Howard sat by Bucky's beside. He'd paced the waiting room the entire time the soldier had been in surgery, and was now grateful to be off his feet. He looked at Bucky's pale, feverish face. He was so sick. He was so, so sick and weak and and broken and would have lost so much blood. Just the shock of the fall alone could have killed him. He should be dead. There was no nice way of saying that. James Buchanan Barnes should be dead. Some might say it was a miracle - but Howard didn't believe that. Something had happened to Bucky which he'd kept to himself. He should not be here, lying in a hospital in London. The fall alone should have killed him. So why was he still alive?
Howard had been planing to go and find Captain Rogers, to command the search mission himself, but now that Sergeant Barnes had returned from the dead, Stark couldn't bring himself to leave Roger's right-hand man. Stark scoffed. Well, now Barnes could only be a right-hand man. Perhaps, once Barnes was stable, Howard would still go and join the mission to find the Captain. Perhaps he'd take Barnes with him. But Howard knew that he couldn't find Rogers, and have to tell him that he, Howard, had abandoned Bucky. No, Howard had to wait. The ship was out searching, and Stark's helicopter would wait until he was ready. He'd find Rogers, and perhaps now he'd be able to do it with Bucky by his side.
Howard was exhausted, but his mind wouldn't rest. He pulled his notepad and pencil out from his pocket and began to scribble. He felt the overwhelming urge to invent, to make something good and useful. The scribble of a right angle morphed into an arm. A left arm, like the one Bucky had lost. Howard scribbled furiously, as though he could draw Bucky back his limb. Howard got up, went to the loo, bought a horrid, weak coffee and a bland cheese sandwich from the shop across the street, came back up to Bucky's room and continued to draw.
The hours past and the scribbles developed into more fully formed drawings, which in turn developed into technical drawings, to which Howard soon found himself scribbling rough notes, which themselves in turn developed into highly technical and specific annotations. Howard stopped drawing and flicked through the pages of the notebook.
"Oh Bucky," Howard said to Bucky's unconscious body, marvelling at his own creation, "We need to get you back State-side."
"What's the hurry?"
The voice made Howard jump. "Agent Carter."
"Mr Stark," Agent Carter nodded.
"Is it normal for you to go around sneaking up on guys like that?" He asked, putting his notepad and pencil away in his pocket.
"Is it normal for you to almost fill a notebook so quickly?"
"Sure, when I get an idea," Howard replied. "How long have you there?"
"About an hour," Agent Carter said, "What's this grand idea of yours then?"
"I don't even know if it will work. It probably won't. Forget it," Howard said, suddenly defensive of his drawings, afraid that Agent Carter would judge him, that there'd be some fundamental flaw in his design.
"Tell me. I won't laugh if that's what you're worried about."
"I should go. I haven't slept for like - what day is it?"
"Tuesday."
"For, umm," Howard tried to count, but now his brain was too tired. "A long while, anyway."
"Perhaps if you go and sleep on your idea, you'll be more willing to share?" Agent Carter suggested.
"Yeah. Sure. Ok," Howard said, "You take the chair. It's not really comfortable, but well, there's probably rations on decent furniture."
Agent Carter smiled. "Go. I'm not worried about the furniture."
"Thanks, Peggy. See you in a - I dunno. Lot of hours? Tomorrow? I don't even know what the time is."
"Get a cab and go home," Peggy said, pushing Howard out of Bucky's ward. "Go."
"Yep, right, goodnight or good whatever time of day it is in this gloomy dark hole of a home country of yours."
"Go!" Peggy laughed.
"He won't wake up yet, but if he does, call me," Stark rambled.
"Of course. Now, go and get some sleep," Peggy said, pulling the newspaper out of her handbag and sitting down beside Bucky's bed.