It's the little things that hold us together.
Like the smell of watery coffee made with best intentions. He'll drink half of the cup, and while I'm in the loo he'll give the substantial dregs to toby. He spoils that cat. I suppose if you live with each other long enough, you pick up on more and more. He's come to love my toby, I've taken up sewing. Mr. Stark spends too much money on the dear's clothes to just bin them once torn. He's still bashful about it, but when you have a profession like mine, hobbies don't go amiss. The dead's conversations are pretty one-sided, and I'm good with needles anyway. Another of my ills he's soothed, a lack of proper talks. With Sherlock I can never keep up, and John is a man of very few words. Bruce is like the perfect mix, the scientist's intellect and a held tongue. Whenever he speaks to me, it's always with a caution. As if he's afraid I'll get scared and leave him. Not a chance.
I'd miss lying beside you at night, curling up on your chest when you shake with the nightmares of memories. When you tried, and failed. I'd not be able to patch you up after a hard day's work, be it a minor explosion at the lab or a "smash day" as we say. I'd see your American brands in the cupboards, I'll keep buying them out of habit, and I'd miss your quiet humor, poking fun at yourself in a way only the afflicted can. I'd long to run my fingers through your messy curls, to try and fail to cook you a meal again and again.
Those are the things that hold us together, and there's not a chance in the whole universe I'd give us up.
