My apologies, folks! Didn't realize I'd uploaded Ch. 8 twice.
Here is chapter 9, completing the story as intended.
Blessed yule, y'all.
9.
They'd had snowless Christmases before, but this was the first one Steve could remember that had been warm enough for him to make pancakes in his shirtsleeves. The sun was shining, and everything outside looked very green. The dew sparkled on the broad, flat-leafed centipede grass and Bucky's fruit trees, and little anoles with bright red throat pouches did their push-ups on the fence. He and Bucky opened up their sliding glass doors so the Christmas music streaming from Bucky's PS4 trickled into Steve's kitchen as they ate. Everything smelled like damp foliage, fresh oranges, coffee, and maple syrup.
Bucky had stuffed Steve's stocking with ridiculous little items: snowman-shaped marshmallows, a pen that looked like a lightsaber, a Dora the Explorer toothbrush, a Batman action figure. "Mint in box," Bucky had said proudly around a handful of cashews that Steve had stowed in his stocking. "Found him at a yard sale."
"Thanks," said Steve dryly, and balanced Batman on Bucky's hearth next to the lightsaber pen.
Bucky unrolled the tee shirt and gave Steve a dirty look. "The Tampa Bay Rays? Really, Steve?"
"We're Floridians now," grinned Steve. "Gotta support the local boys."
Bucky chucked the tee shirt at Steve's head. Steve laughed. "Hey," said Bucky, his eyes widening with realization. "Spring training. Florida. We're already here."
"I checked," smiled Steve. "Port Charlotte's only forty minutes from here. We can see all the games."
"Holy cow," said Bucky, face brightening. "We can get box seats."
"Season tickets."
"Unlimited hot dogs and popcorn."
"Catching pop flies."
"Pennants and team jerseys."
They sat on the floor and grinned at each other. It really felt like Christmas to Steve now. "Okay, so maybe this Florida thing isn't so bad after all," admitted Bucky, still grinning. "All right. Let's open our presents. I wanna see what you got me."
"Not a Batman action figure," said Steve, grabbing one of his boxes.
"Don't want Batman. Want Iron Man."
Steve threw the shirt back at him.
Steve's gifts of soft sweatshirts, plush socks, cozy throws, and a big slow cooker made Bucky laugh. "Tryin' to domesticate me, Stevie?" he joked, pulling on a camouflage-patterned stocking cap.
Steve gave a sardonic huff. "Not a chance of that happening," he said.
Bucky proved once again that he had Steve's number when Steve unwrapped the paint pallet and brushes. He stared down at them in surprise as Bucky shifted uncomfortably and said, "I thought, y'know, you could set up an easel or somethin' in your guest room …" He trailed off, running his fingers through his hair a little nervously. "If you're still into that sort of thing."
"I am. Was. Still am," said Steve, pulling out the tubes of oil paint one by one, titanium, sienna, magenta, aquamarine. "I never really – really had the time, not the past – " he made some mental calculations and shook his head. "Seventy-two years."
"Well, high time you picked it up again," declared Bucky. "Look, we're retired, right? That means you got all the time in the world to do whatever you want, whenever you want. So draw, paint, go to baseball games, make pancakes. Go to parties, join committees, all that stuff you think is fun." He grinned. "I promise I won't even make fun of you." He paused. "Much," he added.
"Gee, how can I turn that down?" laughed Steve. "Jerk."
"Punk," said Bucky.
Jim Allen called when Steve was gathering up the torn wrapping paper and bows. "Jim says Ellie's cow is ready," Bucky said. "And to get our asses down there before she turns it into charcoal."
"Tell him charcoal's good for the digestion," said Steve, stuffing the paper in Bucky's version of a trash can, which was an old, broken storage box.
Bucky filled a grocery store bag with oranges, lemons, and limes. He also picked an oddly shaped fruit that neither of them recognized, but Bucky looked it up on the Internet and declared it was a carambola. They each tried one and, deciding it was good, added several to the bag. Steve tucked a bottle of wine under his arm. They locked up and started down the street.
Some of their neighbors were out and about, and all called "Merry Christmas!" to them. Steve and Bucky waved back. Mrs. Sandoval was straightening the bow on her mailbox, and told them that Gracie Alvarado was too hung over to come out, but should have recovered by the evening if they wanted to stop by. They thanked her and walked on.
The afternoon had gotten warm. Steve was still in his tee shirt and felt comfortable, but Bucky had automatically slid on his sweatshirt and glove to disguise the arm. He made Steve hold the bag of fruit while he stripped it off. His arm gleamed in the sunlight. A couple of people stared curiously at him, but Bucky just bit his lip and pretended it didn't bother him. This made Steve both panicked and tenuously happy.
They turned from Ponte Vedra onto Bermuda Court. Someone's grandchildren were playing in a front yard with their new Christmas acquisitions, a football and a scooter. They didn't give Bucky's arm a second look, and when the football went wide and wobbled onto the street, Steve picked it up and threw it easily back at them.
"Thanks, dude!" the boy called, and he and his sister went back to their gifts.
Bucky paused at the Fettermans' house to say hello to Sabra, who was chatting with a next-door neighbor. She encouraged them both to buy tickets for the New Years Raffle. "All profits go to the Boys and Girls Club this year," she said. "Such a worthwhile charity."
"We'll stop by the clubhouse and pick up a couple," Steve promised her.
"Heading to the Allens' for Christmas dinner?" smiled Sabra. "Watch out for Jim's rum punch. It's pretty potent."
"Sounds like my kind of grog," admitted Bucky.
They approached the Allens' house. Steve glanced at Bucky, wondering if he was at all nervous like he had been the night before, or if a small, comfortable dinner in someone's home didn't trigger the same kind of anxiety a big party did. Bucky seemed relaxed, chin up, shoulders down, looking around with a tranquil curiosity. Then he stopped and pointed, his face lighting up.
"There," he breathed. "That must be it."
Steve followed the line of his finger. There was a large, gleaming, black car in the driveway next to the Allens' house, trimmed with chrome. It was low and sleek with its long hood and lifted back. It looked fast and dangerous and a little mean.
"Yep, that sure looks like you," said Steve, trying not to sound sarcastic.
Bucky smiled. "It sure does," he gloated. "God, I want it already."
"Cow first," insisted Steve. "Your friends are waiting."
"Our friends," Bucky corrected him. The door opened and Jim poked his head out. "Hey, Jimbo!"
"Bucky!" shouted the old man. "Steve! Get your asses in here and rescue me from all these dishes." He shook his head and laughed. "I hope you two boys brought some big appetites, because Ellie cooked enough to feed an army."
"We'll see about that," said Bucky with a laugh, answering Jim Allen's hearty handshake easily, then greeted Ellie in her Santa Claus apron, not a trace of nervousness or self-consciousness on his face.
Steve stepped into the little ranch, looking around curiously. He remembered his grandmother's house, its musty smells and dark flocked wallpaper and old-fashioned stove; Jim and Ellie were about the age his grandmother had been when he'd known her. But the house was bright and full of Christmas music and the scent of roast beef and gravy, a collection of cranberry glass in one lit cabinet and family portraits scattered across the walls. Plastic logs in the fireplace imitated a smoldering fire, and there was a cocktail tray on the shining brass coffee table. He wondered what Jim had thought of Bucky's cable spool.
"I'm so glad that Bucky has agreed to join Jim's golf foursome," said Ellie with a bright smile, handing him a cut crystal punch cup. It felt tiny in his hand and smelled heavily of cloves and whiskey. "Dan Morris played with Jim, Howie, and Bill for years. But when his grandson got transferred to Phoenix and offered to take Dan with him and his family, well, that was just too good an offer to refuse."
"Eh, he had a handicap of twenty-one," said Jim. He had given Bucky a cigar and a cup of punch, and Bucky was leaning forward into Jim's Zippo to light up. "What's your handicap, Bucky?"
"Only got one arm," said Bucky with a wink around the cigar. Jim laughed and they both puffed contentedly between the two of them. Ellie rolled her eyes and pulled out a long, slim cigarette.
"Do you smoke?" she asked politely.
"No, ma'am," admitted Steve. "But I don't mind it at all." It reminded him of Bucky before the war, hand-rolling cigarettes on the fire escape, their legs dangling over the garbage cans three stories below. He eyed Ellie surreptitiously as she lit her cigarette. She was tall and slim, hair dyed blond and neatly coiffed, and wore a Christmas sweater and nicely-pressed slacks. She didn't look a thing like his grandmother. He glanced at some of the photographs on the wall behind her. "How many grandchildren do you and Jim have?"
"Seven," she beamed, helping herself to a cup of punch. "The oldest is thirteen, the youngest is two. Miriam, our daughter, lives with her husband in Columbus. She has three children, and our son Paul is stationed in Tokyo, so we don't see his kids very much, unfortunately. But what a great opportunity for them, living overseas!" She cocked her head at him inquisitively. "Bucky … has spent a lot of time out of the United States, hasn't he?"
Steve turned his head just enough to check on his friend. Bucky was talking and laughing around his cigar, propped against the mantle. In his faded tee shirt and holey jeans, he didn't look much like a world traveler. But the gleaming metal arm and long, shaggy hair were unmistakable. Steve looked back at Ellie. She was watching Bucky closely, eyes curious and a little cautious. Steve realized she knew who Bucky was, and had still invited him into her home. At that point he had to ask himself how many people at the party last night had recognized them, and simply let it pass.
"He has," he said, his voice pitched low and guarded. "He's kind of been through a lot."
Ellie smiled sideways at him through her cigarette smoke. She took a long drag and nodded. "Yes," she said gently. "I know he has." She squeezed his arm, and called out cheerfully: "Okay everyone! Who wants artichoke dip?" She went straight to Bucky, leaned up, and kissed his cheek, then headed into the kitchen, giving her husband an arch look when he patted her bottom as she passed.
Steve had an epiphany then, the sting of rum punch on his tongue and the smell of cigarettes and roast beef surrounding him: He couldn't fix Bucky. Fortunately, he didn't really have to. They were living in Sarasota now. Weird, warm, wet Sarasota, with its John Constable sunsets and tiny lizards, long-legged birds and palm trees, soft-sanded beaches, retired people and golf courses. There would be cards games and parties at the club house, swimming pools and fresh citrus and fish, and an unending stream of people who had lived, loved, and lost over the course of their lives, and come out of it ready to accept and understand them. There probably wasn't a soul in Palacios Del Mar who hadn't done something horrible, and had to learn how to live with it.
Bucky and Jim were talking handicaps and five-irons, Cubans and bourbon. Jim may or may not have known that he was talking to the Winter Soldier about golf. It didn't seem to matter. Their faces were bright and animated, the all-too-rare ease of instant camaraderie surrounding them. Somewhere in the house, Ellie had put on the stereo. Bing Crosby crooned "Silent Night." Everything in Steve's chest tightened, wound like a knot, then released suddenly.
It was going to be okay.
It was Bucky's responsibility to figure out who he was and how he fit in. Bucky would have to parse his past and his wounds, work out retirement as best he could. Bucky would have to make friends, start projects, have hobbies, become a person again, put aside the artificial menace of the Winter Soldier and put on whatever perpetual summer accorded him. Steve had done what he could, dragging Bucky down to this strange place to work out his salvation, but he could only do so much. It was up to Bucky to take what Steve had offered him, and make something of it. He might fail. That was okay. It wouldn't be Bucky's fault, not really.
Steve had no one to blame but himself for this, and he was actually okay with that.
