(A/N: A plot interlude, that probably should've happened earlier, but man did we need to lighten things at least slightly after those last few chapters… SO, here we go. Some Howard Stark. He's good at light… generally.)
"What do you- … what do you mean 'you lost Barnes'?" Howard reluctantly drags some of his attention away from the extremely delicate wiring work he's been doing all afternoon. He's only half paying attention to the voice on the other end of the phone that's finally held against his shoulder after letting it ring about a dozen times already. The shit a guy puts up with sometimes, working for the Army…
"How do you misplace a six-foot tall- No I'm not kidding- Hey, that's uncalled for, Phillips, I'm just-..."
It sinks in, just about then, what this call is about. His indignant chatter drops off into silence. "Oh." Some of the brightness drops out of his tone. "Oh, you…. you mean…" He uncharacteristically fumbles for a few moments, trying to find the right words. "You mean… like… dead lost…"
"Yes, Stark." He can hear the tight irritation in the colonel's tone. "I mean K.I.A. lost. What the hell did you think I meant?"
"Well fuck." Howard says eloquently, dropping himself heavily into a discarded office chair. He sets down his pliers for a few moments, picks them up, then sets them down again. He's not sure exactly what to do with himself. He's never been very good at losing things. He's never really had to be before.
Howard hadn't spent all that much time with Rogers' second in command -no more than he had with most of the Commandos-, but he does remember Barnes. The kid was sharp. Smart. Fucked up as they come, but he was an earnest little bastard - soaked up Howard's every word like it was solid gold.
That kid had too much on the ball for this Army shit, that's for sure. He vaguely remembers offering Barnes a spot at Stark Industries when this whole mess finally ends. ... Guess that's moot now. It's a waste and a damned shame, is what it is.
"So... how's Rogers taking things?"
"How d'you think?"
Howard considers that for a few seconds, then leans back and shrugs. "Nothing's exploded on this end of town yet, so better than I'd have expected."
"That kid's a walking time-bomb if we don't get him settled the hell down, Stark." The colonel doesn't sound remotely amused. "For reasons I don't begin to understand, he likes you. And you, unlike some folks around here, aren't going to encourage him to get emotional."
That is one thing Phillips and he have always agreed on. Emotions are awkward, uncomfortable things - especially when they're not yours. Neither man really understands them and they sure as hell don't like dealing with them. Too messy. Too complicated. People get unpredictable when they're emotional.
Unstable.
Erratic.
Not exactly conducive to taking out Nazi zealots.
The colonel is still talking.
"Find Rogers. Talk to him. Get his head on straight and get him back to base. We need him to take down Schmidt, approximately yesterday."
"Look, Chester-," he hears the annoyed huff from Phillips on the other end of the line, but as usual, the colonel doesn't bother to chastise him for it. Nobody's ever got the balls to chastise him, and sometimes he just can't help but dare them to.
"Don't get me wrong, I like Rogers. I do. Good kid. But you really want me to go be the voice of comfort and mercy?" He knows Phillips can't see his raised eyebrow, but he'd lay good money the man can hear it in his voice. "I'm a man of many talents, but shoulder-to-cry-on is just not one of them. I don't know how to manage a basket-case, Phillips."
"Stark, I realize I technically can't actually give you orders, but-"
Howard glances up, distracted, at the familiar click of sensible khaki heels over the tile outside. Salvation is approaching, swathed in military green and a crisp British accent.
"On second thought, I'll do it." he interrupts. Sort of.