Agent Jarvis

A world in which Kal-El became Katz Jarvis.

Disclaimer: This is fic. You know the drill …

Notes: Ripping pages of cannon and continuity and papier-mâchéing them into something new. Trying to account for as many fallen domino tracks as I can. Sticking with Smallville characters and events on the MCU spectrum as much as possible. However, there may be some sneaky cameos and cheeky allusions here and there.

Recommended Viewing: Agent Carter S02E08 "The Edge of Mystery"

October 16, 1989

"Do we call Virgil?" asked Maria Stark, contemplative, tiredly staring at the stars through the head-sized, pill-shaped window. She sat perfectly upright on her buttery leather seat in her husband's favourite plane, all poise and grace, even in her present exhaustion.

Howard sighed deeply and ran a weary hand over his lined, narrow face. He had aged gracefully – and rather miraculously, given the Great Cessnacapade of '72 and the reconstructive surgery that he'd required thereafter.

It had been an eventful day.

Thanks to the data from Virgil Swann's constellation (heh) of satellites, Howard knew that this week was going to be an important week for a small farm town in Kansas called Smallville (yep, you read it right, folks – a small town called Smallville!). The recklessly spirited (his wife's words), insatiably curious (his own more apt description) scientist that he was simply had to witness the once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon in person.

Dubious but unflinching, Maria had followed Howard into the fray, as she always did. As those who strolled outdoors during a meteor shower hurling a fiery hell on earth tended to, she had come within inches of losing her life several times. Howard marvelled that she had the gall to call him reckless! At least he had stayed in the car with Jarvis when it started raining rocks.

Today was an eventful day, supposed to be shared amongst friends – friends in addition to his wonderful wife (the best friend he'd ever had) and his loyal butler (the best Brit he knew, don't tell Peg).

Virgil couldn't make the trip for obvious reasons. His full-body paralysis and the wheelchair he had been stuck in since the accident that tragically took the life of his wife would have made their trek across dirt roads and cornfields difficult.

The Teagues were "busy" in Europe, scouring the globe. Genevieve and Edward were still unhealthily obsessed with those damn stones and had seen fit to drag along their poor five-year-old son, who was probably bored out of his mind. Children should never be bored – a lesson Howard had learned from his own son, Tony. The kid was too impulsive and far too intelligent for the good of anyone – one reason, among many, why he had sent him to school so early, and then shipped off to boarding school so soon.

Robert and Laura Queen had gone missing on their way to meet with a diplomat in Bangkok. They hadn't been seen or heard from in two days and were already presumed to be dead. The business world, with which Howard was intimately familiar, was a ruthlessly efficient and unforgiving ecosystem under the impression that it couldn't afford to care.

Finally, there was Lionel Luthor. He was definitely not a friend, and more of a begrudging acquaintance that Howard wouldn't have had if not for his involvement with Veritas. Frankly, he had little idea what that man was up to on a good day. It took valuable S.H.I.E.L.D. resources to keep an eye on Lionel, and Howard was counting down the days until he no longer had to waste them on him.

Howard received intelligence that Lionel had been sniffing around the area for weeks, greasing palms and buying land, but he hadn't seen the menacing slink of the sharp-toothed, sharper-clawed savage in person. Definitely a good thing. They didn't get on particularly well – at all – in any sense of the word, if he was being entirely honest. Howard Stark had met many unsavoury characters in his seventy-nine years, and even been one himself when he was young and climbing ladders and smashing ceilings in pursuit of the good old American dream, but Lionel was his own special kind of slime. If Howard wanted to see more false faces and listen to slippery tongues, he would spend more time at the Triskelion. Or Maria's cocktail parties – super spies and bored socialites actually had an alarming amount in common.

Maria pensively tilted her head towards Howard and began twirling a lock of shiny blonde hair that had escaped her stylish updo over the tumultuous course of the day. "… Or is this a Peggy phone call?"

Mr and Mrs Stark turned in unison to look at the delighted older woman playing with a beaming toddler, who was happily bouncing on her lap. The woman, as vivacious as the bright clothing she favoured, had grey hair that gave the tiniest hint of its formerly red glory. She was almost two decades older than Maria but six years younger than Howard. The peach-cheeked boy in her lap was wrapped in a red tartan blanket that Howard had insisted their butler, Edwin Jarvis, pack for the potentially romantic post-meteor shower picnic he decided might be nice on the flight over.

Maria's fingers stilled in her hair and she clasped a tight hand, applying the pressure of sympathy and plea and hope, around Howard's. They shared a sad smile.

"I think I'll be forgiven for a little compartmentalisation on this one," said Howard, his snow white moustache twitching over his solemnly quirked lips. "At least, for a little while."