Tony ripped off his cuff-links and threw his suit jacket to the floor the moment he stepped backstage. Peeling his dress shirt from his chest, his surveyed the damage in the mirror—the familiar scars that crisscrossed, pale white over his heart—the lines that, over the last few months, had become as familiar a sight in the mirror as his own face.

First vacation in two years, and this was what he got—a trip back home to the states ruined with an impromptu kidnapping, a few months of torture (always a nice touch), and rescue just a few days too late.

He buttoned his shirt back up, effectively hiding the scarring—those fading lines that would, one day he knew, kill him—maybe not that night, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even that year, but sooner or later, his heart would fail.

There were other options of course—surgery, medicine—but none that he had the money for, and if he had it his way, he wouldn't need a doctor at all. He'd made his cure, and it sat out on the stage being picked apart by a dozen men in top hats and well-pressed suits, arguing about how much it was worth. The arc reactor was a prototype, and it would need months of work before it could ever be a suitable energy source—for the city or for his barely beating heart, but he knew—more than he'd ever known anything in his life—that it could work.

Clearing his throat, he wiped the look of worry from his face and turned to the man hovering behind him. James Rhodes, AKA "Rhodey"—his best friend and a man with more honor and moral standing than Tony could hope to ever have.

The two had both gotten their jobs at SHIELD years ago and had gone to school together before that. Rhodey—the strong upstanding citizen that he was—had refused to, as he so gracefully put it, "degrade himself for money." So he did lights and construction and beat the shit out of anyone that tried to hurt Tony or any of the other "performers" and always managed to keep his pants on in the process.

Tony never did have that luxury.

Rhodey stood now with his elbows against the bar, his eyes narrowed, and a worried frown playing over his lips. He looked, to Tony, like a very masculine, very annoyed, nanny. "You sure you're okay, Tones?" he asked.

Tony grinned. The expression, fake and overused, was beginning to give him a cramp in his jaw. "Right as rain, Honeybear," he replied, rolling up his sleeves before beginning to pick through his closet. "What do you think's the Duke's type?

Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Naked always seems to do the trick."

"Stark naked," Tony agreed to which Rhodey gave him a look that was damn near murderous.

Because naked was the finale, and he didn't want to spoil the show, Tony settled on a new suit instead because Dukes were the sorts of people who appreciated the finer things in life and dressed with class and sophistication. At least, he was guessing that they did. He'd never actually met a Duke, but he'd been around enough CEO's, princes, and politicians to paint a similar picture.

"Wish me luck," he said, saluting Rhodey on his way out.

"Make sure he wears a condom!" his friend yelled after him.

The Duke was waiting for Toy in the place where all his "dates" waited—on the top floor of SHIELD tower where the balcony overlooked the city for miles. Never let anyone tell you there weren't perks to a dirty job. Between the breathtaking view, the expensive scotch in his own private bar, and all the tools and supplies he could ever need to tinker in the few spare moments he had, it was almost worth it.

'Almost' being the key word.

As Tony set eyes on the Duke—his blond hair and broad shoulders, hands folded behind his back—Tony's old damaged heart skipped a beat. It was an anomaly that had never occurred before, a glitch in the system, he was sure. Because the well-to-do money holding men and women of the world that played 'guest of the night' in Tony's bed were rarely attractive, and they most certainly never looked that innocent.

The Duke—whatever his name was—looked like a basket of puppies in human form. Tony imagined, vividly, the Duke helping an old lady to cross the street, and that was all sorts of wrong because it was far easier to do his job if he thought of it as just that—a job, a duty that he could finish and be done with.

Mr. Bulging Muscles and Baby Blues was doing Tony no favors with his whole 'wouldn't it be nice to touch me' hot guy act.

As Tony approached, the Duke turned and treated him to a wide but nervous smile.

"Hello," he greeted, extending his hand.

As Tony was usually greeted with a tongue down his throat and an eager hand groping his ass, the handshake came as a welcome surprise. That is, until he accepted it and felt the man's warmth and calluses under his fingertips. A hand had no right to feel that good.

Tony covered his very near slip with a charming smile and a wave of his hand toward the private bar. "Hello, gorgeous. Can I get you a drink?"

The Duke shook his head. "I—no, thank you." His hands dropped to his sides, fists clenching and unclenching in what was clearly a display of nerves. Well, Tony would just have to fix that—first time clients were, after all, the easiest to manipulate. Show them a good time and they would practically throw their money at you.

"Well if you don't mind." He was halfway through pouring himself a glass of scotch when the Duke said,

"I'd like to just get started, if that's alright."

Tony willed himself not to look disappointed. He damn well should have known that the good guy act was a front; good men didn't require sex just to settle a business deal. Still, he'd hoped for more time; was it so difficult to have a drink and appreciate the view for ten seconds before his pants came off?

"Of course," he replied. He set down his drink and in two strides, was face to face with the Duke in the middle of the room. He slid his arms around the man's neck. "Let's get to it then."

The Duke's face turned a bright, scarlet red.

Tony had never claimed to be a rational man—a genius, yes; a visionary, certainly—but it would have taken the will power of a well-trained army to resist a blush like that. Pressing his mouth firmly to the the Duke's, he slid his hands down to the man's belt loop and began pulling him toward the bed.

Might as well get it over with before he let himself start believing they were both people here and not a man with his purchased goods.

Steve had come up to Tony's room for a poetry reading. In retrospect, perhaps he should have known that it was euphemism, but, as a passionate advocate for the power of words, he'd let himself believe that poetry—that writing—could actually be a means to business. Apparently, the world no longer worked like that. Gone were the days where countries could be formed through written declarations and wars ended with prose. Steve was not so naive as to believe that the world was all rainbows and happy endings, but it still came as some disappointment to be met with the truth face to face: sex and money made the world go round.

Given, Steve was no prude. While still technically a virgin (his sickly status as a teenager had done little to boost his love life), he was not ashamed or frightened by his—or any other person's—sexual nature. Two men were still taboo in that day and age, of course, and he could hardly go screaming his sexuality to the hills, but perhaps that was another perk of SHIELD: here, no one cared. Here, no one looked twice.

So if Steve spent a little longer than he was proud of staring at the man who led the show, the great Tony Stark, well, no one questioned it (though Steve did a million times), and certainly no one said a word when he went up to the man's room alone. Surely, they knew what he was going up there for—better, apparently, than did he.

Steve had come to Tony's room for a poetry reading, and somewhere along the lines, he seemed to have propositioned the man for sex instead. In a perfect world, Steve would have pulled away at once; he was not the sort of person (or at least he had not thought that he was the sort of person) to pay for sex, and even if he was, he didn't have a penny with which to do so. To go through with anything would be theft, and Steve wondered briefly what a kiss would even cost him. And then Tony was kissing him, and it was soft and wet and wonderful, and he quite forgot about his empty pockets.

A kiss like that was worth the world.

It wasn't until Steve's legs collided with the bed frame that he came to his senses and pulled away. Tony expression was, understandably, confused, but Steve could also sense a firm determination beyond those big brown eyes.

Gosh, those eyes were going to be the death of him.

Poetry. He was supposed to be reciting poetry. Right. "It's a little bit funny, these feelings inside. I'm not one of those who can easily hide." The words came from Steve's lips muffled and jumbled, and it only made his blush all that much brighter, a misfortune not helped by the fact that Tony was now raking his eyes over Steve's entire body and stopping at his crotch.

That had not been the "feeling" he'd meant, but he could certainly feel it now. Trying and failing to ignore the tightening of his pants, Steve moved away and went to stand by the window.

The view was unbelievable—all of Paris just waiting in the distance—and though he wished he could enjoy it, Steve knew he would have been quite content to turn around and stare at Tony all night instead.

He cleared his throat and tried again. "I don't have much money, but boy if I did, I'd buy a big house where we both could live." Tony was staring at him now with his arms crossed over his chest and an eyebrow raised. Steve heaved a deep breath but refused to look away. "If I was a sculptor, but then again, no, or a man who makes potions in a traveling show. I know it's not much but it's the best I can do. It may be quite simple but now that it's done, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words how wonderful life is while you're in the world."

Tony, finally, smiled. Steve noticed that it was different from the smile he wore on stage—less orchestrated and more loose, lopsided even—and Steve found that he liked a million times better. "You really did mean poetry," Tony said. "A duke and an artist. Who did you sell your soul to to win a genetic lottery like that?"

"Same person you did. You're perfect," Steve blurted out before he could stop himself. Tony's smile widened, and Steve might have tried to freeze that moment forever (or at least pause it long enough to copy it down on paper) but at that moment, he fully registered what Tony had said. "Duke?" he repeated. "I'm not a duke. I'm a writer. I came to talk to you about the play. Spectacular, Spectacular."

Tony's smile dropped instantly.

An uneasy crawling sensation erupted over Steve's skin and his heart dropped. Tony thought he had money. Of course he did. Why would he ever waste his time on a penniless writer? Perhaps Steve could still salvage the deal and pull together some funding for the play—convince Tony of it's worth, as that was part of his job with SHIELD—but Steve's time with Tony was up. A business man of Tony's reputation and importance would never really have time for a man like Steve.

"You're not the Duke?" Tony repeated. He raked a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath, then paced the length of the room. "If you're not the Duke…fuck, why are you even up here? What are you doing? Were you just pretending the whole time?"

"No," Steve insisted. "I wasn't—I just—"

But before Steve could even begin to explain, there was a knock on the door. "Hello," said a voice on the other side. "It's Tiberius Stone, the Duke. I believe we had an appointment."