It's in a Texan desert that Steve gets the idea. He's staring at a postcard. It's of a beach, water an impossible shade of blue with gold sand and a palm tree that's more crooked than the higher-ups in SHIELD to bend into the picture. It's fake. The image looks real but Steve knows it's fake; an artist's depiction of beauty. Steve's been around enough things that aren't real to know the difference.

Sam's buying snacks. Every stop he gets the same thing, water and mint chewing gum. This time he adds a bag of jerky to the loot. They'll have to stop for an actual meal soon. Sam only buys jerky when he's having trouble thinking past a hunger induced head-ache. They don't stop often. Two nights ago was the last time, when they'd got a lead that sent them way out into the boonies. Sam's face has a painful red hue to it and Steve knows if it weren't for the super serum he'd be red as a rodeo-clown's lips. They haven't stopped searching for weeks. Whenever Steve even hints that Sam is free to leave any time he wants, the man gets this glare that matches Natasha's on one of her worst days.

Steve's glad he hasn't left. It's nice to have . . . a brother again.

He stares at the postcard in his hands. It's cardstock, one side glossy for the picture and the other thick enough that he can feel the texture when he runs a thumb over it. The bottom edge is worn from being shoved back into the holder of identical postcards. It's been here a while. People pick it up and then buy one behind it if they buy a postcard at all. There's a big scratch running down the left side of it, starting from the middle going down to the corner so that if Steve were to bend it along the line almost half the image would be destroyed.

Steve things of Bucky. His arm. How did he lose his arm? Had it hurt? Did he feel phantom pains? What about the metal attached to him? Does it go to his bone? Steve cant' stop thinking about every blow he blocked, if the hits ran along the metal into Bucky's arm. How much pain was he in? Did it hurt to punch? Did he feel anything at all?

Sam gives him a look when Steve brings the postcard to the cashier but was too tired to comment further. The cashier grins at him, big yellow teeth showing like banana-flavored hard candy. Then they're out the door and Sam checks on their bikes, making sure everything is in order. Long shadows from the red sunset obscures most of the image in Steve's hands. He flips the card over to the lined side for writing. There isn't much room. A person can't say much of anything on a card like this. No long speech, no in depth analysis. It can't record sound or video. It isn't a data file or a gateway to a larger server filled with information. It has four lines and even if Steve writes in as small a font as he can, the paragraph it can produce would be child-sized.

"You ready? Or do you wanna head back to Florida?" Sam asks when the bikes are ready. He'd drunk a fourth of his water and chews on his jerky. He's himself enough again to tease. Steve's trying to get there.

"How do you feel about Mexico?"

Sam's brows rise. "Gonna need passports for that. You sure you don't want to search the rest of America first?"

"Mexico is in America," Steve counters and Sam rolls his eyes.

"You know what I mean." Steve shrugs and puts the postcard into his pack. He takes the time to make sure it doesn't get any more damaged than it already is.

"I doubt Bucky will keep to US soil."

Sam nods as Steve mounts his bike. Revving his own, Sam flies out of the gas station with Steve following, mind focused on Bucky as always. Their trail (which wasn't much to begin with) is drying up. He just hopes he they find Bucky before someone else. Steve doesn't want to read about his death in a file. He can't let that happen, not when he still has so much to say. It's more than enough to fill a postcard

. . . .

Six hours later Sam pulls into a motel and Steve follows, just like he does when Sam pulls into gas stations. The man's tired. He's been pushing hard. They both have but it wears on Sam differently than it does for Steve. Sometimes Steve can't sleep at all, blood buzzing as loud as his thoughts. If he worries too much he can't even sit for long before needing to run and punch like a cornered mustang snarling at the bit. Tonight he's almost as weary as Sam. He pays for the room (two beds, no breakfast in the morning, they'll be out of here in four hours) with a card given to them by Stark. They'd burnt through their own savings (Steve's first, on his insistence) at a rate the billionaire couldn't stand. Tony all but shoved the card into Steve's hands when he met them with a "surprise" visit back in Rohde Island.

"Stop frowning like that, it's just money," he insisted. "Look, I owe you one, okay? Just take the money. It's hardly anything and I know you'll be frugal as a grandpa with it anyway. I know this guy's important to you – " Tony stopped. Steve wondered if the man was embarrassed or if he could see just how important Bucky is to him. "Just find him quick and bring 'em home. Kay?"

Neither man says much of anything as they get ready for bed, each taking shifts with the bathroom to wash up and organize their things. They're both very neat. Steve smiles, thinking of Tony and his messes, of Bruce and his anxious attempt to get out of way but drawing all the more attention because of it. He thinks of Natasha and her smirks, of Clint and Thor with their booming voices and bravado. He misses them. He misses them but it's nothing like the gaping pain from being separated from Bucky. Part of him is missing. He hadn't realized quite how much with everything new that's been happening but seeing him again, letting Bucky slip through his fingers, it was like getting a lung ripped out. Steve still hasn't caught his breath.

Steve takes out the postcard and runs his thumb over it. Sam's in the shower, sound of the water drowning the eager couple next door and the dog barking down the street. He finds a pen and begins to write.

Bucky, you don't know me anymore but

This is terrible. Steve crosses out the line so many times the marks bite through to the other side, streaking across the palm fronds. He chews the pen and stares at the postcard in dismay.

"Come on, Steve. You've fought tougher fights than this."

He really hasn't.

My name is Steve Rodgers.

He resists the urge to cross this out too if only to preserve what little space he has left on the post card.

We used to be neighbors. We grew up together.

He thinks about the time he and Bucky rescued an old pit-bull from kids who were throwing rocks at her. Steve went at the kids with his fists flying, wheezing louder than his scream because another asthma attack was moments away. Bucky was at his back, punching with as much purpose as Steve was. At the end of it they had matching shiners and the old dog licked their cuts in turn. She panted as Steve did, tongue lulling out behind broken teeth and the gratitude they got from her was something that transcended speech. Steve looked at Bucky and they grinned at each other.

We even fought together. We're brothers, Bucky.

There's half a line left and not nearly enough space in a novel to fill all the things Steve wants to say to him. The shower shuts off and Sam will be out in a minute, telling Steve it's his turn and he better take 'the damn shower' because Super Soldiers aren't just stronger than regular soldier, they sweat more too. Steve doesn't want to lose this moment. He doesn't want to lose the only connection to Bucky he has, even if it's just through a stupid, damaged postcard of a beach that isn't even real.

I don't expect you to remember me.

There isn't any more room. Panicking, Steve starts writing along the margins, scrawl tiny and crooked and messy as his nerves.

But I remember you