pov- imagines

BAND-AIDS- S. ROGERS

pairings: steve rogers x reader
warnings: mentions of blood, injuries, illnesses but it's fluffy lol
about: ! PK9 (kissing wounds/injuries) + DF20 ("it's like i'm dating a child.")
a/n: i finished this two days ago but i had to build a rocket and it kind of took up my time but i hope you like this!! i really enjoyed writing it!

before the burn of the serum and the ache of the needle that pricked through paper pale skin, steve had barely trudged through the burn of too little oxygen in his lungs, under the back pain that left him stuck in bed during the days where he could breathe, underneath the heavy, thick-rimmed glasses that he pushed up his nose ever since they were two sizes too big for his face— wounds that couldn't be fixed with the white band-aids his mother would press on the scrapes on his knees, the ache of the cut something steve wished he could grab onto like a balloon, pull it back over and over again until he could pretend it was the only thing wrong, the only injury—fixed with a band aid that reminded him of his mother's uniform.

the only way steve could describe coming out of the chamber after the serum was taking a deep breath after spending a lifetime underwater without realizing it. his aches were gone, so easily it seemed unfair—boulders on his chest removed like they were never there, the only evidence they existed was the ghost of shattered bones, splinters deep into his lungs and millimeters away from his heart. it was the feeling of not being whole, of waiting for them to come back and never getting too comfortable with the chance it could.

he was healthy, heavy and so much clearer in every way. yet the wounds he dealt with now still couldn't be fixed by band-aids, not even the colorful ones that you stored in your cabinet. the little cuts were healed within a few hours, and while he marveled at the way his skin closed so quickly, twiddling his fingers as if to check whether it was an illusion or not, he found himself missing the tenderness with which his mom would wrap a band-aid around his fingers and elbows and knees, pressing a kiss to the covered wound and then one to his forehead while she brushed away sandy locks of hair and tears.

he was embarrassed at first, thinking that maybe he would look ridiculous in your eyes—captain america, wanting one of the silly band-aids in your medicine cabinet, what shame, what spectacle.

but then, months into your relationship and with each injury he came home with, no matter if it was big enough for him to want to hide it from you—not that he could, you had a sort of sixth sense about this thing—or as small as a paper cut from one of the files, or even a bump from when he got too deep into his head when reading about his life, observing black and white pictures of him, forgetting his size and crashing into something, you coddled him as if he'd been on the brink of death—which, in your defense, was not something as rare as it should be. you'd coo at him and kiss his wounds after pressing your lips to his, sometimes make him tea but always put something on the injury; medicinal lotion you swore by on his bumps and bruises, hello kitty band-aids on the little cut above his eyebrow that would be gone by morning. he'd never ask and only sometimes argue about how your remedies were wasted on him, something with which you would always respond with a stern look and an assurance that he could heal with a touch of your finger and it would never be a waste.

it was that that let him be so open with you on days where the smiles his mother would give him and the band-aids she'd put on him were the only things that played on his mind, where he wanted nothing to be that little boy again, whose mother would coo at him and let him draw on the boring white of the bandages he'd eventually use. even if it consisted of the problems he didn't miss today, as long as it didn't have the problems he did have now.

he came home to you bearing love and sweet kisses peppered into your hair whenever he was in your perimeter, love which you returned gladly, pecking the nose you loved so much each time you spotted him looking at you.

in the later half of the day, you listen to the rhythmic chopping of your knife as you cut vegetables, steve's half of the dinner already made and on the stove, only waiting for you. turning to check on it, you notice the television on in front of you, entertaining no one because steve is too busy craning his neck to look at you.

you smile, raising an eyebrow, "what?"

steve's eyes widen a little as he shakes his head, shoulders raising in innocence, "nothing."

"you wanna cut vegetables with me?" you ask jokingly, watching in surprise as he stands from the couch to stand next to you. you follow him with your eyes, chuckling when he settles in next to you, grabbing a knife of his own as he takes more than half of your work and gets closer to you than you're sure is necessary, but you don't mind at all.

"'just been waiting for an invitation," he tells you, nudging you with his shoulder as you both settle into a steady pace.

after a few minutes pass by and steve takes over your station, you go off to fix some other things around the kitchen, getting things ready for dinner especially after steve has done most of it. you're setting plates when you hear a quiet hiss from the counter where steve is at, the soft clatter of the knife being placed on the cutting board shortly after alerting you of what happened.

"oh, baby," you coo when you walk over to him, a gash on one of his fingers that oozes a dark red. "you've cut yourself," you utter, wrapping a paper towel around it, "let's go to the bathroom to disinfect it, okay?"

steve doesn't argue as you gently grab his hand, leading him into the bathroom while you hold pressure to stop the bleeding. it takes only a minute for it to stop bleeding, and you watch him as he washes the little cut with soap and water while you scrounge for bandages in your drawer.

once he dries his finger off, you're about to peel the plastic off of the band-aid, decorated with a simple light yellow design and red polka dots, when steve stops you, a warm finger curling around yours, "wait," steve says, and you pause, meeting his eyes in confusion.

"what? do you not like the band-aid or something?" you ask jokingly, but at the way his eyes flicker down, pale red coloring the tips of his ears, you realize it's that, and you laugh, a coo interlaced in the light sound. "let me go get another one, then." you look inside the medicine cabinet again, holding back a grin that threatens to overcome your entire face while you pull another bandage out of one of the many boxes of decorative band-aids you store in your apartment. this time, it's avengers-related, a bold red with glittery gold that catches on the light. iron-man themed.

when steve spots it, he can't help but tilt his head at you, a small sigh slipping out of pink lips, "tony will never let me live it down," he excuses at the look on your face, and you let the smile break through, shaking your head at your one-hundred-year-old boyfriend.

"it's like i'm dating a child," you tease lightheartedly, making him slump, his eyes crinkled. "do you have any requests?" you wonder before going into the cabinet again.

steve bites his lip, "are there any more of the ones you bought at that store the other day? with the birds?"

nodding, your smile tugs at your cheeks as you can for the ones he's describing, quickly finding the box on the first shelf because those are the ones you usually use—evidenced by the one wrapped around your pinky.

they're clear ones covered in tiny images of ducks, the entirety of it outlined with a thick line of varied color. this time, it matches yours; blue.

you gently wrap it around his finger, gently pressing down to secure it before you press your lips to the covered cut, kissing his cut in a way that reminds him of just how much he loves you. you mumble a rhyme in another language—promising he would heal soon even though he already knew—as you rub circles into his palm absentmindedly.

"there," you murmur, a hand on steve's neck as you thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, kissing his nose, "are you satisfied now? no complaints? five-star service?"

steve laughs, leaning his head into the crook of your neck, "none. thank you, honey."

you hum, the feel of the band-aid on your finger dragging along the skin of his jaw, "it's a girlfriend job. no need to thank."

steve looks up at you, "thank you, honey," he repeats, grabbing the hand on his cheek to connect it with his.