A/N: Happy Sunday, lovelies! Sheraiah and I have finally managed to pull our asses together and get this out to you. She will be here in less than a week. I. Cannot. Fucking. WAIT. So without further ado, we offer for your enjoyment humor, history, food, and angst, all wrapped up in four hundred dysfunctional and muscly pounds of supersoldier on the platter that is the incomparable city of St. Augustine. Bon appétit!

4.

Steve's color-coded, multi-tab Excel spreadsheet had outlined their planned daily routines, from tourist spots to historical sites to prospective and highly-recommended eateries, but he hadn't set anything in particular aside for their arrival date, as he'd been uncertain about traffic, arrival times, and Bucky's potentially violent mood swings. Bucky was glad. He wanted time to evaluate the city on his own, try to determine what, if anything, the Winter Soldier might have done in this spot before. He'd been blindsided by memories of bloodshed in the most innocuous places, and had no desire to unhinge Steve's careful scheduling.

So far, nothing except the marble lion's imperious and slightly condescending facial expression appeared to have done the trick. Tourists and locals strolled past them, shop windows displayed bright wares, the cathedral on the square shouldered importantly at surrounding buildings, flags snapped, and horse-drawn carriages clattered by, what Bucky assumed was the day-to-day visage of the city. His sporadic research had unearthed a handful of things he wanted to see and experience, and he knew from casting an ostensibly indifferent eye at Steve's spreadsheet that Steve had his own areas of interest outlined as well. But for now, in the mellow afternoon light, the absence of obligation and the press of familiar humanity loosened the perpetual knot in Bucky Barnes' stomach, and he almost felt like a person again.

He had found, ever since unwrapping the little digital camera, that he greatly preferred to take pictures of things and not people. People posed, or complained, or demanded copies. But things simply were, and did not exert on the picture-taker any obligation to respond. So as they walked up Cathedral Place, afternoon traffic jostling between them and the green, bemarbled quadrangle, Bucky took pictures of bas relief stone, of pigeons, of the clouds scudding past the cathedral tower, of the trees in front of the Government House.

He crossed the street, intent on snapping a shot of the Spanish flags hung from the balconies, bright against the live oaks strewn with moss. Steve trailed behind, hands in his pockets, an absent smile on that stupidly handsome face, heedless of the appreciative glances and white-knuckle whispers as he passed. Bucky supposed he could advise Steve that he'd get less attention if he wore tee shirts that didn't hug his body so tight, but then he'd miss out on Steve's blush when he caught a girl – or guy – staring.

It didn't matter how much time had passed, or what had happened to him in the interim. Teasing Steve would always be Bucky's go-to.

He crouched down by the edge of a brick store front, on King Street, trying to focus on a strange little sunken medallion in the façade. He knew someone was looking at him. He could practically feel it on his skin, crinkly and invasive, but he was confident that Steve had his back, and wouldn't let anyone harass him. He cautiously dismissed it as a stranger's unfamiliarity with metal appendages.

He muttered discontentedly to himself. The lighting was poor, and he didn't want to use the flash, but he really fucking wanted a shot of this little doo-dad tucked beneath the old stone. He knew Steve was standing nearby, thoughtfully out of the light, and ignored his friend's low chuckle until after he'd managed to capture at least a little essence of the medallion. He scowled up through his shaggy hair. "What?" he demanded.

"Nothing," said Steve airily. "Just some girls checking out your ass."

His gut clenched reflexively. The Winter Soldier's good looks had seldom played in his favor. That particular shadow of memory had to be shoved into a dark corner, fast. He frantically reminded himself that a couple of random girls' libidos on a Florida street posed him no threat, and forced a smile. "Well, they must like lookin' at antiques," he elected, his voice deceptively flippant, rising smoothly to his feet. Unless they were heavily armed, or had significant backup, two girls did not pose much of a threat.

Steve grinned. "No pursuit?" he asked easily.

"Nah," shrugged Bucky. "I'm here with you, right? I can go trolling any ol' time."

Steve's shoulders relaxed a hair; Bucky must've said something right. Wonders never ceased. "So apparently there's a wax museum around here somewhere," said Steve, looking up the light-dappled street.

"Yeugh," shuddered Bucky. "Creepy-ass places. Like the fuckin' Hall of Presidents, god."

"I think the Jimmy Carter one was the worst," agreed Steve. He pivoted, eyes tracking casually, then paused, head cocked.

"What?" asked Bucky cautiously, stuffing the camera in his front pocket. Steve didn't LOOK nervous, but …

"Hm," said Steve, and strolled over to brightly lit plate glass under an art gallery sign. "You mind?" he asked over his shoulder.

"No," said Bucky, relieved. Of course he didn't mind Steve taking an interest in something that didn't involve Bucky's brain or Bucky's arm or Bucky's mental health or Bucky's past or Bucky's future. His secret mission was to keep Steve away from the broken, filthy parts of his psyche as much as possible; make him believe there was a chance at restoration. Basically anything that caught Steve's eye that had nothing to do with Bucky was a winning scenario in his book.

He followed Steve to the gallery window and looked at the artwork. Paintings, sculptures, figurines, some weird-looking stiff cloth things suspended on hangers that looked more like bedsheets dug up under a house than artwork. Bucky didn't know nearly as much about art as Steve, but was familiar enough with his best friend's knowledge that he could look without becoming bored for, oh, about twenty minutes. Thirty, if there were relatively realistic pictures of naked girls.

There were no naked girls in this art gallery window, however. Vivid paintings, splashes of scarlet and ochre and yellow; glass cut and polished, throwing rainbows around the pedestals; jagged figurines of dancers and animals, as though trapped mid-movement in stone.

Bucky stood and let his mind wander while Steve looked, going from window to window. The sun was setting, and a breeze had started up, cool and deliciously fragrant with the scents of grilled food and salt water and stone. People walked by dressed for dinner; somewhere down the street, a photographer was taking pictures of a wedding party, the bride in a gleaming white dress like one of the marble figures Steve was currently admiring. She and her blue-clad bridesmaids were laughing and holding colorful bouquets. He could hear church bells somewhere, muffled and distant, and the clop of heavy horse hooves on the pavement. The familiar cacophony of a restaurant and bar district picked up. Humming behind it all was the solid, immovable serenity of a centuries-old city, standing on the blood and bones of its settlers, the soldiers who died on its sands, the victims of disease and war, the courageous folly of millions of souls determined to say, I live here.

It had been many years since Bucky had been in a city older than the country of his birth, and many more since he'd been able to stand, feet planted, and absorb the feel of great age and the solemnity that accompanied it. It was comforting, knowing that this strange, warm city, its crowded streets and the smell of manure and fried oysters, predated Hydra and the KGB and the Winter Soldier's depredations, and would exist long after everything else had faded away – SHIELD, the WSC, Sarasota itself – cobblestones to gravestones, himself barely a dark, blood-soaked speck in the turning wheel of its existence. He closed his eyes, for once uncaring of who or what was at his back, and let his noisy mind rest a moment, the slight loosening of a rubber band pulled to fraying-point.

Something clicked beside him, and he opened his eyes. Steve had snapped a picture of a statue with his phone, and was thumbing a text message to someone. The phone was angled just right so that Bucky could just see the string of letters beneath a thumbnail of a statuette. Steve pushed send, and the phone trilled in acknowledgement.

Bucky looked at the statuette. It was of two children standing together, siblings perhaps, one with his arms crossed, the other with an arm slung over the shorter one's shoulders. It was a charming little piece, sketchy cut metal with highly polished edges; you could see the stoicism in the younger boy's face, the bright grin on the elder's. There was a breathtaking price tag beneath it, and it rotated slowly on its luminous pedestal, showcasing what even Bucky could tell was detailed artistry, down to the folds of cloth in their shirts and the dimple in the smaller boy's cheek.

Bucky glanced at Steve. His eyes were soft, like they usually got when he was talking to an attractive woman. The flick of suspicion in Bucky's breast swelled into a certainty.

"You schmoozing one of the artists at the Ringling?" he drawled.

Steve started, pupils dilating a little, and he huffed a laugh. "Maybe?" he admitted, his cheeks going pink. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" Bucky grinned. "What's this artist's name?"

Steve set his jaw and tucked his phone back into his pocket. "None of your damn business," he said, equably enough.

"Huh," said Bucky, watching him with hooded eyes, still grinning. Steve gave the statuette one last longing look, then turned abruptly away from the window, heading back down King Street to Charlotte. Bucky swung along beside him, pleased. "Does Miss None of Your Damn Business have a pretty face to go along with her great artistic talent?" he asked casually.

"Yes," said Steve shortly, breathing out abruptly through his nose.

Bucky could take a hint, despite evidence to the contrary. "Good," he said. He let Steve snort along for another few moments, then said, "Hey, can we eat at Harry's? Amelie says the bathroom's haunted."

Caught off-guard, Steve laughed. "Yeah, sure," he said, crinkling his eyes at Bucky. "You wanna go ghost-hunting?"

Bucky thought about it for a moment. "Nah," he concluded. "Think our latent Catholicism would rise up in protest, or something."

"Probably," Steve agreed, and led Bucky down Charlotte to Harry's for an early dinner.

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Much to Bucky's disappointment, there was no evidence of a ghost in the Harry's men's room. While Steve chatted with the waitress about going on a late-night walking tour, Bucky sent an indignant text to Amelie about the dearth of restroom hauntings. After a moment she replied, no sweetie the ladies room not the mens, and Steve had to physically restrain Bucky from sailing into the restaurant women's bathroom demanding any spooks to show themselves.

The walking tour had enough history to interest Steve, and enough bloodshed to fascinate Bucky, and they wound it up with a couple of beers at an Irish pub on Avenida Menendez.

"Sláinte," they said to each other in unison, and clinked their glasses together. It was after midnight, and the lights along A1A reflected back, undulating and eerie, on the black waters of Matanzas. It was chilly, even for the end of March, and they were both glad to have their sweatshirts as they walked across the bridge to their hotel, Steve's telling the world he had been in the Army, Bucky's advertising a Sarasota donut shop.

As they prepared for bed, jostling for toothbrush space in front of the tiny sink, Steve realized with a moment of panic that this would be the first time they'd slept in the same room in eighteen months. He knew he sometimes had nightmares that woke him with half-strangled cries in his throat, but didn't want Bucky to know that – his priority was to get Bucky better, not to have Bucky worry that Steve wasn't one hundred percent.

He watched Bucky rinse and spit, give a low growly belch, and shuffle towards the bed he'd claimed by the window, scratching his ass and yawning. It would be different than staying in the Lido Motel – Bucky had only slept a few hours at a time back then, and Steve was too apprehensive about Bucky being a flight risk that his best friend's fragile presence did not allow him to drift off at all.

Weirdly enough, this would be the first time they had slept properly in a room together since the War. Steve thought about mentioning it, but his brain backed out immediately. There was no way in hell he was opening that can of worms this late at night. And Bucky still wasn't … quite right. Not yet.

He'd bring it up later. Maybe.

They climbed under the stiff and ugly polyester bedspreads, stretched on surprisingly soft white sheets, and Bucky fell asleep so quickly Steve was fondly and painfully reminded of Sgt. Barnes, battered and exhausted, sprawled on a cot in his shorts and undershirt, snoring lightly while Steve struggled through the obligatory command paperwork while mortar fire rumbled like thunder in the distance. He crushed those thoughts back painfully. As much as people tended to romanticize the camaraderie and heroism of the War, it had been a three sixty-five, twenty-four/seven shitshow killing Nazis, and Steve was glad it was over.

He drifted off, thinking instead of blonde-and-green-eyes, and the appreciative text she'd sent in response to the picture of the sculpture in the window.

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Steve gurgled himself awake, thrashing a little, and threw off his covers, his mind scrambling to remember where he was in the unfamiliar darkness. He had dreamt horribly of blood and gunfire and screaming children, his subconscious throwing him back into the familiar and hateful certainty he could never do enough, never save enough people. He fought down a whimper and forced his breathing to slow, not wanting to wake Bucky.

Bucky's bed was empty.

Steve's heart constricted again, tighter this time, and the rational part of his brain that was just struggling awake reminded him that Bucky was unlikely to run off, and to think about this rationally, dammit, and not go off half-cocked. Then he smelled the familiar harsh-sweet smell of the tobacco Bucky used in his hand-rolled cigarettes, and realized he'd woken himself up in the middle of a smoke break.

He lay back down, willing his pounding heart to slow. It was okay. They were okay. Everything was going to be fine.

He knew he couldn't fake-sleep well enough to fool Bucky – he never could – so he waited until the hotel room door creaked open and he felt rather than heard his friend move past his bed, a ghostly, silent black shadow. In the breath of air he stirred lingered the remnants of cigarette smoke. Steve's heart unclenched a little, like it always did when he knew exactly where Bucky was.

"You stink," he said to the darkness.

"Shut up," the darkness responded equably, and climbed into bed. Steve lay awake for a while before drifting off again.

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Steve's phone buzzed him awake at five in the morning. He shut it off with a grunt. He was on vacation, dammit. There was no reason to get up before dawn. Especially since he'd slept poorly, his dreams edged with fire and smoke. He rolled over, pulled the shitty motel bedspread over his shoulders, and fell back asleep.

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An earthquake jolted him awake, seven point five at least, so violent he could feel his entire body bouncing up off the thin mattress. He flailed with his arms, trying to find purchase, blinking in the dim hotel room light. One hand connected with a leg, which sprang away; then the bed lurched and vaulted, creaking alarmingly.

"Get – up – punk!" yelled Bucky as he jumped, his not inconsiderable weight sending the poor motel bed juddering. "It's – eight – o'clock – and I want – breakfast!"

"Jesus Christ!" squawked Steve, taking a swipe at Bucky's legs, but Bucky just laughed and launched himself off the bed, landing on the floor with a loud thump. Steve hoped whoever had the room below them was an early riser. "What the fuck – "

"Dibs on the shower," grinned Bucky, and ducked Steve's pillow. He slammed the bathroom door behind himself with a laugh.

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The free coffee in the hotel office was so bad even Bucky wouldn't drink it. A Bucky without his morning coffee was a grumpy and ill-tempered Bucky, so Steve promised, after they dumped the offending brown water into a nearby palmetto bush, that they would find some potable caffeine as soon as possible.

As they strolled down the sidewalk to the bridge, the day bright and breezy around them, Bucky glared down at his phone, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was determined to find coffee and breakfast, and snarled impatiently every time Steve suggested McDonald's. Steve knew Bucky hated McDonald's, but sometimes it was fun to poke the bear a little. Bucky would have died horribly before admitting he was an epicurean.

Steve had been texting blonde-and-green-eyes all morning, painfully conscious of Bucky's side-eye every time he picked up his phone, and was determined to keep the offending piece of equipment in his pocket to prevent any catastrophes, like Bucky snatching the phone away and sending a rude text message, which was probable. So instead, Steve admired the view from the top of the bridge's bascule, the main square of the old city laid out before them like a worn and shabby precious jewel. The sun glanced off the high tower of the cathedral, and slanted with blue shadows across the old buildings. Trees were emerald green, shimmering in the breeze, and the smells of dirt and salt water and stone were all around them. He needed to come back, next time with a sketchbook and ink and watercolors – photos wouldn't do St. Augustine justice. A city this old and stately demanded consonant media.

"Burger Buckets," said Bucky suddenly.

Steve's brain skidded to a halt. "What?"

"Breakfast. Coffee," said Bucky around his cigarette. It was almost smoked out and stuck smoldering to his lower lip. "Place is called Burger Buckets. Review says great omelets."

"And coffee?" prodded Steve.

"Free refills," said Bucky, looking a lot less growly. Steve didn't know why coffee was so important to Bucky – like nicotine and alcohol, his enhanced metabolism burned right through it. Sam said it was psychological. Clint said he was just pigheaded. They were both probably right.

"Where?" asked Steve. He didn't pull out his phone, knowing the urge to text would be too great. She was busy – Steve needed to stop bugging her. She was probably finding it annoying, anyway. He was becoming that guy who wouldn't let her be. That was awkward. With all the methods of communication these days, IM's and emails and blogs and text messaging, Steve didn't have a feel for when interest became intrusive. He wished he was better at this.

He could ask Bucky, but … would Bucky know? He'd always been better at dating than Steve – having more opportunities had certainly helped, and Bucky possessed this easy, warm nature that naturally attracted girls – but it wasn't like Bucky had had many opportunities to flex his flirt muscles while being used as a terrifying assassin glower monster by Hydra. Steve decided to ask Sam, instead. Sam would tease him, but at least he'd get a straight answer. God only knew what Bucky would come up with.

He waited while Bucky pulled up the map. "That way," said Bucky, pointing straight ahead toward Cathedral Place; his metal arm flashed in the sunlight. "Then right on … Cordova."

"Lead on, Chekov," grinned Steve.

Bucky stubbed out his cigarette on his metal palm, chucking it into a nearby trash can. "Sure thing, Mr. Sulu," he grunted.

It was a weekday, and the streets were nearly empty save for the occasional blue-collar worker or well-dressed shop assistant. "Probl'ly all hung over," grinned Bucky when Steve commented on how quiet it was.

"Don't miss that," said Steve, and Bucky snorted in agreement.

They paused in front of Flagler College to admire the building, stately and red-brown, with its crenellated façade and the big, bulbous stained glass windows at the dining hall. While Bucky took pictures, Steve watched the students filtering in and out, clad in sweats and carrying backpacks and coffee. Most of them were chatting happily together, talking about lacrosse, or grades, or this or that professor's likelihood of surprising them with a pop quiz. Steve felt a swell of nostalgia, his restless mind seeking new things. He could go back to college, get a bachelor's. It wasn't unthinkable, not anymore. The world was his oyster – albeit a constricted and heavily scrutinized oyster – and it wasn't too late to finish that art degree. And maybe Bucky would want to go back, exercise his brain, do something different.

The image of Bucky, shaggy-haired and metal-armed, slouching and glaring in a college classroom filled with teenagers, gave him pause. He mentally inserted himself next to him, all big limbs and awkward silences making the desk look tiny, and grimaced. Maybe online classes would be preferable.

They passed two breakfast places, open and displaying placards with their menus, on their way down Cordova, but Bucky was a man on a mission and refused to stop. When they found Burger Buckets and stepped inside, Steve's vague resentment faded: this was the St. Augustine equivalent of a New York diner open for breakfast. He could smell bacon, toast, coffee, and high cholesterol, and he felt a swell of happiness at the look of satisfaction on Bucky's face.

"Finally," breathed Bucky, and grinned at the waitress as she came up to seat them.

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Between them, they polished off two three-egg omelets, two sides of bacon, an order each of French toast and buttermilk pancakes, and two pots of coffee. The waitress, a young and painfully soft-voiced Flagler student working her way through school, goggled appreciatively at Steve and stammered her way through answering his question about the advertisement for something called the Red Train. Bucky, his belly full of fat and carbohydrates, stretched comfortably out on his side of the booth and gazed out the window, letting his mind wander as Steve, blind to the girl's enthrallment, unfolded his spreadsheet and pointed to the day's schedule.

Bucky smiled to himself and sipped his cup of coffee – his tenth, he thought, nice and bitter with a slick of oil across the top. He allowed himself to stare out the window without calculating the force necessary to burst through the plate glass, or determining what caliber bullet would be best for assassinating the passing cyclists, and gazed thoughtlessly at the berm of sand and scrub, the tourists with their ball caps and cameras, the building across the tiny parking lot that advertised hamburgers and rooms for rent. There were twelve adults and five children in the dining area, two waitresses, and two line cooks; the building had three exits and high visibility and would be completely indefensible in case of attack. But it didn't bother him, because he was full and warm and sitting across from Steve who had given every indication of being a little bit in love with someone, and they were in an old, old city with things to look at and food to eat and girls to watch.

"It's very convenient," the waitress was saying, leaning a little too close to Steve to show him the pamphlet. "You pay for one day, three days, or five days, and you can pick it up anywhere and it will drop you anywhere, and it runs until five o'clock. The drivers give you a tour of the city and everything. History and stuff. They're very knowledgeable. Smokey is my favorite, so try and get on Smokey's train."

Bucky absently picked up his butter knife and twirled it between his left fingers. Dog – there was a woman walking a dog – an older lady, big white sun hat, little Yorkie in a pink harness. It trotted along, springy like most small terriers, fluffy and tiny with big brown eyes. Bucky wanted to pet it. He wondered if he ran outside, if he could catch her up and ask if he could pet her dog.

"Complimentary parking right out front," the waitress continued, and pointed past Bucky, then stammered to a halt.

Bucky's attention jerked, and he snapped his head around, perception funneling through the diner noise and the smell of bacon. She was staring down at his hand, his metal hand, dammit, flipping the damn knife around, the metal plates of his bicep shifting and whirring. His fist closed around the handle with an ominous clink and he felt his whole body tense. He heard the waitress gulp. Her pupils had dilated, and her nice pink cheeks were drained of color. Her eyes were fixed on the metal arm, and the edge of his red star, peeping beneath the tee shirt sleeve.

Fuck the Winter Soldier – fuck him, fuck him, fuck him; he always was showing up just when Bucky thought he was gone, ruining everything and dragging him down, dragging Steve down too.

Steve flicked his gaze between the two, blue eyes glittering, and he slowly, deliberately reached out one big hand and closed it around Bucky's. "Buck," he said, his voice very calm and casual. "Put the knife down. You're getting syrup everywhere."

It cut through the sudden high whine in Bucky's head, took his tripping heart and pushed it down, back into his chest, beating strong and steady. Steve's hand was very warm and gentle. Flesh fingers wormed smoothly between metal ones, took the sticky knife, slid it out and put it, slow and deliberate, onto the Formica table top. Bucky's metal hand stretched open, balled into a fist, then opened again. It hummed, much like the bleary white light that fuzzed and burred in Bucky's eyes, and he desperately wanted to punch something.

Steve's voice, low and warm and kind: "He's always making a mess. Sorry about that. But yeah, the Red Train sounds like a great idea. I'll be sure to grab us a couple of tickets after we get out of your hair."

The pulse of panic receded, and Bucky looked up at the waitress. She was still staring, eyes round, pink lips in an O. Her gaze went from Bucky's arm to his eyes, and Bucky tried very hard to project I'm really not that dangerous I promise I won't even kill you, please don't be afraid of me into his gaze. Slowly, her mouth closed and her eyes cleared; she nodded and said, her voice bright but wobbly:

"That's great. I'll just get you guys your check." And she hustled to the kitchen, their dishes clattering in her hands.

"Shit," muttered Bucky. "Shit, shit, shit."

"It's okay," Steve soothed, leaning across the table, his eyes intense. "Buck. Bucky, look at me. Look."

Reluctantly, Bucky met his eye. Steve looked so fucking earnest, damn him, like a big Kermit the Frog trying to keep his show from going to hell. Bucky would not let that happen. Steve tried so hard, wanted the best for Bucky. It wasn't Steve's fault that his best friend was an internationally wanted serial murderer with a metal arm. Steve didn't sign up for this shit. He deserved better.

So Bucky set his jaw and unclenched his fist and let his mouth slide into a grin. "Think she recognized me?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound amused. "Think she knows who I am. Doesn't matter, though, right? She sure liked lookin' at you, pal."

Steve's eyes flickered, uncertain, and his jaw relaxed. "She's gotta be, what, eighteen?" he said with a chuckle. "Get your dirty mind out of the gutter, Barnes."

"Hey, I ain't the one who's been sexting an artist all morning," Bucky retorted. The tactic worked; Steve turned red and sat back.

"We're not sexting," he said, his blush creeping down his neck. "I was just, um, telling her about our trip."

"Uh-huh," said Bucky. He pulled out his wallet and plastic baggie. "Gonna go smoke. Grab me when you're done." He slid out of the booth and threw a twenty on the sticky Formica.

"I'm getting us train tickets," Steve called to his back as he opened the door. "Other side of the building."

Bucky just gave him a thumbs-up, and slipped around the corner of the diner, his flesh hand shaking as he dug out a rolling paper. The lady with the Yorkie was gone. Probably just as well. She'd have taken one look at him and refused to let him even touch her little dog. Bucky couldn't blame her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck the Winter Soldier. The sun was shining and the bay was bright blue and the city smelled like dirt and stone, and Steve wanted to take him to a winery and a distillery, and goddammit all to hell, the crazy, deadly motherfucking Winter Soldier wouldn't fucking leave them alone. All Bucky wanted was to be ordinary. Why couldn't he just be ordinary, dammit? Why did he have to have this fucked-up brain and scrambled memory and goddamn metal arm?

He rolled a cigarette, sparked it up, and leaned in the shade at the corner of the building, smoking and glaring at passers-by, who, to his annoyance, completely ignored his bad mood and tattered jeans and cheerlessness and went on with their days, talking on cellphones and carrying souvenir bags and looking at street maps. A young couple walked by with a big yellow Labrador, and Bucky suddenly felt sad. He wanted to pet the Labrador, but he was pretty sure he'd just scare the dog's owners, like he'd scared the waitress in the diner. Then the dog stopped to sniff something, and he realized with a jolt it only had three legs – its left rear was just a stump. It responded to its owner's tug on the lead and loped on, its long doggy face happy and careless.

Bucky's phone buzzed, and he dug it out of his jeans pocket and thumbed it open. He had a text message from Clint. He angled the screen into the shadow, and opened the attachment.

Tinny children's voices, the little images of Cooper, Lila, and Baby Nate standing on the Bartons' front porch, all wearing birthday hats and holding sparklers. "Happy birthday, Uncle Bucky!" they chorused, and Cooper and Lila waved. Baby Nate threw both arms in the air and yelled, "YEEAAAHHH!" and Bucky could hear Laura laugh behind the camera.

Bucky gave a breathy chuckle and looked up. There was another young couple walking past, this time with a stroller and a toddler. The baby in the stroller was crying, and they paused to let the father pick him up and cuddle him close. The mother took the toddler's hand and he heard her say, "Come on! Let's go to the merry-go-round!"

Bucky watched the three-legged dog and the family pass by. A wave of regret overwhelmed him, and he let the cigarette drop smoldering to the ground. He didn't always remember things, but he remembered wanting kids. He remembered wanting to get married and have a family and a dog and a life. He knew he couldn't, now; it was a fact, something he had been forced to accept. But he couldn't help wondering about that old Bucky Barnes, the one who had laughed and worked and hoped and dreamed, and if that man would have felt as sad about Bucky's current life as Bucky did.