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Tony trudged up the stairs, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He frowned to himself, noticing the grease stain on the back of his hand, realizing an identical smear was now probably smudged across his brow.
He was sweaty and uncomfortable, and let’s face it, he reeked. When was the last time he’d had a shower? Hell, the last time he stopped for a glass of water? He was parched.
And apparently absent-minded, he chided himself, pulling his hand sharply away from where it’d been running grease through his hair. Damnit, that was going to take effort to get out. Effort he wasn’t currently willing to expend on, well, anything.
Twenty-seven hours—hardly his longest stint in the workshop—completely disconnected from the rest of the world, lost in his toys as Stephen would say. Stephen . Come to think of it, Tony was surprised he hadn’t shown up hours ago to drag him out of the room, ‘for your own health, Tony, you’d waste away if no one was around to snap you out of it every now and then.’
Tony cleared his throat, wincing at the rasp. Stephen was probably right on that count. He made a beeline for the kitchen and for once forwent the coffee for actual, probably ‘good for you,’ water. How boring. Served to soothe his throat, however, and for that he had to admit he was grateful.
And now to trudge up yet another flight of stairs. Who in their right mind had put so many freaking stairs in his house. Why. What was wrong with flat homes. Who needs floors.
He didn’t even notice his eyes had drifted shut until his shin connected with the edge of the stairs he’d meant to start ascending just about then, nearly knocking his teeth out as he went down.
“Fuck!”
Tony huffed in annoyance and pushed himself up, taking a seat to inspect the damage. He prodded his leg and hissed uncomfortably—he was going to have a fun time trying to explain that one. Seriously, when did twenty-seven hours become the new forty-three? God, he was getting old.
“Did you just fall over?” Stephen accused from the top of the stairs. Tony hadn’t heard him get there.
“No,” Tony lied, stifling a yawn and dropping his hand quickly from his shin.
“You could at least try to sound convincing.”
“I didn’t fall,” Tony insisted.
“Uh huh. Should I be concerned?”
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Can’t a guy just sit down on his own stairs in his own home on his own time without being dragged off to be judged by a jury of his peers?”
“Touchy.”
“Am not.”
There was silence for a bit. Tony did his best to heal the offending leg ache with an intense stare.
“Are you planning on spending the rest of the night there? There’s this new-fangled thing called a bed, you know. Some people use it for sleeping.”
“Beds and I don’t get along.”
“I beg to differ.”
“People in my bed get along with me. The bed itself… there’s bad blood there.”
“People, is it? Maybe I should be concerned after all.”
“Bite me. You know what I mean.” Tony finally turned around and threw Stephen a weary smile. “You’re the only person for me.”
“This person is becoming rapidly unamused with your sleep-dodging antics.”
He was standing there, at the top of the stairs, arms crossed—somehow managing to look menacing despite the fact that he was barefoot and dressed down just about as far as one could get—loose, worn grey tee, and grey-blue plaid pajama pants. Tony had to take a moment to appreciate the sight. That stone-cold, broker-no-arguments stare and statue-like stillness. Anyone else in their right mind would’ve been terrified to be on the receiving end of the Sorcerer Supreme’s Death Glare™. Tony thought he was absolutely adorable. Hair mildly-tousled. The soft curve of his smile that was just barely there, the smile he had come to learn Stephen couldn’t quite manage to poker away when Tony was around. Peter too. The Sorcerer Supreme had soft spots after all.
“You’re the idiot who married me. Panther doesn’t change its spots, you know.”
“Panthers don’t have spots.”
“Black panthers maybe. Technically leopards are panthers.” Tony turned away and stifled another yawn.
“You’re exhausted,” Stephen observed.
“Am not,” Tony replied. Yes, yes he was. Why was he even arguing at this point? Sheer bull-headedness. Literally nothing more.
“Are too. Get your ass upstairs.”
“I think I’m alright. Here. Just here. Maybe I’ll take you up on that whole night on the stairs thing. It’s really a lot more comfortable than it looks.” Another barely contained yawn, this time accompanied by a soft, long-suffering sigh from Stephen. Tony leaned over and rested against the wall, letting his eyes drift shut. He heard footsteps descending the stairs.
Two hands on his arms, urging him up. “Come on, Tony. Up you get.” He tried squeezing the tired out of his eyes and after a brief consideration of what it would take to convince Stephen to just leave him on the stairs, Tony gave in and obliged, hauling himself up to his feet.
“You are absolutely filthy. I don’t understand how you even managed that,” Stephen commented, voice equal parts irked and amused. They went up the stairs together, one of Stephen’s arms slipping down off Tony’s bicep to sling around his waist. Resting comfortably more so than providing a supportive grip. Tony wasn’t that far gone.
“I was half-expecting you to barge into my workroom and drag me out by my ankles.”
“Are you disappointed I didn’t?”
“Nope. Just surprised.”
“You’re an adult,” Stephen replied simply.
That gave Tony pause. “You say that like it has any meaning. At all.”
“Far be it for me to tell you what to do.”
Tony blinked at that. He looked over at Stephen and squinted. Stephen looked back. Tony squinted harder. “Who are you and where did you hide Stephen’s body.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “I’m not that bad.”
“You’re an old nag. You are genuinely the most annoying, controlling person I’ve ever met.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“That’s not to say I don’t love you.”
“Of course. How could I have possibly misinterpreted old nag.”
“But you have to admit, leaving Tony to his own devices isn’t exactly your colour.” They reached the top of the stairs and Tony stopped to stretch out his arms.
“It was an experiment,” Stephen admitted.
“An experiment,” Tony repeated, unconvinced. Something wasn’t ringing quite right. Stephen raised an eyebrow.
“You know, the thing one does when a hypothesis comes to mind—”
“I know what an experiment is, Stephen. I’m not entirely sure what you meant to prove, but I can assure you, it didn’t work.”
“It did, actually.”
Tony threw him a perturbed look. Stephen just smiled back, that smug, knowing twinkle in his eye. Tony shook his head and sighed, heading for their room.
“You know what, don’t even bother telling me. I’m too…”
“Tired?” Stephen supplied, a little too cheekily in Tony’s opinion.
“No—”
“Exhausted? Out of energy? Worn out? Fatigued? Weary? Drained?”
“Are you done.”
“Not even close. Go shower.”
“Busy thinking about more important things. That’s what I was going to say.”
“You had a good twelve seconds, and that’s the best you could come up with?”
Tony scowled at him. “What can I say, I’m—”
“In desperate need of sleep.”
“If you’re gonna keep that up, I’m going back to the stairs,” Tony threatened. “At least it was quiet there.” He wasn’t actually sure if he meant it or not.
“Fine,” Stephen relented. “Shower.” He pointed towards the door to the bathroom.
Tony looked at the white sheets and the promise of a softer-than-stairs mattress on the other side of the room and considered the request for a moment. He looked over at the bathroom. A shower. Clean water. Soap. No more sweat, no more grime. If he was lucky, no more grease. Cleanliness. What a nice thought.
Tony headed straight for the bed.
“Tony. I’m serious. Go shower.”
“Yeah, I’m okay, actually. I’m just gonna—quick nap, that’s all.” He really couldn’t contain the yawn that forced its way out of his mouth this time around. He waved off Stephen’s concerns with a flapping hand, suddenly overcome with the urge to just fall over, close his eyes, and pass the fuck out.
Preferably on something soft. Like the bed conveniently placed in the room. He almost made it, too.
“Anthony Edward Stark, I swear to God, if you so much as touch my clean bed I will throw you in the machine with the sheets myself.”
Tony stopped and turned to regard his venomously glowering husband.
“You’re bluffing.” He took another step towards the bed. “I bet you don’t even know how to turn the thing on.”
“Try me.”
There was something very genuine about Stephen’s tone that had Tony worried for a second. And then another second. Maybe it was the bone-tired exhaustion clouding his ability to read Stephen properly, but Tony was almost entirely certain Stephen was not, in fact, bluffing. His arms were crossed against his chest again, his ‘come at me, bitch’ dagger-eyes were fully unsheathed—yes, that was the look of a man who would chuck Tony in a laundry machine, hit “extra spin” and not look back. He was sure of it.
“Laundry, my ass. You couldn't wash a plate if your life depended on it,” Tony grumbled as he half-heartedly stormed towards the bathroom, pulling off his tank top and tossing it somewhere on the floor behind himself for good measure. Vive la résistance.
“You know, the least you could do is help out,” Tony called back into the room after he’d stripped and stared forlornly at the shower for a minute. He stepped in and the water automatically started to flow, already set to his preferred temperature. Not too hot, not too cold. Just Goldilocks. He grabbed the bottle of shower gel off the wall, pausing to yawn again, only for it to morph into a grin when he heard the bathroom door slide open.
He waited until the shower door opened before he turned around, holding the bottle out. The water temperature creeped up, hitting a compromise with the hotter setting Stephen preferred. “You do it. I’m too tired. Please.”
Stephen huffed. “Oh, now you’ll admit it.”
“When it means you lather me up? Hell yeah. I’m stubborn, not stupid.”
Stephen shook his head incredulously and took the bottle. “So I’m right, but only when you get something out of it.”
“Exactly. See? You get it.”
Stephen hummed, but not exactly in agreement. He stepped closer and squeezed out a liberal amount of soap into his palm, hands trembling gently, before he replaced the bottle on the shelf cut into the wall. Tony watched him, eyes running over Stephen’s fit, muscled body appreciatively. He took his time, lingering on those arms he loved so much, that chest he probably knew better than his own (which was saying a lot, considering how much time Tony had spent inadvertently becoming intimately acquainted with his own through arc reactor after arc reactor), and finally letting his eyes sink down and drink in the cut of his hip bones, almost as sharp as his cheekbones.
“Like what you see?” Stephen smirked.
“Babe, you could be wearing a parka and I’d still be hot for you.”
Stephen hummed again, and this time he was definitely pleased. He took another step and started rubbing the gel against Tony’s biceps, his shoulders, cutting away the sweat and grime that the water hadn’t already washed off. His hands shook, but it didn’t seem to bother him. Never really did these days, Tony had noticed.
Stephen worked his way down to Tony’s hands, stopping to grab some more soap. He took them one by one, washing them thoroughly, working the grease away. He started with his palms, rubbing in circles, before he moved down to each finger, washing away the remnants of Tony’s hard work from the right hand and then the left. Stephen’s gaze never left their hands, focused on what he was doing. Tony couldn’t stop staring at him. His face. That nose. The cupid’s bow of his upper lip, the fullness of his bottom lip. That beard, cut so precisely, never unkempt. The dark brown hair, almost black when it was damp, that hung over his forehead, falling out of place. The streaks of grey against his temples Tony knew all too well were hard-earned, much like his own greying strands. Christ, those cheekbones . Moments like this made Tony feel warm, sated, so genuinely happy. Moments when he could just stare. Not that there were any shortage of them, Tony was always staring, trying to suss out how such a magnificent, gorgeous creature like Stephen ended up at his side. Tony was utterly besotted.
Stephen let go of his hand and caught his eye, smiling.
“What are you staring at.”
“That big, green unicorn standing behind you. Seriously, it’s massive. And glowing,” Tony answered earnestly.
“You’re glowing,” Stephen replied, tapping the housing unit softly. Honestly, the thing might as well be back in his chest for all that it practically never left his skin.
Stephen grabbed more soap and started on his chest. He worked rather efficiently, and while Tony would have loved for him to have drawn this out, never stop touching him, he really was very fucking exhausted.
Stephen’s fingers glided over his abs, ran along his sides, and it wasn’t long before he was turning Tony around, nudging him more properly under the spray. He handed Tony a bottle over his shoulder.
“I think you can handle the rest of that.” Stephen suggested, his tone clearly conveying his meaning.
“You usually seem to enjoy handling that.” Another yawn forced its way out of Tony’s mouth.
“Sleep deprivation. That’s sexy,” Stephen commented wryly, washing his back. His hands started up at the nape of his neck, split to run across his shoulders, and then moved down his spine. Tony leaned into it.
“God, then I must be the biggest turn on ever,” Tony replied, yawning again. “It won’t stop.” Yawn. “Make it stop, Stephen,” he complained.
“There’s a simple solution to that.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“One day you’ll listen.”
“I sincerely—yawn—doubt that.”
“Yeah, me too.” Stephen yawned.
“Hah. I’m not the only one.”
“Entirely your fault.”
Tony handed the soap back, finished with all his various bits. He heard another thingy being opened or pushed or something—bottle, that’s the word—and then Stephen’s hands were in his hair, fingertips pressing into his scalp as much as he was really capable. It was nice. For such a kick-ass on the field, Stephen always had a gentle touch. Tony stepped back, pressing against Stephen’s front. He was solid against him. A different kind of warm from the water. Which was a dumb thing to think. Heat was heat. Was heat. But Tony didn’t bother chiding himself. He just enjoyed the press of Stephen against him and belatedly realized at some point his eyes had slid closed.
He didn’t even mind it when Stephen guided his head back under the spray, holding his breath for a moment as the water and shampoo suds ran over his face.
“Sorry,” Stephen muttered apologetically.
“‘s okay.” Tony wiped his face and let the water do its job, carrying everything off his skin, rinsing it all down the drain. He turned around and slid his arms over Stephen’s shoulders, linking his hands behind his neck, and then he leaned in, reaching up a little and stopping just when their noses were about to touch.
“Hi,” Tony greeted.
“God, you’re so gone.”
“For you, maybe.”
“You're such an idiot,” Stephen replied fondly. Tony leaned in and tilted his head, kissing him. Stephen kissed him back, running his shaking hands down his shoulders, resting them against Tony’s lower back.
“I think it’s time to get you into bed.”
“Probably,” Tony agreed, leaning back in to steal one more kiss. Stephen’s hands trailed up to his forearms, walking backwards and pulling Tony along with him, out of the shower. The water shut off before the door opened and Tony pulled back, letting Stephen go for the time being.
He stood under the glow of the bathroom light, dripping onto a bath mat, tiredly considering himself in a mirror. A towel manifested itself in front of him.
“Thanks.” Tony pressed it against his face. His knowledge of what towelling oneself off entailed encouraged him to continue with the rest of his wet skin. He ignored that suggestion in favour of closing his eyes and keeping his face hidden in the soft towel.
“Generally, after one part of the body is dry you’d move onto the next. That is, in essence, the point of the towel,” Stephen remarked dryly somewhere from the side. Tony groaned. That sounded like so much work.
Stephen changed tactics. “The faster you finish with that, the faster you get into bed.”
What a fantastic point.
Stephen tossed him a pair of boxers and a soft black t-shirt once Tony was finished towelling off, he himself in a fresh-looking pair of night clothes.
“What, did the other ones offend your delicate sensibilities?” Tony gestured towards Stephen’s attire as he pulled on his own.
“You got grease all over them.”
“Whoops.” Not a terribly sincere declaration of apology on his part.
Tony headed for the sink, still towelling off his hair. He only drifted off twice during the process of brushing his teeth. He considered that a win.
Waaaay too many minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom. Stephen was already on his side of the bed, comfortably situated under the covers. He held up Tony’s end of the comforter as he neared.
Tony, for his part, essentially flopped over and fell into bed. Graceful as always. The lights went out, save for the soft glow emanating through his shirt.
He registered the weight of the comforter settling on top of him, the shifting of the bed as Stephen slid closer and wrapped an arm around Tony’s middle, relaxing against his back. Tony curled back into him.
He felt another shift, and then the soft press of lips against the nape of his neck.
He heard Stephen’s breathing, regular, then slowing.
He didn’t really feel himself drift off, but before he really knew it, he was out, dead to the world, wrapped in an embrace he’d never grow tired of.
And honestly, there was nothing better.