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The amount of times Steve had to jostle the keys in the door alone should have woken you. But he got lucky. Though, now, he knew he was walking on eggshells. Once Steve stepped into the apartment, he carefully pushed the door closed, relieved when he managed to successfully save it from slamming shut. He set his shield against the wall, hissing quietly to himself as he did, the cuts along his back screaming in pain. He knew they’d be healed by the morning. He knew if he could just make it to bed, if he could somehow manage to slip in beside you undetected…
Steve did his best to move quietly across the living room towards your bedroom, though every step sends a jolt of pain up his leg from his undoubtedly sprained ankle. The mission had been a success, but even with the serum pumping through his veins, it didn’t save Steve from the few blasts he took from enemy grenades as they infiltrated yet another Hydra outpost. His face was caked with dirt and ash, blood seeping through the black dust and dripping down his face from a cut above his eye. He could feel every cut, every bruise, though not as intensely as someone other than him probably would. The last thing he wanted was for you to see him so beat up like this. He knew that you worried, hated that you did, but understood why. He would be fine, he really would be, but he knew that if you saw him like this, he wouldn’t be able to get out of you trying to help.
The creak of the bedroom door almost gave him away, but the only reaction was his own, cringing as he slipped inside and closed it behind him. In the darkness, broken only by the ray of moonlight shining in from the window, he could just make out your frame curled in the sheets, sleeping soundly. Maybe he would manage to get away with it. He didn’t think he could forgive himself for interrupting how peaceful you were.
Careful of his ankle, Steve pulled off his boots and tossed them aside, pulling off his uniform bit by bit until he was down to his shorts and t-shirt. The bleeding from the cuts over his chest and back had stopped bleeding, unlike the deep one above his eyebrow, but the evidence was in the stains on his white shirt. Sighing to himself, Steve shot a look over at your sleeping form before he attempted to pull it off, figuring it much easier to explain healing cuts than a bloodied shirt.
But he couldn’t help the groan that rolled off his lips as the fabric tugged away from where it had stuck to the wounds.
“Steve..?” Your groggy voice called. Steve sighed heavily, letting his head hang as you shifted in bed to look up at him.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“Oh, god.” And then you were up, crossing the room to him, eyes wide and full of the concern he didn’t want to bring on you. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s all right, I’m okay, (Y/N), really. I’ll be fine by the morning. You know that,” Steve tried. But he knew he wasn’t going to get away with it.
He watched as your eyes narrowed in a glare, taking in the still bleeding cut. “Bathroom.”
It wasn’t a statement. It was a demand.
Steve raised his hands in defense, knowing not to argue this, not wanting to anger his girlfriend, especially when all he wanted was to wash his face and join you in bed. And especially not when he had tried arguing it before, many times in the years you’d been together, and every time ended with Steve caving and letting you nurse him.
He walked backwards towards the master bathroom, hands still raised. “Okay, okay, I’m goin’.”
You were practically pushing him in there without even touching him. Steve’s lips curved in a tiny smile. The little dimple on your chin when you were worrying had made its appearance, and even though this wasn’t the time to be smiling, he couldn’t help but admire it. Even when you did actually push him so that he was sitting down on the closed toilet seat.
He knew not to talk as you went to work patching him up. Plasters here and there. Bigger ones for bigger cuts. But, even when you numbed it, the worst part was always the stitches. Especially when this one was above his eye.
As you were finishing up, Steve finally broke the silence, unable to help himself from carefully reaching out to rest his hands on your hips as you leaned over him. “I’m sorry I woke you, doll.”
His face was turned up towards yours as you worked, but your eyes were focused elsewhere. Although, when he spoke, he caught the brief gaze in his direction.
“Well, next time,” You paused, only to cut the excess suture thread and then set the scissors on the bathroom counter. Your hands fell on his shoulders, finally giving him the satisfaction of looking into those eyes he’d fell in love with a short three years ago. “Don’t try and sneak past me. You haven’t gotten away with it yet, so maybe it’s time to stop trying.”
Steve chuckled, pulling you a bit closer. With everything patched, his face washed of the dust, he admittedly did feel a lot better. Enough to bring you to sit on his lap. Your hands moved to his cheeks, smiling softly, tiredly back down at him as his arms wound around you.
“Noted,” He murmured before stealing a gentle, brief, but loving kiss. His eyes fluttered closed for the short moment, indulging in the feeling of having someone to come home to, to take care of him, for him to take care of and love. When he opened them again, he gazed up at you adoringly. “Can we go to bed now?”
His smile only widened as you laughed, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. “Yeah,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead before sighing. “Let’s go to bed.”