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The day she's born the leaves are only just beginning to change. Summery moss green seeps into a steady, vibrant cold flame painted upon the leaves in bursts of red, yellow, orange, appealing to the eyes like a warm cup of Glogg appeals to the soul in the colder months. Kari watches the steady swaying of the branches with a distant stare, leaves shaking and shimmering like dragon scales in the impending sunset, mouth upturned into something resembling a smile.
Maiken sits in an old, rickety chair by her bedside, cradling the small bundle Kari has yet to stop seeing so much of her father in. On the opposite side of the bed, passed out atop a thin layer of knitted blankets, lays Jerrick. His legs splay to the sides of his body, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth, the picture of exhaustion.
The small babe fitfully slumbering in the arms of her oldemor is wrapped in a similar knitted quilt, a single tuft of soft, flame red hair protruding as if a proud lily in a field of soft lavender. Her hands clench tightly, mouth pressed in a fluctuating tight line.
Kari watches the babe fondly, her exhausted figure crying out for rest. She has yet to yield to it, seeking to remain awake at least a little longer to observe the fruits of her efforts, the source of her content. She also lays in wait for her sister, who boarded a plane not 6 hours ago for a flight back to their childhood village. Kari doubts Asta will stay awake long after meeting her new niece, but still anticipates it with no less eagerness.
Presently, Harald waltzes happily into her bedroom, carrying what looks to be a glass of water for her, and a mug of herbal tea for himself. "She looks much like you," He says, situating himself upon the edge of her bed as she takes her glass from him. He looks proud, and Kari has no doubts that he'll be an excellent grandfather. "Well, minus the hair. Where does she get that from?"
Kari hums. "Probably those old Viking roots," she says humorously.
Harald chuckles, stroking his thumb on the handle of his mug thoughtfully. "She has your facial structure, from what I can see of her so far. And your eyes, though no telling if she'll keep those or not."
And what he says is true, but she can already see the babe's father coming through. The irritated nature when she first entered the world, the little nose which looks almost nothing like her mother's and crinkles up displeasedly like her father's. Kari can already sense the girl's difference to most other children as well, present in her mutated genes and hybrid physiology. She felt the potential for magic the girl had before she had even been born.
But none of this is what she says. Instead: "My father would have loved her."
Harald turns to look at her, and even Kari herself is surprised. None of them have discussed their father in years, not since Asta's manifestation of her magic (which was late in coming compared to her siblings) when they were barely 14.
It is a sore subject for them, what with the abrupt way Odin had cast them out, their father's carefully disconnected expression in the distance as they pleaded to him for help. She still remembers how their uncle had whispered soft apologies into their ears as he carried them, Frigga's tearful protests as she held tightly to Odin's arm.
But, considering the present and her new offspring, Kari knows she is right. Their father would have doted upon the babe with his all capabilities if he had the chance, just as he did for them. He took up fatherhood not as a duty, but as a privilege, one he hadn’t been willing to give up without a fight.
Harald observes her carefully as she thinks, and then tilts his lips up into a kind of melancholy smile. "I'm sure he would have, my child. And in his stead, I will love her just the same."
Kari nods, sparing him a grateful look, and takes a sip of her water.
~~~~~~~
February 14, 1944
The day Steve meets her is also the day he happens to be the loneliest. Valentine's Day. The Howling Commandos have all (someway or another) managed to attract company after a mission to save a small Czechoslovakian town from a H.Y.D.R.A. ambush. The town boasts only a single bar, but many join them in their celebration. Plenty of young girls vie for his attention, while others celebrate with their families, but he spares them little attention besides a few reassuring smiles for those whose gazes wander his way.
Bucky has also managed to snag a gal, with bright blue eyes and curly brown hair who takes his hand with a sickly sweet smile and leads him to a darkened back room obviously meant for specific purposes.
However, Steve isn't quite as swayed as Bucky is by all these charming dames. Several have already tried to blatantly catch his eye, but he doesn't give.
Well, he doesn't give to anyone but her.
The woman sits several seats down the bar, throwing back shots of vodka like she lives off the stuff. She dons a thick green parka despite the warmth of the bar, neat black dress just visible beneath it, almost scandalously short for both the times and the weather. Ebony hair spills down the back of the parka silkily smooth, the strands near the front pulled back into a braid around her head to reveal a slender, pale face and pierced ears.
They've made eye contact several times already, both accidental and not. Her stare pierces to his very bones when he's not looking, the feeling like he's being thoroughly examined from the inside out, and he can't say whether it makes him uncomfortable or not.
So when she finally removes herself from her seat, sauntering smoothly over like no one should ever be able to achieve, Steve's back tenses in apprehension, his throat dry and palms sweaty. All he can think of is those many botched double dates Bucky used to drag him out on. A little burst of panic rises in his stomach, but before he can truly smother it back, the woman situates herself on the barstool to his left, pale leg hitting his clothed one as she turns towards him. She still carries a half-full glass of vodka between the tips of her fingers, dusty pink lipstick spread on the edge of it.
Steve can truly feel himself sweating in his panic as she leans slowly over to place a well manicured hand upon his forearm, lips turned up into something mischievous and playful. "Hello, darling," She purrs, the warmth of her breath ghosting directly over his earlobe, and he shivers.
"Um, hi," He says. Stupid. Idiot. Steve gulps. Grips his rum tightly and brings it up for a large swallow. He can feel the woman's gaze on him as he does so. Wishes that alcohol still had an effect on him.
“Fascinating,” The woman says, quite suddenly. He blinks, confused, and turns his head to return her stare, finding intelligent green eyes filled with curiosity. Steve shifts warily.
“Sorry? What's fascinating?”
She remains silent yet another few seconds, seemingly taking him in, but it's not awkward, similar to the companionable silences he and Bucky share. Except with more skin and less brotherly ribbing.
After a moment, she shakes her head slightly, the quirk returning to her lips as strong and mischievous as ever, though her eyes still betray her utter bemusement towards something Steve doesn't recognize. He's distracted from this though, by the fact that he can now see the tiny flicks of gold scattered about her irises as she leans closer, the flaps of her parka opening up to reveal the low cut on her dress, shocking his cheeks into a deeper blush.
“Nevermind that, darling,” She says flippantly, hand trailing down more to grasp his own. “It would appear to be some kind of Midgardian holiday this night,” Midgardian? “And I am terribly lonely. Would someone so sweet as you be so kind as to entertain me?”
Steve hesitates. He's not sure about this, exactly, but he can't deny that this woman attracts him with a pull he can't quite place. Like he's supposed to help her. With her loneliness.
He clears his throat. Puts his hand out in front of him and turns his body more to face her respectfully. “How about we start with some introductions first?” He asks, and the woman dons a slightly bewildered expression. “I'm Steve. Steve Rogers.”
She stares piercingly at him, probably trying to figure out if this is a joke or some attempt to humiliate her. Steve tries to reassure her by offering a small, soft smile that he usually only reserves for his closest friends. Hesitantly, she extends her own hand, gripping his with surprising firmness, meeting his eyes. His smile widens to reveal teeth, and he shakes with the same eagerness he would for any of his own soldiers. (He doesn't see her eyes widen at the sight, nor the flicker of doubt fly from her eyes to join the wind.)
“Steven,” She says, testing the name on her tongue. “You…” are so different from them. The words form but don't make their way past her lips, replaced instead by the customary formalities. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Steven Rogers. I am Ingrid.”