Steve no longer knew what it was like to sleep alone.

His apartment still sat on the outskirts of town, his name on the lease, and his landlady waiting for the next payment (he got it to her, he did, but sometimes it took longer than he'd planned). Inside, his mail still waited on the counters, and there was food (quickly going bad) in the fridge. His bed waited, warm and comfortable (albeit a bit spare in the blanket department) for him to sleep in.

Steve just never used it.

In a perfect world, he would have sold the place entirely, moved out and settled permanently in Tony's place as he spent so much of his time there already. But it was impossible. Not only did the guards stand watch each and every—protecting their money, their investments, their clients' and workers' security—but the Duke stopped by nearly every morning. (Steve spent most of these mornings half dressed and dangling out the window.) Not to mention how suspicious it would be to up and leave his place without giving any of his friends a forwarding address.

Yes, Steve had a home, but, like most days, his home was abandoned as he lounged instead across Tony's bed, naked but for the script in his lap.

Tony was also in his lap, kissing lazily over Steve's thighs, lips moving silently as he read over the next scene. They'd be practicing it at the rehearsal later that afternoon, and, as had become his "style" as of late, Steve had only just written the part the night before.

"So your damsel in distress ends up with the writer over the king, huh? Do I sense some hopes and dreams seeping into your creative works, Rogers?" Tony said finally. He set the script aside and looked up at Steve through his overlong lashes, a wry, amused smile playing over the corners of his mouth.

Steve shrugged and tried to hold back his own grin. "Maybe," he said.

Tony moved over his lap, pressing one last kiss to the inside of Steve's thigh. It sent shivers rushing through every inch of his body, pulsating through every nerve. Tony moved upwards; when he reached Steve's chest, he kissed this too, then his neck, then his jaw, and then his lips. Here, Tony lingered, and for a moment, Steve lost himself in the feeling. Nothing—not the play, not his job, not the future—could break that small, happy bubble they'd created for themselves.

"I'm not a damsel, and I'm certainly not in distress," Tony said as he pulled away.

"Who said you're in it?" Steve asked. He smirked and nodded at the script now sitting on the bedside table. "Now whose ego is seeping into my creative works?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "You'd be an idiot not to write about me." He kissed Steve one last time before he rolled out of bed and began reaching for his clothes. Since Steve had arrived two hours before, they'd become scattered across every inch of the floor.

"Come on." Tony tossed Steve his t-shirt. "You got a big day."

Once they were dressed, the two entered the rehearsal room through separate doors—anything to lesson the suspicion on their current "situation."

Steve hated it with every fiber of his being.

They were practicing the last scene that day—an epic finale where the writer and his love defeated the evil king and ended up together, happy and bound for marriage. The actors were flawless, the set fantastic, and all the while, Tony sat in the audience, mouthing Steve's lines back at him because he knew them all by heart—the only one to read them before they were presented to the cast.

The play was well on its way to perfection, and the opening was just days away.

Normally, the Duke would sit in the front row, reading along with the extra copy of the script that Steve had provided him. Occasionally, he'd clap, smile at a line he found particularly funny, or critique the actors' movements or stance. Today, however, his script sat untouched by his side, and his eyes rested not on the actor currently speaking, but on Steve. Every once and a while, he'd glance back at Tony, who would grin and give him a thumbs up or something else ridiculous, and then Ty would turn back to Steve and glare a little more.

Something was off. Something was wrong.

Steve watched, an uneasy tingling rising under his skin—a feeling only made worse when Tiberius called one of the extras to his side. He and the woman exchanged several whispered coments before he sent her off, and Ty rose to his feet.

"This is all wrong," he said.

All at once, the rehearsal came to a stop. The music ended mid song; the actors all ceased speaking their lines; and from the back of the room, Tony frowned and stood up, working his way to the front of the stage.

"I'm sorry?" Steve frowned at Tiberius.

"This is all wrong," the man repeated. "The ending makes no sense. Why would the courtesan end up with the penniless writer when the Duke is offering her everything she could ever want? It's illogical. I want it changed. It will end with the courtesan and the king together, and you-" he pointed at Steve. "You will no longer be part of the cast. You're all wrong for the character, and I want a new actor in your place."

Steve's jaw dropped. Quickly pulling it back up, he stepped off the stage. "But Tiberius—"

"You will call me Sir." The Duke cut him off with a murderous glare.

"Uh, Sir," Steve corrected himself. "I know all the lines. I wrote all the lines! We've been working on this play for months. I'm a part of this production and the end—"

"The end will change."

"But that doesn't—"

"The end will change." This time it was not the Duke who spoke, but Tony. He had reached the front of the room and now stood by Tiberius' side. He shot Steve a warning look then turned back to the Duke. "We'll work on it. We'll talk. Won't we Steve?"

Under the pointed look Tony gave him, Steve had no other option. He nodded. "We'll work on it."

"We're not going to work on it!"

Tony stood in Fury's office, his hands raised as he yelled at SHIELD'S director about the ludicrous demands that Duke had raised that afternoon. "Opening night is in three days. We're barely scraping this play together as is. We can't just change it now!"

"We?" Fury asked. He leaned against his desk, eyebrows raised. A tall man, bursting with strength and intimidating, he wore an eye patch over one eye, a black trench coat over his shoulders, and when he spoke, he commanded attention.

Tony rarely ever gave it to him.

"Him. Them, whatever," Tony corrected himself. "Point is, this play is bringing in a lot of money and-"

"You don't care about the money," Fury said. It was not a question but a firm decisive observation.

"Of course I care about the money!" Tony snapped. He thought he did. At least, he used to. He—oh who was he kidding? This was about Steve, and it always had been. This play was the man's baby, and if they lost it now, well, he didn't want to think about the disappointment in those bright blue eyes. "Look, it's stupid. You can't change the end of a play and recast one of the main roles three days before opening night. You just have to tell Tiberius that it's a no. He can go cry in his room and get over it. It's just not going to work. And I'm not going to stand by and keep babying this idiot just so we can—"

"He knows."

"—take a little bit more money out of his pocketbook which, by the way, is pretty much sealed with concrete—"

"Tony!"

"What?" Tony wheeled around, anger written on every line of his face. He opened his mouth to continue arguing, but the look in Fury's eyes stopped him in his tracks. The man didn't just look pissed off—that was par for the course with Fury, and Tony could handle, well, the fury—but this? Fury looked somewhere between sympathetic and scared and that was just plain weird. Tony's heart now beat overtime in his chest, overcompensating for the rush of worry and panic that was now filling him as he asked, again, "What? What do you mean he knows?"

"He knows about you and Steve. He knows, and he's going to pull the funding on the show and the reactor—"

"That's almost finished. I just need—" Tony started, but Fury silenced him with a single raised finger.

"Listen to me," the director snapped. "He's going to take everything. You have to fix this. Tonight. And you'll do whatever he wants. So if the man wants his play changed, we'll change his play. That's the least of our worries right now, do you understand me?"

Tony gulped and nodded. This was it. He'd always known the moment would come, knew that the paradise he'd created with Steve was temporary—a joke he was kidding himself with—a gamble so that for a single moment, when Steve kissed him, when he lay next to him at night, Tony could feel normal, could feel loved.

All good things came to an end. Tony knew that better than most.

Fury turned to leave. "Lock up, will you," he began, but before he'd taken more than a couple of steps, the door slammed open and Steve rushed in.

His hair was a tangled mess, his hands shaking by his sides, and the anger was clear as day on his face—present in dark, pink patches. "I need to talk about the play. A-a writer's conference," he started the normal lie just as Tony shook his head to stop him.

"He knows," he said. He nodded at Fury.

Steve visibly deflated, his shoulders sinking and the worried lines on his brow deepening. The pink in his cheeks only grew darker. "Oh," he said.

Fury rolled his eyes and left the room.

"So does Ty," Tony continued. "He's going to end it all if we don't do what he wants. No more play, no money for you or your friends, nothing."

"The reactor?" Steve asked.

Tony nodded. Steve collapsed into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands, sighing heavily. Tony watched his shoulders rise and fall and thought of all the burdens those broad shoulders must have supported over the years. He rubbed his hand over Steve's back. "I have to sleep with him tonight."

Steve looked up. His eyes were wider than Tony had ever seen them, bewildered and angry all at once. "What? Why?"

Tony shrugged. "Because it's my job? You knew that. That's the whole point. Keeping everyone happy. That's part of what he's paying for. And if I'm going to cover this up—"

"Cover us up, you mean." Steve crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, Steve, cover us up. You knew that. You know how this game works."

Steve stood up. "It's not a game!"

By that point, Tony's heart, weak as it already was, now beat a drum solo against his ribcage. "Yes it is! That's all it is. Me and you pretending that this work, when all we're doing is playing ourselves. I knew what I was doing before you came in to screw it up. You do what you have to to win, and these are these are the stakes, so if you're out—"

Steve's face softened, and before Tony could say another word, he'd crossed the space between them and was kissing Tony with such force it nearly knocked him off his feet. Steve placed a hand along Tony's spine to steady him, the gentle softness of his touch a firm reminder of everything that had passed between them over the last few months. The memories did nothing to soothe Tony's broken heart.

"I'm not going anywhere," Steve said, pulling back to look Tony in the eye. "If that's what you have to do then, okay. I won't get jealous."

"You will," Tony said.

Steve shook his head. "I won't. I love you. No matter what. That doesn't come with fine print, Tony. I understand. I don't like it, but if-if this is what has to happen." He sighed and leaned down so his forehead rested against Tony's. "I won't get jealous. We're in this together, right?"

Tony nodded.

"Right," Steve said. "Then we'll figure this out. Come what may."