The first clue is when Lady Sif stays an extra night on the Bus, back when they were still a team and Ward hadn’t yet revealed himself to be a shithead – it seemed really obvious, looking back on it now. Sif had stayed an extra night, for no reason, and she appeared not to have slept in any of the beds – then, the next morning, had appeared looking, of all things, sprightly. While she had not had exactly a lifetime of company with the Asgardian to compare her mood to, Daisy would not have described her as sprightly in any of their previous encounters. Fierce, yes. Intense. Focused. Driven. Nice-smelling. But not sprightly.
The second clue was when there was the whole incident with the memory loss. Again, she stayed an extra night. No bed slept in. Cheerful-looking goddess-alien-war-being the following morning.
“Does she sleep in a bed at all?” Daisy says to Fitz, in a wondering tone. “Maybe she just hangs upside down. Like a bat.”
Sif makes several more visits to Earth, each time to whichever SHIELD base the main team is staying in. The only time she didn’t stay an unnecessary extra night was when May was out of the base on a solo mission – in fact, all Sif did was appear, poke around, ask a few questions, eyeball May’s locker for a few seconds, then excuse herself to return to Asgard.
“She’s doing something.”
“Who’s doing what?” Mack says distractedly. Simmons is pulling broken glass out of his palm, and he keeps hissing intermittently.
“Sif,” Daisy says, and frowns at where the goddess herself is conversing with Coulson and May. “She’s up to something.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Every single time!” She slaps her hands down on the table. Simmons startles and Mack yelps. “Shit, sorry, are you okay?”
“I may never regain feeling in my right index finger, but I’m fine,” Mack replies. “Every single time – what?”
“Every time she visits, she stays an extra night. Always. Completely unnecessary.”
“Maybe she just wants to recharge? For the trip back?”
“But that’s the – that’s the thing! None of the spare beds are ever slept in. None. Zilch. Zero.”
“Maybe she just has alien-level freaky-good bed-making skills,” Mack jokes.
Daisy makes a whining noise. “What if she’s a spy?”
“Lady Sif? A spy?” Mack turns to look from her to Daisy, then back, then back again. “She doesn’t exactly seem spy material, Tremors.”
Sif’s voice has a carrying quality to it, same as the (very few) other Asgardians they’ve met. She’s articulate, grammatically flawless, and gives off an aura of no-nonsense, bullshit-will-only-slow-us-down honesty.
Putting her chin in her hands, Daisy says, “sprightly.”
***
The truth reveals itself the very next day at half past eight in the morning, when Daisy is about to make her way to the sparring ring.
May’s door opens just as Daisy takes a step in the direction of the gym, and Sif walks out. In all her majestic probably-six-foot-something height, long dark hair flowing, a glow that Daisy is unable to call anything but post-coital (oh my fucking shit, a voice in Daisy’s head says faintly) practically illuminating her where she stands.
The Asgardian walks past Daisy in relaxed, long-legged strides, smiling and throwing out a “it looks like the weather will be warm today, does it not?” before she disappears. Daisy watches her go, turning to follow her progress.
The door creaks slightly, and May emerges, wrapped in a white, cuddly-looking bathrobe, sipping nonchalantly at a cup of coffee.
“You – and - “ The words are coming out in stammers. “And – and her?” Daisy points wildly down the hall where Sif had been just moments ago. “As in – together? You – “
“She likes my hands,” May says calmly, and Daisy lets out a noise like a dying whale.