rodrikstark's headcanons (part 4)

s. rogers + retirement

"we should buy it."

your startled attention rakes over to steve, who has wheeled your shopping cart into the aisle. he smirks.

"what?" you ask, deciding to spin on your heels rather than faking a surprised smile.

"it's a good lookin' blender."

you shrug. "s'alright."

"we have the counter space," he taunts.

and you've already decided where you would put it, now that you have a kitchen actually fit for cooking.

instead of just making do, instead of performing the cramped dance where you don't accidentally knife your fiancé and he doesn't elbow you in the face.

"did you look at the toaster ovens?" a nonchalant question, you think, though you risk one last look at the high-powered blender. a grievous mistake.

"hold on." steve's hand grappling-hooks onto the shelf, blocking your way. "you've walked by this aisle like, three times."

you frown. "no, i haven't." it was four times.

"what's wrong?"

it's too expensive, you hope to say. but with the thousands you've already spent on furniture and other, much more necessary appliances, he wouldn't buy that.

and so, the tentative truth:

"we've just never lived in a place that hasn't been blown up by aliens, or robots, or whatever." you shrug. "which is fine, we always turn out okay." a certain unintended bitterness snakes its way between your words. "but maybe there's no point in getting nice things, y'know?"

you've gotten used to a life of loose attachments, if any at all. everything has its end; the stuff that belongs to you and steve just meets it sooner than most.

his other hand grasps behind you, caging you in place.

"i hate that," he says, his voice a shade or two darker. "i hate that you think that." after a beat, his eyes meet yours. "because i used to think that."

"it's..." god, it's only a blender. you can always borrow a neighbor's. "it's just true, steve."

"okay, but we're retired. we're out." his fingers flex. "right?"

you touch the inside of his elbows, which hang looser now, and push them to his sides.

"think about all the... smoothies, and soups, and sauces we'll make." you rest your forehead against the rumbly words inside his chest. "don't you want that?" you're ready to answer his question, and to squeeze every ounce of affection you have for him into his ribs, when he asks, "don't we deserve it?"

you burrow into his sweater. "yeah."

steve nods. "baby, i swear, if somehow the aliens do come..." he sets the heavy appliance on top of your half-full cart before hugging you back. "i'm protecting this thing with my life."