessly in silent laughter until, again, it bubbles up. Her head falls back onto the couch and she outright cackles. "I -- oh, one moment, please," and the Princess wipes at the corner of her eyes. "I would appreciate a visit to the zoo if only to further educate myself on matters." Her fingers gesture to the television off of their resting place in her lap. "The narrator mentioned South America, I believe, as to where these creatures live, in the Amazon." Chrome gleaming through the consistency check of the batter has Sif looking over and then rising to be drawn by curiousity to the kitchen. The immediate area is delightfully redolent of cooking. Sif leans a hip against the counter, her arms loosely folded, to watch the delivery of each dollop to the muffin molds. "I daresay I will need to bring one of your creations back to Prince Loki. Even he would not be able to resist it," she comments with a smile. A pause and then she asks, with mischief in her ice-blue eyes, "...do you think, if I asked him, he might change into a bird of paradise and emulate one of those dances?" It's too much. Cue giggling again.
Caitlin Fairchild	Caitlin giggles explosively at that proposition, and immediately tries to cover her mouth with her hand. She succeeds only in whipping a line of chocolate batter across the kitchen, which provokes even more chortling amusement from the redhead. Her nose and ears are just a bit red; she sets both bowl and whisk aside, and reaches for her glass of mead as well. "Oof, this is making me super goofy," Caitlin admits, and swallows a titter with a gulp of wine. "Oh my. Yes. The zoo. And you can bring Lokio-- Lo-- Prince back whatever you want, I always make extras." She looks from the TV to Sif, then back again, then rests her elbows on the counter with a mischevious expression and looks up at Sif. "But I'm not sure I could tell the difference between him and the bird as it is," she whispers, and breaks off in another peal of helpless giggles.
Sif	By the time Caitlin manages to wrangle the whisk's sudden splash of batter, Sif has needed to retreat to a kitchen chair to sprawl indecorously in her own buzzed state. She's slouched with a legging-clad leg stretched out here and there, bare-footed, and she clutches at her waist. "Prince //Loki//," she reminds her Midgardian friend and ally. A blown sigh through pursed lips and again, the Vanir Princess wipes at the corners of her eyes. Caitlin's claim of avian confusion has Sif at first blinking -- the audacity?! -- but then, she can't help another peal of laughter. "Now -- now, see here! He is not -- not all of the time, Lady Caitlin! He has his pride, ye-hes, but so do we all!" Sif flips a hand at the red-head a few times even as she tries clearing her throat to stop the giggling. It works. Mostly. "But even you admit it! His plumage is fine, is it not?" Now Caitlin gets a conspiratorial little grin. "He is a handsome man."
Caitlin Fairchild	Caitlin's athletic shoulders rise and fall unevenly, and a little look of shy embarassment crosses her face. "I-- I mean, yeah, he's objectively very handsome," Caitlin agrees. She fidgets under the weight of Sif's grin, weight shifting. Fortunately, all the furniture in Caitlin's house is built with the megaton redhead in mind, who is on the same scale for mass as the Asgardian finest. "He's not really my *type*, is all," she clarifies, and resumes pouring the batter. "I guess-- I mean, can I ask you honestly?" she inquires of Sif. She hesitates as if worried she's going to offend her friend. "I'm not sure I get it. He's very ... uh.... roguely. Roguish? Roguish," she amends. "He seems like he's very tricksy. But he's done some bad stuff, too." Asgardian mead seems to be robbing Caitlin of some of her vocabulary, though at least her cooking skills aren't affected. "And he... I mean, he seems to make you really happy." She sounds baffled by a lack of relative worldly experience.
Sif	Sif's smile goes quietly pleased at the agreement. She knows to be patient with the young Midgardian when she asks these more pointed questions. Caitlin is thoughtful moreso than most of her friends, given more are inclined to rush into battle or conflict without much further consideration. "He is roguish," the Vanir Princess concurs with that light note of amusement still wending through her tone. "Here, allow me to fetch my mead, I left the glass near the couch." Rising, Sif pads into the living room to pick up and bring the drink with her back to the kitchen chair. She settles onto it as if it were a seat of honor and tucks the long skirting of her terry-robe better over her crossed legs. "I understand where you might be concerned. I am also not offended. Loki does make me happy." Her smile lessens without disappearing entirely. "I am also more than aware that past behaviors do not sit well with Midgard as a whole. Sometimes..." Her pale eyes slide off to one side as she considers. "I mentioned pride earlier. I think, sometimes, our pride takes precedence over other things that require care...that require an understanding that we may..." By her small frown, Sif is struggling with the mead as well. She eventually rolls her eyes at herself. "I like to think myself a good example for him, in my way. I do not seek to influence him against his self because that would be heinous behavior. I wish..." Another sigh. "I wish that the worlds would see him as I do. He is not all tricks. There is a man in there who is finding the will to trust."
Caitlin Fairchild	Caitlin shrugs again, with an uncertainty that's more adolescent than obstreperous. "I... I mean, that sounds really noble," she admits, and tilts her head as if seeing Sif's side of things. "He's been there for some kind of big stuff lately. Helped out with things, hasn't he?" she hazards. The redhead sets about moving the cupcake moulds into her oven, one so large it possibly was taken from a commercial kitchen during her remodel. There's a distinct lack of Non-Caitlin clothing and attire around; the condo's even quite tidy again, compared to Sif's last visit. "I'm sorry, it's really none of my business," she apologizes to Sif. "I shouldn't pry. Gosh, that mead is good." Another quick gulp is taken, a bit more liberal than her earlier modest sips. "Well, I guess at some point I should apologize for pouring water on him," Caitlin says with a heavy sigh of repentance. "I feel kind of bad about that now. I really thought that was helpful. At the time," she clarifies.
Sif	"We endeavored to help the Avengers with their lost teammates, yes. I believe they still have a captured agent in their care. What of her current state, I know not." Sif shrugs, uncaring and understanding both of her lack of knowledge in these matters. "I do not judge them for being distrusting of Loki, but he and I did give aid when it became necessary off-world. I hope they find their missing friends. I have not heard word yet of their return." Sif too sips more heavily at her mead and savors the sweetness on her tongue. It leaves a sheen to be appreciated; the aftertaste lingers like a breath of summer. "You need not apologize to me. You are a friend and you were curious. If I had cared, I would not have answered as I did. He will appreciate an apology, if for the basis of it. It was water, not wine or something more dangerous yet," the Princess reminds Caitlin with a kind smile. "Between us, I do chuckle from time to time at it. It was an honest reaction to being startled."
Caitlin Fairchild	"Well I wasn't going to *hit* him," Caitlin huffs, with a feigned severity. "That would have been rude. Also, he was invisible, and you only swing at invisible things so many times before you realize how dumb you look when ya do it." "Well, I'm make him some apologies. Cupcakes. Apologycakes." Caitlin titters once more. She rests her elbow on the counter, and props her chin on her palm. She only sways a little-- thank goodness the floor sounds like it's recieved extra structural reinforcement so her footsteps aren't thundering around for her neighbor downstairs. "You're a good friend too, Sif," she tells the Princess. "Yer really pash-- pes-- you're cool with me. I've never--" She straightens and makes as if to push her hair around, and then realizes it's done up and out of her face, so she has nothing to fuss with. "I've never dated. Diana won't talk about it, and Carol just blows me off when I ask her, so--" Her shoulders rise and fall. "Outside of some really bad anime, this is about as useful as anyone's been when it comes to that whole thing."
Sif	"Loki would like apology-cakes," her Vanir friend agrees and laughs that her own eyes twinkle. Only a sip of mead is left when Sif comes up for air after the next tilt of glass and she swallows, blinking at Caitlin in innocent curiosity at this sudden turn of conversation. "Oh, Lady Caitlin." Her smile grows even more fond, surely sweetened by the mead; it makes the Aesir warrior-goddess more transparent yet. "You know you may ask anything of me. I count you as friend and true confidant. You have more honor and spine than half the preening popinjays who think themselves better than all else. If mine own experiences offer any wisdom, I am glad for it. Granted..." Her fingers draw a pensive circling off of her lap. "Asgardian courtship is not as quick or public than Midgardian courtship. It is heavily influenced by manners and social standing. There is little to do with things such as Tindr and Netflix."
Caitlin Fairchild	Catilin's face screws up in a horrified expression, and she shudders with repulsion. "Ew. Eww! Eww! No! TMI! Too much information!" she says, and her hands make several negative slashes through the air. She steps back into the kitchen and busies herself with the mundanity of cleaning several spoons in her sink, back to Sif. "I don't-- I know a lot of people in college who were into that. Before, before--" she gestures vaguely at herself; positioned as she is, quartered away from Sif, her face is hard ot see. "This happened, no one looked twice at me. Afterwards, I had stalkers crawling out the walls." She snickers. "Well, I did make one walk through downtown with an Arby's sign wrapped around his head. That was pretty funny," she reflects. Caitlin glances at Sif, then sets the utensils in the sink and turns. Her eyes find something on the floor to stare at, down and to the right, and she rubs her tricep with her free hand. "I guess... I mean... I worry, like... how do you know? When someone's.... you know. ....'Someone'?"
Sif	Sif blinks in surprise at the outburst. She looks down at the last mouthful of her mead and up at Caitlin's back as if to blame the drink for the current state of affairs. Rather than defend herself just yet, the dark-haired Aesir listens as her friend fumbles her way to the point of just short of scuffing the floor. Bare toes curl against the flooring of Caitlin's condo and stretch again. The red-head is subjected to a thoughtful pale-eyed look now. "Firstly, Lady Caitlin, 'courtship' is precisely as it sounds. It is now lewd or unrefined. Your world's legends of knights and high romance? They do stem from somewhere." Sif tucks her chin to give Caitlin a little smirk. "And insofar as knowing as to if someone is, as you say, 'the one'? A mystery, my lovely friend." Sif's shrug and lift of hands is graceful despite the mead. "I have seen no set pattern of behavior in all my time on Midgard or else-world, on planets not even you have entertained dreams of. What I do know is that there is always risk to be had and to be challenged with courage. You do have a song well-known by the songstress Pat Benetar called 'Love is a Battlefield', do you not?"
Caitlin Fairchild	"Know it? I can play it on my cello," Caitlin scoffs. "But mad points for trying to flex on me with your knowledge of Midgardian music," she salutes Sif. The brawny ginger retrieves her drink and moves toward Sif, then grabs a pillow and sinks onto the floor not far from the chair. Her weight shifts to a hip and she props herself up with one palm. "It'd be nice to be on Asgard though," she says, wistfully. "You've got such a proper way of doing things. Even courting someone. I bet Loki did all of that," she says, sighing. "I mean, whatever it is you do. Flowers at dawn, duels over dinner, a pair of live rabbits. Here, it's..." She makes another face. "I mean-- I've had to be quite firm with people at the Hall of Justice. Even at Stark Industries. 'Hey come over, let's watch that Netflix documentary'-- what's the appeal there? I *have* Netflix here. And ice cream. And all my comfy clothes," she points out.
Sif	Caitlin's salute receives a very buzzed and Midgardian finger-gun, complete with thumb-trigger. While the younger red-head gets herself comfortable, Sif does the same on the chair. Now she's curled up within its curved back with both legs drawn up beneath the long skirting of the terry-robe. An elbow on the chair's arm lets her rest her chin on her palm, tilting her head at a charming angle. "I see no appeal myself, especially in the veiled insinuations with watching Netflix as such. Comfortable clothing and ice cream are far superior to poor flirting, in my opinion. I am glad that you feel confident enough to turn down those pissants who dare attempt your affection for no more than your physicality, Lady Caitlin." A firm nod accents Sif's opinion. "Loki was generous in his courting. I received...nearly an entire garden," she says with a glance down at her hands in her lap, almost shy. Almost. Her grin is bright as she looks up at Caitlin again. "He knows my delight in winter honeysuckle. It climbs along my balcony now." A sigh. "Lady Caitlin, you do realize that I will gladly see that anyone who attempts to court you passes muster?" What a thought: the Asgardian Goddess of War sitting at the table, idly polishing her sword in full armor. FALSE-HEARTED SUITORS BEWARE.
Caitlin Fairchild	"Well, I..." Caitlin trails off, looking into her oven. "I guess just.... if I'm ever doing something stupid, tell me, okay?" she requests, quite plaintively. "I feel so stupid," Caitlin confesses. "I can dissect a brain or do complex cellular comparative anatomy, but ... everyone I know is seeing *someone*." She glances about, and lowers her voice conspiratorally. "I think even Diana has a boyfriend," she murmurs, and seals the wake of the words with an index finger to her lips. "But don't say anything about it. She wouldn't want me talking about it." Cait's eyes fly wide, and she claps hands over her mouth. "Oh golly! I said something!" she realizes, with a low wail.
Sif	Caitlin might bemoan her mead-loosened lips, but Sif in her chair breaks into delighted cackling. It means tossing back her head again in pure amusement before smiling at her red-headed hostess from the plinth of her palm and forearm. "I will not repeat what you have said, Lady Caitlin. I have no wish to cause strife between you and the Lady Diana. That she has a companion is glad news to me. Should she choose to tell me, in turn, I shall feign flawless surprise." Sif places her fist against her heart as ritual action. A glance over at the oven has her pursing her lips. "I cannot, however, promise to be anything less than ebullient about your creations. I see...ten minutes left on the timer. I shall abide." She does give Caitlin a contemplative look and then grins mischievously yet again. "Now, tell me: if your suitor were to offer a dance as courtship, what would it be? Please, tell me it would involve many feathers and much gyrating." Poor Caitlin. She can't get a break -- but it's all in good fun and from good mead in good company.