Work Text:
Everyone thinks Soldier Boy is untouchable. He’s loud. Crude. Smirking. Always half a breath away from violence or a dirty joke. He fills rooms with bravado and cheap whiskey and old-school masculinity that borders on parody.
He doesn’t do soft. He doesn’t do vulnerable. He especially doesn’t do affection.
Except he does.
Just not where anyone can see.
In public, he’s got an arm slung around you, but it’s possessive. Territorial. A statement piece. “Yeah, she’s mine,” he’ll say flatly if anyone asks.
If some supe lingers too long staring at you, his jaw tightens. His fingers dig into your hip. He doesn’t look at you when he warns them off. He never kisses you in front of people. He barely looks at you at all.
But he always stands between you and everyone else. Always.
When the pair of you are in private, the tough guy act drops immediately. He exhales first. Like he’s been holding his breath the entire time. “C’mere,” he mutters, not looking at you.
You don’t even make it two steps before he’s pulling you into his chest like he’s been starved for it. His grip isn’t possessive anymore. It’s desperate.
He buries his face in your hair. Inhales slowly. His hand slides up your back and settles at your neck, thumb pressing into the soft skin there like he needs to feel your pulse.
“Don’t start,” he grumbles when you smile against him.
“Start what?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re gonna say I’m soft.”
You pull back just enough to see his face. His expression is almost shy. This man could level buildings and yet right now he won’t meet your eyes.
“You’re not soft,” you say gently. “You’re just not performing.”
He huffs. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
But he leans down and presses his forehead to yours.
It shows in little things. He sleeps on his back when you’re there so you can curl against his side. He pretends he hates it when you trace the scar on his shoulder—but he goes still every time you do. He keeps your favorite snack in the cabinet even though he complains about it taking up space. If you wake up from a nightmare, he doesn’t tease you. He just pulls you closer and says, “It’s fine. I got you.”
He never says “I love you.” But sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he brushes your hair off your face and whispers, “Don’t leave.” Barely audible. Like it costs him something.
One Night you catch him staring at himself in the mirror. Not admiring. Assessing. You know that look. He’s thinking about what he is. What he’s done. What people see when they look at him.
You step behind him and wrap your arms around his waist. He stiffens—instinct. Then relaxes. “Why are you with me?” he asks quietly.
Not defensive. Not mocking. Genuine.
You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Because you’re not a myth to me.”
Silence. Then, softly, “You see too much.”
You smile. “I see enough.”
He turns around suddenly and cups your face in both hands. His thumbs brush your cheeks like you’re made of glass. “Don’t ever say that shit out there,” he mutters. “They don’t get to know this.”
“This what?”
His voice drops. “The part that’s yours.” He’ll still punch walls. He’ll still swagger into rooms like he owns them. He’ll still be an asshole.But at night, when it’s just you and him and the world isn’t watching, He rests his head in your lap. And lets you hold him.