nasafic:

(fluff, established relationship, blood mention)

Steve’s first grey hair had been an event.

They had known he was aging before that - extensive tests by SHIELD and confirmative work by Bruce showed he was just as mortal as the rest of them - but they hadn’t really known what the pace of it would be until then. It was a Wednesday, Tony remembers, the heat of July, only four days after Steve’s thirty-ninth birthday. Steve had spotted the hair while shaving, and cut a line down his cheek with his straight razor in his resulting excitement. Tony was excited, too; they got blood all over the sheets.

Now, though, the appearance of a grey hair is just another day for Steve. Though Tony still dyes his hair black - he tried his natural, gunmetal grey hue and just felt like a grandpa next to his husband, no matter how kind Steve was about it - Steve has come to embrace it. His hair couldn’t even really be called blonde anymore; it’s more of a shiny iridescent hue, highlighted with silvery streaks.

Still, in his minds eye, when he thinks of Steve, Tony still sees him as blonde. It’s just natural, for him, just like how he’ll always see Steve’s eyes as blue, hands as strong and callused, muscles big and defined, no matter how he begins to soften over the years.

So it’s a bit of a surprise to him when, one afternoon, he comes into the living room to work on his tablet and finds someone with grey hair bent over a book, reading.

Tony blinks, wondering who the hell this is on his couch. Wrapped up in his blanket, turned away from Tony, there are few distinguishing features for Tony to recognize. But then Steve turns and - oh.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve says, pushing his thick tortoiseshell glasses up a little bit on his nose. His laugh lines crinkle by his eyes. “What’s up?”

Tony opens his mouth and shuts it again. Holy god. One would think Steve had lost the ability to surprise is husband after so many years, but Tony is gobsmacked. With the glasses and the hair, Steve looks like a sexy English professor for a little liberal arts college in Maine. If Tony’s knees hadn’t given out on him years ago, he would climb him like a tree.

“Hnnhg,” Tony manages.

Steve raises an eyebrow, smiling now. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“You- you are-“ Tony searches for the appropriate word. “Lickable,” he finally settles on.

Steve bursts out into a laugh, bright and gleaming. “Thank you,” he says. “I guess you would know, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says, finally jerking out of his reverie enough to move forward, pulling Steve’s book from his hands and tossing it away so he can settle on Steve’s lap. The movement tugs at his hips at bit, but he’s fifty-seven, goddamnit, not a octogenarian, so he pushes through the stretch. “Maybe I should give it another taste.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but tugs Tony in for a kiss.