The next day, SHIELD called the Avengers to tell them they'd opened a room for their rehearsals; an hour later, Steve stood on the largest stage he'd ever seen while he watched a dozen different crew members rush around painting sets and setting up the lights. Extras were cast and where each of the Avengers had once played a handful of roles each, they now only acted as one single (and prominent) character each while their extra rolls had been handed off to one of the many performers that SHIELD had to offer. Steve had given up trying to hide his surprise; by then, his jaw seemed permanently stuck open, and his eyes we're watering from how often they'd shot open wide in shock or awe over the last hour. SHIELD, for all its debauchery and questionable ethics, was nothing if not thorough.

The Duke (Steve found it easier to address him by his title than his name) sat in the audience on a thin wooden chair, one leg crossed over the other and his hands in his lap. He, like Steve, had swapped out his previous night's suit but, unlike Steve who was dressed in an ink-splattered t-shirt and ripped pants, the Duke was dressed in a pair of slacks and a shirt that Steve was sure must of cost more than an entire year's rent in his apartment.

The Duke, although likely to frown or critique even the slightest color variation of the backdrops if they were not to his liking, actually seemed rather excited over the whole idea and on more than once occasion, he gestured Steve over to describe the script "just one more time." When he saw a costume he liked (and SHIELD had many costumes), the Duke stood up and nodded with royal like approval; when he heard a song he enjoyed, he clapped and asked for Thor to play it again; when a particular line struck his fancy, he 'awed' quietly and looked just a bit smugger and sat up just a bit straighter.

Steve might be writing it and the Avengers might be acting it, but the play was the Duke's. He certainly wouldn't let them forget it.

The seamstress approached Steve with a collection of bright red, white, and blue fabrics and several needles at the same time that the back door swung open, and Tony stepped into the hall. He must have replaced all of the air in the room because suddenly Steve found it quite difficult to breathe.

Tony settled down in the stands as far away from Tiberius as the room would allow, but it was no use; the Duke, spotting his "prize," it seemed, jumped from his seat and settled instead by Tony's side. He became instantly affectionate, bumping shoulders with the smaller man and whispering in his ear.

Tony nodded occasionally, smiled and laughed where it must have been appropriate (Steve could not hear their conversation from the stage), but not once did Tony focus his gaze on his "client," not even for a second; for the entire length of their conversation, Tony's eyes were fixed on the stage, fixed on Steve.

Steve could pretend this didn't affect him, pretend that his heart wasn't beating out of his chest or that his palms hadn't started sweating from the intensity of Tony's gaze, but what good would it do him? For all it mattered, he was a five-foot asthmatic kid all over again, and the popular kid was staring at him. Why was he staring at him?

Granted, he wasn't the only one. While Tony's attentions were definitely the most distracting, Steve couldn't help but notice that another man—a dark-skinned, strong looking fellow who was adjusting some of the stage lights—continuously glared in Steve's direction, then at Tony, then back at Steve. It was a repeating pattern that seemed to grow more and more serious with every passing moment.

The seamstress accidentally poked Steve's thigh with her needle, and the pain came through like a lightbulb to his brain, sparking a renewed realization of what he already knew but wished to forget. Tony might be staring at Steve, but the world was staring at Tony. The Duke's arm was wrapped tightly around Tony's shoulder, and the man with the lights glared even harder—of course he was jealous, of course he was suspicious, this was Tony Stark they were talking about. Nick Fury stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, Clint and Natasha shared amused looks in Steve's direction, and in that moment, Steve saw what he was sure everyone else had already seen: when it came to Tony Stark, he was frighteningly and embarrassingly out of his league.

If looks could kill, Rhodey would have had Steve dead on the stage hours ago. Between evading Tiberius' advances (he soon insisted that Tony call him Ty) and pacifying Rhodey, Tony hadn't had a second to himself all day. His afternoon had been filled primarily with a varying string of promises: Yes, Platypus, I'll be careful; No, Honeybear, I don't even like him, he's a writer; No, Muffin, I won't stop with the nicknames; Did you seriously just take a swing at me? Do you know how much this face is worth? I'm telling Fury. When Tony wasn't arguing with Rhodey, he was trying not to cringe every time "Ty" stroked his thigh or he was overseeing the work on the play, or meeting with other potential investors. And then, when this was finished and Tony had somehow managed to escape his overbearing best friend and his overly affectionate cliental, there was Fury—hovering, demanding, 'I'm watching you, Stark' Fury breathing down his neck. All in all, it wasn't exactly what he'd call a "relaxing day" and any plans he'd had to finally get to work on improving the reactor vanished with yet another knock on his door.

"What? What do you want? I've signed all your papers. I've been to all your meetings, I've smiled and played the game. For the love of—" Tony broke off mid-rant as he opened the door and found himself face to face with Steve.

The poet blushed a deep shade of pink and ran a calloused hand through his hair. His bangs flopped back into his face, a sort of overgrown style that spoke of poverty and the lower class, and yet Tony wouldn't change a thing. The style fitted Steve, and all Tony really wanted to do was run his fingers through it.

And there it was: bad idea number one, his imagination getting away with him, carrying him off into the danger zone, the do-not-cross, the no-no area of feelings and impulsive urges that he had to keep under control if he ever wanted to stand a chance against this guy's charms.

"Sorry I—if you're busy, I can leave," Steve said, one word stumbling after the other.

Tony meant to say yes, meant to kick him out and return to his work, meant to tell him not to come back and that he had no business showing up at his room out of the blue anyway—this place was for clients and friends only and as Steve was neither of those, he should go and they'd see each other only in the professional setting of the SHIELD rehearsal room. Tony meant to say all of this, but what he really said was, "No, I'm not busy. What can I do for you? I still don't give free rides, you know."

Steve's blush darkened, but he stepped forward with renewed determination. "I'm not here for that. I was never here for that."

"So you keep saying."

"So it keeps being the truth." Steve crossed his arms over his chest and suddenly his expression was nothing but serious. "I know that's part of your job, and that's…fine, but it's not the only part of your job, is it? The way you talk, you'd think that's all you do. I'm not interested in sex, free or not—"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You're not interested in sex?"

"Well I'm interested in the concept."

"The concept?"

Steve rubbed at the back of his neck; it was steadily growing a darker shade of red, and, really, that had no business being as cute as it was. It was a blush for fuck's sake; since when did Tony have a blush fetish?

"Yes, the-the concept," Steve continued. "I'm interested in having sex one day with the right person. Or when the opportunity presents itself. All I'm saying is that I'm not after sex here. Between me and you. Anyway, it seems like you have your hands full. Between the Duke and the lighting guy that couldn't stop staring at you…is he your boyfriend?"

The lighting guy…oh. Rhodey.

Tony doubled over laughing, gripping at his sides when it felt like his whole body might burst with the force of his amusement. Rhodey, his boyfriend?

Still gasping for air, he straightened up to see Steve looking both confused and perhaps a bit pleased.

"Rhodey's my friend," Tony explained. "The light guy. His name's Rhodey. And we're friends, just friends."

"Oh," Steve said. The 'pleased' part of his expression was definitely beginning to override the confusion. "Well good. I…good."

"Good," Tony repeated, and okay, his brain was beginning to short out here—clearly—and he was a genius for crying out loud, so what in the world was that? Good? Stumbling around and forgetting his words like teenaged kid? If there was one thing Tony did well, it was speak. He was Tony Fucking Stark, the symbol of charm and sophistication, and he was standing here in his sweats and an oiled stained tank top stuttering "good"?

Oh, he was in trouble now.

"You know, you smile different when you're alone then when you're up on stage," Steve said suddenly. He reached out a hand and traced his fingers over the corners of Tony's mouth, feeling the curves, the slight scar under Tony's bottom lip, and the edges of his goatee.

Tony tried to bite down the smile, to stuff it away like he did with every other unwanted emotion—all pushed away into that box in his mind marked 'Do Not Open' and left for dead. But try as he might, Tony just could't turn that smile upside down (that wasn't exactly how the saying went, was it?). He did tense, however, and the very second his body stiffened—the moment he so much as breathed differently—Steve pulled away, polite and respectful as ever.

It was a terrible idea, an idea that was an insult to his genius, a shameful blight on his sanity, on his family and his ancestors and his cow, if, of course, he had any of those things, but before he could stop himself, Tony was blurting out, "We should have sex" and Steve's eyes went wide as dinner plates.

"What?" he asked, and Tony found some slight comfort in the fact that he'd reduced the wordsmith himself to almost wordless disbelief.

"You and me. The bed. You know, sex. You do know what sex is right?" Tony teased. He tried to sound airy, casual; hey, you and me, a little roll in the sheets, how 'bout it? It was no big deal; sex was sex, and sure, it was free, but every good business threw out a freebee now and again, and anyway, if he ever wanted to get over this, well, whatever it was that made his heart start pounding whenever Steve came near, then he needed to get the man out of his system. One good night to leave it all behind. It was strategic.

Oh, who was he kidding? Steve was six feet two inches of endless muscle and warm smiles, big hands that made every touch feel like the first time, and Tony was no blushing virgin, thank you very much, but he wasn't blind, and he certainly wasn't against being touched like he actually mattered, like his whole existence wasn't just a series of business deals.

Currently, Steve was staring at him like he had two heads which, okay, was understandable, but not exactly flattering. Tony waved his hand in front of the writer's face and waited for a reaction.

Steve blinked then, finally, said, "No."

All the small hopeful parts of Tony—the ones that had survived so many years of abuse and neglect and were barely holding on by a thread here—all fell apart at once. Tony was not yet so far gone that he thought sex was the only worthy factor in a relationship, but he did know that relationships and him did not go hand in hand, and sex was the only thing in the world he had left to offer. Tony was good at sex—sex came naturally, but the other stuff—talking about your feeling, and remembering anniversaries, and trust? Not so much.

"Not that I wouldn't like to," Steve amended. "I just don't want to be a client. I don't want to—I want to hear about your reactor." Steve switched tactics in a heartbeat, suddenly stepping into the room and looking around the room with more interest than those poor old walls had ever seen.

"My reactor?" Tony repeated. If it was supposed to be some sort of euphemism, it sure was a poor one, and certainly not one he'd ever heard before.

"Yeah. You said it could power the factories without pollution, right? It sounds fascinating. I…could you show it to me?" Steve's face was just so damn hopeful that Tony couldn't find it in himself to say no.

Nodding, Tony led the other man over to his work desk where a stack of blueprints were laid out haphazardly along with the metal pieces and wires of a dozen unfinished projects. In the center lay the reactor—a bright blue light encased in a metal he was working to make indestructible, but the technology of his time was limited and his time even more so. Still, the power was evident, and the light itself enough to illuminate the whole room. And that was just when it was sitting around; he could only imagine what it would look like when it powered the world.

Steve's jaw dropped slightly and his hands darted out in what seemed to be an instinctive need to touch, to feel the wonder he was seeing. Tony knew the feeling well enough himself.

"Go ahead," he said, taking Steve's hand in his and leading it across the reactor. Though he knew, rationally, it was the power source beneath their fingertips that sent a jolt of energy rushing through his veins, he couldn't help but at least partially blame Steve's close proximity and that world-changing sensation of skin on skin.

Steve must have felt it too because at that very moment, every muscle in his body tensed; Tony could feel each and every one of the man's many, many muscles pressed against his chest, and then Steve was turning, his whole body twisting until they were face to face and chest to chest, and if there was air in the room, it was gone now—either that, or Tony had simply forgotten how to breathe. Both seemed perfectly rational.

"Can I kiss you?" Steve asked, and yeah, he sounded breathless too.

"I'm not that kind of hooker," Tony replied.

"Is that a no?"

"It's definitely a yes."

"You're confusing," Steve said.

Tony laughed slightly. "I know. Just kiss me already."

Steve's hesitation, so very present just a moment ago, seemed nonexistent now as he pressed his lips firmly against Tony's. It was soft and chaste, and yet, somehow, unbelievably intimate. Soon, Steve's mouth parted, granting Tony's tongue entrance and they toppled backwards onto the bed, Steve landing on his back and Tony straddling his waist. His fingers wandered down Steve's body, but just as he reached the man's belt-buckle, Steve reached out a hand to him.

"We don't have to," he whispered. His eyes met Tony's—blue on brown—and Tony, stubborn and stupid as he was, refused to drop his gaze. Not yet. Not ever if he could help it. He could already feel himself growing lost in those eyes.

Oh yeah, he was definitely screwed.

"I know we don't have to. That's the best part," he said. He leaned down and sucked a hickey into Steve's collarbone, reveling in the pornstar-esque moan it elicited from the man's throat.

"Tony," he said, his hands gripping tight at the bedsheets, then his own chest, then Tony's hips where, finally, it seemed, he was content to stay.

Tony had heard his named yelled out by many men and women over the years—Stark more so than Tony, and stream of 'yes, yes, yes' more than anything at all; his name was worn out and used, and after a while, the ecstatic shout sort of lost its meaning—after all, his "clients" had generally only learned his name an hour before when they were entering the room. Come morning, his name was tired on their lips, and their lazy, sated smiles promised nothing but a shared memory—a past Tony would spend years trying to forget.

When Steve came, his back arched, and Tony's name soft on his lips, Tony heard the future for the very first time.