Tony couldn't sleep. He had been up for the past two hours or so, trying to go to bed. At first, he just poked Steve until he woke up, but that just resulted in several pillows being thrown into his face and a very grumpy super soldier. His head rested on his hands, and he resigned himself to staring straight up at the ceiling and listening to Steve's quiet and rhythmic breathing. In, out, pause. In, out, pause. Tony rolled onto his side, facing Steve's back. He could remember a time without him. The "Dark Days", as Pepper called them. Tony called them the "Get-so-drunk-that-you-can't-even-remember-your-own-gender Days". He was never happy back then, because he never found anything to hold onto. Anything he could ever want could be bought by his massive, unlimited fortune. Girls, cars, attention, mansions, but just not the right soulmate.
And then Steve came bounding along, fresh from his Capsicle and wearing a flag for a costume.
Steve was everything Tony wasn't. Steady, quiet, old-fashioned, ethical, humble; Tony could recite for days on end the qualities he saw in Steve that he never had. Tony sighed and rolled over to face away from Steve, dragging some of the blanket with him. Steve grunted and gently tugged the comforter back to the center and resumed his steady breathing. In, out, pause. In, out, pause. Tony remembered the rare moments when Howard told him bedtime stories, back before MIT, before grade school, even. The light that shone in his father's eyes as he told the tragic tale of Captain America, the world's first superhero. How he singlehandedly saved New York and countless other lives. Steve had always been just Captain America, and now he was sleeping mere inches from him.
Tony swung his legs out of bed and stood up. He quietly opened the door and slipped out into the hallway, arc reactor acting as a flashlight. Just a little bit to drink. Just enough to take the edge off the insomnia. Walking near the wall to minimize noise, Tony made his way up the stairs and into the commons. He shuffled past the living room and the dining room and felt his way into the kitchen. The bar had to be—omf, he walked into it. Tony turned his beam of light to illuminate a seat, and sat down, random choosing a bottle. Just a little bit. Not too much. He poured a small amount into a tumbler and sipped quietly. Well, maybe a bit more.
Steve woke suddenly, gripping the sheets around him. Something was off something—Tony, where's Tony?
"JARVIS, where's Tony?"
"Master Stark is in the kitchen on level 45, sir."
Oh no, not this again.
Steve bolted out of bed, tiptoeing past the bedrooms of the other Avengers and raced up the stairs. He had to get there quickly, before…
Tony was busy downing his fifth cup of scotch. It was scotch, right? He vaguely remembered a shadow come over him, and large hands gently wrest the bottle and cup from his slack hands. Steve led Tony back downstairs by the elbow, and laid him in bed. Tony still reeked of alcohol, but that wasn't new.
"Tony, don't do that."
"Sorry, Cap," Tony mumbled. Steve crawled into bed right next to Tony, and wrapped his arms around Tony. Nothing, his inner demons, was going to break this man. Not if Captain America can't help it.