2.

Bucky claimed to be "all birthdayed out" after the Fettermans' party. "Don't go crazy, Stevie," he'd warned the next morning as he scarfed down the last of his cake. "Gimme a few weeks to feel like a birthday boy again."

That was fine with Steve. He liked to plan, and he preferred to take the time to do it well. Bucky wanted a couple of weeks? Wonderful. That meant Steve had time.

That is, he thought he did.

Two mornings after his birthday party, Bucky slid open Steve's patio door, phone in hand. The sun was still low on the horizon, rippling mellow tangerine over the low dune, and the pale green-blue sky was blazoned with bright clouds. Cattle egrets grunted irritably at each other, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Steve looked at Bucky in surprise. Bucky wasn't an early riser, and Steve hadn't even finished brewing his first pot of coffee yet.

"Hey, Stevie," said Bucky. His voice was tight in the way it usually got when he was excited about something, but trying not to show it. "Check this out."

Steve looked down at the phone screen, on which was displayed a stone lion.

"What's this?" asked Steve curiously, scooping coffee into the antique percolator Nat had given him. Bucky usually didn't notice anything remotely artistic unless it reminded him, in some odd way or another, of Steve.

"A bridge," said Bucky. He swiped the screen with his thumb, and another stone lion appeared. "The statues are Italian. And the bridge is a whattayacallit, a drawbridge. It opens to let boats underneath it. Connects the mainland to some island or something."

"Oh, okay," said Steve noncommittally. He filled the cistern at the tap. "Where is this?"

Bucky gave him an incredulous look. "St. Augustine, you punk," he said, and stuffed his phone back in his pocket. "I want pancakes. You got any eggs?" He opened Steve's fridge and stared at the contents. Steve set the percolator on the stove, pulled a pad of paper towards himself, and picked up a pen.

Lion bridge, he wrote.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Steve was washing his car in the bright Florida afternoon when Bucky burst out his front door, laptop in hand.

"Stevie," he said eagerly. "Look."

Expecting a cat video, or a review for a new video gaming system, or a headers schematic for a '69 Barracuda, Steve turned off the hose and squinted in the sunlight. Displayed on Bucky's laptop screen was a strange-looking building with a red trolley parked in front of it.

"Okay," he said slowly.

"Remember reading 'Ripley's Believe it or Not' in the newspaper when we were kids?" prompted Bucky. "All that crazy shit. Two-headed cows. Giant sharks. Ladies with plates in their ears."

"I remember," said Steve. Next to the comics and the crossword, it had been Bucky's favorite part of the Times. He could still recall Bucky sitting in his shirtsleeves and suspenders on a Sunday morning before Mass, newspaper open and folded back, his dry drawl pointing out interesting facts about tongue tattoos and Muslims.

"This is a museum," said Bucky eagerly. "A fuckin' museum, Steve. Full of all kinds of weird stuff." At Steve's blank look, Bucky added, a little deflated: "It's … right outside the Old City."

"Sarasota?" asked Steve, still puzzled.

"No, dumbass," said Bucky. "St. Augustine." He rolled his eyes and went back inside, leaving Steve holding a leaking hose and a soapy sponge.

Steve turned off the hose, dried his hands, and went inside his half of the duplex. He picked up the notepad in the kitchen and wrote: Ripleys museum.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

His new book on post-war Korean fiscal reconstruction was a slow read, so he welcomed the sound of his patio door sliding open. The evening was warm and sticky, filled with the chirrup of tree frogs. A moth wobbled its way into the living room. Bucky's hair was slicked into a ponytail, and he was wearing a Proclaimers tee shirt and jeans without holes, indicating a night of drinking and debauchery was ahead of him. Steve tried his damndest to tamp down any concern about his exploits, knowing the only danger Bucky's marks were in nowadays was a broken heart. "Hey," Bucky said, affecting nonchalance. "Didja know St. Augustine has a working lighthouse?"

"Yeah?" smiled Steve, setting his book on his knee.

"Yeah," said Bucky. "You can, like, climb it and everything. View's supposed to be outa this world." He paused, looking conflicted, as though he were unsure whether or not to be shamefaced. Steve was far from a prude, but Bucky knew his opinion on catting around. "Goin' out," he said quickly, and slid the door shut behind him, preventing any argument.

Steve slipped the dust cover flap in the book to keep his place, set the book down, and got up. In the kitchen, he turned the notepad so it faced him.

Lighthouse, he wrote.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Steve was dreaming about an old op, something involving Tony and Clint. His dream drifted randomly from one place to another – Bolivia, Tangiers, Los Angeles – then alarms went off, and in his dream, he started to fall sideways. He woke with a start.

Bucky was sitting at the foot of his bed, his metal arm glinting in the darkness. Steve kept forgetting how much of the Winter Soldier was still left, lurking like the remains of a poorly-excised tumor. This time, though, there was no feral crouch, no stench of gunpowder and vomit; Bucky smelled familiarly of beer and sex and drugstore perfume. His hair was shaggy, out of its ponytail, obscuring his features in the darkness.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hey," grated Steve. His heart was still thumping.

"So I hooked up with this chick at a club," Bucky said. "She said they have pirate boat tours on the bay, whaddaya call it, Matanzas. A real fuckin' pirate ship, Steve."

"Oh," said Steve. He struggled into a sitting position.

"Don't get up," said Bucky. "Night's still young." He slid off Steve's bed soundlessly, his weight shifting the mattress, and padded on bare feet out Steve's bedroom. A moment later, Steve heard the front door open and close, and the bolt slide home; then the Barracuda rumbled to life and faded into the distance.

Steve swung his legs off the side of the bed and clicked on his light, rubbing his eyes. He picked up a pencil and a pad of paper on his side table and wrote, pirate ship.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Tuesday was Bucky's golf day, which insinuated Steve was, at least temporarily, off the clock. This meant he could indulge his typically neglected appetites, far from Bucky's curious and often teasing eye. He was taking advantage of this by having lunch with one of the more interesting local sculptors he'd met at the Ringling – thirty, blonde, green eyes – when the persistent buzzing of his phone at his hip made him say, a little irritably, "Excuse me a moment. This might be important."

He opened the screen. He had missed five texts from Bucky's phone.

BUCKY: theres a chocolate factory

BUCKY: right next to the wine place

BUCKY: they have tours and give you chocolate for free

BUCKY: bill how and jim say good chocolate you buy it right there

BUCKY: need 2 go ther

"Is everything all right?" asked blonde-and-green eyes, taking a sip of her Campari. Light jazz floated around their heads, and the tuxedo-clad waiter set down a basket of fresh baguette before opening a bottle of Côtes du Rhône. Her red dress, a perfect offset to his sleek gray suit, had a neckline that invited contemplation, and he could feel one of her black pumps lightly brush against his calf. Steve smiled, and met her eyes with a warm, attentive gaze.

"Everything's fine," he assured her, scooping up her slim, calloused hand in his own. She pressed her fingers into his palm and blinked slowly at him, her green eyes limpid with promise.

As she was telling the waiter she wanted the Moules Provençal and Salade de tomates à l'échalote, Steve hurriedly scribbled on a gum wrapper: chocolate factory.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Captain Rogers was an expert tactician.

Given adequate data, he could craft an op so sleek, so well-defined, that victory was inevitable. Many times, he had laid out his plans before his peers and subordinates – Colonel Philips, Peggy, the STRIKE team, even Nick Fury – and receive impressed frowns and nods for his efforts. He was a good captain, a good leader. He could explain said plan and order its implementation with finesse and confidence.

The funny thing about sergeants is that, even if the plan isn't theirs, even if they don't agree with it, it is their job to put it into play. Assess supplies. Repopulate vacancies. Soothe (and in some cases, discipline) nay-sayers. The primary thing that had made the Howling Commandos such a formidable force during the War was Steve's planning. The secondary was Bucky's implementation. Steve knew damn well that despite his men's respect for him, despite research and plans and triple-checking intel, a lot of ops would have fallen to pieces if Bucky hadn't been scrambling behind him, worrying about clean socks and extra MRE's and the weather reports and whether or not Dum Dum had paid Morita back that five dollars. Paperwork and politics had occupied the greater part of Steve's downtime afterwards while Bucky saw to the men – their posts, letters, arguments, cigarette rations, mental health. A visiting Washington dignitary had complained acerbically once, after a particularly bloody little op in Austria, that the Howling Commandos played while the Captain did all the work.

That hadn't gone over very well. Fortunately, Philips had nipped the issue in the bud before Steve could reply. From a distance, Steve knew what Bucky did certainly looked like he was "playing" with the Howlies – poker games, bottles of bourbon, pin-up photos and dance hall jaunts – but he had every confidence that his sergeant knew those men inside and out, the fluctuations of strength and weakness, the number of smokes in their supply tent right down to the last Lucky Strike.

Things were a little backwards, now.

It wasn't that Bucky had lost any intelligence or the ability to multi-task and organize over the past seventy years; it was that his poor fried brain made it a hundred times harder to focus, and Bucky found it very difficult to give enough damns to try. His handlers had violently discouraged straying from mission presets, and Bucky retained a healthy fear of personal initiative.

Certain things were still handled with Sgt. Barnes' legendary aplomb: lawn and vehicle care, golf rounds, Steve's Amazon wish list, visits from the Barton kids. Registers and schedules and calendars helped Bucky's gray matter keep the work flow and materials coordinated. But Steve remembered with a frisson of worry what Sam had warned him about Bucky's decision-making: It could, and almost certainly would, add stress to Bucky's environment, and might dislodge Bucky's progress enough for him to fold backwards.

Bucky had come so far, the past couple of years. Steve was terrified of a relapse. Bullets in bellies and collateral damage aside, Sarasota had become too damn comfortable for Steve to be willing to compromise it in any way. He was determined to conduct Bucky's Birthday Op from conception to reality with such well-organized perfection that Sgt. J.B. Barnes wouldn't have to worry his scruffy little head about a thing.

The schedule for their trip to St. Augustine, printed off an Excel spreadsheet with color-coordinated font colors and pie charts, was a thing of beauty. He had even given Bucky his own packing list, careful to include toiletries and extra supplies to preclude accidents or omissions. He couldn't guarantee Bucky would follow the suggestions on the sheet, but hell, at least he'd tried, right? If Bucky decided to bring nothing but tattered board shorts and offensive tee shirts, Sam assured him that it was most definitely not Steve's problem.

Steve's suitcase was a nondescript light blue, clean, crisp, and packed with a mind toward efficiency that reflected his high Tetris scores. His cell phone was fully charged and the map app preset with their trip route. He had informed Maria Hill of their plans, though he was pretty sure nothing they did was secret anymore; he could only spend so much time hunting for bugs in the duplex. There was bottled water in case Bucky complained he was thirsty, and snacks for when he inevitably cried starvation. Steve's silver sedan was clean, the first aid and emergency kits stocked, and the oil freshly changed. He had the phone number, address, and confirmation for their hotel room printed and stowed in his glove compartment. He had even thought to ask Laura Barton to get the kids to record and send a happy birthday video to Bucky after their arrival.

He'd thought of everything, he reflected a little smugly. Then he remembered how Bucky had packed for their last trip to Orlando, and the smugness faded into a vague worry that perhaps he'd better check Bucky's luggage in case he decided to bring another live turtle as a mascot.

He heard his back door slide open, and the telltale slap of bare feet on his hardwoods. He stepped out of his bedroom, suitcase in hand. "Morning, Buck," he said.

Bucky was already filling a mug with fresh, hot coffee. "Mrgl," he said vaguely. He hadn't brushed his hair, and it hung lank over half his face. He had apparently made an effort to dress well for the trip, because the plaid shorts, though loud, were clean, and his tee shirt plain and unobjectionable. A pair of relatively new sandals was sitting beside the old lumpy, overstuffed Army duffel. Steve saw the corner of his packing list sticking out of the duffel front pocket and felt inordinately flattered.

"All set?" he asked briskly.

"M'yuh," mumbled Bucky into his coffee. "Fffftttt jeeeeeez it's earlyyyyyy." He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his flesh hand.

"The sooner we leave, the sooner we get there," smiled Steve. He dumped the hot water out of his thermos and filled it with the rest of the coffee from the percolator. "We can pick up breakfast on the way."

"No fuckin' McDonalds," said Bucky. "Wanna chicken biscuit." He paused, brow furrowed in thought, and amended, "Two chicken biscuits."

"Anything you want, birthday boy," chuckled Steve.

"An' tater tots. Lots of tater tots."

"Okay."

"No ketchup."

"Do I look like a damn drive-through?" complained Steve. Taking his life in his hands, he snatched the coffee out of Bucky's hands. "Get this in a travel mug. Let's go before your brain wakes up."

"Yeah, fuck you, pal," said Bucky, but his threatening words were disarmed by a huge yawn.

Steve transferred Bucky's coffee into a sturdy travel mug, rinsed out the original coffee cup, and put it in the dishwasher. Bucky stood in the kitchen and blinked blearily at him. "Grab your gear," said Steve, picking up his suitcase. "Let's go."

"Gotta piss," grumbled Bucky irritably, shuffling out of the kitchen to the half-bath in the entryway. Steve rolled his eyes, scooped up Bucky's duffel, and headed to the garage.

He'd already opened the garage door, and the brilliant, heady scents of a Florida morning were rolling in past the workaday smell of his garage, gasoline and oil and roach spray. The sun was still low, the sky awash in green and gold and crowded with plush fat clouds lined in silver. A pair of cattle egrets paused during their morning breakfast to stare with shining black eyes at him, then, determining he wasn't a threat, went back to their bugs.

Steve stowed their bags in the trunk, unzipping the duffel and groping around quickly to make sure it was turtle-free. He felt something square and cold, and fished it out: Bucky's new camera, polished and clean, a new lens cap screwed firmly on. Steve smiled and shook his head, anticipating the morass of pictures either excitedly snapped, or taken with bored irony. Satisfied Bucky's luggage was free of stowaways, he zipped the camera back into the duffel, shut the trunk, and put Bucky's coffee in the console next to his own. He stood at the garage entrance, hands on his hips, looking out over the neighborhood with a satisfied smile. There was something about a road trip that interested and excited him, and knowing he'd dotted all his I's and crossed all his T's gave him the comforting assurance that everything would go smoothly.

He glanced at his watch. Bucky couldn't possibly still be in the bathroom, could he? Jingling his keys in his hand, he went back into his house.

He found Bucky standing in the living room, perfectly still, eyes wide open and staring blankly. The early morning sun slanted through the front window and glanced off his left arm; the adamantium flashed briefly, like an emergency strobe. Steve hesitated. His friend was looking from one wall to the other – not out the windows, or at the furniture or doorways, just Steve's walls.

Steve swallowed. He never knew what would set Bucky off. Outbursts and meltdowns were rare these days, but it would be just like Bucky's perfidious nature to have an emotional break right when they were set to go on vacation.

"Bucky?" he said softly.

Bucky turned. He was frowning, his pale eyes looking bewildered and a little concerned. "Steve," he said. His voice was husky and hesitant. "They're bare."

"What?" Steve sucked in a breath, his chest going tight. Bucky had been doing so well. Mentally, he repeated Sam's number in his head, wondering if he'd wake him up this early, or if he'd be on a run. Illogically, he felt irritated that his coffee would go cold while untangling whatever mess was in his best friend's brain.

"Why are they bare?" asked Bucky, turning to face Steve. His eyes weren't angry or confused, and better still, not empty of thought or emotion, which in Steve's opinion was the worst yet. "They shouldn't be bare."

"What shouldn't be bare, Buck?" asked Steve carefully, fighting the urge to step up and give Bucky a hug. There were times when touching Bucky grounded him, but there were also moments in which a hand on his shoulder would throw him into a panicked rage.

Bucky waved his arms, the metal flashing again. "Your walls," he said. "You got nothin' on 'em."

Steve looked around his living room, frowning. "Uh," he said. "They've always been bare, Buck."

Bucky frowned. "No, they haven't," he argued. "You useta have – " He waved his arms again; the sunlight reflecting off the metal plates careened wildly across the beige surfaces. " – Stuff – pictures – everywhere. Color and black and white and red and … " Bucky trailed off, his eyes tracking away from Steve's, back around the room. He didn't look angry or upset, but simply a little sad. "You got nothin' on your walls, Steve."

"Oh," said Steve, the knot in his chest relaxing a little. Bucky was remembering their shitty little Brooklyn flat, the shabby walls covered with pages torn from art text books, lined paper filled with sketches, brightly dabbled cheap cardboard, the paintings' colors limited by their budget and the price of bread and Oleo. "I guess I haven't gotten around to it yet, Bucky."

Bucky turned in a full circle, his eyes abstract and melancholy. "Where'd it all go?" he asked forlornly. "Your stuff, your – your stuff. Where is it?"

"I honestly have no idea," admitted Steve. He'd barely spared a thought for his old artwork, tacked up on the apartment walls to cover peeling paint and stains. After Bucky had shipped out, it hadn't really mattered that much, and when Steve had gone to Lehigh, their old landlord had sublet the flat almost immediately. "Probably got thrown out years ago."

"Years ago," Bucky repeated softly. "Huh."

They stood in silence, Bucky's eyes lost in the twisted thread of time. Steve forced himself to breathe calmly, hoping desperately that nothing would come of this odd interlude. Sure enough, when a horn beeped in the distance, Bucky seemed to come back to himself, his eyes sharpening, mouth curling into a smile.

"Mr. What's-his-name, that prick," he said, voice thick and hesitant. His memory was not always accurate. "Always telling you to take it down."

"Dimmesdale," said Steve with a relieved smile.

"Mr. Dimmesdale, right," concurred Bucky. "What a jerk." He paused, considering their old landlord. "Wife was kinda pretty, though."

"Yeah, that you'd remember," laughed Steve.

Bucky grinned. "You know me and redheads," he said, and yawned again. "Jesus, I need coffee. And a chicken biscuit."

"Get your ass in the car, then," said Steve. "Been waiting for you."

"Yeah," said Bucky, shuffling back into his sandals and following Steve out of the living room. He hesitated, glancing back at the bare walls and tapping the door jamb with two metal fingers; then he turned away as though nothing had happened.

Steve reminded him to buckle up and not spill his damn coffee, and Bucky called him a mother hen and turned on the radio, and they backed out of Steve's garage without further ado, though Steve did remind Bucky that the driver picked the music. "Shotgun shuts his cakehole," Bucky agreed equably, and didn't even complain about the jazz Steve chose as they rolled down Ponte Vedra out of the neighborhood.