I think about this everyday…
Council of Elrond: Dwarf Story.
Thorin had never thought such perfect bliss possible. It seemed to him that it must all be a trick, for he knew that Mahal never allowed him to be truly happy. If it is a trick, he thought and stroke the soft curves of his lover, then please let me live in this cruel deceit forever.
I just want Thorin to be happy okay. That’s all I ever wanted.
So I’ve decided Steve totally wore that unbelievably tight shirt as a way of getting Sam’s attention.
He spots Sam while they’re both running, but he can’t think of how to start a conversation that won’t be awkward.
He mentions it to Natasha during one of her insistent and almost always bizarrely-timed attempts to improve his love life.
“There’s a guy on my jogging route,” he admits, ducking bullets or punches or both.
“You should talk to him,” Natasha says as she drops another mercenary.
Steve dodges a knife swing and knocks the guy unconscious. “I don’t even know his name.”
“That’s what the talking’s for.”
“We’re always both running, isn’t there some kind of etiquette about not interrupting?”
“Depends,” she says, snatching a rifle from the guy aiming at her and smoothly dismantling it into three pieces before hitting him over the head with one of them. She drops the pieces on his prone form with a shrug and looks at Steve. “Just how desperate are you?”
Steve pauses for a millisecond. “What am I gonna say?”
He only ever passes by the guy, and they both keep to their own bit of path; it’s not like he needs to yell ‘watch out’.
She smirks as they walk to their extraction point. “You’ll think of something. And if that fails then just a wear a smaller size of whatever you usually go running in.”
He makes a face. “Really?”
“You have assets, Rogers, it’s just good sense to use them to their full effect.”
The chopper’s close enough Steve can hear the rotors whumping. “Fine, but if it doesn’t work you can’t try and fix me up for a month.”
She smirks again but doesn’t say anything, which means she’s planning something.
When he wakes up the next morning, the shirt’s sitting neatly folded on his bedside table. He’s given up asking Natasha not to pick the locks.
The note placed on top reads “Desperate times…”
Even if he can’t think of anything better in the moment than ‘on your left’, it only takes a few repetitions to get a response, and he’s only a little worried about the shirt cutting off the circulation in his arms.
The guy’s name is Sam.
It’s all worth it.