[ Steve's meetings never go quite like this. An extravagant socialite usually pays for him for the night, dresses him up like the perfect package they'd like the world to see, and parades him about in the heat and dim of night clubs, seedy bars, even sketchier drug dens. And even those that start out at black tie events never truly end at that, oh no. There's fancy champagne, a little schmoozing here and there, before they make it to the hotel rooms or clubs to follow.
This feels different, but he'd known it would be from the man's e-mail. It's what had made him double take, after all. Even Sharon told him to give it a try, but with that playful toss of her head that also told him to be careful. Nothing in their industry is ever what it seems.
But he finds himself enjoying the storytelling for now. Most clients call him a friend from school and it ends there, with Steve having to do very little talking about himself outside of charming pleasantries and comments on the guest's attire. After all, galas and parties and upscale events usually mean he can scout for more clients himself, because if there's anything he knows, it's the look. The sweep of the eyes from toe to head, and all Steve can see are dollar signs behind greedy kisses and fingers and wild little kinks.
He hums, thoughtful, turning Zemo's hand in his so his palm lies face up, letting his thumb trace over the life lines pressed deep into his palm. ]
I don't lie about my age, I'll promise you that. But you'd be surprised what could drive folks away. But I guess you're made of braver stuff.
[ His business could drive people away, for one, but Steve doesn't often let any clients close. Sure he has a few that are kind enough, a friendly exchange when they fall into the sheets together, but there are so few people in Steve Rogers's world that have even come close. Sometimes, he feels like Icarus, having desperately reached for the sun and in his descent with molten wings, plummeting. ]
Earl grey and a croissant with honey on it. Did I get it right? [ A grin, the quirk of lips. ] And maybe I offered you a ride home. You shouldn't hoof it in New York when you're hungover, and maybe you have a driver but I insisted.
[ A shrug, his fingers sliding along the man's palm to his wrist, fingertips pressing gently against his pulse, resting their hands together like that. ]
And so we lunch, and maybe I tell you all about this wild dance called the foxtrot, and you call me an old man. [ A huff between his teeth and he raises his free hand in mock surrender. ] Which, in spirit, maybe I am. But what's life without a little swing and music. Besides, you seem to catch on quick, too. A waltz in exchange for a foxtrot. Maybe a drink at swanky club in SoHo, and the rest is history, isn't it?
[ Steve ducks his head, almost bashful, as he looks down at their hands pressed together on the table top. The fairytales always seem so picturesque and perfect when he speaks about them out loud, when he gives life to the kind of thing he dreamed of for himself, once upon a time. The kind of thing his mother dreams of for him now. She'd told him once, when they danced and laughed in their threadbare living room, Bing Crosby and Count Basie loud in the radio, and the shuffle of their knocking feet as he forgot the steps to the Charleston or the foxtrot that she'd playfully taught him.
His eyes lift to Zemo's face and Steve's smile goes warm at the edges, soft. ]
So how'd this tall head of blonde hair and blue eyes do?
no subject
This feels different, but he'd known it would be from the man's e-mail. It's what had made him double take, after all. Even Sharon told him to give it a try, but with that playful toss of her head that also told him to be careful. Nothing in their industry is ever what it seems.
But he finds himself enjoying the storytelling for now. Most clients call him a friend from school and it ends there, with Steve having to do very little talking about himself outside of charming pleasantries and comments on the guest's attire. After all, galas and parties and upscale events usually mean he can scout for more clients himself, because if there's anything he knows, it's the look. The sweep of the eyes from toe to head, and all Steve can see are dollar signs behind greedy kisses and fingers and wild little kinks.
He hums, thoughtful, turning Zemo's hand in his so his palm lies face up, letting his thumb trace over the life lines pressed deep into his palm. ]
I don't lie about my age, I'll promise you that. But you'd be surprised what could drive folks away. But I guess you're made of braver stuff.
[ His business could drive people away, for one, but Steve doesn't often let any clients close. Sure he has a few that are kind enough, a friendly exchange when they fall into the sheets together, but there are so few people in Steve Rogers's world that have even come close. Sometimes, he feels like Icarus, having desperately reached for the sun and in his descent with molten wings, plummeting. ]
Earl grey and a croissant with honey on it. Did I get it right? [ A grin, the quirk of lips. ] And maybe I offered you a ride home. You shouldn't hoof it in New York when you're hungover, and maybe you have a driver but I insisted.
[ A shrug, his fingers sliding along the man's palm to his wrist, fingertips pressing gently against his pulse, resting their hands together like that. ]
And so we lunch, and maybe I tell you all about this wild dance called the foxtrot, and you call me an old man. [ A huff between his teeth and he raises his free hand in mock surrender. ] Which, in spirit, maybe I am. But what's life without a little swing and music. Besides, you seem to catch on quick, too. A waltz in exchange for a foxtrot. Maybe a drink at swanky club in SoHo, and the rest is history, isn't it?
[ Steve ducks his head, almost bashful, as he looks down at their hands pressed together on the table top. The fairytales always seem so picturesque and perfect when he speaks about them out loud, when he gives life to the kind of thing he dreamed of for himself, once upon a time. The kind of thing his mother dreams of for him now. She'd told him once, when they danced and laughed in their threadbare living room, Bing Crosby and Count Basie loud in the radio, and the shuffle of their knocking feet as he forgot the steps to the Charleston or the foxtrot that she'd playfully taught him.
His eyes lift to Zemo's face and Steve's smile goes warm at the edges, soft. ]
So how'd this tall head of blonde hair and blue eyes do?