Steve had a plan.

Like most of his plans, it was thought out to the last detail, elaborate and logical, and very likely to work if everything went right. (There was a reason the Avengers had taken to calling him "the man with a plan" ever since he'd stepped in to help their production.) But, also like most of his plans, fate stepped in and absolutely everything went wrong.

Steve and Tony had met under irrational circumstances, and the ones they existed under now were hardly any better; forbidden love might be romantic and exciting in stories, but it was downright impossible in real life. They'd sneak a kiss backstage at rehearsals, and Steve would come to Tony's room each night, but Steve still longed for more. He was desperate to see daylight with Tony, to step beyond SHIELD's doors and find the world at each other's side—sunlight and parks and clothes. Maybe they'd still have to hide their affections from the world, but at least they could spend more than a few stolen seconds in each other's company.

So Steve set up a date. He made food (despite the bare necessities he'd grown up with, Steve had always been fascinated with cooking, and quite talented if he was being completely honest with himself). He found the perfect spot (somewhere outside where the sun was shining, but secluded enough that he could kiss his boyfriend without being condemned for it). And most important, he found a time—a spare hour in the middle of a beautiful Tuesday afternoon where Steve was free from rehearsals and Tony was free from meetings.

Everything was going according to plan—the two sneaking out the back doors of the club—when the Duke caught up to them, grinning from ear to ear. "A day on the town to discuss our progress?" he asked cheerfully.

Steve could feel Ty's suspicions brimming under his smile like a volcano ready to erupt, but his expression never faltered. Steve resented the Duke for a thousand different reasons, but even he had to admit that the man was an excellent actor.

"Yeah, we were just going to see the city, see if we could get generate some new ideas," Tony lied immediately. "Why don't you join us? You can never see too much of Paris, right? Everyday is a new day, always something new to surprise you, and all that jazz? Trust me, you could use the cultural enlightening."

The Duke's smile faltered slightly—taken aback by the jab, no doubt—but he recovered quickly and nodded, grin back in place. "I'd love to," he said.

Tiberius forged ahead, claiming his spot at the front of their party like the leader he claimed to be. Tony shot an apologetic look at Steve behind the Duke's back. He shrugged as though to say 'what other choice did I have?'

Tony was right of course—they had to do anything and everything to remove all the Duke's suspicions, and inviting him along was the most logical way to do it—but it didn't stop the sinking in his chest or the rising anger in his throat. The Duke was testing his patience on a whole new level.

So, rather than having a romantic picnic in the park as Steve had planned, the two followed along in Tiberius' wake, enduring his long lectures about French architecture and his and Tony's competitive banter. Despite all his efforts to keep the Duke happy, it seemed Tony simply couldn't keep his mouth shut when it came to the facts and figures of the world.

"And when Joseph Blundell performed the first successful blood transfusion," Tiberius began a long-winded rant ("James Blundell" Tony corrected); "And in 1878 we got our first vaccines for cholera," Tiberius said sometime after the sun started to set ("1879," Tony huffed, crossing his arms over his chest). This went on for hours; with each fact Tony corrected, Tiberius became more and more determined to prove his own wisdom and lectured them even more.

The only consolation for the disastrous afternoon came when Tony doubled back, allowing the Duke to wander along ahead of them and talking to himself. Tony took one look at the Duke's back—his hands waving around in unappreciated enthusiasm—and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "Worst date talk I've ever heard," he joked. He looked at Steve, then at the Duke, then at the streets around them. Then, quick as lightening, he pressed a kiss to Steve's lips and pulled away.

"I know this isn't what you planned," Tony said, "But thank you."

Steve blinked in confusion. "What are you thanking me for?"

Tony shrugged. "Honestly, I haven't left the club in weeks." He gave a small little laugh and rubbed at the back of his neck. "This was sort of the best day I've had in a while."

Steve frowned, aching to kiss Tony again—to keep that smile on his lips forever—or at the very least, to simply hold his hand. But on the busy streets of Paris with the Duke just feet away, it was impossible. He'd have to get used to longing. But there was one thing he knew for sure; if this was going to be the best day of Tony's life, he sure as hell was going to make it worth it.

Steve Rogers was an idiot.

Tony decided this once and for all when a crash out his window got him racing out of bed at some awful hour of the morning only to find the writer hanging from his balcony like some bad deleted scene out of Romeo and Juliet.

"What are you doing?" Tony asked. He leaned against the balcony doors and watched as Steve grabbed a handhold about five inches from the balcony floor itself.

"Coming to see you," Steve said, blowing a strand of blond hair out of his face. He huffed out a deep, tired breath then swung his body over the last remaining space and clambered to his feet.

"There's a door." Tony pointed behind him.

"There's always people watching the door."

Tony couldn't exactly argue with that. His life was anything but private. "You could have waited for morning," he tried, though the smile on his face sort of countered the critical tone he was aiming for.

"I couldn't wait," Steve said. He was grinning from ear to ear, and Tony wanted to hate it—he really did—but all he could do was grin back helplessly, lost in the spell that was Steve Rogers and his earnest, soul-stealing eyes and big goofy smile. "Come on," he said, nodding his head back over the balcony.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You want me to climb down that with you in the middle of the night? Are we getting married and committing double suicide too? Should I grab my dagger or the poison?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Please? Just trust me? I promise it'll be worth it." He shot him the puppy-dog eyed look, the one laced with magic and voodoo and something that made Tony's heart beat too fast and too much until he thought it might burst from the sensation.

Needless to say, he climbed down the balcony (more like tripped down the balcony) and followed Steve stupidly into the night.

Bursting with nervous adrenaline, Steve led them him a flew blocks over to their neighborhood park. There, waiting for them under a large oak tree, was a small picnic, complete with candles and food that, unless Tony was mistaken, looked homemade.

It was cheesy, and romantic, and over the top, and probably the best thing Tony had ever seen in all his life.

"This was what you had planned today?" he asked, and was surprised to find his voice choked. He coughed. Maybe he was coming down with something.

Steve nodded. "Is it okay? I know it's sort of silly, but," He rubbed the back of his neck which was steadily growing pinker under the moonlight. "I thought—"

"It's perfect," Tony assured him.

He grabbed Steve's hand and led them both toward the blanket. They settled down—the only two people in the park—hiding beneath the moonlight, and yet not really hiding at all. Out in the open—out of SHIELD—was better than Tony could have hoped for, and maybe they had to compromise (a secret date under the security of nightfall was hardly the "dream") but it was better than nothing—greater than everything he'd had so far.

Tony stretched out on his side and popped a piece of fruit into his mouth. "You're American, right?" he asked, swallowing. "What are you doing in Paris?"

"Everything's happening here," Steve said. His eyes grew a little wider under the moonlight, a little more star struck, a little more excited. "I've always wanted to write. I thought here I might actually be able to make a career out of it."

"Well you weren't wrong." Tony couldn't help but smile. God knows, he hadn't planned this. He'd been perfectly happy with his life as it was—if not happy, at least necessarily numb. Before Steve showed up with his bright smile and brighter ideas, script in his hand, Tony's life had been all about the next job. He was content to work the club at night and tinker by morning. And maybe it was a lonely life, but get him caught up in a new project, and he could forget all about the aching hole in his heart. Now, there was no going back.

"The play's good," he continued. "You should really write it down." While Tony enjoyed watching the story unfold before him—a new chapter at each rehearsal—he knew it was the sort of play worthy of a future. If they played their cards right, they'd have more than one great show; they could have a tour, a world-wide production, a hit.

At least, Steve could. Tony was living on borrowed time until he finished with the reactor.

"I will," Steve said, reaching for a sandwich. "But I have to know how the story ends first."

Tony laughed lightly. "That was surprisingly deep, Captain," he teased.

Steve reddened. "Oh gosh, you've been talking to Clint, haven't you?"

"Hell yeah, I've been talking to Clint. He's got all the dirt. Do you really dance around the kitchen in your tighty whities before breakfast every morning?"

Steve turned a very interesting shade of scarlet and quickly shoved half his sandwich into his mouth—all the confirmation Tony needed.

Laughing hard, Tony wheezed out, "Fuck, I love you." The words escaped him before he could even think of taking them back. He froze, ready and waiting for the backlash, for the "I thought we were just having fun," the "this is going too fast," and the "I don't feel the same."

But the words never came. Instead, Steve smiled brightly and surged forward, capturing Tony's face in his hands and kissed him hard. "I love you too," he said as he pulled away.

Tony's heart did an odd sort of backflip in his chest. And it was good—perfect even—the night a little brighter, and Steve's warmth close to his side, a homemade dinner before them, and no interruptions. His breath caught in his throat, and it was worth it—that skipped heartbeat, that tightening under his ribcage, that imminent threat that was always present, the risk around every corner. Tony had lived his whole life with a broken heart—figurative and literal in every sense—and if this was how it finally failed him—bursting from too much happiness, then, well, there were worst ways to go.

Notes:

So this is the end of the fluff. Warning: all angst and heartache ahead.