5.

There were several ways this could play out.

Bucky could get angry. It was frighteningly easy for Bucky to get angry nowadays. The famed "Black Irish temper" his mother had warned him about in 1930 had been exacerbated by time, torture, and death, and it took little to set Bucky off. In those circumstances, Steve had found it prudent to simply remove Bucky from the public eye and let him rage alone. If several shrubs and a few garbage cans got caught in the crossfire, well, so be it. Theirs was a noble sacrifice.

Or Bucky could get morose. That was also a standard response. He could duck down, crouch, hide, give monosyllabic answers to queries and simply glare at the people surrounding him. This was a less frightening response, but no less disruptive, as it also tended to put a halt to whatever Steve happened to be doing at the moment. Feelings and schedules took the place of shrubs and cans – no less damaged, and harder to repair.

Or … Bucky could ignore it, and pretend nothing happened.

Steve knew it was not a healthy response. Feigning normalcy only took Bucky so far – the feelings were still there; he just refused to deal with them. Sam and Clint had warned Steve over and over about this. But how many times could Steve say, "Bucky, it's okay to feel that way" while his best friend sneered and called him Captain Psychiatrist? It wasn't so bad if they were at home and could snipe and growl at each other across the patio while they worked out Bucky's fragile pig-headedness, but dealing with an aggressive, angrily grinning Winter Soldier in public was sometimes scarier than a complete meltdown. It usually lasted longer than lost temper or shutting down, but Steve still couldn't help hoping, selfishly, that this is what Bucky would do. It would allow them to go through the motions, tick off the check-marks on Steve's Excel spreadsheet, and give Bucky time to settle down a bit.

So Steve was tentatively relieved when Bucky picked what was behind curtain number three, and simply sauntered into the gift shop behind Burger Buckets, looking around calmly, hands jammed into his board short pockets.

Steve eyed him cautiously while purchasing the Red Train tickets from the pleasant-faced older lady behind the counter. He half-listened as she explained the stickers and the stops and how nice it was that it wasn't crowded but that of course meant there were fewer trains and longer waits, and watched Bucky poke around the cheap plastic toys and souvenirs, and frown thoughtfully at one of the innumerable penny-squashing machines that seemed to pepper all of the state of Florida. What Floridians had against the U.S. penny, Steve had no idea, but it seemed like there was a penny-squashing machine every twenty feet.

Steve thanked the woman and took their stickers. "Here," he said, holding his breath as he handed it to Bucky. Bucky only raised an eyebrow at it, and watched Steve put the sticker on his shirt. "We gotta wear these if we want to ride the Red Train."

"Cute," grunted Bucky. He had picked up a garish green sweatshirt with the Burger Buckets logo on it. "Gimme a sec."

Steve waited while Bucky purchased the sweatshirt, smiling as Bucky flirted outrageously with the lady behind the counter. He reduced the poor woman to blushes and giggles, kissed her hand good-bye, and strode purposefully toward the shop exit, pulling the sweatshirt over his head. It was going to be in the eighties, and the sun had already heated the streets and corners, but Steve said nothing, especially when, after scooting across the seats in the tram, he watched Bucky poke a hole in the left cuff for his thumb.

So that was how he was playing it.

Steve stayed mum, careful to not question Bucky's change of attire, and devoted the front part of his brain to enjoying the lovely sunny morning, the bright reflections off shop windows and Matanzas, and the joke-sprinkled commentary by the tram driver. Most of the information he already knew from his research, but it was always fun to hear someone else's take on the history of so old and venerable a city.

The back part of his brain continued to worry. But this was so normal for him that he barely even noticed. It would be fine. It was fine. Everything was okay. Bucky was okay.

Really.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They ended up making a complete circuit of the city on the Red Train, both too fascinated with their driver's tour and the strange sights that they agreed to catch the winery on the second loop. Bucky struck up a friendship with a baby sitting in front of them, staring over her mother's shoulder with big hazel eyes, bald pate topped with a pink sun hat. They goggled and waved and giggled at each other, both Steve and the baby's family smiling indulgently, until they bid an enthusiastic farewell at the pirate museum. Bucky glowered at the sign.

"Need to bring the Barton kids here," he said thoughtfully.

Steve made a face. He didn't mind a solo Lila, but Cooper and Baby Nate could be a handful to wrangle as a duo. And somehow, Bucky managed all three just fine, juggling the Barton kids' contentment with the ease of a plate-spinner at a county fair. He made it look so easy, even when Cooper got petulant and Lila got demanding and Baby Nate threw a tantrum. "Only if we got backup," he said firmly.

Bucky gave a tight grin. "Pansy," he said.

It turned out to be a good thing that there was a restaurant at the winery. All Bucky had had to eat after breakfast was a double scoop of ice cream, and after building up a hearty appetite tasting and purchasing wines, he declared he would boycott the distillery until he had a goddamn sandwich. So they lugged their bottles to the upstairs restaurant and sat outside, watching the seagulls and trucks below, and demolished three appetizer platters, two sandwiches, and a pitcher of beer.

While Bucky leaned over the rail and snapped pictures of the boats on the river, Steve checked his phone. Blonde-and-green-eyes had texted him twice, snapshots showing the progress of her latest piece. It was promising to be spectacular, and Steve was tapping an appreciative response when he heard Bucky's voice, pitched lower, slower than usual, and he looked up, alert.

Two frat-holes in popped collars and backwards ball caps faced off with him, foolishly supposing they were a match for Bucky Barnes. Steve could have saved them the trouble and told them that they hadn't a snowball's chance, especially when Bucky was already on edge. As Steve rose to his feet, he spotted the subject of the dispute: a girl's forgotten purse, dangling from one of the douchebag's hands, already open, the wallet flipped negligently between fingers that didn't look like they'd seen an honest day's work in their lives. Bucky's right hand was out, reaching for the purse, and his gray eyes flashed angrily.

Under different circumstances, Steve would have simply let Bucky have his head and deal with the idiots alone. There was no sense making Bucky think Steve didn't trust him to handle himself, and that Black Irish temper did spoil for a good fight. Better two entitled dickheads than Steve, after all.

But this was a nice restaurant, and the waiter was hovering nervously, and Steve was on vacation, dammit, and explaining to Maria Hill that he'd let the Winter Soldier beat up two civilians was not how he'd wanted to spend his afternoon. Besides, the balcony wall was a mere four feet from Frat-Hole #1's feet, and Steve knew that Bucky would consider the two-story drop more expedient than a cracked knuckle. He pocketed his phone, pushed his chair back, and rose to his feet in time to hear Frat-Hole #2 say, with brilliant originality, "Yeah? You and what army?"

"You think I need an army, pal?" growled Bucky. He feinted with his left hand, and when #1 tried to swing the little purse away, Bucky snatched it with his right, scooping up the wallet and a stray tampon in the process.

"Gimme!" snapped Frat-Hole #1, and reared back to take a swing at Bucky.

Steve knew how that would turn out. "Hey!" he said, and Frat-Hole #1 paused with a sneer.

"Mind your own goddamn business," he said.

Steve raised his eyebrows at Bucky, who had tucked the wallet and tampon back in the little purse. Bucky flicked one eyelid – the barest wink – and Steve collared Frat-Hole #2 while his compatriot went down like a panicked squirrel on the floor, tangled in the cast-iron chair. Steve tightened his grip on Frat-Hole #2, who was cursing, and lifted the boy up off the ground. He gurgled, eyes rolling at Steve in surprise.

"Look, son," said Steve patiently. "Do you really want to get into it with a decorated Army veteran? Because if you do, I'll just step back and let my friend take you two apart piece by piece, and help the busboy sweep up your teeth afterwards."

Frat-Hole #2 smelled like a lot of whiskey and ketchup. Steve guessed they had hit the distillery first. He didn't reply, probably because Steve's hand had twisted his collar enough to cut off his hair supply, and he hung, wriggling and gasping, a good foot off the floor.

Steve glanced down at Frat-Hole #1, who was scrambling amongst the discarded French fries and table legs at Bucky's feet. He appeared to be having some trouble getting up, whether because he, like his compatriot, had over-indulged, or because Bucky's boot was planted squarely in the center of his chest, Steve couldn't really tell. "So here's what we're going to do," Steve said. "You two are going to tab out and scram, and Sarge and I are going to hand this purse over to the waitstaff so the owner can get it back intact. Got it?"

By this point, the remaining diners had figured out that something was happening. They craned their necks, eyes wide and interested. Steve didn't see any cell phones taking pictures or video yet, which meant he'd have to wrap this up quickly. Last thing he wanted was a phone call right now, asking what the hell they were doing.

"Get offa me," whined Frat-Hole #1. Steve didn't see any blood, which was comforting. "It was just a joke, man."

"You got a funny idea what's a joke, asshole," grunted Bucky, lifting his boot and stepping back. "Get up. Get outa here. Waste of fuckin' oxygen."

Steve lowered Frat-Hole #2 to the ground. He spun away from Steve, red-faced and flustered. "I should call the cops!" he said petulantly.

"You should," agreed Steve, equable and calm. "You can explain to them why your fingerprints are all over some girl's wallet."

The two Frat-Holes scrambled back from Steve and Bucky, and one of them threw a couple of twenties on their table. "Fuckin' assholes!" Frat-Hole #2 yelled, and they beat a hasty retreat.

There was a smattering of applause from the other tables, which only seemed to incense them more; Steve could hear them banging and yelling down the stairs as they left. He quirked a grin at Bucky, who was standing, chin up, his eyes still a little wild. "You just love looking for trouble, don't you?" he asked with a grin.

"Look who's talkin'," said Bucky. He was a little breathless, even though Steve was sure he hadn't expended any energy. Steve didn't like the manic light in his eye, and wondered if he'd done right to keep Bucky from a fight. Sometimes he needed to blow off steam. But Steve never knew who was throwing the punch – Sergeant Barnes with his right fist, or the Winter Soldier with his left – and it was prudent to keep damage to a minimum. Steve knew oh so well how that left fist felt.

He accepted the waiter's thanks and paid their bill, then collected bottles and Barnes and headed downstairs. "Distillery?" he asked hopefully. He really didn't want this little incident to throw a monkey wrench into their trip.

Bucky gave Steve an assessing look, almost as though it had been Steve picking the fight, and not him. "Yeah," he said after a moment. "Sure, why not?" He turned away before Steve could decide if he was being humored.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bucky was humming.

Not just his arm, this time. His whole body – limbs, heart, head, brain – was buzzing like a chainsaw. He could feel it behind his eyes, in his ears, quivering down to his fingertips. Everything was wound like a top, stretched tight and fraying. When he stepped, the soles of his feet didn't hit the ground; they were buoyed by static, cushioning his strides. The air was full of prickles and bees against his skin.

Distillery, chocolate factory, train, Steve by his side, solid and dependable despite the stress. How did he do it? How did he present that bland, smiling façade to the world when Bucky knew he barely slept, choked by nightmares of bad ops and blood? How did he stay so calm? No one would ever guess Steve Rogers was a fucking mess, him with his perfect hair and shaved chin and clean house and ironed slacks. But Bucky knew.

Bucky also knew he had no right to talk. If Steve was a mess, Bucky was a goddamn train wreck. Those two fucking frat-boy assholes, lifting a girl's purse and digging into it, a violation of privacy, laughing sneering faces, as though they were entitled to hurt and humiliate. Bucky hated men like that. Hated them. They needed to be stopped. To be – not killed – Bucky didn't do that anymore – or hurt – did hurting a hurter make it square? No, no – Bucky needed to stop thinking like that. Steve was talking.

"Better take these bottles back to the motel," he said. They had bought a lot of booze. Bucky smiled. Booze didn't take the edge off anymore, but it sure felt fun.

"Sure, yeah," he said. His voice was surprisingly smooth. He didn't think Steve could hear Bucky's brain vibrating. Steve looked calm and happy, not worried like he did when he knew Bucky was losing his damn mind. Not that Bucky was losing it. He wasn't. He was just – just keyed up, upset by those two jerks at the restaurant. He needed to burn it off, somehow. But not now; not with Steve watching. It would worry Steve, seeing Bucky brittle and uncontrolled. Steve tried so hard to make life easier for Bucky, easy to navigate so Bucky wouldn't lose it. Not Steve's fault the world was full of assholes hell-bent on getting Bucky angry. Not Steve's fault.

If only he could just breathe.

The walk to the motel helped. The sun was still bright, even though evening was approaching. Bucky wanted to run. Knowing he couldn't didn't make him feel much better.

Steve was talking about the Castillo. Something about its military history had struck a chord in that big strong geeky heart of his, and he kept gesturing at it, gleaming in the mellow light across the bay, with his elbow, both hands loaded down with bottles of wine and liquor. "Never been breached, only changed hands in peacetime," Steve was saying. "Oldest masonry fort in the continental US. Even older than we are, Buck."

"Yeah?" Bucky tried to sound interested. He knew they had passed the fort twice that day on the Red Train, but for the life of him Bucky couldn't remember the second trip around. He realized with a dull jolt that he didn't remember the way the chocolate had tasted at the factory. He couldn't even remember buying any.

"Stood under four flags," Steve continued. "They have a huge collection of old cannons, some of them dating back to the seventeenth century. Isn't that neat?"

Bucky needed to pull himself together before Steve figured out he was off. "Do they still work?" he asked. It was a kind of autopilot answer, but the susurration in his head made it hard to think.

Steve gave him an odd look. Bucky must've said something wrong. "They have demonstrations," said Steve a little slowly. "The guide on the train said so."

"Oh, yeah, right, right," said Bucky. He didn't remember. Whatever the train guide had said about the Castillo and the cannons was gone, buried in static and fuzz. By the look on Steve's face, he didn't buy it. "Hey," said Bucky. He needed to head this off. "I'm hungry."

Steve's face softened. "Of course you are," he said, his smile warm. "We're almost there. Want to grab some seafood? There's supposed to be a good restaurant across the street."

Bucky shook himself mentally. His feet were moving, his arms were full, he could hear the hum of traffic and humanity, but where was he? Where was he? Nothing was familiar; he didn't know, he didn't know –

Bascule curve, white balustrade, the low croak of a pelican, the steady hum of traffic. St. Augustine. Matanzas. The bridge. The lions with their distant, arrogant faces. The bridge. He was on the bridge, over the bay, in St. Augustine, and Steve was beside him.

The buzzing faded a little, and Bucky took a deep breath. The air tasted of exhaust and sea water. He wanted – he wanted –

He wanted to run, to scream, to shoot, to stab, to drown himself. His thoughts were a Gordian knot of hate and fear. He glanced over the rail of the bridge. He could throw himself in, sink to the bottom, join the bodies of soldiers and sailors below. He could mix his blood with the blood of the fallen, another soldier who'd lost his war. It would be easy. Drop the bags. Swing himself over. Fall. Splash. Sink.

And Steve would jump in behind him, and drag him back up again.

He took another deep breath, almost a gasp, as though he had breached the surface. Steve was watching him, brows lowered. The sun gleamed on his blond hair, across the sharp jut of his jaw and cheekbone, glittering on his afternoon stubble.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah, wait," said Bucky. His voice felt thick in the wake of the buzzing and humming, the energy burned away into sludge. He was suddenly very tired. "Seafood sounds good. Gotta piss first."

Steve's face cleared, and he chuckled. "Considering how much booze you sampled, I'm not surprised," he said easily.

Bucky forced a smile. He didn't think it was very convincing, but fortunately Steve didn't seem to be paying attention. He was watching the boats on the bay, the breeze stirring his hair, looking strong and healthy and so fucking normal Bucky wanted to scream. Why was Steve here with him? Why wasn't he back in Sarasota with what's-her-name that he'd sent the picture of the statue to? Why was he living in a duplex with an ex-assassin who was so fucked up he couldn't remember what he'd bought at the distillery? What was wrong with this asshole, anyway?

Stevie never did have any sense. Even Bucky's mom, who had loved Steve like one of her own, had admitted that. Stubborn as a mule.

They made it to the motel and dumped the bottles under the sink, and Bucky claimed the bathroom first. He shut and locked the door behind him and closed his eyes, trying to will his heart to slow. It was tripping panic-fast against his sternum. He reached with his left hand to his kit and fumbled it open.

He sat heavily on the toilet seat, fully clothed, and stared at the razor he'd pulled out of his kit. One twist of his metal thumb would break the plastic casing. It would be so easy, so easy to sink the razor into his skin, let the buzzing and the garbage out. He'd just wrap the cut in a pair of underpants. His new green sweatshirt was so baggy that Steve wouldn't notice.

But, no. Bucky didn't heal that fast. Steve would see it when they went to bed. Besides, Bucky had promised Clint he wouldn't anymore.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, so hard he saw sparkles. His right eye was compressed and warm; his left, transected by cold metal. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and let it out his mouth. And again. And again, like Laura had taught him. Lamaze for the clinically insane.

He pushed the buzz and garbage down. Now was not the time to fall apart. He was on vacation. With Steve. They were supposed to be having fun. And Bucky would be having fun if he could just pull himself together and stop being a freak for once. He was in a motel, with booze, with Steve, about to eat seafood. What the hell was wrong with him? Nothing. Nothing was wrong. Everything was fine. There was nothing to be upset over, nothing to worry about. He was okay.

He promised.

He flushed the toilet, stuffed the razor back into his kit, and opened the bathroom door. "I want fried scallops," he announced. Steve was sorting their bottles by type and flavor, and grinned over his shoulder at him.

"Then let's eat," he said easily, and led Bucky out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

O'Steen's Restaurant, directly across A1A from their motel, was cash-only, and had no waiting area. Bucky could see past the hostess window that the little interior was packed full of people, laughing and eating. His stomach growled.

"You can either wait in the antique store or the bar," said the hostess, writing their names down on her list. "Just let us know which one, and we'll call you when your table's ready."

Bucky could smell the tantalizing scent of fried food and cole slaw. It would be a shame to precede their meal with the smell of an antique store, dust and decay and mortality. "We're older than anything in that place," he scoffed, waving his flesh arm at the antique store. "Let's grab a beer."

"Right," conceded Steve. "Because we haven't had enough to drink today."

"You sober?" asked Bucky, strolling toward the English pub. Loud music, muffled by walls and doors, vibrated around the building ominously.

"Of course," said Steve disbelievingly. "Sober as you are, jerk."

"Then we haven't had enough to drink," declared Bucky. He could practically hear Steve roll his eyes.

He pushed open the pub doors, letting out a blast of heat and noise. Someone was cranking up a karaoke machine in the corner. It smelled of liquor and stale cigarettes. Bucky smiled, feeling at home. The buzzing was almost gone, now. He had managed to tamp it back again, and was starting to feel good. He was going to have fried scallops and beer, and talk Steve into buying the shitty Iron Man on their way back to Sarasota.

They managed to put down two beers apiece by the time the bartender came over to tell them their table was ready. When they'd pushed through the restaurant crowd and Bucky saw the paper menu and was smiled at by the plump, middle-aged waitress, something in his chest softened and went warm, and by the time he got his fried scallops platter with extra hush puppies and a side of cole slaw, he was feeling pretty damn good. The scallops were so delicious that he ordered a plate of fried oysters, and Steve didn't have any room to talk because he'd jollied their waitress into an extra helping of shrimp and crab cakes. The more they ate, the more Steve smiled and laughed, the more Bucky felt like a human being again, letting Steve ramble about St. Augustine's military history and how it had weathered wars and hurricanes and pirates and was an icon not just for the United States, but for the world, Bucky.

And in the cheerful crowd eating fried seafood and drinking iced tea, Bucky's poor tattered brain pieced something together then. Steve was St. Augustine, a living symbol of surviving the stain of wars, standing up against the enemy, belonging to Europe and the New World and its people all at once. He was unbreached, battered but whole, out of active combat but an icon of the peace that follows war: Captain America was the Castillo, passed from power to power but never taken by force. Six foot two and eyes of blue, old fashioned and steady, somehow reduced to a tourist attraction to be stared at by the teenage girls at the table in the corner and the little group of kids who may or may not have recognized him, hovering by the entryway.

Bucky wasn't sure whether he liked that train of thought or not, so he did what he always did: pushed it down, covered it over, gritted his teeth and stopped thinking about it. He was feeling good. There was no sense risking him getting maudlin over something he wasn't even sure he could properly articulate.

By the time they paid their cheerful waitress and complimented the cook, the pub next door was in full swing. The sun had set, and the dark bar windows were full of flashing lights and practically vibrating with music. Steve and Bucky exchanged a glance, grinned, and pushed the doors open.

It was like getting slapped by Def Leppard. Someone was screeching along with the karaoke machine, and there were two girls standing on the bar, dancing; their stilettos were scraped and dirty, and their faces flushed with tequila. It was wall-to-wall people, all shouting and talking and laughing, and there were strobe lights flashing erratically in the corner. Steve grimaced good-naturedly and waved Bucky to the bar, wordlessly acknowledging Bucky's superior booze-acquiring skills.

Bucky managed to wrangle two boilermakers off the bar and through the crowd to Steve. He found his friend in a cluster of people, shouting cheerfully over the din, and pushed a sloshing mug in Steve's hand. "Sláinte!" he yelled. Steve clinked his mug against Bucky's. His eyes were shining and he looked almost relieved. "Not exactly Minton's!"

Steve laughed. "Not even close!" he agreed.

The girls around them introduced themselves, beaming and expectant. Bucky promptly forgot their names. Steve, of course, was being openly admired, but Bucky knew his dark, bad-boy looks were garnering just as much attention. He turned his back to the corner, fighting the impulse to get a wall on his back and assess the building. His vulnerability itched and crawled inside him, but he knew Steve would notice, and he wanted Steve to enjoy himself, not worry about his paranoid best friend.

Bucky was hot, but didn't want to take off his sweatshirt. He could live with it.

It was almost impossible to carry on a conversation. Fortunately, everyone was focused on the karaoke. Bucky was only familiar with the kind of karaoke sung at the clubhouse at home, retired Korean War vets crooning Donovan and their wives warbling through Sonny and Cher or Marie Osmond. Here, the oldest song was AC/DC, and neat blouses and pearl necklaces were replaced by tank tops and chokers; pressed khaki trousers by board shorts and hair gel. The B-52s rattled the windows and the girls on the bar screamed and shook their asses.

Bucky needed a cigarette.

He drained his boilermaker and pulled Steve by the sleeve. Steve was trying to listen to what the girl beside him was yelling into his ear; he looked at once politely attentive and slightly rattled. "Gonna smoke!" Bucky hollered, miming holding a cigarette. Steve nodded, and turned back to the girl, who was hopping up and down and shrieking.

Bucky pushed his way through the crowd, suddenly tired. When did clubs get so noisy? When he and Steve were kids, going out to a club meant jazz and swing and the tight curl of his hands around a girl's waist. He could appreciate a wild party as well as the next guy, but Jesus.

The back of the pub had an open patio with a fire pit, and a gravel path leading to the bathrooms. It was cooler and quieter out there, only a few people leaning on the wood partitions or sitting on the benches by the fire. A few were smoking. Bucky pulled out his baggie and rolled a cigarette, sparking it up. The tobacco tasted like heaven, and he let his head hit the wall behind him, cold concrete against his skull. He could feel the heat bleed out of his skin.

He ran his hands through his hair and smoked, watching the others with the patient calm of a sniper. A couple, and several sets who might get there before the night was through, a few single smokers, the steady filtering to and from the bathrooms. Words, complaints about the price of drinks, assessment of this or that person's skill at karaoke, whether or not the ladies' room had enough toilet paper. The smells of urine, grass, wood smoke, stale beer. The pulse of music, passing traffic, the far-off mournful hoot of a boat horn. An approaching car, tires crunching through the gravel of the back lot, disgorging people; a woman with blue hair explaining something about an electrical reader.

Bucky watched the new group file in. The leader had a flashlight and was fumbling some keys. They were heading up the outside staircase to the second floor, what Bucky had assumed was office space. Several of the newcomers were chatting excitedly. Bucky watched them follow the woman with blue hair up the steps and wondered what they were doing.

"There you are."

Steve appeared at his side, flushed and disheveled. At first Bucky was concerned for the unknown artist in Sarasota, but he didn't see any lipstick stains or hickies, so chances were Steve had behaved himself.

Pity.

"Christ, it's loud in there," said Steve, leaning against the wall beside Bucky. "Am I getting old, or is it time to leave already?"

"Well," drawled Bucky, taking a hit of his cigarette, "drinks ain't cheap, and we spent a shit-ton of money on booze that's just waiting for us in the motel room."

"We could go for a swim in the pool," suggested Steve. Bucky raised his eyebrows at him, and Steve grinned. "A stand," he said. "Go for a stand in the pool."

Bucky laughed. "No diving," he said.

"Come on," said Steve warmly. "Let's bug out."

They decided against fighting their way back through the bar, and walked around the building. The lights were on in the second story. They ran across the divided highway to their motel and trotted up the stairs. It felt beautifully cool and calm.

They flipped for the shower, and Steve called heads and won. Bucky stood on the balcony outside, smoking, watching the pub across the street. He could still hear the commotion, and see the shadows of moving figures in the rooms upstairs.

Steve appeared on the balcony beside him. He was damp and smelled like soap, his hair ruffled up and his shirt clinging to him. He followed Bucky's gaze. "Guess the ghost hunters are still there," he said. He had poured two paper cups full of rum and handed one to Bucky.

Bucky took a sip. "Ghost hunters?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yeah," said Steve. "Girl at the bar told me. Upstairs apartment's supposed to be haunted by an angry spirit."

They were silent a moment, listening to the thumps and screeches from the karaoke.

"I don't blame him," said Bucky.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Steve had three nightmares that night. Bucky knew, because he counted. Bucky didn't have any. He didn't sleep. He wanted to watch out for Steve.

He didn't really need that much sleep, anyway. He was fine. He'd be okay.

He promised.