rodrikstark's headcanons (part 1)

s. rogers + first time meeting the team

you grip your car keys tight in your hand, anxiously running your thumb along the rough edge until the door to the quinjet creaks open, revealing steve and his friends, sam and natasha.

involuntarily, you whimper at the sight of steve's bruised eye and the obvious way he can't put any weight on his right ankle.

earlier, you had gotten a call from steve's number, but heard natasha's voice: he can't talk 'cause he's got a major headache but he wants you to know he's okay.

then, sam's voice: i'll send you the address of the hangar if you want to pick him up.

you open the passenger door of your car as they approach.

"hey." natasha reaches out a hand—the one not holding up steve—to greet you. "nice to finally meet you."

you nod at her. "same here. steve's told me a lot about you."

"good things, i hope." sam laughs, patting steve on the chest. "she's cute, man."

"back off, wilson." even though it's playful, steve's retort sounds weak to your ears.

your face falls a little. "are you sure he'll be okay?"

his friends rotate until they face away from the car, then carefully back up until they can lift steve onto the seat. sam explains, "he'll need a couple days of bedrest, if you can manage to keep him still for that long."

you cross your arms and lean against the car, studying your stubborn boyfriend, who sways slightly without the support of his friends. "of course."

natasha takes on a fake motherly voice, pouting dramatically and poking at steve's ribcage. "he'll also need lots of hugs and chicken noodle soup."

steve lets his temple hit the headrest, and despite how much he's hurting, he chuckles. "fuck off."

you look at steve's two closest teammates, fighting the tears that build in the back of your throat. "thank you for bringing him home."

sam nods as they make their return to the quinjet. "any time."

steve's head lulls backward slightly when you step into the space between his knees.

"hey, soldier."

he gives you a dopey grin. "hey, you."

you brush some damp hair off his face. "feeling any better?"

steve shakes his head sadly. "it might help." his gloved hands scratch at your waist, coaxing you closer.

you tilt your head, gently squeezing his biceps in confusion.

"some chicken noodle soup."

the bashful way he scrunches his face makes you giggle. "soon as we get home. how's that sound?"

"so good," he whispers. you gather him in your arms, pressing your lips to the crown of his head as he smiles into your collarbone.