(A/N: Hello, lovelies! Sheraiah and I made it safely through Irma to the other side! First it hit HER, and then it hit ME, and the downside is dirty water and fallen trees and associated crap like that, but the upside was not having to go into our respective places of work and getting our electricity back, so (1) Awesome and (2) Fuck Hurricanes. Donate to the Red Cross. Or if you can't afford it, give blood. Or if you can't give blood, do what you can. Let's prove the Angry Nazi Aliens wrong and do nice things for each other.

Also, here is Chapter 3, full of Steve being Steve and Bucky being Bucky. Because we love you guys. :-)

3.

Bucky fell asleep as soon as they pulled onto 301.

Steve glanced over at him and smiled, heart twisting warm inside him. Bucky's head was tipped back against the window, eyes closed, mouth open, swaying with the movement of the car. Steve had grown as attuned to Bucky's sleep habits as a newborn's mother, carefully cataloging every moment in slumber and rejoicing when the numbers went up. A year and a half ago, Bucky hadn't slept more than two or three hours a night, afflicted as he'd been with night terrors and bad dreams. Steve's frugal nature had frowned at Bucky's expensive Sleep Number bed, but he was forced to admit it had contributed greatly to Bucky's recovery.

The car smelled of chicken biscuits and coffee, and Jesse Cook's "Havana" played softly over the speakers. Steve frankly admitted he didn't understand eighty per cent of the shit Bucky listened to. There was a lot of screaming, both of guitars and people, and Bucky insisted upon listening to it at top volume, making his window panes rattle. But Sam had sent Steve an article outlining why music like that helped people with various forms of PTSD process their anger, so Steve put up with the dull thumps and shrieking vocals, shaking his head over the hostile, desperate screams.

He personally was finding the progression of modern jazz – particularly instrumentals – more intellectually appealing, and was on a Spanish guitar kick. Sharon had sent him several mp3 files containing samples of artists she thought he might like – Di Meola, Benson, Wrembel – inspiring Bucky to throw himself into research about modern jazz guitarists so Steve would have something new to listen to. His excited exploration on Steve's behalf went on for a good three hours until he got bogged down by a video of Irish people taste-testing jelly beans, and then, as abruptly as he had started, it was over. Fortunately, he had amassed a file of a good twenty-three musicians worthy of note, giving Steve ample room to investigate.

Steve was glad Bucky slept through the migrant labor camps. He knew the sight of those burnt-brown, shabby children would have distressed him. Steve's response to that kind of inhumanity was to be indignant, to want to fix it; Bucky's go-to emotion when children were suffering was to want to kill someone. Steve hoped he got over it eventually, and found himself wondering how his Hydra handlers had coped with the Winter Soldier, had trace evidence of Bucky's sense of vengeance ever risen to the surface, volatile oil slicked over cold water, just waiting for the match to spark a conflagration. He'd never be able to ask Bucky about it, of course; poking too deeply into the Winter Soldier's memories was a good way to trigger either a panic attack or a violent outburst, and Steve had learned over the past year and a half that those never ended well. But he kind of wished he could have seen, at least once, the Winter Soldier beating the everloving shit out of a cruel Hydra soldier.

Cook made way for a Gipsy Kings medley. The Iberian trills vibrated in the car speakers, and Bucky made a snuffling sound that reminded Steve of a congested pug. He glanced over. Bucky had rested his head against the seat belt, and it supported him like a hammock; his arms were folded across his chest. A wide stripe of sunlight transected his metal arm. Steve checked the dashboard clock. Bucky had been sleeping about an hour, but Steve had no way of knowing how well Bucky had slept the night before. Unless he heard the nightmare screams, he could only hope that his friend had gotten a full eight.

Steve rarely got a full eight himself, but that didn't concern him. He would catch up later. When Bucky was normal again.

He promised.

He watched the mile markers pass, his mind on the artist he'd met at the Ringling. Blonde, green eyes, completely uninterested in either Avengers or Accords, and one of the best contemporary glass sculptors in the United States, she was enthusiastic about their interactions while still being cautious enough that he remained interested. Being a docent at the Ringling for the past six months had afforded him a lot of perks, but this was one he'd not been expecting. He was pleasantly surprised by both her talent and interest, and hoped she'd be amenable to a second date. Or a third, or a fourth ...

Steve's pleasant ruminations were interrupted by a low gurgle. He turned to Bucky. He was still asleep, but his mouth was gritted shut, his eyebrows lowered, and his hands were clenching and unclenching in his lap. There was a whirring noise as the plates in his left arm shifted, then vibrated a little, as though picking up on its owner's distress.

Steve frowned. Could be nothing. Synapses misfiring. Maybe Bucky was hungry. It seemed like Bucky was always hungry nowadays.

Bucky gave a strangled noise, like choked-off whimper, then jerked awake with a gasp, hands fisted in the legs of his shorts. Steve carefully pretended he didn't notice. He'd learned that fussing over Bucky's inevitable nightmares just made him shut down or get angry. Like Sam said, if Bucky wanted to talk about it, he'd talk about it. Otherwise, Steve kept his mouth shut.

The Gipsy Kings trilled to a stop. Steve thumbed the "stereo off" button on the steering wheel. The only noise in the car besides Bucky's fast, shallow breath was the muffled road noise of the tires on the asphalt. Steve waited until Bucky's breathing slowed and the metal fist in Bucky's lap unclenched.

A billboard for Denny's passed by. "You hungry?" said Steve, making sure his voice sounded calm and disinterested. "You only had two chicken biscuits."

Bucky hesitated. If he was grateful for Steve's contrived ignorance, he didn't show it. "Nah," he said; his voice didn't even shake. "Not for Denny's. You see an IHOP, I'm in."

"You got it," smiled Steve. Bucky shifted in his seat, as though trying to get comfortable.

"Why's it so quiet in here?" he complained. Steve grinned.

"You asked for it," he said, and turned the stereo on. Bucky listened to the opening strains of Tomatito without comment, staring out his window. Steve shook his head. He must have found it relaxing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As promised, they stopped for pancakes in Lakeland, then skirted Orlando north. Steve had no desire to get ensnared by theme park traffic, and they had found they would rather avoid Eisenhower's broad concrete interstates that had unrolled while they both were otherwise occupied. Steve preferred the scenery on backroads. Bucky, of course, was far more invested in the restaurants found off the beaten path.

"Blackwater Inn," Bucky read off a billboard. It had been an hour and a half since they had each consumed breakfast sampler platters with sides of blueberry pancakes, extra bacon, and a whole pot of coffee. Naturally, Bucky would be getting hungry again. "Hey. Seafood."

"Yeah," said Steve. "Because we never eat seafood in Sarasota. Not a fish to be found. Can't even remember the last time I saw a fish on my plate. Oh yeah, it was yesterday."

"Shut up, punk," retorted Bucky. He hummed to himself. "Wonder if they got good hush puppies?"

"Probably," conceded Steve. "Don't think I've had a bad hush puppy in this entire state." He glanced at his GPS. They were only an hour and a half from their hotel. Despite stopping for food twice already, they were making good time. He wondered how early they could check in to the room.

"You know," Bucky added, "I haven't had a good slice o' green pie in a while."

"You had key lime pie last week," protested Steve indignantly.

"That's a while," argued Bucky. "Hey, you know it's stone crab season?"

Steve's traitorous stomach chose that moment to growl. Bucky just smiled.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bucky brought his camera into the restaurant. Steve didn't mind him snapping pictures of the sign out front, or the view from the upper deck, or even their food, but he felt obliged to protest when Bucky slipped into the ladies' room with it. "It was empty," he defended himself. "And the gent's had a funny poster. Ladies' room was even better."

"Bucky, no," groaned Steve.

"I want another helping of cheese curds," said Bucky. "Hey, while we're at it, want some of those alligator chunks?"

"Tastes like chicken," sighed Steve.

"One more serving of alligator means one less gator fuckin' up some fella's golf game," said Bucky.

"That happen to you often?" asked Steve dryly.

"Happened to Jim last week," said Bucky. "Chipped in the rough, ended up next to a gator's head. Wouldn't let me retrieve it, though," he said a little sadly. "Took a Mulligan."

"Jesus, Bucky," laughed Steve. "You'd have gone toe to toe with a gator for a golf ball?"

"Yeah," said Bucky thoughtfully. "Bet I coulda took him."

It was on the tip of Steve's tongue to joke, What, do you want to lose the other arm? … but he decided against it. Too soon, he thought, and smiled sadly while Bucky jollied their waitress into another round of beer. It would probably always be too soon for a joke like that.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What the hell is that?" demanded Bucky, pointing through the driver's side window.

Steve had to slow down to gape at the enormous metal sculpture on the side of the road. "It's … Iron Man?" he guessed. "I think?"

"It's a terrible Iron Man," said Bucky.

"It's the worst Iron Man ever," agreed Steve. "Wait – is that a - ?"

The two super soldiers stared.

"A giant chicken," said Bucky, eyes round with wonder. "Made of metal."

The two super soldiers stared in awe. The roadside vendor looked as though it took up a good acre, shaded by pin oaks and Spanish moss. They could catch tantalizing glimpses of pottery, statuary, bird baths, and furniture.

"Steve. Stop," begged Bucky. "I want to take a picture of the shitty Iron Man." He took a deep breath and murmured, "I wonder if it's for sale?"

"Bucky, no," said Steve, alarmed. There was no way in hell the Homeowner's Association would forgive something that hideous.

"I could put it in the back yard," said Bucky hopefully. He twisted around in his seat as Steve drove away, watching the horrible Iron Man effigy shrink in the rear window.

"It wouldn't fit in my car," Steve said firmly.

Bucky sighed. "Man, I shoulda bought a truck," he muttered. "Can we at least stop on the way home?"

Steve sighed. "Sure, why not?" he said. "Maybe they'll have a smaller Iron Man. Something that'll fit in your living room."

Bucky brightened. "Now, there's a thought," he said.

"Jesus Christ," muttered Steve. "I was joking."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Another benefit of eschewing interstates was taking A1A up the coast. Bucky complained enough about the music that Steve let him poke through his CDs, and Bucky was delighted to find a Glenn Miller best-of compilation. They spent an hour admiring the gray-green Atlantic, counting pelicans, and trying to remember the words to songs like "Under Blue Canadian Skies" and "Ain't Cha Coming Out."

Bucky put in Tommy Dorsey as they crossed the Matanzas River. "Where we staying?" he asked, looking out his window. The ocean water was striped with dusky whitecaps, and the blue sky piled high with brilliant plush clouds. "Gonna stay where the couples stayed on their tour?"

"No way," said Steve firmly. "No national chains for you and me, Buck. We're gonna stimulate the local economy."

Steve didn't have to look at Bucky; he could practically hear the eyebrows going up. "All right, Captain Socially Conscious," he said dryly. "Gonna dig our own foxholes? Buy our food from the farmer down the street?"

"No, asshole," said Steve. "Found a family-owned hotel. Says they have a pool."

"In the old city?" asked Bucky skeptically.

"Jesus, no," laughed Steve. "You really want to stay at a bed and breakfast? Two single men, surrounded by all that chintz and potpourri? You think people talk about us now?"

"All right, fine, sweetheart," grinned Bucky. "Didn't know you were so ashamed to be seen with my ugly mug." He tipped his head to one side, considering. "But yeah. Bed 'n breakfast, us? Nah. Too froofy for two retired Army guys. You got us a good li'l motel someplace?"

"Anastasia Island," said Steve, gesturing to the approaching sign.

"Anesthesia Island," laughed Bucky. "Where we go to make the pain go away."

"There's an English pub across the street," added Steve. "That ought to help."

"Beer as pain killer," agreed Bucky. "Nice."

"Apparently there's a restaurant – "

"Mini-golf!" interrupted Bucky with sudden enthusiasm. "Look, Stevie! Mini-golf!"

Steve shook his head. Sometimes Bucky was a calculating, incisive machine, sharp-tongued and quick, a terrifying combination of Sgt. Barnes and the Winter Soldier. And sometimes, Bucky had the brain of a day-old chick. Steve had given up trying to figure out which one he preferred.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bucky wandered across the motel parking lot. Steve was getting their room key, and Bucky was restless from being in the car, enclosed in metal and glass. The tiny motel office was cramped, and the concierge kept staring at Bucky's arm, making him shivery and uncomfortable. A quick, understanding glance from Steve granted him permission to escape, both acknowledging the unspoken rule that he not wander far. Seventy years ago, that would have pissed Bucky off – hell, a year ago, it did piss Bucky off – but the restriction, he knew, was more than just a safety net for him; it was comforting for Steve, too. Bucky was okay with things that made Steve comfortable.

The sun was bright in the clear blue sky, and the air smelled of asphalt, cooking grease, and exhaust. He measured the length of the lot, the height of the hotel, the number of rooms compared to the number of staircases leading up to the second floor, and the angle of the roof, in case he had to run across it for any reason. He knew, empirically, that running across the roof in the middle of the night was probably not something he needed to plan for, but he couldn't help himself.

Across the two-lane divided highway, businesses, a vacant lot, too exposed for clandestine meetings, the roar of the cars providing aural cover. He pulled out his plastic baggie and rolled himself a cigarette. He technically couldn't get addicted to nicotine anymore, but he was always restless, energy like heat roiling in his belly, and fiddling with his hands and mouth helped leak the excess out before it exploded in invective or sarcasm.

He pulled out his cell phone, checked his messages – two from Bill and Amelie, one from Howie – and thumbed his music app open. The not-so-soothing strains of Disturbed's "Stupify" blared tinnily up at him, and he sighed. Bucky didn't understand eighty per cent of the shit Steve listened to. There was a lot of discordant guitar work, and smoky-voiced girls crooning wobbily about love and disappointment, and Steve insisted upon listening to it in the car, making Bucky's head hurt. But Clint had told Bucky that people suffering from PTSD needed to find music that appealed to them, calmed them down and helped them focus, so Bucky put up with it for Steve's sake, though he didn't really understand how you could process inner sorrow by listening to something that sounded so sad. It just seemed backwards to him.

He sampled the air, circled the parking lot again, and oriented himself. Floridian mid-peninsula, barrier reef island, east coast, off-season, low-target area. Then his eye caught the gleam of heavily processed water, and he strolled across the mostly vacant parking lot to the other side of the hotel.

He leaned on the fence and contemplated the pool, all three thousand pitiful little gallons of it. He hoped Steve hadn't chosen the hotel based on whether or not it had a pool. He hated it when Steve was disappointed. And of course it was always worse when Steve was trying so hard to do things for other people, especially Bucky, and something came up short somehow, because Steve took it so personally, as though he had deliberately let the other person down.

It drove Bucky crazy. But honestly, Steve had been driving Bucky crazy for decades, so this was nothing new. He hoped Steve wasn't disappointed in the tiny pool. Personally, Bucky thought it was fucking hilarious. He'd have to show Steve how funny he thought it was before Steve had a chance to feel disappointed; then it wouldn't matter so much, and they could get on to the next task, which Bucky hoped involved food of some sort.

He heard the hotel office door shut and knew Steve was looking for him. Safety net aside, Steve's constant niggling concern bothered Bucky. What the hell did Steve think he was gonna do, beg his Hydra handlers to take him back? Jesus. Bucky couldn't remember ever having been this warm, safe, or well-fed. Granted, Bucky's memory wasn't something that could be relied upon, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'd be a fucking idiot to run from his life now.

"Hey, Stevie," he said. He knew Steve's enhanced hearing would pick up his voice, even over the noise of the road. "Check this out."

Steve came up behind him, a solid, warm presence, and leaned by his side, looking down at the little pool. "Well, that's disappointing," said Steve, but his voice was laced with humor.

Mission accomplished.

"Lookit that sign," chuckled Bucky, pointing. "'No Diving.' No shit."

"Can you imagine anyone thinking diving into this bathtub was a good idea?" laughed Steve. Bucky grinned.

"Just deep enough to drown somebody, but not deep enough to do the backstroke," he concurred, then flinched when he realized what he'd said. He couldn't actually remember ever drowning someone, but that didn't mean he hadn't done it once before, and he didn't want Steve to think he'd remembered something bad, because Steve loved it when he remembered good stuff but got very sad when he remembered bad stuff, and Bucky hated it when Steve got sad because of him. Fortunately, Steve didn't seem to make the connection, thank god, because he jingled the hotel key in his hand.

"Come on, let's stow our gear and look around. Front desk says it's a walking bridge."

"Wait." Bucky tried to pull up his mental map, and something shorted out. His brain fuzzed and lurched maddeningly, obliterating whatever it was he was trying to say. He struggled a moment, willing the memory to return, but it was gone. "Goddammit," he muttered, biting his lip. "We're – this is Anastasia Island, and that means – "

"The Bridge of Lions," said Steve, waving his arm past the hotel, up the street into the sunshine. He grinned. "We can walk right across it. You can take pictures of the lions themselves."

Bucky brightened. "Hot damn," he said. "We'll be walking right across the bay, the – the – " The memory was gone, jammed sideways into a hole in his brain somewhere. "The Bay of Whaddayacallit."

"Matanzas," said Steve patiently.

"Matanzas." Bucky's metal hand clinked against the pool fence. It didn't really matter if he couldn't remember everything he'd researched on St. Augustine, not really, because Steve would remember it for him. He was amazingly efficient that way. "Okay," he said, suddenly grateful for Steve, for his drive and competence and willingness to drag Bucky to all these warm bright places with all the food and beer he could consume. "Let's do this."

"Let's," smiled Steve, and led him back to his boring silver sedan.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cheap touristy hotels are cheap touristy hotels the world over, filled with stained bathroom tile and chintzy white towels and unnecessarily revolting polyester bedspreads. Bucky spared a brief and disinterested thought that the Anastasia Inn reminded him of the Lido Beach Motel they'd stayed at when they had first arrived in Florida, dug his camera out of his duffel, and declared himself ready to go. Steve, of course, had to unpack his clothes neatly into the provided dresser first, and gave Bucky such a nettled look that Bucky could only sigh and chuck his assorted tee shirts and underwear in a waiting drawer.

Placated, Steve let Bucky drag him out of the hotel and down the street. Walking down a Florida sidewalk in the summer, Bucky had discovered, was not the most pleasant experience in the world, and brought back frightful dark memories of steaming jungles and hot foreign cities, the gleam of the gun in his hands, blood and smoke and chaos. But walking down a Florida sidewalk in March, across a bridge lit by midday sunlight and crossed by the shadows of scudding clouds, stiff sea-scented wind pushing bright white sailboats across the deep blue water below, made Bucky feel hard-won, happy openness right down to his core. He bounced a little as he walked, humming Dorsey under his breath, and he could practically feel Steve's delight, shimmering like light on rippling water beside him.

The Medici lions were just as beautiful as Bucky's research had led him to believe. He checked the charge on his camera, inordinately pleased he had remembered to plug it in the night before – it would have been more believable if he'd forgotten the camera altogether – and took a dozen pictures, playing with the angle of the sun and the background, alternately blue sky and brilliant white bridge.

He took close-ups of the lions' faces, fierce and protective and threatening, mulling half-heartedly over the confusing jumble of images that crowded at the corners of his mind of some unnamed handler mouthing off to his superiors: uniformed shoulders squared, jaw thrust out, eyes narrowed, spitting Yemu nuzhno yest' chto-to while jerking his thumb at the Winter Soldier's face. The smell of urine and dirty water, grease beneath his fingernails, dazed with blood loss and hunger, a big meaty hand gripping him by his bicep, shaking him a little – not cruelly, but an urgent straighten up, do you want to go back to the Chair? implied in the ungentle grasp.

Bucky frowned, not wanting to poke the bear too hard, and wondered if it was altruism or practicality that had provoked the uncharacteristic dispensation. What little emotion he associated with the flashback was ambivalent at worst, so he concluded that particular handler had been one of the more reasonable of his masters.

"Bucky."

Steve's voice pulled him backwards out of the memory, spinning uncomfortably. He blinked, dizzy, and put a hand on the base of the southernmost lion's pedestal. His metal fingers gleamed in the mellow afternoon sunlight, splayed against the bright marble. Slowly the world righted itself, the fuzz that filled his ears receding, allowing him to hear passing pedestrians, traffic, the shriek of seagulls. "What," he said. His voice sounded far away.

"You okay?"

Bucky made a quick physical assessment. Feet planted firmly on the ground, heart beating steadily, breath even, blood sugar stable, balance maintained, pain within acceptable levels. "Yeah," he said. "I'm okay."

He blinked the phosphenes away and let his metal hand drop. He looked down at his camera, whirring as it took picture after picture after picture, his index finger pressing hard on the shutter. He released it and reflected that it was a good thing deleting unwanted photos was so easy.

"I just remembered something," he said uncertainly. "I think."

He looked over at Steve. Steve stood oddly still, his blank face belying the slight panic in his blue eyes. "It wasn't bad," he added hastily. "It was – " He found he couldn't give the shard of memory a categorical rating, one way or another. "It was nothing," he concluded. Just the balance of bland protein paste against the constant gnawing of his gut, that was all. If the dispassionate handler had provided him with anything else, some tidbit calculated to ensure the Soldier's rudimentary loyalty, it was lost in the jumbled sinkhole of his mind.

He glanced at Steve. Steve still had that deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face, which Bucky found hilarious. He laughed, and Steve looked annoyed. "I said it was nothing, punk," he assured him, clapping him on one massive shoulder. "C'mon, I wanna see that building across the street."

"I'd call you an asshole," grumbled Steve, trailing after him, "but you just spaced out for thirty seconds and scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry," said Bucky, not because he was, but because he knew his glib tone would irritate Steve. Sure enough, when he glanced back at him, Steve was scowling, hands shoved in his shorts pockets. Bucky grinned and took his picture.

"Stop," complained Steve, shoving him by the shoulder, but Bucky recognized the petulant, half-amused, half-irritated cant to his voice, laughed again, and led Steve through the crosswalk to the square. "You're sure you're okay, though?" Steve added while Bucky took aim with his camera at the market building. He just couldn't let things go, dammit.

"I'm okay," Bucky assured him, careful not to meet his eye. It wasn't a complete lie. The flashback hadn't triggered anything bad; the sun was shining; he knew his hunger could be assuaged by seafood and beer. If the lion-faced handler's cold, assessing stare touched a raw spot in his brain, Steve didn't need to know about that. "I promise," he added with a grin.

"Oh, well then," shrugged Steve. "If you promise."

"I said I did, didn't I?" Bucky took a couple of shots of the market. He needed to distract Steve. "What is this place, anyway?"

Steve brightened and started a five-minute lecture about the central market place in Old St. Augustine while Bucky nodded inattentively, and filed the handler's face away to think about later. Much later. Like, maybe never.

He didn't need to think about it. He was okay.

He promised.