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You know it kills him to see you this way.
Depressed, lost, hopeless—curled up under the covers on the bed you both share, hoping to hide away from the world and the hurt it brings. You watch him come in, see the frown on his face, the sympathy in his blue eyes; you can only guess as to how many times he’s walked in on this same situation, this same dejection, and every time you’re afraid it’s going to be the one time that he turns around and leaves, the one time he’s had enough of dealing with it all.
And every time, he proves you wrong.
“Bad day?” he asks, as he peels off his leather jacket and lays it on the dresser nearby. His voice is worn from yelling commands for so many years, rough and a little scratchy when he’s quiet, but it’s always soft with you.
You nod, throat too tight to give voice to the maelstrom of negativity that swirls in your chest, squeezing your heart in a vice grip; the soldier’s frown deepens, and when he crosses the room to sit beside you, lay a hand on your shoulder, it’s all you can do to keep from breaking apart right there.
“It’s going to be okay, you know,” he tells you, warm hand giving your shoulder a squeeze, fingertips rubbing at the muscles locked up there—like he’s trying to ease the tension away, take the stress from your body and into his own, selfless to a fault. “The bad days come, sometimes. Sometimes they come and they stay and it feels like they’re never going to leave. But they always do, don’t they?”
You swallow and haltingly nod, teeth finding your bottom lip to bite, to keep the tears from gathering; you can’t stand the thought of crying in front of him again. He doesn’t deserve that, after always working so hard to keep your demons at bay.
“That’s right. They always do.” He nudges you aside, gently—you know he’s killed scores of people with his bare hands, but they’ve been nothing short of adoring with you, all gentle touches and soft brushes. He treats you like you’re made of glass, something delicate and worth saving, and the thought of it is almost enough to pull a sob from you.
He’s always so kind to you, when the rest of the world is so cruel.
There’s a rustle as body armor is removed, and then the mattress sinks as he lays down next to you, over two hundred pounds of muscle and might solely devoted, right now, to making sure that you feel better. His hand cups your cheek—the callouses are rough against your skin as his thumb strokes away tears you didn’t know had fallen—and you can’t help but relax into the touch, because this is exactly what you want, exactly what you need.
By now, as often as he’s been here and done this, he knows it.
A small smile tugs at his lips, makes his scar pull tight and blanch a little; you know every crease of his face just as well as he knows yours, and it’s infinitely comforting to realize that here, now, you’re with a person who knows and accepts you inside and out, someone who’s willing to stop the world to spend time with you. He leans closer, messy silver hair falling over his forehead and eyes locked on yours, then presses a light kiss to your cheek—his lips are cracked, but the softness he displays in kissing you is enough to steal your breath away, make your heart flutter.
“You’re too beautiful to be upset like this,” he murmurs, and there’s a hint of sorrow underlying his voice, a trace of guilt—you know he blames himself, for every time he isn’t here to fight away the dark. You wish you could tell him that it’s not his fault, will never be his fault; but your voice stays clogged in your throat, and you bury your face in his neck to hide from the shame as he continues, “Too kind, too sweet. You do too much and get too little in return…”
He trails off and heaves a sigh, then; his arms wrap around you, pull you close, give you a squeeze. His cotton undershirt is soft against your cheek, his scent strong in the hollow of his throat, and tucked up against the broad warmth of his muscled chest is the safest place you know.
“I would do anything to help you.” His voice is a muffled whisper against your hair, sounds almost as pained as you feel; your fingers find his undershirt and tangle there, desperate to hang on to this beacon of light shining in your darkest times. “If I could take what bothers you and make it tangible, then break it, beat it—I would, in an instant. But I can’t fight this battle for you. I can only be your support.”
He looks down at you, then, steely blue eyes locking with yours, and adds, “You’re strong. Definitely strong enough to get through this. And when you come out of that tunnel, I’m going to be there on the other side, waiting for you. Telling you how proud I am.”
He nuzzles against your temple, burying his nose in the locks of your hair, and you have to bite back your smile; you can feel the stubble growing in on his jaw. He needs to shave, and it’s these tiny distractions that help pull you back out of the abyss, back to him. The night comes and when you fall asleep, it’s to the steady beat of his heart.
Eventually he misery passes, as it always does. Dawn breaks and he’s still there, still holding you like you’re the most precious thing he knows, like the world could burn down around you both and he would stay right on this bed, keeping you safe from the flames. How many times he’s done this, you’ve got no idea—it’s too many, you know, and you’re always afraid that the next time he finds you lost in the darkness will be the first time he walks away and leaves you there.
The negativity tells you it’s right, that he will stop caring, someday. It says one day he will give up.
But you know, somewhere deep down where no one else can touch, that he’ll always prove it wrong.