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— — —
Howard does not tend to think about soul-marks, except when he does.
— — —
Howard knows about soul-marks. Everyone knows about soul-marks! - the little etched symbols, drawn into people’s wrists, signifying those are meant perfectly, and utterly for them. Soul-marks.
He has them, of course, one on each wrist.
On his left wrist, a little dark-blue symbol etched into his skin. It is the outline of a tiny bird, its wings spread mid-flight. He is not quite sure what bird it is exactly, but if he guesses, he thinks that it is some sort of songbird.
On his right, is a simple star, bright and red.
Growing up, he used to stare at soul-marks, tracing the lines of them with the tip of his finger. He would wonder who they belonged to, and when he would meet them.
Sometimes, in the more depressing moments of his life, Howard wonders if he will ever meet his own soul-mates at all. Which is ridiculous, he knows. It’s not something that truly happens. It is merely a thing of legend. The idea of a love-sick writer, written in some time long-gone past, about a tragedy that only could happen in one’s deepest nightmares.
Howard knows the story, of course. Whispered from parent to child, it is a legend nearly as old as time itself. A child, who grows, and grows, yet their soul-mates never come. Who dies alone, abandoned. Why make up tragedies, when so many already exist, Howard thinks. He knows, intimately, that there are such real tragedies. His mother and father are soul-mates, he knows, bonded by the little crescent moon drawn softly over the skin of their right wrists. But his mother…
Everyone has two soul-marks, one on each wrist. They come in all shapes and sizes, signaling everything from an incredibly close friendship to a long lasting marriage to a bond between parent and child that can never, ever be broken. And while Howard’s mother, like everyone else, has two… the second one would have done its best to be forgotten.
The sweet little moon of his father, bright and blue and lying against her right wrist. The second mark, on her left, a delicate little platonic bond. It is the most gentle looking rose, almost dainty against her skin. It is baby pink, and reminds Howard strongly of the little pink and blue forget-me-nots growing in the yard outside of their house.
“It used to belong to my baby sister,” she tells him, one night when he is young. He had asked where her other soul-mate was. Has she not met them yet?
And his mother sighs, and looks wistfully down at her wrist, tracing the rose like it is the most fragile thing in the world, and says, “We lost her, when I was just nearing thirteen.”
Howard has never, ever seen his mother look more sad, more morose, than when she says, wistfully, “She was only eight.”
Howard holds his mother’s hand in one of his own, and traces the pink rose with his other. His fingertips feel cold against it, and he closes his eyes. He does not ask what happened to his Aunt, and is not quite sure if he really wants to know.
And he hopes, deeply, that he never has to go through something like that. He is not sure that he would be able to recover. He traces his own soul-marks. Losing his soul-mates? He thinks that it would destroy him.
— — —
Howard traces both of his soul-marks beneath the pads of his fingers. He waits.
— — —
Howard is an incredibly charismatic man.
He has a charm, and a certain influence. He is good with people. Great, in fact! He is amazing at reading them, and their needs and their desires. It’s what makes him such a brilliant businessman, able to forge connections where others might not. He is not lacking in people who wish to be his friend. What he does lack, however, is people he finds pleasant enough to return the emotion.
Strangers, to him, are usually a means to an end. He does not know them, and frankly, he struggles to care much about them at all. He is the patriotic sort, of course, and if asked, he would absolutely puff up his chest and say that he loves America and all of its American citizens. But… Howard does not have many close friends or confidants, those he truly cares about. That, however, is not to say that there are none at all.
Peggy Carter, perhaps, or maybe a handful of others. Peggy, in particular, is an incredible woman, and he thinks he has quite the fondness for her. Or, perhaps his soul-mate? The one he has not met, not yet. He hopes he survives to get to meet them, and that he will love them. He knows that he will, that he should. That this is how soul-mates work.
And then, he meets Steve Rogers, and he finally learns what it means to actually, truly love a soul-mate.
— — —
Howard will always remember when he first met Steve.
He was working with the Strategic Scientific Reserve, the SSR, for short. A highly secretive branch of the United States Government, hidden behind so many layers of cryptic, hidden nonsense that before joining, he did not even know that it existed at all.
He hadn’t wanted to join them, not at first, but after much cajoling, Peggy finally convinced him to take part. He did not regret it. The war had just started, after all. World War II. And Hell, if that wasn’t a shock? The Great War was supposed to be the last. Everyone thought that it was going to be the last. Everyone was wrong, weren’t they? Even if he is not a soldier, he can still help. He can still fight.
He worked, closely, with an older scientist by the name of Abraham Erskine - who he knew, was likely one of the greatest minds of the man’s generation. Erskine did things Howard could not even fathom, and while it hurt and bruised his ego a bit, it was almost disorienting to realize that there was another man who perhaps might have been just as smart, or even smarter, than himself.
Erskine was talented, in a way many others were not. He also saw things, in a way many others did not. He was the driving force behind the SSR, whose goal it was to help in any way possible to win the war. They were to do this, with the super soldier serum.
Erskine was the mind behind the serum. An almost magical elixir, that would turn any normal, human man into something… other. Something stronger. Something more powerful than a normal human could ever even hope of achieving. A warrior of immense strength and power, able to defend and protect America like no one else.
Erskine was so, so picky about who was to receive the serum. Howard understood. The wrong person, with that power… they would be able to do unforetold damage.
And yet, still, even with all the dangers and the risks, there was something awe-inspiring about the super soldier serum, wasn't there?
When Howard Stark first met Steve Rogers, it was through Erskine. The man, picky as ever, had finally, finally decided on the man who was to be injected with the serum. Steve was a scrappy little thing, barely five-foot-four. He had skinny arms and legs that jutted out at the knees and elbows, and a sickly air to him. A pallor to his skin and clammy hands. It looked as if a particularly heavy wind would be able to blow him right over.
Maybe Howard should have been nervous, at the prospect of using the serum on such a small, little man. But there was just something about Steve. Despite his scrawny appearance, there was a gleam in his eyes, a shining bit of bravery. A desire to stand up for others, even if he knew he would fail. Steve did not look like someone who would give up, not ever.
Howard found that… honorable. He struggled, then, to really have that desire. What use was helping others? If not to help push himself forward? He fought in his own way, through the SSR, but he knows that even that was selfish. Doing it for the money, for the rewards. But there was Steve, who fought not for himself, or for any reward, but for anyone and everyone else who might need it.
Who else would take the super soldier serum, if not Steve?
— — —
It is the day Steve will be injected with the super soldier serum, and Howard has never felt more anxious or excited. He’s been waiting for this movement for months, working on a specialized machine that will help better inject Erskine’s serum, hopefully without too many unwanted side effects. The man is ushered into Howard’s lab by Erskine, a dozen or so lab technicians surrounding them all. And Howard cannot help but grin at him, offering a hand for him to shake.
“Oh,” Steve says, looking at him, “You’re Howard Stark. I saw you at the Expo. Did you ever get that Cadillac in the air?”
Howard cannot help but laugh. Ever since starting his company, Stark Industries, he has held Expos in Times Square, showcasing every new invention he had to offer. Other than the super soldier machine, of course. This year, he showed off a prototype flying car - a 1942 Cadillac! - though it admittedly did not go very well, having crashed into the stage where he was presenting.
He grins at Steve, and says, “Had her flying three full minutes.”
Steve raises a single eyebrow, “And then what happened?”
“Well,” Howard replies, still smiling, “We landed…”
There’s a beat, before he continues, “...technically.”
Steve just snorts. He looks obviously nervous, almost fearful. Howard pats him on the shoulder, but he does not seem very assured at all. Howard supposes that he would be nervous too, if he was about to be injected with an experimental super soldier serum which might not even work at all.
Though God, he hopes it works.
“Come on then Rogers,” Howard says, gesturing to his machine, “Take off your shirt, and hop up.”
Steve rolls his eyes, and obeys, stripping his shirt and facing Howard with his now bare chest. And for just a moment, Howard can see a brief glimpse of the man’s soul-marks - a sparkling little sun on one wrist, and a shimmering star on the other.
And, oh.
A star.
A star, bright and red, exactly like his own star, branded right there on Steve'
Suddenly, all thoughts of the super soldier serum are out of his mind, because that is Howard’s soul-mark, right there on Steve’s wrist.
Howard wants to tell them all to stop. He wants to scream and to cry. He wants to stop the experiment, and to be selfish. What if something goes wrong? What if Steve is hurt by the serum? What if, what if, what if?
Howard would be a fool to try and back the man out now.
All Howard has left is to have trust in his machines, and Erskine’s serum, and their research.
God, he hopes that they are not wrong.
A small mechanism is attached to Steve’s chest, clinging there vigorously, but Howard cannot bring himself to pay much attention to it. It’s the injection device, pronged with needles, and ready at any moment, to send the serum pumping through the veins around Steve’s heart.
Steve, sickly little five-foot-four Steve, is injected with the serum. He screams, high and sharp and keening for a long moment. Doors come up around him, locking him inside. Howard is reminded, nauseatingly, of a bird being placed into an oven to cook. Lights flash, and Howard thinks it is not going to work after all. Steve screams and screams and Peggy begs for the machine to be turned off. Steve says no, over and over, no do not turn it off, until he finally silences. His screams fading into whispers.
Howard clicks a button, and the doors open.
And Steve falls out forward from the machine, released, with a groan. He is dangling from the straps, barely held up by them. He is slumped, limp, like a ragdoll.
“You did it, Doctor.” Howard breathes to Erskine, “You really did it.”
Steve is six-foot-two, taller than Howard himself. Giant, really, in comparison to the man he was before. With muscles thick enough to break steel. With hands clenched into fists so large that Steve, whether he wanted to or not, could probably take down a man with a single flick of his wrist. Howard is nearly in awe, and knows that this man would be able to help so, so much with the war efforts. And they would be able to make more soldiers, just like him-!
And then Erskine is killed. Erskine, the only man with the full knowledge of how the serum works, with the formula for it. Erskine, the only man who could possibly help create more, gone, in a moment. Killed by an undercover Hydra agent, hidden away in their very own room of technicians. And Howard doesn’t think he has ever felt more stupid.
Steve is the first, and the last, super soldier.
— — —
God, Howard should have known that they weren’t going to send Steve Rogers out to do good.
— — —
“We all know this isn’t about having a swell afternoon,” Steve says, “This is about winning the war.”
He is clad in a new uniform, the colors of America’s flag. He is bright and shining, standing in the middle of a stage. He looks strong, and powerful, raising a shield to the sky - a red, white and blue, branded with a star logo.
An audience lays before him and the stage, and Steve grins down at the people watching.
“But we can’t do it without bullets and bandages. Without tanks and tents. That’s where you come in!” he says, brandishing the shield once more, twisting on his heel.
Behind him, a man in a Nazi uniform creeps along the stage.
“Oh no,” someone from the audience says - a little boy, “Behind you!”
“Each bond you buy protects someone you love,” Steve continues, “So our boys will be armed and ready!”
“Behind you!” someone in the audience says again, and it's another little child, a girl this time, “Turn around!”
The Nazi gets closer to Steve, standing close enough to touch him.
More children join the shouts. They are all shouting and pointing. Some of them even stand, jabbing their fingers at the stage with worried, agonized expressions.
“Look out!” they say, or “Oh no!” or “Help!”
“And so the Germans will think twice before trying to get the drop on us-” Steve exclaims, and he spins, punching the nazi behind him right in the jaw. He turns, and smiles triumphantly at the audience of children.
“I’m Captain America, the star spangled man,” he cries, “And you, people of New York - I will help protect you!”
The crowd cheers wildly.
— — —
“So, Rogers,” Howard says into the phone, biting the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t burst into laughter, “I heard that you single handedly took down a nazi attack in Times Square the other day?”
“Shut it, Stark,” Steve replies, and Howard can hear just how red the man’s face is, “How did you even see that?”
“Well,” Howard replies, “I have my connections.”
A beat.
“Did you steal the camera footage?”
“No,” Howard replies, aghast.
“I bribed some boy on the crew to mail it to me,” he continues, smugly.
Steve only sighs.
“Steve,” Howard says, into the phone, “Stevie.”
“Yes, Stark?” the other man replies, and Howard can hear the sigh in his voice.
“I’m Captain America, the star spangled man,” Howard mimics, “And you, people of New York - I will help protect you!”
Steve hangs up the phone.
— — —
Howard and Steve sit together, shoulders bumping against one another. Steve is in the city, for one of his shows, and is set to perform that night. Howard wants to go and support Steve, and his performance, but the other man looks mortified at the thought.
Howard laughs, but he knows that Steve would do much, much better actually on the battlefield. That is what he and Erskine worked for, after all. Even if the thought of sending his soul-mate out is terrifying. Howard is no wuss.
“They should let you fight,” he tells Steve.
Steve gazes out the window. They’re in Howard’s hotel room, all the way up in a suite on the top floor. The view of the city is quite beautiful, and reminds him of flying over land in an airplane. Steve looks back at Howard and there is a look in his eyes.
“They think I do better out here,” Steve replies, and Howard can’t help but roll his eyes.
“You’d do much better there,” he says, “You’re made for it.”
“When I heard that they were sending you on promotional tours, instead of out to fight - gah,” he waves a hand in front of his face, “I knew that they were stupid.”
Steve just looks at him.
“You’re a powerhouse,” Howard says, “And I think you’re the one who will help finally end the war.”
He almost wishes that he was wrong.
— — —
Howard does end up going to Steve’s show that night, finally in person.
“I’m Captain America,” Howard says, again and again, “The star spangled man!”
Steve socks him in the jaw.
— — —
Howard traces his fingers over the sketch, very careful not to smudge it.
It’s a charcoal drawing, etched into Steve’s sketchbook. It’s in great detail, a portrait of Howard’s own face. He grins at Steve smugly, and raises an eyebrow.
“You really captured my handsomeness.”
“Oh,” Steve says, “Shut your mouth.”
“No better subject than me, I think,” Howard says, and Steve is starting to laugh.
“Howard,” he stresses, “Please.”
Howard only grins.
— — —
“Have you met your other soul-mate yet?” Howard asks, and Steve shrugs.
“No,” he says, almost wistful, “Not yet.”
He holds up his wrist, and there is that little sun branded right against his skin. Howard feels like it’s burned into his memory. Something about it feels distinctive, important.
They feel so similar, Steve’s two soul-marks. A sun and a star, on each wrist. Both bright and blinding.
“How about you?”
“Not yet either,” Howard replies, and he grins, “But I’m hoping that it’s a very pretty lady. Look, you’re nice and all, but…”
Steve rolls his eyes, “You can’t feel me up.”
“Well, I guess I could,” Howard says, “But I’d rather not.”
Neither of them are able to stop themselves from breaking down into laughter.
— — —
“Having a soul-mate is a lot different than I thought it would be,” Steve says.
“Really? Why?” Howard replies.
“I didn’t think I would actually enjoy your company.”
“What?” Howard splutters, “Why not?”
“I don’t know. You seemed a little obnoxious.”
Howard pauses.
“Touché.”
— — —
Howard is not quite sure why, but he can’t stop thinking about Steve’s other soul-mark. The little red sun. It’s so, so similar to his own. He feels like he needs to remember it. He doesn’t know the reason behind that either, but he tucks the image of it into the back of his mind.
A little red sun, with tiny golden prongs.
A little sun.
— — —
Howard looks out the window, at the sky. He’s flying, soaring thousands of feet above land, whipping by in the cockpit of an airplane, all the way to Austria. He sits behind the controls, steadfast and focused. He looks at the moon, waning against the deep, deep darkness. He looks at the stars, twinkling faintly in the distance. And, for the first time in a long time, he feels fear. He wonders, not for the first time, how exactly he got himself into this situation.
The stars glimmer, distantly, and he struggles to tear his eyes away from them for a moment. They twinkle, flashing at him. When he finally does manage to look away, he leans back from the control board, glancing back from the cockpit, to look at Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers.
To look at Steve, clad in his uniform - red, and white, and blue - and to know that the man might not come back alive.
And he asks himself again, how did they even get here? But he knows, and he knows that they cannot turn back.
He got the call just after he laid down to sleep, at one o’clock in the morning. Bleary eyed, face pressed into his pillow, as Peggy rang him up to ask if he’d be able to fly her and Steve to Austria. He had blinked, confused, wiping the crust from the corners of his eyes, and nodded slowly even though he knew that she could not see him. He trusted Peggy, even with her random, insane requests, and was right to do so.
“Of course,” he tells her, “As long as I’m back for my morning espresso.”
She is not amused.
She tells him about The 107th Infantry Regiment. There was a raid, and so, so many of America’s men, missing in action. Howard was aghast. An entire squadron of soldiers, of men, captured and locked away in some disgusting little hole in the mountains. Captured by Hydra. He tries not to think of the work, or the labor, or the torture, so, so many of them must be going through. But the thought is ever-present in the back of his mind, unwilling to leave. Some of Steve’s very own friends are there, lost, waiting for a rescue that may never come if they were to turn back.
The men are guarded by enough Hydra soldiers that saving them seems impossible. No one else wanted to try, and it makes sense, as much as Howard hates to admit it. The number of casualties that would be caused by sending in even more men to try to save them… it is unfathomable. And yet…
Steve Rogers is never one to give up, is he? Even if it is only he, and he alone, going in to try and save their men, he is not going to give up.
“The Hydra camp is in Krausberg, in the mountains,” Peggy says to Steve, “It’s a factory of some kind.”
They sit, hunched over together, in the back of the plane, looking over scrunched up maps, going over the details of the mission. There’s a look in Steve’s eyes. It’s that very same look Howard saw when he first met the man. That intense, knowing focus. That determination. That will, inescapable and unstoppable, shining through even in such a hopeless situation.
“Get me as close as you can manage,” Steve says, and then he’s looking straight at Howard, with those determination-filled eyes.
“Can do,” Howard replies, "We should be able to drop you right on the doorstep.”
“In fact,” he continues, “We should make it there with time to spare. We could always stop down in Lucerne for a late night drink. I hear that they have some of the best wine.”
He can feel Peggy roll her eyes, as Steve just says, “Uh, what?
“Stark’s the best civilian pilot I’ve ever seen, and most likely the only one mad enough to brave this airspace. We’re lucky to have him,” Peggy says, “Even if… he’s like that.”
“Hey!” Howard replies, grinning, “I’ll have you know that most people find me charismatic. Oh, and Steve - we’re coming in close. You should be able to drop down in less than ten minutes.”
Steve nods, solemnly, but then he cracks a smile and says, “You two are going to be in a lot of trouble because of me, when you land.”
Peggy stifles a wry, sad-looking smile, and asks “And you’re not?”
“Well,” Steve replies, and there’s a sparkle in his eye, “Where I’m landing, I get to shoot anyone who yells at me.”
Howard laughs lowly. He tightens his hands on the controls, and turns to look back out through the window. At the sky. At the moon.
“They’re going to shoot right back,” Peggy says, and it sounds like she’s shaking off any fear she may have lurking in her mind, “Be careful, Steve.”
“I know,” Steve says.
Howard glances back again just in time to see Steve hold up his shield, the heavy disk. Howard has seen him use it in many of his performances. The star on the front gleams in the light. He knocks one fist against it, a clanging sound echoing through the plane.
“It’s got to be good for something, other than dance numbers” Steve says, and Howard laughs.
And then Steve’s voice sounds wispy, light, and he continues, “And I could use all the help I can get.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Howard replies, and he has to admit the desire is deeply, deeply selfish, but Steve stares hard at his feet.
“I have to,” he says, “My friend, Bucky…”
And Howard is, once again, staring out at the sky. The moon stares back at him, white and glimmering and somehow even hopeful. He feels like he can see himself in it. He blinks once, hard, glancing down at the control board under his fingers. A single light flickers, on and off, blinking at him. He presses his finger down against a button, sucking in a deep breath.
Howard grips the controls hard beneath his hands. He knows that he should be paying more attention to the plane, but finds that he cannot. He turns, yet again, to face Peggy and Steve. Steve is staring down at his hands.
“Here,” Peggy says to Steve, and she presses a transponder into Steve’s hand, “Call us when you’re out. We can try to extract you.”
“Are you sure this works?” Steve asks, rattling it, “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
Howard grins, “I made that little beauty myself. Trust me, that communicator works better than even this plane. Tested it myself.”
He slaps the edge of the control board in front of him. He can’t see her, but he can practically feel Peggy put her head in her hands out of exasperation. He can certainly see her sigh.
“Yes,” she says, “We should be able to trust anything that Howard makes.”
And Steve, he says, “Everything other than flying Cadillacs?”
Howard roars with laughter.
— — —
Howard shouldn’t let go of the plane’s controls, but he can’t help but hug Steve as tightly as he possibly can, before sending Steve parachuting down to Earth. They have never hugged each other before, and it feels almost odd.
He doesn’t stop it though.
He feels vaguely sick, and wonders if this is what his mother felt whenever she thought about her little sister. He stares down at the top of Steve’s parachute, and he finds himself muttering a prayer under his breath. He’s not quite sure what he’s praying for, exactly, but it seems to help.
— — —
Everything is in Steve’s hands, and all Howard and Peggy can do is wait. They both wait, in camp with the remaining men of troop 107. Howard isn’t quite sure he is allowed to be there, but what are they going to do? He laughs at the thought of something trying to kick him out. Him? Leave? And miss Steve coming back?
They, every single one of the commanding officers at the camp, all say Steve won’t return. That this is a suicide mission. That the three of them, Steve and Howard and Peggy, were foolish and much too overconfident. But they are wrong. Howard knows, with certainty, that they are wrong.
So Howard gets to watch in satisfaction when two days later, everyone else is stunned and open mouthed, as Steve makes it back, some one-hundred and fifty rescued soldiers in tow. Waltzing into camp, a herd of prisoners of war, stolen trucks, and cheers behind him. A little beat up, and looking a little worse for wear, but okay. Healthy.
Howard doesn’t see him, not at first, through the mass of cheering soldiers. But when he approaches, they part like the sea, and there he stands. He lifts his head proudly, Bucky Barnes at his side. Bucky is slumped over, obviously greatly injured, head nodding up and down. He obviously should be resting, laid up in one of the trucks. But Howard, knowing Steve Rogers, knows that any friend of that man would be just as stubborn, if not perhaps even more so, than Captain America himself.
Cheers erupt around the entire camp, returning soldiers and remaining men alike, and Howard cannot wipe the grin off his face as he bumps his shoulder against Steve’s. He feels a roaring sensation deep in his chest, burning. He lifts his chin in the air, smirking at the commanding officers who stand, gaping, around the group. He doesn’t even bother trying to hide his cackles.
“I knew you could do it!” Howard tells him, fervently, “When am I ever wrong?”
And Steve just laughs.
— — —
“Don’t be that stupid again,” Howard tells Steve.
“What do you mean?” the man replies.
Howard slams his palm against the back of Steve’s head as hard as he can. The man is enhanced, of course, and it doesn’t really seem like it hurts him too badly, but he looks over at Howard with sad, betrayed eyes.
“What was that for!”
“You didn’t call me and Peggy to extract you,” Howard says calmly, “We gave you a communication device for a reason.”
“It broke!” And Steve pulls out the crushed pieces of the device from his pocket. It’s shattered, metal and wires and gears in a clump in his palm.
“Oh,” Howard replies.
“Oh,” Steve mimics.
“Do I get to hit you back now?”
“I don’t think I’d quite survive that, Rogers.”
— — —
Steve discovered a wealth of knowledge inside the Hydra base, where the soldiers were being hidden. The base, run by two Hydra leaders - a Mr. Armin Zola and a Mr. Johann Schmidt - are not to be tested. God, Howard remembers Schmidt. Erskine, the mastermind behind the super soldier serum, worked with the man, way back when. Howard wonders just how many secrets of Erskine the two may carry. Any at all is a disaster.
The next stages of the war, though, pass Howard by in a blur.
He gets to watch as Steve, along with many of the prisoners of war he rescued from that very same base, go on to take down Hydra base after Hydra base. Howard would have said, once upon a time, that he did not have many actual, true friends. But through Steve, and his rag-tag team - the Howling Commandos, they call themselves - he finds that he has found a plethora.
“I heard you’re sort of attached,” Howard tells Steve, just a few days after his rescue mission in Austria, “To that dinky little shield of yours.”
The shield sits, battered and broken, on one of the tables of his lab. It’s no good now, not really. Bruised and decorated in bullet holes. Snapped nearly clean in two.
“It’s handier than you might think,” Steve replies, reaching forward to touch it.
“So’s my receptionist,” Howard says, wiggling his eyebrows, “But I wouldn’t take her into battle.”
Steve bites his tongue, and Howard pulls a cart out from under his desk. On it, there is an array of different shields. Some built, some half finished. They are all mostly metal, glittering against the harsh laboratory lights overhead. Howard picks one up, and knocks his knuckles against it.
“This one is fun,” he tells Steve, “It can reflect lasers-”
But Steve reaches down, to the very bottom of the cart, and pulls out another shield. It is plain and simple-appearing. Unassuming, made of shining light gray metal.
“What about this one?” he asks, and Howard chuckles.
“Oh,” he says, “That’s just a prototype. We can ignore that one-”
“What’s it made of?
“Vibranium,“ Howard answers, “Stronger than steel and a third of the weight.”
Slowly, Steve slides the shield onto his arm. Howard doesn’t want to admit it, but it looks right on him. He knows, suddenly, that this is the shield.
“That shield is completely vibration absorbent,” he tells Steve, “Should make a bullet feel like a cotton ball.”
“How come it’s not standard issue?” Steve asks, turning the shield over in his hands.
“It’s the rarest metal on earth.” Howard replies in a deadpan, “You’re holding all we’ve got.”
Steve just smiles ruefully.
“By God,” Howard continues, “Having a soul-mate is so dreadfully expensive. Come on, I need to get my mind off things.”
He turns from Steve, pushing his cart back where it belongs, sliding the remaining shields snugly right back under the table. Steve looks at him in bewilderment, as he starts to walk away. He raises one hand in the air, beckoning, not turning to look back.
“Come on Stevie,” he calls, “We haven’t got all day. I’m in the mood for some foie gras from my favorite restaurant, and they close at eight.”
Steve just stumbles up to him, confused, and asking, “What is foie gras?”
Howard grins at him.
— — —
“Foie gras is absolutely disgusting,” Steve tells Howard.
He puts his head in his hands, staring down at the table as if it were able to attack him. He looks almost comical, fork clenched between his fists. Howard is mildly surprised that he’s managed not to bend it, or snap it clean in too.
“Well,” Howard replies, pompously, carefully cutting into his food, “I should have known that you wouldn’t have had the palate to handle such gourmet cuisine.”
“Sure,” Steve agrees, “But next time we go out to eat, I get to pick where.”
“I don’t want any pizza.”
“But-”
“Or bagels.”
“But-”
“Or hotdogs.”
“What, do you think I’m the most stereotypical New Yorker to ever exist? You’re from New York too!” Steve replies, bursting out.
Howard slowly looks Steve up and down. He bites his tongue, hard, and fights the smirk that desperately wants to appear on his face. His entire chest throbs as he attempts to hold in his laughter. He’s practically shaking.
“I’m Captain America-” Howard begins.
Steve glares at him, and perhaps Howard spoke too soon about the man’s fork, because it snaps clean in half with a sharp crack before Howard can even finish his sentence.
“Oh,” Steve says.
Howard takes another bite of his foie gras, and struggles not to break down into laughter.
— — —
Howard should have known that the good times would not last.
— — —
They are doing so well, too well, almost. Hydra is being beaten back, again and again. Steve, and his Howling Commandos, seem unstoppable. They are an immovable force. Hydra is down on men. They cannot last much longer. There is no way that they can take more, can they?
But then they lose Bucky Barnes.
It was not just any mission. The Commandos had caught word of some of the high-ranking Hydra leaders, traveling by train from Poland, headed east.
It was not just any mission, because the Hydra leader is Arnim Zola. The one behind so many of the atrocities done to the The 107th Infantry Regiment, during their time captured behind enemy lines. Experimentation. Torture. The reason why so many of their men came back changed, came back in pieces. Zola does not care about pride. He cares about winning, above all else, and that is all. Howard wonders where Schmidt is, and why he was so foolish to have left Zola alone.
Steve and Bucky go out to capture the train, to capture Zola, and only Steve comes back alive.
Howard - he is not used to grief, and does not quite expect it. It feels like a hole gnawing at the side of his stomach. For a moment, and just a moment, he is angry at Steve. Because Steve was the one who introduced the two, was he not? Steve was the one who helped Howard become more open, more willing to try and make friends. But the moment is fleeting, because Steve collapses.
— — —
Howard finds him in his own basement, in the wine cellar. Steve drinks, and he drinks. He chugs down all of Howard’s wine, bottles and bottles of it. Enough to kill a man, but Steve is no normal man, is he? Trembling, glasses clenched so hard in his fists that he has already broken a few. The shattered remains lay scattered across the floor, and Howard carefully steps around them, shoes clicking against the hardwood.
“You know,” Steve tells him, without even looking, “Doctor Erskine told me the serum wouldn't just work on my muscles and my reflexes - he said it would work in my cells, create a protective system of healing, of regenerating. Which means…”
Steve finally looks over. He looks somber, but incredibly clear-eyed.
“I can’t get drunk,” he says, incredulously, “Did you know that?”
“Your metabolism burns three times faster than average. Erskine thought it could be one of the side effects,” is the only thing that Howard can manage in reply.
“Probably didn’t want anybody stealing his schnapps,” Steve says, and he looks down at the glass in his hand. He clenches his fist hard, almost unconsciously, and it suddenly snaps. The glass shatters, the pieces falling from his hands. They crumple to the floor with the quietest sound, tiny clatters echoing off the stone walls. He looks around the room, at all the empty bottles littering the ground.
“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to drink up your whole stock.”
But Howard shrugs, “Never really cared for wine anyway. I prefer whiskey, myself.”
They sit together for a long time. Howard slides to the floor next to Steve, kicking any errant glass shards out of the way with the heel of his shoe. He thumps his head against the wall, leaning back, and stares across the room. He doesn’t look at Steve. He has never before seen Steve look so empty, so hollow. Something about it feels utterly wrong, eerie, and he cannot quite place it, until he realizes that he’s never really seen Steve without that spark of determination in his eyes.
That spark is gone now.
“When I was growing up,” Howard tells Steve, “My biggest fear was losing someone close to me. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it now but… I was afraid to make friends, for a long time, because of it.”
Howard looks at him, slowly. Steve stays despondent, lying in a heap beside him. He does not look at Howard, choosing instead to stare limply down at his hands. They are not even bleeding, despite the shards of glass still gathered in his palms.
“My mom’s little sister died when they were young. I thought about it a lot.”
Howard can see Steve finally look at him out of the corner of his eye.
“Her sister died when they were both children,” Howard says, “I’m not sure of what, but I think it might have been the White Plague.”
“I used to think that I would never be able to handle losing someone the way she did. She was graceful about it. My mother, she was strong, see? The strongest woman I ever knew, though I dare you to tell Ms. Peggy Carter that. And you Steve, though I’m reluctant to admit it, lest I bruise my own ego, but…”
He turns to Steve, and he claps him on the shoulder, “You’re stronger than even that.”
“I can’t just forget about Bucky,” Steve just replies, and his voice sounds deeply hollow.
“I’m not saying that,” Howard replies firmly, “But I am saying that if Bucky knew you gave up, he’d give you one hell of a right hook.”
Steve is staring at him, silently.
“You’ve got to finish what you two started,” Howard continues, “Because I don’t think Bucky will rest easy until you do.”
Steve does not reply. He seems lost in thought, for a long moment, simply just staring down at the glass around his feet with a neutral, stoic expression. He blinks, and Howard wonders if he has truly broken him.
“Okay,” Steve says, nodding, and Howard can see that tell-tale determination return to his eyes, and he repeats, “Okay.”
“I’m not going to stop,” he says, “Until every last member of Hydra is captured or dead.”
“Let’s go then,” Howard says, pushing himself up to stand.
He knows that this is the right thing to do, even if it has dire, dire consequences.
— — —
“They interrogated Zola,” Steves says, “He says Schmidt is planning to bomb America.”
“Fuck,” Howard says, because what else could he possibly say?
“Fuck,” Steve agrees.
And it is perhaps the one and only time Howard has ever, and will ever, hear Captain Steve Rogers swear.
— — —
When they lost Bucky, Steve came back with Zola in tow, handcuffed and kicking. They do not have Schmidt, but they have Zola, and that is enough. They do not want to let Bucky’s sacrifice be in vain, and they interrogate the scientist. Howard does not find himself at all disturbed by whatever sick, twisted methods must have been used to pull the information from him. In fact, he almost finds himself smirking at the thought of it.
But Schmidt is still missing, and according to Zola - he’s going to make quite the mess for them to attempt to clean. Everyone - every soldier, every commando, every official - is desperate. They call an official meeting, and Howard feels on the edge of his seat. He stares, hard, at the ceiling.
According to Zola, they are running out of time. The man grins because he believes that it is already far, far too late for them to do much of anything. Howard is almost jealous of whoever got to interrogate the scientist. He would have enjoyed getting to punch the man in the mouth. He clenches his fists at his sides, and leans back in his chair.
“Johann Schmidt belongs in the bughouse. He thinks he’s a god and he’s going to blow up half the world to prove it,” a military official says.
He jabs his finger against a map hung on the wall, right into the heart of America, saying, “And he’s going to start with America.”
Howard stares at the map, pinned in place. Peggy, Steve, and the rest of the Commandos are all there, smushed into a conference room to discuss what must happen next. Because they need to act fast, or they may be too late. Howard does not like when the ball is not in his court. It is not how things should work. Beside him, one of the Commandos, Dum Dum Dugan, just stares.
Everyone starts talking all at once.
“That’s insane,” someone says, eyes blown a bit wide, “There’s no way-”
“But Hydra would need millions of men,” someone else says, “They can’t possibly-”
“That’s impossible,” another voice says, over the din, “That can’t-”
“Where would he even get that many bombs!?”
“He can’t do that… can he-?”
“Quiet!” Howard finds himself snapping, glaring a hole in the wall. He is not a soldier, not like the rest of them. Not really. He is a scientist, and that is all. An engineer. He knows that he does not have the authority to tell the men to be quiet, but thinks that he doesn't quite care. He does so anyway.
He stares at the map, and traces the lines of the coasts with one eye. It feels oddly comforting, like when he used to stay up late into the night as a child, tracing the little soul-marks on his wrists. He looks at America, blinks hard, and the comfort is gone.
“Schmidt’s working with powers beyond our capabilities,” Howard says calmly, “He gets across the Atlantic, he could wipe out the entire eastern seaboard in an hour.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Steve staring at the map. His gaze is focused, heavy.
“Our borders are wide open,” Steve says, just shaking his head slowly, “All of our men have already been deployed overseas.”
Howard looks away.
“How much time have we got?” Steve asks.
“Just about twenty-four hours,” Howard replies, and he spreads his fingers in a bursting motion, “And then… bye, bye America.”
Steve turns to look at him, “And where is Schmidt now?”
“Hydra’s last base is here, in the Alps…” Howard says, pointing to the map, and then he drags his finger down, down, down, “Five hundred feet below the surface.”
“God,” Steve replies.
“What are we even supposed to do?” someone asks.
But it is not a question, not really, because everyone’s eyes, unbidden, turn to Steve.
— — —
Perhaps Howard is more foolish than he lets on, because he truly believed that Steve was going to be okay. Steve is strong, and he has handled the worst of the worst. Steve has taken on entire enemy bases alone, with nothing but a shield and the clothes on his back.
But nothing matters, not in the face of death, now does it?
Nothing matters, not when fucking Johann Schmidt has a plane full of bombs that he plans to drop on their country. Not when Steve is stupid enough, brave enough, to race onto that very same plane in an attempt to stop him.
Not when Steve is the only one who might be able to stop it.
Not when Steve is Steve, because there was really no other way for this to end.
— — —
Howard traces his little star-shaped soul mark with his other hand.
— — —
Howard feels like he’s sitting on pins and needles, waiting for word from Steve. The man made it onto Schmidt’s plan, on a course over the Atlantic. They have not heard from him in over an hour, and the waiting makes him feel nauseous.
“Agent Carter, come in…” Steve’s voice is static over the radio.
Howard hovers behind Peggy, his hand gripping the back of her chair as hard. His knuckles are almost white from the strain, and he stares, focused, at the radio in Peggy’s hand. He feels almost lightheaded. That radio is their only connection to Steve right now, high up in that plane.
“Where is Schmidt?” Peggy asks, and there is a crackle from the radio.
“Dead,” is Steve’s reply, faint, and quiet.
“What about the plane? The bombs?” Peggy asks, and Howard grips the chair even tighter.
He’s not supposed to be here. Not a civilian, in the main radio room. But he can’ bear the thought of tearing himself away. No one will be forcing him to leave, not when Steve’s life is on the line.
“That’s…” Steve says, and he sounds halfway between a laugh and breaking down, “That’s a bit of a different story. We’re on track to reach the east coast soon. I think the coast will be targeted first, and New York will be blown to bits if I can’t stop it, and… I don’t think I can.”
“Give me your coordinates. I’ll find a landing site-” Peggy tries, but Steve interrupts her.
“I… I don’t think there’s going to be a landing,” he says.
“Why not?” Howard demands, leaning over Peggy’s shoulder. She glances up at him, but does not say a word.
“Schmidt’s locked the navigation system. I can’t steer it.”
“That’s okay,” Howard says, “I can walk you through hot-wiring the plane, we just need to-”
“No,” Steve replies, “I’m sitting on a hundred tons of explosives. Hot-wiring this thing’s not an option. I… I think I gotta put her in the water.”
Howard is vaguely aware of a crowd forming around them. There is a sick, bubbling feeling deep down to his gut, and he tries to swallow it down. His head is pounding, and he has to fight not to be sick. He doesn’t think he has ever felt more vulnerable than at this very moment.
“But you said you couldn’t steer it?” Peggy asks the radio, and Steve is silent for a long, long moment.
“No,” Steve says, “But… I can crash it, if I take out the engine.”
“Steve,” Howard says, but Steve does not reply.
“Steven,” he repeats, “Steven Rogers, I swear to God-”
There is the sound of crashing over the radio, muffled by all the static. It’s loud and clanging, like something just snapped in half. Howard grinds his teeth so hard that he can hear the sound echoing between his ears.
“You don’t have to do this,” Peggy pleads.
“We have time,” Howard says, and he’s fighting panic, “Just slow down, I’ll show you how to hot-wire it-”
“We might have time now,” Steve says, “But we won’t in minutes. I’m in the middle of nowhere right now, but if I wait any longer, a lot of people are going to get hurt.”
“This is my choice,” Steve says, and Howard wishes the man were in the room with them. Because then he would be safe, and Howard would be able to throttle him.
He can hear the wind through the radio. Rushing past, quicker and quicker, whooshing back under the static. It’s almost painful.
“Rescue ships can be sent out to find you,” Peggy says.
“I don’t think there’s going to be much left to find.”
Howard can hear whistling. High and sharp and buzzing. For the first time in his life, he feels speechless, like he is unsure entirely on what he is supposed to say.
“Howard,” Steve says, “You know, at least I’m fulfilling my promise.”
“What promise would that be, Rogers?”
And Howard can feel the grin that he cannot see, when Steve replies, “That the star-spangled man would help the people of New York.”
“And you, people of New York,” Howard echoes, “I will help protect you!”
“Captain America can’t lie, now can he,” Steve says, and it almost sounds like he is choking, “I’m sorry How-”
There’s a hiss, and the radio goes silent.
— — —
They never do find Steve Roger’s body, even though Howard searches for days, weeks, months. It’s lost, perhaps forever, to the ocean.
They have a funeral anyway. Steve’s casket is draped in the American flag, and the sight of the red, white, and blue makes Howard feel vaguely ill. The stars on the blue fabric make him feel even worse. All he can think about is Steve.
And that is the point of a funeral, isn’t it? He doesn’t think he likes it.
Howard traces the little star-shaped soul-mark on his wrist over and over again, until his fingers go numb.
— — —
Howard traces his soul-mark.
— — —
Howard traces his soul-mark.
— — —
Howard digs his fingers into his soul-mark so hard that he can feel blood under his fingernails.
— — —
Howard traces his souk-mark.
— — —
Howard cranes his head back and stares at the flagpole. He looks at the American flag waving in the wind. The red, white and blue cloth, flapping aimlessly against the sky. He counts the stars - all forty-eight - and thinks about Steve.
— — —
Howard misses Steve, but time waits for no man.
It will continue marching on, with or without him. He tries to keep up pace, and he imagines Steve and his soldiers marching alongside him. Boots, moving up and down again, marching on and on, endlessly. It moves so quickly. Years pass in a blink, and he is not quite sure where they have gone. His life spins by in a whirlwind, with the marching of boots. Up and down, up and down.
He tries to step in time, and not to stumble.
He finds that he cannot help but stumble anyway.
— — —
Howard meets his second soul-mate on a business trip to Italy.
He’s visiting one of the parks, taking a leisurely stroll through a hiking trail. He finds that it is a nice way to take his mind off of everything. The sound of birdsong is quite lovely in the early hours, as is the sight of the rising sun. Not many people visit parks so early in the morning, when those are the only two things up and awake.
The only two things other than Howard and his second soulmate.
She is perhaps the most beautiful woman he has ever seen in his whole entire life. She has dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin. She is tall and slender, with curls that fall over her shoulders in a waving cascade. He is utterly speechless when he sees her, because truly, he does not think there are enough words in the world to describe how wonderful she seems to him, even just at first glance.
She approaches him on the trail, commenting on the birdsong. Her voice is light and melodic when she tells him, “Non è bellissimo?”
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
And he can’t help but agree.
“Sì,” he says, though he admittedly doesn’t know enough Italian to keep up with her. He knows several languages, from English to French to German, and only now laments that he has not learned very much Italian.
He says, in what he is sure must be incredibly disjointed Italian, “Tu bellissima. Più che uccelli.”
But the woman only laughs and says, “I speak English, scemo.”
Howard flushes, caught off guard. He’s never felt so embarrassed or slow on his feet. He recognizes that word, at least.
“Did you just call me stupid?” he asks her, and the woman grins.
“Sì,” she agrees, “I am Maria.”
Howard can’t help but smile at the woman’s tenacity, and he offers his hand. When she reaches up to place her hand in his, so he may kiss it, he sees it.
There is a little bird on her wrist, gentle and delicate. The same one that is on Howard’s wrist. Flying up her arm, looking so perfect there that it is unimaginable that it would be anything else. And Howard, who spent his entire life wondering how he got a soul-mark that looked so beautiful and soft, finally understands why.
He finds that he loves her, so, so very deeply.
Even if nothing can ever replace Steve.
— — —
Steve isn’t there to be his best man and Howard and Maria’s wedding, and Howard pretends like this does not bother him at all. His stomach feels like it’s doing flips, and his head pounds. It feels almost like he’s drowning.
He doesn’t want to drown.
— — —
Howard traces his soul-mark.
— — —
Howard imagines himself as Steve.
Steve, in that plane. Soaring high, high over the Atlantic ocean and knowing that the only way to stop people from dying is to sacrifice yourself.
The nose of the plane tipping down, diving. Faster and faster. Wind whistles between his ears as he approaches the ocean far below. The noises grow into a screaming cacophony. The wind louder and louder and louder, until you can hear nothing else at all. Almost like static, pounding between his ears.
Gripping the steering wheel of the plane so tightly that his fingers go numb.
Turned nearly vertical in a needle nosed dive, eyes blown out wide. Those same eyes sting as he does not dare to blink, does not dare to miss a single second.
Falling, falling, and being unable to stop.
Falling from high in the sky to smash down into the water.
He feels the water twist around his feet, and his legs. Gnawing at him, trying to drag him under. Clawing at him like some foul beast that wants nothing more than to drown him down. It twists and it spins and it grips him so tightly that it nearly hurts. It rises to his waist, gripping him tightly, as he sinks, deeper and deeper.
Deeper than any man has ever gone before, all the way to the bottom of the ocean floor.
The water wraps its slimy little hands around his neck, and touches at his mouth and his nose. He splutters, trying to breathe, but is unable to suck in even a single breath. The water rushes into his mouth and down his throat, and he’s gagging and choking and spitting it up. His lungs burn so painfully that they throb, and his entire body vibrates.
He struggles to keep his eyes open, to stay awake. He is shaking, trembling.
He gasps, completely submerged by the water.
He closes his eyes.
He does not open them.
— — —
No one should be trapped at the bottom of the ocean forever.
— — —
Howard never stops looking for Steve, even though he knows he probably will never, ever be found.
He’s become rather rich through his business. He has more money than he really knows what to do with, so who’s the world to tell him what to do with what is his? He finds that he has no real purpose for it. What is he even supposed to buy? Houses? Mansions? Cars? Everything feels useless to him.
He spoils his wife with the finest jewelry. He buys her flowers and chocolates. He takes her out to beautiful dinners at the best restaurants. He buys her dresses, and hires maids so she does not have to work a day in her life. But buying things for himself feels odd, when he could be using that money to try and find Steve’s body.
Howard whispers to his wife in the night, and she holds his head against her lap. He never thought he would grow so close to a woman, but Maria is wonderful in a way he finds hard to explain.
She is not Steve, but she doesn’t have to be.
— — —
Maria is pregnant. Howard wonders what Steve would think about him being a father. He wishes he could ask for advice. Steve never had kids, but he seems like someone who would have made a wonderful dad.
— — —
Howard doesn’t think he’s ready to be a father.
— — —
Howard traces his soul-mark.
— — —
Howard traces-
— — —
Howard reaches forward, with a slow, deliberate hand. His son’s skin is baby soft under the pads of his fingers. He trails his thumb over the child's wrist, a nearly disbelieving look crossing his eyes. It takes a lot to surprise the man. His son hasn't even been here for five minutes, and he's already breaking every single expectation Howard ever had about becoming a father.
“Howie?” a delicate voice asks, though it sounds distant and far away.
Howard looks away from the child, to his wife. She's lying in the hospital bed, blanket tucked up to her chin. She looks utterly exhausted. She looks beautiful.
“Howie,” she says again, in the voice he loves so much, “Are you alright?”
Howard tears his eyes away from her. He looks back down at his son, cradled so delicately in his arms. The boy looks fragile, like he may break that very second. Howard brings his hand back to the child's wrist, and he finds that all of the words are stuck in his throat.
“Yes, darling,” he says to Maria. The words feel clunky in his mouth, like he is trying to speak over a mouthful of cotton. They feel stuck, not wanting to escape. He stares down at his son, tracing the tiny little sun-shaped soul-mark burned into the babe’s skin. As red as the very same blood that flows through his veins. So utterly familiar, in a way that he cannot bring himself to describe out loud.
There is a dread slowly growing in his stomach. It feels almost like he is going to throw up, bile rising in the back of his throat. His eyes are burning, and for a moment, he almost thinks that he might start crying. He isn’t sure of the last time that he cried. It’s been so long. Hasn’t it? It’s been so long, but Howard doesn’t think he has ever felt such a surreal sensation, not even back when Steve actually died.
Because Howard has seen that little soul-mark before. That tiny little sun on his newborn’s wrist.
A tiny little red sun, with delicate little golden prongs.
He has seen it before, printed onto Steve’s other wrist. He remembers laughing about them with Steve - the fact that he had two marks that were so so similar. Howard’s own little star, and… apparently, his son’s little sun. Two parts of one whole.
Steve never met his second soul-mate. Not before he died.
Howard swallows over a lump in his throat, and suddenly finds it incredibly hard to form words.
And he is reminded of that story. That myth, that legend, of some poor soul whose soul-mate never finds them. Of a child growing up, watching their soul-mark. Waiting for a soul-mate that really never does come. He thinks of Steve, lost over the sea, dying alone.
And he thinks of his son, looking for a soul-mate that will never truly be there.
He cradles his son as gently as he can possibly manage. He feels like he might break him, if he holds him any tighter. He’s so tiny in his father’s arms. The babe’s eyes are shut peacefully, completely unaware of his father’s anguish.
Howard presses his thumb into his son’s soul-mark, and he tells his wife, in the quietest voice he can manage, “I’m alright,” even though he knows it is a lie.
— — —
Howard does not tend to think about soul-marks, except when he does. And those are the times that matter.
— — —
Howard holds his son and traces the babe’s soul-mark, over and over, with the tip of his thumb.
He thinks about Steve. It feels like all he can think about is Steve. For a moment, he wishes that he could trade places with the man. He wishes that he could be the one at the bottom of the ocean. Because then, his son would not grow up to a man that is forever waiting for a soul-mate that never comes.
He doesn’t know how he’s going to tell his child about his soul-mate. Does he? He isn’t sure if he can bring himself to say the words. He isn’t sure if he can bring himself to give his child that knowledge. Is it better to never know? Is it better to forever wonder, to forever wait?
Or is it better to know from the start that the person you are supposed to love is already dead?
— — —
Howard Stark holds his son.
— — —