he wears his gloves as much as he can. you insist on it.
some bullshit about how you're suddenly afraid of his shield. maybe one day it's spinning too rapidly, flying too fast, the edge too sharp. what if he gets cut? steve, don't look at me like that. i'm being serious.
you should be grateful for his shield. he'd be dead without that little disk of vibranium as his companion.
but you're right—you're always right—because he does get cut. after years of practice, he's mostly mastered the physics, bouncing it off drywalls and concrete pillars, slicing through steel cables to get somewhere quick. disarming and protecting and smashing as appropriate, as is his duty. but he's not perfect. super soldiers can still lose focus, make mistakes.
plus, some people like to play at being captain america and launch the bastard right back at him.
steve heals, though. he reminds you of this constantly, over your frustrated whine as your fingers try to push him back together. the skin stitches itself. the blood-red split and the itchiness that comes with healing usually fade within half a day. never a problem to begin with.
see, baby? all good.
but with enough repetition—the wound healing and reopening and healing—it leaves a mark. a thin, whitish stripe just underneath the natural folds of his palms.
something about those scars brings you a bone-deep comfort.
you hang on like his hands belong to you. steve has long accepted that he'll never have full capacity of both arms to accomplish any given task. luckily, he's got you as a partner, another person to hold his sketchbook steady or help him shift gears while driving.
the pad of your thumb glances repeatedly over the ridge when you're anxious. otherwise, you outline the length of it when you're happy. like a lifeline, a direct supply of air to calm your heart rate and support your laughter.
each time you touch him, it's like you're renewedly grateful that your giant lughead of a boyfriend decided to take the serum almost a century ago. this way, he'll always come home to you. relatively unharmed, at least.
so, he wears the damn gloves. just, not too often.