I want the cliche kisses in photo booths. And the candid photos of me when I’m not looking. I want the week long road trips with the windows down and my feet up on the dash. I want hands clenched tight when we’re intimate. I want shared showers the morning after. I want breakfast in nothing but oversized t-shirts. I want tv show marathons with extra buttery popcorn and makeout breaks during commercials. I want “I love you"s and “you’re beautiful"s and my name blended in curse words while you moan. I want time and promise and happiness and intimacy.
Although Yinsen had remained vigorous with his ablutions,
Stark had let himself go. This had nothing to do with any sense of giving in to
misery or despair, as might have once been the case. Instead, for Tony Stark,
this was business as usual. In the normal course of his normal life, once Stark
became caught up in the throes of creation, personal hygiene went out the
window. It usually fell to the disembodied promptings of Jarvis, or failing
that, the corporeal prodding from Pepper, to remind Stark that he should think
about changing the clothes he’d been wearing for three days or maybe run a
razor across the bushy growth that was accruing on his face.
After the first day or so, Yinsen had simply taken to
staying the hell out of Stark’s way. He had even stopped asking Stark if he was
hungry since he tended not to receive answers. Instead, every so often, he
would just put out food for Stark, who would - sooner or later - eat it without
looking at it or even noticing that he was doing so.