rodrikstark's headcanons (part 4)

s. rogers + camping

maybe he's getting old.

he's endured a hundred beds less comfortable than this one. back then, all he needed was a horizontal surface and a rolled-up jacket. here, you have the sleeping bag, the tent keeping you dry, the soft layer of earth underneath. but apparently he's gotten used to the plush mattress back home, because when the beginnings of blue-gray light diffuse throughout your tiny, temporary home, he feels a twinge in his back. an ache in his neck.

at least he has you, your face snuggled into the crook of his arm, all soft.

you scrub your face with the sleeve of your sweater. "steve." it cuts through the relative silence with a high pitch.

"sweetheart," he mumbles back.

you lock your leg over his belly, your eyes still closed. "i have to pee."

he chuckles. "so go pee."

you retreat further down his body until only the top of your head is visible. "what if a bear eats me?"

smirking to himself, he drags your limp hand to his mouth. he considers bestowing a tender kiss. you're probably expecting his stubble to nuzzle your palm.

instead, he bites your finger.

you gasp. "ow!" your socks make a record-scratch noise against the nylon as you scramble away. "that was so mean!"

"oh, c'mon." steve rolls over a little to face you. "i thought you liked bears." he's grinning, but you're curled up, knees to your chin.

"will you come with me?"

and wipe that cute pout off your face? he couldn't. so he gives your butt a good shove, forcing you into the cold.

you huff, stomping to the corner to unhook the shield from his backpack. gripping the vibranium in front of you, ready for anything, you unzip the tent and step into the abrasive wilderness.

if he concentrates, he can hear the distant squawking of birds, the wind sifting between branches, and the drumming of a faraway waterfall. the natural peace calms him.

for maybe thirty seconds.

then, he lays awake, anxious to hear your returning footsteps. did you get lost? it's still a little dark out. and you hate bugs. he hopes none of them buzz in your ear and spook you.

several minutes later—too long for his liking—you mutter, "i survived," tossing his shield to the corner and kicking your way back into the sleeping bag. "that is, if you even care."

steve clambers over, nipping at the edge of your jaw until you're giggling and fighting him off.