What do people think when they hear the name Howard Stark? Which one, they ask. The one before, or after the War?
Because for me, they say, Howard Stark died with the order of the ceasefire (there are some that are able to pin down the precise date, though they do not know its significance: 1 April 1945).
They miss him, they say, the boy in a man's body. There was an unparalleled passion for life that blazed in his eyes. And despite all his reckless flying, crazy inventions, and his propensity to lavish money on good Scotch and women, the Howard they remember was a genuine, straightforward, and above all – an honest human being. There was no need to squint particularly hard at him, looking for hidden depths to his personality. What you saw is what you got. And in many people's eyes, Howard Stark was a hero.
Until he wasn't.
Life got to him, they say. It happens. But people are wary of him now. No longer do they look at him with genuine affection or half-hearted irritation. They see a warmonger, a flighty person, a man without honor – a traitor.
The betrayals, infractions, the metaphorical rotten tomatoes they threw at him stacked up into an enormous mountain of debris he could no longer see over and he needs to protect himself somehow. "You don't get to climb the American ladder without picking up some bad habits on the way." He told Peggy as a way of justifying his recent exploits.
"Maybe you should marry, Howard. Start a family." Peggy said with a wistful smile. Her Steve smile.
There were a few things even old friends such as them refuse to bring up, and marriage – love – was one of those things. She caught him so completely off guard with her nonchalance. So rattled was he by those few words that he actually began to consider it – marriage. A family.
Unfortunately, it didn't work out the way he wished it did. The young and beautiful Maria Collins Carbonell, now Stark, should have set his life on the right path again, should have infused it with energy. Instead, it all felt like a consolation prize. It should have filled the void left behind by the War. It all should have been enough – the inventing, the movie-making, the money. His son. But it never was.
His whole being longed for it – the excitement, the incomprehensible sense of feeling alive, his heart beating in his chest, the adrenaline filling his veins. All telling him was alive! Living.
Howard was only 56 years old and he felt as if he already had one foot in the grave. Apart from throwing himself into a warzone, there was only one thing that came to mind.
He knew he shouldn't have done it, that it was wrong. In that moment though he had finally been within reach of that by now almost mythical frenzy. And then the night was over, the champagne drunk, the sheets messy… and he was left feeling hollow again. Even more so than before.
Maria, naïve, wonderful Maria, didn't know – she wasn't ever to find out as far as he was concerned. And anyway, it wouldn't happen again.
It did. Once, twice. Many more times after that. Anthony was turning six that night and he knew wasn't going to be there – I'm sorry honey, there are just a few things left to handle at the office. I'll be home soon. Promise. He wouldn't be at the office.
He came home late at night, though going by the time it was already early morning, red lipstick smudged on his neck. The balloons were still hanging in the dining room, bound to the backs of the chairs. Shining red and gold letters spelling out Happy birthday Tony hung above the fireplace. The cake was still on the dining table, candles blown, but otherwise untouched.
A shadow of a guilt twisted his stomach but was quickly squashed by rising indignation. As a young boy, he'd only ever dreamed of such a spectacular birthday celebration. He shouldn't be feeling guilty that he didn't manage to come home on time. Even if he had been otherwise occupied.
But that sliver of regret and shame settled inside him and refused to let him out of its grasp.
God, his son, his clever, clever son. Half the time he couldn't bear to look at him, terrified that the boy would see right through him.
Life went on. Maria spent much of her time entertaining her high society girlfriends (at least those who didn't turn up their nose at their new money status). Anthony – he barely saw the boy these days. That didn't mean he wasn't keeping an eye on the boy, or more accurately that Jarvis wasn't keeping an eye on him.
Anthony was a frighteningly smart boy, a genius, many said, had a wild streak a mile wide combined with a penchant for finding (and inventing) trouble. Howard had wrongly assumed that along with a supercomputer for a brain, his son would display at least some measure of maturity. The exact opposite was the truth.
Anthony's propensity for destroying his room with his experiments was worrying. His disregard for the education he paid for was aggravating. The lack of respect afforded him was infuriating.
Howard knew he had been lax with his upbringing, that he didn't teach him that actions do have consequences. By the time the temper tantrums got really bad, he didn't trust himself to discipline the boy without causing him harm. He'd refused to become his father and as a result his son had become a loose cannon. So, in order to maintain peace in his own household, the task had been delegated elsewhere – into Jarvis' gentle and competent hands.
It turned out to be the right decision. The shouting matches between himself and the six-year-old Anthony seemed to have ceased, even his marriage got a second wind. They were planning a family holiday – all three of them, which was an utterly unprecedented idea in his worldview. Howard could say he felt genuinely happy for the first time in a long while.
The bliss didn't last for long. It was interrupted – obliterated beyond recognition – by a phone call that came just a few days before the new year of 1977.
Congratulations, Howard, it's a son.
Once he started laughing, he couldn't stop. A good joke, really. Brilliant. "Who set you up to this? Was it Stane?" he asked good-naturedly. "He is always the one playing a joke on me, but this one takes the cake. A+ for the performance, truly."
"This isn't a joke," the woman on the phone said coldly, and then proceeded to describe their January tête-à-têtes in colorful detail. He still didn't believe her, convinced this was an elaborate ploy by his friend (who may or may not be aware of what exactly he gets up to late in the evening).
Then she mentioned paternity testing, and involving the media. It would be the scandal of the century, she gushed. "I can already see the headlines – the warmonger refu– "
"Enough!" he snapped at last, not letting her finish. The mention of his personal life being once again splattered across the tabloids made him break a cold sweat. He could still remember it – how he'd been dissected by the bloodthirsty journalists, his every move followed not only by the agents of the government, but by photographers, too. They were like bloodhounds chasing their prey – him. He had worked so hard to establish his reputation after the Fennhof fiasco and all the other disasters that came after.
As far as the media were concerned, his life from the moment he married Maria had been exemplary. And now, now, some lunatic dared to threaten it all.
Her mysterious smile was the only thing he remembered about her. Even her name had been forgotten somewhere between the fourth and fifth glass of Scotch. But as had become obvious by now, Victoria Carlsen wouldn't let herself be erased from his past and he cursed the defiance and frostiness that drew him into her orbit in the first place.
Soon enough, she wrestled an agreement from him to make the correct arrangements with one of his laboratories – his idea (he wouldn't be trusting any common doctor anytime soon with something this secret and sensitive). With money came discretion, and he hoped that he would be able to ensure the silence of all concerned. At least for the moment.
The next few weeks went on in a haze of men in lab coats, smug Obadiah (who managed to weasel the story out of him on his first day at the office, fortunately he managed to withhold the fact he'd thought it was all a spectacular joke orchestrated by said man), screaming newborns and research. So much research.
Maria was growing concerned, he knew. He had cancelled their holiday and that certainly didn't endear him to her. But compared to the threat posed by Victoria Carlsen and her spawn, Anthony's anger and accusations, and his wife's silent condemnation barely registered.
Instead, he had plunged himself into the life of Victoria Carlsen with singular focus. He called in favors, made use of all his not so inconsiderable resources until he managed to piece together every aspect of the woman's life – from how she liked her coffee, which restaurants she frequented to the current state of her bank account and her dental records.
The picture painted was… intriguing to say the least. She was the only grandchild of a Russian émigré (alive, 95 years old – how?) on her mother's side, a ruthless lawyer and politician who fled the Russian Empire after the Revolution of 1917, and Danish diplomats on her father's side. Her mother (dead, heart attack), a successful pianist married her husband Frederik, the fifth ambassador in his family (retired, living in Washington D.C.), in the early 1950s. Compared to her successful and ambitious ancestors Victoria was quite average. Her parents attempted to provide her with at least some education, but were met with resistance at every turn. It seemed to him that Victoria Carlsen was your average trust fund baby.
Apart from her family history, her involvement with him, (and the fact that she was rather low on funds at the moment, but still vastly wealthy), there was nothing remarkable about her, personally. Paradoxically, this left him more uneasy than it should, because if that was the truth then what exactly was her motive in trying to convince him he was the father of her child? He obsessed over this question incessantly – because if he couldn't find a motive, it might mean that he truly was the father of that boy.
The letter containing the dreaded paternity results came in a deceptively clean envelope. No logo, no unnecessary markings. Nothing that would betray its contents. He insisted. Just his name, and address.
He tore the envelope open and unfolded the paper. His eyes tracked the words slowly, surprisingly unhurried. Despite all the evidence he'd managed to dig up, he was still convinced it was a scam and he wanted to savour the moment of truth – of being proved right.
Father: Howard Stark, confirmed.
– of being proved wrong.