When push came to shove, Tony Stark was nothing more than a mechanic. He was a futurist—a man who saw something broken, and worked to fix it, a man who looked at a thousand scattered pieces, and rather than see a mess, saw the picture they were destined to make. Ever since he was a little boy, building had been Tony's main objective in life—whether it be piecing together the parts in his father's garage to make an engine, or piecing together the right words to get a date, all of Tony's world was hand manufactured—from his inventions, to his friends. After all, 'friend' was just a code word for client—someone to make or take the money because money made the world go round.

Once upon a time, Tony supposed he'd been starry-eyed and hopeful like many of the men who came through SHIELD's doors these days, but such a time had long passed away; Tony was a realist now, a man who worked with what was in front of him, and he had no time for idle dreams of fairytale romances. Because that was what romance was, wasn't it? Just an invented tale to get children through their roughest days, an anchor to hope when the world was cold and dark.

Had he planned for his life to turn out this way? No. Did he love his job? Of course not. But the life was comfortable, the money was steady, and maybe it took a few questionable deeds in the bedroom to seal the deal, but Tony was creating the future one client at a time. SHIELD, for all its questionable ethics and carefully hushed up policies, existed, simply, for the good of mankind.

Inventors around the world came to SHIELD to advertise their ideas, everything from new appliances to new medical procedures; artists traveled from distant countries to try and sell their work on SHIELD's stage; musicians performed their pieces ever night, and culture blossomed behind SHIELD's closed doors. But no musician would find themselves hired for the next live show, no artist would be offered a gallery of their own, no inventor would have his product sold and marketed in every story in the world if there were not men with money to back their ideas.

And that was where Tony came in. Handsome and charismatic, it was his job to sell the work of SHIELD's clients to their benefactors no matter what the cost, and the cost, often, was Tony himself—a price he'd long since gotten used to it. It was all part of the plan, anyway. Because when he got enough money, and the time was right, Tony would start his own business and leave all of this behind.

That night, they were selling a couple of musicians, several new 'world changing' inventions, some new play called Spectacular Something, and several of Tony's own projects for which he was the most excited. The band was good, the other inventions were mediocre at best, and he hadn't even looked at what the play was about, but Tony knew he'd finally hit the jackpot with his newest creation. Small, portable, and completely self-sufficient, he'd dubbed the device 'the arc reactor' and he dreamed of the day when it would power every factory in the world without an ounce of pollution—all he needed was someone to mass produce and advertise for it and he could change the whole world as they knew it.

Fury had given him nothing but a brief description of that night's guest of honor, the Duke with an endless supply of money: he'd be the blonde, the one sitting front and center with the top hat and well-pressed suit.

The man was easy enough to find, and far more attractive than Tony would have guessed. Broad shoulders and a small waist, baby blue eyes, and the nervous expression of a newcomer, he was hardly what Tony was used to with these well-to-do business types.

Winking in the man's direction, Tony took center stage. All around him, girls dressed in nothing but red and gold undergarments danced around, drawing the attention of the wealthy crowd in front of them.

Then Tony cleared his throat, and all went silent, a single spotlight singling him out. He imagined that the words behind him read "Stark Expo" rather than "SHIELD" and with that last boost of confidence, he began his speech to heightened applause.

"Oh, it's good to be back," he said, turning so as to face the entire crowd one person at a time—he winked and smiled here and there at the familiar faces, though his gaze always came back to the blonde at front and center. Eye contact, he'd learned, did wonders in developing trust, in making the clients feel as though they were unique, special—as though they, and only they got the perks that SHIELD dished out. And if he lost himself a bit in those baby blues, imagining that they were oceans he could escape through, escape into, the no one had to know but him.

"You missed me?" Tony asked the crowd and they cheered even louder. "I missed you too. Please, please, it's not about me." He raised his hands in a gesture of humility—a gesture as forced and fake as the entirety of his show, all acted out and rehearsed behind the scenes, and yet he could not help but believe every word. This show was the future. This show was opportunity. "It's not about you. It's not even about us. It's about legacy. It's about what we choose to leave behind. Our goal here is to see the best and brightest men and women of corporations and nations the world over pull their resources together, share their collective vision, to leave behind a brighter future. It's not about us. It's about what we can make. About what we can make better."

By now the crowd was silent, listening, watching. As Tony brought out each new invention, each new art movement, and each new idea, he imagined what the world would be like if this worked, if they had all the money and opportunity they needed; would it all be worth it? Would the story of his life finally have a worthy end?

The show ended not with answers, but with more questions. Those with money questioned what to do with it, and those without money questioned if they'd ever make it in this cutthroat world. Tony knew the story well enough, and before he exited the stage, he implored all those with money to invest, and all those with ideas to contribute. Then the lights came back on, the women began to dance once more, and Tony made his way across the crowd and stopped in front of the man he took to be the Duke.

Moving in close, he grinned and said in the silky voice that he'd learned over the years got him exactly what he wanted, "I believe you were expecting me."

Tony Stark crashed into Steve's life like a tornado—a whirlwind of new ideas and charming smiles, and the sort of eye contact that really gave meaning to the word 'contact' as though Tony was reaching out to touch him even when he was half a room away. Steve had been warned, of course, but nothing his friends had said (and he supposed the Avengers were his friends now, weren't they?) had prepared him for just how very unprepared he actually was. Throughout Tony's speech, Steve find himself glued to his seat, unable to tear his eyes away from the show for even a second. Tony was, to put it simply, mesmerizing.

He was attractive—of course he was—with a strong jaw and bright eyes, but it was his voice that captivated Steve most, a voice that seemed to control the room with every syllable, a passion in his tone that made it impossible not to hang on his every word.

So when Tony stopped in front of him, big brown eyes and low voice completely focused on him—on Steve—he rather thought his heart stopped beating.

"Uh, yes," he said when, finally, he found the nerve to speak.

Tony grinned, easily and light, but lacking somehow in a way Steve wasn't sure he liked, as though it was all constructed for Steve's benefit, pieced together perfectly but only surface deep. "Would you like to dance?" he asked, and Steve nodded wordlessly.

Out on the floor, Steve rested his hands along Tony's hip bones, and Tony pressed his body against Steve's, and though he knew it was fake, knew it was Tony's job to make him feel special and that the Avengers had planned this night to a tea, he couldn't help the way it made his heart race. Because his thumbs fit perfectly against Tony's hips, and this close, he could read novels in Tony's eyes—a million different expressions that didn't show in his picture perfect smile, but that were clear as day when the spotlight faded away.

He wondered, briefly, how many others had seen Tony up close like this, how many other men and women had ever been more than just another audience member in the crowd.

Steve was not so vain as to think that he was alone; he knew well enough that he was not the first—probably not even the hundredth person with witch Tony had danced, and the meeting that would follow—a private poetry reading that Natasha had organized—was probably nothing new in Tony's daily agenda. But while Steve knew this, rationally, his stupid and inexperienced heart seemed incapable of getting the memo. Because dancing and touching, and Tony smiling at him like he was the only person in the world all seemed like very good things, even if they weren't very real.

"I'm going to go ahead and guess that you don't dance much," Tony said after Steve stepped on his foot for the tenth time. He was smiling, but it still managed to make Steve blush.

"I'm sorry. I—it's my first time," he explained.

Tony's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A dancing virgin, huh?" He rubbed his thumb along the stitching of Steve's suit shoulder and began to trace circles over the spot. Steve forced himself not to shutter at the sensation. "What have you been waiting for?"

Steve shrugged. "The right partner." After all his waiting, he'd thought he'd be more selective, and yet, here he was, giving away his first dance to a prostitute at a night club, all so he could gather funds for a group of actors he had just met.

What on Earth had he gotten himself into?

Tony's smile softened somewhat, but he stepped back and dropped his hands to his sides, effectively ending the dance. It took all of Steve's will power not to reach out and drag him back.

"I'll get us that private room ready." Tony said, winked, and then walked across the room and back onto the stage.

He threw his arms out and bowed to everyone present. "Thank you all for coming. You know where the donation bucket is. Please don't hesitate to fill it. Right now. Go." He pointed to the corner of the room, and everyone laughed, as though they couldn't hear the desperation in Tony's voice, the truth behind the joking. Steve could, and he still didn't like it.

He looked around the room—this time beyond the colors and the dancing, but at the faces of the performers, at the bags under their eyes and the tight clench of their hands, at the way a frown would take over their plastered smiles each time their act was up. A nightclub full of life, pleasure, and possibilities, and Steve could not find a single truly happy soul in the entire building.

Tony made one last speech, and the crowd went wild as it seemed they would at anything he said. Then, quite suddenly, Tony went completely silent and placed a shaking hand over his chest.

Before Steve could do much more than wonder what was happening, a dark-skinned man wearing an eye patch rushed on stage and helped Tony off of it.

"That's Nick Fury, the owner," Bruce hissed in Steve's ear, nodding at the man with the eye-patch.

Once Tony had disappeared backstage, the man returned, smiling as though nothing had happened and clapping his hands together to gather the crowd's attention. "Enjoy the rest of your night, folks," he said. "The show might be over, but don't forget to take another look at tonight's products and remember; donations keep the future alive."

It was not the first time, and would probably not be the last, that Steve wished for more than a penny in his pocket.