In All Our Years Series - 4 In 1 | Captain!Bucky, WinterSoldier!Steve | Stucky

2000

| 2001 |

"I want a job. Give me a job. I'll take anything."

Bucky barely remembered saying that to Fury. He vaguely remembered running through New York that now had treacherous gaps in her skyline, using his enhanced hearing to track down bodies buried under rubble. He did remember not being able to stop coughing, breathing in too much of the sediment as he heaved heavy boulders out of the way or off of beings. White dust streaked his hair, smothered his skin, covered his old leather jacket and ripped-up jeans, caked his age-worn combat boots that he had donned when he kicked the Winter Soldier in the stomach - they were old, out-dated, and he knew that. But as long as they remained in one piece, he would wear them.

Azzano was a nightmare, but his time there was nothing compared to this. That was fear and never-ending pain. This was confusion and dread for what was going to come next.

Bucky stared at the seemingly gaping hole in the skyline through his fire-escape window, wondering how the day had gone so horrible so quickly. A random agent - Clint "we're best friends now" Barton - had led him to an apartment, gave him a key, a bundle of papers, and a little black box that apparently held a comm; and just...left. Walked away as soon as he was done, bone weary and scared out of his mind. Bucky understood, and let him.

The apartment was furnished, and he had immediately fallen down onto the horribly ugly olive green couch. He was still there, shifting through the papers. He finally decided to crack open the mock jewelry box, pick out the comm and fit it into his right ear. "This thing on?" he asked - his voice came out as a cracking rasp, damaged from the dust and all the yelling he had done.

"Nice of you to join me, Barnes," Nick Fury exclaimed, sarcastically whimsical. "Did Agent Barton treat you well?"

"What do you want, asshole?" He had dealt with Fury very few times since he had been named Director - the first time to threaten him and curse him out for taking his son's birthright, to swear that one day he would come back to S.H.I.E.L.D and make his work life a living hell.

"I'm taking a chance with you. You know I don't like you -"

"The feeling's mutual," he hummed - he found that he couldn't hum. The tingling sensation in his throat caused a scraping cough.

"But," Fury said once he was over the involuntary fit, "you came out of the woodwork today. Reporters got their cameras on you, people saw that despite what people of the past had done for you, you're still here for them. I want to take advantage of that."

Bucky's mind went blank. He was confused - tired. He needed to gulp down a gallon of water and then sleep for a week.

"You will report to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s New York base on Friday at six AM. The Deputy is on his way with some paperwork. We'll talk more when I see you."

The line went staticky and Bucky winced, moving to pull the device from his ear. He placed it on the coffee table in front of him (groaning as he moved his spine and hips, having been in one position for too long after moving for hours on end) and slammed the side of his fist down, crushing it to tiny pieces.

He wasn't sure how long it was before the door was knocked on, and then creaked as it opened. Footsteps came closer, and the couch dipped beside him. Grant tried to smile at him, but it shook and he immediately let it drop. Tears were heavy in his eyes, creating tracks in the smeared dust on his face.

Bucky was too tired to play the Dad Act, so he just reached out with an exhausted, cut-up hand and took Grant's, equally tired and shredded, and held it; let him know that he was there.

"She's dead," he whispered, voice hoarse and - defeated. "Brooke's dead."

Bucky sat up and tugged him in - cradled his grown-up son in his arms, tucked his chin over Grant's head and just held him as he broke down into pieces - like the towers. Like the lives of so many people. Like everything in Bucky's life. He held his son as he whined about having to tell their kids, about having to work out a new way of life. His fists were wound in Bucky's dirty shirt, hard enough to rip - and Bucky was sure that it had, in spots. But he didn't make a move to stop him. He understood. Better than anyone could ever comprehend.