Work Text:
Work. Paper. Ink. Stories. Or flying around. He was tired. Every day, the same routine.
The weight of the world pressed against his shoulders. The responsibility of protecting it, the mask of pretending to be someone else, the endless chase of bad men and alien threats, the sting of hatred for no reason.
He was exhausted. He thought he couldn’t keep up. He tried to hide it, to keep the cracks from showing, to pretend he was still the one who could save the day. But there was one person he couldn’t lie to.
You.
Through your eyes, he was transparent. You saw the slumped shoulders, the puffy eyes, the pale skin. You saw the truth.
And when he came back, you were always there. Soup simmering, hands steady, presence close. You became the safe place he longed for, the quiet comfort he could rest in. And that's why nothing feels as good as coming home to you.