Grant Ward enjoys life as a specialist. Mostly.
He likes being by himself.
He goes in alone. Gets the job done. And then goes about his own business.
And he likes it that way. He doesn't have to really depend on others and they don't have to depend on him. Not exactly. With the exception of SHIELD specific, he has no one else to answer to nor questions to ask of anyone.
He hasn't had that. Hasn't... wanted any of that since he left his life behind in Massachusetts. Since those five years in the wilderness with Garrett. Since military school and juvie. Since burning his house down. Since his nightmare of a childhood.
However, there are some instances when his top-notch skills as a specialist will bring into contact with certain situations.
Like being on an actual team every now and again.
Ugh. He's not... he's not fond of that. Sure, he's learned in the past with Garrett that sometimes you have to have people behind you in order to get things done.
Lookit, despite what some people may think, he's not a total drone. He's not a robot. Yeah, he's a bit... reserved at times - some would say prickly because they're judgmental like that - and he doesn't really care about other's opinion of him. Warranted or not.
But, he does have friends, believe it or not.
Tripp. Bobbi. Fitz... He's got friends, okay?
Not the most conventional or closest friendships but, oh well...
(Actually, no, that's not very true. He's pretty damn close to Fitz. The short, hyperactive, overemotional engineer is the closest thing to a little brother to him since... anyway, he's a good friend. It's nice.)
So, when he meets Captain Steve Rogers for the fifth time in nearly his decade long career at SHIELD, he doesn't think that liable to change.
He's met the Captain a few times already on a few professional occasions. Even shook hands with the man during one such meeting
(He remembers that specific handshake. He likes to keep his mind sharp on those kind of details. Helps to weed out the guys he could either write off or not.
Cap had had a good one. Firm. Strong. With direct eye contact.
No slippery, sweaty fish fingers, thank god.)
And also, he's quite sure that'd been the first time in a while that Captain America had met somebody around his own age and not have to literally look down at them.
Even now, as he heads inside of the Quinjet and sees the man himself, tall and straight-shouldered and armor plated, in the middle of giving out orders to his team - to which Ward has been on loan for this specific op - and internalizes the urge to laugh because he is at least a foot taller than most of them.
Minus him, he notes, stepping forward and finding himself shoulder to shoulder with the team leader.
Said leader glances at him. "Agent Ward." He says in professional greeting, holding his hand out to shake his once more as the others crowd out in order to prepare for landing.
"Captain Rogers." He replies gruffly in acknowledgement, extending his palm for the as expected firm grip of handshake. A simple one, two pump that barely lasts a minute before letting go.
"You asked for my assistance here?" He adds, almost just barely avoiding saying sir at the end of his question before a voice in his head manages to say, yeah, please don't and he catches himself in time.
"Word is you're one of the best specialists around."
He holds back a chuckle because... "Is all that the only word you've heard?"
The Captain not only takes his chuckle away from him but actually smirks a little bit. "It's the only word that was worth hearing."
And don't those words just jangle in his head as he watches Captain America jump into a dangerous war zone... sans parachute!
And they get on with it: There are reports of a suspicious sleeper cell along the Russian border that needs to be investigated. And that also may be have been formerly of Hydra's. Old and decrepit and apparently now being used by crazy, mad scientists.
It's a simple subdue and extraction and it goes... semi-well. And it's only when the compound's emergency alarm sounds off that Ward realizes he'd never really questioned why he had been brought along. The reason why he'd been tagged by name for it. Until he has to toss a particularly persistent group of goons aside.
It's also the first time he'd bared witness to Cap in action and it is impressive. He's so used to being the best specialist. Best in combat. So, even though he can very much handle his own (he's had ten years of training, thanks) and that in his purview, being super enhanced is kind of cheating, he's man enough to admit when he's been out done. If by a little.
(He has seen the Battle of New York footage. He had expected meat and potatoes. Super soldier meat and potatoes. But, meat and goddamn potatoes. Kick. Punch. Punch. Kick. And yet...)
It's obviously not that bad to have the world's best soldier having his back. The universe ain't crying about his luck at that point.
It's even serves as an unexpected confidence-booster when Cap takes out an entire section of goons, looks over at the five beaten and unconscious men laying around him and says without a hint of irony. "Nice work."
So, that ends up happening.
The extraction ends up successful and the weapon safely de-powered.
And it's after, when the team -bruised and bloodied though they be - are given permission for a few hours respite in nearby Moscow that Grant sees the state Rogers is in: Broody. Quiet. Mopey. Scratched up.
The 'Jet is open, ramp down and he can see Cap still sitting there in his seat as thought they hadn't landed yet and everyone else had not filed out without him. Hands tucked in between his knees with that thousand yard long stare that Grant, himself, has often been accused of having on occasion.
And he starts to get a... feeling.
That same feeling he'd had when times were at their hardest and all he had wanted to do was make his little brother feel better when he'd been afraid. Wanting to fight those demons away.
That same feeling that's starting to creep up on him now: That if he doesn't at least try to find out what exactly is bothering this guy... he will regret it.
And ain't that just a kick in the ass?
He doesn't do this often. At all. Grant Ward never does this. He's a loner. He likes be alone. He never ever invites some guy out for a beer just because they seem sad and he feels bad for them.
He's not looking for a friend. He just wants a convenient drinking buddy.
Honest.
(It sometimes sucks drinking by himself...)
And he nearly backs out but then...
...But, then thinks, well...
"Hey, Cap?" He tosses out across the ramp and the miserable-looking blond's head snaps up in his direction.
He gestures in a hopefully specific way while asking. "Wanna grab a beer?"
The place they end up in is some small dive bar right at the edge of Moscow and because it's late even by their screwed up internal clocks, Ward is quite sure just by the looks of the joint that they are certainly not gonna question two tall, American men wearing suspiciously militant looking garb - Grant's still wearing his dark clothes save for his vest and is still in his finger gloves whilst Rogers is wearing his bared down tac suit sans his shield with his gloves as well.
It raises eyebrows, sure and they can both feel stares on them the minute they walk in but no one says a thing.
The only person that looks like he might wanna say some words only ends up shrugging and asking in garbled Russian what they would like to drink. Wiping his paws on a dish towel while giving them the stink eye with the one eyeball that seems to work.
And Ward concludes that it would be no harm, no foul if they have whatever beer they got on tap so, he orders for them both without any argument from Cap.
He turns and catches Captain Rogers staring at him.
"What?"
The lighter-haired man shrugs. "That was very good Russian." He says in a way that one could only interpret as complimentary.
He just shrugs. He knows six languages. Big whoop.
Still, a compliment's a compliment. "Thanks for noticing." He manages even though he's mostly stretching the entire response around his jaw as the barkeep brings their orders and they both nod their thanks. "Know any?"
"Languages?" The casual tipping up of the other man's chin as though in he's in deep thought causes Grant to forget, for a moment, that he's actually having a beer in some dive bar in Russia with a living American legend - not that he's been repeating that in his head over and over again.
Because he hasn't.
"About four, I think." The man himself finally says, taking a drag of his beer and not even grimacing before adding. "I mean, technically."
"Technically?" He asks, that unbidden curiosity that had brought them here getting the better of him again.
"After the uh... the serum..." He'll deny it. He'll deny it all the way to his grave but, he can feel himself perk up at this because he knows about this. He's read about this in history class. He's heard stories from his father who had heard it from granddad who had served in the war.
(His father never served. That would mean being selfless, thinking of others. His father had been only capable of serving himself.)
"...I...it, uh...changed my brain..." He adds with a small frown that makes Ward think about his little brother when they'd been younger and trying to solve math equations. "...It not only made my body stronger but, my mind, too. So when we would go to different countries my brain would absorb things, the language mostly, a lot quicker than it probably would have before."
"What's the languages you know?" He inquires, taking a swig of beer.
"Italian. French. A little Romanian." The other man answers, obviously mentally counting as far as he could tell. "And some passable German." He takes another drag of beer, shrugging again. "It was a war. Not a lot of time for language lessons."
And it goes from there and a lot sooner than he's normally comfortable with, Grant finds himself having the longest - admittedly inane - conversation with a virtual stranger that he's ever had. He winds up sharing as many tales of declassified missions that he's been on and Rogers even lets down his guard long enough to tell him a few actually amusing tales about the Howling Commandos. And though the conversation remains light for the most part, he can't help but notice the when Bucky Barnes is brought up in one especially whimsical story, that Cap's tension returns a little. His entire body stiffening.
"Do you wanna bring it up or should I?" He asks after a silent minute following that particular story. Noting the Captain's off posture. The dark expression marring his face.
"Bring what up?"
"Come on now." He gently warns, though keeping his tone as light as ever because here they are getting somewhere and he really still has no idea why he even cares so damn much. "I may not be a supersoldier but, I'm not an idiot." He says in a hopefully friendly way. Hoping it doesn't come off as pushy.
Which is just... ridiculous. This is ridiculous. It's ridiculous that he's even asking all this. That he's even being remotely close to the neighborhood of pushy. He's never like this.
As it is though, his curiosity has been bitten. And he rarely, if ever, stops until said curiosity has been sated.
"Hydra." The other man utters after a long drag of beer that he can't help but be concerned about.
(God, what is wrong with him tonight?)
"Hydra." He responds dryly, not knowing exactly what else to say because of course, this is probably why he's acting so odd. The man is obviously having a horrible barrage of memories he'd much rather not think about running circles around in his head. Made even worse by the fact that, to others it may very well have been seventy years since the war and everything that had come with it, for Steve Rogers it's only been a few years tops.
A few years since he'd been one of the first enemies Hydra had ever made. The most powerful enemy they'd ever made.
And he feels terrible that he even brought it up to begin with.
"Hey, listen..." He starts, feeling that itch under his skin when he's about to say something that even resembles an apology. Eyeing the other man's tight jaw and shoulders up to his ears. "...I didn't mean... I never meant to-"
He's honestly pretty bad at this.
"It's fine." The blond utters, taking another drag before looking at him with a more relaxed demeanor. "You didn't know. Most people don't know what really happened. Just what they've read in history books."
Oh. He holds back a wince because yeah, that is essentially what happened here.
"Sorry." He mutters unbidden. The most he's ever had to say that word in one evening.
"It's okay." The other man replies sincerely, meeting his eye with a much more open, friendly expression. "Honestly. I'm good." He adds even a little convincingly. "I just would rather not..."
"Hey." He puts his hands up in a gesture of compliance. "No pressure."
"Good." Cap - Steve, his mind supplies without prompting - nods politely in his direction, tipping his bottle up. Lips quirking upward. "Thanks for the beer, though."
And sure, okay, he'd been hoping for a little more story when he'd asked Captain Steve Rogers, of all people, out for beers but, there it is. His curiosity doesn't always win.
He'll take what he could get.
Of course, this is the most not bored he'd been in a while so...
"...So, whatever happened with that dancing troupe in France?"
(And it all kinda snowballs from there.)
Grant gets back to his specialist rotation right after those enlightening after mission beers with Captain fucking America and the man himself gets back to... whatever it is that living legends/supersoldiers/Level 7 SHIELD consultants/Avengers do on their off hours or, y'know, when they're not accepting foreign bar hops with total strangers.
Anyway, that's happened. Cannot take it back.
Also, it's possible he may have been too drunk (almost) to resist his urge near the end of the night to diddle off his digits to aforementioned WWII hero. Only justifiable explanation. No real way to tell.
Except for the honest-to-god fact of life that Steve Motherfucking Rogers has his number - that doesn't come from a burner phone - and he has his because the next time they happen to be in the same vicinity after another mission, he gives him a shout and asks him if a raincheck for another beer is still on the cards.
And, obviously (pathetically) he's got nothing to do so, they go grab another friendly beer.
And now, really, he doesn't exactly know the feeling of hitting it off with somebody because, let's face it, he's no good at that kind of thing and so, he wouldn't say that... but... they get along.
Like gang busters.
It's weird.
He had thought, had figured, that the last time had been a fluke. They'd been injured. A little off. Curiosity had bitten him on the ass like a stingy beetle. Captain Rogers' easy-going attitude robbing off on him at his most vulnerable, perhaps?
Just... anything to explain the weirdness going on.
But, then they're meeting at a real nice hotel bar. With non-sketchy people. And better drinks (whiskey, they have whiskey). And they're both clean and dressed in civies. And it's like they're old friends all of all sudden instead of whatever it was they were before.
(whatever it is you'd call two dudes who decide to have some beers in a foreign country after a top secret sanctioned mission while both are bruised and a bit bloodied...)
For the first time in his almost decade long career, he becomes - gets harangued into being - somebody's Supervising Officer.
And to say it's not fun would be... very much an understatement.
The girl's name is Skye, some smart alecky probationary agent who insists out of making every single thing a joke. And doesn't listen. Or wants to do anything he says.
It's frustrating and as he sees it, a huge waste of his time.
(And also, an actual personal favor to Agent Coulson who had recruited her during mysterious circumstances - rumor has it, she's a hacker of some kind but, he's pretty sure the agency would never go for that - and he still takes orders seriously so, he does what he has to do.)
Aside from that, not a lot changes. He goes on as many missions as he can - Grant doesn't like down time, he doesn't do well with that kind of inactivity - and in between he spends more time down in SciOps with Fitz.
And no, it's got nothing to do with his buddy's old university friend - the Simmons part of the FitzSimmons duo Ward had heard so much about long before he had even met Fitz - having officially transferred down in the lab at the Hub.
No, nothing like that. Nothing to do with being around Fitz's far less grumpy, sweeter (very gorgeous) other half.
Nope. Never something like that.
(Steve moves to DC around the same time Grant has his first run in with Centipede.)
As it turns out, supersoldiers of the non-Captain America variety pack a whollop and after Grant treats himself to Simmons patching him up when he could have gone to one of the actual SHEILD medics, he heads to his mandated quarters and rings up the number on his phone that he suddenly needs to call first and foremost.
The same number he's only just started to begrudgingly admit belongs to someone he's starting to think of as a... friend of sorts.
He has a bad feeling about this whole thing and he should at least let him know, just in case.
He answers after two rings.
"Hey, buddy." Are the welcoming words that come floating through the phoneline when attached to Steve Roger's warm, friendly tone of voice.
He wonders sometimes if the man answers his phone the same way to everybody.
(oh no, wait, cut that, he's heard him talk to Stark, nevermind)
Anyhow, now's not the time and he really hates to but-
"Something's up." He says back automatically, wincing, even though he's normally proud of his ability to never mince words.
"What is it? Where are you? What's wrong?" Steve immediately demands, voice full of chilly, righteous anger that instantly causes Ward to feel sorry for anybody who fucks with him.
(It throws him a bit because much as he's just now admitting that they've been becoming rapid friends, this is also the first he's been subjected to being anywhere near the kinda tone of voice he hasn't heard since he'd been a kid and had steadfastly stood up to his bastard brother... his own, puberty-guiled tone dripping with that same kind of emotion.
The kind of emotion one would only show when someone they care for is in trouble.)
"No, man. I'm good." He replies steadily. "I just... ran into some trouble." He adds, running a hand over his face in frustration.
"Trouble? What kind of trouble?"
"The supersoldier kind." He responses, not wanting to beat around because wasting any more time, despite his surprising reluctance to do so.
He doesn't want Steve in this. The Avengers have missions all around the world and they might not even run into this sorta trouble.
Which is ridiculous because Steve's a grown man. He could handle himself. He could handle himself, his Avengers comrades and many SHIELD agents under his command in the field.
For all he knows, he could run into the Centipede soldiers and take care of it just fine.
More than being a highly trained SHIELD advisor, he's also the world's first ever supersoldier.
And as far as their intel is concerned, the Centipede implant - much like all the other copycats - is very, very flawed. Taking angry, traumatized military men and turning them into jacked up weapons is never a bright idea.
One of the subjects had literally exploded and Mike Peterson had been well on his way to the same fate before they'd incapacitated him and everything about this is making Grant feel very uneasy.
And yeah, okay, his ego is more than a little bruised about getting his ass handed to him earlier.
"It turns out somebody has been using a version of Erskine's serum as a kind of... implant." He explains before Steve could say anything on the matter. "It injects them with a continuous flow of the drug. Called Project Centipede."
"Does it have flaws?" The other man asks and Grant can't help but think he's taking this a whole lot better than he'd expected and that he would blow a fucking gasket if he had been in his shoes. To know, once more, that the very thing that'd made him able to help others is being used for more sinister purposes.
"One guy exploded." He supplies immediately. "And the other man was, y'now, gettin' there."
"Did you get to him on time?" Steve asks directly after. Which is... not really surprising. If Ward has learned anything throughout his friendship with the man right quick is that he has a tendency to think about himself last and others first.
It's a rarity in this business and he wonders, for probably the thousandth time, how they even get on the way they do.
Steve Rogers is decent down to his very bones. He has values and morals. In spite of the work he does, he doesn't like lying. And he tries to always think that people can be saved. That they have good in them.
Grant Ward? Well, there are many reasons he's one of the best specialists around.
"Yeah. I mean, it was a close one but, yeah, he's fine." He clears his throat. "Anyway, I just thought I'd give you a heads-up. You get missions all over the place and you never who you might run into."
"Thank you."
"No problem." He mutters, still not used to being thanked.
He's just about to say his goodbyes and hang up when he is interrupted.
"Grant?" He hears hesitantly.
"Yeah?"
"Are you hurt?" And that's the thing with this guy. He doesn't just ask if you're injured or got hit. He asks if you've been hurt. He wants to get down to the root of your problem.
"I got my ass kicked and I'm gonna need some pain meds for a bit but, otherwise, I'm good." He admits before he could stop himself. "I've been told I have to take a load off. Get a little r&r, whatever the fuck that means." He adds, rolling his eyes because he's only going to be bored as hell.
There's not enough hobbies in the world that could cure that kind of thing.
"Well..." Steve trails off with a chuckle. "...you're welcome to take a load off here, if you want."
He's never been offered a place to stay. Even his now grown kid brother can barely stand to look him in the eye whenever he stops by. Makes himself stop by. With an injury that needs tending to. Contact with someone who had known as he had been before-
"I might just take you up on that." He says, tearing his eyes away from the bottle clutched tightly in his hand.
(Ward doesn't ever think things could any more worse or any more bizarre since Centipede...
...He's wrong.)
When he first touches the Berserker staff, all he can see is that fucking well.
(Tommy at the bottom of the well. Drowning. Crying for help Grant can't give him without Christian making it worse for them both. Christian won't let him bring him up. Why won't he let him bring him up? Tommy's dying and he doesn't even let him- His brother needs help! And he won't-)
He snaps at Skye.
Which is nothing new. Just... he really hits below the belt this time. Calling her out on her nosy nature. Her inability to shut up. Her need to cajole him into talking about what's wrong-
It pisses him off. More than pisses him off. He doesn't think he's ever felt so rageful.
(Tommy down in the well. Crying his name. He needs to grab that rope. Get help-)
He even turns on Fitz and Jemma - Jemma, of all people -
And he wants to apologize. Needs to apologize to them. But, everything is trapped beneath all the anger and panic and white hot rage. All the feelings and emotions he's somehow managed to suppress all these years boiling up to the surface in the worst way possible. Out of the box that he's almost always kept a lid on.
He heads down to the, thankfully, empty SHIELD facilities that houses the gym.
And he has no idea how long he's there. Beating the shit of a bag. His hands in bare fists as opposed to gloves because he couldn't be bothered to go to his quarters to go grab them.
He's too enraged. He can't risk it. He doesn't want to run into anybody.
He can't even help upstairs because he's like this. He's... useless. He can't do a damn thing-
He lets himself get lost in the messy rhythm of destroying the punching bag. Everything he would rather not (never) think about. Losing himself so much in beating out all of his rage that he somehow completely misses the new presence in the room until a hand on his shoulder pulls out of his spiral and without even thinking, he spins and takes a blind swing...
...And there's Steve Rogers frowning at him. Having, of course, dodged his fist.
"What?" He barks in lieu of any greeting because he doesn't need that look on Rogers' face. That disapproving expression. When does he get to look down on people. How is anybody lower than this superior-
"I heard what happened. You alright?"
He's honestly relieved that Steve sounds... not like he usually would at times like this. If anything, he sounds more concerned in a more professional manner. Like he's just another agent out in the field.
He's got his Cap voice on.
"How did you even find out about this?" He asks back, turning back around to the bag while sliding around the question he's not in the fucking mood, thank you very much.
"Funny the things you know when you sometimes stay in a tower owned by the world's nosiest billionaire." The other man answers in an unusually poor attempt at humor. Something Ward would normally appreciate but, he's so off balance and nothing is the way it should be so, the gratitude he'd usually feel when the man who's swiftly becoming his closest friend tries to make him feel better, doesn't come up and he says nothing, continuing to beat on the bag.
He does this until his arms start screaming in the burn. His punches becoming uncoordinated in his anger.
"Want some help with that?"
He nearly jumps at the forgotten second voice in the room with him. And that only serves to make angrier... if that's even possible at this point.
And also, who the hell does he think he is? He doesn't help!
He doesn't need anybody's help!
"Help how?" He hears himself ask finally after gaining his bearings enough so that he won't snap. "I fucking snapped at Skye. I... couldn't speak without getting angry at Fitz and Jemma." He begins flexing his hands at the ache sure to come later. "What could you possibly do that could help me?"
He turns in time to see Steve smirk. "How do you feel about sparring?"
So, they spar.
Hell, he's probably the only person in the world right now that he could trust himself to do that kinda thing with. Any other agent he'd maybe, accidently kill. And there's Captain America himself dodging most of his hits, smirking like a bastard and he absolutely knows what he's doing. Because anybody who thinks of the man behind Captain America being as pure as the driven snow as the image suggests is dead wrong.
He's seen the man drink him under the table, after all.
"How do you feel now?" Steve asks much later. The only proof that they've been using in combat being that he's slightly sweating and the ensuing question is asked with some jolted breath.
Him, on the other hand? He's in a tangle of damp limbs on the gym mat. Shit, his eyeballs are even leaking. And he's pretty sure his shoes are full of blood.
Nothing like exchanging fists and kicks with the word's first ever supersoldier to help humble you.
"Fuck you." He says, for the first today, without a hint of venom. "I think you've tired the anger outta me for now."
They share a laugh before a silence follows.
He still needs to apologize to the others. He's going to... as soon as he gets the feeling back in his legs.
He has no idea how long it lasts before Steve clears his throat. "You know, this can't be the only thing to help you. You're gonna have to talk to somebody soon. You can even... talk to me if you like." He adds without any irony and Grant wants to laugh some more because if there's one big trait they both very much have in common is that they would rather not share their baggage with others. Even one another.
They've talked before. Over friendly drinks and meals. Steve has told him about Bucky. Bits and pieces of his childhood as a poor, sickly kid with no thought for his own safety as far as standing up to bullies had been concerned - something that hasn't really changed. His time with the Commandos. The War.
Grant hasn't been as forthcoming. He's talked about his own family as much as he would allow himself but...
...But, the moment he gets to talking about that day. The Well. He freezes up. He's told Steve about his brothers a little bit. The only things he actually knows is that his brother had been abusive. Had terrorized he and their youngest sibling.
Though, now, with the way Steve is more comforting presence in away that hasn't happened in a long time, makes him wanna tell him more. Open up for once. Let the truth come out. Of how Christian had not only verbally abused them... but that he'd made Grant hurt Thomas... and that his parents had allowed it... it's just...
He can't. He really can't.
Steve is a good man. A good friend. A good friend he knows he doesn't deserve half the time. Steve isn't like him. He doesn't have all this hate he carries around way too often than is healthy.
He wouldn't understand.
And apparently, he has trouble keeping his expression neutral because the next thing he knows, Steve has a hand on his shoulder and is asking if he's okay.
"Yeah." He half-lies, looking down at his hands. "Yeah, I'm fine."
He's certain the other man does not believe him but then he's suggesting they go grab some beers and he gladly agrees.
He can deal with drinking away his temper at this juncture... for right now.
(He and Bobbi are undercover when SHIELD falls... When Steve Rogers sees Bucky Barnes again.)
Everything is chaos when Grant and Bobbi finally end up at the Hub. Groups of well-trained agents running back and forth. Victoria Hand giving orders firmly.
Nick Fury has disappeared and is maybe dead.
Coulson has gone off the reservation.
It's HYDRA.
Hydra, that has leeched it's way into SHIELD since it's very inception. Double agents of all kinds everywhere.
And John Garrett is one of them.
Which... he shoulda fucking known. Guy's nuts. Ward had known that soon enough soon after those five years in the wilderness. And then the brief period of time in which he'd been Grant's SO. After which he'd immediately asked to be assigned to somebody else.
He's so busy trying to make people that matter to him - Trip, Fitz, Jemma - are okay that the only one that's missing he's not even thinking about until he's standing in the control room watching the world wide news, watching the Triskellion get destroyed by a Helicarrier.
In DC. Where Steve lives.
Shit.
"Come on. Pick up. Pick up." He mutters over and over again as he hears the incessant ringing with no answer on his phone. "Pick up the fucking phone, Steve!"
On his last leg - fifth call - someone finally picks it up.
And that someone is not Steve Rogers.
"Hello?" The unfamiliar voice greets.
He feels himself frown. "Who is this?"
"Who is this, man? You called me!" The man responses back indignantly.
"Look, this is a friend's phone. And you're sure as shit not him so, who is this?!" He nearly shouts, having already had enough of this day. Hydra. Double agents. Garrett... He's had enough.
The guy on the phone lets out a long, ragged sigh. "Wait, hang on a second..." There's some shuffling and then he's back. "You'relisted on his contacts. Are you a friend of Steve's? Grant, right?"
"Yeah." He answers slowly. "And you would be...?"
"Sam Wilson." The man answers instantly. "I know Steve, too. Look, there's a lot going on right now-"
"Yeah, no, I got that. I saw the news." He interrupts, not beating around the bush. "Listen, I've been trying to get Steve on the phone and now you have it so-"
"Okay. Well, uh.. We're still in DC and depending on where you are-"
"I can get there." He interjects, already knowing where he's headed. "Just tell me where your at."
After Sam gives him the name and address of the hospital in DC, he's showered, packed up, and gone within a few hours following a lengthy and semi-hysterical farewell with Fitz and Skye as well a long-awaited goodbye kiss with Jemma and some hours and getting past SHIELD guards later, he's headed to Steve Roger's hospital room.
He can't even handle the relief he feels when, before he even sets foot inside, he hears his friend's - his best friend, god, is this what it's like to have a best friend? 'cause if so he wants his freedom back - familiar voice in mid conversation with another person he know remembers as Sam Wilson.
Both men in question turn in his direction when he opens the door a lot more harshly than he meant to.
"Grant." Steve says with a kinda smile on his face that causes Ward to get that twist in his gut that he hasn't had since he'd left Massachusetts behind years ago. Since Tommy had forgiven him.
"Hey buddy." He greets without thinking, sagging forward with all the strength he has left and before he knows it, he's across the room and leaning heavily against the rail of a hospital bed he'd never thought he would ever see Steve Rogers in as long as they've known each other.
He looks like shit. "You look like shit." He vocalizes, eyeing the nasty bruises on his best friend's face. "Who-?"
"It was..." Steve begins to answer in a pained voice he only ever hears when he talks about- "...Bucky. It was Bucky."
He could have stumbled for all the shock that courses through him then. "What?" He breathes out, not believing it. "But, he died in-"
"Yeah." He receives from the man in the bed in a whisper. "They experimented on him back in... They turned him into a weapon... Took away his memories..." He adds with increasingly wet eyes that punches a hole in Ward's stomach. "...They made him the Winter Soldier-"
"God." He hangs his head with the words being said to him. "That's really... fucked up." He utters not even knowing what it must feels to have the man you've named your brother for years be your worst enemy in that way.
A silence follows his words. A long, tense one. And then-
"Yeah and the guy packs one hell of an ass wupping." He hears the man sitting near them say and he turns and just now remembers the other man.
"Sam, right?" He holds out his hand for a shake. "Grant. Sorry about the phone-"
"Nah, man. It's fine." Sam interrupts, taking his handshake firmly. "It's cool. Nice meeting you." He adds sincerely. "Any friend of Steve's is a friend of mine." He quotes, smirking some and Grant instantly knows he's gonna like him.
"Likewise."
A day and some change later, he's standing in the doorway of a now fully healed Steve's room and watching the latter pack a bag with his arms folded across his chest.
He hadn't really wanted to but, he'd overheard his and Sam's conversation earlier about going to find Bucky.
He has no idea, for once, what to think.
On the one hand, he's the Winter Soldier. The figure that, up until recently, had been nothing more than a myth. The boogey man for young SHIELD cadets who would misbehave. The weapon used for over seventy years of warfare.
But, on the other? And if Steve is somehow right about Barnes remembering him, even if by a little bit...
...Then if he's positive about anything the man people call Captain America is about, it's tenacity. And Steve Rogers is not gonna stop until he fixes this. Brings Bucky Barnes back to him somehow.
Then he's in.
"You know I'm going with you, right?"
And if Steve is at all surprised that he's there, taking about a matter he'd been supposedly not present for, he doesn't show it and replies without looking up from folding his shirts. "Sam offered to go."
"Could always use more back-up." He interjects, shrugging, feeling himself smirk slightly. "More heads and all that."
Steve glances at him, brow cocked up. "I won't put you in danger."
"I'm one of SHIELD's best specialists. Or..." He nods. "...I was. Now, I'm just a guy who has a specific set of skills that have nothing to do with any other job than the one I had but..." He shrugs again nonchalantly.
Of course, Steve just chuckles. The fucker. "So, you're with me on this, then?" He asks, going back to packing.
Grant lifts his shoulders once more, allowing his mouth run away from him when he responses. "'Til the end of the line, pal."
Steve's head nearly snaps when he looks at again, an oddly startled expression crossing his face before it's gone and Steve just asks. "Really?"
"Yeah. Really." Grants reassures, walking fully into the room and extending his hand towards the other man. "So... what do you say, partner?" He inquires half-joking.
"I say..." Steve Rogers grins, shaking his hand. "...I hear you're best around."
"That the only word you've heard?" Grant Ward replies.
"It's the word that was worth hearing." Captain America responses easily.
But, in the end, it's Steve Rogers that he will be following into battle any day.