(AN: Happy month-end! Thank all of you for sticking with us through this fic. Needless to say, it's been a roller coaster, and we're so tickled you've followed us through it all. Your comments and kudos are encouraging and so heart-warming, and we love that our readers are smart, perceptive, and interested. We couldn't do this without you!

Almost done now. You guys are awesome to stick with us!

Le Rouret and Sheraiah)

8.

Bucky lay in the dark and listened to Steve breathe.

He had vague memories of doing this many times before – sitting beside a small, pock-marked brass bed with a thin sagging mattress, watching the scrawny blond boy propped up on pillows while Bucky read to him – yellow-backed novels, repetitive and uninteresting, but the boy hardly listened, sunken-eyed, sallow, breath thin and fast.

"Big Roy strode into the darkened room, his pearl-handled six-gun in his hand," Bucky read. "He saw a pretty girl cast upon the dirt floor. She had porcelain skin and eyes like the blue sky. It was Nan Porter, the sweetest girl in Franklin County, her blue dress stained with mud from where the yellow devils had thrown her so cruelly in the road. 'Nan!' cried Big Roy, his great heart leaping in his chest at the sight of her. 'Thank God you are safe!' ''Oh, Mr. Smith!' cried Nan, clasping her hands and looking up at him with shining eyes. 'Please say you have come to rescue me!' Gee, Steve, this book your ma gave you is pretty awful. You sure you want me to finish it?" And the boy in the bed huffed a little, and started to cough, and then the nurses came in and told Bucky to leave. He didn't think he'd ever finished that book. He wondered how it had ended.

Probably with the hero marrying the girl after defeating the bad guys. That's how all those yellow-backed novels ended, after all. Shame the real world wasn't a bit like that. No, in the real world the hero and the heroine saved the world together, but fate was cruel and they lived their lives separate, struggling to regain some semblance of normalcy, chasing peace when there was none to be found. And instead of the white picket fences and happily ever afters, they got a marginally grateful public, pensions, and state-funded, mediocre psychiatric care.

Steve's breath was even, deep and sonorous. Bucky could make out his silhouette in the dark, etched in pale blue light from the bathroom window. Now that sallow little boy was deep-chested and square-jawed, still possessing that stubborn big heart, but fractured on the inside, a wound as debilitating as the damaged lungs of his youth. But there were no nurses and kind-eyed doctors concerned for him now. Just Bucky, and a smattering of other people who looked at Bucky askance: Sam Wilson, Sharon Carter, Maria Hill, tolerant only through Steve's insistence. If anyone else saw the broken boy inside Steve Rogers' big healthy body, Bucky didn't know who it was.

Steve's breath hitched, and Bucky watched him carefully. There had been a small brass bell by the sallow boy's bed, there for Bucky to ring if Steve's lungs started acting up, to call in Mrs. Rogers or Bucky's Ma to help Steve sit up and to pound on his back and rub liniment on his chest. Their tenement hadn't had electricity, so Bucky had read to Steve by a hurricane lantern. He remembered the fresh, hot smell of the oil, the dusty feel of the pages beneath his fingers – smaller, thinner fingers, dirt beneath his nails, scraped knuckles from constantly getting into fights. Those fingers would eventually grip the guns he read about in all those yellow-backed novels, but no hero's journey had been laid out for Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier's bloody story was written over that black-haired Irish kid's future, and there was no happy ending in sight.

Steve's breath stuttered and faded, then quickened. Bucky watched his hands twitch against the sheets, and Steve muttered something under his breath. Bucky wasn't sure, but it sounded like watch out. Then he whined.

Bucky swung his legs out of bed and stood. The motel room was small enough that he didn't even have to step between the two beds, just turn and sit down on the edge of Steve's. He put his flesh hand on Steve's shoulder, and pressed down lightly. When Steve's breathing didn't slow, Bucky pressed harder, and whispered into the blue-black dark:

"Stevie."

Steve gasped awake, spasming beneath Bucky's hand. His eyes, pale in the shadows, stared up at him. Then recognition washed over the panic, and his breath slowed.

"Nightmare?" he croaked.

"Yeah," said Bucky. "You're okay."

"Yeah," said Steve. He rolled over.

Bucky got up and slid back into bed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The old man's neck was thin and ropy. His metal fingers closed over it. He could feel the tendons pop and crush, and his pleading voice gurgled into silence. The harsh yellow street light flickered over his head, and the smell of gasoline was everywhere. It had been messy. His handlers would be angry with him. The Chair waited, black and stained, sprouting wire vines and sparking flowers. He tried to run, but there was a man with a cudgel, smiling cruelly.

He jolted into darkness, sucking in the stale motel air, hands clenched in the sheets. He panted, willing the dream away, filled with a horrible compulsion to run and run and never return.

Something stirred in the next bed. "Nightmare?" whispered Steve.

Bucky gulped. He could still smell oil and exhaust, feel the old man's larynx shatter beneath his fingers. "Yeah," he croaked.

"Need a smoke?"

"Yeah."

They got up and went out to the balcony. Bucky smoked, and Steve stood beside him. Across the highway, the frenetic blare of karaoke thudded, voices shrieking over the din. Bucky wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the curtains in the upstairs window twitch.

"Poor ghosts," he said. Steve grunted in agreement.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was no question about sticking to the schedule anymore. Steve had balled it up and thrown it away, anyway. And Bucky couldn't have found his copy if he'd tried – it was crumpled and damp, somewhere, lost in the morass of dirty clothes and toiletries and underwear.

They went to Vilano Beach. It was, as they had predicted to each other, different from the beaches by Sarasota. The sand was rough and grainy, and there were smuts and ridges of seaweed and tar draped in dirty ribbons across the white dunes. But the sun was bright and hot, and the dark green waves crested foamy over the breakers, lifting their heavy violent bodies, skimming them to the shore like debris. Broken shells and sea glass sank beneath their toes, and Steve found a live sea star on the sand bar. He and Bucky watched its little cilia wave, then Steve threw it back into the ocean to live out the rest of its life at peace, away from the intrusive fingers of two warriors.

They found a nice restaurant tucked on the docks, and had fresh broiled snapper and sweet potato. Their skin was still sandy and stinging, their hair heavy on their foreheads and their noses burning. They blazed through their meals with a hunger born of hot weather and cold water, and to their waiter's amazement finished off a pitcher of beer, two orders of hush puppies, and an entire key lime pie.

They went back to the motel and stood in the tiny pool, sipping surreptitious rum in their cans of cola and talking about bringing the Barton kids to Disney. They almost left when a family of four arrived to dunk their restless toddlers in the water, but stayed to talk to the parents about ghost tours and the Gator Park and ice cream shops, Steve listening with flattering interest as the father described his job as an IT project manager, and Bucky helping the mother teach the kids to swim. Neither parent even commented on his arm.

The family left them to put the kids down for a nap, and Steve and Bucky flipped for the shower. Steve won, so Bucky spent his time sorting through the pictures on his camera, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to bring it with him the day before and at least capture some of the lighthouse. He was thankful there were no shots of the hospital, though. Bucky's eidetic memory would not let him forget the curve of the amputation knife, and he didn't want a memoir of his collapse.

Steve finished his shower and then it was Bucky's turn, standing beneath the lukewarm water and staring at his feet, the sand swirling aimlessly around his toes to the drain. He washed the salt half-heartedly out of his long tangled hair, and drew a hand down his chin. He should shave, but did not want to risk picking up the razor. His heart was still trembling heavy in his chest, and Bucky wasn't sure what he would do with something so sharp between his fingers.

The shadows were long and blue behind them as they crossed the bridge. The pirate ship bobbed, top-heavy, in the surf. Neither of them regretted canceling their reservations. There was a live cannon on board. They didn't want to go through that again.

The evening sun was mellow and homely, tangerine streaked with lemon, and the lions glowed like living things. Bucky took several pictures, wondering if the memory of the imperious handler would come back to haunt him. He decided that it wouldn't bother him if it did. His memories of being the Winter Soldier were alternately muddy and razor-sharp, filled with cold and stink and hunger. The hard grip of a hand on his arm, and the press of protein paste in his mouth, were about the best he could conjure of that time period. He wondered half-heartedly what had happened to the man, the stern pale eyes and outthrust jaw, and if his treatment of the Asset as a living, breathing being had shortened his own term of service. Bucky hoped it hadn't.

The bells were ringing in the campanile of the Basilica as they passed the green plaza, filled with milling tourists and locals. Bucky still felt a bit muddled, as though he didn't move through the world as much as it simply moved around him. He walked along with his eyes on the tower, hands in his pockets, as Steve guided him. As long as Steve was there to pay attention, Bucky didn't have to. He could hear conversation, laughter, traffic, the clop of hooves; he smelled restaurants and exhaust and horses and stone. A hundred assassins could be hidden in the dim shadows of the buildings and shops, and Bucky wouldn't care. It didn't matter. St. Augustine had already stood for four hundred fifty years. One more splash of blood on its ancient immovable cobblestones wouldn't affect it one whit.

Someone jostled him and apologized; Bucky only muttered, "No problem." Then there was a high-pitched yip, and he dragged himself into the present. Steve had paused by the entrance of the cathedral, extracting himself from a long thin leash. A middle aged lady in a big floppy hat was apologizing.

"Jazz gets so excited in crowds," she said, helping Steve unwind his foot. "I'm so sorry."

Bucky looked down at the little dog with a jolt. It was the Yorkie he'd seen at Burger Buckets, bright-eyed, its little tail wagging like a silky pompom. "Hey," he said, and the woman, smiling, turned to him. "Can I pet your dog?"

"Of course," she said cheerfully. "Jazz loves meeting people."

Bucky squatted on the cathedral steps and held out his flesh hand. The Yorkie sniffed it, licked it, and promptly climbed into Bucky's lap. It couldn't have weighed more than three pounds, bird-boned, tiny feet and big brown eyes and little flicking tongue cleaning Bucky's stubble. He tipped his head back to keep the dog from French kissing him, laughing and scratching gently at the sleek fur. He caught Steve's eye, glancing down at him from where he was politely conversing with the dog's owner, and grinned. Steve's smile broke like the sun peeping through parting clouds, and Bucky's heart warmed. Stupid punk with his stupid handsome face and stupid concern for his stupid best friend, looking like someone had just saved his life. Bucky ducked his head and scooped the Yorkie into his arms, where it wriggled and licked and pawed at him. It was amazing how something so little held so much life.

They took their leave of the woman in the floppy hat, thanking her for introducing her dog to them. Bucky watched them walk away, and the Yorkie turned his head to watch him, too.

"You want a dog?" asked Steve.

"No," said Bucky, surprised. "I just – " He couldn't really put a word to it, how his hands closed around small, brittle ribcages, feeling heartbeats beneath his fingertips. He knew he could have crushed the Yorkie, or the little kids in the pool, but instead he had let the curve of his hands support them, small lungs and hearts and bright eyes cradled in flesh and metal. "No," he said.

Steve smiled sadly. "Okay," he said.

They walked back to the Lightner with a roll of quarters, and spent an hour strolling around the formal garden and feeding cat food to the koi. The sun started to set, the white walls of the museum turning into ripe warm colors, papaya and mandarin and mango. This reminded Bucky he was hungry, so they got triple-scoops at the ice cream shop across the street and ate them as they wandered back to the square.

The bell tower was ringing again, calling Vespers to its parishioners. Steve paused by the steps, looking longingly through the big doors. Somewhere inside, an organ was playing, rumbling and somber. He glanced expectantly back at Bucky.

"No way, pal," said Bucky, throat tightening in panic. A church was no place for either the Winter Soldier, or what remained of that Irish kid from Brooklyn. "I'm not goin' in there." Steve's face fell, and he added, "But you go ahead."

Steve looked startled. "What?"

"Go in," said Bucky, gesturing to the open doors with his head. "I'm gonna take pictures of the bay. The colors are good."

Steve gave him a skeptical look. "You sure?" he said.

"Yeah," said Bucky, a little offended. "What, you think I'm gonna run away or somethin'?"

"No," said Steve slowly. "But – you're sure – " Incense wafted through the doorway, and Steve peered hopefully through.

"Yes, I'm sure," said Bucky, exasperated. "Go in. Hurry up. You'll miss the first rite, slowpoke."

Steve hesitated, torn, and Bucky rolled his eyes. "Go. Get your Irish Catholic schoolboy on."

"You're Irish Catholic too, you know," Steve said dryly, one foot already on the step.

Bucky shrugged. "Nah. Just Irish. Which reminds me, let's eat at the pub after Mass."

"Fine," said Steve, then smiled. "Thanks. Jerk."

"Go get holy, you punk," Bucky called to his retreating back. Steve gave him a thumbs-up, and disappeared through the doorway with the rest of the crowd.

Bucky ambled down the walkway to the bay and took a couple of pictures. The sunset washed rosy and soft across the sky, and he could see the lighthouse blinking at him. Boats sailed by, strangely quiet against the backdrop of the waterfront, laughter and music and the smells of food and seaweed and smoke. He took a shot of the Castillo, lit from within, shadowy and hunched against the shoreline, not menacing, but still steadfast. A shiver ran through him, and he turned away.

He had meant to take more pictures, but was filled with a restless dissatisfaction. Steve had tried so hard to make Bucky's birthday celebration perfect, but their past wouldn't let them forget and move on. Like the monuments that surrounded him, pocked with age and violence, there was simply too much that clung to them, part of their psyches, damaged and worn.

He slid his phone out of his pocket. He had a text from Bill Hayes.

BILL: hope you two old men are having a good time! Amelie and I miss you. The clubhouse isn't the same without you guys there. No one knows how to make a margarita like you do!

Bucky smiled, the heaviness in his chest lifting a little.

BUCKY: Miss u guys 2! leaving tomorrow. BTW ask A what do I get Steve?

He meandered up King Street, gallery windows brightly lit. His phone buzzed and he glanced down.

BILL: Amelie says whatever has caught his eye the most

Bucky looked up. The sculpture gallery was in front of him, glass gleaming with halogen and color. He frowned thoughtfully at the statuary.

BUCKY: tell her thanks, good idea, got it

BUCKY: see u

BILL: No problem, my friend. Amelie says she loves you. I should be jealous!

BUCKY: Not a chance pal, she thinks u hung the moon

He took a shot of the sculpture, sent it to Bill and Amelie, and ducked inside the gallery to spend his month's pension on Steve.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Steve was leaning against the wall of the cathedral, texting. The pale blue glow reflected off the planes of his face, and he was smiling, soft and fond. Bucky sauntered up, hands in his pockets, feeling unduly smug with his secret. Shipping costs were a bitch, but better that than have Steve discover it before they got home – or worse, have it break in Bucky's kit. Considering the price tag, that would be disastrous.

"Feelin' all consecrated now?" he drawled, bumping Steve's shoulder. He smelled musty and sweet, the odor of sanctity. Startled, Steve flushed, and Bucky grinned. "Sextin' after evensong? Shame, shame. Shoulda taken care of that before confession."

"For the last time, I'm not sexting," protested Steve, nettled. He slid the phone back in his pocket. "Get some good sunset shots?"

"Yep," said Bucky. "I'm hungry. I want oysters."

"You know they're an aphrodisiac, right?" grinned Steve. He swung into step beside Bucky, bumping his shoulder in turn.

Bucky huffed. "Don't need any of that, pal. I'm fine without."

"Sure you are," said Steve. He inhaled deeply and looked up at the darkling sky, composed and serene. He got like that after church; Bucky found it comforting. He liked it when Steve was at peace. It happened so rarely. He knew there was a Catholic church near them – Saint Someone Female – Martha, that was it. St. Martha's. He should encourage Steve to join. It would do Steve some good to do some good somewhere besides the other side of the duplex. It would also get him out of Bucky's hair on Sunday mornings.

They scored an outside table at Meehan's and ordered a pitcher of porter and four dozen oysters. The bay was oily black and streaked with lights from the boats going by, and the sidewalk below choked with people. A lighted carriage rattled past, and Bucky's brain flicked backwards, to the man used to bring them their milk – Mr. – Mr. – What was his name – Anderson, that was it; Mr. Anderson and his milk cart, and his old Belgian draft, Mortimer. Mortimer's hooves were the size of dinner plates, dusted round the dry gray shoes with shaggy hair, enormous backside round and fly-speckled. Mr. Anderson called Mortimer "bomb-proof," disdaining blinkers and crop; even backfiring Buicks didn't bother him.

"I guess Mr. Anderson's dead now," Bucky speculated, interrupting whatever Steve had been talking about, something about a gallery showing at the Ringling. He paused in surprise.

"Mr. Anderson?" he said, frowning.

"The milk man," said Bucky. "That was his name, right? Anderson? And his horse's name – "

"Mortimer," laughed Steve. "Yeah. He was a great guy. Let my mother have milk on a tab when times were lean."

"Times were always lean," said Bucky, but he didn't feel sad. The memory had been old and wrinkled and barely used, but it had been a good memory, a smiling and portly man in a blue uniform and cap, lightly smacking Mortimer on the haunches with the reins. "We ought to take Lila on a carriage tour. She loves horses."

Steve watched the lighted carriage, filled with tourists passing a bottle of wine back and forth, as it clopped slowly by. "Yeah," he said quietly. "She'd like that."

"We're coming back, right?" blurted Bucky, suddenly worried.

Steve raised his eyebrows. "Yes," he said, then paused. "I mean – if you want."

"I want," said Bucky. The waiter came back with their beer and filled their glasses. Someone upstairs was doing a set from Flogging Molly. The girls at the table next to them had ordered meat pies, and their rich and toothsome smell drifted over the cigarette smoke from the street. A boat tooted out on the bay, and the bridge began to flash red and white. Traffic stopped as the bascule raised to let the tall-masted ship pass. Bucky lifted his glass, and Steve gave a crooked smile and lifted his own.

"Sláinte," said Bucky.

Steve touched his glass to Bucky's, his eyes shining. "Sláinte," he agreed.