Tony arrived back in his room at half past midnight. Steve was already waiting for him, sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands shaking in his lap. He'd tried to put it all out of his mind, tried to write, to paint, to stare out at the city lights and pretend none of it was real—that were no secrets, no affairs, no ultimatums and bad deals. That Tony was just at work, and when he got back—from his perfectly ordinary job—they'd be fine. They'd be normal. They'd be happy.

Of course, it didn't help that he could hear the cast celebrating from below. A bottle of champagne popped open. Music. Dancing. A whole party in honor of the play—his play, his words—and none of it would exist without Tony. Steve's whole life, every dream he'd ever though he wanted, was all thanks to Tony, and Steve would trade all of it just to have the man back in his arms.

When he finally did come, Tony was a mess. Hair disheveled, shirt missing, pants ripped and Rhodey firm by his side, Tony practically flung himself across the room and into Steve's arms. Steve embraced him immediately and ran his hands over Tony's arms, his back, his neck and jaw, checking for injuries and reassuring himself once again that Tony was here—Tony was fine.

"I couldn't do it," Tony said. "I couldn't go through with it."

Rhodey leaned against the doorway. The expression on his face made it quite clear that he would not be leaving any time soon. Steve couldn't find it in his heart to blame him no matter how much he might want to be alone with Tony.

Steve traced small circles over Tony's cheek with his thumb. "It's okay," he whispered. He pressed a kiss to Tony's cheek, then to his forehead, then finally his lips. "It's okay."

"No, it's not. He knows. He saw you. I mean, I saw you. I was going to do it, it was fine—it was normal, you know, just another job—and then I saw you, and it wasn't just another job. And I couldn't do it. Fuck, I'm so stupid. I couldn't do it. I couldn't…I couldn't pretend anymore." Tony shrugged helplessly. It was, Steve noted, his shortest rant to date, and that scared him more than anything.

He ran his hands through Tony's hair, settling it back into place while he whispered promises into the man's neck. "It's okay. We'll figure it out. It's okay."

It was horrible and selfish, especially now with Tony so riled up and shaken, but Steve was tremendously glad that he hadn't gone through with the plan. Screw the costs, screw the show, screw everything they had riding on the Duke's money and opening night. Steve had dreamed his whole life of being a writer, but now it wasn't worth it. Not like this. Not at these costs.

Tony was far more important.

Tony continued babbling under his touch, his shaking mostly settled now, but his eyes still wide. "I can't pretend anymore. I can't keep lying. I can't—"

"You don't have to." Steve pulled away just enough to look Tony firmly in the eyes. "You don't have to pretend anymore. We'll leave. We'll leave tonight."

Tony stepped back, looking more bewildered than ever. "Leave? But your show…"

"I don't care." The words spilled out of him without conscious thought. He was surprised to find he meant it. "I don't care about the show."

Tony shook his head. "I'm not going to let you throw away everything you've been working for. I'll fix this. I'll-I'll go back."

Steve shut him up in the nicest way he knew how and kissed him. "It doesn't matter, Tony," he repeated as he pulled away. "We have each other. That's all that matters. We'll go tonight."

"He's right," Rhodey said from the corner. All this time, he'd stayed silent, pretending to be occupied with the picture on the far wall, but now his gaze was steady and focused on Tony. He moved closer to his friend. "Come on, Tones, you always knew this was a temporary gig. You've got a lot more to give the world than this place."

Tony's mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. "Then you're coming with, right?"

Rhodey shrugged. "You wouldn't make it a day without me."

Tony laughed. "Okay." He paused, looking between Rhodey and Steve for a moment, then he surged forward, grabbed Steve's face in his hands, and kissed him—quick but hard. "Okay. I just have to grab the reactor. It's in Fury's office. He was checking it out, AKA tearing it apart for the next show. I'll meet you at your place." He kissed Steve again, warm and brief, then hurried off, leaving Steve kiss bruised and more optimistic than he could remember being in weeks.

Fury was already waiting for him in his office. Arms crossed over his chest, glare in place, forehead twitching, he wore his normal look of intimidation, the one that said "I am Fury, watch me roar" and promised an hour long lecture if Tony stuck around long enough for him to get started.

Tony had absolutely no plans to do so (nor, much to Fury's displeasure, had he ever).

Ideally, he would have snuck into the director's office, stolen back his property, and ran away off into the night without Fury being any the wiser, but luck was simply not on his side.

"You look like you're in a hurry, Stark," Fury said the second Tony opened the door. He leaned against his desk, the reactor held in one hand as though he'd seen it all coming, as though he knew Tony'd be there, and why.

Tony sighed. "Yeah, sort of am. So if you want to just hand that over…"

"You can't leave, Stark." Fury set the reactor back on the desk and advanced several steps across the room.

Tony side stepped him and grabbed the reactor, holding it behind his back as he made his way to the door. "Like hell I can."

Fury shook his head, and there it was again—that sad, worried look, such a harsh contrast to his normal mask of intimidation. Frankly, Tony prefered the glaring. "What?" he snapped.

"The Duke is going to kill Steve."

The words hit Tony like a physical weight to his chest. Before he could even begin to process them, Fury continued, "He's insanely jealous. You always knew how this would end, Stark. He's a powerful man. You do what he wants—"

"And I'm going to do what I want!" Tony snapped. "Fuck, he's one man, Nick."

"A powerful man," the director repeated. "With a lot of men under his command."

Tony shook his head. "I don't care. I'm not scared. And why should I be? You seen this guy? Honestly? He's a fucking creep is what he is, and you know what, I don't really give a damn. I'm getting out of here. I don't need you. I don't need SHIELD. And for the record, fuck you." The rage was building up inside him, years of unspoken anger, of resentment piling up at once, spilling out of him before he could stop it. "For years you've made me believe I was only worth what someone would pay for me. Well you know what, I found better. And I did it without you, or this place, or your fucked up games. Steve and I, we're getting out of here. And we're taking Rhodey and anyone else we can convince to leave this foresaken—"

"You're dying, Tony." Fury used his first name. In all the years he'd known him, Tony had never been anything more than 'Stark.' What was more, the look was back. The sad look, the serious look, that darkened glow in Fury's eyes that was so new to Tony—not mean, not controlling, not powerful at all, but real. Human.

It would have been easy not to believe him, to dismiss it as another lie, another cheap attempt to get him to stay—to bring in the big bucks—but the half-beating heart in Tony's chest told a different story. The paleness of his skin, the way he couldn't get a full breath anymore, all the little signs he wrote off as stress—from work, from sneaking around, from Ty. But deep down, he thought he must have always known.

After all, he was a man of science. Tony always saw the variables, and they all added up.

"How do you—" he started but Fury was one step ahead.

"We spoke to the doctors today. It's too late, Stark. That's not going to save you, not now." The director nodded behind Tony's back where he held onto the reactor with an iron grip. "Send Steve away," Fury continued. "Only you can save him."

Tony thought of Steve and that determined little twitch he got in his smile when he knew he was right, the blaze in his eyes when he was fighting the good fight. This was it, wasn't it? This was the battle worth fighting—perhaps the only one worth fighting that Tony had ever known—and they'd just lost. "He'll fight for me," he whispered.

"Unless he believes you don't love him."

Tony blinked. "What?"

"Come on, Stark." Fury smiled; the gesture was more razor sharp and cold ice than it was sunshine and rainbows. "You're a business man. You're a salesman. Sell it. Make him believe you don't love him."

Tony shook his head. "No." It was too much, too dirty, too wrong. He'd rather rip his own heart out than go down that path but…

"Use your talent to save him. His life is in your hands now. Hurt him. Hurt him to save him. The show must go on, Stark. You know the game. We're creatures of the underworld. We can't afford love." Fury shrugged as though it was all so simple. Once upon a time, Tony had believed it too. Believed he really could shut his heart down for good, and it wouldn't die in the process. Believed it was worth not to feel—that it was even possible.

He knew better now. He wished he didn't.

It came again, the stinging, throbbing pain in his chest, far too literal, too agonizing to be ignored. A broken heart in every sense of the phrase, and it made his vision blur, his nerves burn. He looked down at his chest and saw the obvious signs of his own decay—a criss-crossing pattern of dark blue lines across his pale skin and the scars from his last back-room surgery gone wrong. He'd run the tests a thousand times, checked every variable, considered every option.

He was dying.

"The show must go on, Stark. Get ready." With his last words still lingering in the air, Fury crossed the room and headed out, his black trench coat swaying ominously behind him.