The New York night was a blurry mess of red taillights and flickering billboards, the storm turning everything into wet neon streaks. Soldier Boy stood near the bar cart, boots planted wide on the cold marble, his supe suit still carrying the faint scorch of whatever bullshit skirmish he'd just walked away from. The virus had tried its best—Butcher's little science project burning like battery acid through his veins—but here he was, breathing, pissed, and very much alive.
Homelander had sent him into that meat grinder expecting a corpse. “Clean up the mess, Dad,” the prick had said with that toothpaste-ad smile. The memory still sat sour in Soldier Boy's gut.
You were there too, Homelander's girl, another Seven member with powers that made the handlers nervous. You leaned against the opposite end of the bar, fingers tracing the rim of your glass, the low light catching the line of your throat when you swallowed. Soldier Boy's eyes lingered there longer than they should have; on the soft pulse under your skin, the way your suit clung just enough to remind him you were flesh and heat under all that corporate Vought polish.
He poured himself another two fingers of the good stuff, the bottle clinking heavy against the crystal. The whiskey burned going down, something expensive that tasted like money trying to cover up blood.
“Long night, huh?” he rumbled, voice low and rough, the kind of drawl that came from too many decades of cigarettes and orders barked over artillery fire. And there was that familiar half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—the one that said he'd seen empires rise and fall and still thought the whole thing was a joke. “Homelander got you playing trophy again? Or did the golden boy finally run out of speeches?”
You shifted, the leather of the bar stool creaking softly under you. Your reply came quiet but steady, the words hanging in the thick air between you two.
Soldier Boy chuckled, the sound low in his chest as he set the glass down with a sharp clink. He moved closer and the air changed when he got within arm's reach, his gloved hand rested on the bar beside yours.
“Listen, sweetheart,” he said, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost across your ear. The petname slipped out easy, casual, like he'd been calling you that for years. “I ain't here for the team-building bullshit. That fucker sent me off to die. Virus, Butcher, the whole goddamn package. Thought he'd get rid of the old man.” His jaw tightened, green eyes narrowing as he watched your face—the flicker in your gaze, the small parting of your lips.
His fingers traced the edge of your suit at the shoulder, feeling the reinforced fabric give way to the warmth of your body underneath. The touch was light, almost testing, calluses catching on the texture. “You feel that?” he murmured, voice dropping. “That's real. Not the cape-and-laser circus he runs. You ever get tired of being his arm candy? Smiling while he jerks off to his own reflection?”
Fuck, she's warm, he thought, the realization hitting like a quiet punch. Not just supe heat. Something human under it. It made the revenge taste even more sweeter.
“You don't gotta answer, doll,” he said after a beat, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes again. “But if you're done playing house with Captain Nazi 2.0, I'm right here. And I don't do the whole ‘boyfriend’ routine. But I do know how to make a point.” His hand slid lower, palm flattening against your side, feeling the curve of your waist through the suit. The fabric was smooth, cool at first, then warming fast from the contact. “A real loud one.”