Chemical Poison

"When did you get cut?", Howard asks.

Looking over her shoulder, she frowns at him.  He, in all his naked glory, is standing at the slightly ajar door to the bathroom. Anneliese, dressed only in her underwear, has her fingers busy buttoning the military green blouse that she had unwillingly selected for her stay in Italy. If anyone had asked what her opinion of the colour was, she'd say with absolute certainty that it clashed horribly with her skin. 

She pauses. Deliberating her next move carefully. She's avoided him asking by not letting him see the cut. It was a much harder task than she had anticipated, especially when Howard claimed he could only sleep if his hands were touching her flesh.

"Do you mind?", she says.

He leans against the doorframe in only his boxer shorts. It's a lovely sight, Anneliese muses as she drinks him in. His golden tan skin and his thick dark Italian curls spiralling down his chest to meet his boxers. She's entranced; forgetting herself as her hands hover over the next button, eyes crawling up his chest to his face.

In any other scenario, his eyes would be gold and on fire; the look she assumes Icarus had when he thought he reached the sun. His eyebrow would be cocked up and his tongue would be rolling against his cheek before he would nod his head towards the bed with a promise of being late to work. He had a strange habit of suddenly deciding to get out of bed when she was changing.

But, instead, she got his knitted eyebrows drowned in worry.

Sighing, Anneliese continued to button up her blouse. She ignored the way Howard tilted his head as she leaned over to grab a pair of tights, knowing her ass was on full display. 

"Seriously Howard," Anneliese mutters, "Can you give me a bit of privacy?"

He doesn't move an inch as she slowly pulls the tights over her hips. The fabric snags at the new stitches she got done later the same evening she got cut and she lets out a soft hiss. 

Howard was next to her in a second.

"Ana," Howard says softly; his eyes trained on her healing wound.

It was more of a question than anything, really.

Pushing him away from her, she continued pulling the tights until they were fully up. The scar is predominantly covered by the sheer tights but Howard can still see it, still staring at it. Huffing in annoyance, Anneliese grabs the pencil skirt in a similar military green and makes quick work of unzipping and zipping it up again.

"I knocked into one of the laboratory benches with too much force," Anneliese lies as she flattens out the wrinkles in her blouse. "I've been telling you for months to fix the corners in laboratory 3B."

Glancing up at him, she realises that he's still staring at her waist questionably.

"Aren't those tables in the laboratory taller—hold up. You use a stepping—the bench is certainly not that—"

"We are going to be late for our flight," Anneliese interrupts. Her fingers slowly begin to pull out the hair rollers just as Howard shakes his head and walks into the bedroom without a second glance.

She knows she should feel guilt for lying, especially after demanding nothing but the truth from him. Somewhere inside she knows that guilt lurks, but for now, she holds nothing of the sort.

It was for the greater good.

Anneliese decides not to inform her father of her trip. She was certain he would argue against it, like every other decision she's made over the past two years. He'd call her foolish and possibly even threaten disownment again. It was worth more pain and suffering than what it was worth. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Howard helps her up the stairs into one of the many Stark Industrial fighter jets making the journey from New York to the military base near Azzano. It was still growing darker as midnight drew near and Anneliese winced at the cold metal railing as she made it inside. Unlike the previous plane, the interior was much simpler with two benches lined on the side with straps that did not look comfortable.

With a nudge from Howard, she awkwardly stood in the middle of the plane, or pit as Howard had called it. She waited until Howard was next to her and ushered them towards their seat. Fear began to crawl down her neck as she forcefully clutched Howard's hand in her lap as he began speaking to the pilot about their destination. 

Anneliese wasn't exactly sure where the military base was and it seemed she wasn't alone in that either. Howard's questions led to other voices—

— There are others on the plane.

Blinking, her head snapped to face the agent who began asking the same questions that Howard had already asked: Where is it exactly? Are we flying over any battles? How far away is the camp from the front?

All the questions were answered, or at least Anneliese assumed as more voices began to rise. Most of the talking came from the four S.S.R agents that sat at the back, all identifiable in their olive green uniform and golden lapel pins. Peggy Carter stood out like a sore thumb between the three bulker and taller men, but it seemed her voice had already joined the growing conversation.

Her English accent was crisp against the cold breeze as Anneliese shivered. Pulling the fur coat tighter with her free hand, she struggled to pay attention to Peggy's conversation with the only other women on the aircraft: two nurses dressed in a white apron with a red cross embodied. 

She felt completely alienated and separated from everyone in the pit. They all were here for honourable reasons; their impact being much greater than a simple decoy to draw out the enemy from their fortress. They even looked the part with their boots and fur-lined leather jackets compared to Anneliese's severally expensive Russian fur coat. Conversations of war, of loss, of plans once they arrive was something Anneliese couldn't even partake in.

Her mission was secret. Officially, she was only present because Howard was going. Just a doll on his hand and before it didn't frustrate her nearly as much, she was brought up for the role. Damn it, she perfected it. The model student even at age eleven. 

Yet, as the last traveller entered the aircraft, a soldier with a missing eye, Anneliese knew she looked out of place. Her white heels were a reminder of it, and if that wasn't enough, the bag next to her with a book and knitting needles confirmed to everyone in the pit that she was not made for war.

No, that's not quite right.

Anneliese understood the necessity of war, sometimes. She was raised in a family of war: with each other, with politicians, over land, and eventually internationally. War is as close of a friend to Anneliese as death. Almost synonymous with the Schmidt wealth. It was a disease that kept taking and she knew she didn't have it in her to cut it off, to amputate the part of her that craved war.

She was made of war, every single cell in her was.

But she had grown in fear, of peace dangling an inch too far to reach. The craving for violence, of vengeance, of killing or being killed had dissipated at some point. She wanted safety and she wanted protection.

A protector, not a fighter. Unlike everyone else on this aircraft, she selfishly wanted to protect her peace. She had only agreed for her future to be free of the chokehold Johann had on her life. The nurses here would fight if it came to it, the scars dancing across their arms suggest it. Anneliese can only imagine how strong they are as they wrestle a soldier into a bed, forcing medicine down their throat as a leg is hacked off. Even as they giggle behind their French manicured fingers, their dark circles tell a tale of fight. 

The agents were similar. After years of working within a technology industry, and more recently weaponry, she could see the outline of small handguns hidden in the lining of their pants. Even their straight backs and clipped tone reminded Anneliese of the stories her father told her about the military training he endured during the great war, and he had only been spared being a foot soldier from his connection to Johann. She's seen Peggy fight as if she was born for a never-ending war. That she would be content with a life of always pushing, of always arguing, of always having the trigger closer to her finger than a wedding ring.

She knows if the agents had to kill someone they would do it without question

And then there was the soldier sitting opposite her.

He's clearly been to war. His eyes were sunken and Anneliese could tell the wrinkles across his forehead were from frowning too much. The missing eye was covered with a black patch and the slight wear of the leather confirmed that it wasn't a recent injury. The skin around the eyepatch was free of scars, his skin was in such perfect condition that she was sure the girls at the makeup counter would be envious. 

Gods, even Anneliese was morbidly envious of the way his pale skin looked soft.

The soldier, introduced as Colonel Marcus, was made for war and seemed to live and breathe it. He moved from one to the next, a new front each month. There wasn't an enemy he hadn't faced nor a sorrow he hadn't dealt with. It seemed a dreadfully depressing life.

Even Howard matched them perfectly. The callus formed on his palm reminds Anneliese that his hands are only gentle with her. His fingers are only soft when they brush her hair out of her face or cup her cheek. Had she been a piece of metal she would've been bent and burned, churned and bolted. 

Howard's war remained within the realm of metal and engines. Destruction passed from his brain to the hands of soldiers on the fronts; they were gushing with blood, Anneliese was certain the success the Americans were having was partially from the guns and aircraft that Howard offered.

Her war was with herself. A war that spans generations of Schmidt women. She was not made for war like the others in the pit. Fear grew deeper into her spine as the pilot yelled for everyone to buckle up. The plane began to rumble as she watched as the others all strapped themselves in; Howard helping her pull the strap across her large fur coat.

"How big is that bloody coat of yours," Howard mumbles. 

"Big enough to withstand a trip across the Atlantic at night," she deadpans.

He rolls his eyes as he reaches for her hand and intertwines them back together, resting in his lap. The tension in her shoulder's lessened as she breathed in and then breathed out. She was not afraid of flying and she was not going to be afraid about war. She chose to come, but no one forced her.

She feels Howard squeeze her hand and the small gesture doesn't escape the notice of Marcus. His lips quirk up slightly and Anneliese blinks at him.

And then she blinks again.

"Stop thinking," Howard whispers as he slowly pulls her head down to rest in her lap; encouraging her to lay down. "It's far too early in the evening to be thinking."

She disagrees, of course, she's done nothing but think since she boarded the plane, but the journey is going to be long so she may as well sleep for as long as she can. 

The Atlantic air feels colder than she remembers it to be. The winds hit the metal outside loudly, causing a few of the agents to jump every now and then. At some point during the journey, Anneliese ended up in Howard's lap with her fur coat covering the both of them, trying to use their body temperature to warm up. Even with the loud rustling from outside, she could still hear the chattering of teeth as the blonde nurse pulled out another woollen blanket for one of the agents.

"Was heating not a priority?", Anneliese asks, her head resting against his shoulder.

Howard rolls his eyes, "Between heating or extra storage for bullets, which one do you think the military decided on?"

Groaning, Anneliese shuffled closer into Howard's chest as she rubbed her hands together, trying to regain feeling in her fingers. There was only an hour left of the nearly nineteen-hour flight and Anneliese was at her wits end. She's thankful that she slept the first half, but the past nine hours have felt like an eternity. Between reading the German translation of A Doll's House again and forcing Howard to show her the calculations he's working on for the Manhattan Project, she was starting to get bored.

Somewhere between then and now, she had begun knitting. The needles swept between the wool as she made slow process on a wine-red scarf for Maria's Christmas present. Howard had taken to talking to Marcus, finding his thick southern accent relatively funny in contrast to his Italian hybrid New York accent. 

"Aren't you meant to be good at building things," Marcus yells over the turbulence.

Anneliese feels Howard grip the skin below her cut tightly and she sucks in a hiss. He doesn't realise as his chest vibrates against her shoulder with his laughter. She nearly drops the needles.

"What other aeroplane will get you to Italy in just nineteen hours?"

Marcus' laughter booms across the pit, drawing the attention of the agents attempting to sleep. All eyes were on him as he reached forward towards the two of them.

"I just figured you'd build something nicer for your woman to travel in."

The needle misses the loop and Anneliese curses under her breath. A warm flush heats her cheeks red as something in her body sings at the word your woman. Tingles ran past her neck and towards her stomach as the words repeated in her head: your woman, his woman, Howard's woman,

She hated how she loved the sound of it on another man's tongue. The confirmation that she was his and not to some man her father or Johann had arranged. That she was inexplicably intertwined with him, where she was in and to some extent, he was hers.

No wonder she was so afraid of war when her heart skipped a beat at the thought of Howard being hers.

Leaning further into Howard, she stared up at him; Howard stared down, his eyes shining a bright gold as his lips curved into a grin before he barked out a laugh.

Even after a long flight where Anneliese hadn't seen him stop talking, he was surprisingly still energetic. She shouldn't be surprised as before they had begun fake dating and occasionally during it, she was sure he stayed awake for days working on his projects. He doesn't do it as often anymore, or at least Alexander made a comment about it over lunch in the office. 

"Trust me mate," Howard says, humour dripping from his lips. "If I had been given more than a week's notice, this entire pit would be painted pink with compartments for her shoes."

Laughter filled the space as Anneliese slapped him on the chest but she was unable to hide the grin forming across her lips. 

The pilot warns them that they will begin the descent and Anneliese slowly wriggles herself back into her seat, fastening the buckle quickly. Her hands are still entangled with Howard's as Marcus raises an eyebrow at her feet.

"Your shoes?"

"What about my shoes?", Anneliese replied.

Looking down, she saw nothing wrong with them. She spent an entire afternoon with Maria finding this exact pair: white leather material with an appropriate three-inch heel. 

Marcus used his hands to gesture at them again and she heard Howard groan. "Darlin', the camp is barely the place to wear those."

"They're Ferragamo's," Anneliese replies as if it was enough of an answer

One of the nurses gasps, quickly turning around to look at her shoes. It's not the first reaction she's gotten to them. Maria was downright horrified at the cost of the shoe until Anneliese placed the cash Howard gave her on the counter and asked for another one in Maria's size.

"Ferragino—"

"—Ferragamo's", Anneliese corrects.

Howard laughs as Marcus throws his hands in the air. "Good luck darlin'."

It seemed the military camp was no place for Ferragamo's. The dirt was unsteady, some areas being wet and others having ditches hidden by fallen branches and leaves. Howard seemed to realise her misfortune quickly and offered her his arm as support as she slowly walked the path towards the Colonel. 

Her beautiful white shoes were now a dusty brown but she just kept reminding herself that it was dirt. They could be cleaned.

How wrong she was.

Within a few steps, the weather decided to change and rain began to pour down wickedly.  Howard lifted his briefcase above their heads as he rushed her towards the tent the Colonel stood next to. She's too busy focusing on keeping her balance that she ignores the soldier's stares and occasional whistles as she rushes past them.

"Mr Stark," he greets with a handshake, "Miss Lorenz," he says in a sombre voice.

They share a look. Howard doesn't seem to notice.

The tent was crawling with soldiers. All much cleaner than the ones she saw when she left the aircraft and wearing gold pins on their uniform. It doesn't take Anneliese to figure out the tent to be an office of a sort.

Shaking her arm out in front of her, she watches the raindrops fall from her fingers as the breeze catches her wet skin. The coat was beyond saturated and left Anneliese with no option but to pull the overly large coat from her body. Her clothes underneath are slightly wet much to her disappointment as the coat snags against the slightly damp cotton of her blouse.

Sighing in frustration, she catches the attention of Howard.

"Excuse me, gentleman," he says; Anneliese feels the officials watch as he helps take off her coat and drape it over his arm.

She hears a whistle. 

Laughter follows.

Stepping closer towards Howard, she stands shaking as he continues the pleasantries with the Colonel and the other soldiers, officials, or anyone that matters at the camp. They don't say anything to Anneliese and she doesn't humour them with speaking. Instead, she feels their eyes occasionally wonder her body.

Brushing out an invisible wrinkle in her skirt again, she notices how much her shirt is clinging to her bra. It's skintight, hugging her curves far more than she would like.

Her father would faint at the sight.

Annoyance grew on Anneliese quickly as she used her hands to fix her hair - a sopping mess - and tried to move her blouse so it wasn't glued to her skin. None of it worked and it only irritated her further. She wanted to change into dry, warm clothes. This was not what she expected when the Colonel approached her to lure out Johann. November was known for its unpredictable weather and Anneliese mentally smacked herself for forgetting that about Italy. 

"Phillips," Howard finally says. "I think it's time you show us to our tent."

The Colonel nodded his head in agreement as he stacked his pile of paperwork and placed a paperweight on top. It took Anneliese only a second to realise that she would have to go out in the rain again if she wanted to reach their tent. Groaning, she grabbed onto Howard's arm again and made haste, ignoring the wishful glances and downright ogling of the soldiers as she passed them towards a tent that looked ever so slightly better than most of the other tents.

Howard must've paid them, she thinks.

Anneliese wasn't sure what she was expecting, but the generous bed and portable rack for clothes exceeded her expectations. Her luggage was already at the foot of the bed and she made haste work open it and lay the clothes on the bed, taking a few minutes to deliberate which one to wear.

"You looked like you were going to kill someone back there," Howard whispers into her ear as he wraps his hands just above her waist.

Deciding on a dark green dress, new black tights, and an olive green raincoat, she squeezed herself out of Howard's embrace. Checking that the tent's door was firmly tied together to ensure no one entered, Anneliese stripped within seconds.

Bending over to pull her stockings off, she sees Howard sitting on the bed, staring at her ass again. 

"Do you mind?", Anneliese deadpans. Standing up in nothing but her bra and underwear, she places her hands on her hip as she stares at him. "Would it kill you not to stare?"

His grin grew as he leaned back, supporting himself with his hands. "It certainly nearly killed the soldiers in the tent."

Huffing, Anneliese turned to roll up a new pair of tights before slipping into the dress. Unable to reach the zip, she storms up to Howard and turns around.

Neither says a word as Howard pulls himself into a straight-back sitting position. His fingers were cold against her skin as he leisurely explored her spine until he reached the zip. If she wasn't so annoyed about her clothes getting wet, her fur coat ruined, and the Ferragamo's a dirty brown, she would've turned around and kissed him.

But her clothes were ruined.

"Get on with it!", Anneliese snaps.

Howard snickers under his breath as he finishes zipping her up. His hands remain on her back and slowly slide down her spine until Anneliese brushes him off and grabs the rain jacket. Glaring at him as she slips her arm through the sleeves, she watches as he reaches into her trunk and places a pair of lower, wedge shoes that are decidedly not Ferragamo's.

Muttering a thank you, Anneliese sits down and slowly slips them onto her feet. There she sees her fur coat and Ferragamo's ruined in a muddle of her clothes. A gasp leaves her mouth as she begs herself not to cry over clothes for goodness' sake. They're clothes, she reminds herself.

There are much worse things happening on base than her favourite coat and heels being ruined.

"For fuck sake," Howard says as he jumps up from the bed. "I'll just buy you new ones, they can't possibly be that expensive.

Looking up at him, she mouths the cost.

Howard's face goes white.

The smart thing to do would have been to go to sleep. Instead, Howard decided to drag Anneliese along to the mechanic's tent to start looking over the guns that needed repairs and some stolen Hydra equipment. It was closer to four in the afternoon, but the low, dark clouds and inconsistent torrential rain kept her from leaving the tent by herself.

It wasn't that she didn't feel safe within the military base. The Colonel had reaffirmed that she was completely safe here, perhaps safer here than Stark Industrials. In hushed whispers, he told her that she had nothing to fear, that Hydra had no way of entering the base without a full-on ambush.

An ambush this late in the evening would have devastating casualties on both sides.

So, to a certain degree, she felt safe.

What stopped her from leaving was the wide-open gawking by soldiers when she walked past. In Howard's attempt to convince her not to go on the drive to the airport, he had warned her that she would be surrounded by men who hadn't seen a woman outside of the nurses they feared. Anneliese would be the first woman they see who isn't actively trying to cure an infection with a knife to their knee.

She had anticipated the stares. She knew they would be. 

Yet, it felt like wherever she went, eyes followed. When she walked to the mechanics' tent on Howard's arm, the men had gone quiet at the sight of her before growing into a fit of laughter when she turned back to glare. It was a game of cat and mouse, and she was certainly losing.

Long, drawn-out cat whistles followed whenever she took her jacket off when she entered a new tent. The same happened in the mechanic tent; however, it was much shorter as Howard had noticed and glared at them.

So, she decided to stay closer to Howard. 

He was under a truck, fixing something with the engine as he cracked jokes with one of the other mechanics. Anneliese wasn't sure what his name was, but his bright red hair and freckled nose led to her calling him Patrick.

"Bloody lucky you are," Patrick muses as he cleans a tool and passes it to Howard's lifted hand. "Should've heard the men when they first saw your misses, I think one actually fainted." 

Rolling her eyes, Anneliese continued knitting the wine-red scarf for Maria from her seat as the clashing of metal filled the tent.

The truck groans from Howard's meticulous hands. She can only see his feet at the moment, but if she had to guess, he would be sporting a shit-eating grin.

"You should see her in a laboratory coat," Howard yells from under the truck. "Absolutely divine."

Anneliese placed her needles in her lap as she glared at Howard.

"Oh and the colour blue," Howard continues, a guttural noise followed as he pushed himself out from under the car. "You look ravishing in blue, love."

Patrick sniggered as he slowly moved away from the truck to speak to the other mechanics, leaving Anneliese with Howard, relatively alone.

"Was that completely necessary?", Anneliese hisses at him.

Moving himself away from the car, Howard stands up to his full height before smirking.

"Love, if only you knew the things I want to do to you right now."

Before she can reply, Howard gives her a chase kiss. Leaving a trail of grease on her skin and marking his lips with her signature red lipstick. A hoot of laughter is heard from the men that Howard jogs over to join.

"Uck," she scoffs as she wipes the grease from her cheek.

For fifteen sweet minutes, she knits in peace. She's just beginning a new scarf, a sunset orange for her father when a group of three mechanics decide to pull up chairs next to Anneliese. Raising her eyebrows at them, she watched as they all pulled out a cigar and began smoking.

"Do you mind?", Anneliese said for the third time that day.

It was starting to get annoying.

"The names Geoff," the brunet said before pointing to the plumper man of the three. "That's Teddy and this loser is John," he says, grabbing onto the shoulders of John's skinny figure.

Anneliese stared at them before she plastered a fake smile across her lips. "Hello," she says; not even honey was as thick as her voice, the niceties strangling her far more than an aristocrat-born woman. "I'm Anneliese, Howard's—"

"Fiancee, supposably," Teddy says, his voice thick with what she assumes is a Californian accent.

Slowly nodding, she watched as the three all gave each other a look before they began talking. They weren't really talking with or at her, just near her. Anneliese, who was unsure where Howard had run off to, was too scared to leave her seat. She hadn't bothered to learn the route from their tent to the mechanics' tent. And with the rain creating small rivers outside, she wasn't testing her luck.

The conversation quickly moves on to the latest gossip in the camp: the 107th failure. Anneliese's ears perk up at the mention of the 107th, the unit sent to raid the Hydra facility. Geoff animatedly began explaining the scene when only twenty returned three days after the attack; blood had stained the murky brown mud and morale was at an all-time low. Then, when another fifteen staggered into camp the day after, Teddy had thought they had won but just decided to use the trucks for their looted goods.

His thought turned out to be anything but the truth.

Anneliese had to put down her needles as she gasped at the vile descriptions of the wounds of the third - only seven - group of soldiers from last week. A missing arm, a spiderweb of cuts across the back, blood dripping from their ears and nose, and a permanent look of shock. Those men had been sent back, the nurse diagnosing them incapable. 

"Did any of them say what happened?", Anneliese finally asked.

All six eyes snapped onto her before John looked at the other two before speaking.

"And why would a pretty lady like you want to know?"

Narrowing her eyes, she leaned back in her chair; the man's eyes darted directly towards her breasts as she stretched. Twirling her finger in the loose, nearly dry hair strand that somehow never makes it into any of her buns, she smiles.

"Consider it a personal interest of mine."

"How is that a fucking person—"

Geoff's hand smushes into Teddy's mouth as a grin forms across his lips. Between the three of them, they all fell heavily into a specific character. Geoff with his dark black hair was certainly the problem of the group, considering he'd gotten himself on dishes duty for the next month due to back-talking his sergeant certainly was problematic. Teddy was the youngest and his naivety seemed to be a point of entertainment for the other two, but his fidgeting and bitten nails almost made Anneliese feel bad for the boy if it wasn't his preference for profanities. 

"Stark girl gets whatever she wants, right?", John says as he blows out his cigarette. 

Staring at him expectantly, she knew exactly what John was. The de facto leader of the group always seemed to know the right words to set someone off.

"That's a bit spoilt of you," he says.

Tilting her head slightly, Anneliese laughs. "You'd also be spoilt if you had access to Howard's credit."

"Touché."

For a brief second, the only sound is the loud clanging of tools meeting metal and the rain pelting against the tin lining of the tent. Anneliese had realised after the third hour in the mechanic's quarter that the entire tent had been supported by tin sheets. It meant the mechanic's quarter was relatively safe from the storm outside; her eardrums, on the other hand, were not.

Geoff flickers his cigarette before he brings it to his lips before he speaks.

"One said magic, that the whole lotta of 'em was practising some sort'a witchcraft. Was it—erm, Randy... yes, Randy that said the soldiers were barely human. Robotic, the lotta of 'em."

His eyebrows, or what's left of them as they had been swiftly burnt off from a previous battle on a front north of camp, grew close as he leaned in towards Anneliese.

"Bullet the lotta em' down, and the ones that lived well—well, it isn't all too pretty, I tell ya. Slave labour or something of the sort. Had him carry metal beam after metal sheet after metal bolt—metal, metal, metal was how he described it. Metal building and metal weapons and metal in their bullets."

John jumps in, "They killed the soldiers who waved white flags once they realised it was a lost battle. They, those bloody Germans killed the ones seeking peace." His fist slams into his knee, anger bubbling across his face. The tips of his ears and nose were growing redder by the second.

"They probably are torturing them. Cutting them up and eating it to their children like the rabid animals they are—"

"—they're good for nothing monsters, I tell ya. I met a lotta of em' up north and they have this twisted look in em' eyes. Bloodthirsty little fuckers—"

Anneliese's eyes were wide open as John and Geoff played a verbal tennis game. Profanities matched with slurs and Anneliese was in shock. It was one insult after the other. She wanted to be able to agree with them, that the actions of a few should be condemned. 

It needed to be condemned—

"—If Roosevelt doesn't kick those Germans out, they gotta it comin' for em'! I tell ya', if I see one of the streets are we win this bloody war, I'm gonna get him. Give him a taste of his own fucking medicine, the fuckers!"

Standing up suddenly, all three of them turned to look at her. 

Teddy is the first to speak. "Oh pardon us," he proclaims. "It's been so long we've forgotten the delicate ears of women."

Glancing down at the three men, Anneliese felt sick to the stomach. Bile slowly moved up her throat and her nails were cutting into her palm, the hiss of pain sparkling down her nerves. It was all too much; she couldn't do it. The men here are too vile. Their lecherous eyes and whistles sent shivers down her spine. The profanities piled up, where she swears she heard two soldiers talking only with the words 'fuckers' and 'bloody hell'. And then there was this: the hatred for Germans.

She knew she should've expected it.

They've been fighting them, for god knows how long.

They've probably lost friends, family, camp mates. Maybe an arm or an eyebrow. Perhaps they're mentally scared, fated to live a life of alcoholism once, and if, they get home.

Anneliese knows she probably has no right to be upset.

But she is.

"That's not the issue," she hisses.

She doesn't realise her mistake until their faces contort into something much more ugly.

Her voice sounded nothing like her usual American accent.

It had been entirely German, unmistakably so.

If the temperature before was cold, it is chilling now. 

Anneliese watched as the realisation settled over the three soldiers. Geoff's fist clenched to his side; Teddy's jaw twitched, and John seemed gone, his eyes unfocused. The air had been sucked out of Anneliese as she felt paralysed in her spot; her fleeting position only left her susceptible to the growing anger, confusion, and superstition in their eyes. 

"Are you one of them?"

It is a rhetorical question. Anneliese didn't dare to speak.

The tips of Geoff's ears grew red as he puffed out his chest. "Do you sympathise with em'? Do you? Do—Do you understand what we've seen because of them?"

He was seething. His once playful personality was lost within seconds. If the temperature was chilling, it was borderline freezing now as all three sets of eyes were pinning her in place. She couldn't flee and she couldn't see Howards. She was stuck, trapped.

"Well do you?", his voice grows and Anneliese's eyes scatter across the room. No one seemed to notice his yelling, but she wasn't sure how much longer that would be. Three angry soldiers were one thing... a room filled with angry soldiers might be a death sentence.

"No—Of course not. Why, no never. Not. Ever—"

Teddy scoffs. No longer was he the shy, young boy from earlier but a hardened man. 

"Hard to believe," he mumbles. "My brother died in France, did you know that?"

Anneliese's mouth was agape. She did not know that, but how was she meant to? Back home there were only two types of people: a generation lost to war or those ignorant enough to ignore the causalities until it impacted their imports of tea.

"Your people did that," Teddy yells viciously over a crack of thunder. His fingers are pointing at her as if he's sentencing her to hell. "You did that."

"I am an American," Anneliese replies. Finding the courage, she moves slightly to cross her arms in front of her chest as the wind begins howling. "They are not my people. I did not kill your brother."

That, unfortunately, seemed like the wrong thing to say.

John was quick to his feet as he took a step towards her. Anneliese realises then, even with heels on, these men tower over her. The next thing she realises is how much bulkier they are to her, they would easily overpower her.

"You are not an American," he spits. The saliva hits her square on the cheek and Anneliese lets out an involuntary gasp. "You're not even human, the Germans are not civilised."

Tears form in her eyes as her heart begins to beat faster, occasionally skipping a beat as Anneliese stares up at John through her lashes. There is no mercy or kindness in his eyes anymore.

"Are you a spy? Is that why we all keep dying and not spending Christmas with the—"

A hand touches her shoulder gently as the tall body walks past her and in between herself and John.

"Miss Lorenz—", Steve begins.

"Lorenz," Geoff seethes.

Anneliese stopped breathing.

There he was, the failed experiment. All dressed in a military olive green uniform that seemed slightly too tight on his superficial body was Steven Rogers. His hair was still combed over in the same way and his skin still had a sickly look to it. But he was taller and he looked stronger. At least that was what the newspaper clippings that Alexander collected said.

"I believe you're needed elsewhere," Steve says, his voice carrying a level of authority that she didn't think was possible from the scrawny boy before the injection. She's left paralysed again as he turns around to face her and slowly picks up her knitting needles and wool. 

He takes one look at her shoes and then offers his arm to her. 

"Don't touch her!", Teddy exclaims, loud enough for some of the other workers to stop and look over. "She's a dirty fucking Nazi!"

The clanking of metal stopped instantly. All eyes were on her.

Each breath became increasingly harder to do.

"That's no way to treat a woman," Steve replies calmly, still offering his arm for her. Without any hesitation, she takes it as if it's the armour she needs for battle.

She supposes this will be a battle.

"She's no woman," John says, taking another step closer.

"I wouldn't take another step, pal."

Now Anneliese understands why he was selected. Abraham had went on and on about the importance of finding the right person. To find someone who's worst quality would be instrumental to the conclusion of the war.

It turns out Steve's was his willingness to fight a battle he surely knew he couldn't win.

He pulls her along as he heads towards the exit, ignoring the profanities spilling from the mouths of more than one soldier now. To a degree, she had thought her German heritage had been common knowledge with the public. More than one newspaper has referred to her as such, but she supposes there are differences between those who sleep in New York and a war camp. 

Anneliese doesn't flinch as the rain drenches her, nor does she complain as Steve walks at a brisk pace. They don't talk until he reaches her tent, which she's only realised has the words "STARK" painted on. Talk about making her bait.

He opens the tent and Anneliese steps in as she shakes the water from her wet coat. Steve doesn't enter at first; instead, he holds her knitting needles and wool under the safety of the tent.

"Steve, get out of the rain and come in," she says, her voice shaking.

He shakes his head as she grabs the needle and wool from his hands.

"Unfortunately I am needed elsewhere about now," he says as he checks his pocket watch.

He's the latest show monkey to encourage patriotic morale. 

Sighing, Anneliese unbuttons the raincoat and throws it onto the floor. "Thank you," she says as she finds another coat and slides it on.

"No need to say thank you," Steve replies. "I know what it's like to be the smallest person in a fight."

Smiling at him, Anneliese watched as he left. Muttering a soft, "I'll find Mr Stark" before he walks away.

She turns on her heel so abruptly it nearly knocks her off-balance and she finds Howard entering the tent with a concerned look in his eye. The same look he gave her in the bathroom only a day ago. What a long day it's been.

"Are you okay?"

"Of course, I am," Anneliese mumbles. She decides not to look at the way his green dress shirt is wet and sticks to his chest, clearly outlining the muscle underneath... nor does she look at his hands as she twists his wedding band.

Howard rolls his eyes as he steps towards her. "Rodger's said otherwise."

"Roger's is not me!", Anneliese snaps. "He's a failed experiment—He doesn't know what I know or what I think, so he cannot possibly—"

He raises an eyebrow at her, and Anneliese breaks.

"They called me a Nazi."

"I know."

"That I killed their brother."

"I heard."

"They didn't even want to touch me!"

Howard's brows shoot up, "They touched you—"

"But maybe they're right," Anneliese shouts, the rain diluting her voice. "I am German and I am related to him. I am his blood."

"Are you hearing yourself right now?"

Groaning, Anneliese takes a step towards him. "You don't get it Howard- my life, my entire life. It's been this war, only this war. I was born into this war. What I show, my fashion, my knitting, everything is just a lie. A LIE."

"Come on,-"

"No, you don't get it. Everything who I am, what I am-"

"A lie?"

"Exactly!"

"Anneliese, you do know who you're talking to, right?"

She ignores him, "I am German. I am his blood. I think like them, even when I don't want to. I think of them, have I ever told you? Not every memory is a nightmare; more often than not I find myself missing them. Everything that I am now, everything is a lie. A lie."

"Oh shut up for once in your life, love," Howard snaps. "You're still Anneliese Lorenz to me, you're everything I've ever wanted as wife. So what if a few soldiers realised you were German, that's never stopped you in New York." He chuckles as he tucks his hands into his pocket, taking another step towards her.

Heat floods her head as she raises her head. How dare he. Anneliese wasn't sure why she had become so defensive or why this has escalated how it has, but she'll be damned if she didn't win—ah, there it is the Schmidt blood.

With lips filled to the brim with poison, she hisses: "How dare you—"

"For fuck sakes, Ana." He says, throwing his hands in the air. "Question your German heritage and your link to the crimes —You. Did. Not. Commit. As much as you want, but you remain the same. Perhaps you hide behind an American mask to try to not get completely abused on the streets. But, that—that is just that, a mask—"

"YOU DON'T KNOW ME—"

She wasn't meant to scream.

Howard's hands slid down his face for a second before he retaliated. His voice was louder, his tone more aggressive. This was a fight, Anneliese realises. Perhaps their first true fight as a married couple.

"Are you listening to yourself? I, Howard Stark, who's been obsessed with you the second you entered the fucking door don't know you? Sweetheart, there is not another soul that knows you like I do. You are fucking maniacal and always so cooly collected, a little too pushy and way too fucking intelligent. I know you cannot sleep on your left side and you blink twice when you're thinking. Because—because you're always fucking thinking. I know you can't cook, but I'm starting to think you just prefer watching a man cook your dinner. I know you spend over an hour doing your makeup, but most of it is spent over a cup of poorly made tea and a scientific research paper. Your nose wrinkles when you figure something out, and your eyes always dart when you're about to lie."

She's lost for words.

What a declaration.

"It's hard. I know. That the soldiers brought up all the unsolicited memories you would rather not discuss. But this isn't a lie, Ana." He takes a deep breath, his golden eyes glued to hers. "This isn't a lie that will crush you, or a secret that you let them wield. Don't let it get to you, because if you do, you let them win, you crumble—you falter and you fracture into a million pieces."

She raises her chin, "Yeah? And how would you know that." She cooly said, storming straight at him. Howard backs away.

"Because I lost to it—the lies, the fabrications, the missing person, I'm drowning in it all. I am a facade of mistrust and dishonest intentions, a ceramic of everyone who has spoken to me and everyone I've lied to. Once you lose trust in who you are and what you are, that is when they've won. You have not lost yet, and I refuse to let you."

Narrowing her eyes, she continued to walk towards him. "You choose to do that, you choose to lie." Her hair feels electrified, as if it was radiating that anger that hums through her veins. "I didn't ask to be German and I didn't ask for those men to yell at me."

Howard scoffs, "And we agree on that. It's not your fault that the soldiers acted the way they did."

Anneliese rounds on him, her back far too close to the closed tent door for her liking.

"And I lied out of necessity," Howard snarls. "Not all of us catered to with a silver spoon every. Not all of us are born into luxury—some of us have to fight for it, even claw for it."

Raising her voice, Anneliese explodes. "Everything came at a cost! You know that! Every dollar was a transaction of morals, and you knew that! How dare you!"

"How dare I?" He says in a level voice, seriousness dripping from his tongue. "How dare you! I returned early to see if you were okay, thinking, no—, knowing that you would be spiralling right now. I told you coming here would be a bad thing, that they would treat you like this. They've lived a life that you could never fathom, they've corrupted themselves to kill and be killed. They've seen their friends die at the hands of a German and here comes a woman in four hundred-dollar heels, a tent to sleep in, and of course, she has a German accent. They feel robbed, that the enemy—no matter how far away you are from being the enemy—is being treated better than them, foot soldiers. Gods, think outside of yourself!"

Her palm strikes hard against the side of his cheek.

The slap echoes.

Howard turns slowly, his lips twitching into a grin. "Do you wanna try that again, love?"

With blinding fury exploding inside, she raises her hand again with renewed hatred. Only inches from his cheek, he grabs her wrist viciously – her skin would certainly bruise. He forced her back under her heels and hit the edge of the bed. She falls and he follows, she's trapped under him.

Her other arm is still free and she scratches and claws at him. He blocks all her assaults whilst snatching her free hand and forcing it above her head.

"Scream at me, fight me. Yell at me all you want," he hisses into her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "But the facts will always remain the same. I adore you and nothing is stop me from loving you."

"Get out," Anneliese finally says. "Get out."

Howard's brows furrowed, "I don't want to fight."

"Get out," she repeats. 

 "Gods," he whispers against her lips. "You know that I am in love with you. But god Anneliese," he pauses, "It's impossible with you, absolutely, unbelievably impossible."

He rises away from her and Anneliese doesn't move an inch.

"I'll sleep in another tent and I'll let you be by yourself until tomorrow night. You can let yourself swallow yourself whole until then, but you will let me drag you out. We don't need to fight, love."

Anneliese watches as he picks up a bag and slowly places fresh clothes inside. Guilt slowly began to eat her insides as she watched Howard's dejected eyes glance at her one last time.

"Sleep tight, Ana. I love you."

She doesn't reply.

The shadows of the tent grow as Anneliese shuffles herself into the backboard of the bed, pulling the blankets over herself. Guilt was eating her now. They didn't need to fight. She shouldn't have argued. What happened to controlling her emotions? What happened to trying to understand each other? 

As the minutes passed, the tent felt darker. The black corners were suffocating and the chilly wind seemed to fly under her blanket and tickle her skin. A choked sob falls from her lips as she hugs her knees, wishing nothing more than to take back the past five minutes. Why did she have to say what she did? Why was she always so volatile when she had peace? Why was she always messing up whenever she had the smallest hint of happiness?

Then, in the corner of her glassy eyes, she sees a shadow move.

Two shadows.

Well, not two shadows—

"That was absolutely revolting to watch cousin."