Afghanistan, 2008
“Bucky—Director Barnes!” Colonel James Rhodes shouted, grabbing at Bucky’s shoulder. “Don’t even think about jumping out of this chopper.”
Bucky turned to the younger man suited up in his Airforce gear. Bucky was in camo, too, but his had SHIELD’s insignia on it. It had become like a second skin to him in the months since his surrogate son, Tony Stark, had gone missing after the attack on his convoy. He’d had to fight tooth and nail to get clearance to bring a team into Afghanistan to search covertly for Tony, but he would’ve done it even if the President himself told Bucky no. There wasn’t a power on earth that could’ve kept him warming a desk in Washington when Tony needed to be found.
Please, please, let me find him. Please don’t let me be too late. Please, let him live. Steve, if you’re up there, please, help me. Bucky had stopped praying to God a long, long time ago. He prayed to Steve. This wasn’t the first lead they’d had—far from it. They’d gotten leads ranging from the “genuinely trying to help but sadly mistaken” to the “actually trying to steer them in the wrong direction.” But Bucky and Rhodey were in agreement about one thing: every lead got followed. Hence why they were currently flying over a barren stretch of nothing on their way to a tiny scrap of a village on the barest rumor that an organization called the Ten Rings had taken Tony there.
Bucky hadn’t had much hope. Then the pilot had spotted a solitary figure in rags walking through the sand.
“You’re not stopping me,” He told Rhodey firmly. With a yank, he pulled his arm away and leapt out of the descending chopper. It didn’t matter if he was only shaving seconds off the time it took. He couldn’t sit in there a moment longer.
He hit the ground metal-arm first, letting it take the initial brunt of impact. It rattled his teeth and sent a quick spike of pain radiating down his spine, but he was up and moving towards the figure half a heartbeat later.
The man waved wildly at the choppers as he ran, now beelining straight for Bucky. And Bucky—he let out a sob because it was Tony. Alive! He’s alive! Bucky barreled straight into him, caught the filthy, sweaty, wonderful man up in his arms.
“I found you,” he gasped into the dirty shirt that Tony was using to protect his head. I fucking found him. I found him. The three words repeated in his head over and over. So many failed tries in the Arctic. So many trips, so many hopes dashed. In sixty years of searching, he’d never been able to find Steve. I didn’t fail this time. He wanted to sob, to break into ugly tears of painful joy.
“D-dad?”
Bucky’s heart squeezed in his chest. It was so, so rare that Tony called him that. Usually, he was Buckaroo or Buckmeister or Buckaroni. Any flippant thing Tony could twist his name into or any of the dozens of robot-themed names because of the metal arm. It was both Tony’s way of showing affection and a wall he kept between himself and the world. Nicknames meant he cared, caring meant he could be hurt. All his defenses were down now.
He held Tony harder against him. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Rhodey’s here, too.”
Tony was boneless against him, hanging onto the back of Bucky’s uniform with clenched fists but knees made of jello. He lolled his head on Bucky’s shoulder to look over at the chopper that had touched down. “Oh, hey, Rhodey’s here.” His voice was made of a thousand years of exhaustion.
Rhodey jogged over to them, stark relief on his face. “If you ever scare me like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”
Tony laughed, a hoarse, broken noise. He let go of Bucky with one hand and fumbled for Rhodey. When he got a grip, he pulled the other man in for a tight hug before his arm slid away. “I would like to go home now.”
Though he was tempted to scoop Tony up into his arms and carry him onto the chopper, Bucky knew Tony would hate that. Instead, he pulled one of Tony’s arms around his shoulders. “Alright, let’s get you home. And Tony?”
“Hmm?”
“You are so grounded.”
Bucky was very pleased with the tone of his laugh this time.
December 1991
The shrill ringing of the phone jerked Bucky unceremoniously from sleep. He exhaled a groan and rolled over, blearily taking the cordless phone from its cradle. Bringing it up to his ear, he hit the talk button and rasped, “This is Barnes.” He cracked an eye open and glanced at the window. Dawn was just creeping up over the sky.
An unfamiliar voice came over the line. “Is this SHIELD Director James Barnes?”
Bucky made an affirmative noise then decided that was hardly professional and followed it up with a simple, “Yes.”
“Director Barnes, this is Police Chief Victor McNamara from the Arlington Police Department. I’ve got something here that you might want one of your agents to take a look at.”
Frowning, the sleep rapidly cleared from Bucky’s mind as he pushed himself to sit up against the headboard. “What is it?” What was so urgent that a chief of police would be calling him before the sun had risen?
“It’s the Starks, sir. Their car was found on the road about two miles from the Pentagon.” A lead weight dropped into Bucky’s stomach. “Our initial findings don’t match up with the apparent accident.”
“They’re—Howard and Maria Stark, they’re dead?”
“Yes, sir. Their injuries just don’t match those found in a car crash.”
Urgently, he asked, “Tony? Was Tony with them?” He almost never was. Bucky couldn’t think of why he would’ve been in a car with them en route to the Pentagon, but…
“There’s no evidence Tony Stark was ever in the car.”
Bucky’s shoulders slumped. Thank you. Fuck, thank you. He raked a hand through his hair. “Why are you calling SHIELD? Isn’t this FBI jurisdiction?” Not that he wasn’t glad to get the call, thankful at least that Tony wouldn’t be the one to tell him.
“I’ve put in a call with them, too. If you think this is none of your business, that’s fine, Director. But Howard Stark dies in my jurisdiction, I’m calling everybody in who I think might need to be involved. I understand you’re also close to the Stark family, sir.”
It oddly grated on him how matter-of-fact the man sounded, even though Bucky himself had kept his tone calm and professional. “I am. Yeah, I’ll send an agent out. Hey, wait, have you called Tony yet? Does he know?”
“He didn’t answer when I called.”
Typical. Sounded like Tony. If Tony had even been home to hear the phone, he might’ve been to drunk or high to wake up or care. On this occasion, Bucky was glad for it. “I’ll handle informing him. I’m family to him.”
Chief McNamara let out a relieved breath. “Alright. We’ll be on the lookout for a SHIELD agent.”
Bucky hung up the phone and stared into the darkness of his room. It was a familiar sight; he’d lived in the same brownstone in DC for forty years. Along the far wall was a dresser with a painting hung above it. Bucky didn’t know who’d done the painting. His niece, Katie, had an artist’s eye. She’d picked out most of the art in Bucky’s house that hadn’t been done by Steve. Next to the dresser was a fake plant. Bucky liked the green of plants but not the maintenance of them. He traveled too much, went out of town for big chunks of time. If he left and forgot to tell his assistant to water his plants, he’d come home and find dead—
Howard was dead. Dead and possibly murdered.
God, Howard. He should probably cry. Maybe he would later. His relationship with Howard had soured more and more the older Tony got and the more Howard’s business partner, Obadiah Stane, inserted himself into the Stark’s lives. Bucky’d never liked Stane. Thought he was ingratiating and unoriginal, just leeching off of Howard’s brilliance. But Bucky had had more reasons than Howard’s friendship with that man to lose respect for him. Just as Bucky had feared so many years ago the night he’d found out Howard and Maria were having a baby, Howard had pinned all his ambitions and hopes for the future on Tony. And no matter how incredibly talented Tony was, no matter that Tony was probably cleverer and smarter in every way than Howard, he wasn’t good enough for the man. One day, Bucky had opened his eyes and realized that the man he’d known for decades had vanished, consumed by his ambitious need to be more.
Bucky had never grieved Howard, though. It had been such a slow decline that he’d never stopped to mourn the loss of the man who, for a huge part of Bucky’s life, had been a dear friend. They had bonded so closely while Howard worked on Bucky’s first arm, then remained friends, unlikely a pair as they were, thereafter. Howard had become part of the Barnes family, attending Christmas and even some birthday celebrations and other holidays until Tony was born. Bucky had thought he was drawing away to start his own family traditions, but, now, he knew that Howard had started to slip down the abyss then. Already a man married more to work than his wife, he had lost himself in the idea of a son to carry on the empire that Howard had built. Bucky had tried so many times over the years to pull him back, but, each time, Howard had only seemed to slip further away. Further towards Obadiah Stane and his ever-bloodier plans for the future of war.
Grief did threaten to rise up in Bucky’s chest now, in the quiet of his bedroom. He had loved Howard as a brother. Still did, he suspected. It had just been tempered by disappointment and anger. This wasn’t the time to pick apart and examine his feelings, though. He could let himself consider the complication that was Howard Stark later.
Resolving himself, he dialed a new number and climbed from the bed. As he got dressed, he ordered a plane to take him to California. Even with the very best tech SHIELD had to offer in the way of air transportation, it would still be roughly five hours before he could reach Tony.
Thanks to the magic of time zones, it was still morning when Bucky parked his rental in the mansion’s driveway. Hurriedly, he jogged up the steps to the grand double doors and rang the doorbell.
A few moments later, Stark’s long-serving butler, Jarvis opened the door. His lined face wrinkled with a polite smile. “Mr. Barnes, it is always a pleasure to see you.”
He wouldn’t be smiling if he knew already. “Is Tony here?”
Without batting an eye, Jarvis stepped back to allow Bucky inside. “Master Tony is in. He is in the breakfast room.”
“Good, that’s…that’s good.” Bucky raked a hand through his hair. “Jarvis, I—something happened last night. Howard and Maria—they’re both gone.”
The wizened old man’s face paled. One arthritic hand came up cover his mouth. “What—” He cut off as the word was little more than a choked sound, then he cleared his throat. “What happened?”
“The police aren’t sure. But everyone is on it. I sent my best agent—Nick Fury, he’s really the best. The FBI will send someone, too, I know. Every agency is going to cooperate to figure out if it was an accident or not.” But I’m betting it wasn’t. Howard had been more secretive than ever over the last year. And Bucky had been in the espionage game for long enough to know when something smelled funny.
Jarvis took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his misty eyes. “You’ve come to tell Master Tony?”
Bucky nodded. “He’s my family. I’ll be here for him. Always.”
“He will need you,” the butler murmured. “His relationship with his father has never been good, but I’m sure you’re aware of how close he and his mother were.”
“I do.” Bucky and Maria had never been particularly close themselves. They just didn’t have much in common. But they’d gotten on well enough, especially in regards to Tony. Though Maria had had endless faith in Howard, always convinced he would lighten up on Tony. “I’ll go talk to him.”
Bucky wound his way through the halls of the house. Howard had migrated Stark Industries over to California in the eighties, then bought this palatial estate. It was ridiculously grand, and Bucky had always hated it. The penthouse had already been more than big enough for three people. He didn’t understand why Howard felt the need to surround himself not just in luxury but an excess of it.
He hesitated when he reached the door of the small dining room that served as the breakfast room. It was a light, airy space with white walls and light-wood furniture. A large bay window overlooked a garden. Tony sat alone at the eight-seater table, a plate of barely-touched waffles in front of him. He had his head leaned on one hand as he stared out of the window, hair rumpled like he hadn’t cared to brush it before coming down. He had purple bags under his eyes; Bucky wondered why Tony was even awake.
“Hey, Tony.”
The young man—Christ, he’s only twenty-one—jumped and turned to look at Bucky. A smile lit up his handsome face. “Uncle Bucky! What are you doing here? Was I supposed to know you were coming?” He tilted his head. “I was pretty trashed last evening, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember if we’d made plans.”
Bucky shook his head and drew up a chair next to Tony. “We didn’t have plans. I need to tell you something, Tony.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. Rubbed his palms together in front of him. How do you tell someone their only blood family is dead? How did he tell Tony that his parents might have been murdered?
Tony went still, eyes searching Bucky’s face. “What is it?”
“Yesterday evening, your parents were found on the road in Arlington. It appears to have been an accident.” Not a lie, really. That was the appearance of it. “I am so sorry, Tony, but they’re dead.”
The young man rocked back as if Bucky had struck him. “D-dead? They’re dead?”
When Bucky nodded, Tony sat frozen for a moment. Heartbeat. Shook his head with a dazed expression. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. His face—his whole body—crumpled in on itself. With a ragged gasp, he fell forward into Bucky.
Bucky’s own heart cracked wide open. All he’d ever wanted was for Tony to be happy. He was proud—so damned proud—of Tony’s brilliant mind, but he’d never cared about how smart Tony was. He’d cared that Tony had friends like Rhodey. Bucky had wanted to protect this kid from the day he was born. And now this boy that, secretly, Bucky looked at as a son was shattering apart with grief in his arms.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. He smoothed his flesh hand up and down Tony’s back. “I am so fucking sorry. I’m here for you. Anything you need. Anything I can do.” He babbled more soothing nonsense. He rocked Tony like he had when he’d been a tiny little thing. Back when Bucky had mystified both the Stark parents by being the only one other than Jarvis who could get the fussy boy to quiet down.
After a while, Tony pulled away, leaving a wet patch on Bucky’s shirt. “Thank you.” His voice was hoarse, rough with the crying and the grief. With a shaky hand, he picked up a linen napkin and wiped his face. Blew his nose.
“Thank me? For what? If you say ‘for being here’ you can shove it.” Tony gave him a startled and fragile smile at being called out. “You dumb punk. You are my family, Tony. I am so, so sorry you lost both your parents in one night. I know it’s not the same, but I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be there for you.”
Tony put the napkin-turned-hanky down on the table and looked at Bucky. Like, really looked at him. He studied Bucky in a way that Tony had previously seen him reserve solely for projects that involved wires and circuits. As if there was a puzzle that even his talented mind needed more time to solve. After a while, he shook his head slowly. “You know what? No. I didn’t lose both my parents last night. I lost my mom.” His voice cracked on the last word. “But Howard Stark was not my fucking father.”
“Wha—”
Tony poked one finger firmly into Bucky’s chest. “You came to every stupid science fair and competition. Everything I ever built, you ooh’d and aah’d over it whether it was good or not, whether you even knew what it did or not. Like my fucking father should have. You came to visit me at MIT, and, after that farce of a party my parents gave me, you took me to a party I actually liked, with all the Proctor’s and the Sousa’s. Like I was one of them.” Fresh tears slipped down Tony’s cheeks and he wiped them away angrily. “So, you know what? Fuck Howard fucking Stark. I was never anything but a disappointing legacy to him. You’re my dad, Bucky.”
Before a conscious thought even had a chance to ramble its way through Bucky’s head in response to that speech, Bucky had already crushed Tony against his chest again. He hugged Tony so hard, Bucky worried he’d genuinely hurt the kid, so he forced his arms to loosen their grip. But he didn’t let go. Couldn’t if he’d wanted to. On one level, Bucky knew that Tony’s feelings about Howard’s death were much more complicated than he was letting on, and Tony would have to deal with them eventually. But, in that moment, Bucky couldn’t care.
When Becca had handed baby Grant to him for the first time, Bucky had known that Grant would be the most special to him of all his nieces and nephews. When he’d gotten to hold Tony for the first time, that feeling had been knocked out of the park. He’d felt an immediate connection to the little bundle in his arms, and that connection had only grown more pronounced over the years as Bucky stepped in to all those places that Howard negligently left open. Bucky hadn’t consciously meant to steal Howard’s place as Tony’s father, certainly didn’t think he’d had a hand in driving Howard away, but Bucky hadn’t held himself back from being a presence in Tony’s life. Maria had always seemed happy to just to have someone else with her cheering for her son. Bucky had always felt like a father to Tony, and here Tony was, recognizing him for it.
Bucky pressed a kiss to Tony’s temple. “I love you, kid. Love you so damn much.”