(A/N: Thank you guys for sticking with us! Sheraiah and I have had a wonderful time sharing this fic with you, and your reactions have solidified for us why we write fanfic in the first place. You are all amazing.

In case you're wondering, yes, there really is a strange yard art display at the intersection of FL SR 40 and FL SR 17. It is called the Barberville Yard Art Emporium. You can find it on Google Maps. But don't just do that. Go there. Make a pilgrimage. Buy a pottery sugar skull. I promise you, it's totally worth it.

Please visit Bucky's Tumblr - fkdupsnowman128b . tumblr . com - to see the rest of his vacation pics!

Le Rouret and Sheraiah)

9.

Bucky's bed lurched to one side, his instincts sounding an alarm that something large was looming over him. Then the bed lurched to the other side, and a solid thump was followed by the noise of drawers opening and closing.

He opened one eye and squinted at the digital clock on the side table. Seven AM. Too early.

His bed rocked again, first to the right, then the left. Another thump, and a zipping noise. Bucky pulled the cheap motel bedspread over his head and growled.

When his bed heaved sideways, he shot one hand out to catch Steve by the ankle, but Steve was too fast. He hopped over Bucky's body and landed on the opposite side. Bucky bounced up, cursing, and Steve jumped off the bed onto the floor, ignoring Bucky's glare and emptying the dresser drawers.

"You havin' fun, punk?" he grated, rubbing his eyes with his flesh hand.

"Just packing up," said Steve calmly. "It's not my fault your bed is between the dresser and my suitcase."

Bucky pulled the covers over his head again. His sheets smelled like cigarettes and soap. Steve hopped up onto the bed, stepped over him, and jumped down. The bed wobbled beneath his weight.

"If you don't get up soon," Steve added, "I'm going to start singing."

"I'm up, I'm up," snarled Bucky, throwing off the covers and sitting up. Steve was calmly sorting his toiletries in his little brown kit bag, sleek and slick-haired. He looked revoltingly perfect, even clad in faded denim shorts. "You already fucking shaved?"

"Tick-tock," said Steve cheerfully, zipping up the kit bag.

Bucky muttered to himself all the way to the bathroom.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They had French toast and sausage at a little diner down the street. The coffee was only marginally better than the free stuff in the motel, but as they had already checked out, neither felt like a side-by-side comparison.

They drove across the bridge to the Old City. The bay was dark and turbulent, boats and pelicans bobbing wildly on the white-capped surface. Live oaks and palm trees tossed limbs freely in the heavy air, and sparrows huddled in resentful flocks in the lees of the berms. They parked at Burger Buckets, and Bucky waited outside while Steve got their one-day Red Train passes. He didn't want to risk scaring the waitress again.

They caught the first train and clambered up behind the driver. Two families and an elderly couple boarded as well, and the driver turned around with a grin.

"Welcome to the Red Train! I'm Smokey, and I'll be your guide today," he said. The accent was unmistakable.

Steve and Bucky exchanged glances. "Where you from?" called Steve.

"Bed-Stuy," Smokey answered. "What about you guys?"

"Brooklyn," Bucky and Steve chorused.

"That's great!" said Smokey, beaming. "I'll be sure to treat you guys extra nice!"

Bucky grinned at Steve. "Let's do his whole tour."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They stayed on Smokey's train for his entire circuit. When they changed drivers at the main station, they gave him a walloping tip, and hopped off the train at St. George to find gifts for the folks at home.

The touristy stores on St. George were just opening, displaying their wares on front steps slick with mist, bright placards announcing sales and two-for-ones. They picked up souvenir fridge magnets and key chains, and sampled fudge and hot sauce at the specialty shops. Bucky got tee shirts and stuffed animals for the Barton kids, and Steve put down a surprising amount of money on a pretty silver sea glass necklace in a local jewelry store. He flushed when Bucky raised his eyebrows at him, but Bucky decided not to comment.

One of the cashiers recommended sangria in a nearby open-air bar, so of course they headed over, bellying up to the worn plank serving area and listening to the tattooed busker in the corner, crooning huskily along with his guitar. Bucky was inordinately excited when he heard a Dropkick Murpheys number, and tipped the busker generously on the way out.

They wandered without speaking up Cadiz to Avenida Menendez, pausing one last time to admire the lions, and strolled past the Castillo. The bay was filled with whitecaps and listing boats, and the breeze was cool and damp. They paused as one in front of the kitschy Pirate Museum, then turned to the Castillo. Flags whipped and snapped from the poles, and the parking lot was already half full of tourists bundled in souvenir sweatshirts and hats.

Bucky scowled across A1A at the massive fort, cannon-pocked coquina walls dull and dun in the clouded light. The air smelled of exhaust and fish, and he could feel Steve beside him, kind and constant, a monument to well-meaning and pig-headed permanence. Berate, ignore, take for granted, find refuge; neither he nor the Castillo were going anywhere. He supposed a parallel could be made, after all.

"Ready to go home?" asked Steve.

Bucky glanced over at him. His normally neat hair was ruffled up and unruly, and he still looked a little sad around the eyes – hangover, Bucky guessed, from the shit-show the day before yesterday. He didn't blame Steve. He was feeling a little fragile still, echoes of his breakdown shuddering faintly in the back of his brain, easy enough to ignore, but dangerous if not dealt with – wavering mutters, dark and fuzzy, lying in wait like a counter-intelligence agent in the shadows. You knew it was there, somewhere, ready to spring and fuck up the mission, but even if you stopped and held your breath, you couldn't hear it – just a presence filled with the potential for unspeakable violence.

Bucky decided to ignore it anyway. It wasn't like he could stop it springing out at him. As long as he knew it was there, he and Steve could deal with it when it manifested. If he kept himself wound up waiting for the inevitable attack, he really would lose his mind.

"Ready," he said.

Steve turned to go; Bucky took one last look at Matanzas and spied the pirate galleon, careening wildly in the surf. So many things on Steve's color-coded schedule that they didn't get to do – the Ripleys museum, the pirate cruise, Fort Matanzas, Villa Zorayda, the church tours …

"Next time," he said aloud.

"What?" Steve looked back over his shoulder at him, eyebrows pinched.

Bucky swallowed. "I said," he grated, "I had a nice time." He looked down at his boot, scuffing in the gravel. "Thanks," he mumbled.

Steve let his breath out in a whoosh. "Oh," he said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. "Good. I, uh. I'm glad." He gave a sheepish smile. "I did, too."

"Within reason," Bucky amended, not meeting his eye.

"Yeah," agreed Steve, his voice a little hushed.

They were silent a moment, staring out at the bay. Bucky squirmed. "Hey," he said. "I'm hungry. Can we eat at that restaurant we saw across the street from the popsicle place? The sign out front said they had key lime pie."

"Of course you're hungry," groaned Steve, but his blue eyes were warm and soft.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Florida Cracker Cafe was crowded enough that they had to wait for a table. They took their beers outside, watching the tourists pass by. A gaggle of young girls, clad in short-shorts and baggy sweatshirts, ogled them in the doorway of the popsicle store, giggling behind their hands and waving. Bucky and Steve waved and smiled back. Bucky noticed Steve take out his phone afterwards and send a quick text; when it pinged in his pocket a few seconds later, Steve pulled it out, glanced at it, and blushed a little before slipping it back into his pocket. Bucky pretended not to notice.

After they had ordered their fried gator and coconut shrimp, Steve pushed his chair back. "Gonna hit the head," he said.

"Sure thing." Bucky dropped his napkin and bent to pick it up, his shoulder brushing Steve's hip so that he couldn't feel nimble metal fingers. Bucky tucked the phone in his palm and hid it in his lap until the men's room door closed, then he tapped in Steve's security code – honestly, who needed a security code when you lived with a former assassin? – and opened his messages. He frowned thoughtfully at the list marked "Sofia," memorized the number, and softly dropped the phone under the table by his feet.

He took out his phone and tapped the number into his messages.

BUCKY: hi its bucky steves friend

BUCKY: I stole his phone to get ur #

He waited. The wavy line of dots appeared, showing she was responding. "Come on, come on," he muttered, glancing towards the restrooms.

SOFIA: Well, nice to meet you finally! Steve has told me so much about you. So did you enjoy your trip to St. Augustine? It's one of my favorite historic spots to visit.

Bucky's heart uncoiled a little. So Steve hadn't mentioned his breakdown. Thank god.

BUCKY: we did tks! Just real quick while steves in the john, his birthday is july 4, get him art 4 his walls pls?

BUCKY: dont know much about art but he needs some k?

SOFIA: July 4? That's ironic! Certainly, I was wondering what sorts of things he might enjoy as gifts. He's so secretive and private sometimes, and I know he doesn't like it if people pry. Thank you for the tip!

BUCKY: np tks got 2 go b4 hes done peeing talk 2 u soon I hope

SOFIA: Definitely! Looking forward to it. Nice to meet you, Bucky!

BUCKY:

Bucky was just in time. He watched Steve move towards their table out of the corner of his eye and sent a quick text to Bill Hayes.

BUCKY: on our way home missed u guys

"We gonna order more beer?" asked Steve, sitting back down.

"Sun's over the yardarm," said Bucky, putting his phone on the table. He fiddled with his napkin while Steve patted his pockets, frowning. "You forget your dick in the bathroom?"

"Funny," grunted Steve. "I think I dropped my phone."

Bucky gave an exaggerated sigh. "This is why we can't have nice things," he complained. He made a show of helping Steve look, letting Steve find the phone by his feet.

"You're lucky I didn't step on it," Bucky scolded. "Honestly, kids these days."

"You're starting to sound like Howie," grinned Steve.

"Shut up," Bucky rejoined without heat. He liked Howie. "Here comes our gator. Let's just order a pitcher, yeah? Be cheaper that way."

"Whatever you want, Howie Junior," laughed Steve.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The drive out of St. Augustine was marked by a strange admiration for each other's music. Bucky listened carefully to Steve's offering of modern jazz, trying to pick out the difference between the electric and upright bass; Steve was delighted when Bucky finally announced, with triumph, that he could tell them apart. Steve reciprocated by puzzling through the blended melodies of two punk guitarists punching out concurrent solos, surprised by the artistry behind the frenetic music. They alternated tracks without incident until they approached the intersection of 40 and 17, where they had seen the shitty Iron Man statue.

"Stevie, pleeeeassee can we stop?" begged Bucky. He was using his puppy dog eyes, dammit. Steve hated when he did that.

There was a gigantic pink metal rooster staring Steve down. He glanced at the car clock. They were making good time. "Fine," he said. "On one condition."

"Anything," said Bucky eagerly, then paused and asked, frowning, "What?"

"Take a picture of the shitty Iron Man?"

Bucky hadn't taken out his camera since the day before his breakdown in the Spanish Military Hospital. Steve was afraid he'd lost his interest in it.

"I was gonna, punk," said Bucky scornfully. "I mean, come on. How could I come here and not take a picture of the shitty Iron Man?" He swept his metal arm toward the menagerie of pottery, iron statuary, and concrete. "Just look at this place! Amelie would love this."

Steve let out a secret sigh of relief. "Good," he grunted.

Bucky was out of the car before Steve even put it in park, and thumped impatiently on the trunk lid until Steve popped it. Steve watched him dig the camera out of the mound of dirty clothes in his duffel with a smile. He almost felt normal. Almost. He kind of hoped Bucky did, too, and wasn't just pretending. Bucky could fool him so easily.

The grounds were more extensive – and bizarre – than they had appeared from the street. It seemed as though he discovered some abrasive new bit of twisted décor every time he took a step: Furniture shaped like body parts; animals wearing human clothing; topless mermaids disguised as mail boxes; earthenware Día de Muertos animal skeletons; a hand-carved cedar dining room set that looked like an exact replica of King Arthur's Round Table. He snapped a few shots with his phone and sent them to blonde-and-green-eyes, with several emojis expressing shock and disbelief. She responded a few seconds later with a series of smiley faces and a big poop.

He had been gazing in fascinated disgust at the dusty, ancient taxidermy for fifteen minutes before he realized he had lost track of Bucky entirely.

His throat tightened in panic. Not again, he thought, berating himself for being distracted. Bucky wasn't okay, no matter how much he tried to prove it to Steve, and as evidenced by the cold surge of alarm in Steve's chest, Steve wasn't that okay, either. He clutched the jar of local tupelo honey he'd picked up near the front tightly and looked around, trying not to resemble a child who'd lost his mother in the grocery store.

He scanned past the weird lawn furniture, the enormous stack of gazing balls, the mish-mash of statuary and pottery, desperate to catch a glimpse of Bucky's untidy dark head, or the flash of his metal arm. He was just fingering the phone in his pocket, ready to send a text to Maria Hill to track Bucky's electronics, when he heard the bray of a familiar laugh from the covered register area.

Weak with relief, he took a deep breath, held it for a count of five, and let it out, just like Laura Barton had taught him. Again, in, and out, and in, and out until his heartbeat slowed. He plastered a smile on his face and ducked beneath the hanging pots and succulents to see Bucky filling out paperwork at the counter while an elderly man in shorts and plastic flip-flops grinned down at him.

"What are you doing?" asked Steve, trying to sound casual and not like he'd spent five minutes in a state of blind terror.

"I'm havin' my new bench shipped," Bucky grinned.

"Bench?" Steve raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah," said Bucky. "Looks like two butts. Gonna put it in the back yard."

Steve's relief was doubled by the thought that he wouldn't have to field any angry letters from the Homeowner's Association. "Thank god," said Steve. "Wait – is it that one that looks like the lower halves of two people kneeling on the ground? The one wearing cowboy boots?"

"Yeah, that one," said Bucky.

Steve shook his head. "Of all the things to buy – "

"The six-foot pink cock wouldn't fit in my living room," said Bucky.

"Right." Steve glanced at the shelf beside him. There was a display of locally produced preserves, orange marmalade, and mango jelly. He picked up a couple. "We should get Amelie a gazing ball."

"And something for Ellie and Sabra, too," Bucky agreed. He folded up his shipping manifest and stuffed it in his pocket. "We'll be right back," he said to the man with the flip-flops. The man grinned and winked.

As they loaded Steve's back seat with their purchases – a large bag filled with honey and preserves, a gazing ball with a stand, a silver statue of St. Francis, and a beautifully painted plant pot from Mexico – Steve glanced over at the shitty Iron Man statue. "Did you get a picture?" he asked.

"Of course," said Bucky, offended. "Do I look crazy?"

"A little." He felt lighter somehow, his car full of strange souvenirs, Bucky giving him the finger over the roof, his arms, one flesh, one metal, resting lightly on the gleaming silver finish. So they weren't okay. That was fine. They didn't have to be, as long as he could see this every day, his broken and tortured best friend smiling, relaxed, taking pictures of horrible statuary and sharing pitchers of beer and going on road trips. A year and a half ago, they could never have done this. Progress, he supposed, even though the march forward was beset with trenches and land mines like panic attack triggers and angry outbursts. What did he expect, after all? If his past had taught him anything, it was that the steps forward were halting and tenuous, feet easing through rough, trap-riddled terrain. The time frame mattered less than the will to persist.

Bucky was smiling at him, chin resting on his folded arms. The fitful Florida sun gleamed on his metal arm, the breeze stirring dark hair. They had both come so far. Steve's heart swelled and stammered, irrationally giddy. Let the Nazis and Hydra and subversive political terrorists thrash and rage; Steve Rogers had hung up his shield and decided to dig in on dryer, more domestic earth. He and Bucky would outlive them all.

"Ready to get home?" he asked, feeling as though he could launch his practical silver sedan into the sky and fly it to Sarasota.

"You bet," said Bucky eagerly. "Hey, Ellie's invited us over for barbecue. Everyone'll be there." He snapped his fingers, eyes bright. "We should bring that key lime wine they like."

Steve had tasted Ellie's rubbed pork shoulder before, and if Sabra brought her German potato salad too … He licked his lips.

"I'll try not to get caught for speeding," he promised, getting in, and Bucky laughed and joined him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

New York City in April was a mixed bag. It was either cold and wet, or clemently sunny.

Today was one of the cold and wet varieties, and Pepper Potts was feeling distinctly put out.

Her Prada shoes had gotten wet when she'd stepped out of the limo. The humidity was frizzing her hair. Her lovely new gray Louis Vuitton suit was smudged by accidentally rubbing up against one of the railings on her way up the stairs. The window washers had to cancel – again – and the housekeeping staff was starting to complain about the slick tarazzo. And, to top it all off, was that.

Thing.

Tony was bouncing a little on his toes, his eyes crinkling at the edges. His hands, shoved deep into the pockets of his suit pants, were restless. His hair was mussed from the rain and he had a bruise across his cheekbone, sustained from his last mission for Ross, but he was grinning.

Dammit. He couldn't actually like that thing.

The packaging had been stripped away and it stood, grotesque and gleaming dully, in the front lobby of Stark Tower. It glowered down at her. Pepper glowered back.

"You know," said Tony brightly, "I think it needs a pedestal. Right?" He turned to her, wide eyed and excited. "A big one. Marble. With a plaque. Tell me I can have a pedestal with a plaque, Pepper."

"No," said Pepper, narrowing her eyes.

"A big plaque," said Tony, waving his arms. "With the delivery message proclaimed proudly upon it. A bronze plaque. Engraved, even."

"Tony," said Pepper. "No."

"Why not?" He raised his eyebrows at her. One of them had been cut through, and was held together with stitches. Blood still seeped through the bandage, but Tony didn't seem to notice. "It needs a pedestal, so people can see it through the plate glass from the street. And visitors will need a plaque to read when they're waiting to be ushered up into the CEO's illustrious presence."

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose. Her head was starting to hurt. Must be the barometric pressure. "Tony – "

"Just think!" Tony crowed, throwing his arms wide and stepping up to the monstrosity. "The teeming masses will enter! They will gape! They will gawp, even! What does gawp mean?" he asked, turning back to her. "Is it a good word? I don't care. It sounds like a good word. I declare it to be a real word. Happy, call Miriam-Webster. They will gawp! And when they approach, while gawping, this monument to bravery and patriotism, upon the shining bronze plaque, they will gawpingly read:" He pulled out the shipping manifest, upon which was scrawled a note in graceful script: "Here, thought u would like this, B Barnes." Tony grinned at Pepper. "Think of the historic significance! A national treasure! A war hero! A Howling Commando! A gift, as it were, from the glorious past, bestowed upon the present's champion!"

"Tony," said Pepper severely. "That is not staying here."

"Of course it is," said Tony easily, tucking the shipping manifest into his jacket pocket. He turned, straightened his tie, and strode toward the elevator banks. "A monument, Pepper!" he called back to her. "The past paying homage to the present! I like it. Happy, where's my phone? I need to call Rhodey. He will be. So. Jealous!"

Pepper shook her head. She could hear Tony's voice, fading with distance, across the lobby. The delivery men had finished setting up the statue and stood, grinning, waiting, no doubt for a tip.

Pepper sighed.

She might as well resign herself. Stark Tower was now home to the shittiest Iron Man the world had ever seen.

"Thanks a lot, Sergeant Barnes," she grumbled, and clicked angrily away to let Happy deal with it.