He returns her look and no matter how cool her expression is, there's something in her eyes that betrays her, soft and tender and needed. It's almost a relief when he turns away; she could get cocky, feeding off anything resembling affection, taking care of him the way he needs to be cared for, his comfort metamorphosing into comfort for her, too.

Having someone to look after other than herself is the best survival tactic she knows, and it plays out between them every day, month after month and year after year. No matter how much he pisses her off sometimes, no matter how many times she lobs some pithy line at him before storming out, no matter how many times she grits her teeth when his voice rises, she is fine, better than fine, when the dust settles and he's still there, still giving her that look.

She's done this for so long that she thinks she could do it for another ten, twenty years without batting an eye. However long they have.

"Black tie," she agrees, casting a lingering glance through the doorway as he drops the towel. She easily settles into a smile as she sets about heating up dinner, a glamorous affair in which the contents of the can are dumped into a pan on the stove. She scrapes out every last bit dutifully, nothing going to waste. She adds: "What show are you taking me to after, huh?"