Alcohol had, as it were, abandoned him too fully for it to so much as occur to Steve that it might have been an option then. He did not consider muscle to fat ratios, that the metabolism he had grown so used to might have been altered by biochemistry or that the sheer size difference between the shape of himself he had grown used to and the one he stood in then might have changed the equation enough to have allowed him to feel more than the very edge of alcohol's effects. Perhaps if it had, he might have headed straight for the bar he had avoided for the whole of his stay (both stays, rather) in the hotel and ordered a bottle and a glass and reacquainted himself with what one could forget with enough whiskey.

Anything but comfortable with both the recognition that the changed shape of his body came with soft shape of breasts beneath his shirt, and the fact that as he crossed his arms across his chest, they were put into greater prominence, Steve wanted for (more than) a moment to turn on his heel and hide again in his room. Without a clear figure to blame for the transformation or any understanding of how or why it had come about, he felt as if he floundered where he might otherwise have dug in his heels and leapt into the proverbial (or literal) fray.

Although he did not know her well, and did not know her current face at all, Sif's easy assurance did allow him room enough to breathe. While seeking out Natasha would have been his first option otherwise, he instead nodded and took her help gladly. "It would. Thank you, Sif," he told her, reaching out to lay a hand on that unfamiliar arm. "Really, I appreciate it."