Note: Small attempted non-con scene in this chapter.
Steve was not the jealous type. At least, this is what he told himself over and over again as Tony left for the Duke's private room.
Steve was not jealous.
Nor, apparently, was he a very good liar.
Sitting on the steps of the stage—no longer a rehearsal space now, but the place for their final show—Steve had already devoured two sandwiches and was now starting at the third. Ever since his sudden growth spurt, Steve had been capable of eating tremendous quantities of food. Normally, he refused his well-sized appetite in favor of preserving his small wallet, but SHIELD provided free food, and for the first time, he was taking advantage. As though filling his stomach could fill the ache in his chest, as though stifling his overeager and overworked metabolism could stifle the vulgar, heart-wrenching thoughts that refused to leave his mind.
"Forget the Duke's money. It won't be enough. You'll eat us out of rent," said one of the crew members—a tall, pretty redheaded woman—as she took a seat beside him. She offered him her hand. "Pepper. Pepper Potts." When she smiled, the freckles around her mouth became explicitly clear.
Steve shook her hand while he held tight to his sandwich with his free one. She chuckled. "I'm a friend of Tony's," she said. "Been working at SHIELD longer than he has. You're different than the rest, you know."
Steve raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Different?" he asked.
Pepper nodded. "Different. You're certainly not a client. He never stops talking about you. After tonight, he'll be back. You guys can be happy, trust me."
"Happy?" Clint laughed sadly and took a seat on Steve's other side. "He fell in love with a hooker. He's never going to be happy. Never fall in love with someone who sells themselves, Steve. It always ends badly." He rested a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder while Pepper glared him down. "What?" he asked.
"Tony loves him. This doesn't change that," she said.
"Clint's right," Natasha said. She came to a stop in front of them, his arms crossed over his chest. "It doesn't matter if there's love. It's about what'll happen to the relationship."
"And what will happen to the relationship?" asked Rhodey. He appeared at the end of the stage then walked across to join the group. Like Pepper, he was glaring, muscular arms crossed over his chest, promising to end anyone who spoke ill of his friend. Steve had never respected him more than he did in that moment.
"It falls apart," Natasha said. "It's simple. First there's desire, then passion, then suspicion, jealousy, anger, betrayal. You can't have this—this situation—and have trust."
"And if there's no trust, there's no love, buddy," said Clint. "Jealousy will drive you mad."
Steve looked down at his half-eaten sandwich. Suddenly, he wasn't so hungry anymore. He thought of Tony—of his laugh and the way he refused to turn away when Steve complimented him, the way he fought not to smile. He thought of Tony snorting at one of Steve's dumb jokes, and mustard dripping down his face when he ate too fast—a sudden idea for an invention taking over everything else, and he'd rush off, only surfacing hours later, covered in grease, and, far too often, his own blood. He thought of Tony sleeping, his face calm, light, his fingers tangled up in Steve's shirt and his leg wrapped around Steve's own, thought of the curve of his jaw, the stubble, the lean muscles of his stomach, and the press of his lips, the touch of his hands, his naked body sliding against Steve's.
And that's where the image changed, when Steve became the Duke, and he could see Tiberius' clammy hands on Tony's smooth skin, his fingers tracing Tony's face, sliding down his arms, his chest, his waist. Tiberius' lips on Tony's shoulder, and Tony taking off his suit jacket, his well-pressed dress shirt, his belt…
Steve crushed the sandwich in his hands and forced himself to take a deep breath. This was Tony he was talking about. Tony who could wow a crowd, Tony dressed to the nines, who dragged Steve into his room wearing nothing but ripped sweat pants and a stained t-shirt. Tony who smiled for Steve with his teeth, not tightly pressed lips and cold eyes. Tony who showed Steve his projects and ranted on and and about the future, about his ideas—never pausing to wonder if he sounded stupid or to worry over appearances. Tony without a mask.
The Duke might have Tony's affections for a night, but he'd never have that; he'd never have the real Tony, the Tony only Steve got to see.
Bruce took a seat on Natasha's right and leaned forward, closer to Steve. "Trust me," he said. "Anger is not your friend. Don't let it consume you. Pepper's right. This doesn't change anything. What you and Tony have—whatever you have—that's between you, and you're stronger than a job."
"Aye," Thor agreed. He leaned against the nearest prop, his great arms crossed over his chest, his usually smiling face graver than Steve had ever seen. That, more than anything, solidified Steve's situation, making it completely, painfully real. "If you truly love him, you must persevere."
Steve pressed the palm of his free hand against his eyes, rubbing until dots appeared in his vision. If only it was as easy to wipe thoughts from his mind. Standing up, he offered up the rest of his sandwich (it was grabbed immediately by all), thanked his friends for their advice, and left the building.
He walked the streets, his feet taking him instinctively to the Duke's balcony. From his spot below, he could see the man's bedroom window, the doors thrown open, curtain flying in the wind. Tony stood with his back to the railing, the Duke hovering over him; both were half dressed.
Tony turned, his gaze raking over the cityscape, then down to the streets below him. His eyes locked with Steve's. Steve bit his tongue to keep from crying out to him, from begging him to stop, from scaling the wall just to be by Tony's side.
"I love you," Tony mouthed.
As he turned, folding back into Tiberius' greedy arms, Steve whispered the words back to him.
Despite all his instance that he "had to do his job," there wasn't one cell in Tony's body that wanted to go through with the night's events.
Everything about Tiberius gave him the creeps—his "too cool" hair, and his want-to-be suave smile, the way his hands ghosted over Tony's spine for far too long, or his eyes lingered below the belt. Clearly, Tiberius wanted to be important, wanted it so bad that he shook with it down to his bones, down to his core. Maybe he'd been a bullied kid or an unsuccessful teen, maybe the failures of his life were adding up, the need to prove himself building in his chest until it burst out of him in small creepy gestures like grabbing possessively at Tony's wrist, or dictating every line of The Avengers' script. Tony might have felt bad for him if he hadn't hated him so damn much.
In a way, he could relate. Tony knew quite a lot about being desperate, about dreaming—seeing your chance, your potential in the eyes of every stranger, in the reflections in the windows, in the whispers of every passerby on the street. He'd stooped to some very desperate levels to accomplish those dreams, but he'd never stolen anything.
This—standing in Tiberius' private bedroom, a glass of scotch in his hands, and Tiberius' eyes drifting—well, this felt a lot like theft.
"A relationship? With the writer?" Tony laughed. The lie burned at the inside of his throat as he thought of Steve's lips on his jaw, and his thumbs on his hips, his hot breath heavy on his neck. "No. Definitely not. Look, he's got a crush. It happens. Am I indulging it? Sure. He's talented, and we need him. After the plays over, it ends. But this thing could bring in a lot of money, and you know how artists get. In need of constant ego stroking. But it's not real."
Steve's voice drifted through his head, soft whispers of love, of confidence, Steve hovering over him as he tinkered over his latest project, asking 'what's that?', 'how's it work' 'it looks brilliant' 'tell me about it' with a passionate, honest interest that no one had ever shown Tony's work before. He thought of Steve's eyes lightning up when he showed him the latest prototype for the reactor—almost finished, almost right. Steve's face lighting up, his stifled laugh late at night, the firm press of his body as he pulled Tony into the dressing room while they were supposed to be working.
Tony had never experienced anything more real in his life. He suspected he never would again.
Still, Tiberius looked pleased at his words, his confident smile back in place. Well, at least one part of Tony's speech had been true; ego stroking did wonders. "When this place succeeds, you won't have to work here anymore," said the Duke. "With the money we'll make, we can go anywhere. You can get a real workshop to do your…projects."
Tony could see it clearly; a large room, desks in every corner, machinery surrounding the place, messy—because that was how he worked best—but perfectly, completely his. "Projects" was a bit of an understatement—a small word for all the dreams he had planned—but he could take it, could accept the offer and be content. Maybe not happy, certainly not as blissfully at peace as he was when he was tinkering in his room, alone with Steve, but it was a start. A chance at a real life.
And all it would cost him was his heart.
"And the ending?" he asked.
"The silly little writer will get his fairy-tale ending," Tiberius conceded. He sighed, scratching his head. "Stupid ending, isn't it? But I suppose the crowds will like it."
Tony nodded. It was a nice ending, but Tiberius was right; it was unrealistic. This was how stories ended—sacrifice and pain; in the real world, you took what you could get, and you learned not to feel.
Tony stepped back until the railing of the balcony pressed into his spine, the rough edges of the metal scratching over his skin. The window was open wide, a breeze fluttering into the room and sending the curtains flying. His shirt, already thrown aside and lying on the floor, twitched slightly.
Tiberius advanced, and Tony turned at the last minute. Let the Duke touch him, let him have his fill, but he'd rather see Paris—all that potential, all that progress, stretched out for miles ahead—than to see the lust in Tiberius' cold eyes. Tony counted the buildings, watched a bird fly by overhead—anything to distract from Ty's lips on his shoulder and his hands drifting along his zipper. He looked down and caught side of a young man just below, his blond hair swaying in the wind and his face scanning upwards…
Steve.
Tony's heart skipped a beat, and the tighter Ty's hands pulled him in, the more his mind—his heart—drifted out, out of the room, out of SHIELD, out of Ty's grasp and back down on the street, poor but happy with Steve by his side. In that moment, he forgot about the reactor, forgot about the play, about Fury and his deals, about the future. There was nothing but Steve's pain ridden face, and the memory of his lips.
He mouthed "I love you." Aloud, he said firmly to the Duke, "No."
Tiberius pulled away. "No?"
Tony shook his head. He pulled away from the window and hurried across the room. Picking up his shirt and belt, he made his way to the door. "I can't. I'm sorry. You're going to have to find a new—"
Tiberius' hand collided with the side of Tony's face, knocking him off balance. He stumbled back several feet and dropped his shirt in surprise.
"No," Tiberius said again, and this time, his face was murderous. "This is not how the story ends. Don't you see?" He grabbed Tony by his belt loops and pulled him forward, crashing their lips together. "You made me believe that you loved me." With shaking fingers, he fumbled over Tony's zipper. "This is how the story ends."
Tony pushed him back with as much force as he could muster, sending the Duke flying backwards and stumbling into the bed post. He growled, but before he could do more than take a single step forward, Tony punched him in the face and left the room.
He stumbled headlong into Rhodey.
"Woah, oh, hi," Tony said, taking a step back. Only now, in the light of the hallway, did he realize he was shaking. The button on his pants had fallen off, and his shirt had been left behind.
Rhodey seemed to put together what must have happened, because his expression immediately turned livid and he made a step toward the Duke's room as though to confront him. Tony grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
"Forget it," he said. "I got to get out of here. Where's Steve?"