rodrikstark's headcanons (part 3)

s. rogers + slow dancing in the kitchen

although you know steve was heading home, the slam of your door still startles you, interrupting the soft music floating from your speaker.

"sorry. sorry," he says, kicking off his shoes, dropping his bag, and tossing his jacket. you suck in a breath when he wraps your ribcage with his thick arms. "shit, i'm sorry."

you stare at the counter, a certain stiffness keeping you from melting into his hold. "it's fine." you're glad you're not facing him.

"it's not fine, hey." he tilts his head and plants a kiss to your cheek. "it's not fine. i made a promise."

"how were you supposed to know that...?" your gesture toward the living room leads steve's eyes to the muted TV, the screen flashing with the blues and reds of police cars at the site of the burglary. which, of course, had to be on his way home. "it's okay," you say, and the sincerity in your voice kinda kills him. "i'm just glad you're okay."

his fingers trace the edges of the trays lining every inch of the counter. "i know you were excited about this, and i ruined it."

you sniffle, so he lifts you until the soles of your feet are on top of his socks. "i'm just sad because you're a better artist than me, and—" your hand waves over the sugar cookies. "they're so ugly."

he almost gasps. "what are you talking about?" they're brightly colored and glittery with sprinkles. hollies and snowflakes and stars. the edges could be cleaner, but steve isn't sure that he could do a better job, working with royal icing instead of the precise pencil he's used to. "they're amazing, look at you, pastry chef." he fits his nose in the space behind your ear and squeezes your waist again. "did you leave any for me to do?"

"they need twenty-four hours to air dry."

"shit."

you had been preparing for this all week. he was supposed to be here tonight.

to his relief, you turn in his arms, and accept the raining of kisses across your cheeks. "how do i make it better?"

you smile. "wash all the dishes?"

"i'll wash them all for the next two weeks," he counteroffers, already trying to get to the sink. "three."

you step on his feet again before he can go, your arms clutching his neck for balance. with a soft laugh, steve sways you both back and forth, in an unhurried circle in time with your music. "and don't be late to the party tomorrow."

he places his forehead right up against yours. "i won't."