Note: For this ficlet's purposes, Stark Tower = Avengers Tower.

On his way to bed, lamplight lures Tony into the living room. The TV's off. Pitter-patter rain sounds drift from the speakers, and there's Steve, stretched on his side on a couch, pink lips slightly parted, closed lids shielding the electric-blue shock of his eyes. White tee covering his arms from shoulder to wrist. Grey sweats with frayed hems. Yellow on his cheek where a purple bruise flowered six hours ago when they returned from fighting dragons, of all things.

Sleeping Beauty, Tony thinks, without any irony. Gaze still focused on Steve, Tony drags a finger over the smooth lip of his tumbler of scotch. Without taking a sip, he sets it on a side table. Not thirsty anymore.

Plush carpet mutes his footsteps but does nothing to hide how his joints crack as he kneels next to Steve. He's getting old, he thinks with a wry twist of his mouth. That's a privilege. (Might even be time to stop dyeing his hair.) Not something he'd have thought ten years ago, but now, after the things he and their team have seen; have lived through…

Stark men are made of iron, according to his old man.

But Tony knows better: he's not much more than blood, guts, failure, under too-fragile skin held together with electrical tape and good intentions.

Tony's only ever wanted to fix—to build and improve—but he's broken plenty, too.

(Maybe he is Howard's greatest creation after all.)

So this odd group of freaks and geeks, it's the closest thing to family he's got. More than he expected; more than he deserves. It's enough.

(It can be enough.)

If Steve's Sleeping Beauty, Tony sure as hell isn't a prince. But he's not a creeper, either.

He kisses his fingertips. Hovers them above Steve's bruise. Not touching, but close enough to feel the heat rising off his skin. Heavy sigh and Tony rises; grabs from another couch a hideous red, white, and blue throw Clint knit for Steve. Steve sighs, shifts when Tony tucks it around him. He doesn't wake. Tony settles upright at the other end of the couch. Steve's feet graze the outside of Tony's thigh, a comforting pressure. He considers dimming the lights, but decides not to; Steve left them on.

Wondering what thoughts chased Steve out of his bedroom and into the living room, Tony shuts his eyes and lets the drip drop lull him.

A/N:

This was written for challenge #503 - "dirty laundry," at LiveJournal's slashthedrabble.

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