Steve hadn't slept so well in years. The mattress under his back had something to do with it, he was sure. It was soft and expensively built where his bed at home was lumpy and broken; the sheets were made of something unbelievably smooth—silk, probably—and the pillow had clearly been plucked from a cloud. The bed was amazing, and while Steve was positive that it played at least a small role in his endless comfort, his current happiness had had a lot more to do with the man beside him.

Tony Stark was a whirlwind when he was awake—fast thoughts and bright ideas, plastered smile and twinkling eyes; asleep, he was nothing more than an oversized kitten. Tony's face was more open when he slept than Steve had ever seen in it awake, on stage or not. His head against Steve's shoulder, Tony wore a loose, easy smile, and his hands were no longer clenched like weapons at his sides but wrapped around Steve's body. He looked, well, peaceful. He looked happy.

As Tony clung to Steve, his nose occasionally scrunching up (adorably) in response to whatever he was dreaming about, Steve made a choice right then and there. For as long as Tony would let him, Steve would forever stay by his side even if it meant staying at SHIELD forever.

That though sparked another, and Steve sat up with a jolt, biting his lip to keep from swearing as he remembered the rehearsals he was currently supposed to be attending. Judging by the time on the clock, he was already a half hour later, and Clint was going to skin him alive (or, more realistically, Natasha would skin him alive, and Clint would watch gleefully).

As Steve carefully wiggled his way out of bed, careful not to wake Tony up, the events of the previous night played back in his head. Images of Tony's back arching up to meet him, of tanned and sweaty skin, of his own shaking limbs and the need—the burning, aching need—to be as close their bodies would allow. Steve would give anything in the world to relive that night.

For the first time, he realized just how good Tony must be at his job, and Steve hoped he wasn't just enough client pulled under his spell.

He couldn't find a pen and paper with which to leave Tony a note, but he figured they saw each other around enough already; Tony would find him. Sooner rather than later if Steve's overeager imagination had anything to do with it. Hurrying out of Tony's room and back down to the rehearsal space, Steve once again replayed their encounter over in his mind, searching this time for a sign he might have missed, anything that might suggest that their night together was anything less than sincere. Tony was an actor, a salesman—charming when he wanted to be and endlessly talented at putting on a show; Steve knew this well enough, and yet he just couldn't understand how anything they had shared could have been faked.

It wasn't just the sex. If it had been, Steve might have been able to imagine a world where it was forced, a situation where the physical act between them was orchestrated or unwanted. But it had been Tony's eyes—that bright, hopeful glow that was still distracting so much of Steve's attention.

In front of him, he saw Clint dressed in a ridiculous purple costume, saw Natasha glaring at them both in black and red, saw Bruce in his bulky green attire, and heard them all yelling at him to pay attention—to "come back to the real world, Cap." But he could also see Tony's heavy-lidded eyes as he leaned back into the bed, saw that twitch of a smile on his lips each and every time Steve kissed him, and heard Steve's name on the inventor's lips.

On stage, Steve recited a line about death and despair and though he tried to sound rightly devastated, the sight of Tony's hands on his hips kept floating back to him, and even his best efforts couldn't stop him smiling.

Tony woke up alone. He expected this, of course—no one he went to bed with had ever stayed until morning—but at least when he woke up, there was usually a signed contract or some money on the bedside still checked, stupidly, for a note or a token or some little sign that Steve hadn't forgotten about him—a sign that the previous night had meant something, but he came up empty handed.

Well, he'd always known he was a fool. What was another notch in his bedpost?

Laying back, Tony looked at the place beside him where Steve had been just hours before. He imagined the man's body beneath him, imagined those big hands pressing against his hips, and the ragged breathing of a lover too far gone, a man tumbling over the edge. Tony could still vividly remember the burst of happiness that had swelled in his chest at Steve's first, wavering kiss. The feeling, like Steve, was gone now, and the memories were nothing but painful reminders of what would never be.

The problem was, the night hadn't felt like just another notch in his bedpost, like another conquest, another "job." Tony had long given up hope that he'd find someone worthwhile in his line of occupation, given up dreaming that a touch in the night meant love when he knew all it really meant was lust. That sort of attitude was easy when his clients rarely ever kissed him, when their touches were harsh and forced, when they failed to even look him in the eye. They took, and he let them, and that was all there was to it because that was all he'd ever be good for. When this job—when this life—was his only chance, his only source to fund his future, what other choice did he have?

But Steve had looked him in the eye, and for everything Steve had taken, he'd given double in return. Steve touched like it was the first and last time he ever would, like every brush of his fingertips along Tony's spine had been a gift, and the look in his eyes was something damn close to loving.

And that was where Tony was stuck. Because a lot of people might like Tony—Fury for the money he could provide him; Rhodey for the company; his clients for a good fuck—but no one had ever loved him. He was positive his parents never had—they'd told him as much. Maybe Pepper had once upon a time, but, like a cheap match, it had been nothing more than a flicker—a glimpse of something that was quickly smothered out. Hell, Tony didn't even love Tony. Tony didn't even like Tony.

Steve, for all his tender touches and loving kisses, was barely more than a stranger. Tony knew nothing about him—not his family or his origins (probably American, New York, maybe, judging by the accent—and damn it, Tony really shouldn't be thinking about these things). Even if he did know Steve, he knew better than to trust another artist down on their luck—been there, done that, and in the end, they only wanted one thing: money. Tony was a lot of things, but he sure as hell wasn't a bank.

Rising from his bed, Tony ripped off the sheets and threw them into the laundry; he could still smell Steve in the fabric, and that was simply unacceptable. Tony always had been a fan of the 'hide the problem away and pretend it doesn't exist until your heart hardens enough to forget about it' approach.

He got dressed (pointedly not thinking about the bruises Steve had left on his hips—seriously, he wasn't) then headed down to the rehearsal room to meet with the Duke. He found Tiberus—Ty, whatever—lounging in a seat two rows from the back.

"Tony!" he greeted, rising to his feet and embracing him with an altogether unnecessary hug that went on a minute, at least, too long. With the tightness of Ty's limbs around him, it felt more like he was a piece of meat being pressed and packaged for delivery than a genuine act of affection.

"Ty!" Tony greeted in return, grinning with enthusiasm. If the Duke caught the sarcasm of the gesture, he chose not to comment. "I was hoping I could talk to you about the reactor. I've made some adjustments and—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you'd like," Ty said, waving away Tony's words with a simple flip of his hand. He slid an arm around Tony's shoulder then turned to watch as the Avengers practiced for their upcoming play.

Tony spotted Steve backstage—just a glimpse of blond hair peeking out from behind a painting of a mountainscape.

"Right," Tony said. He wiggled out from under Ty's arm. "Well, I'll be getting back to work then."

"No, no, stay!" Ty insisted, still without looking at him, his arm weaving its way back around Tony's shoulders. He squeezed the back of Tony's neck—a controlling, warning gesture that quite contradicted his friendly tone.

So Tony stayed, and for the next hour and a half he was treated to the 'Tiberius Stone' show, AKA an enthusiastic lecture about the Duke's incredibly dull life. Ty told the story well enough—with flittering hand gestures and a tone that oozed charisma—but it was all just a great ad for a hopeless product. In his thirty-two or so years of life, the Duke had done absolutely nothing worth mentioning. He'd inherited a lot of money from his father. He'd met several interesting women on his travels. He'd tried to be an inventor but "left that life behind" (code word for he failed), and now here he was—buying and controlling the invented ideas of others. Tony had heard better.

Hell, Tony had lived better.

Sure, his job wasn't ideal and his lifestyle was questionable by almost all moral standards, but at least at the end of the day he did what he loved, and he did it well. Where Tiberius piggybacked on others' ideas, Tony made his own, and in a sea full of faults and failures, it was the life raft that still kept him floating after all these years.

Rehearsals ended just as Tiberius was wrapping up the tale of his first great investment in Italy. "Wow, will you look at the time," he said, looking first at the exiting actors and then at his wristwatch. "I have to get ready for my lunch with the prime minister."

Tony forced a smile and waved goodbye. Grabbing his blueprints off the floor—his ignored attempts to engage the Duke in conversation about the reactor—he rose from his seat and headed back toward his room. He was halfway down the hall when a familiar, calloused hand grabbed his arm and dragged behind a nearby pillar.

Soft lips collided against his, and Tony blinked up at the grinning form of Steve Rogers, still clad in his ridiculous red, white, and blue costume.

"Um, hi?" Tony tried.

Steve's smile widened. "Hi," he repeated. He leaned in as though to kiss him again, but Tony—his Steve-struck mind finally catching up—raised a hand to stop him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I—" Steve faltered. "Last night you said I could kiss you. Did that change?"

Tony blinked. "You still want to kiss me?"

"Of course I still want to kiss you." Steve's nose crinkled up in an adorable, puppy-like confusion that did funny things to Tony's broken heart. "Do you not want to kiss me?"

"Yeah, I want to kiss you," Tony blurted out before he had time to over think his words. So much for subtle and avoiding relationships. Steve was obviously conducting some sort of voodoo on his mind; he'd have to check that out, run some tests or something. For science. But there'd be time for that later; right now, all he really wanted was to kiss Steve until he couldn't feel his lips.

Steve melted against him, warm and real and the sort of easy comfort that made Tony want to curl up into his arms and never see the world again. And then, all too soon—because he never did know how to let himself have good things—he was pulling away, bracing himself to say the words that he knew would ruin everything.

"No one can know about this."

Steve winced but didn't exactly look surprised. "I sort of figured you'd say that."

"Really? That's not a deal breaker?" Tony asked.

"I know how this works. I'm not completely clueless, you know," Steve said. He traced a hand over Tony's jaw then left it to rest loosely on the back of his neck. "You have a job. And if you don't keep the Duke happy, your reactor, my play—it all falls apart."

Tony nodded, forcing himself to listen and not completely lose himself in the feel of Steve's hand on his skin. "And...you seem strangely okay with that. I don't know if I should be offended or—"

Steve kissed him, and it felt too good for Tony to be properly annoyed that he'd been shut up mid-sentence. "I didn't say I liked it," Steve corrected him. "If I had it my way, we'd get as far away from this place as possible, and I'd have you all to myself."

"Am I sensing a possessive streak, Rogers?"

"Maybe." Steve blushed slightly, but it seemed more happy this time than truly embarrassed. "I'm just saying I'll take what I can get. Whatever you can give me. I'm not going to push you for anything."

Tony's eyes narrowed. He looked Steve up and down—from his worn out shoes to his recently combed hair, his nervous, hopeful smile. "I won't fall in love with you," Tony warned.

Steve raised his chin defiantly. "How could you already know that? Maybe we could work. You don't know—"

"I know," Tony cut him off. "I know I can't fall in love with anyone."

"A life without love? That's terrible," Steve said.

"Being on the street is terrible. Love makes people stupid. You throw your whole life away to be happy one day. I'm not doing it."

"It could be a good day." Steve smiled, stubborn and annoyingly perfect.

"And then one day, you'll get sick of me and get angry and bitter, and I'll drink all the time," Tony warned him. He thought of his father yelling at his mother through the halls of their mansion before all the money ran out, thought of her subdued cries as she locked herself away, thought of every relationship that hadn't worked out and every stitch in his already broken heart. He didn't have any room left for another rip and tear.

"No I won't," Steve said.

"Nothing will keep us together."

"We could make it work." Steve took a step forward, enveloping Tony in the bulk of his muscular body and the smell of apple-pie.

Tony sighed heavily even as a smile threatened to overtake his cynical expression. "You're going to be bad for business," he said. "I can tell."