7.

"Oh, the Ximinez-Fatio house isn't for everyone," smiled the docent, handing Steve his Spanish Military Hospital Museum pamphlet. "It's a pretty place, but not very compelling to someone who's led an active life." She glanced knowingly at Steve's US Army shirt, and he grinned.

"The hard part's finding stuff that interests him," he admitted, glancing around to make sure Bucky wasn't paying attention to their conversation. Bucky hated to be talked about. But Steve had lost track of him somehow while chatting with the docent, complimenting the accuracy of her costume, hearing the calm hum of the museum around him. Well, Bucky had wanted to be here; chances were he wouldn't bug out. "So far, I think his favorite place has been the Irish pub."

The docent laughed. She was comfortable and round, with roseleaf cheeks and plump hands. She reminded Steve painfully of Bucky's mother. "Have you eaten at Barley Republic?" she asked cheerfully. "I bet you'd both like that. It's on Spanish Street – "

"Donna? Sir?" The other docent, young and fresh-faced, bustled into the room, her eyes wide with alarm. "Um, sir, I think your friend is having a seizure – "

Steve glanced away from the first docent, realizing the girl was talking to him, her eyes wide. His mild irritation at the interruption was replaced by a shock of alarm.

Bucky – where was Bucky?

He stepped around the barrier past the docent, and his eyes landed on one of the glass cases. There was a sickle-shaped colonial artifact labeled "amputation knife."

Panic was a mild term for what he felt next. He pushed past the second docent, who flattened herself against the inner lintel to get out of his way, and bolted into the second room, staring around wildly. Where was Bucky, where was Bucky, where was –

He drew up short, horrified. "Oh, god," he whispered.

A handful of tourists stood back cautiously, eyeing the lump in the corner; one mother had her hand over her small daughter's eyes. Steve didn't blame her. The lump, clad in tattered jeans and a sweatshirt splattered in vomit, was curled into a quaking ball on the floor, hands clutching dark shaggy hair, one boot making an erratic tattoo against the wall. He rocked back and forth, gulping down hurried sobs, and the eyes in the pasty face was like a wild animal's.

Steve was moving without thinking, mindless in his panic. "Bucky. Buck. Oh, god." Then there was a small hand on his arm, and he heard the first docent's voice, warm and firm:

"Wait. Stop."

Steve jerked his elbow away and slewed around. She was watching Bucky, her eyes competent and sympathetic. She glanced up at Steve, sharp, incisive.

"Slow. Be careful."

Then Steve remembered Sam's instructions, coming on the heels of a disastrous panic attack at the Publix meat counter. He had reached automatically for Bucky, only to be struck by a flailing metal hand, with Bucky shrieking something in Russian. Steve choked down his reflexive bland reassurance and knelt beside Bucky's quaking body. Behind his combined panic and mortification, he was surprised to feel himself trembling, too.

"Bucky," he said. His voice quavered, and he set his jaw, forcing himself to sound calmer. "Bucky. Hey. I'm here."

The glare Bucky gave him was furious, pinprick-pupils, bile-coated lips in a rictus. "S-s-s saw," he grated, and he banged the back of his head on the wall twice, hard.

"Hey." Steve gulped, and wished like hell Sam was here, despite the deep gulf of distrust between his two friends. He could hear the older docent, Donna, speaking, snippets aimed at the tourists: combat veterans and PTSD and we apologize for the inconvenience. Sneakered feet shuffling in the dust, the room emptying, voices receding. He blinked; to his annoyance he felt tears roll down his cheeks. He knuckled them away impatiently. "Hey. C'mon, Buck – "

Bucky curled in on himself like an armadillo, arms clamped over his head, and drew his knees up past his chin. Steve reached out, paused, then said shakily: "Can I touch you?"

Bucky made a noise in response, ending in a vowel and not a sibilant, hinting Steve had best keep his distance. Steve withdrew his hand, feeling completely useless, furious at himself for not being able to read Bucky anymore, furious at Bucky for letting things get this bad without saying anything. "It's okay," he said, knowing it wasn't. "You're okay." That was a lie, too. "Buck, you gotta – get up – "

Light footsteps on the smooth floor pattered behind him. Donna the docent's voice was low and soft, not projecting anything, the voice of a practiced woman calming a panicked animal. "Fresh air helps," she said, gesturing behind them. "There's a garden through that door. No one's out there."

Steve glanced up at her. The concern in her eyes both warmed and irritated him. They were goddamn super soldiers, for Christ's sake, and they couldn't even walk through a museum without needing help. "Hey," he said, reaching out but not touching Bucky's trembling arm in its garish green sweatshirt. "Let's get you outside."

He expected Bucky to struggle to his feet, but his friend rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled, sobbing and trembling, hugging the wall, to the garden door, cringing up into the sunshine like a whipped dog. Steve scrambled after him, painfully aware he was hovering, inadequate, an impediment even to the docent who moved with calm and patient grace. "I'm going to help you up," she said to Bucky, leaning over, her voice steady. "I'm putting my hand on your arm. Is that all right?"

Bucky's hair swung back and forth in front of his face when he nodded. He let Donna guide him to his feet and stumbled to a rickety little garden chair. He groped for it with shaking hands and Donna said, "That's right, have a seat right there. Just sit and rest. It's quiet out here and no one else is around, just you and your friend." She glanced over her round shoulder at Steve, dark eyes sympathetic. "I'll keep everyone else out."

"Thank you," said Steve flatly, not even knowing what else to say. Bucky had let the docent lift him by his left arm. His metal arm. And he hadn't even flinched away from her, letting this stranger guide him into the walled herb garden, redolent with thyme and rosemary, shade-dappled sunshine, the hum of tourists through the open windows of the museum.

He watched the docent press one hand on Bucky's shoulder – again, his metal one – while Bucky hid his face in his hands, shaking all over like poorly-tuned engine. "I'll leave you boys out here," she said, everything Steve wasn't at that moment, competent and trustworthy and useful. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you," said Steve again, heart heavy. Donna just nodded and stepped back into the museum, holding up her long skirts so she wouldn't trip over the uneven stone stoop. And Steve was left alone in the quiet coquina-walled garden, birds chirping, sun shining, herbs and flowers waving, while Bucky Barnes trembled to pieces and Steve couldn't do a goddamn thing to help him.

"Buck," he said, stomach knotted. He reached out again, wanting to grab Bucky's hand, or touch his shoulder, but he knew he shouldn't without asking permission first, and that was so unfair. "Bucky. You need to tell me when things get this bad so this doesn't hap-"

"Fuck you," grated Bucky, muffled by his hands, then louder: "Fuck you," his voice grating like a corpse dragged on gravel. Steve recoiled, stung by the hate in it. "You fucking little punk, you don't get to tell me what I tell you." His voice was shaking, higher than usual, venomous and harsh. Steve's fear flipped over into anger.

"But you're not well," he insisted. "We both know – " His hand reached automatically to Bucky's shoulder. Bucky jolted back, head shooting up. Steve recognized the impotent rage on the Winter Soldier's face and jerked back, adrenaline spiking across his back.

"I'm not well?" Bucky spat. He wiped off the vomit on his mouth with his sleeve; his lips were trembling, his voice tight. "You don't sleep either – I hear your nightmares. You're just as fucked up as I am, you goddamned hypocrite."

Steve drew back, stung, ice washing over him and his forehead growing tight. Bucky had heard him. He knew. Of course he knew. Steve could never hide anything from him. "I didn't – I wanted – "

"Paradin' me around in broad daylight – " Bucky dropped his head back into his hands, his voice thick with tears. "Pretendin' we're just fucking normal – " He curled in again, dropping his head to his knees. Muffled: "I can't, oh god – "

Steve was dumb, thoughts like churning concrete. He had failed. Everything had gone backwards. Because of him.

Eighteen months, shot to hell.

He found another garden chair, rusted and unstable, and put it next to Bucky's – not too close; he could feel the anger and pain and frustration radiating off him like a kerosene heater – and lowered himself down carefully. The moist dirt and coquina smelled deep and cool, and there was a stand of lemon basil at his feet, wafting sharp and sweet all around them.

The sun moved shadows past the wall and the neat rows of waving stalks and bushy leaves. Steve heard the younger docent speaking, questions from the tour group, then shuffling feet leaving the building. Another group filtered in, some glancing curiously through the doorway at the two men sitting in the herb garden by the sign marked "Do Not Enter," but no one bothered them. That tour group made their way through the hospital, speaking, laughing, asking questions, leaving. And the sun pushed the shadows further across the wall, and the grackles and sparrows squabbled at the feeder, and another tour group came in, and Bucky said nothing, so Steve said nothing.

Steve had suffered in many ways during the course of his life: poverty, illness, bullying, battle wounds. He privately acknowledged that losing Bucky the first time had been worse than losing his parents, and losing Bucky the second time had been worse than coming out of the ice. Now he felt like he was losing Bucky for the third time, and the anticipation of that loss was so overwhelming that he simply felt numb. He stared past his clasped hands at the dirt between his boots, trickles of sweat running down his back and his face as the sun shifted to blaze past the shade. He had lost. He should have listened to Sam. He had failed – of course he had failed. He always failed Bucky.

He couldn't tell the difference between his sweat and his tears, but wiped his eyes anyway when Donna's plump, cotton-swathed shape appeared in the doorway. She stepped briskly up to them past the verbena and handed them bottles of water. "Here," she said. "You boys need to hydrate."

Steve took the bottle; it was ice cold and wet. He wanted to open Bucky's for him, hand it to him, tell him to drink; but he couldn't. But Bucky raised his head, face mottled and eyes dark and baggy, and took the bottle, draining it in one long gulp. Steve sipped at his, wondering, not for the first time, how long super soldiers could go without drinking, and if their thirst felt different from normal men's thirst. Donna stood smiling down at them, her face soft with sympathy.

"There's a restaurant in the building next door," she said. "Gaufre's. The owners are friends of mine. I just talked to them on the phone. The restaurant is empty, and they'd be glad to have you stop by for a bite to eat." She glanced at Bucky's vomit-spattered sweatshirt. "I'm sure you could use it."

Steve's gut reaction was to politely decline, to take charge of Bucky's breakdown, take him back to the hotel, hide him away. And he didn't have a Gaufre's on his Excel spreadsheet, hadn't heard of it, never researched it, didn't know anything about it. But he said nothing, too afraid of fracturing their friendship to speak. He glanced at Bucky instead, fearful, hoping the hate he'd seen was gone.

Bucky tipped his face up to the docent, his eyes red and his mouth turned down, shoulders slumped. He was drained, defeated. Then he turned to Steve, and Steve clenched, bracing himself for vitriol. But Bucky's eyes were exhausted and pleading, and he gestured with his hand clumsily, helpless, wordless, and Steve knew that tell: You do it. I can't.

Steve was the less wounded of the two super soldiers. That meant he was on deck. He peered up at the docent, unsure. She smiled gently.

"Their son was in the Army," she said. "They'd be honored to serve you."

Steve glanced at Bucky. He looked terrible, drawn and pale and sweating, but Steve knew that he couldn't make a decision to save his life after a panic attack. "Thank you," he said hoarsely. "We'll – we'd be happy to."

He rose to his feet, feeling every second of his ninety-seven years, fighting back the urge to help Bucky up. Bucky stood, shaky and uncertain, and ran his hands through his wildly disarranged hair. He glanced down at his green Burger Buckets sweatshirt and grimaced.

"Kind of warm for a heavy shirt," said the docent, reaching out her hand.

Bucky shucked the shirt and handed it, inside-out and balled up, to her, and Steve watched them watch each other, wondering if Bucky saw his mother in the docent's firm and gentle gaze. The adamantium arm flashed bright in the afternoon sun, but the docent took Bucky by the left hand and squeezed. She smiled sadly at them both, cheeks dimpling like dents in cream.

"You'll be okay," she said.

"If you say so," said Steve dully.

Donna led them to the back of the garden wall and pushed open the heavy gate. "There's Avilés," she said, pointing. "Turn left and walk to the end of the next building. You can go into Gaufre's through their back door. They're expecting you."

"Thank you," said Steve. He stepped onto the cobblestones.

"Thanks," said Bucky. His voice was hoarse. Steve saw that he was still holding the docent's hand, and turned away. When they got to the corner of the house, blue with shadow, the docent gave them a smile and a wave, and disappeared back into the hospital.

He and Bucky turned left on Avilés and walked through the bright, hot sun down the old cobblestone street. They passed an antique store, a café, a surf shop, and then Steve spotted the sign for Gaufre's just as an older gentleman, his hair and moustache grizzled, stepped out of a blue-painted door, wiping his hands on his apron. He saw them approach and beamed.

"Donna said you are coming," he said. "Please come in." His voice was heavily accented, and he smelled of coffee and sweet pastries. To Steve's surprise, his stomach growled; he reflected that he still had to feed his body, even if his life was falling apart. And Bucky was probably starving – he'd emptied his stomach, and they had missed lunch.

The little restaurant was cluttered and clean. Pictures of Greece and Poland, gilt icons, paintings, and knick-knacks were scattered over the white plaster walls, and the tables were covered in bright red-checked cloths. It was cool and dim compared to the sunny afternoon outside. The man seated them at a table in the corner, both chairs against the wall and facing the doors and windows, and then gestured a young waitress forward. She put ice water and iced tea on the table, smiled, and left.

"I give you our soup," declared the man, nodding down at them. "Is very good, our soup. Good for young soldiers who lost too much."

Steve and Bucky sat silently as the waitress and old man bustled around them. Bucky was slouched down, eyes staring blankly at the tablecloth; he was miserable and withdrawn. Steve gulped. He hated feeling helpless.

They drank the tea, and ate the soup, which was as promised excellent – coconut and chicken and nuts, spicy and flavorful. Then out came the spanakopita, and pierogis with bacon, and stuffed cabbage – almost as good as Bucky's, though that thought felt traitorous – a huge plate of hummus and baba ganoush and bread, and then the man brought hot espresso with sugar cubes, and enormous crisp waffles dripping with ice cream and chocolate and strawberries. They ate in silence, Steve murmuring thanks to the old man and the waitress whenever a new dish was placed before them, but Bucky said nothing. He ate without enthusiasm, staring at the food, hiding his eyes from Steve behind the stringy curtain of dark hair.

Other patrons trickled in and out, drinking coffee, ordering pastries, eating Greek salad with pita bread, but Steve noticed the waitress seated all of them far away from the corner in which two broken soldiers huddled. He was thankful, but felt deeply the gulf that separated them from the rest of the world, from each other.

Finally, when the waitress came by with pastries, Bucky shook his head. "No, thanks," he said, his voice gritty, and she smiled, refilled their coffees, and left them alone. Bucky put his head in his hands, staring blankly at his half-eaten waffle, soaked in melted ice cream.

Steve knew he needed to apologize, but didn't even know how to start. Before he could speak, Bucky muttered under his breath:

"I fucked up your schedule. Sorry."

Steve felt like throwing his hands up in the air, shaking Bucky, shouting. The schedule didn't matter, not anymore, not ever.

"It's okay," he whispered, not wanting to meet Bucky's eye. But he knew Bucky was looking at him, his pale eyes burning white-hot with pain and anger and sorrow. His color-coded spreadsheet seemed petty and insignificant right then.

"Is it?" asked Bucky. Steve swallowed heavily, the barbs of Bucky's gaze pinning him down. Bucky's hair hung lank, and he was pale. His hands, one metal, one flesh, resting on the table still trembled a little. "Is it okay?"

Guilt and grief surged over Steve, his brain tumbling and drowning. "What did I do?" he asked miserably. "What did I do wrong?" He had to know, he had to fix it.

"You couldn't reach me when I fell out of the train," said Bucky tiredly.

Steve flinched, shame and mortification rolling over him again. He dropped his face in his hands.

"It's not your fault, Steve."

Steve choked, "Yes, it is."

"No, it's not." Bucky's voice, firmer and more adamant. "It's not your fault. It was never your fault. Not any of it."

Steve shook his head. "I still need to fix it," he said into his hands.

"Bullshit," sighed Bucky. "You don't gotta fix anything. Not your job, and I can't be fixed anyway."

"Oh, god, how can you say that?" Steve dropped his hands from his face. Bucky was watching him, tired, dark circles under his eyes and the edges of his mouth dragged down. His metal arm gleamed dully in the light from the window, and his shabby tee shirt's stretched-out collar showed the jut of his collar bones, wiry dark chest hair, and the edge of the thick, ugly tangle of scar tissue. "You think you have to live like this for the rest of your life? Jesus, Buck."

"So what if I do?" asked Bucky tiredly. "So what if you do?" He shrugged one shoulder. "So we're fucked up. At least we're fucked up together."

That shouldn't have made Steve feel better, but oddly enough, it did. He dragged his spoon through the mess of chocolate on his plate, leaning his head on his hands. He shook his head, going back to the one thing that kept him trying to make things perfect.

"I'm sorry. It's my fault. All of it."

"It's not," said Bucky. He reached out with his metal hand, fingers flashing, and took the spoon out of Steve's. "And even if it was your fault – which it isn't – I'd still forgive you, punk." He set the spoon down, and rested his hand on Steve's forearm.

Steve broke down and cried for the first time in a year and a half.