Title: Moonlight And Love Songs

Author: Indigo Night

Summary: In which Tony is old, cranky, and jealous. But luckily, Steve knows exactly what to do.

Feedback: Yes please, yay reviews!

Pairing: Established Steve/Tony.

Disclaimer: I do not own Avengers or the characters I'm just borrowing them for fun.

Spoilers: Nope.

Warnings: Schmoop, tiny bit of angst, slash, Sinatra.

Author's Note: The mental image was too precious to ignore. The song is As Time Goes By by Frank Sinatra, from which the title also comes. I haven't read the comics, only seen the movies, so anything not in the movies is either ignored or only very loosely referenced. Read, Review,

Enjoy!

It was supposed to be a relatively simple mission; a few new robot prototypes had escaped their lab and decided to wreak some havoc in a nearby junk yard. In truth, it hardly even merited Avenger attention, but Steve had volunteered them as a training mission for some of the newer recruits.

For that very reason Steve had been hanging back, issuing commands through the comm but remaining more or less on the sidelines watching his team. Everything seemed to be going well, and Spiderman's jokes were even semi-funny for once.

It was a minor incident really, as far as the incidents their lives usually involved went. So minor in fact that Steve almost didn't see it. The largest of the robots was aiming a laser blast at a precariously balanced pile of debris hanging over Black Widow's head when Tigra managed to pounce on its outstretched appendage, knocking it aside. As planned the blast went wide, firing harmlessly into the sky. Except, that particular patch of sky happened to be occupied.

"Iron Man, watch out!" Steve shouted into his comm. Tony had plenty of time to move, after so many years living and fighting together Steve knew how long it should have taken his partner to process the threat and react to it. But Tony didn't react.

The blast glanced off of his shoulder, but it knocked him sideways and he plummeted from the sky like a massive metal missile. Steve held himself in position by sheer force of will; Tony's armor was the most advanced in the world, and he'd designed it to take a lot of damage.

"Tony, you okay?" he verified over their comm link. It took a worrying three minutes, in which the suit didn't so much as twitch, before Tony answered. By that time the rest of the team had successfully subdued the robots, were preparing to dismantle them for transportation, and Steve was sprinting across what remained of the battle field toward the prone superhero.

He was still a few yards away when Tony at last responded. "I'm fine," he assured, though his voice was slightly breathless and the transmission came through in bursts of static. Steve skidded to a halt next to the pile of what appeared to have been discarded commodes as Tony gingerly began levering himself to his feet.

"What went wrong?" he demanded as he offered Tony a hand up from the porcelain shards. His voice might have been a bit more stern than necessary, but seeing as Tony spent about as much time working on his suit as most people spent parenting their children, he was justified because that should not have happened.

"Nothing. Slight bug in the programming. I'll fix it." Tony shrugged it off in a way that was not at all reassuring.

Steve wanted to press the issue, but there was clean up to start, and other minor injuries to see to, and a debriefing to set up, and idiot scientists to lecture. By the time Steve managed to extricate himself from all the bureaucracy, Tony had locked himself in his lab and ordered Jarvis not to let anyone in.

Steve gave him thirty-six hours before using his override code and coming armed with a cheeseburger.

Tony's workshop was a hazard zone, as always, and Steve had to step carefully around heaps of junk that Dummy appeared to be 'organizing'. Tony himself, who was shoulders deep in what appeared to be a metal chest cavity the size of a small tank, didn't even look up when Steve entered.

After fifteen years, Steve knew better than to be offended at apparently being ignored, so he set the cheeseburger down on the least toxic looking surface available and wondered over to the Iron Man suit in its frame. It looked as good as ever, the dents buffed out, dirt cleaned up, and paint as gaudy as always. "Did you fix the bug?" he asked. It was redundant, since Tony put suit maintenance above all other projects, including silly things like sleeping and eating, but he wanted to be sure. The incident earlier had made him more anxious than he liked to admit.

"No," Tony's voice echoed and seemed very far off from the depths of whatever it was he was working on, and it was probably only due to his super soldier hearing that Steve heard him at all, but even so he could detect the distinctly off undertone.

Steve was still frowning when Tony emerged from his contraption. His arms were practically black from fingertip to elbow with oil and god only knew what else and he was wiping his hands on an equally greasy rag. His hair – which was getting too long again, Steve made a mental note to locate their clippers soon – was sticking up in a variety of directions that attested to an excessive amount of Tony running his hands through it distractedly, or sticking himself in a light socket, which was an equally viable possibility.

"What's wrong? Do you need parts, or –" Steve tried. He carefully skirted around any question that might sub-textually imply can you fix it because that was a sure fire way to get himself kicked out of the workshop and his override code revoked.

"No," Tony answered shortly.

"Did you-" Steve tried again, but Tony didn't even let him finish.

"No," he snapped, tossing his rag aside with far more force than was necessary, "There is no bug."

That stopped Steve short. He blinked. "What do you-"

"I mean," Tony talked over him, as usual, "There is no bug. There's nothing wrong with the suit. The suit is fine. It's me." He spoke in sharp, chopped sentences like contained explosions, and Steve noticed Tony's shoulders were so tight Clint could probably have walked across them like a high wire. He came to the conclusions that whatever issue Tony had, it had been festering for a while now.

"What is it?" Steve pressed, softening his words and moving toward Tony like a man trying to defuse a bomb.

"Really?" Tony countered, volume becoming increasingly louder, "You're just going to pretend you don't- You're going to actually make me say it, aren't you?" Tony's words tripped over each other and he cut himself off as he often did when he was agitated.

Steve just blinked at him in innocent confusion.

"I'm old, Steve, okay? I mean, look at me!" He gesticulated wildly, "I-I have to wear reading glasses, and my joints pop. If I sit down wrong my back starts to ache…" Tony kept on rambling, but Steve stopped listening too closely in favor of staring at Tony incredulously. Of course, he probably should have seen this coming; Tony had always been a little vain. It was true, Tony's hair was a little more salt than pepper these days, and he didn't quite have the endless energy – or libido – he'd once had, and yes, his stomach wasn't quite as flat and firm beneath his greasy tank top as it used to be. But none of those things bothered Steve, and he certainly didn't see how they necessitated a freak out of this caliber.

He started to shake his head, opening his mouth to say something placating; but Tony cut him off, again.

"And you know, that's fine. Whatever." It clearly wasn't fine. "People get old, shit happens. But I just keep getting more and more," he gesticulated again, as though that fully encompassed his point, "And you're still just all… you like and perfect. And sure, a guy's got needs, I get that, I don't blame you. I saw you looking at Tigra the other day, that's-"

Steve rolled his eyes and didn't bother letting Tony finish. "Jarvis, As Time Goes By please," he instructed.

"An excellent selection, sir," Jarvis approved as Sinatra started to croon through the speakers.

Tony was glowering at him, but with long practiced ease Steve ignored the look and drew him into his arms anyway. The billionaire put up a half hearted protest, but his hands ended up on Steve's shoulders anyway. Steve was not a particularly good dancer, though many well meaning friends had tried to teach him over the years, but that was hardly the point at the moment. He drew Tony in, grease stains and all, until they were chest to arc reactor, Steve's arms around Tony's waist as he lead them in a sort of slow, circular sway.

"This is stupid," Tony grumbled, though he was steadily losing the fight against letting his head drop to Steve's chest. "And I hate your old fogey music."

"No you don't," Steve reproved fondly. He let his fingers find the ragged hem of Tony's tank top and slip underneath to spread across warm, scar pitted skin. He let the familiar silence hover over them comfortably as they swayed; after fifteen years with Tony a little bit of silence was sometimes a blessing. He dropped his head, pressing a gentle kiss into Tony's hair. "I was not looking at Tigra," he assured softly; "I was evaluating the practicality of the adjustments she'd made to her suit."

Tony muffled a snort against Steve's shoulder, but to his relief it sounded more like humor than disbelieve, and his arms tightened around Steve's shoulders.

"I'm sorry I can't grow older with you," he continued, closing his suddenly stinging eyes against the reminder. "But I'm not going to just stop loving you, ever. I don't care if you've got a few wrinkles or anything else." When Tony tilted his head back to protest Steve just kissed the web of laugh lines that were slowly spreading out from the corners of his eyes. "I love you," he reiterated, and after a moment Tony huffed and let his head fall back against Steve's chest.

"I'm an ass," he muttered in defeat.

Steve grinned and let his hand wonder just a little lower to prove his point. "Yes, but you're my ass."