Heaven Sent (Loki/Asgard Fanfiction - Aislinn's Story)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

It was the perfect day to be at the Jersey shore. It was warm and sunny, all of the tourists were gone, and her fingers were linked with Steve's as they strolled along the not-so-crowded boards.

Jenkinson's was opened all year round and the air was still heavy with boardwalk smells—funnel cake, sausage and peppers, salt air, and French fries. The rides were closed, but the arcades were open, as was the aquarium.

She glanced over at him. The wind blew in from the water to ruffle through his hair, pushing it into glossy dark peaks. Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses hid his eyes, but he gave away his line of sight when he gave her hand a squeeze and said, "Why are you staring at me?"

"I'm wondering what you have up your sleeve."

"I had to explain icing on the cake, but you know what having something up your sleeve means?"

"Midgard confuses me sometimes. Remember, I'm only here every so often. You grew up here." She glanced out toward the water. There were a few die-hards on the beach, but no one was brave enough to venture into the water. "Tell me, what's a jock?"

He grinned. "Depends on how you use it."

"You've referred to yourself as a dumb jock more than once and I meant to ask Celia, but I forgot." She stopped along the wooden railing overlooking the sand and faced him. "So, what is a jock?"

"Jock is slang for an athlete. It's usually got a negative connotation and plays to the stereotype that athletes have more brawn than brain."

"Really? That sounds awful."

"Yeah, it doesn't feel too good to hear, either."

"But you aren't a dumb jock."

"At times I am."

"No." She shook her head, pulling her fingers through her hair as the wind tried to wrap it around her head. "You're not, Steve. Why do you put yourself down that way?"

He sighed, resting his forearms on the railing. "Because that's how quite a few people see me, Ash. They're all impressed to find out I'm a teacher, a lot less so when I tell them I'm a gym teacher. And I know what I look like. I know how I'm built. I fit the stereotype, true or not. I look like a guy who could crush a quarterback on the football field, but probably don't have a lot going on upstairs." He tapped his temple for effect.

She was almost sorry she asked. How terribly unfair, to think people saw you that way. She certainly knew what it was like to be judged by such superficial standards.

"But, you're so much more than that. Yes, you're incredibly good-looking, but you're nice. A gentleman. So many men, men who are far less attractive than you, are just jerks. But you aren't. You don't think of yourself as a gift to women. You aren't arrogant or mean or anything like that."

"Because I was the one getting picked on, remember. You develop a hell of a lot of compassion and empathy when you've walked in uncomfortable shoes."

She stared at him and with a chuckle, he explained, "It means you know what it's like to be on the receiving end."

"But, your face hasn't changed. I saw the pictures in the albums, Steve. You've always been good-looking. Even during those awkward teen years, you were so cute. I can't imagine girls turning you away."

"You see the pictures I've kept. Trust me, they aren't all good ones and I certainly didn't always look like I do now. Not when my face was a mess of zits and I weighed two-hundred and fifty pounds, I wasn't. I was a freak, Ash. A short, fat, pizza-faced freak. And everyone made damn sure I knew it."