rodrikstark's headcanons (part 2)

s. rogers + cooking dinner to cheer you up

"hey, sweetheart."

deadpan: "hi."

then, a slam of the door, and two clunks as your shoes are thrown to the ground. your discarded work clothes hit the laundry hamper silently, but you aggressively slap the duvet spread across your bed, groaning before shoving yourself inside.

"baby." it's more like a question, coming from the hallway.

"i'm tired." you hope your high-strung voice slices through the thick covers you're strangling against your chest.

with several teary blinks, you let your gaze become dull, your eyes taking in the dim light of the room more than actually looking at anything in particular.

you should do laundry. cook dinner. clean the kitchen. but after a long and spectacularly horrible day at work, the list of mundane tasks seems daunting and impossible and not all that important.

so you sleep.

three light knocks wake you, punctuated by the clicking of the doorknob. when you sit up, you see a big bowl, two green sticky notes resting on its sloped sides, and the smell of your favorite comfort food.

you grab one of steve's soft t-shirts from the drawer and dress yourself before sitting cross-legged on the ground. the bowl is almost too hot for your bare legs as you cradle it in your lap, reading the notes.

did i make it too salty again? circle one:

yes / no

do you know how much i love you? circle one:

yes / no, not yet

you lift a big bite of food to your mouth and look around for a pen.

fifteen minutes later, you reemerge with an empty bowl and the square notes pinched between your fingers. steve watches TV on the couch, his dinner finished and his legs propped on the coffee table.

you press the papers into steve's relaxed hand, then stack your bowl on top of his. to thank him for taking care of you, the least you could do is wash the dishes.

instead, steve snatches your wrist and manhandles you into your favorite spot, half-squished under his arm but mostly clutching his narrow waist.

he clears his throat, caressing your forehead as you study the tiny football players on the screen. "you shut me out when you're upset."

a sigh. "i know."

"i wish you would do the opposite."

god, you love him. "i'm working on it."

"how was the food?"

"too salty. but only a little." you smile, finding steve's hand and lacing your fingers together. "thank you."