rodrikstark's headcanons (part 3)

s. rogers + "don't kiss me, you'll get sick too."

"no, it's not worth the risk." you poke the bit of steve's pale stomach that gets exposed as he reaches for the chicken broth in your cabinet. "go home."

he swats your hand, chuckling. "like you've ever been good at telling me what to do."

apparently, not hearing from you the entire day warranted steve picking your apartment lock with a pin, discovering you feverish and shivery in your bedroom, and thus feeling more than welcome to rifle through your pantry to make soup.

you swaddle your nose and mouth with the blanket you dragged from your bedroom. "i'm serious. you shouldn't even be in the same room as me."

"then go lie down." you hate how much that makes sense. he pulls open the flaps on a box of pasta. "i'll bring you this once it's ready."

no matter how much it hurts your swollen throat, you whine at him. "stevie, when you get sick, you get really sick."

the memory appears cloudy in your hazy brain, but steve's encounter with the flu last year had him bedridden for days. you played at being his nurse—coaxing him to drink water, sleep as much as possible, and not get worked up over you making trips to the store by yourself—all to disguise the ugly worry strangling your stomach, at the sight of your stevie so sick.

a light smile touches his lips as he evenly cuts your vegetables into little pieces. "exactly, i know how much it sucks." he meets your eyes, still chopping away. "so let me take care of my girl."

you're grateful for the blanket, which quickly absorbs the tears dripping from your eyes. you sniffle, with a touch more drama than needed. "can you add extra noodles?"

"you're getting extra vegetables."

later, armed with a warm bowl of soup, steve joins you on the sofa, encouraging you to unfurl the tight sphere you've made of yourself.

there's not much of it you can stomach, which makes you feel bad all over again, but you eat enough to satisfy steve. you can at least enjoy him stroking your calves over the blanket as you lie back again, facing the TV. "what do you want to watch?"

"tired," you mumble.

"so, baseball?" he laughs. "that puts you right to sleep." you curl closer to him, your heavy eyelids closing. "one more thing, sweetheart?"

"yeah?"

"when you're feeling better, you should replace your locks. they're not secure at all."

you smile. "bite me, rogers."