Timothy 'Dum Dum' Dugan caught on after only a few meetings that Steve and Bucky hated Howard Stark. It'd be hard not to pick up on. Steve's scent was hidden and Bucky kept his covered as per regulations, but the two alphas practically bristled every time Howard came into the room.

That is just par for the course sometimes, but what really makes him worry is when Bucky comes to him privately and asks him to keep Howard away from Steve. In the event that Bucky dies and isn't there to do it himself.

He won't tell him why.

"Don't you go askin' Steve about it either," Bucky tells him, his eyes dark as he clenches his fists. "Just— just don't let him be alone with Stark."

Those words ring loud in Tim's ears after Bucky dies.

Steve had always been tense on their plane rides back to England, but this time he's a wreck. He's as pale as a ghost as they board, his eyes bloodshot and distant. He's been subdued and grief stricken—much like the rest of them—since they'd lost Bucky a few days ago. But now he looks practically catatonic.

Tim seats himself across from Steve, keeping a worried eye on him. He feels like it's his job now, after what Bucky had told him. Steve doesn't acknowledge him. He doesn't appear to notice him at all.

His face is pinched and grey, his hands trembling faintly as he clasps them between his knees and leans forward on his elbows. He looks two steps away from hurling, which is standard with how he usually looks on this trip.

Bucky had once said something about plane-sickness. But Tim had privately noted how Steve hadn't been struck by the same nausea the time they'd been covertly flown up to Norway for a mission. He also never looks as ill on their flights out of London.

Tim shifts anxiously in his seat, rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants. In front of him, Steve shudders as the plane lurches and begins its runup for take off. His knuckles squeeze white between his knees and his jaw clenches tight. His head is ducked but Tim can see his eyes are closed.

He almost looks as though he's praying. But Tim hasn't seen Steve touch his mother's rosary for a while now. Tim grimaces and scratches restlessly at the scent-patch on his neck. His clothes stick to him uncomfortably and there's a solid lump in his throat every time he swallows.

Don't let him be alone with Stark.

As leader of the Commandos, Steve has a meeting with Howard at least once every time they go back to England to plan and restock. By their third trip Tim had begun to notice that Bucky went with Steve every time. Even when Steve was just going with Morita to get his suppressant shots.

He and the other Commandos had only spoken about the phenomenon in low tones when they were sure both Steve and Bucky were asleep. But Tim isn't the only one to have noticed that there is something strange between the two men and Howard.

It had been an unspoken rule not to pry. Steve and Bucky were tight-lipped about the whole situation. Until, that is, Bucky had approached Tim to put something in place in case he died.

Tim's stomach clenches and he glances at the other Commandos seated quietly in the plane. The sound of the engine is loud as they lift off, but a solemn silence hangs over their group. He's not the only one grieving Bucky and worried about Steve. And he's not the only one to wonder why he hates going back to London.

Tim can still remember how he'd begged not to last year, even half-incoherent and injured. He'd basically been feral, but he'd managed to get that desperate plea out.

Now, with Bucky's confirmation that something is going on between them and Howard, Tim can't stop thinking about it. What did Howard do? What could he have done to make Steve and Bucky hate him so much?

He's afraid to find out.

Steve is harder, colder, after Bucky's death. He'd cried the first night after that horrible mission—Tim had seen his red, swollen eyes when he'd come out of his tent—but if he cries now, he hides himself away. It's clear as day that he's grieving Bucky, but in meetings with Phillips to plan their next missions he's as expressionless as a rock.

Steve had never been blood-thirsty. He wasn't one to take trophies or piss on dead Hydra agents. He didn't refrain from killing them, but he didn't glory in it. Now though, after Bucky's death…

He's grim. As firm and cold as an iceberg as he plans the next crucial mission against Hydra. They know from Zola that Schmidt is planning to attack their Allies on a devastating scale in the next few days. Steve is quiet, near motionless as he outlines his plan to keep that from happening.

Tim licks his lips and flicks his eyes over him. As calm and collected as Steve appears, he knows there's rage in the depths of those grey-blue eyes. He'd seen it, the day Steve and Jones had dragged Zola to the rendezvous point without Bucky.

Steve was stone-faced at the time. He was missing his helmet and his eyes were red-rimmed, his hands rough as he'd shoved a cuffed Zola ahead of him in the snow. Jones was beside him, rifle in hand, as silent as the grave.

It was Frenchie who asked the question none of them wanted to know the answer to.

"What happened?"

Steve's eyes flashed and a muscle rippled in his jaw as he pushed Zola towards their waiting truck. A sharp, cold wind rustled the tarp covering the back of the transport truck, snow drifting around its wheels.

"We got attacked by a trooper," Steve said, flat and simple. Tim's mouth went dry. Hydra troopers always had some new-fangled Hydra tech to contend with. They'd had some close calls before but now—

"Blasted a hole through the side of the train," Steve continued, his eyes on Zola's back as the others parted to let him through to the truck. "Bucky—" his voice caught for a moment and he swallowed hard. "Bucky got sucked out. Fell into the ravine."

Tim's hands grew colder than the snow around them and he almost missed how Zola let out a triumphant, cruel laugh.

"Seems…" he was panting a little from the hike. "Seems you failed to save… my subject after all, Captain," he taunted through his heavy accent. He glanced back at Steve, a nasty smile on his lips. "How many years did you give him? Two—?"

Steve lunged forward and Zola's voice cut off in a gasp as Steve twisted him around and shoved him hard against the side of the truck. Rage flew across his face like a lightning storm, his eyes flashing as his elbow pressed into Zola's neck. Zola choked as Steve pinned him up against the truck like he weighed nothing, his face distorted in fury.

"Don't you dare," he spat, his eyes dark and narrowed. He leaned harder into Zola's neck and the man sputtered, his bound hands twisting uselessly behind his back. "Don't you dare speak of him after what you—"

Tim remained frozen where he stood by the driver door, listening to Steve's enraged rant. For a moment he was absolutely certain that Steve would kill Zola, a prisoner of war and the man they'd been sent to capture. And he couldn't move an inch. It was so sudden and so out of character that he could barely believe his eyes.

And then Zola let out a garbled laugh, his face turning red as his toes barely brushed the snow-covered ground. He wheezed out a desperate breath and chuckled raspily, looking almost gleeful. Tim watched Steve's fingers flex before his face twists. His whole body seemed to shudder before he growled and he ripped himself off of Zola.

The man collapsed into the snow, gasping and gagging and smelling like rotting fish as Steve stepped away. His face looked like a thundercloud, his mouth screwed downward in hate. His fingers practically tore through his hair before he shot one last disgusted look at Zola and spun around to march to the other side of the truck.

"Get him into the back," he ordered the stunned group, yanking open the passenger side door and flinging his shield inside. "I'm sitting up front."

Tim can still see the bright, raging light of hatred Steve's eyes had held when he'd teetered on the edge of killing Zola, the man directly responsible for Bucky's death. In the end, he hadn't done it. Watching him now as Steve plans their largest attack on Hydra ever, Tim thinks that Zola's intel is the only reason he'd made it off that snowy mountain range alive.

Considering how fast he'd squealed to Phillips, Zola knows that too.

Tim gets pulled from his reverie as the meeting draws to a close and Phillips begins to gather up the papers and maps.

"Check in with Stark about those ziplines you want," he tells Steve, tapping his stack of papers on the table. "Once your equipment is ready you can move out."

Steve's expression doesn't change as he nods.

Tim breathes out and steels himself. "I'll come with," he volunteers, aware of how Steve's eyes dart to him in surprise. "I wanna talk to him 'bout a few things."

The walk to Howard's workshop is oppressively silent.

Steve has a beige folder for Howard under his arm. His hands are jammed into his pockets, his eyes planted firmly on the cobblestones as he and Tim make the trip. His jaw is clenched shut, although Tim thinks that's been the case since Bucky died. His shoulders are stiff and slightly hunched, his shoes pounding fast paced against the cobbles.

Tim feels uneasy.

He doesn't know what to expect from this outing. He's never gone to visit Howard's workshop before and Steve looks a bit like he's heading off for the gallows.

The actual workshop itself is a hive of activity, the buzzing of voices and machines filling the air. Men in white coats work at tables or walk purposely up and down rows of wooden benches, carrying anything between stacks of diagrams to fully realised weapon prototypes. Light filters in from windows high up in the walls, sunbeams catching the dust that swirls up from a quickly passing attendant.

Steve raises his hand and the man stops immediately, his eyes lighting up in recognition. "Howard?" Steve asks simply, a shade of tiredness in his voice.

The man turns and points to a narrow wooden staircase further back in the room. "He's been up in the loft all day," he informs them.

Something like trepidation flickers over Steve's face, but it's too fast for Tim to be sure. Steve swallows and nods at the man, who beams at him, probably happy to help Captain America.

Steve readjusts the folder under his arm and brushes his hand down the front of his dress uniform before nodding once to himself. His eyes harden slightly and he doesn't glance back at Tim as he marches towards the staircase.

Tim follows silently, uneasiness building in his stomach.

The loft appears to be Howard's personal office. The walls are plastered with notes and design specs, a messy desk situated at the back of the room. The floor is scattered with papers and pieces of metal or scraps of fabric. Despite the chaos, there's a tall bookshelf labelled with the words 'Completed Projects' filled neatly with files and a tall stack of paper on Howard's desk that looks somewhat organised, so Tim assumes there's some order to the madness.

Howard himself stands at a wooden table in the middle of the room, his hair smoothed back stylishly and a cigarette hanging from his lips. The cigarette smoke mingles with his natural woody, leather smell. Tim has to admit the scent fits him rather well. He smells like the workshop.

The table he's working at is covered with a canvas tarp, a dozen handguns lined up in rows on it. Various papers sit next to the guns, a few golden bullets glinting in the light of the sun coming in from the window behind Howard.

At their approach, Howard looks up and stashes a pencil behind his ear with a smile.

"Steve!" he announces happily, his eyes skating briefly over Tim as he steps towards them. "I heard you got back. I missed you the last time." Then as if remembering why they are back in London sooner than usual, his face morphs into something more sympathetic-like. "Sorry to hear about Barnes."

Tim is behind Steve and he sees the way the muscles in his back ripple with suppressed tension, even if his expression doesn't change. Steve breathes slowly and Tim has a sudden vision of him restraining himself from strangling Howard as he had Zola.

Steve blinks and the moment passes. "We're heading out again soon," he says simply, grabbing the folder from under his arm. "We know the location of Schmidt's last big base."

He takes a single step towards Howard and sets the folder down on the end of the table. He opens it, displaying a sketch he'd made of the harpoon-like ziplines he'd suggested for the mission. The picture is clear and detailed and Howard comes closer in interest.

Steve steps back, holding himself stiffly. "We need something like that for our next mission. But we're in a time crunch. You made something like this for the Zola mission. Do you have any on hand?"

Howard examines the diagram for a moment, seeming not to notice the discomfort radiating off Steve in waves. He holds himself with a casual nonchalance that Tim has to believe is deliberate. He isn't sure why Howard is intent on pretending he and Steve are friends, but all it takes is one glance to know that isn't the case.

Still, Howard continues to chat easily as he flips through the mission specs and other equipment requisitions. Tim doesn't pay much attention to his idle chatter, choosing instead to keep an eye on Steve, trying to gauge where he's at. He feels a bit useless here. There's so much going on between Steve and Howard that he has no clue about. He isn't sure if his presence is even helpful.

"Well, you're in luck," Howard says, once he's finished flipping through it all. "I actually have something similar I've already started working on for the marines. Lemme see if I can find it."

He moves over to his desk and starts rifling through the loose papers there, his cigarette still dangling from his lips. "Blast," he mutters after a few minutes. "I must'a left it on my desk downstairs."

He looks up at Tim and nods towards the stairs. "Can ya go see if one of the guys downstairs can get it for you?"

Tim freezes like a deer in the headlights. He sees Steve stiffen and he's intimately aware that if he goes downstairs he'll be leaving Steve alone with Howard.

If I die… I need you to keep Howard away from Steve.

Is this on purpose? Is Howard specifically trying to get him out of the room?

Tim shifts uncomfortably, looping his thumbs into his belt. "Don't even know where your desk is in all this mess," he replies, hoping to sound casual. "Ya sure you can't get it yourself?"

Howard waves his hand dismissively, already looking down at another paper he'd gathered from his desk. "I wanna talk to Steve about his helmet," he says, seeming not to notice the way Steve twitches at his name. "I hear he's been taking it off during missions."

He looks up and meets Steve's eye for a long moment before glancing back over at Tim. "We can getcha out of here faster if you grab the plans while we do that."

This is weird. Like, unnecessary alpha-posturing levels of weird. Tim's skin crawls. Is that Howard's deal? Trying to prove he's a better alpha than Steve by trying to intimidate him or something? Tim isn't sure, but he does know he wants to get Steve out of here as soon as possible.

But it'll look weird if he doesn't go now that Howard's laid out such logical reasoning for why he's asking him to fetch the plans. And maybe he's right. Maybe he can get Steve out of here faster this way.

Cursing himself, Tim turns back towards the staircase. "Back in a flash, Cap," he says, trying not to feel like he's abandoning him to the wolves.

Howard can't do anything to him though, right? He tries to convince himself of that as he hurries down the stairs. They're both in public. Howard isn't going to start a full on alpha fight with Steve. Especially since he'd clearly lose.

Tim grits his teeth as he comes down to the main floor. His eyes catch on the same man who'd helped them earlier and he marches forward, grabbing him by the shoulder.

"Howard's desk, now," he snaps, not bothering with pretend politeness when he knows every second he wastes is one Steve is alone with Howard upstairs. "Come on, let's go!" he barks at the startled attendant.

"Uh, right— um, this way, sir," the man stutters, his nerves revealing a faint, spicy alpha scent.

Tim knows his own scent is covered as per army regulation for soldiers, but he can feel his body trying to pump out impatient, dominant pheromones to get the man to comply faster.

The man rushes to guide him towards a desk further back behind the rest of the workbenches and Tim sweeps a despairing eye over the cluttered mess. "I need a recent project for the marines," he says sharply. "Projectile ziplines. Where is it?"

The man is flustered as he looks over the desk. "Um, I don't know, Mr. Stark doesn't really let us by his desk unless he needs something, umm…" He begins sorting through some of the piles and Tim can't stop his foot from tapping impatiently.

Seeming to sense his thinning patience the man calls out to another worker. "Gaudreau! You worked with Stark on those zipline things, right? You know where the plans are?"

Gaudreau rushes up and the two men bend over the desk, muttering to each other as they flip through papers. Tim's teeth grind together and he folds his arms. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it thudding against his ribcage.

Don't let him be alone with Stark.

At last, one of the men stands up, waving a folder triumphantly. "Here it is," he says, barely having time to turn around before Tim snatches it up out of his hands.

No sooner is it in his hands, a gunshot rings out above the commotion of the shop. The chatter dips briefly and Tim whips around to stare up towards the loft, his mouth dropping open in horror.

"Hey, it's okay! It's probably just Stark messing around up there—" one of the men tries to tell him, but Tim is already sprinting towards the loft, his heart in his throat.

A string of curses runs through his head as he takes the stairs three at a time, the folder bent wildly in his grip. He shouldn't have left Steve. He shouldn't have left him alone—

He arrives, puffing and breathless, to see Steve standing straight and firm as a tree, his eyes narrowed slits as he points a gun directly at a stunned Howard.

Howard had come around the table to Steve's side, but he's several paces away, his back towards his desk. His arms are up, his head ducked as he stares wide-eyed at Steve, his mouth hanging open. His cigarette has fallen to the floor and he stands off balance on one foot as if he'd cringed away instinctively from the shot.

Tim has to scan him several times before he's certain there is no blood. Steve hadn't actually hit him.

Below them, the shop bustles on as usual, the silence in the loft almost deafening in comparison. Tim glances speechlessly back and forth between Steve and Howard, unsure what to do. What had happened? What could Howard have done to push Steve to this extreme?

Steve's grip on the handgun is completely steady, his eyes sharp flecks of ice as he stares down Howard. It's not the furious wildfire of anger he'd lashed out at Zola with. This is cold and bitter and calculated. And infinitely more terrifying.

After standing motionless for what feels like ages, Steve's eyes flare and he breathes in. Howard flinches slightly and Steve pulls back, lowering the gun. The click of the safety going back on is the loudest sound in the room. Steve's movements are slow and deliberate as he removes the clip and gently places the handgun back down on the table. He looks up and gives one last long look at Howard.

Howard takes a shaky step backwards, his face as white as a sheet. Steve says nothing. He turns silently and brushes past Tim, his face completely expressionless as he heads for the stairs.

Tim and Howard stare at each other as Steve's footsteps fade away. He can see the colour beginning to return to Howard's face. The man licks his lips and his expression shifts rapidly as he tries to recover. Tim doesn't know exactly what happened, but alpha to alpha he knows Howard had just lost. Howard knows it too.

After a moment Howard pulls on a slanted smile and runs a hand through his hair before leaning down to pick up his cigarette. He sucks on it to see if it's still lit, clearly trying to sweep away the fact that he'd almost pissed himself in fear moments ago. He can't change how his fear scent lingers in the air though.

"Well…" Howard coughs to clear his throat. "Looks like he's a little emotional today." He puffs at his smoke. His dark eyes glint as he looks at Tim. "What an omega, am I right?"

Tim hears a crackle and he realises he's crumpled the folder even more in his grip. He can practically feel his core temperature rise at the insult. His head snaps up and he shoots a glare at Howard, stepping forward to slap the ruined file on the table.

"Stay off'ov Steve's back if you know what's good for you," he growls.

As he turns away, he could swear Howard's smile grows into a smirk.

Steve isn't outside when Tim exits the workshop. Tim's hands keep clenching into fists, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He's strung out and nearly vibrating with anger at Howard and it takes several breaths for him to be able to see straight and begin looking for Steve.

He eventually finds him in an alley next to the workshop. His anger dissipates into concern as he sees Steve leaning heavily against the wall, hunched over by a trash bin.

Tim watches worriedly as he shudders and spits into the bin. His pace quickens as he goes to check on him. "Steve?"

Steve startles away, banging his knee on the trash can. He looks wide-eyed and sweaty, spooking like a deer in the woods. It's not a look Tim is used to seeing on Steve. Not that he always looked like the Captain America from the news reels but he's never seen him this genuinely scared.

"Rogers?" he asks, tentatively, taking another slower step forward.

Steve jerks away. "Don't!" The word explodes out of him as he cringes, his back against the wall. Tim freezes and Steve bares his teeth at him, panting and trembling. "Don't touch me."

Tim raises his hands slowly to show he means no harm. He backs up a step, his heart pounding.

"Not gonna," he manages, his thoughts spinning rapidly. Steve is so on edge right now he can't be sure he won't attack him. He wouldn't be the first alpha he'd seen lose it like that. The fact that being alone with Howard had somehow managed to trigger this makes Tim's blood run cold.

He remembers another time like this, when Steve had gone feral with fear. Barnes had talked him down with just his scent and a few words. Tim doesn't think his scent will help the situation, but Steve isn't as far gone as before, maybe he can snap him out of it.

He swallows uneasily before taking a note from Bucky's playbook. He raises his chin, bearing his throat to Steve. His skin prickles with discomfort as he submits to a threatening alpha, but he holds himself still, waiting.

He can see Steve's defences dropping a few notches. His lips close over his teeth and he takes in a few deep breaths. His eyes flick over Tim rapidly before he slumps back against the wall, brushing a shaky hand through his bangs.

"Sorry," he rasps, his skin as pale as milk.

Tim relaxes somewhat and lowers his hands. "No sweat," he says faintly. Taking another look at Steve's shaken expression he adds. "You okay?"

Steve nods unconvincingly and Tim shifts his weight. "Okay," he says after a little bit. "Well…we'll wait here for now." He takes a step back, prepared to guard the entrance to the alley. "I'll keep anyone from comin' in."

Steve nods tiredly and wipes his hand over his mouth. His eyes drop away from Tim and he doesn't look at him. His voice is small, barely audible.

"Thanks."