Tony had played many roles in his life, but he most certainly would not play the "hooker with a heart of gold" cliche about to run off with the first client nice enough to smile in his direction. So what if this writer (writer, for fuck's sake, not Duke; that dirty puppy dog-eyed liar) smiled like he'd brought the sun down to Earth? So what if he kissed like he was trying to pour his soul out through his lips; he'd still lied, still attempted to coerces a free show out of Tony, and if there was one thing Tony did not do, it was sleep around for free. Sure, he'd had dates—even been stupid enough to think he was in love once with a whirlwind of a girl named Pepper, a hardworking and fearlessly independent woman—but those days, like Pepper, were gone now, just a blip on the radar of his past.

Love was complicated, messy, and disappointing. You plucked out your heart and handed it to a single person to hold and hoped that they wouldn't crush it in their fist when you knew that they were more than capable of doing so. Love, Tony knew, was like putting your hand in a shredder and hoping not to lose a finger—irrational and stupid.

Sex, on the other hand, was easy. Part A into slot B and the less talking the better. Tony wasn't so obsessed with the cold anonymity of his job that he refused to kiss his clients on the mouth or to learn their names or anything (this was hardly an option anyway what with them being clients and all), but he wasn't about to share his life story with every stranger that shared his bed, and he certainly wasn't about to waste his time having sex with anyone for free when he had so many potential customers knocking down his door day and night.

The writer was cute, and yes, Tony might just be daydreaming about his smile while he did his business with the Duke later (distractions were often necessary with the general, well, size, and look of his customers), but that was simply a technicality that couldn't be help (seriously, if Tony could wipe out these stupid little things people called "feelings" he would, no doubts about it). Tony was only human, and even he wasn't immune to a smile like that—warm and inviting with the slightest touch of nerves that were almost—almost but not entirely—drowned out by the sheer will of the man's determination. It was the sort of smile that made you think you could do anything, the sort of smile that should be on billboards, or lead armies to peace.

It was also a beautiful lie.

Poetry and compliments could get you far in life, especially if you knew how to work them, and this writer clearly did, but they were simply frosting on a poorly baked cake—the pretty show to make you forget you were being tricked. And Tony refused to play the fool.

Of course the writer was playing him (maybe he'd started to fall for it, but just barely, and anyway, who wouldn't; the man recited poetry like he was born to do it, and those big blue eyes only sealed the deal). But pretty faces and pretty words meant nothing in the real world's cruel reality; people only wanted two things in this world, power and money, and Tony had been about to present the writer with both.

The problem came not with removing the writer from his room as that would have been easy enough (one call to Rhodey and the poet would be out on his ass in the rain; or, with the way his anger was currently rising, Tony wasn't completely against kicking him out himself and making him leave down the balcony. Good luck climbing, buddy). No, the hard part came with a knock on the door and the arrival of the real Duke—an important and paying customer who could not, under any circumstances, see the writer parading around in his position.

Tony grabbed the writer by the man's unfortunately muscular and as-perfect-as-the-rest-of-him arm and pushed him behind the bar. "Stay," he hissed.

The poet seemed for a moment on the verge of protest, his kiss-bruised lips parting slightly, but before he could say a word, Tony had crossed the room and pulled open the door. "Duke," he greeted, old grin back in place.

On surface level only, Tiberius Stone, the Duke, fit Steve's general description, and Tony could easily justify his earlier confusion; the man was tall and blond, and wearing a nicely pressed suit and top hat. He was attractive but not excessively so, and he wore a smile that never quite reached his eyes. Even as he shook Tony's hand, his gaze raked over Tony's body then immediately looked past him, taking in the many details of the room.

Not once did he meet Tony's eyes.

Tony was rather used to being treated like property, and though he told himself he preferred it this way, the writer's longing gaze and bright hopeful smile still lingered in his subconscious, making it much harder to face the Duke than it needed to be. Just another reason to add to the list of why he was beginning to (wish he could) hate the blue-eyed word-spinning fraud.

"Nice place," said Tiberius. He reached out a hand to stroke over Tony's collar and was beginning to take off his dress shirt when there was commotion from behind the bar and a blur of blond hair peeked out from the corner of Tony's peripheral vision.

Tony immediately faked a loud cough to cover the noise and then turned to glare daggers at the bar's direction. "You ever seen Paris at night?" he said, taking the Duke's hand in his and leading him to the balcony; if only he could get him away from the door, then the writer could escape with his head still firmly in place.

"I have," the Duke replied, looking thoroughly uninterested in the balcony. Rather than follow Tony's lead, he tugged him instead toward the bed—just another overly eager, impersonal client.

"Ohhh," Tony said, voice low and dripping in a tone of forced excitement that came both from years of practice and from having a business man for a father. He fell back onto the bed and pulled the Duke with him, making sure to position them both so the Duke's back was turned to the door and his eyes were all on Tony.

It was the perfect getaway and yet the writer did no more than climb out from behind the bar. He didn't run for it, didn't even tiptoe toward the door; he just stood there, staring at Tony and the Duke as Tiberius sucked a dark hickey into Tony's neck.

'Get out,' Tony mouthed, but the writer didn't budge. His eyebrows narrowed and his frown deepened making him look more like an oversized and kicked puppy than ever.

Tony simply had no choice. In that same silky, lustful tone that had brought the Duke to bed, he whispered the words that would get him out of it: "You're right. We should wait. You have so much business to do here. You'll want to see the play and all the projects you're sponsoring finished before we celebrate."

The Duke looked both confused and irritated; the writer beamed behind his back. Tony silently groaned.

Jumping up off the bed, he dragged Tiberius by the arm and led him back to and out of the door. "I can't wait," he promised, grinning, and before the Duke say a word in response, Tony closed the door in his face.

He was so, so fired.

Steve's mother had taught him not to hate, that it was too strong of a word and that while he could like or dislike anything he wanted, hatred was simply uncalled for. It was a motto he had spent his life trying to abide by, and he could count on his fingers all the things in this world he actually and completely hated: bullies, broken pencils, dirty umps, and Tiberius Stone.

The Duke walked into the room like he owned the place and he left it with a look of the upmost contempt. His entire time within the room—a beautiful, surprisingly homey, elaborately designed room that should have been treated with respect—was spent staring at the not yet rumpled sheets of the bed, and, rather than appreciating the beautiful man in front of him, Tiberius stared at Tony like something to own—like something to break.

Steve might have only known Tony for a night—a few hours at that—but he was certain in that moment that he would never let anyone break Tony again.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Tony asked, rounding on Steve the second the door slammed behind the Duke's back. "You can't do that! You have no right to come in here and—"

"Why?" Steve asked. His mother had also taught him not to interrupt people while they were speaking, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and with a stubborn streak a mile wide, it was hardly a lesson that had stuck. "Why him? Why would you do…that?"

"Because it's my job! Don't look so fucking surprised by it. You were up here for the same reason," Tony snapped.

Steve's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What? No, I wasn't. I was up here for a poetry reading—"

"Yeah, I got that. 'A poetry reading,'" Tony said, forming air quotes around the last three words, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

"I was," Steve said honestly. "Natasha-"

"Who?"

"She's part of the Avengers."

"The what?"

"They're a group of actors," Steve explained. "That's why I'm here. To pitch you their new play. It's called Spectacular Spectacular, and it's pretty good, and they thought if I talked to you, you'd see that it's worth investing in, and—"

"I don't pick who or what we invest it," Tony said. He glanced at the door, no doubt imagining the Duke standing beyond it. "They do. He does. And people like him. And sometimes they need a little push to open their wallets."

So that was Tony's job; the incentive for the rich men and women of Paris, a little perk to convince them to invest in the future. Steve couldn't imagine doing what Tony did—day after day, night after night, all to fund someone else's dream. His heart swelled a little more for the man who, for all rational intents and purposes, should have been a stranger to him, and yet here he was, wanting to wrap Tony up in a blanket and steal him away from this cold, unfair world.

"Anyway," Tony continued before Steve's plan could grow to anything more than a basic 'get rid of bad guys, help Tony.' "He's already invested. Or at least, he was going to. After I pitched your play during the show, he asked Fury about the script. He read it and he liked it, and he was willing to invest on that and my reactor, except now, because of you, I've blown it and—"

"Your reactor?" Steve asked.

Tony rubbed at the center of his chest then shrugged dismissively. "Yeah, it's just…a project I've been working on. Clean energy for the factories and…other stuff. Anyway, like I was saying—"

Steve cut him off with an impressed whistle. "Tony, that's amazing." He was not just saying it to be polite; he'd seen the damage the factories were reeking on the world, seen the soot and darkened clouds over the city. The very idea that a single man's invention could make that all disappear was not only amazing but damn absolutely mind-blowing. If it worked, an invention like that could change the world.

Tony smiled, and Steve mentally catalogued it as the second time he'd managed to earn a sincere smile from the man who faked pleasure for a living.

And then, as though coming out of a daze, Tony's eyes suddenly narrowed and he shook his head. "You need to get out of here," he said, grabbing Steve's arm.

Steve followed without protest as he was led, just as Tiberius had been, out the door. "I wasn't lying," he said, leaning against the entryway. Up close, he could spot a single freckle on Tony's nose, and for some reason he couldn't quite explain—and wasn't even sure he wanted to—this made him smile. "Back before, when you thought I was the Duke. I wasn't lying to you. I wasn't trying to trick you. I was just as confused as you were. And I-you deserve better than this, Tony. Than all of this. You know that, don't you?"

Tony gave him a rather unconvinced glare though Steve could have sworn he saw a smile flickering underneath. "Stop doing that," he said in a would be reprimanding voice except that it sounded undeniably fond.

"Stop what?" Steve asked.

"Using my first name. No one said you could do that. And I don't even know yours."

"Steve," he replied immediately. "Steve Rogers."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Bye Steve, Steve Rogers," he said, and then he promptly slammed the door in Steve's face.

As Steve leaned against the other side, goofy smile crossing over his lips, he thought he heard Tony sigh—a sound as light and happy as everything Steve was currently feeling inside.