Silent.
AN: I have no idea where this came from, I'm not quite sure what its point is, but it just sort of came out. (It just be my revision addled brain trying to escape from Philip Larkin.)
He loved to watch her. When she didn't know he was doing it, he loved to watch her and feel the immense pride that filled him, unbidden, unlimited and unknown to anyone else. He'd known it that first day, when he'd grabbed her hand and taken her with him; she was unique and he had the incredible job of showing her the universe, giving her a new life, holding her hand through it all. A girl from a council estate in London, working in a shop, and she'd seen things she would never have dreamed of before she'd met him. She'd faced things worse than any nightmare, and she'd met it all head on, jumped onboard with a grin to match his own.
She glowed. She shone with excitement and curiosity, passion and spirit and yes, it had gotten them into scrapes in the past, but she always learned from her mistakes, made sure that she grew and moved on. And that constantly amazed him; she constantly amazed him, always striving to learn more, become more.
But now he's starting to feel he has little left to teach her. He's learnt so much from her in turn, and they are equals, the perfect team. Sometimes he's scared that one day she'll outgrow him, that she wont need him as much as he needs her. He feels the sweet, painful twist in his chest whenever she laughs, or smiles at someone else; knows that he'll learn to live with the dull ache that now never goes away because it means he's alive. She means he's alive, and he'll do anything to keep her safe, to keep her his.