Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pep squad's levels of cheer come and go when you happen to be one of the few survivors of the apocalypse. Today, Peter's usual wellspring of chirpy one-liners feels as dead as the barren streets around them. Some days are like that now; the weight of it all squashes his spirits flat, leaving him more Peter and less Spider-Man. He stares at the newest addition to their ragtag group who made it twice—the second time being the snap—some guy whose name he can't quite remember. Was it Dave? Dan? Something with a D, probably. Not that it matters much in the grand scheme of things. Names are just placeholders when people are more temporary than ever.

Peter sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, as the new guy steps too close to the edge and takes a look down.

“I really appreciate you letting me join,” says Dave-Dan.

Since the pep's gone AWOL, Peter can barely muster a half-hearted smile. It's not the guy's fault. He seems okay, as far as post-apocalyptic strangers go.

Zombies.

Freakin' zombies.

In Peter's list of 'Ways the World Could End', zombies ranked just below alien invasions and right above another one of Mr. Stark's experiments gone wrong. And yet, here they all are—well, not all of them, not anymore—in the middle of a shitshow that looks pretty close to how they got it in the movies.

"Okay, time for a reality check," Peter says, ticking off on his fingers. "DO: Stay high, the undead are lousy climbers. DON'T: Get cocky, because that's when you end up zombie chow."

Since the undead started to roam the streets like it's a Black Friday sale, Peter has learned a few things—the hard way, mostly. Truthfully, it almost makes no sense he made it this far, but, then again, he is perched on the roof of a half-collapsed deli, watching a group of zombies shamble below, their moans sounding like a choir from hell, while others that were clearly more worthy, more useful to the remainders of society, are either dead or, well, dead.

There are rules to making it though.

First rule: Don't get bitten. Obvious, sure, but you'd be surprised how many people screw this up. Peter's seen enough bite victims turning to believe that rule is pretty damn important.

Second rule: Don't trust anyone. People are desperate, and desperate people do crazy shit. Like that time he almost got shanked for a can of beans. Beans, for God's sake. He never liked them much anyway. So while Dave-Dan seems almost nice and has that ‘I am very trustworthy’ vibe, real trust is not going to happen. Peter trusts only Bucky. But Bucky is Bucky.

Bucky, who Peter dug up from the absolute wreckage of what used to be Camp Lehigh. It was the kind of destruction you’d expect from someone being thrown with Wanda-level anger—that pile of rubble he was in. There was no reason for Peter to come back to that place, not after everything that happened, but they’d once laughed about being fucking unkillable, so… yeah, Bucky.

Who is currently crouched a few feet away, eyeing the zombies through a scope with a look that's part disgust, part boredom. Really, Bucky is like a walking, talking 'DO' of the apocalypse: DO be as tough as nails, DO have an epic metal arm, DO look like you've stepped out of a dystopian fashion magazine. Not that the last one matters either, but cool is cool, even when everything is going to shit.

"Rule three," Bucky adds, not taking his eyes off the street. "Always have an exit strategy."

Peter nods, agreeing, his gaze flicking around the area.

"Got it. Run like hell, scream if bitten, avoid dark alleys?"

Bucky smirks at Dave-Dan's comment.

"Something like that."

There's a brief silence, filled only by the distant groans of zombies and the occasional even more distant gunshot.

"Rule four," Peter says, more to himself than to the new guy. "Don't get attached. To people, places, stuff. It all just... goes away."

Bucky glances at him.

"Hey, just being realistic here." Peter shrugs.

It's been a few months since Mr. Stark got turned, a few more after Wakanda, and, yeah, realistic.

"Last rule," Bucky squints through the rifle’s sight. "Survive. Whatever it takes."

Peter looks at him, sees the determination in the set of his jaw of all things. Survive. As if it's that simple. But then, maybe it is. Maybe the two of them are actually that. Cursed to be unkillable.

"Yeah," Peter breathes out. "Survive."

There are more DOs and DON'Ts, of course. Almost a never-ending list.

DO: Find supplies, because you can't fight zombies on an empty stomach.

DON'T: Forget to check the corners, because that's how you get surprised by a granny zombie. And nobody wants to be taken out by a granny zombie.

A noise from below makes Peter tense, and he peers down again, spotting another small group shuffling aimlessly, but towards the shelter.

DON'T: Think they were people once, makes it a bit less gutting when you have to... you know.

First shot from Bucky’s rifle rings out. Death might be the only constant, but Bucky's aim is a close second. Aside from the killing of it all, even though at this stage it’s simply cleaning up the streets, Peter almost likes it when Bucky transforms into a grim reaper. Bucky’s methodical, each shot from his rifle timed with the eerie patience of someone who’s seen too much to be rattled by a bunch of brain-dead flesh munchers. He’s positioned just right too, the sunlight glinting off his metal arm, giving him an almost otherworldly look. Like some fucked-up angel of death.

The next zombie that wanders too close in the direction of the shelter gets a bullet straight through the head also. It drops like a sack of rotten potatoes, the sound echoing off the empty buildings. Bucky lines up the next shot as more of the undead start shuffling towards the noise. For a little while longer, it’s like watching some twisted version of those carnival shooting games, except there is only one prize: continued existence. Bucky's expression is focused, almost serene, as he picks off another one. And another. The bodies pile up, adding to the macabre decor of the ruined street.

Then there's the deli underneath, their ingenious, if morbid, trap. The broken windows and gaping door look inviting, at least to a zombie. Inside, it's a different story. Holes hidden under debris, sharp spikes jutting out, the kind of stuff that would make MacGyver proud—or horrified, depending on his stance on apocalypse ethics. A bunch more walk in and get stuck while Bucky picks off the stragglers.
 
"Nice shooting, Barnes," Dave-Dan calls out, unable to keep a note of admiration out of his voice. "Remind me never to challenge you to a game of darts."

Bucky doesn't reply, just gets up, rifle in hand, his muscles flexing under the tight t-shirt as he shifts, and Peter looks away, frowning.

Rule number... whatever: DO stick with the guy who's as dangerous as the undead. DON'T let him know he gives you inappropriate semis. Because that's just awkward for everyone involved.

Bucky shoots Dave-Dan less than a week after that for breaking rule number one.

"Holy fuck!" Peter bursts into the room he shares with Bucky, completely missing the ancient and sacred tradition of the sock-on-the-door.

Bucky, lounging on his bed like he's at a resort and not in a library reading room converted to crammed sleeping accommodations—a hovel—is in a state of casual undress, getting head. Ah, fuck. No, no, no.

"Oh, shit, sorry," Peter stammers, his face immediately competing with the red emergency exit sign for brightness, his eyes darting around the room as if the ceiling suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world. "Got a minute?"

If this was anything else, he would leave—should leave—but this actually can't wait.

Bucky seems to nod—thanks, peripheral vision—looking as calm as a cucumber in a gin and tonic. The woman, though, seems to have decided to set a world record for fastest cloth-gathering in the Northern Hemisphere. Forget getting weird erections around the guy. Now, this is awkward.

"Sorry," Peter stares at the wall for about half a minute, while Bucky just chuckles, a low, unbothered sound, and the woman, now decently clothed but with her dignity probably hanging by a thread, mumbles a quick goodbye and all but sprints past Peter.

Peter winces. He did not need to see that. His mouth might still be slightly agape, and he's feeling like he's just walked into the wrong movie theater and can't find the exit. Bucky, on the other hand, is still pretty unfazed by the looks of it, as he appears to be tucking himself in and zipping up his jeans at a leisurely speed.

"It's cool," Bucky replies with a shrug when Peter dares to turn his eyes to him. "What's got you crashing through doors like a bull in a china shop again?"

Peter's brain switches gears from embarrassment to urgency.

"The Bus," he blurts out. "Someone saw zombies doing the hokey pokey with thin air, upstate. Big bunch of thin air. Less than four days ago."

Bucky's eyebrows shoot up.

"Still cloaked? Must have some juice left."

"Exactly," Peter confirms, less a bumbling intruder now and more like his usual, somewhat competent self. "They climb up, or at least try to, then tumble down. Rinse and repeat. Could you imagine—"

"Don't get your hopes up." Even as he says it, Bucky's putting on a t-shirt, pants already zipped, and striding towards his stash of gear. "We'll need a lot of ammo. Roll at dawn?"

Dawn. Crap. Maybe Peter could have waited after all. And now all he can think about is the fact that Bucky didn't get to finish and wonder if he is still hard in those jeans of his, as Bucky checks on the amount of ammo he does have left, grimaces, and suggests:

"See if we have more."

"Yeah, I'll go and do that now," Peter fumbles, still in the doorway, and backs away, although Bucky does follow him out of the room.

Their shelter is a hodgepodge of survivalist architecture and desperate improvisation. Barbed wire circles the perimeter of what used to be a grand library, with windows boarded up, leaving the inside perpetually dim, lit by the flicker of makeshift lanterns.

Peter runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration more than anything after failing to solve a dispute and being told to fuck off. His other hand is clutching a nearly full box of low caliber ammo like a lifeline. Managing this many people—almost eighty now—keeping them safe, fed, and at least on this side of sanity, is a full-time job. No, scratch that, it's like ten full-time jobs rolled into one, and Peter's sure he's not qualified for any of them. There's always something to be done—scavenging missions to organize, arguments to settle, morale to maintain. It's exhausting.

Bucky, for his part, is surprisingly good with people. He's got this quiet authority about him that seems to calm nerves. Peter listens to him discussing ration distribution with one of the volunteer cooks, his voice a low murmur.

The thing is, Bucky is not just good with people. He is good with people, so he gets around. Actually, not just him—Peter could possibly be the only one, aside from kids, who is not getting laid left and right. Something about the end of the world just screams promiscuity, apparently. Peter though, he has too much shit to worry about, and he can't seem to compartmentalize as well as Bucky.

He makes his rounds before going to bed, checking on the barricades, ensuring the first-aid station is stocked, and thinks it's a lot for anyone, let alone a twenty-something who used to worry more about college exams than survival strategies, to be, somehow, in charge. Or nearly in charge, sharing the responsibility.

Once back in the room, he dumps his tired body on his bed, closes his eyes, and lets out a long breath. He wishes he had the time to obsess over Bucky properly. Or the fact that he is still, kinda, completely, pretty much a virgin. Then again, there is no time. Not now specifically, but in general.

Because it stinks. Literally and figuratively.

Not just outside where rotting flesh is actually moving, but inside too. Inside it's not so much from the sweltering heat of summer in New York that does nothing to improve the already grim atmosphere, but mainly with the almost physical stench of fear. It clings to the walls of the library like a persistent ghost, and no amount of scavenged air fresheners would make a dent in that. And people are cracking, they really are.

They have a plan though, him and Bucky. A solid, long-term one. And one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Airborne Mobile Command Stations that still has some mileage left in it, would go a long way to make this plan feasible.

In all honesty, the plan is nearly as much of a turn on as Bucky is. Peter might suck at compartmentalizing, but he can multitask, so he sticks his hand into his boxers and thinks about both while stroking himself hard. Thinks about Bucky, with his everything, and the plan.

God, the plan.

It's the kind of plan that would make even the most hardened doomsday prepper ecstatic.

The compound. He rubs a thumb over the sensitive head of his dick, and imagines the compound. Bucky in the compound. Everyone safe and sound in the compound, but mostly Bucky. Sure, the whole thing with Bucky did sneak up on him, and yeah, there's the whole 'gay of it all', but in a world where the dead walk and society has crumbled, who the hell cares about who you're attracted to? Not when you have pressing issues, like traumatized survivors and a prospect of paradise amidst hell.

But back to the plan—the compound. The new one. A veritable fortress with more underground levels than a badger's den and probably still sporting that ceremonial red ribbon in the lobby that was never cut. Finished just before it all went to shit, locked with biometrics, stocked, secure, with unclimbable walls (take that, zombie parkour enthusiasts), bulletproof glass (because regular glass is so pre-apocalypse), air-conditioning (Jesus, the thought of AC is enough to make him weep), renewable power sources, fresh water from the nearby dam, and tech. A lot of tech. Thinking about tech alone makes his dick jerk in his hand, and he shimmies in bed to pull his boxers down a bit and grabs his balls with the second hand. Fuck. State-of-the-art medical facilities and a working data bank that Karen can still tap into. It's everything they need and more.

He lets out a quiet moan.

But there's a catch, there's always a catch. They can't get everyone there, not without proper transport. Something big enough, something with juice. And even if Peter hadn't used up the last of the jet's fuel getting back to the US after Wakanda, the jet wouldn’t have been enough.

But the Bus, now that's a different story. The S.H.I.E.L.D. Bus—if it’s still operational, still has some power left in it—it could be their golden ticket. It’s big enough to transport a sizable group, to shift their entire operation to this promised land. It could change everything. They could set up a proper, future-proof society there. Actively look for more survivors, scavenge some seeds, get hydroponics going. Really, endless possibilities. And maybe they’ll reach out to other groups and join forces, find a biologist or a farmer, or like a doctor, and someone who isn’t just a useless Wall Street asshole with a panic room, and—

Peter sighs, his hips thrusting up, as he fucks his fist, the springs creaking slightly under his weight. He peeks over at where Bucky normally sleeps on the opposite end of this broom closet, and shifts his thoughts. To Bucky, who is still out doing whatever Bucky does when he’s not around, which Peter tries not to speculate about too much for the sake of his own sanity. 

Tomorrow, they'll go for the Bus. Tonight, Peter rushes to get a tissue out of the box before he comes with a sharp exhale, his toes curling, to the mental image of that split second of lazy, relaxed, blissed-out expression Bucky had on his face when being sucked off by that nameless woman.

Dawn tiptoes over the city like it's trying not to wake a sleeping giant, not knowing that the giant has been dead for some time now. The sky is full of oranges and pinks, and looks like a watercolor painting done by an overly cautious artist. Peter watches the hesitant daybreak, half-expecting the sun to hit snooze and give up on rising as they set off.

Next to him, Bucky, rifle slung over his shoulder, mutters about ungrateful fuckers under his breath.

"They act like we're off to the Bahamas," he adds, grumbling like a grizzled bear woken from hibernation, with a blend of irritation and disbelief.

Peter snickers. Some of the survivors had freaked out at the prospect of their absence for a few days, accusing them of ditching.

"Yeah, because zombie-infested wastelands are the new top travel destination."

At first, they hop across rooftops. Eventually, though, they do run out of roofs that are close together, and they descend to start carefully walking empty roads, side-stepping the occasional horde like the pros they are at this stage. Peter’s spidey-sense helps. For ages, all it did was tingle like a broken alarm clock, but the trouble is no longer a never-ending single army, so it’s useful again.

It’s a long-ass walk, though, to their hopefully-still-there-and-juiced-up El Dorado of a plane, and Peter does get his hopes up the closer they get.

"Just think of it—it has bidets. We'll be civilized even when we inevitably run out of toilet paper."

Bucky’s response is a half-smirk and he doesn’t tell Peter to shut it, although he probably should. Spidey-sense or not.

"Showers that don’t involve freezing our asses off under a leaky bucket?"

"Sign me up." Bucky contributes a bit, making Peter's excitement bubble over, even as he keeps his voice down.

"And an armory! It'll be like Christmas every day but with guns instead of presents. We could make more ammo. Plus, we could actually choose our weapons instead of playing 'what's left in the abandoned shop or guessing “Is this guy with a gun really dead or faking?”"

Bucky shushes him, listening in on something, but Peter just shakes his head and keeps walking. All is fine. The warning bells are buzzing ever-so-slightly under his skin, but they are not screaming their head off.

"A real school, maybe an apprenticeship program. Spacious rooms, personal quarters. Privacy, remember that? Dude, kids could have posters. They’d want to put up posters and stuff, knowing they don’t need to be ready to leave at a second’s notice."

Bucky doesn’t smile like Peter is, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and he actually joins Peter's chatter, although with noticeably less excitement.

"I like how your dream includes interior decorating. What's next, a garden with mood lighting?"

Peter grins, whispering so loud it’s not really whispering anymore.

"Exactly! Come on, it has a gym! We'll be the fittest survivors in history. Well, not us, but the group, you know? You could even teach a self-defense class. Something useful. Beheading 101."

“I am not teaching a fucking class,” Bucky shakes his head. "You've really thought this through, huh? Next, you'll be planning movie nights and popcorn."

Peter nods, earnest. "Why not? A bit of normal in the middle of this madness. We could watch old comedies, pretend things are... less apocalyptic."

"Normal sounds pretty damn good," Bucky admits, his voice softer now.

It gets brighter as they walk, and the city is a slightly less threatening beast during daylight, especially when you're traipsing with someone who's lived through pretty much everything except a Starbucks barista misspelling his name.

They walk past shorter buildings now, past the skeletal remains of a once-bustling city, their hollowed eyes of broken windows watching them pass. 

"You think the Bus will have a minibar?" Peter asks. He knows the compound does. A proper bar. Has fancy coffee machines, too. Bucky doesn't entertain him anymore though, even at the prospect of a minibar.

The road they're on is a patchwork of cracks and overgrown weeds, nature reclaiming what once belonged to mankind. Peter's spidey-sense is still on a low buzz, enough to keep him on his toes but not enough to scream danger. For now, they're as safe as anyone can be. Maybe even safer, considering who they are. Definitely safer. They could get to the compound themselves, with or without the Bus, no question there. Just can’t leave without the rest, ungrateful fuckers or not. 

They move into what used to be a suburban area, the surroundings shifting to cookie-cutter houses standing like silent sentinels to a life long gone. Some doors hang ajar, others barricaded with whatever furniture the previous occupants could muster.

"You know what I miss?" Peter says, vaulting over a low fence into someone's overgrown backyard. "Netflix. And chill. Though, not sure how much chill there was, really."

Bucky follows suit, but then says, hushed.

"I miss silence."

"Deep, Barnes. Very deep," Peter agrees, though with now a somber undertone to his voice. He misses silence too, the tranquility of it, not this oppressive quiet that's like the calm before a storm. Or maybe Bucky's finally telling him to shut it.

"Think there's a homeowner's association? Because I'm seeing a lot of unapproved lawn ornaments," Peter gestures to an already downed zombie stuck in a garden gnome pose.

"I'll write them a strongly worded letter." Bucky quietly laughs, not that twisted ‘I give zero fucks’ chuckle of his, and Peter starts feeling good about their chances. 

The sun's higher now, casting long shadows across their path. They get back on the road, abandoned cars lining the emergency shoulders, their once glossy exteriors dulled by layers of dust and neglect. Peter’s gaze lingers on a vine-entangled storefront of a gas station, its sign hanging crookedly. They could try for some gas and use one of the cars, but they both know that everything here, where the dead are not as abundant, has been picked clean ages ago, so they pass it without stopping, their boots crunching on the debris-strewn asphalt. 

"Remember when the biggest worry was if you could get the swing high enough to touch the sky?" Peter doesn’t even know why this comes out, and with a wistful note in his voice, as he points at the playground with a pile of bodies in the middle that had been set on fire at some stage, bones, ash and all.

Bucky says nothing, and Peter could slap himself in the face, because with everything going on he sometimes forgets. That Bucky had forgotten more than Peter remembers way before Hank Pym set off what is essentially an extinction event for the human race. 

After a few more hours, the suburban sprawl gives way to a more rural landscape, where fields run wild like untamed manes of hair. There is a barn in the distance, its red paint flaking off like a bad sunburn. 

"You know, in another life, I could've been a farmer," Peter muses. It’s bullshit though, just something to say. "Spider-Farmer. Has a nice ring to it."

"Stick to your day job, Parker," Bucky advises, though the twitch of his lips suggests he's still amused.

They check the map where X marks the spot, and adjust their route, cutting through the field. Peter sees the tightening of Bucky’s jaw, the slight clench of his fist, and his internal alarm goes off just as they spot four zombies wandering their way. 

“Looks like Mother Nature's taking back her turf," Peter can't resist, as he sees one of the zombies trip over a weedy bush. 

Bucky, always the practical one, just gets ready. 

"Nature's got a twisted sense of humor," he says later, as they swing left to avoid the group that apparently hasn't noticed them yet. 

Every so often, they do encounter a group or two of zombies they can’t avoid, their shuffling gait less 'Thriller' dance and more 'I've had too many at the bar.' Dispatching them becomes a rhythm: spot, aim, whack or shoot, repeat. Bucky’s got a silencer on his handgun, and it doesn’t draw too much attention. Ammo is precious alright, but they are not risking getting fucked over this time around. Not when they are so close. Of all the leads they got before, this one is by far most promising. They had a few, mostly from Karen, but Peter’s suit has been running low on power for a while now, so it’s safely tucked away in his backpack. They’ll need her to open the Bus. Besides, all of her leads ended up half crashed and wrecked, or just no longer there.

It takes a few more hours of brisk walking to get where they are headed, sun dipping lower, and Bucky points to the tall water tower that has been described as one of the landmarks. They climb it—well, Peter does, essentially giving Bucky a lift, his metal hand gripping Peter's shoulder on the way up. Water tower is a good shout. Safe, as they need to spend the night, and offers a good view of the surrounding area. They stand tall at the flat top, and Peter presses the side of his hand to his forehead squinting against the fading sunlight. 

"Well, hello beautiful," he breathes out, his eyes lighting up, when he sees a rather large, at least twenty strong, group of zombies continuously circling and bumping into nothing less than half a mile away. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

Bucky claps him on the back.

The metal beneath them is still holding on to the day's warmth like it's hoarding the last piece of chocolate.

"Who needs a five-star hotel when you've got a penthouse suite with an all-you-can-see view of Zombie Land?" Peter stretches, trying to make the best of their situation.

They lie on their backs, backpacks shoved under their heads. The stars are out in a show-offy display, and they’ve got another plan, a short-term one on what to do in the morning. A single grenade, their last too—their hopeful doorbell to a better future. Not for the Bus, of course, don’t want to damage that, but to be lobbed somewhere as far away from it as possible to get the undead off their sweet new ride.

Peter turns his head towards Bucky.

"Looking forward to having your own room?" The question slips out almost impulsively.

"There are actually rooms in the compound that are ours, isn’t that crazy?" he adds hastily, not wanting Bucky to think that he has been enjoying their current arrangement. Enjoying is not the best word for it, given what Peter had walked in on just yesterday, but, outside of that, it’s not all bad. 

Bucky’s safe. Feels safe. Even now, when they are essentially sitting ducks, Peter feels safe enough just because Bucky is around.

They are keeping watch though, of course they are, and it’s Peter's turn to go first. Not that he actually has to watch. He can feel it all, all of the dead, like an itch beneath his skin that’s constantly there. He doesn’t even remember not ever low-key feeling it all the time anymore.

Bucky, who’s been as quiet as a stone gargoyle after they’ve lied down, finally mumbles, "We're not doing that."

Peter's eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What's that now?"

Bucky is silent so long, Peter thinks he might've fallen asleep. But then he speaks, his voice gravelly.

"The Bus has beds," Bucky clarifies. "If we make it, which we will," he adds, sounding almost like he's trying to convince himself, "we could park the Bus on top of the compound. Run everything from there. Just us if things go south."

Peter processes this.

"Expecting to get voted off the island, are we?"

He waits a few minutes for a response and tries again.

"Do you regret coming back? Is that it? After Camp Lehigh, I mean. Getting involved all over?"

But by then, Bucky's breathing has evened out, a sure sign he's checked out for the night, as much as it is possible anyway, and Peter lets it drop. The truth is, going solo would have been the easier path. Just him and Bucky. Simpler, less drama, fewer mouths to feed. No messy group dynamics, no thankless heroics. No real chance at rebuilding either, but also no politics, no backstabbing, just—

Chapter Text

As another dawn cracks the sky open like an egg, Bucky pitches the grenade with the finesse of a Major League pro. It's their wake-up call to the undead, sending them scampering like kids after an ice cream truck, away from the precious prize.

Peter's suit snaps to life around him, hugging him like a long-lost friend. There's a sense of homecoming in the snug embrace of the tech. Very worn, barely holding together tech with multiple rips, but tech nonetheless. They bolt towards the Bus, their feet hammering the ground, and Karen, bless her digital heart, lowers the ramp just as they skid into jumping distance.

It’s almost too easy, until it’s not.

Inside, they're immediately greeted by a leather-clad zombie woman who missed the memo that the undead aren't supposed to know martial arts and instead are supposed to be mindless eating machines.

Peter thinks it's ridiculously unfair. But then again, he recalls, Mr. Stark could still fly his suit, and Wanda could wield her powers, so maybe it does make a sick kind of sense.

Either way, the woman—and Peter would never, ever, call a woman a bitch, but really wants to in this context—nearly does them both in. For a while, it's like fighting a ninja if the ninja was dead and really pissed about it. Whoever she was, Peter and Bucky are tag-teaming against a foe who, quite frankly, is making them look bad. Finally, with a move that's more desperation than skill and maybe a bit of dumb luck, they manage to kick her out of the plane, watching as she tumbles onto the ground below, and get that ramp lifted, sealing themselves in.

“Don’t come back without pizza,” Peter calls out after her, though she’s probably not in a listening mood, being dead and all. And most likely wouldn’t hear them anyway, but with bay door secured, Peter's euphoria hits a wall.

Until it’s really not easy.

Peter hisses, only now noticing that his shoulder is throbbing.

“Ow... didn’t see that one coming,” his heart drops, he probes the tender area, and takes a few steps away from Bucky. “I guess you are going to have some of that extra privacy after all.”

Bucky gives him a look that's part worry, part 'are-you-serious-right-now', but then his eyes widen with understanding, and he rubs the bridge of his nose and mutters, until he isn’t muttering anymore.

“Fuck, shit. Fuck!” He takes a breath or two, Peter already eyeing his gun, and asks, calmer now. “Are you sure?”

Peter turns around, shaking his head, and offers:

“Have a look. From there.”

“It’s a scratch,” he hears Bucky exhale, and waits. Not just a scratch. Might as well be a bite, as far as Peter is concerned, although it isn’t always a sure thing. He’s sure enough though. Sure enough not to want for Bucky to risk it anyway.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think there are more inside,” Peter shakes his head again and doesn’t turn back. Doesn’t want to make it more difficult for Bucky than it already is. “Quick, yeah? Here, let me walk to the corner, don’t want brain splatter all over your new digs.”

Facing the corner, Peter slowly pulls off his mask, crumbling it in his hand. His breath comes out in shaky gasps, each one a countdown to what he's certain is the end. Oddly, there's a twisted sort of peace settling over him. There's a definite irony in preparing for your own execution, but if this is how it ends, at least it's Bucky doing the honors – someone he knows, someone he trusts. Not some stranger or, worse, a mindless zombie.

"Just a sec, actually," Peter starts, with both some calm and frenzy. "Before you go all Clint Eastwood on me. Don’t forget Karen, although you already know that. You’ve got access and all, but sorry about the whole undressing me after thing. Yeah, awkward. Find some gloves, though. Wouldn’t want you to catch my cooties. And we're running low on insulin – that’s gotta be top priority. You know, for Sarah and the others."

His words tumble out, a laundry list of reminders, things Bucky needs to keep an eye on.

"Alright then, ready," he finally says, closing his eyes. He's grateful Bucky can't see his face, unsure of the expression he's wearing. Is it fear? Resignation? He doesn't even know.

But the shot doesn't come.

"Come on, Bucky, don't be stupid," Peter urges after what feels like an eternity. "Don't be that guy."

"Turn around," Bucky's voice is firm.

Peter turns, frowning, and fails to manage even a sad parting smile. Bucky's slumped against the opposite wall, gun half-heartedly pointed at Peter's head.

"Are you in a hurry or something?" Bucky's voice is tinged with weariness. "We can wait. Sit down, eyes on me."

A nervous laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside Peter. Disbelief and a bit of hysteria. 

"You idiot," Peter says, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he's still alive. A part of him wants to argue, to insist that Bucky do what needs to be done. But… who the fuck knows, right? “I take it you are not going to pass me that gun and let me do it myself?”

“Nah,” Bucky’s frowns. “I don’t think so. Just shut up and sit. We're not doing anything rash."

So Peter does. Sits his ass on the floor, chews on the inside of his cheek, and doesn’t even know what to think. It’s not like he can breathe enough air before he dies or anything, plus he is locked in this absurd staring contest, not wanting to even blink in case the world ends in that split second of darkness. So Peter just sort of counts the seconds, ticking them off like a human stopwatch, while looking into Bucky's eyes across the room. It's been... what? Four minutes by now? Five? Each second drags out.

"Any minute now, I'll start craving brains. You'll be the first to know," Peter jokes.

"Can't wait," Bucky deadpans, but there's an edge to his voice, and his gun is still pointed at Peter's head.

Peter flits between hope and despair, like a TV flickering between channels. It's a bizarre limbo, where one moment he's imagining himself turning into a zombie, and the next he's planning a bucket list. He's hyper-aware of every sensation, every itch and twitch in his body, as if trying to discern the onset of zombification from normal, everyday itches. He lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"I am having so much sex, if I make it," Peter suddenly announces, a wild thought escaping his lips. "At least to see what it's all about."

Bucky's face does something complicated, before his eyebrows lift in realization.

"You serious?"

Peter shrugs.

"Not with you, relax,” he adds quickly, rolling his eyes. “I’ve seen where you’ve been, and no offense, but I don’t want your kind of cooties."

The joke doesn’t quite land, they both know it's a deflection, and it does nothing to break the tension. The minutes keep piling up, one on top of the other. Finally, after what feels like another small eternity, Bucky speaks, his voice cautious. "I think you might be fine."

While Zombie lore is vague on timelines, Peter's also getting to a point where he suspects with some hope they're past the standard window for turning into a flesh-eating monster. And, holy shit, it's a relief.

"Fuck," he sags against the corner he is in, the word a half-laugh, half-sob. "I was this close to insisting you blow my brains out.”

A close call, too damn close. He glances over at Bucky, who's still watching him with a wary eye, the gun now lowered but still in his hand. "Thank you. No dramatic speeches, okay?"

Bucky's mouth twitches in what might be the beginning of a relieved smirk.

"No promises. I might be feeling the need to monologue."

Peter rubs his hands over his face.

They start from the cargo tiedown big enough to fit at least two cars and then some. The first step Peter makes, after at least another ten minutes or so, echoes loudly against the metal. His body jerks instinctively at the sound.

"I still don’t think anyone's here," Peter comes up to the spiral staircase leading up, side-steps it, and pushes open the double doors to the rest of the level. “Start at the bottom and work our way up?”

Bucky quietly moves behind him, and Peter nudges his spidey-sense to be on high alert, although there is no nudging it in the conventional sense. Don't get cocky. An important rule, so they proceed with caution.

The whole lower deck seems to be... pristine. In some way, at least when it comes to neatness, the place looks better organized than Peter’s old apartment. The cargo hold itself is vast, brightly lit, and packed to the brim. Crates are stacked like Tetris blocks—some marked with cryptic military codes, others with plain labels like "Food - Non-Perishable" and "Medical Supplies - Fragile."

"Look at this," Peter trails his fingers over a crate labeled "Energy Bars - Variety." He smiles at Bucky. "Bet they've got that pretentious organic stuff Mr. Stark liked. You know, tastes like cardboard but costs more than a good steak."

Bucky takes a peek behind the crate, checking the labels on the next row.

"Tell me when you find anything that looks like it's got real caffeine, then talk to me about the good stuff."

They walk further, circle around another row of crates, and Peter stops in his tracks, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

“I think I…” Peter thinks back to the leather-clad ninja they were able to kick off the plane, eyeing the lab and the workshop in front of them, and grasps Bucky’s arm. “I think I know whose plane this was. God.”

“Bad?” Bucky looks at him, ignoring Peter’s hand, and Peter moves it to cover his own mouth for a second to stop himself from screeming in glee, not quite believing how fucking lucky they are.

“No, not at all. Good.”

He starts with the lab, walking into it with a sort of reverence, stopping in the middle, with rows of sleek black counters against the walls lined with equipment still sheathed in plastic, as if waiting for the researcher to return.

Barely able to hide his excitement, Peter sidles up to a centrifuge, tapping the casing affectionately.

"This bad boy could probably spin us just about anything. Or at least a mean margarita."

He’s only half-joking. The reality is, with the tools in this lab, they might just have a shot at a few things—not a cure, of course, but it isn’t nothing either. The place, together with the attached workshop, is stocked with almost too much tech: microscopes that could probably zoom in even on the secrets of the undead, fridges full of chemicals that scream 'handle with care,' and a biohazard containment unit that looks like it could survive a bomb blast. At the least, if they’ve got the right chemicals, they would be able to spin up some of the meds they need. Assuming the plane isn’t stocked with them already. On the off chance the compound is a bust—and that’s still a possibility, secure or not—this is great. So fucking great.

Bucky pokes a random wrapped piece of equipment with a metal finger.

"So, Dr. Parker, when do you start cooking up miracles?"

Peter glances around and laughs. "Give me a lab coat and a montage, and I'll have something by the end of the day." He beams at Bucky, a reckless grin spreading across his face. "You know, this might just be the coolest thing we've found that wasn't trying to eat us."

And, yes, the compound might have plenty of labs and workshops too, but they will need living space. This… this pushes Peter to envisioning an actual lab coat in his future, maybe even goggles.

“Mine,” he waves his hand around, heading out.

They skim the workshop surrounded by glass walls, which Peter christens ‘Parker's Peculiar Fix-its: We Repair Everything,’ then check two empty holding cells. Bucky hums under his breath when they swing open the door to the next room.

"Yours?" Peter asks. The armory in front of them is less a 'room' and more an 'arsenal museum.' Guns gleam from wall mounts, and rows of knives wink suggestively from under glass as if they're flirting with them. Rows upon rows of weapons under the fluorescence make a buffet of destruction that could turn any pacifist's thoughts to the Second Amendment.

“Holy weaponry, Batman,” Peter murmurs, stepping aside to let Bucky walk in first.

“This is like Christmas.” Peter can practically feel the weight of choices in the room, the freedom to choose a weapon without wondering if it’ll jam, break, or backfire. If Santa packed this kind of heat, Peter doubts anyone would try to catch him coming down the chimney.

Bucky peruses a rack of rifles with the tender care of a librarian handling first editions. He stares at one particular rifle with an expression that should be reserved for something pretty. Stop-and-stare kind of pretty.

“Hey, check this out,” Peter calls, lifting a pair of gloves that look like they could withstand a bite or twenty. “These might be handy. Get it? Handy?”

Bucky doesn’t dignify the pun with a response, instead picking up a grenade launcher with a nod of approval. “This could turn a bad day around.”

"You think if I asked nicely, one of these would transform into a functional web-shooter?" Peter’s voice is light, but there's an undercurrent of wishful thinking that he can't entirely suppress. It’s been forever since that part of the suit worked. In all honesty, he’s really hoping for a few bits and pieces at the compound. He might be able to put something together here too, but there are suits at the compound. Actual suits. And time. He'll have the time.

"Don't get greedy," Bucky chides, but he's picking up a sleek rifle and checking the balance like a sommelier testing a fine wine. He slings it over his shoulder next to his other one and stashes two boxes of ammo in his bag. Peter almost asks what’s the hurry, but then again, you never know, so that’s smart.

They move from table to table, and Peter daydreams of finding a label saying 'To Peter, with love from Mr. Stark,' but it's all standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue—practical, deadly, and without a trace of sentimentality.

"Alright," Peter says. “Ready to move on? Or do you want to stay here and make sweet love to the artillery?”

“Nah.” Bucky gives him a flat look. “There’s more to see, and I’m not cuddling with a rocket launcher tonight.”

Peter has half a mind to ask what he’s planning on cuddling with tonight, but he drops the idea before it fully forms in his head. Besides, Bucky is right. There’s more to see, and they haven’t even gotten to the best part. Unless Peter is wrong about this being a jackpot. Although it already is.

They move on to level two, backtracking and taking the spiral stairs up, and everything up there is also so intact it's almost a crime. The only evidence of chaos is really just the absence of chaos itself.

Peter doesn’t know what exactly he had expected—he knows what he had hoped for when he first got this lead—but with the lab that makes Peter's fingers twitch with the urge to tinker, a workshop that could birth anything from a potato gun to a bunch of seriously useful shit, and supplies that speak of a preparedness that borders on paranoia—who's laughing now?

"We've got everything but a bowling alley," Peter notes, "which is good because my bowling sucks."

"Let’s just hope your flying is better than your jokes."

That’s a joke in itself, because Peter can’t fly for shit—Karen and autopilot got him back to the US after Zombie Thanos had snapped his fingers and blinked out. Bucky can fly too though.

"Harsh. My jokes are solid."

They are in the crew quarters now—comfy-looking pods lining the walls, eight in total, surrounding a massive open area with a lounge and, yes, a fucking bar—and the sun outside is streaming through the portholes, casting long, lazy beams across the untouched beds. Peter resists the urge to flop onto the first available bunk, but he does declare it his throne, chucking his backpack there with a satisfying thud.

“Calling dibs on this one—it's got a perfect nook for all two of my possessions,” he announces grandly.

Bucky doesn’t seem to like it, and Peter thinks of the extra rifle he took, even though everything here is now theirs, and sheepishly grabs the backpack again. Just for now. Until they make sure all is in order. The fact is though, there are no bodies. None at all. And they are fine, Peter knows they are. No signs of struggle, no fallen heroes—just a ship waiting for its captains.

"We've got enough power to light up Times Square for a New Year's party," Peter's eyes dance across the readouts, once they make it to the command center. "Not that we'd want to, considering the guest list would be... bitey."

Bucky leans against a console, arms folded. "How many miles are we talking here?"

Peter pops himself into the pilot's chair, gets Karen to check out a few more things and nearly feels his own eyes water.

"Part-solar, part Stark-tech, Bucky. Renewable too. She’s got more life in her than your social calendar."

Peter has no fucking clue why it happens, really, just that it does. It's in that weird, fuzzy time after they are already airborne, ETA to the compound is just under an hour, and after finding one more room on level three.

Office and bedroom, both —a time capsule, untouched, preserved. On the desk, there's a photo of a team they both recognize. Coulson and others. Good people. Peter's worked with them twice. Avengers did.

"I've seen them before," Bucky says, picking up the photo. Peter doesn't pipe in, and the silence swells between them. He remembers May—the other May, the one they had to kick off the plane. Her face flashes in his mind, and they leave the room as is. Not a shrine, there is no point in luxuries like that, but it's the furthest place to get to on the Bus, so maybe it'll be good for non-emergency storage.

The when is clear though.

Peter grabs a shower, there's time—and that’s a luxury that feels almost scandalous. He wraps a fluffy towel around his waist, walks out, another towel in hand, still a bit dazed from the heat, when he sees Bucky cracking open a bottle of something and pouring a glass for himself. Peter doesn't drink, Bucky knows that, and Peter doesn’t say anything at all about alcohol, not his place. If he trusts Bucky with his life, he sure as shit also trusts him to know how to handle his drink.

He slumps into one of the half-circular leather couches next to him, still drying his hair with the spare towel. Not lost in his thoughts exactly, but trying to decide what he is feeling.

"Something wrong?" Bucky asks.

Peter shakes his head, the words trapped in his throat. He's struggling to put his finger on the feeling, something new, something... light. It takes him a moment, but then it clicks.

"Can't feel them anymore," he says with some awe. The zombies. For the first time since an insanely anxious trip to and back from Wakanda, for the first time properly since this whole nightmare began, he can't sense them, not a single one. They're in the air, higher than in the jet, so it seems, far from the reach of the undead, and the relief is so potent, so overwhelming, it feels like he's breathing for the first time in years.

“Whoa,” Peter adds. “That’s better than…”

Better than anything. He's sure there are better things out there, of course there are, but right now he can't think of any.

And that's when it happens, or at least starts.

"Good," Bucky’s taking a sip from his glass, tilts his head while looking at Peter, and seems thoughtful. “You were gonna say ‘better than sex’, but can’t, yeah?”

Bucky is smirking now, the asshole, so Peter lightly hits him in the shin with his bare foot.

"It's the little things," Peter stretches, relaxed, knees falling apart under the towel, giving himself a few minutes to air dry before changing back into his one set of clothing he has with him, "like not having to worry about being someone's snack."

Bucky raises his glass in toast. "To not being snacks."

Peter grins, raising an imaginary glass too, relieved that the conversation is steering back to things less embarrassing. Not that he believes Bucky will keep bringing it up, he isn’t actually an asshole.

Most of the time.

Peter can't remember the last time it was just them in relative safety though, with nothing to do but wait. They're always moving, doing something, or collapsing from sheer exhaustion. So, maybe it makes sense, in a twisted Bucky kind of way, that he's harping on this. Maybe. Probably. Peter has no fucking clue, really.

It's just one minute Peter is lounging, mind already fast-forwarding to settling into the compound, glossing over the mountains of work that will need to be done, but imagining a semi-normal life, complete with all the chips falling neatly into place. But then the next, Bucky's voice absolutely ruins his buzz.

"So," Bucky starts, a mischievous glint in his eye that Peter knows spells trouble. "you've really never...?"

Peter, mid-stretch, freezes.

"Look, it's not exactly been at the top of my to-do list, okay? Kind of busy trying not to die."

"Sure, sure," Bucky drawls. "I was thinking, that's pretty pathetic, you know?"

Peter frowns, his relaxed posture tensing. "What the fuck, dude?"

"Your... situation." Bucky gestures vaguely, swirling his drink, but his smirk says it all. "I almost considered not shooting you, if you turned. Felt too bad for you."

Peter shifts uncomfortably. "Ha, funny," he mutters, not finding it funny at all. His face heats up faster than a microwave pizza. This is not the conversation he wants to have, not by a long shot, especially not with Bucky.

"No, seriously," Bucky continues, oblivious or indifferent to Peter's discomfort.

"Okay, nope." Peter stands up abruptly, any sense of being relaxed having evaporated like morning dew. "I am not talking about this."

Bucky half-laughs, and there isn't even a hint of apology in his eyes. "Aw, come on, don't be like that."

Okay, maybe an occasional asshole.

"I'm gonna... check on something. Anything. Away from here."

His embarrassment is turning to irritation as he walks towards the pod where he left his clothes. He's not enjoying this, not one bit.

"You know, I could give you some tips," Bucky gets up from the couch and walks after him. "There's still time. World's ending, but not today."

"I'm good, thanks. Really. Also, fuck off." Peter snaps. He starts digging for a clean pair of boxers in his backpack. Shit. What an actual asshole.

Bucky raises his hands in mock surrender, booze sloshing in his glass, and fucking parks himself on Peter’s bed by the backpack, scooting far enough to rest his back against the wall. "Hey, I'm not judging. Just, you know, an observation."

"An observation that nobody asked for," Peter mutters, throwing him a glare that could probably melt steel. He did pack spare boxers, didn’t he? Fuck 'em.

"Just trying to help a friend out."

And it stings. A lot.

"Yeah?" Peter starts putting on his jeans, making sure the towel stays on. They are up to his knees when he adds with some bite. “How about a blowjob then?”

Peter can't believe he said it, so he pauses just for a second before getting the jeans over his hips, the towel still snug over them. When Peter looks at him, ready to take it back, Bucky's expression has shifted. The plane feels too small, regardless of its size, and Peter's heart is thudding in his chest from sheer mortification.

“I don't think so,” Bucky still sounds amused, but his smirk is faltering, and he puts his glass on the small hanging shelf. “Can do a handjob though.”

“Yeah, right,” Peter snorts. "How generous of you. You're all talk."

"Am I now?" Bucky says, patting his knees, an invitation as clear as day.

Peter's mind screams 'bad idea', but his pride and that stupid, annoying thing he has for Bucky push him forward. With a shaky breath that's supposed to look confident, he takes a step towards the bed and climbs onto Bucky's knees, straddling him.

"See? Just talk," Peter says, trying to sound nonchalant, but he's acutely aware of Bucky's thighs between his. His own jeans stretch over his ass, still unzipped, and despite being hundred percent sure this is just a game of chicken, he feels his dick twitch against rough fabric.

Bucky's hands settle on Peter's hips, and he is close enough to see the flecks of color in his eyes. "You sure about that?"

"Absolutely." A lie. Peter's heart beats even faster now, and he wonders how he got himself into this mess, Bucky watching him with an infuriatingly smug look, and Peter's face flames hotter than a supernova.

“You really think I'm pathetic?"

Bucky's expression softens.

"Never," he says. "You're the bravest person I know."

"Okay, um, I should probably..." Peter trips over words. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid and screwed, because now it’s not just an attraction. Now Peter is in danger of drowning in feelings with the speed of a pebble thrown into a lake. He tries to slide off Bucky’s lap, planning on a hasty retreat and laughing this off later, his skin prickling.

Bucky's hands tighten on his hips, pulling him a fraction closer.

“Wait,” Peter swallows too loudly, Bucky’s eyes not leaving his. “Are you actually offering?”

Peter can feel Bucky's breath on his face, smell the alcohol on his breath. It's a strange moment, so fucking weird. His question hangs in the air, a verbal grenade he's just lobbed without thinking. Maybe there was a thought or two, but definitely not enough. Because if or, more accurately, when Bucky says ‘no’… forget awkward.

Bucky's smirk grows back, and there is something almost predatory about it.

"I'm starting to think you've got more balls than brains, Parker."

Peter hears a defensive edge in his own laughter.

"You wouldn't be the first to think that."

Better. Worse.

Peter's knees are still pressing into the mattress on either side of Bucky's thighs, and he is actually getting hard. His heart is pounding so loud now he's sure Bucky can hear it. Peter's not sure what to expect now either—a laugh, a scoff, maybe even a gentle shove away. But Bucky just looks at him, and Peter has no idea how to interpret his thoughtful expression behind the smirk.

"Well?" Peter is all bravado and nerves after counting to ten in his head, his towel a precarious line of defense. "All talk. Typical."

"That so?" murmurs Bucky—a deep, rough rumble.

And then it actually happens. Peter chokes out a surprised “What—”, Bucky’s right hand swiftly moving from his hip to under the towel, and he's gripping Peter’s dick, confident and unbothered. He has that same almost bored look on his face now, like when he is watching zombies through the scope but not planning to shoot them just yet, and Peter's brain sends out a mayday signal, something shocked, surprised. His thoughts scatter in a million different directions, none of them making a lick of sense. This doesn’t make sense at all. His head drops somewhere close to Bucky’s neck, forehead landing on the cool metal of his shoulder, chilling Peter’s skin, while his whole body seems to reach critical temperature within seconds.

“What—” comes out again, but the rest is lost somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle, disappearing without a trace. Bucky moves his hand a bit, adjusting his hold, pulling Peter's dick out of the jeans fully, and strokes him, lazy and relaxed, like it’s not a big deal at all. The towel shifts over Peter’s hips and, absentmindedly, he wonders if the open zipper is scratching Bucky’s skin with every stroke.

The sensation is… startling, unexpected, and oddly intimate. Only, of course it’s fucking intimate, because Bucky’s hand is somehow on Peter, and it just doesn’t compute, not at all, even less so when Peter hears himself make a strangled kind of noise, like a dial-up modem trying to connect to the internet in the eightees. Peter’s lips move, mouth opening and closing, eyes still open, but all he can see is the expanse of Bucky’s chest, the worn fabric of his t-shirt, little pills of lint covering soft cotton, and barely there space, with just about some air trapped between them.

It shouldn’t make any sense, it doesn’t make sense. Bucky’s straight, the straightest man Peter had ever known, really, but here he is, jerking Peter off, his thighs warm and strong under Peter’s, and his hand moves in probably the most basic way, but it still scrambles everything like eggs on a Sunday morning. It’s a dumbfounded kind of paralysis, and Peter’s really fucked, he knows he’s fucked, because there’s no coming back from this. A mistake, a giant, massive mistake, but this casual, almost mechanical touch, is so warm, and brazen, and foreign, lighting up every neuron.

Somewhere between arousal and being touched for the first time, there's still a healthy dose of 'what the actual fuck?' but Bucky's hand continues its slow, steady movement, and Peter's coherent thoughts are like snowflakes in a blizzard—there one second, gone the next. His body reacts on autopilot, those insane sparks flying through him, each one a tiny firework exploding in his veins. His grip on reality in that moment is as tenuous as his grip on Bucky's t-shirt, which, for the record, Peter doesn’t actually remember gripping, but there is his fist, pulling on the fabric in the middle of Bucky’s chest, and it isn’t right, shouldn’t be right, but Peter’s eyes are closing, and he just lets it happen.

Because it’s already happening, isn't it? Somehow. For no reason at all, or, yeah, because Bucky feels sorry for Peter. And that’s just… it’s alright, even though it makes Peter’s cheeks burn from embarrassment and hurt, while his back arches at this thing Bucky does, when he thumbs away the moisture of pre-come and slicks it all over the tip.

"Fuck, Bucky," Peter gasps, and he hates, absolutely hates himself for saying anything, ruining it. "This is—"

"—Good?" Bucky finishes for him, his voice a low chuckle that runs through Peter's body and stomps all over.

No, more like 'unfuckingbelievable', but Peter holds it in, like he's trying to hold in a breathy moan after a moan, stuffing them back inside the moment they try to rip out of him. And everything is sharp, really sharp, like Bucky’s stubble that Peter feels against his own naked shoulder—just for a second. This makes Peter shake, because it’s Bucky, who is either just a crush, or, like, the greatest love of Peter’s life or something, he doesn’t know. And it feels so fucking good, amazing, a frantic SOS ricocheting against Peter’s ribcage.

“Sorry,” Bucky is saying more now, Peter barely hearing, even though he’s saying it close to Peter’s ear, his long hair tickling Peter’s arm, sliding off his shoulder. “It’s better with lube. Or some spit. Just better with girls, you know.”

Peter doesn’t think of girls at this moment, although at some stage he is sure he at least liked girls. Somewhere in the distance though, even though it's just here, all up in his space, he hears Bucky huff out air—and Peter opens his eyes, and wonders, wonders, until he moves, just a bit, and feels somehow, or at least guesses.

"Oh," Peter breathes out, eloquent as ever. "You're—"

"Yeah," Bucky cuts him off with a tightness in his voice. “You are half-naked and vibrating on top of me. Of course, I am fucking hard.”

And he is tense now—Bucky—really tense and rigid, the realization hitting Peter like a pie in the face at a slapstick comedy show, even though Bucky just told him. He honestly expects Bucky to stop now what he is doing with his hand, fingers running along Peter’s length, but then the grip returns, this touch, and he keeps stroking him, up and down. Peter’s mouth lands somewhere on the crook of Bucky's neck and fuck, he can feel Bucky’s pulse under the salty, sweaty skin, for a crazy second wanting to lick it all over and beg Bucky to let him return the favor, even though he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Instead, Peter’s mouthing “Please just—don’t stop, alright?” against this skin, salt on his lips, wet breath probably clinging to it, and Bucky speeds up the movements, his palm huge and warm on Peter’s dick, while he’s saying something else, something fucking ridiculous, and completely, utterly irrelevant.

“Not gonna stop, don’t worry, doll,” at first. And then: “You smell clean. You know, the difference between clean and ‘we are just moving dirt around’? Hmm.”

He probably means the lack of proper facilities or something, has to, because Peter feels clean too. In like forever. But Peter's stuck on doll, and on the fact that Bucky's honest-to-god is actually giving him a handjob while hard himself, humming, and this makes a sharp coil turn and twist in the pit of Peter’s stomach, seizing everything from his balls to the tips of his toes. Until he is coming, quickly, just a few minutes in, whiting out, with a strangled noise, while Bucky’s saying more nonsensical things directly into his ear, like:

“So hurry the fuck up and come already, before it gets weird, and after we settle into the compound we are going to find you a nice little virgin to fuck, if that’s your thing, and you can invite her to your movie nights with old comedies or take her out for a walk in that garden with mood lighting, where she could blow you, and, seriously, are you nearly done, because I need to rub one out, and a shower sounds fucking amazing—”

Chapter Text

In retrospect, Peter realizes that 'selective hearing' is a hell of a drug, and that he had tuned out just enough for it to be the most mind-blowing orgasm he ever had. He was listening in to the wrong frequency, he knows he was, because after that Bucky, ever the man of action, with the finesse of a surgeon (or maybe a butcher, Peter can't decide), had promptly picked Peter up off himself, almost like a sack of yesterday's laundry, and deposited him to the side. No words, no lingering looks—just a straight beeline to the shower, leaving Peter in a stunned silence that rivaled the vacuum of space.

Peter sits in the pilot's chair, carefully fiddling with the controls and running scans. The screens before him flicker with bursts, signs of life lighting up here and there like rare twinkle lights on an ancient string with most of the bulbs blown, but some still barely holding on. It's good to know, really good, but his current mood has his thoughts drift to flying low over the ocean on the way back from Wakanda. He spotted boats and ships then. Silent, motionless, like abandoned chess pieces on a grand board. Dead in the water, or just dead. Probably the latter.

And there is this... sense of isolation that's almost tangible. Drifting, directionless. He sighs with a grimace, leaning back into the leather, the chair too big for him, trying to shake this odd seismic shift that keeps buzzing under his skin. He can still almost feel Bucky under him, his hands, hear the sound of his voice, and there's something wretched that's churning inside him, like a heartbreak or just a break of his disillusionment. His actions—or reactions—bear down on him, and he thinks, wryly, that if feeling like this after sex is normal, then maybe it isn't worth it.

“Forget it ever happened,” he mumbles under his breath, and resigns to forget, only to immediately feel like a browser with too many tabs open, and right now, the 'Handjob from Bucky Barnes' tab is flashing for attention. He tells himself to close it, but how the hell can he, and it's really like trying to unsee a cat riding a unicycle—you can't.

There is heat creeping up his neck at the mere thought of making eye contact with Bucky. Then there's the whole 'living in close quarters' thing. Bumping into each other while trying to make a sandwich? ‘Pass the mayo. Also, remember when you had your hand down my—never mind, I'll just have the sandwich bland.’ Not that there's bread. Ever. Christ. He groans, rubbing a hand over his face. He's not even sure he wants to forget. Because, let's face it, orgasms don't just grow on trees, especially for him, and... so now what?

But then Bucky saunters back into the cockpit—fresh from his shower, looking unfairly like a cologne ad and exuding the casual confidence of someone who hadn’t just engaged in an impromptu adult-rated whatever-the-fuck-that-was—and he’s holding out a can of Coke like it's a peace offering.

"Found some at the bar. Been ages, right?"

"Duh, gimme," Peter gestures, his voice laced with a forced casualness that rivals Bucky's, and Bucky, the shit, presses the cold can against Peter's neck, making him laugh. And yeah, the laugh is about as heartfelt as a politician's promise, but it's a laugh nonetheless.

"Thanks," Peter grabs the can, rubbing his now cold neck, and when he takes that first sip, it fizzes down his throat, a tiny normalcy bubble in their apocalyptic soda stream.

He turns back to the screens, focusing on the blips and bleeps that signal life out there.

"There are others," Peter declares, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. “Groups, settlements, or maybe just really stubborn hermits."

Bucky leans against the console, his expression mostly interested. "Good news, right?"

"Great news," Peter confirms. “After we are settled down, we should reach out. See if they need a hero or two, join forces. Maybe sign some autographs.”

"You think they want the autograph of a guy who's good with his hands?" The asshole.

And just like that, Peter actually laughs. Not the ungenuine as a three-dollar bill laugh, but an honest one.

“You are a dick,” he shakes his head, drinking more Coke, and this personal drama seems less like a headline and more like a footnote. And, sure, even if Bucky isn’t the greatest love of his life, even if he is just the last standing Avenger apart from Peter, he is the only person who gives two shits about whether Peter Parker lives or dies in the whole world, and it’s almost worse. Worse, which somehow makes it fine. “ETA twenty minutes. Is there food?”

As the plane touches down on the compound's roof, Peter's first instinct isn't to marvel at their smooth landing or even to pat himself on the back for not turning them into a fiery ball of scrap metal. No, he's tuning into that constant, nagging buzz in his head, that sixth sense of his, the one that's been more curse than superpower lately, checking for zombies like he's checking for rain. It's there, that familiar itch, but faint, like a bad song playing in a neighbor's house—annoying, sure, but not a problem.

"Seems like we're in the clear. They're out there, but not close enough to crash our housewarming party."

Bucky makes some non-committal noise in response, his version of a cheer, already heading out.

They disembark, stepping onto the roof that's solid under their feet—a minor miracle in itself, really, but the compound's still standing, like Peter knew it would. Peter fishes out a pair of sleek bracelets from his pocket, tossing one to Bucky. "Here, wear this. It's like the keys to the Bus, but less jingly."

Bucky catches it, sliding it onto his right wrist. "Nice. Does it come with a panic button?"

Peter fastens his own with a satisfying click.

"If by panic button you mean 'cloak and secure the plane,' then yeah, it's got one of those." Peter taps his bracelet, and the plane behind them shimmers and fades from sight, the cargo hold door lifting up from the ground with a quiet whoosh.

Peter leaps off the roof, his movements a series of quick, calculated jerks against the wall, the result of too many years spent defying gravity and common sense. Bucky, in contrast, just drops down, his landing a loud thud against the overgrown but otherwise empty lawn, subtle as a cannonball dive. Show-off.

They approach the front door, and it's like stepping up to a vault—thick glass that doesn't let you see through from this side, giving nothing away. Peter's heart does that funny little skip of anticipation and the lingering fear of finding a horde of zombies in business casual on the other side, although he knows there is no real threat there. It's just a low buzz, like a lazy fly miles away. No immediate threat.

Hand shaking just a smidge, he places it on the biometric scanner, holding his breath.

Come on, come on...

There's a moment of nothing, a pregnant pause, and—

The double-door swings open.

"Open sesame," he whispers, a grin breaking across his face. "Looks like we're still on the VIP list."

And there they are, that red ribbon and those ridiculous oversized scissors.

Later, much later in the day, Peter is convinced that what happened between him and Bucky—whatever that was—is now a closed book. He actually isn’t thinking about it at all, truly, because there is a lot going on. So when the fight breaks out—not with zombies, not with other survivors, but between Peter and Bucky— Peter has completely missed the neon sign blinking 'Weird Zone Ahead,' and maybe it has nothing to do with that, maybe it’s everything else.

Maybe it’s Peter's heart doing a nosedive when he stumbles upon the room Mr. Stark had set up for him, walking into a high-definition memory, gatecrashing his own past. Or maybe it’s the sound of shattering glass or, more accurately, what it represents, and Peter sprinting towards the source, half-expecting a zombie in a suit playing office, but instead finding Bucky and the photo under Bucky's boot—him and Steve, looking happy. Bucky in the photo, not Bucky in front of Peter.

Maybe it’s Friday, still kicking, sort of, like a computer running on safe mode with half the RAM. She gives them access and advice, in a voice that's like a comforting echo from a world that's done a pretty good impression of Atlantis. Or maybe it’s the debate over the Iron Man suits when they decide what to do with a fleet of Ferraris without roads.

"Walk them and leave them on level three on the Bus?" Peter suggests, because why not? His own suits are already there, one of the first things he's done. Nanotech for the compact version is on his wrists now, joining the key to Bus, and it's not like they've got a manual on what the fuck to do with Mr. Stark's tech, but they can’t leave them here, wouldn’t, because soon this place will no longer be theirs. But then, nope, there is a better way, because the suits are stuck in the compound like super-powered paperweights, and, thanks to the world's satellite network taking an extended vacation, they have the range of a toddler on a sugar crash – not far. But they are useful, so no point in hauling them out, actually. They could even be used as a line of defense, picking off zombies who wander in too close. 

So, Peter and Bucky, they put them to work, Friday directing a ballet of bulky, mechanical ballerinas, and Peter gathers that Mr. Stark would either be proud or sue them for improper use. They clear the cargo hold of the Bus, rearrange what feels like a million things, and lock up the armory inside the compound (under Bucky's watchful, slightly paranoid eye). It's exhausting, all of this, messy, rushed, but everything's falling into place, like dominos in a line.

So after. After everything's said and done, after they've sweated more than a pair of marathon runners, they fight. And maybe they fight simply because everything around is painfully nostalgic. 

It starts over something trivial, something so small Peter can't even remember. Peter’s suggestion at how to allocate the living space to offices and whatnot, creating dorms underground, possibly? It doesn’t matter, because words are thrown, sharp and stinging, either way. Everything's still standing in the aftermath, but you can't ignore the debris, and Peter tries to remember, honestly, what the fuck set it off, but the only thing he can clearly recall about the argument itself is this overwhelming urge to deck Bucky right in the face. Not his finest moment of emotional maturity, sure, but there it is. So, yeah, like trying to describe a dream five minutes after waking up—fuzzy around the edges, dissolving into nothing the longer it goes on.

When they are up in the air again, heading back to the shelter, Peter just paces the length of the Bus like a caged animal, while Bucky is ignoring him, half-sitting in the pod he chose across from Peter’s, tapping on the tablet he picked up at the compound and frowning at the holographic schematics of his arm, tilting his head this way and that.

Peter thinks, in a twisted way, it's almost impressive how quickly things can go south, and he's not even sure what he wants to say or if he should say anything at all. He overthinks, he frets, he paces some more, lets out a hundred frustrated sighs and, mostly, just spins in circles. He just knows it’s personal, somehow, at least for him, but Peter's toolkit for dealing with personal is woefully under-equipped, so he decides he is no longer pissed off and plants himself on Bucky’s bed, wrestling the tablet away, along with the actual toolkit.

"Look, I don't even..." Peter starts, voice trailing off, gesturing at Bucky to extend his arm towards him. How do you apologize for a fight you can barely remember? It's like saying sorry for stepping on someone's foot in another lifetime.

It's Bucky who breaks the silence though, his voice gruff, laced with a hint of something that might be regret.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You're just... you take after Stark. Savior complex and all. And I know it's gonna go to shit. Your plans, for them—fuckers won't be all rainbows and butterflies about it. We are not in charge, they are. But sure, let's wait and see."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Peter isn’t even trying to keep the mood light, and the weight of Bucky's words hangs in the air, because he’s probably right, and it sucks. And Peter sort of remembers now what they fought about. “I am not a naive child. For the record.”

He zooms in on the right part of the schematic and turns his attention to the arm, carefully removing one plate from the wrist that's been giving Bucky trouble.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that. You sure you know what you're doing?" Bucky asks, eyeing Peter's hands with a mixture of skepticism and resigned acceptance. And Peter has no fucking clue if Bucky means what happened earlier because he thinks Peter is a child, even though he is decidedly not, or just calling Peter that.

"Nope," Peter admits with a shrug. "But when has that ever stopped me?" He waits for Bucky to yank his arm away, but instead, there's a grudging trust in his stillness and, fuck it, they're both just winging it when it comes to pretty much everything, so why not this.

Peter works on the wrist for most of the flight then, fingers nimble and surprisingly steady. He's in the zone, and it's almost soothing, the focus it requires. He's aware that he should probably be more pissed off, hold onto the anger, maybe throw a few more barbed comments Bucky's way. But it feels too late for that, like yelling at a storm after it's passed. So, he just works, the rhythmic clicking of metal plates and screws filling the space between them.

"Next time, try not to break it," Peter mutters as he finishes up, giving Bucky a pointed look.

"Seriously?" Bucky shoots back, but there's a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and, shit, it was Peter’s fault, a lifetime ago, when they had a different bus, not with a capital B. Peter had forgotten to leave it in park, so Bucky had to stop it from rolling down the hill, while Peter was panicking in the driver’s seat, and—

Crap.

“Whatever,” Peter flings the tablet at Bucky, the charger plugged into a wall making it bounce back right to him, but he’s almost smiling now too. “What do you suggest we do then? With the fuckers? God, we should really stop calling them that. What’s your great plan?”

Back at the shelter, the Bus hovers like a metallic behemoth next to the library's roof access, ramp just within reach, complete with the sound of jet engines serenading zombies towards the barricades. Undead are gathering, enthusiastically throwing themselves at the barbed wire, and it’s a morbid spectacle, but Peter's more focused on the task at hand. They're not staying long, just a quick in-and-out to pick up the survivors.

Bucky's 'plan,' if you can call it that, is less strategy and more blunt force trauma. He addresses the crowd with a calmness that borders on unnerving.

"I'll shoot the first one to step out of line myself," he announces, and there's something about the way he says it, that authority and don't-fuck-with-me tone, that actually draws some nervous chuckles. The look of absolute belief on everyone's faces is real though. Inspired or just scared shitless, but it works.

They haven’t lost anyone while Peter and Bucky were out, which in itself feels like a miracle. People move with an urgency that's almost impressive, grabbing everything they need. Maybe it's Bucky's voice, that steady, unflappable calmness that commands attention. Or it could be the fact that people trust him, even if they're mildly terrified of him – and, you know, there's a certain appeal to the whole 'dangerous but I'd still hit that' vibe he's got going on. Or perhaps it's the new tactical gear he's wearing, courtesy of Mr. Stark's posthumous generosity that makes Bucky look like he’s in charge.

Doesn’t matter, really, because the boarding process is smooth, and people listen, the liftoff even smoother, nobody tries to climb up the spiral staircase to level two, staying downstairs as they were told, and they're doing this.

They're actually pulling it off.

The trip back is a blur, and there is only one part of this otherwise perfectly executed plan that sticks in Peter's craw.

He's moving through the cargo hold, doling out those organic energy bars instead of snacks like a flight attendant on a budget airline, when he notices Bucky chatting up some girl. 

She's about Peter's age, pretty as hell and somehow managing to look like she’s just stepped out of a makeup tutorial. And Peter doesn’t fucking know. Really. Why it’s upsetting. It’s Bucky, Mr. Suave-and-Smooth, and of course he’s already lining up something for later with someone who just about doesn’t scream "Yes, the world is ending, but my eyeliner is on point." Peter rolls his eyes so hard he almost sprains them. He doesn’t care, he insists to himself. Does not fucking care. Even though he wants to toss a bar at Bucky's head, but that would mean less for everyone else, so Peter just moves on, then he’s done, and back upstairs. To monitor.

When they finally touch down, it's less of a graceful landing this time, and more of a controlled crash, but it has nothing to do with the actual landing. The Bus's ramp thuds open, and the survivors spill out. Nothing organized about it—people grabbing bags, shouting instructions, and a couple of them even arguing over who gets to sleep where. Already. Even before they are in through the access on the roof.

Bucky shrugs and goes with, "Fuck it, just let them. For tonight."

Peter can't decide if that's leadership or laziness, but he's too tired to argue.

As they designate a few rooms off-limits, Peter jokes about an emergency Ikea run. Beds, anyone? The idea gets a few laughs, and at least one person looks genuinely hopeful.

"Do they still do meatballs?" someone asks, and Peter's not sure if they're joking. But then he actually thinks about it, and it’s one of those comments that’s funny because it’s probably true. Not the meatballs part, but making furniture one of the priorities, because the faster they set up, the easier it will be to stop everyone from scattering like ants and claiming shit they shouldn’t be claiming, because, damn it, Peter has plans. Good fucking plans.

And when it’s time to hit the hay, after someone discovers the bar and shit starts to escalate into a piss-up that even Peter doesn’t think they could stop now, Peter and Bucky leave Friday in charge, which feels a bit like leaving a sophisticated robot nanny to babysit a bunch of unruly kids. Still, the AI is the most competent one among them, plus she’s armed with Mr. Stark’s suits, so it’s probably good enough.

It's a relief to slump into the couch on the Bus. Bucky drops down beside him, looking equally spent.

"Long day, huh?" Bucky asks, and Peter's devastated for no reason at all, but smiles an incredibly tired smile, grateful and hopeful.

"Yeah," he replies, "Longest ever."

The month after the great survivor pick-up is fucking long too, and, really, it’s climbing with a backpack full of bricks up the tallest mountain. Every day is a new lesson, and Peter's failing some parts of it spectacularly. The compound, thankfully, has power and water, but managing the rest is essentially playing the world's most stressful game of SimCity.

First up, the living situation. It’s one thing to find room for everyone, since they have the space, and plenty of it, but it’s another to make that space livable. The first week is all about getting beds, storage, sheets, pillows, blankets, and an endless amount of things people seem to need to stop arguing about bedrooms they can’t take. That part is easy though, because it’s busy work, and it takes Peter and Bucky away from the compound on these crazy shopping sprees where they occasionally get to fight zombies and one time an actual fucking bear, don’t ask.

Inside, they organize the compound into sectors. Residential areas are mapped out, communal spaces designated, and crucially, sanitation facilities are prioritized. Ensuring a reliable water supply becomes a daily obsession. Peter wakes up at least three times from his own frantic “gotta check the dam,” and they do check the dam, only to find out it’s fully automated. Still, Peter keeps thinking that they need to be ready to set up rainwater collection as a supplementary source. Just in case.

Peter sets up a schedule for showering too, with Friday’s help, trying to avoid a situation where everyone decides to have a bubble bath at the same time. It’s crazy, but sanitation in general does become Peter's unexpected pet project for at least another week. He never thought about waste management before too, but here he is, promoting recycling bins and composting areas like he's running for the Eco-Warrior of the Year award, because he doesn’t want a garbage landfill outside the window. For a while, he is one bad thought away from starting a lecture series on the importance of hygiene too, complete with hand-drawn diagrams. It’s not his most glamorous role, but hey, someone’s got to keep the place from turning into a dystopian dump.

Then there's the fence. Ah, the fence. Fort Knox meets The Great Wall. Bucky takes charge of fortifying it, turning about the square mile around the compound into a zombie-repelling perimeter. They have watchtowers, patrols, and more barbed wire than Peter ever thought he'd see outside of a prison movie. It’s effective, but watching Bucky give orders with a stern face makes Peter wonder if they’re preparing for zombies or the next world war. Everyone gets basic self-defense training, and there are breaks in Peter’s spreadsheet nightmare when he gets to show accountants and graphic designers how to throw a punch or how to shoot a gun at the compound’s gun range.

Food is a whole chapter. They have stores, but balancing diets and rationing portions is akin to hosting the world's least fun dinner party every single day. Peter takes to drawing up meal plans like a budget Gordon Ramsay, minus the screaming. It’s all about carbs, proteins, and not asking too many questions about the mystery cans without labels. The inventory takes forever to organize and stock up on, and it’s not just about food—it’s about meds, vitamins, soap, tampons, for crying out loud, and all of it, fucking all of it, it's less 'World War Z' and more 'Extreme Home Makeover/ Organizing Hell: Apocalypse Edition'. And Peter works and works, improvises things that would give even the most seasoned city planner a migraine, until he can’t anymore.

Until Peter's evenings are no longer spent planning for the next day, sprawled on a huge map of the compound with Bucky, their heads together, talking plans and strategies, but just spacing out, because he can’t think. 

And that’s when it actually gets… better. 

Because, as it turns out, when Peter stops running on fumes, attempting to run everything, people finally remember they are adults.

He just wakes up one morning, not to the thoughts of his own panicky strategizing, but to the distant hum of a community waking up somewhere below. Hypothetical sound, since he and Bucky sleep at the Bus. Taking a walk through the compound, Peter's hit with the realization that life here is not just surviving; it's thriving in its own quirky way. And it is a community now, an actual community.

The first stop on his impromptu tour is the hairdresser's, a spot that's become surprisingly popular. It's set up in what used to be Peter's room, and now there's a line of people waiting for a trim. Peter peeks in and sees a former marketing exec turned barber, snipping away with an intense concentration that's both hilarious and heartwarming. He makes a mental note to get him more things and schedules himself an appointment.

Next up, the dentist's office. Who would've thought dental hygiene would be a hit, right? But there it is, bustling with activity. It's run by an actual dentist, and the tools used to be makeshift, with the enthusiasm and skill being professional grade. By now Rachel’s got everything she needs though and then some, because just a few days ago they raided a dental clinic.

He passes the school after that, inside a former conference room. It's a mishmash of ages and subjects, with many stepping in as teachers. There's an air of focused chaos—kids and adults alike scribbling on blackboards. It's not your typical school environment, but it works, with sun bursting through the windows, and there is something almost happy about it.

There's a gym with equipment—not cobbled together from various parts of the compound, but the original gym, just with more things; a common room with board games and books, and even an art corner where people are rediscovering their creative sides. A mini-culture hub that sprouted out of nowhere like a wild mushroom, and then, the revelation that surprises Peter the most: the chore system he doesn't remember setting up.

Somehow, the fuckers, or maybe not fuckers anymore, have organized themselves into a rotating schedule. Literally. There’s a chore wheel, and everyone’s name is on it. From dishwashing to laundry, it seems they’ve found a way to make communal living work without descending into anarchy. It's not perfect—there’s a heated debate happening near the kitchen about whose turn it is to scrub pots—but it's functional. Functional, and Peter had nothing to do with it, so it might as well be perfect.

And there’s more, so much more, with a few people stopping him with ideas, someone thinking chickens and cows, greenhouses, and one kid wants a puppy, and—

“Hey,” Peter drops into his pod later that night, Bucky drinking a beer by the bar. “I am done. We are done, I think.”

“Huh?” Bucky comes over, bottle in hand, leaning against the sliding door. “You breaking up with me or something?”

“Funny,” Peter stretches on the bed, turns his head to him and says: “I think they are fine. Sufficient, almost. I think we can do… I don’t know, fun shit?”

“We need a killbox first,” Bucky nods, Peter laughs, and then he is agreeing to a moat, since someone told Bucky about that episode of ‘Walking Dead’ with a passing zombie army or something (Peter hasn’t seen it), and now Bucky really wants a moat to herd the zombies into, if it comes down to that.

“Fun stuff after that,” Peter insists though, and he can’t wait.

The Bucky thing, during that first month was... simple. Or, if not simple, then at least not complicated. Really, who has the time for unrequited crushes when you're playing real-life Sims with higher stakes?

Still. Every time Bucky sauntered back into the Bus with that ‘just-had-a-good-time’ swagger, Peter noticed. He even cracked a joke once himself about needing more survivors because Bucky was possibly depleting his current options. It was meant to be funny, but Peter still felt like he’d accidentally poured salt in his own wound.

So, all of it didn’t exactly fade into the background like an old photo. Instead, it grew annoyingly and stubbornly in Peter’s emotional garden, like a weed that refused to be uprooted. And there were moments, silly moments, like that perfume incident, when it did make Peter feel like shit. Not a saga, but a small thing, of Bucky smelling like someone else's perfume that they brought during their last haul along with a massive amount of other things. Wasn’t anything special, but it stung. With everything else on Peter’s plate though—figuring out how not to turn the compound into a scene from ‘Lord of the Flies’ —Peter filed it under 'minor heartbreaks' and moved on.

Moved on from having minor heartbreaks, not from Bucky, becoming an expert at shoving those feelings and thoughts into a box marked ‘Do Not Open - More Important Shit in Progress’. He focused on keeping everyone alive, fed, and relatively sane, and repressed like an idiot, so, really, he shouldn’t be surprised when thoughts and feelings decide to pop up unexpectedly like those whack-a-moles at an arcade.

Because of the moat.

It's not really a moat even, more of a colossal pit, and the process is manual. Digging. They are fucking digging for days during this intense, sticky heat, and Peter is walking the line somewhere between wondering if this is what it feels like to be a potato in the oven and kind of remembering machines were one of mankind's better ideas. The sun is blazing down mercilessly, turning the whole endeavor into a sweat-drenched, dirt-smeared hell, and, of course, there’s Bucky.

At some point, the heat gets too much for everyone, and shirts are shed—a decision that's both practical and, in Bucky's case, extremely distracting. So, topless Bucky. Muscles moving under glistening skin, a sheen of sweat, dirt smudging his torso in a way that's almost artistic, and Peter tries not to stare, he does, but he might as well be trying not to breathe.

Bucky is in a good mood too.

For no reason, although who the fuck knows what his reasons for being in a good mood are—Peter certainly doesn’t. And that means not just the clink of shovels, the grunt of effort, the occasional curse when someone hits a particularly stubborn patch of earth.

No. No.

It’s Bucky in Peter’s line of sight, all rippling muscles and the smirks or maybe even smiles.

Bucky smiling is a lot to process on a regular day, let alone in the middle of this gaping maw. So Peter is kind of going insane. Slowly. Each cubic meter of earth at a time.

Dirt smudging Bucky’s skin is decidedly unhygienic but oddly compelling, plus there is Bucky’s hair tied back, him moving with a grace that's infuriating, him shoveling and hauling like it's nothing, like they're not in the middle of a heatwave, digging a zombie pit. The sheen of sweat on his back catches the sunlight, and Peter has to remind himself to function. It's just Bucky. Right? Just his friend. Just the guy he’s trying not to stare at. Just the guy who gave Peter his first handjob.

Sure, Peter finds a certain satisfaction in the physicality of it all—digging—and seeing the tangible result of their hard work, but he is also desperately bone-tired from this upsetting want. Upsetting, because there has to be an easier way to survive all this. For instance, moving to a nice, zombie-free and topless-Bucky-free island and living off coconuts.

Peter leans on his shovel, looking at their handiwork, and then at Bucky, who's wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and the want isn’t just want, it’s an inexplicable flutter in Peter’s stomach. Bucky isn't even towering over Peter, only slightly taller than Peter himself, but there's a presence about him, a sort of rugged, unrefined charisma that exudes from every pore; there's a lot of defined and toned everything happening right in front of Peter, all functional strength, hair clinging slightly to Bucky's temples, and then Bucky pauses to drink water, tilting his head back, exposing the line of his throat—

Fuck. Just. Fuck.

"Good work today," Bucky says, and Peter's throat is suddenly too dry to form words.

"Yeah," he croaks out. "Good work. I am done though. I am breaking up with this tunnel to China."

The evening they are finally done, and Peter didn’t quit, of course he didn’t, his curiosity pokes at him with the persistence of a mosquito. He throws a sidelong glance at Bucky, who is walking next to him, his t-shirt hung around his neck, and just can’t resist asking. Back in the day, at the old compound, before it all went down, the man was as easy to read as a book written in ancient Sumerian, and this didn’t change exactly. Yet there's an unmistakable ease about Bucky that wasn’t there before, and Peter’s reading that right, he knows he does.

"You know, you seem... kind of happier? Since. More relaxed? If that makes sense," Peter comments, thinking Bucky will either ignore it or tell him to fuck off.

Bucky surprises him, though.

"Maybe," he says, a shrug accompanying the admission. A stray casually acknowledging it enjoys being petted.

"Don't get me wrong," Bucky frowns afterward, and then he is rubbing the back of his neck as if regretting answering.

“I don’t, I get it.” 

It's an odd concept - the idea that a dead-riddled hellscape could be anyone's happy place. Happier place. Silver linings and all. Global warming will probably take a backseat, the Earth will recover without the pesky humans, and if all of this somehow also means Bucky not looking like he’s perpetually at a funeral… Peter isn’t about to complain. They can’t exactly change the past, can they?

When they reach the compound, Peter gives Bucky the usual boost. It's a routine now, a much quicker way up – Bucky's metal arm grips his shoulder, the rest of him sort of just... hanging there.

"Should I feel bad about it?" Bucky asks as he dangles.

Peter easily hoists them both to the roof.

"I don't think so. It is what it is, right?" he replies, once they're safely on top. He fiddles with his bracelet to unlock the Bus, and then it just sort of comes out. Or he does, technically, as they are walking in, the ramp lifting up behind them.

An impulse, that’s what it is, with a side of sudden surge of boldness.

"I am into guys." There's a brief pause, and then he adds, quickly. "Should I feel bad about that?"

Bucky doesn’t stumble, doesn’t gasp or anything, just looks over at Peter for a moment or two. 

"Nah, man. Why should you? If you can't be honest with yourself now, when can you be?" He keeps walking, his response so infuriatingly casual.

And that fucking sucks.

Which in return makes Peter sulk in his pod for the rest of the evening, mainly about how monumentally unsatisfying the whole exchange was.

Peter wasn't exactly hoping for fireworks there, but Bucky's casual, almost indifferent "Nah, man," stings in a way that's hard to articulate. It’s not even the confession itself landing with all the impact of a feather on concrete, but the fact that Peter is either at least a bit in love or very much confused.

Everything starts to go to shit after that.

Chapter Text

A priest, a politician, and a doctor walk into the compound. A perfect setup for a bad joke, if Peter ever heard one. But the new arrivals, as varied and potentially interesting as they are, don’t seem to be an issue. Not at first. And it takes Peter an embarrassingly long time to realize that trouble is brewing because he is distracted.

Peter plugs in his earphones, blasts music loud enough to drown out everything but his own thoughts, and yet he still hears. He hears the soft laughs, the feminine voice. Hears fucking, Bucky pounding a nameless woman into the mattress of his bed. Compound’s getting crowded.

A good thing - the crowded part. The headcount is nearly three hundred now.

But Peter doesn't want to know, doesn't want to hear.

Wants to roll the time back, at least to before they finally started to reach out to others out there, and something breaks inside him a little when he trips over unfamiliar shoes, as if Bucky was in a hurry to get their visitor undressed.

More people mean more hands to help, more chances of survival. More people also means this. Means space is getting tight, secluded spots less common. Means Peter slowly going mad.

And he can’t tell anyone. Can’t tell the only person he wants to tell, the only person he actually speaks to not about tasks, problems, and whatever-the-fuck-else the compound needs. Can’t complain, either. What's he going to say?

"Hey, Bucky, could you maybe not turn the Bus into a love shack, because every time you bring someone else over, which, granted, isn’t too often, I want to walk out behind the fence and just keep walking?" That'll go over well.

There's no malice in this, Peter knows that, just Bucky being Bucky, taking what he needs when he needs it, because they are all willing, because if Peter were to guess, he gathers that Bucky says no more often than he says yes, and that somehow makes it more infuriating.

Even more so, when he points someone out for Peter.

It starts happening and just keeps happening.

In the bustling mornings of the compound, over plates of whatever breakfast concoction is on the menu – today's special being omelet from dried eggs powder.

Bucky nudges Peter, nodding subtly toward a guy on the other side of the mess hall.

"That's Mark," he says, sounding bored, annoyed at the fact that they are running low on coffee again, but also, like he's just handed Peter the winning lottery numbers. “You should talk to him.”

Peter looks at Mark. He seems nice, sure, good-looking even and very age-appropriate, but Peter's interest is as flat as the pancakes they had last Tuesday.

And again, when they're setting up the greenhouses, just outside the main building.

"See that guy with the shovel? Kyle," he says, just about not elbowing Peter in the ribs with a "go get 'em, tiger" look, while managing to frown at a single chicken in the coop who hasn’t been producing anything but a lot of noise and shit.

And then there are the scavenging missions, where Bucky somehow turns into a wingman nobody asked for.

"Joe's joining us today," Bucky says, with a nod toward Joe, who's strapping on a backpack, blissfully unaware of being a topic of discussion. “Is this one your type?”

What the actual—

Sure, statistically, out of the hundreds in the compound, a few might be interested in guys. And maybe, just maybe, Peter stands a chance with one of them. But he isn’t interested. At all. His heart, stubbornly and inconveniently, has its sights set on someone else – someone frustratingly oblivious.

Each of Bucky's attempts feels like a gentle push toward a door Peter has no intention of opening. It's not that he doesn't appreciate Bucky's efforts, in a way; it's just that they're pointed in the wrong direction. And it’s not like Bucky’s going out of his way to make something happen for Peter, but he is still trying to saddle him with a free ticket to a concert Peter has zero desire to attend because the one he actually wants is sold out.

Peter's at his boiling point, and it doesn't take a genius to see it, when Bucky drags yet another guy into Peter’s lab in the Bus. He gestures for the guy to come in, leaning on the doorway with a smug look, as if he's just solved literally every single one of their problems instead of introducing another awkward social interaction. Really, Bucky’s just begging for a punch at this stage.

“John, this is our fearless leader. Peter, this is John.”

"Jesus Christ," Peter mutters, rubbing his face with his hands. He looks at John, who immediately seems as out of place as a penguin in the Sahara, and says, "I am not going to fuck you, John."

John's eyes widen, and he takes a step back, as if he's just been offered a handshake from a zombie.

"Good," he drawls, clearly uncomfortable. "I have a girlfriend, and I wouldn't be into that."

Bucky, on the other hand, now looks like he's about to burst, barely suppressing a laugh. When Peter glares at him, he just shrugs.

"Don't look at me. You said you wanted a local network, right? John used to work in IT."

Shit.

Right, the laptops. Hundreds of them, currently gathering dust in storage. Perfectly usable, brought after a raid at a shopping center. They'd taken everything that wasn't bolted down, including a small mountain of tech Peter had a basic idea of how to network, but didn’t actually have the time to dedicate to it. No internet, sure, but local internet, maybe? God knows. Peter didn’t think about it too much, just mentioned it in passing to Bucky over a week ago. Honestly, he was kind of planning on getting Friday to do it. Somehow. Peter grimaces. Bucky smirks.

John, still looking like he's ready to bolt, clears his throat.

"So, uh, where do you want me to start?"

Peter sighs, feeling his face flushing red.

"Sorry about that, man. Misunderstanding. Back at the compound. I’ll show you where to set up. Just... ignore everything else that just happened."

He gets up and walks after John, who is, in fact, kind of bolting, already halfway out of the Bus.

“You sure you even like guys?” Bucky throws at Peter’s back.

“You sure you don’t?” Peter turns around, pausing, just to add: “Your radar seems to be working better than mine.”

“Blow me,” Bucky just laughs it off, a fucking picture of innocence, and Peter really wants to deck him.

“Only after you get me something pretty,” he says, no longer paying attention, grabbing his tablet on the way out. “Or fresh. I’d kill for something that doesn’t say non-perishable.”

It starts normal, like most days, only this time Peter wakes up to an empty lounge and is clutching a cup of coffee like it’s the Holy Grail, working on peeling his eyes open, when Bucky walks in. In a good mood for probably the dozenth day in a row, sporting a fresh haircut, his hair much shorter now. He’s smiling, and Peter blinks once or twice, taking in his sharp shaved jawline and 'I know something you don't know' expression.

“Wheels up,” he says, coming up to shake the coffee pot and not even scowling at it after finding it already nearly empty. “It’s fall.”

“Huh?” Peter squints at him, a bit slow on the uptake. He did only get a few hours of sleep.

"Apple season?" Bucky clarifies, rummaging under the counter for beans.

Apples. Those things that still grow, like, literally on trees.

“I didn’t think of that,” Peter says, when they are already taking off, still not quite believing. “How didn’t I think of that?”

“Can’t think of everything,” Bucky is still smiling, which is devastating, really, but Peter just kind of thinks pie. They could have pie.

Their first attempt at apple picking is less 'fruitful harvest' and more a ‘crash site’. Also, literally. There is a crashed plane at the coordinates, sprawled indecorously across a massive orchard like a drunk bird after a particularly rough night, and everything looks… unhealthy and very much dead.

"Well, that's not something you see every day," Peter remarks dryly, eyeing the wreckage. Only it is. Something they see almost every day.

They don’t even disembark.

The next place they hit, though, is exactly what the doctor ordered. The trees are laden, branches drooping under the weight of ripe fruit. The ground is a carpet of red and green, apples scattered everywhere like nature's own ball pit. Not even that many zombies around.

Peter stands under the boughs, the warm autumn air nipping at his skin, the leaves rustling gently in the wind, and decides it’s a good fucking day.

Bucky's a few trees over, and Peter can hear him humming some tune, which is oddly comforting too, the sound mingling with the whisper of the wind through the branches. Every so often, another gust of wind sends a shower of leaves fluttering to the ground, and there is a twinge of nostalgia, but it’s not bad, not at all. Just simple. Peaceful.

Peter reaches up, plucking his first apple with the finesse of a newbie trying to handle a Fabergé egg, then goes for another one, and another one, starting collecting them from the ground too, and actually, the act of picking is almost meditative. Nature's version of elevator music, he guesses, soothing but with a better beat.

Bucky grins, coming over, holding up an apple. "Found the apple of my eye. Get it?"

"Ha-ha," Peter replies, not getting the joke for a few slow seconds, but grinning back. "Keep the day job."

Later, they are on top of the Bus, not in a rush to get back, Peter's trying to get a handle on Hawkeye's bow – and those trick arrows are less 'trick' and more 'surprise explosion.' Bucky, crunching on an apple with a sound that deserves its own soundtrack, is casually watching him struggle. Peter wrestles with an arrow that looks like it might turn into a boomerang or something equally absurd, and finally gives up. Plops down next to Bucky then, who's looking far too damn happy for someone just eating fruit.

"Are you seeing someone?" Peter blurts out. It would make sense, Bucky bouncing around lately.

Bucky pauses mid-crunch.

"It's alright if you are. It's a good thing," he hurries, with some sincerity and a dash of hopefully well-hidden self-pity. For Bucky. It’s a good thing for Bucky. Not for Peter, who is ready to shatter.

"Fuck no," Bucky replies, as if Peter just asked if he’s into knitting. "What's the point? We're all going to die anyway."

Peter stares at him, not sure if he's relieved or more confused. Bucky finishes his apple with a final, decisive crunch, and throws the core out, it hitting the closest tree and bouncing off to the ground.

That’s almost old Bucky – an occasional ray of pessimistic sunshine.

Peter picks up the bow again, eyeing it like it might bite.

"Bit morbid. We are doing well. I don’t think anyone’s dying anytime soon."

Bucky lies down on the metal and stretches.

"Something’s about to go down. I’ve got a bad feeling."

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that, and even though sometimes it’s best not to say anything else, he tries anyway.

“Leave those to me.”

He releases the arrow and, shit, that’s a big explosion. Loud. Very loud.

“Fuck,” he lowers the bow.

“Yeah, let’s scram,” Bucky’s already sliding down, and Peter’s senses are on full alert, warning him about what’s probably hundreds of zombies heading their way.

Back in the Bus, cruising on autopilot, the cargo hold packed with their fruity spoils, Peter guards his specially selected apples like they're crown jewels. Or at least he plans to. That is until Bucky snags one, crunching into it with an air of endearing entitlement. Peter wants to object, he really does, but finds it hard to muster the energy – or the will.

"So," Bucky begins, sprawling comfortably on the couch, with Peter by the bar, "You got your something fresh. You gonna blow me now?"

Peter nearly inhales a piece. Coughing, spluttering, complete with watery eyes and flailing arms. Bucky is by his side in a flash, smacking him on the back a few times, a bit harder than necessary.

"Ouch," Peter wheezes out. "I'm good, I'm good."

Bucky, now smirking, comes back to the couch, sits down, but leans forward, elbows on his knees.

"Seriously though, how do you even know you're into guys?"

"Extensive research and peer-reviewed studies, obviously."

Bucky laughs, the sound rich and genuine, and Peter, once again, can’t decide if he’s hopelessly in love or just hopelessly confused. It's a mess, a massive, head-aching mess. Bucky is the only person he genuinely knows in this forsaken world, yet sometimes Peter feels like he doesn't know him at all, and maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe Bucky is changing, somehow, or maybe he’s always been this way, who knows. Either way, Peter feels an actual headache coming on all of a sudden, so he decides not to engage for the rest of the flight, just sort of works on his side project.

He sits on the floor in the lounge, ripping DVDs onto laptops, four at a time, surrounded by stacks of discs – a one-man entertainment preservation army.

"You know we’ve got a cult?" Bucky asks, coming up and browsing through the discs, as if he ever had any interest in watching any.

"Yeah," Peter responds, his eyes never leaving the screen, focused on organizing 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' into folders. "Working on that."

He gestures at his setup, and pops another disc into a reader. 

The rise of a cult within the compound is not exactly surprising. It’s not even a cult, yet, just a very enthusiastic priest, but things are definitely getting a bit too chanty. Peter was going to work on this project anyway, and with people starting to miss their shifts in favor of sermons, a digital crusade against the rising tide of apocalypse-induced piety seems like a good way to go about it. It's not that Peter has anything against the newfound religious zeal. It’s just that he prefers his salvation in 1080p resolution and, reckons, others would too, if they had an option.

"You really think—" Bucky picks up a random disc box, "—'Breaking Bad' can compete?"

"Have you seen Season 4? It’s pretty compelling."

It’s a good plan. Good and brilliantly simple: drown the cultish fervor in a sea of digital entertainment accessible on the local network that John’s been slaving over. Then distribute laptops to everyone and… no more cult. Who needs divine intervention when you can binge-watch your troubles away like the good old days?

"You should consider adding some porn to the mix," Bucky suggests.

Peter stops dead in his tracks, his fingers frozen on a DVD case. He can feel his face heating up, a blush spreading rapidly. 

"W-what?" he stutters. Not that it is a bad idea, exactly. It’s just… once again, Bucky is so fucking casual about this shit, and it makes Peter think of his first time, and—

"I'm just saying, it might be popular. Relax," Bucky drops the DVD case back on the pile, it lands there with a loud click of plastic against plastic, and something sort of simmers inside Peter. Not anger. Almost. It’s not the suggestion, really. It’s… everything, he guesses.

"Are you fucking with me?" He asks, frowning. "I mean, when you're not fucking someone, you're preoccupied with the fact that I'm not. Just stop, alright? Stop trying to set me up, stop making fun of me, stop bringing people over, because I can hear, and it's weird, or, like, at least warn me in advance, so I can get the fuck out and—"

His mood plummets. Bucky's expression shifts from light-hearted to serious too, and now he’s walking away, his movements deliberate. 

"Shit," Peter hears Bucky mutter, but is a bit too freaked out to actually look at him. “I didn’t realize, sorry.”

When he dares to glance at Bucky, his jaw is set like he's trying to crack walnuts, cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread, and he is nursing a drink like it's his new best friend. Peter feels like he just accidentally kicked a puppy – a very large, normally armed puppy.

"Ugh," Peter slams the laptop in front of him shut, although there are at least three more within reach. Going for more would be a bit too dramatic though. "Sorry, I'm just... I don't know. You do you. Bring people over, or even take that room on level three. It’s bigger, and we are not using it anyway. It's all good."

Bucky doesn't acknowledge him, but the frown line between his eyebrows could host a small family of ants. The lightness, the ease, all gone. And because Peter is in a decidedly this state of mind, where he has a vague nagging feeling he just fucked up but doesn’t know how and what, he tries to change the subject.

"Why do you keep talking about dying?"

It’s not that Bucky does that. Not constantly. But an odd comment here or there is enough. Possibly the wrong question to ask, because Bucky downs the equivalent of four shots in one go and pours himself another.

"Something's up," he says afterward, his eyes locked on the glass in his hand. "Whatever is about to go down, you'll try to fix it because that's what you do, and it's gonna get messy."

"There's always leaving, right?" Peter offers, and it’s genuinely the first time he had thought about it with any actual consideration. But why not? They could actually leave if things went south. They could even leave without feeling too guilty now - they wouldn’t be abandoning people since those people don’t need them anymore. Move to that hypothetical island, live off coconuts. Just the two of them, and then, maybe, eventually… just.

Bucky's face changes into something hard to read.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, quiet enough for it to be quiet, but loud enough for Peter not to strain his ears for it.

"Why not?"

"Because you won't, and I go where you go."

Oh. Not that Peter meant Bucky leaving alone. Peter goes where Bucky goes too. It's implied, he thought.

Bucky pours another drink, commandeers the bottle without pause, and walks back to slump on the couch.

"Any good movies in that stack?" he asks.

Peter nods dumbly. He reopens his laptop, returning to the DVD-ripping crusade, and doesn’t offer to watch one. He can feel Bucky watching him though, apparently content to get slightly hammered in silence and just do that.

Peter tries, okay? Tries to do it, to find someone, to forget how for a split second he thought that if things were different, if Bucky had no other options, maybe, he wouldn't say no to Peter. And it’s a pathetic, low, disgusting thought that rattles him to a point that he tries bringing someone back to the Bus himself the very next week, when the sermon attendance goes down, as expected.

It comes out of nowhere, this desire, or determination, more like, and he starts talking to that guy Mark, or is it Kyle, Peter isn’t even sure, and somehow, they are walking back to the Bus. Walking there about half an hour after Bucky leaves, and Peter thinks he went to find someone himself, because he didn’t say where he was going. 

Peter’s in the middle of a half-decent makeout session. Just kissing, mind you. Kissing and maybe some heavy petting, when Bucky appears. No dramatic entrance, no crashing through the porthole window or anything. Just there, popping out of the fucking ether.

"Get the fuck out," Bucky says, in that voice that doesn't just suggest, it commands. And what's-his-name, poor guy, scrams so fast Peter's convinced he hears a whoosh sound effect.

Then Bucky leaves himself, just like that. 

No explanations, no apologies. 

Leaves Peter standing there, panting, disbelief boiling inside him. So what does Peter do? He pours himself his very first glass of alcohol, mutters "Jesus fucking Christ," and tries to make sense of a situation that's rapidly approaching the realm of the absurd. To add insult to injury, he doesn't even get drunk after a full bottle, so he just stays up waiting, waiting, waiting, until about two in the morning.

Any minute now, he tells himself, pacing. Any minute now Bucky will walk in and Peter will actually ask him what the fuck, angry, still angry, but when Bucky does walk in, he seems tired and a bit angry too.

“Sorry,” is the only thing he does say to Peter, before he climbs into his pod and slides the door shut.

Things might have started to go downhill a while back, just as everyone had settled, but they definitely properly go to shit as early as the next morning. So Peter doesn’t get a chance to confront Bucky first thing, doesn’t even get to glare at him. Peter gets fuck all chances to do anything at all actually, except wake up, scowl at Bucky’s empty bed, brush his teeth with peach toothpaste, somewhat pat his hair into submission, walk downstairs, planning to find Bucky, and then—

Well. Then Peter, in retrospect, makes some, frankly, god-awful decisions.

He finds Bucky quickly enough. Practically trips over him. Sort of.

The problem is, there is a problem. A big fucking problem. And, really, Peter should have seen this shit coming. 

Here is Bucky, leaning against the wall by the exit, the ramp to the Bus down, looking for once simply extremely annoyed and not at all bored.

All six of Mr. Stark's suits pointing their propulsors at you would do that to a man.

Three of them swivel to Peter as he shuffles down the spiral staircase. His spidey-sense chooses this exact moment to throw a mild tantrum, and Bucky's eyes fix on Peter with a look that's part interrogation, part exasperation.

"Were you stupid enough to give this asshole access to Friday?" Bucky asks, tilting his head toward the cluster of people at the bottom of the ramp.

Peter, who doesn’t even bother to raise his arms in defense – because, really, what's the point, he isn’t actually that naive – just sighs, his heart dropping, and answers, "Not that stupid. Karen?"

He did give John access to Friday, alright. That said, making sure that Karen has full control and ability to override Friday was one of the first things he'd done when they moved into the compound.

As if on cue, the suits lower their arms like scolded kids, and Peter waves them off, "Go pluck some weeds or something."

He mentally pencils in to triple-check later that all of the subroutines and precautions he had put in are still in place, although they seemed to have worked like a charm.

Not now though. Can’t think about that now.

Not when there are other things to address. Things that Bucky had warned him about. Things that Peter had hoped would not happen, but here they are, very much happening.

Turning his attention back to the little pow-wow at the bottom of the ramp, Peter recognizes the priest, whose presence here isn’t that surprising, the compound’s only doctor—and, crap, that’s more than inconvenient—and John.

Ah, John, the human equivalent of a migraine. Not that Peter was of this opinion less than a minute ago. He actually thought he and John got along like a house on fire. Well, Peter guesses, you never know with people, do you? Ugh, John. John, who up to this point had been very helpful, and not just with the local network. John, who backs away slightly as the suits walk out of the Bus and take off. Smart. Then again, attempting to take over Friday and get control of the suits was plain stupid. Stupid, ungrateful and so many other things that are just one of the reasons why Peter is slowly but surely losing his faith in humanity's ability not just to survive, but to deserve survival to begin with.

Peter doesn’t recognize the other man standing in front of the group, but immediately suspects he is the type neatly falling under 'People Peter Wishes He Could Avoid Before Coffee' category.

"What the fuck is going on?" Peter demands.

A lot.

A lot is going on, in terms of changes these people want to bring to the compound or, more specifically, to how and by whom it's run.

Outside of that, nothing.

No actual danger, no actual zombie-related crisis, just a trio (John excluded and kindly told to get lost, smart enough to scamper off without a word) of assholes, and, apparently, a pregnant nineteen-year-old girl who wants an abortion, whom said assholes are using as an excuse to set some new rules.

A trio Peter invites into the Bus (and no, they did not think to invite the girl in question over to accost Bucky and Peter), sensing Bucky's resentment of this treatment without even having to look at him.

The thing is though, Peter is sure that despite Bucky's grim warning to shoot the first person to step out of line himself, they can't just start shooting or even banishing people without at least hearing them out. Not when there are so few of them left. Not even when these people do something as insane as trying to take over Iron Man suits instead of actually trying to talk to Peter and Bucky first without some sort of—how did they put it—backup plan. 

Okay, in the not-too-distant future, they'll probably need some form of policing. The thought of crime, real crime, not just squabbles over supplies or room assignments, does start to feel like an inevitable next chapter. People are beginning to feel safe again, maybe too safe, and with that comes a whole new set of problems. It's just… Peter can't not try to resolve it, even if it's thick, this disapproval coming off Bucky. So thick, it's probably clogging every single one of the air filters, as Peter makes a large pot of coffee and promises to hear them all out, while ultimately feeling like he's been force-fed a diet of lemons himself too.

It’s five of them inside the Bus, and Peter tries. Tries to understand this trio and their concerns. Demands, more like.

Demands that they lay out with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for peace treaties, although this is nothing but a failed attempt at an unnecessary coup. 

They speak of safety, of changes, of 'the greater good', of a need for the government — phrases that ping around Peter’s brain, each one hitting a bumper of skepticism and bouncing off into the abyss of 'Yeah, right.' And Peter’s projected calmness, his promise to hear them out and actually consider, wobbles, like Jell-O on a shaky table with every spoken word. 

He listens, sort of, but definitely does not consider, because, well, he's supposed to care. So he does care. Cares enough not to think what they suggest is a good idea, at least not in the way they propose it. Which is with them in charge. With outlawing abortion, contraception and just about not setting up a fucking breeding program. 

He sips his coffee quietly initially, sizing them up.

The first one is the real trouble. He's the epitome of 'trying too hard.' Dressed in a suit that's too clean, too pressed, too... politician-y. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his out of state accent thick and heavy, although Peter can’t place it, and he's got this way of standing that's supposed to look relaxed, but most definitely isn't. He's got the kind of smile that makes you want to count your fingers after shaking his hand, so Peter didn’t. Travis Longhorn. Even his name makes Peter’s skin crawl, although it’s likely a side-effect of the man’s views. 

The priest is a tall, thin man with a face that's seen too many sunrises without enough sleep. Peter doesn’t know his name, but everyone addresses him as Father, so maybe it's not important. His eyes flick nervously and he's dressed in what might have once passed for clerical garb, but now it's just a faded black shirt, and pants that might've been ironed once upon a time. It makes no sense, there are better clothes out here, almost too much to choose from, literally a department store, and the priest wrings his hands like he's about to deliver a sermon, but his eyes dart around, nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. It doesn’t shock Peter that this man is against abortion, not in the least. Comes with the gig.

Then there's the doctor. She's all business, her white coat still crisp—a miracle in itself, but also, why wear it out here, when not seeing patients—with a stethoscope casually draped around her neck like a statement. Her posture screams 'I'm in charge,' but her eyes betray a hint of uncertainty. It's as if she's constantly recalibrating, trying to find the right balance between confidence and caution. She keeps adjusting her glasses, a nervous tic that she probably thinks nobody notices, and her feet in high-heeled shoes are nearly hidden under the couch, her pointy knees in tan-colored tights poking out from under her black skirt. Rebecca-something. In all honesty, Peter himself is a bit surprised to see her here, involved with the other two, because up until now she didn’t cause any trouble. Plus, she is a woman herself. Surely—

Bucky is standing next to Peter, arms crossed, his expression not changing the longer they speak. He's listening too, Peter can tell he does, and of course he does, but there's a part of him that's already checked out, Peter knows that too. Bucky is quick when it comes to making decisions, no matter how big. 

Still, at least with zombies, you know where you stand, and for a long tense minute of thinking, not considering, Peter knows exactly where he stands on the abortion and the woman’s right to choose even when the ‘End is near.’ That said, he has no idea where the rest of the compound would stand on this, and if it is actually a sound point to mull over, because the end is, in fact, near. Which, somehow, reminds him of that quote from Battlestar Galactica, a classic, really.

‘I'm going to be straight with you here. The human race is about to be wiped out. We have fifty thousand people left and that's it. Now, if we are even going to survive as a species, then we need to get the hell out of here and we need to start having babies!’

Although they did have fifty thousand in one place in that show. At first. Hell, Peter isn't even sure there are that many left in the US. It could be more, but it could just as easily be less. And who's counting, anyway? It's not like they have a census bureau still working somewhere. Plus, there is the global headcount, which is very hypothetical, but Peter seriously doubts humanity's luck is that shitty. It might as well be possible that some remote places with harsher environments, like Iceland, Greenland, even the Australian Outback could be doing better than they are.

Either way, Peter isn’t exactly an expert on population statistics. 

The thought of being in charge of something as monumental as the future of the human race? Or even assuming that their little compound with not even half a thousand survivors is humanity’s last chance? Hell no. 

The idea of Bucky being in charge of something like this is equally laughable. Not that Bucky isn't capable, but while Mr. Decisive in most life-or-undeath situations, even he probably wouldn't touch this kind of decision with a ten-foot pole.

That said, Peter's pretty damn sure he isn't letting the trio in front of him decide jack shit either. A priest with anxiety, a doctor who's probably more used to treating paper cuts than making policy, and a wannabe politician who looks like he’d sell his own mother for a vote – this is not the dream team for humanity's survival.

No, Peter decides, if there's any deciding to be done about repopulating the earth or whatever grand scheme they've concocted, it's not going to be by this ragtag committee. And judging by the way they have approached this whole situation, instead of simply having a conversation, these people are not fit to make any decisions, regardless of how entitled they think they might be based on their contributions.

Peter clears his throat, shoots a glance at Bucky, who's giving him a look that says, 'This better be good,' and turns to face the others again. He adopts what he thinks is his most authoritative posture, which, probably, is more 'awkward college student' than 'commanding leader.'

“Representative Council.” He says. “And no, not the kind where you need to have a fancy title or a PhD. We're talking representatives from each age group, each gender. Democracy, but with less bullshit.”

He pauses, letting the idea sink in.

"And before anyone gets too excited or pissed off – everyone in this room is excluded. Myself and Bucky too. Fair?"

Peter thinks it is. And no, this isn’t him trying to shirk responsibility. It's him trying to make sure they don't end up with a dictatorship or some weird theocracy. Voices that actually represent the people living here. Someone to decide on things as a group, such as whether they need a fucking baby farm (god, he hopes not) or, like, focus on not getting eaten by zombies. Sure beats arguing in circles.

“It’s a terrible idea,” Bucky tells him later that day, watching the crowd huddled in groups, selecting representatives. “And it’s going to bite us in the ass. We shouldn’t just let it go.”

The trio, who Peter had simply waved off after, not unlike the suits, is standing in the corner, chatting among themselves, and periodically throwing glances their way.

“It’s a bit too late for that,” Peter frowns, it dawning on him that he might have been a bit hasty. Shit. “I’ll talk to John.”

“Fuck John,” Bucky mutters under his breath. “He isn’t the problem. They tried to take over Friday and use the suits against us. And you made them coffee.”

“Well I couldn’t exactly shoot them instead, could I? For feeling powerless?” Even as he says it, Peter is half-tempted to smack himself in the face. Powerlessness wasn’t the reason. Power was. They could have at least locked them up or something. They—Peter—could have… done something else. Ah, fuck.

“Maybe it will work out,” he adds after a few minutes.

Chapter Text

"Oh, shut up, will you?" Peter mutters, even though Bucky hasn't said a word. They are knee-deep in the compound's basement—dimly lit bowels—the lowest level, doing inventory of booze. And no, there's no baby farm, thank fuck for small mercies, but things are… degrading, somewhat.

It's a few weeks after the grand idea of a Representative Council, and predictably, it's been a fucking awful failure. A reign of... well, Peter isn't quite sure what to call it. Incompetence? Naivety? Not the grand experiment in democracy he had hoped for, more like a high school student council got a hold of a 'Running a Community for Dummies' book and fucked it out of the window after flipping through just a few pages.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bucky comments, but his face has ‘told you so’ written all over it. He's lounging on the crate by Peter, not helping, just pointing at things, his eyes occasionally flashing with amusement the more frustrated Peter gets.

And, no, Peter didn’t talk to him about what the fuck happened with Mark, or was it Kyle, because one, he was a bit too chicken to do it initially and now it’s too late, and two, they’ve been busy. Demoted to glorified scavengers, essentially, but at least they got to keep the Bus, although Peter would laugh at any attempt to actually tell them to vacate it. FedEx has nothing on the kind of package delivery they're doing now though, and don’t get Peter started on the shit they’ve been asked to get, just don’t, okay?

The council, oh, the council. Safety is an afterthought when there's a debate over the thread count in the sheets. And then there's the 'point' system—a brainchild of some wannabe economist. Contributions to the compound now earn you points, because a loyalty program is what they all need, apparently. Not more people, not resources, because shit will eventually start to run out or expire, but comforts.

Comforts, like Mr. Stark's luxurious suite being turned into a hotel of sorts, a hookup spot for those without private rooms. Booked using those damn points, like some seedy love motel, only with way better decor. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, Tony Stark is laughing his ass off, approving of this decadence, but really, he ought to be rolling in his fucking grave.

"Yeah, okay," Peter looks over the inventory, trying to understand why he's being told to check this and not some actual necessary basics, and feels completely defeated. "At least we are loaded with points. Wanna book yourself a spa treatment in advance? I swear, there are shiatsu stones on that list."

Bucky quietly chuckles, Peter frowns, and when he does check the list issued to him by a member of the council this morning, it's not just shiatsu stones that are ticking him off, but also about half of the other requests.

"Well," he huffs out some air, disgusted. "Guess what, you are going to get your porn."

And it’s absurd. All of it. Peter is sitting next to this fucked-up monument to their misplaced priorities, and there is no wrapping his head around the new normal. One thing Bucky was wrong about though—Peter has no fucking clue how to fix any of this, and things are already so messed-up that it’s just plain depressing. So he isn't even going to try.

"Target practice, before we go?" Bucky offers, and it has to be pity, but Peter's head snaps up, and he nods, almost eagerly. Picking off zombies around the perimeter sure sounds like a time better spent than what they have been reduced to.

Up in the air, the Bus hangs like a bizarre bird of prey, and Peter and Bucky are sitting on the ramp with their legs dangling down. He’s gotten good with the bow by now—Peter—so good that his once-beloved web shooters are just wrist ornaments. Once he figured out how the digital scope and guidance worked... in all honesty, Hawkeye’s skills seem far less impressive than they seemed before this revelation. Peter lets an arrow fly, nailing a zombie a half a mile off.

"Bullseye," he says, and there's something oddly serene about sniping undead heads from your flying fortress.

It’s simple, almost. Pulling, aiming, releasing. The digital scope zeroes in on a shambling corpse still some distance away from the fence—and bam, another one bites the dust. And, really, who needs web shooters when you've got a high-tech bow and a sky-high vantage point? He's starting to enjoy this a little too much—chalk it up to Bucky's bad influence. Bucky, who is currently peering through binoculars, points in another direction for Peter to aim at and confirms it as so.

"Six months ago, you would have felt bad about this,” his arm waves over the graveyard that used to be a massive lawn. A necklace of rotting death surrounding the fenced-off perimeter.

Peter just half-shrugs, an almost lazy gesture.

"A year ago, I thought pineapple on pizza was a crime against humanity."

Six months ago, there was hope. Hope for a cure, a Mind Stone that's bling on Thanos’ cosmic wrist now. Peter shoves those thoughts aside, along with the memories of digging through Camp Lehigh's ruins, searching for Bucky while wondering if Wanda, along with Dr. Banner, had been snapped away. He doesn't like to let his mind wander down that particular memory lane. It's a shitty street, full of potholes and dead ends. He remembers standing at the edge of the wreckage, knowing that there was a body somewhere under the rubble waiting to be claimed. Hoping against all odds. Hoping, digging, peeling layer after layer of destruction away, trying not to think about how royally they’ve been played. A low point.

He lets another arrow fly.

It’s just him with his bow, Bucky with his binoculars, and a rifle idly lying by his side, floating above a world that’s gone to hell in a handbasket. And it comes out, unexpectedly, although it has been building up slowly, gradually, with every stupid-ass decision Peter had seen the council make, propelling the compound into ruin.

“Maybe it’s time to live off coconuts after all,” Peter says, grimacing, and gets up on his feet. He means it too. This time he means it.

Bucky looks up.

"Is it slang or something?” Curious. Not always that quick to understand, as it turns out.

Peter swallows, taking one step closer to the edge.

“You alright?” Bucky is getting up too, heavy hand landing on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter swears something is shattering inside him.

“Yeah,” Peter turns to him, smiling, curious himself now—if the smile tugging his lips looks as fake as it feels. “I think we are all clear.”

"It's gonna smell like shit for weeks," Bucky supplies, eyeing the cargo hold like it's a ticking time bomb.

“Relax, we're not ferrying actual cows,” Peter brushes it off, bouncing toward the spiral staircase. “It’s the first good thing in, like, forever. You could have milk with stale cookies. Gotta be worth a trip, right?”

He’s eager to depart, somewhat less than off-kilter than he has been lately—a compass spinning aimlessly. A ranch they’ve picked up on a shortwave radio, willing to trade for power. Power they’ve got in spades, actually, thanks to Mr. Stark’s past obsession with churning out and stockpiling arc reactors. Checking out another community wouldn’t hurt too. Maybe these people have their shit together. Maybe they've found a way to make it work. Maybe, if it comes down to it, it could be a place to crash, if Peter and Bucky do get voted off the island after all.

"Unless everyone's dead here by the time we come back, and we can't freeze it in time. Then it's going to smell alright," Peter says this out loud, although he doesn’t mean to. Just a joke. Some dark humor, but still a joke. Sure.

Bucky hovers in the cockpit, an unusual move for him when Peter's already prepping for the takeoff.

"What is it with you lately?" he asks, eyes narrowing.

"Nothing," Peter shrugs it off again. "Not a thing."

Hours later, they're still in the air. The world below is a blur of greens and grays, a patchwork quilt of decay, and Peter turns back from the oval window to the small screen on his lap, feeling Bucky’s thigh pressed to his, as they watch a movie Peter can’t even name.

"I don't know," Peter finally admits, his eyes fixating on the dead pixel in the far right corner. The confession slips out, soft and uncertain.

Bucky doesn’t push, or maybe doesn’t hear him. Could be actually watching the movie, his warmth seeping into Peter’s skin even through the layers of clothing, and the sound of the engines is lulling Peter into a false sense of security. Peter sees his own index finger hit the pause button on the keyboard, but doesn’t, for the love of god, know why for at least a few seconds.

“Hmm?” Bucky makes a noise, turning his head to face him.

“If I said I wanted to leave,” Peter chews on the inside of his cheek, looking at the rogue finger. “Would that be alright? Would you actually go with me?”

Bucky bumps Peter’s shoulder with his own without a pause.

“Sure,” he says.

The sun dips low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the sprawling ranch as the plane descends. Peter peers out the cockpit window, taking in the view. It's picturesque, almost laughably so, like something out of a travel brochure. Green pastures, a massive house that screams 'old money,' and fences that are more decorative than defensive closer to the main building, although there are rows and rows of barbed wire some distance away, not unlike what they have at the compound.

When they touch down on an empty patch in front of the house, about a dozen people step outside. They're armed to the teeth, their faces wary and hands steady on their guns. Peter's seen this kind of welcoming committee before. He gets it. Rules of survival are universal: trust no one, especially not strangers dropping from the sky.

Bucky is at the ramp, ready to play their part in this familiar drill, so Peter follows, adjusting his own demeanor to 'non-threatening but slightly badass'—a fine line. Show up, hands visible, no sudden moves. All cautious optimism and a 'please don't shoot me' vibe.

Before they can get into the usual spiel of 'we come in peace', someone from the group steps forward, squinting at Peter. Recognition dawns on their face.

"Holy shit, Spider-Man?" the guy exclaims, and just like that, the mood shifts.

"In the flesh," he waves, "though I left the spandex at home. Didn't think it was cow-friendly."

The guns lower, and the atmosphere changes from hostile standoff to interest. It's amazing what a little celebrity status can do. Bucky doesn’t roll his eyes—doesn’t do that, probably below him—but he seems pleased. They've been through worse meet-and-greets.

Introductions are made, handshakes exchanged, and they're ushered in.

Inside, Peter thinks, home, home. There is warmth radiating from a big, crackling fireplace, and the air is filled with the scent of wood smoke and something deliciously savory. There are more people here, but a comfortable number, not so many that they don't know each other's names, and this cozy, homey feel is almost overwhelming.

They feed them cheese—actual, honest-to-God cheese, on thick, fresh slabs of bread—and Peter stuffs his face like it's his last meal on Earth, while someone everyone affectionately calls "Nana" keeps piling more onto his plate, tsk-tsking about how skinny he is.

"You're all skin and bones, dear," she chides, her voice warm and grandmotherly, while Peter sneaks glances at Bucky, who’s over at the wooden table by the window, a glass of cider in hand, talking shop with the locals. Ammo, supplies, the gruesome guesstimates of how long it will take for the zombies to start falling apart. The conversation drifts to crop yields, and Peter half-listens, half-dozes in a food-induced haze for hours, as they wait out the evening, to then wait out the night, so he can hook up the arc reactor to their power grid in the morning.

“Far enough,” they tell him, when he asks where the grid is, and it’s okay, okay, and home, so it doesn’t bother him at all that they have to stick around for a bit. It's nice, listening to Bucky talk, steady and low.

"Eat up," Nana says, pushing another hunk of cheese his way, and Peter flashes a quick grin, not reaching for the cheese, because he’s full and content in a way he hasn't felt in forever.

“Leave him be, Nana,” laughs the guy who had recognized Peter first, and then he is pulling in his chair closer, catching the way Peter looks at Bucky and asks, hushed, as Nana moves on. “You are together, yeah?”

It's a nice fantasy, and Peter clings to it, just for a split second, but then he smiles, and he isn’t that much in love, just… he doesn’t know. Sad.

“No,” he turns to the guy, taking in the messy mop of blond hair, tanned skin, this easy, delicious, uncomplicated smile of his that is directed at Peter in return, and answers: “Of course not. We just survived together.”

They chat, and Peter just knows. It's not his spider-sense tingling, not a gut feeling, but just this simple, unexpected certainty. Colin, this guy, is a riot too. He leans in, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and tells Peter, "I once googled if spiders have a gag reflex."

"They don't," Peter bursts out laughing, drawing looks. It's a real laugh, the kind that bubbles up from deep inside, the kind he hasn't felt in ages too, and it's so good. Just good, nothing else. His sides hurt when he's done, his eyes nearly watering.

Later, as they're shown around the greenhouse, just a short walk from the house, the smell of tomatoes on the vine is damn near overwhelming too. Peter lingers next to Colin at the back of the group, his senses soaking up every detail of this smell, everything rich and earthy, and wholesome. Despite Colin whispering with a shit-eating grin and asking, his calloused fingers brushing off Peter’s elbow—so out there it circles back to brilliant.

“Can you get high?”

And fuck, here comes the joint, making its merry way out of the pocket of a worn hoodie. Peter stares at it, cracks another ambiguous grin, and then he and Colin are backing away, sneaking outside, while some other guy is telling Bucky, loud enough for Peter to hear:

“Don’t worry, they're safe out there.”

“You're not, you know,” Colin sparks up under a small pear tree around the corner, and the smell of weed is sweet and familiar, reminding Peter of walking by his neighbor's door and thinking one day.

Before he knows it, Peter is being passed the joint, he takes a drag, feeling the edges of reality go soft and hazy as he holds the air in, and it's like stepping into a warm bath, the world tilting just slightly off-axis.

“I'm not what?”

“Safe with me,” clarifies Colin, leaning closer, and it should be it, and Peter knows, knows, but… can’t do it.

“I am,” Peter says in the act of perfect insanity, giving the joint back. “Sorry. The weed is good though.”

As if he is the expert. Not really. But it’s not bad, and it does make him feel floaty.

Peter's tearing out a bed from the unoccupied pod inside the Bus. That's twice now. Twice.

Twice he's had a shot at something, anything, with someone, and twice it's been Bucky's fucking fault it didn't happen. Directly the first time, and now, with Colin, indirectly but still very much his fault.

Because, hell, Peter could have done things with this rancher, at least some things. That comment about gagging spiders alone... Jesus, even a blind man could see Colin was interested. Not subtle at all, fair enough, but very much shouting ‘Go for it, Parker!’ But no, there's Bucky. Bucky with his stupidly handsome face, his infuriatingly perfect everything, making Peter so pathetically in love that he can't think straight. 

He finally yanks out the first bed. Not just because he is angry, although there’s that, but to make room for mini greenhouses. Even though right now it feels more like he's trying to rip out his own no longer confused feelings. And all he can think about is what he's not doing, what he's missing, what he's too chickenshit to go after.

"Twice," he mutters to himself, chucking a mangled bed frame to the side and starting on the small shelf that seems to be attached better than he gave it credit for. 

The middle of the night is probably not the best time to do this, but it’s nearly therapeutic. Besides, he could at least store the saplings here that he’s planning to trade for some medicine in the morning. Medicine he would give away for free even without the trade, because he genuinely likes this group, and they have plenty. The compound has plenty, that’s for sure. Running low on booze, on condoms, and making ridiculous requests, but Peter and Bucky still make sure to stock it with everything else they might need.

"Stupid Bucky," he grunts, pulling at a particularly stubborn bolt and trying not to crack the actual pod in half. "Stupid fucking Bucky and his stupid fucking face."

It’s infuriating, how much he loves that man. Loves him enough to say no to a sure thing with a guy like Colin, who was practically wearing a sign saying 'I'm into you.'

Bucky materializes out of fucking nowhere, as usual.

"What's wrong with my face?" he asks, and Peter nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Shit," Peter swears as the bolt he's wrenching on gives way, along with a small chunk of the internal wall. He stares at the hole he just made, deliberately avoiding looking at Bucky, and tosses the now-detached shelf onto the growing pile of debris outside the pod.

"Lettuce," he deflects abruptly, gesturing vaguely at the empty pod. He points at the others at random. "Tomatoes, cucumbers, whatever. Rabbit food."

Peter's seething, and he tries to ignore Bucky, who’s been doing God knows what while Peter smoked and chatted with Colin—Colin who didn't take rejection badly, good for him. Meanwhile, Bucky's probably been off fucking someone. Or doing something Bucky-like, like petting a nervous cow or offering to haul a dead tractor across a field, just because he's so damn helpful, and amazing, and—

"Who stepped on your tail?" Bucky asks, but Peter just shakes his head, over and over.

"Just leave it," he begs, his voice tight as he moves on to the next pod, already planning to gut it of its contents. "Leave it."

Bucky doesn't budge, planted like some kind of immovable object, forcing Peter to sidestep him awkwardly. As he does, Bucky's hand catches him by the elbow, halting him mid-stride. There's a gentle yet firm pressure as Bucky's finger slips under his chin, lifting his head.

It's not a stupid face, not at all. But this love is nearly sick; Peter wants to claw his way under Bucky's skin just to be closer. He can't breathe, there's a vice around his chest, tightening with every second that Bucky's finger lingers. Bucky just holds his chin, studying him with those piercing eyes for a moment or two. Then he lets go, his words steady, sure, and not even a bit disapproving.

"You're high."

"Maybe," Peter manages to reply, stepping away, feeling the patch of skin under his chin where Bucky's touch burns like a brand. There's something lodged in his chest, has to be, and the brief contact of Bucky's metal arm against his elbow left an insane lingering sensation too. Nothing—Peter had felt absolutely nothing when Colin touched his elbow.

Peter starts on the next pod. Almost physically feels Bucky watching him.

"What?" he snaps without turning.

"Are you angry with me?"

Yes. No. Fuck.

"No, just... No." Peter's eyes are on the bed, but he's not really seeing it. Everything around him seems to be swimming.

"Alright," Bucky says, and only then Peter finally hears him move. Expecting Bucky to leave, he turns to check, but finds him sliding the door to the opposite unused pod and crouching down. Of course, Bucky's going to help. Because he's Bucky, and he's helpful, and amazing, and... fuck, fuck, ohgodpleasehelphimfuck.

The plane is quiet, deathly quiet. All Peter can hear is the whirling of Bucky's left arm now—metal shifting like tectonic plates under the ocean, the innards humming with something mechanical.

"God, stop," Peter deflates. "We don't need to do this now."

Bucky stands up and crosses his arms over his chest.

"What can I do?" He looks almost frustrated, but Peter doesn't even know himself what could be done about all this; he's just cracking at the seams.

"Nothing," Peter walks out of the pod, nudging a shelf out of the way with his foot, resolutely not looking at Bucky. "Nothing."

He starts shuffling towards his own bed, sleep, yes, that’s a good idea, intending to say something normal, something reasonable about finishing the work tomorrow or back at the compound. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is something entirely different.

"Or you could let me blow you."

As soon as the words leave Peter's mouth, he feels like he's been sucker-punched by his own tongue. Holy shit. Did he actually just say that? Instantly, he wants to shove it all back in. The panic he internally tailspins into is a horrifying blend of 'what the fuck did I just say' and 'oh god, please let a zombie eat me now.' He did not, right? Did not just say that. Not to Bucky.

Something inside him escalates to DEFCON 1. Okay. Okay. Fix it.

"I mean, or not," he stammers, backpedaling so fast he's practically in reverse. "If you've got something better to do."

Shit.

Peter's first instinct after that is to run to his own pod like planned and bury himself under his bed—he knows there’s plenty of space there—until he can pretend this never happened. Until they can pretend this never happened. Instead, he stands there, like an idiot, waiting for a reaction.

He can't read Bucky though. At all. Not even a little. 

Bucky’s arms are still crossed, he seems calm. No smirk, no scoff, not even a disgusted eye roll. To the kind of stuff you can't un-say, the kind of awkward that sticks to you like glue. Peter wishes he could read minds, or at least Bucky's mind. What's going on in there? Is he pissed? Confused? Grossed out? Peter needs something, anything to go on, and he's not sure if he wants to bolt or vomit. Maybe both. Yeah, definitely both.

'Move, you idiot,' he berates himself, but it's no use. Then, mercifully, Bucky shifts. He uncrosses his arms but doesn't say a word.

Peter opens his mouth, maybe to apologize, maybe to make a joke, maybe to start singing the national anthem—anything to break the tension. But nothing comes out. That’s when he turns, about to make a break for it, to escape and bury himself under a mountain of regret and self-loathing, when Bucky finally speaks.

"Peter," it's not an answer, not really, but it stops Peter in his tracks.

Peter looks back, his mouth dry. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, the sweat at the back of his neck.

"Yeah?" he croaks out, bracing.

"We should probably get some sleep," and it's the most anticlimactic response Peter could have imagined. At first. "How high are you?"

Oh. Oh.

"Not that high."

Bucky takes a step forward. And then, in a move that's so quintessentially Bucky it almost hurts, he nods. Nods, smirks almost, voice low.

"No teeth."

That's just... peak romance, right there. Peter couldn't give a shit.

The next few seconds are a heady, disorienting rush, like that split-second adrenaline surge he used to get leaping from tall buildings. It's been a goddamn eternity since he's felt that thrill, but here it is, rippling inside Peter. His senses sharpen. Everything else blurs at the edges, the background noise fades, but his vision narrows down to a pinpoint focus on Bucky. High-definition, every detail crisp and clear. 

The rush is gone quickly enough.

After that, the small, mundane details of the Bus's interior start popping into his awareness: the slight whirr of the ventilation system, the soft hum it makes. His heart rate slows, his breathing steadies, and the world starts to feel a little less like it's spinning. Four steps, give or take. He makes them carefully. One. Two. Three. Four.

“Here?” Peter asks, although he isn’t actually asking, already dropping to his knees, his hands all over Bucky’s belt before Bucky can change his mind. “Here. Yeah. Here is fine.”

He's thinking about rare four-leaf clovers. Celestial "gotchas." How Bucky's smile is like a fucking sunbeam. Thinking about being starved for ages, wanting, wanting, wanting, and then about how nothing in his brain is waving red flags, about how people probably used to watch clouds form in the sky during a drought, concerned they'd dissipate into nothing.

He stops being concerned after the belt clicks, making a sound like the cocking of a gun, and the zipper slides with a whisper of steel on steel under his quick, shockingly not fumbling fingers. The denim of Bucky’s jeans feels like braille under his fingertips when Peter starts pulling them down. Just enough, not all the way. Just enough, so he can peel the sides around the zipper open and press his mouth against the outline of a bulge over Bucky's black boxers.

Fuck. His own breath is hot against his lips, and his knees shake, wobble under his weight. God. Warm, solid, and real. Bucky. Not some half-baked fantasy that Peter had conjured up when jerking himself off.

He is terrified to look up.

Peter pulls on the jeans more, still mouthing around the outline of Bucky's dick, and his thumbs press into naked skin, as he pulls and pulls, until he has to lean away just enough to let the fabric slide down. And then he just stares, for probably too long, his mouth still dry, and if he’s licking his lips, it is because they feel dry too.

His fingers are under the rubber of Bucky’s boxers, his balls, warm and velvety, are pressing into his knuckles, and Bucky’s dick isn’t even that hard yet, just hanging there. That is, until Bucky’s hand—his human hand, to be exact—grips it at the base and then strokes up. Once, twice, but not a third time, because by then Peter is pressing his lips to Bucky’s hand, licks Bucky’s fingers with one lap of his tongue, and then he is moving Bucky’s hand away at the wrist, because he wants.

Wants to actually taste, actually put his mouth on Bucky’s dick, and it’s fucking weird, wanting to do it as much as he does. He doesn’t stop to think about why, or even poke around his mind for odd bits and pieces of what he assumes actually makes for a good blowjob. He just sort of… wants, yes. Wants so much, because it’s Bucky’s dick, and that’s so fucking hot. Peter blinks, and then his eyes are closed, his hand is wrapped around the base now, just about, and he is licking the crown, tasting it, wondering if the quiet sound he hears is his or Bucky’s. Nope, definitely Peter’s. So much for not making any noise.

It's not off-putting. Oh god. Not at all. Peter's fingers tremble as he traces the contours of Bucky's hip with his other hand, the skin beneath his touch warm and smooth. And he feels so fucking powerful, even as his breath is ghosting over Bucky's tip between those first tentative licks. He tries the underside then, tasting the salt, the musk, letting it all fill his senses, and, holy shit, he has his hand on Bucky’s hard dick, and then he is no longer licking, just wrapping his mouth around it, and jesusfuckingchrist, there is a stretch to his lips, because Bucky is kinda big.

That’s when Peter moans, surprising even himself. That’s when he realizes he is hard himself already, because his hips twitch slightly forward and, shit, his jeans are incredibly tight around him. He tries sucking, just a little, air tickling his nostrils on the way in, his cheeks hollowing slightly, and then Bucky breathes out “Oh, fuck,” and it is, arguably, the best thing Peter ever heard, sharing the first spot with “Kid, you’re an Avenger now.”

Peter's moment in the limelight takes a sharp left into confusion as Bucky's hands, unexpectedly gentle yet firm, grip him under his arms and hoist him up. Peter barely has time to process what is happening. He presumes he fucked up somehow—of course he did, because he doesn’t know what the fuck he is doing, and now he isn’t going to get another chance—but before he can properly spiral into this particular drain, Bucky just nudges him towards one of the unoccupied pods, walks in first, and sits down, his dick still hard and wet from Peter’s mouth.

“Ah, okay,” Peter mumbles, eyes on the prize, so to speak, because he is scared shitless to look at Bucky’s face, unable to imagine what he’d see there if he did. “Yeah, that’s better. Yeah?”

And then he's on his knees again, as quickly as he can, his thighs pressed against the bed, Bucky's legs on each side of him. That is better, yes. Maybe. He has no idea. He eagerly bends his head again, mouth over Bucky, one of his hands—unsure and just a little shaky—gripping Bucky, fingers sliding over his length and up. He tries to find some kind of rhythm, head down, hand up, meeting his own lips on the way, and finally, it's there. A pace, of sorts, and he thinks he's doing fine. Right?

Still, his confidence is wobbling more than his knees on the hard floor of the Bus, because Bucky isn't making any noise, aside from barely there breathing, and, god, Peter really wishes for super hearing right now, just to tell if Bucky's heart is beating as fast as his own.

About a few minutes in, Peter's kind of freaking out, thoughts fluctuating between 'Is he not into it? Am I doing it wrong?' and he half-expects Bucky to pat him on the head and say, "Nice try, kid, let's call it," which, frankly, would be mortifying but not entirely unexpected.

The absence of any moans, groans, or even a throat-clearing to indicate some level of enjoyment has Peter second-guessing every move. He's read enough forums and watched enough... educational videos to know that silence isn't typically a good sign. Peter's so caught up in his own insecurities that he almost misses the subtle shift in Bucky's breathing, a slight hitch that could either mean 'keep going' or 'please stop.' And, really, he's probably the only guy in history to weaponize a blowjob into a self-esteem destroyer, he's so not sure, but then Bucky sighs, almost loudly, when Peter takes him in a little deeper and then runs his tongue in this particular way he is still working out and—

His eyes fly up against his will at the sound Bucky makes. And when he finally looks at him, holy fuck.

That look on Bucky's face—it's nothing Peter's ever seen before. Not bored, not lazy, not anything that Peter could've predicted. It’s not even that same look Bucky had on his face when Peter had walked in on him getting a blowjob before, back at the shelter. It’s just… intense. Bucky’s eyes are looking down on him, and while Peter can't exactly place how, it’s not—

Well, it’s not disapproval, that’s for sure. 

Bucky’s chest is moving fast—up and down, and as soon as their eyes meet, Peter becomes so fucking acutely aware of what’s happening. Oh, god. He’s actually, for real, sucking off Bucky, everything hitting him all at once. That hum that’s always in the background, the smells, the warmth of Bucky’s skin under his fingertips, inside his mouth. Peter moans—again—his eyes rolling momentarily, and fuck, he is so, so hard himself that he has to move just a bit to readjust.

“Fuck, Peter,” Bucky breathes out almost at the same time, and Peter presses his palm flat against himself, his other hand still on Bucky. And maybe it’s an acknowledgment that it's him, Peter, that Bucky isn’t imagining someone else, someone with decidedly more cleavage, but it just makes it so much more enjoyable.

His eyes flutter again, and he slows down, just a bit, just to feel it all. The way there is almost a pulse to when he sucks Bucky in, the way the blood's throbbing under the skin when his fingers drag alongside the vein. He then moves his hand down, just on the off-chance Bucky likes it too, and when Bucky’s balls roll in his palm, he actually sees Bucky’s eyes roll with it, and it's so, so—

Peter’s dangerously close to coming in his pants. 

Everything feels wild and loud all of a sudden, the sounds he makes himself, the sounds his mouth makes when Bucky’s dick slips further into it, the half-moans, half-groans, because it’s so easy to imagine that Bucky wants this. Wants him. It makes being a bit (a lot) out of his comfort zone completely irrelevant, and before Peter knows it, he's moving down to pull one of Bucky’s balls into his mouth with his lips, sucking on it gently, while desperately fumbling with the button on his own jeans. 

He gets a quick nod—Bucky’s eyes half-lidded, dark, and heavy—and then he’s sliding his own zipper down, pushing his underwear away, and sticking his hand inside.

He grabs himself, just squeezing, not even jerking off, rubs the head of his dick, and it’s just. God, it feels so good. Everything about it. Absolutely everything. And with that comes a singular, earth-shattering revelation: he's gay. So, so gay. Not just "I appreciate the aesthetic of the male form in a classical, Renaissance-sculpture kind of way" gay, but "holy shit, I'm enthusiastically sucking on balls and it's the highlight of my week" gay. And it's not like he was oblivious; he is in love with a man for crying out loud, he came out to this man already. But.

It still dawns on Peter, right this moment, that every ambiguous feeling he's ever had towards his male friends wasn't just broody teenage angst or a deep, philosophical appreciation for the human form. Nope. It was garden-variety, dick-loving homosexuality. And here he is, on his knees, finally understanding why none of his relationships with girls felt quite right, why he spent a little too long staring at Steve Rogers' biceps even before the world ended, and why his Pornhub history could have confused a straight man back in the day. Ugh. Hmm.

Peter goes back up, with more enthusiasm, not that it was lacking before. And just tries. Everything he can think of.

He even pushes down on Bucky’s length so far he feels himself gargle just a little. He has to straighten his legs a bit more, hover over him higher just to test this. He gets to a point when he is able to feel Bucky’s dick all the way down by his throat, and, shit, fuck, Peter just stills, breathing through his nose, completely delirious from how, how— Fuck, he feels so loose. Can't describe it. And while he can't see Bucky’s face from this angle, he doesn't need to, because suddenly Bucky’s hands are in his hair, and it's not a hesitant touch, it's a proper grip. 

Bucky pulls him up—Peter thinking he doesn't like it, why not—but then those same hands push him down, maybe a bit too gently, and oh, oh, oh, Bucky’s fucking his mouth now. Not too deep, never deep enough to actually hit Peter’s throat, but he’s guiding his head. It blows Peter’s mind. This… participation.

“Yeah, doll,” he hears Bucky’s voice, hoarse and low and breathless, “Fuck, that's so good.”

Peter looks up, eyes straining to see, just as Bucky’s saying, asking:

“Can I—fuck—can I come in your mouth?”

And it’s a yes, yes, Peter blinking a few times, moaning around Bucky’s dick, his wrist bent at a painful angle in his own pants as he starts to, or at least attempts to, stroke himself to match this amazing motion. And then—oh god, fuck, god—Bucky’s metal hand slips from his head to his face, and Bucky’s metal finger is tracing the contour of Peter’s upper lip.

Peter feels his stomach clench, this unbearably sharp coil winding tighter and tighter inside him. He comes first with a choked grunt, loud, thrashing and absolutely filthy, just as Bucky slips his metal finger into his mouth alongside his dick. It’s all warmth and wetness all over his fingers, Bucky’s dick in his mouth, his finger in his mouth, Bucky’s eyes on him, and it’s the hardest Peter came in his entire life. 

He’s dizzy with it, insane with it, and it’s absolutely fucking endless, this incredible high. So amazing that he almost misses when Bucky makes a choked sound of his own, even if it’s quieter than Peter’s, Bucky’s hips jerking up, and then Bucky’s coming too, filling Peter’s mouth, come spurting out of him and right into Peter, and it’s—

Peter moans and moans, tongue lapping around Bucky’s dick, and he feels batshit crazy, on a completely different planet, because he did this. He made Bucky come. It’s all he can think about, all he is, as he keeps gently sucking on the tip until his mouth is so full, and Bucky’s palms are on his cheeks now, saliva mixed with sperm leaking out through the seal of his lips around this glorious dick and—

Peter swallows, the taste bitter, but not horrible, and then it’s just… quiet.

Chapter Text

It's obnoxiously cold by the time the first speck of a leaf dares to breach the dirt's surface in the pot.

Peter leans in carefully, squinting as if he might somehow disturb the plant's brave venture into existence just by looking. Yup, definitely not imagining it—a small, delicate leaf unfurling from the brown of the earth around it.

This one is special.

They've used samplings in the other five pods, but not in this one. Those other plants have been thriving under Peter's anxious, slightly overbearing care. The automated watering system he rigged up—a contraption involving recycled Stark tech and a level of engineering overkill—is probably his proudest achievement this month next to not dying. Shouldn't be, but is.

Yesterday, he and Bucky split their first tomato from the pod next to the one Peter is standing in now. They just cut the thing in half, sprinkled some salt, and went at it with enthusiasm and appreciative noises that bordered on indecent.

And that was just a tomato.

This is a potential strawberry plant.

Peter's spent more time on this than he cares to admit, fussing over soil pH like a neurotic parent. The packet said "expired," but he thought he'd try it anyway, having given the known good seeds to the team who looks after proper greenhouses. And now, here it is; Peter can almost taste the strawberries already, that vivid burst of flavor that belongs to the past. He extends his hand back, fingers grasping at the air, not needing to look to know Bucky is smirking, leaning against the doorway.

"Maybe it's mold," Bucky suggests, even after all this time still clearly getting a kick out of Peter mooning over his little garden.

"How dare you," Peter shoots back, scandalized. He waves his hand in a demanding gesture and feels the spray bottle being thrust into it.

After that, Peter proceeds to mist the tiny green rebel, with every puff of water so gentle as if he's trying to baptize a flea. He doesn't trust the hydroponics to understand the nuances of this plant's hydration—this is artisanal watering, thank you very much. After giving the other plants a spa treatment, he checks the lights and the temperature, nodding in approval.

When he finally turns around, Bucky's pushing a cup of coffee into his free hand.

"Thank you," Peter takes the cup, securing the handle, the words coming out automatically with a distracted smile. The moment they do—

Bucky's lips press together tightly for a microsecond, his face producing not quite a frown but enough to stitch a brief line between his eyebrows. Peter looks away, biting the inside of his cheek, a sudden tightness in his chest making it hard to swallow. He walks out hastily and leaves Bucky to slide the door to the pod closed.

Dammit.

Ever since that night, everything's almost the same.

Same old, same old, and then something like this happens, and suddenly Peter's back there. Sitting on his heels, the taste of Bucky still lingering on his tongue, lost in the world's most awkward silence. He'd scrambled to his feet then, the words "Thank you" tumbling out in a rush, and then practically sprinted out, diving into his pod.

The next day it was as if nothing happened. Peter had trekked out to install the arc reactor, hooked it up to the power grid, did some trading, and they flew back. After that…

Radio silence.

Bucky didn't mention it, Peter didn’t bring it up either—though he'd rehearsed a conversation in his head about a dozen times. He was going to, really. Was gearing up and gearing up to say something on the way to the compound, but then he caught Bucky flashing that killer, heartbreaker smirk to a woman in the breakfast line the very next day, and just like that—

No point.

No point, because Peter knows exactly what it was—or rather, what it wasn't. He gets it. Bucky's straight, or straight-adjacent at the very least, and Peter's about as straight as a circle. And that's cool. That's fine. A one-off. An aberration in the space-time continuum of Bucky's heterosexuality. A blip. 

Except it's not fine. Not really. It's hard, awful, and it's not like Peter can stop caring or stop wanting just because it was a blip; he's still stuck in this limbo, somewhere between 'hopelessly pining' and 'bitterly resigned'.

Peter doesn't regret it though. Not one bit. How could he? Even if living with Bucky, working with him, breathing the same recycled air of the Bus day in and day out, not being able to let it go is killing him little by little.

"When do you want to head out?" Bucky tosses the question over his shoulder, peering at something out of the small oval window before coming up to the counter of the bar and taking a large, last sip of his own coffee.

"In a few hours? I am going to try one more time. Just in case there is another way," Peter replies with a shrug.

Their eyes meet again for a second too long as Peter washes their cups in the small sink. And yes, on occasion, like now, it sparks an involuntary flush that he could swear spreads all the way down to his neck. Bucky's body language turns rigid, and then he is grabbing his things—jacket, scarf, rifle—and is out the door. Not exactly running away from Peter, but—

Stepping out onto the roof of the compound, Peter's face is immediately slapped by biting frost. He taps his bracelet, locking the cargo hold. Lately, Bucky's been on a real tear about keeping that thing locked tighter than a bank. Peter can't exactly fault Bucky for being extra, though, considering the current state of things.

He breathes into his hands, fingers freezing into useless icicles within seconds, then yanks the collar of his jacket higher, cursing himself for not getting a scarf. A mental note is made, and promptly forgotten—again—to raid the compound's supply for something less drafty than his current options.

Bucky's already making his way towards the camp. The camp, separated from the main grounds by a barbed wire fence, is... new. Peter watches Bucky's figure diminishing in the distance, for a moment wondering if his walk always had that much determined swagger, or if it's just the cold making everyone's movements look more purposeful. Probably the latter.

Peter fixes the hat around his ears—the one that's so embarrassingly red it could probably be seen from space. But hey, at least his ears are warm. With a half-sigh, half-yawn that freezes halfway out of his mouth, he then jumps down from the roof.

A little less than an hour later, Peter steps out of the compound's main door, waves at the familiar face standing guard, and has to physically restrain himself from delivering a swift kick to the nearest inanimate object that would send it flying into next week. He's fuming, frustrated, and exhausted from hashing the same point all over again without any success. There is a dollop of guilt there too because, oh yeah, this whole Representative Council was his idea. 

You'd think discussing housing logistics would be straightforward, but no, once again, it was like talking to a wall of opinionated assholes with a fondness for bureaucracy. The camp—a patchwork of tents and temporary structures that sprung up a few weeks back—is a thorn in everyone's side, and not because it's an eyesore (which, let's be honest, it kind of is), but because of the boatload of suspicion and reluctance to welcome the new arrivals.

Over two hundred showed up one day, their convoy rolling up to the gates without much of a warning. Hunters, mostly, some former military too, but also a good few women and children. You can't blame the council for being a tad skeptical initially. Hell, Peter's own spidey senses were tingling that day with that extra tingle that spelled potential trouble since the atmosphere was charged almost from the get-go. Still. They should have invited them inside, should have made room, and, if it was up to Peter and he wasn’t so eager to let go of the reins in the first place, it would have happened. Now it is… what it is.

Ever since, it's been an endless merry-go-round of debates and discussions about whether to let this new group stay. By the time the camp was set up—temporary, hardly comfortable, hugging the inside of the main fence, but still fenced off from the compound too—emotions were running pretty high. And every day since, it's been getting progressively worse.

The weather’s been getting bad, the cold too much to sustain this for much longer, and the camp’s unwillingness to at least disarm hasn’t been helping either. Then again, who in their right mind would do that and hand over their weapons, given the welcome they have received and what awaits them on the other side of the fence if they are finally asked to beat it.

Peter pulls his jacket tighter around him and can't help but feel responsible. The compound fades into the background as he makes his way towards the camp, the outline of tents and temporary structures becoming more defined against the gray sky.

It shouldn’t have come to this. But Peter and Bucky, they have a plan.

A shitty one.

After passing another guard post that is meant to keep the inhabitants of the camp in, he trudges into the large tent, its entrance flapping from the wind. The resident dog, which doesn’t have a name and goes by Dog—a scraggly thing—eyes him until Peter fishes out a bag of treats from his pocket. A small chewy peace offering earns him a brief tail wag before the dog decides he's decent folk again. Dropping the rest of the bag of treats on the plastic table cluttered with maps, cans, and what might be a Molotov cocktail (which Peter chooses to ignore), Peter sighs, frowning.

Outside, a metal barrel burns with wood, crackling bonfire at the world's most depressing beach party. It's all very "Mad Max meets the Boy Scouts," lending a dystopian flair to their meeting that Peter could really do without.

The tent itself is a mismatch of military surplus and aggressive resourcefulness. The air is thick with the smell of smoke, even inside. Peter is given a metallic cup of something warm. The liquid's exact contents are dubious at best, but he wraps his fingers around it for warmth, not daring to actually drink. Every eye in the tent is on him. He shakes his head.

Bucky smirks from across the table and takes a swig from the bottle of scotch that’s being passed around.

"Told you," he says, the words slipping out with a self-satisfaction that makes Peter want to throw his warm mystery beverage at him. He did tell Peter, alright, but that doesn't mean Peter has to like the plan.

"I hate it," Peter admits, watching the dog now happily gnawing on the snack. He leans against a pole that's doing its damnedest to keep the tent from embracing its ultimate dream of becoming a parachute, but then straightens up when he nearly feels it give under his weight. 

And he does hate it—every last bit of this… strategy.

Peter's role in the discussion that follows is basically to sit (stand) tight and look pretty—or as pretty as one can look when they're bundled up in the shape of an overstuffed burrito, trying not to freeze their ass off. He listens as Bucky and Michael (the camp's de facto leader who once heroically fought fires but now fights to keep over two hundred people from freezing) hash out the gritty details, with Michael nodding along to whatever Bucky's saying. Peter's both following along too and mentally calculating the odds of this plan not totally blowing up in their faces.

He pipes up only once, and it's to ask Michael about the volunteers who'll be joining Bucky and him. He is half-expecting Michael to point at a couple of vets ready for a bar brawl. Instead, he gets pointed at a youngest guy in the tent aside from himself, followed by a nod from a man who could only be described as 'grizzled' and probably answers to 'Dad.'

"You sure you're alright with this?" Peter confirms, the steam rising from his cup and warming his face, thinking it might just be warmer than any welcome they'll get after the people at the compound put two and two together and realize that the control of the dam wasn’t taken over, but was, in fact, handed over. "You're going to be stuck there for a while. And accommodations are not great; it wasn't set up for an extended stay."

"Gonna be worth it, right?" the older man replies with stoic optimism that makes Peter produce a weak smile. Peter catches Bucky's eye, and it's not the first time he finds himself wondering if they're taking it too far.

Handing over control of the dam to the camp is a masterclass in shitty moves. It's a decision that's bound to crank the tension up between the compound and the camp, but with the late fall pretending it's mid-winter, desperate times are calling for desperate measures.

There's always the fallback plan of deploying the suits to "persuade" cooperation, a solution Bucky's been hinting at lately, but that also doesn’t feel entirely sustainable in the long run. Somehow, giving the camp some leverage over the water supply seems like the lesser evil. Or is it? Peter's been wrestling with this idea for ages now, and even with the D-Day (Dam-Day?) here, he's very undecided. Even if it isn’t right, what the council is doing. Keeping people out of the main building—the one they have been invited to themselves.

The thing is, no one's exactly thrilled about the plan, not really, including Michael, which did go a long way when it came to Bucky convincing Peter it is the path of least resistance that doesn’t get them two stuck in the middle of it all. And maybe it is the less shitty option. Maybe, this is the right call. Or the least wrong one, anyway.

Either way, it’s a bit too late to back out now, what with Bucky tapping a metal finger at the spot on the map.

Halfway back to the Bus, in a gesture that's either deeply brotherly (which is gutting) or just Bucky's latest attempt at passive-aggressively saying "You look cold, idiot," Bucky wraps his own scarf around Peter's neck. And it derails Peter's train of thought, which, up until now, had been chugging along the "are we doing the right thing?" tracks. The scent of Bucky's cologne, faint but distinctly him, wafts up as Peter, in a moment of weakness, buries his nose in the scarf. It's warm and smells like safety, which is a fucking laugh, considering.

"They'll want us gone," Peter mumbles into the scarf, the fabric muffling his words but not his dread. "Gone, as in, ‘thanks for everything, now please exit through the gift shop’ gone."

"And that's an issue why exactly?" Bucky retorts, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “Besides, they still depend on us too much for supplies. Let them want what they want. I am done with this shit, aren't you?”

And there it is—the crux of their fucked-up little ecosystem. At some point, this whole endeavor stopped being about survival, about finding a way to coexist with the end of the world, and started being about defending every decision. It's not even about the zombies anymore. Those are, miraculously, not even their biggest problem right now.

Peter still remembers the flush of hope when they first decided to move out here, away from the city. It felt like the beginning of something good, something meaningful. They were going to build, grow, and carve out a piece of the world where they could be safe. Where they could live and not just survive.

And it was good. Wasn’t it? Until it wasn't.

"It's going to be alright," Bucky declares, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, his boots crunching on the frost-hardened ground with every step. He sounds so sure, as if he's read the last page of their apocalyptic adventure and it all turns out okay.

Peter scoffs and keeps walking; a step and a half for each of Bucky’s.

They pick up the Millers on the way to the dam—David and Ethan, because of course, they're related, Peter's internal betting pool paying out. It's a few miles away from the compound, far enough to avoid prying eyes but close enough that Ethan's heavily reinforced truck doesn't have to brave the wilderness for too long. The truck backs into the cargo hold of the Bus and fits without a problem, leaving plenty of space, and Peter, watching the cameras from the cockpit, considers at some stage getting a truck for himself and Bucky. It could come in handy.

A short while later, they're at the dam. Landing the Bus right by the entrance isn't an option unless they fancy turning it into a makeshift bridge, so they resort to the good old-fashioned method of hauling stuff over—by truck. They load it up with everything from non-perishable food (enough to last a couple of months, just in case), a radio system for cozy midnight chats with the camp, extra barbed wire to discourage any zombies that might take a stroll in the area, although it's hardly a hotspot of activity, and a few essentials to fortify the main building against uninvited guests.

Bucky's next to him on the ride over, the picture of calm, while David, the younger guy, seems to share Peter's affinity for involuntary twitching at the front seat by his father. Peter can relate to it on a spiritual level and it makes him feel slightly better about his own feet nervously tapping on the rubber.

"It's fine, stop worrying about it," Bucky comments as they come to a halt and start the unloading process.

Once everything is dumped by the entrance, Bucky and Ethan tackle the makeshift gate and the fence. Meanwhile, Peter and David take the indoor tour, stepping into the dam’s overlying structure. It’s a long, narrow building that runs across the entire dam, making it a pretty solid fortress given it only has two entrances and zero windows.

David's got that look of a person who's convinced every shadow hides a boogeyman. 

Peter yanks off his hat and shoves it into his back pocket, keeping his jacket zipped up to his chin because the inside is also freezing its metaphoric balls off.

"There's nobody here except us," he tries to reassure David, who jumps a mile high at the sound of their own breathing. "Well, us and maybe some rats," he adds. "We brought traps over."

The building has a sort of charm—if your definition of charm is "abandoned, possibly haunted." There’s a small kitchen that looks like it was last updated during the Cold War, a bathroom complete with a shower that Peter bets hasn’t seen hot water since the first iPhone was released, and three bedrooms that have beds so skinny they seem to have been designed for malnourished children. The control room, their main interest, is a mess of dials, levers, and buttons that Peter is itching to get his hands on.

David runs a hand through his hair, twitching in place again, looking like he's half-expecting a zombie to reach out and join in.

“See, no flesh-eating monsters, just potential tetanus,” Peter tries to joke, poking his head into each room. “And maybe a spider or two. And I don’t mean myself.”

David, still on edge but slowly thawing, finally cracks a smile, albeit a shaky one. “You know what you're doing here?”

Peter shrugs, “Nope.”

Peter had ventured into this dam control room once before, right when they had first arrived in the compound. That initial reconnaissance was more about making sure the place didn't harbor a secret undead fan club and was automated than actually understanding how it functioned. This time, though, they need to do more than just peek and hope for the best. Good thing they've got Karen.

Sequestered in the control room with David, surrounded by more buttons and levers than in the cockpit of the Bus, they initially decide on a no-touch policy, regardless of how tantalizingly pushable those buttons look. Instead, they dig into the manuals while Karen is working through the system Peter has patched her into.

"No way," Peter grins, pacing back and forth with a binder to shake off the cold, after he finds out that he and David share more than just the current post-apocalyptic shindig—they were both Columbia students when the end of days decided to roll into town. "You think we ever bumped into each other?"

David breathes on his fingers and shakes his head. "Nah, I had Covid when you came in to sit an exam."

Peter cringes at the memory. By that point, his identity as both Spider-Man and an Avenger wasn't just public—it was almost on every billboard. Try focusing on multiple-choice questions when you feel a hundred eyes on your back, waiting for you to swing out the window at any moment. "Still, pretty cool," he smiles.

"Engineering," later, David answers Peter's inquiry about his major, which makes Peter hum “uh-huh” in understanding of why David was selected for the task. "Not that I can make much sense of this," David gestures at the documentation sprawled before them.

"We’ll get there," Peter checks on Karen’s progress, and she seems to be making headway.

Their study session drags on through the day, the monotony broken only by Bucky stopping by for a few minutes. He swoops in with a portable heater, a nod to basic human comfort, and plugs it in. The warmth that starts to seep into the room is a relief, but it's Bucky's shoulder pat on the way out and fleeting smile that sends a different kind of warmth through Peter.

"He's kind of a badass," David says after Bucky leaves, and it's so matter-of-fact that Peter can only turn away, even though he is in full agreement, concerned that it's written all over his face and then some. He keeps his thoughts to himself because, yes, Bucky is great. And it's precisely because of this that being hopelessly in love with him is as easy as it is excruciating.

As the four of them huddle around the kitchen table, the mood is somewhere between a somber wake and a conspirators' huddle. They're having microwaved soup out of the can for dinner. Peter, spooning his meal, breaks the silence.

"I'm thinking... ten in the evening," he suggests, his breath fogging a bit in the cold air; he doesn’t envy Ethan and David having to stay here, the place is fucking arctic with the concrete all around them and humidity high. "If we've got our math straight, that'll keep the compound's veggies hydrated in the morning." Because, sure, they're on the brink of igniting a minor civil war, but Peter isn’t about to risk the health of the crops even for this.

Ethan, who seems to be enjoying his sludge, asks, "How long you reckon before they notice the tap's run dry?"

Peter pauses, spoon mid-air, "Not long, maybe half a day?" He himself is not thrilled about the culinary journey canned soup represents, but there's a comfort in the familiarity, and he knows he will miss this taste when food like this starts to expire. "Based on the gallons running through those pipes, they'll hit a dry spell right after the morning showers but before anyone gets too excited about lunch. Give or take."

They all know the compound's emergency supplies include bottled water, but it's laughably insufficient for the headcount. This whole dam commandeering scheme is meant to shake the council enough to get them to the negotiating table with Michael. For real this time, and not in the “we’ll think about it” way.

"So, we are ready?" Bucky's gaze fixates oddly on Peter's spoon, or more accurately, on how Peter's been absentmindedly biting it. Peter puts the spoon down, suddenly self-conscious.

"About as ready as we'll ever be," he mutters, stretching languidly before quietly sipping his tea.

At ten on the dot, they initiate the water shutoff to the compound. It's a surreal moment, flipping that switch. Peter's fingers hover over the controls, his other hand on the radio, ready to confirm with the camp that it’s been done. He triple-checks everything, his internal checklist ticking off faster than his heart rate. Everything's stable, no impending apocalypse within an apocalypse—today, at least.

With Karen's digital finesse, they've also rigged a backdoor into the system in the form of a remote override. Peter glances at Bucky and gives him a subtle nod, confirming the contingency plan is all green. If push comes to shove, regaining control of the dam should be as simple as parking the Bus nearby or even just doing a menacing hover. Not that they don’t trust Michael and his crew… but, yes, they don’t trust Michael and his crew to that extent. 

After the metaphorical switch has been flipped (in reality, it being a number of commands punched on the keyboard and two confirming clicks on the mouse), Peter stays glued to the screens, monitoring... well, the uneventful continuation of everything being perfectly fine. David and Ethan, their part played and now just extra bodies in the room, retreat to their bedrooms around eleven, leaving Peter and Bucky in a silence that's filled with the soft hum of machinery and the occasional crackle of radio static.

Peter lingers, although there isn’t much need for that. The clock ticks past midnight, and another hour slides by in a blend of vigilance and forced relaxation. Bucky brings him a new cup of tea, which Peter accepts with a smile.

Eventually, though, Peter's stamina starts to wane. A yawn breaks through his defenses, fist pressed against his mouth in a futile attempt to cage it. He frowns, annoyed at his body's betrayal. Bucky, who's been motionless next to him and seemingly spacing out at the screens Peter has been monitoring, shifts.

And that sound… Well, it’s enough for Peter to jumpstart into thinking about a thing he has been trying his darndest not to think about all day. The impending reality of sharing a room—and more critically, a bed—with Bucky, since the Bus is a small hike away.

It shouldn’t be a big deal. Really.

They've shared space before, compacted into corners of ruins or bundled up in the back of a chilly car for warmth and safety, long before the semi-civilized setup at the compound. But that was before—before Peter decided to complicate everything by falling stupidly in love. Before all the unsaid things that now hover between them.

Now, the mere thought of bed-sharing feels like a big deal. Scratch that, a monumental deal. A deal so big it could probably be seen from space better than Peter’s red hat, where even aliens would be like, "Damn, that's awkward."

"We've shared in the past, relax," Bucky voices exactly what Peter is now unable to stop thinking about.

Peter hums noncommittally, a bit too loudly, and takes a too-brave gulp of his tea, which is still scalding; it burns all the way down. When he finally risks a glance at Bucky, there's something slightly off in Bucky's usual too-cool-for-this-world demeanor. He looks... Well, less casual than usual. Peter wouldn’t go as far as to call Bucky nervous, but there is a slight tension in the way he sits now, his jaw a bit too tight.

Fuck. This is fine. Totally fine. People share beds all the time without it being a thing. Except when one of those people has a crush the size of a small planet on the other. Then it's definitely a thing. A big, potentially friendship-ruining thing.

Peter sets his cup down a little too hard, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim even though the cup is not even half-full.

"Yeah, shared. Past tense. As in before… you know," he mumbles, more to his cup than to Bucky, trying to sound indifferent and failing spectacularly.

If awkwardness had a weight, they'd be crushed under it right now. It’s the closest he ever came to actually saying something. Fuck. He is mortified and somewhat frozen in his chair. Bucky shifts again, clearing his throat, and opens his mouth as if to say something, but then stops and folds his arms over his chest. He stretches his neck, tilting it to one side and the other, and then gets up, motioning for Peter to follow.

The sigh Peter lets out is the audible equivalent of ‘Phew’.

Because the last thing they really need right now, on top of everything else, is to have a heart-to-heart about Peter’s feelings. Peter's so not ready for this conversation. Not when his heart's decided it belongs to Bucky and refuses to listen to reason. Not when he doesn’t want to be let down easy. Somewhere, at the very back of his mind, he would actually prefer to remain in this limbo, with an occasional glimmer of very unwarranted hope making him feel better about the whole thing. 

Sure, just after the… incident, Peter was a bit more hopeful. For nearly a day.

But now, being let down in general—and Bucky is too decent to make him feel like shit about the whole thing—would put a stop to even occasionally daydreaming about this working out between them. 

And Peter doesn’t mind those completely unrealistic daydreams, bitterly resigned they are not going to happen or not.

The air in the small room is chilly and slightly damp, which honestly makes sense given they're practically bunking in a concrete monolith.

The bed is tiny.

It's the kind of setup that makes Peter think fondly of his compact pod in the Bus. That said, despite Peter’s concerns and the room's obvious shortcomings, including a pervasive smell that's equal parts mildew and desolation, the atmosphere between Peter and Bucky as they prepare for bed is surprisingly... okay. 

Bucky claims the wall side, his metal arm tucked under a pillow for lack of a better place to rest it, and Peter lies with his back to him, feeling the cool, solid presence of Bucky's prosthetic even through the pillow's cushioning. And the thing is... it's almost like the good old times, with Bucky sleeping on his left arm, with Peter knowing his back is covered, ready to react first, because they've talked about it about a hundred years ago—about him being faster, stronger if anything was to come at them at night.

Peter keeps his hands tucked under his armpits for warmth as they slip under the not-quite-thick-enough blanket—still mostly fully clothed, t-shirts and jeans left on, because, as Peter can personally attest, being caught pants-less in a new place is the opposite of ideal. Bucky, with a familiar ease, drags Peter closer with his right arm, leaving a scant few inches of space between them, and resting his wrist over Peter's waist, letting his hand just hang.

They've done this before.

They settle in, and Peter keeps sort of waiting for the expected, but this feeling of being uncomfortable about all of this doesn't materialize straight away. Instead, there's an odd sense of... normalcy to it, his body instinctively relaxing against Bucky's when Peter inches back a bit, letting Bucky's chest press against him.

They've done exactly this. Before.

Back then, Bucky would wait for a few minutes for Peter to decide it's too cold for it to be weird, and when Peter would inevitably move closer to him, one of them would make a joke. Something stupid about how Sam would have laughed about this or how Clint would have given them shit about it for weeks if he was to ever find them like this. After that, Peter would drift asleep listening to Bucky's breath, feeling the beat of his heart against his shoulder blades, to the thoughts of how impossibly fucked up it is that there is nobody left from the team to make fun of them for cuddling for warmth.

"See? Not so bad," Bucky murmurs.

Not a joke. Not a joke. At all. And that's. That's—

The floodgates open, unleashing a swarm of butterflies in Peter's stomach. They're not the cute, Disney kind, either—no, these are mutant butterflies on steroids, causing his insides to do a crazy flip in a span of a second. Every single muscle in his body tenses, and he might have stopped breathing, the sudden thudding of his heart so loud in his own ears it could probably be heard for miles. Fuck.

Peter makes a quiet noise despite himself, very much hoping it comes off as agreeing with Bucky's point, and not like something wounded. A litany of fucks.

‘The good old times’ were normal. As normal as it was, all things considered. This isn't it.

Because normal friends—and they used to be friends, just friends and teammates back then—don't lie awake at night, analyzing the warmth of each other's bodies and the implications of their proximity. And yet, here Peter is, doing just that. Not being a normal friend, silently freaking out over the sensation of an arm resting just a bit too casually over his waist, sending sparks down his spine when said arm moves just a bit, and a tip of a finger brushes by accident against his stomach. Peter nearly gasps when this happens, trying to breathe through the sudden tightness in his chest, telling himself that it's just—

"You alright?" Bucky's voice is soft in the quiet of the room, a hot puff of his breath hitting the back of Peter's neck.

Oh God. Peter makes another noise, shivering, goosebumps all over, absolutely terrified and not cold at all, his body running so hot already he should be able to dry out all the moisture in the building and turn it into a sauna. Fuck, the whole dam. He could evaporate the whole dam. He moves just a bit, away from those fingertips, faking a yawn that comes out a bit strained, and ends up backing further into the body behind him, and it's just Bucky so close to him, so Bucky, and it's exactly why Peter had been avoiding thinking about this all day.

Because he is crammed into a bed that's too small, with one guy he's been hopelessly pining over in a manner so cliché, it could win awards for Most Predictable Emotional Turmoil, Zombie edition. And Peter is snuggled up to him—a moth dive-bombing into a flame—with that unanswered question roundhouse kicking Peter's frontal lobe, having a very devastating effect on his ability to think straight.

Is he alright? Nope. Not even a little.

Another minute in, Bucky’s steady breathing tickling his neck with every exhale, and Peter's heart is now not just beating fast—it's throwing itself against his ribs. Not so bad. Not so bad. Not so bad? The Titanic encountering a slight hiccup on its voyage the level of ‘not so bad’. Because nothing screams 'not so bad' like lying in excruciating awareness of every millimeter of Bucky's body pressed against his own, in a silence so loud Peter's sure it's only moments away from becoming sentient.

"Fuck," he thinks, or maybe he says it out loud. Oh god, he actually whispers it out loud.

No. Come on. This is precisely the type of grade-A, premium-cut, awkward-as-fuck situation Peter had hoped to avoid—with a man he’s too gone for, doing his best not to let the panic rise. But hey, at least he’s not freezing anymore, right? Silver linings and all that jazz.

Peter fakes another sleepy sound, shifting slightly, Bucky’s arm heavy and—goddammit—over his waist.

Maybe Bucky didn’t hear him.

Maybe Bucky will assume it was just Peter commenting vaguely on their plan or the general state of things at the compound.

Maybe—

He feels Bucky take a deeper breath, his chest expanding, moving against Peter, his face nuzzling closer to Peter's neck, and when that long exhale comes out, it runs across Peter's skin, from the side of his ear, past his cheek, and all the way through his entire body, setting his spine on fucking fire.

Peter is not going to get hard. He isn't going to get hard. He isn't a fucking teenager anymore. He can control himself. Can control himself. Because he isn't just the guy hopelessly in love with his best friend, but also the guy who can keep his shit together in close quarters. Right? He isn't going to embarrass himself. 

He attempts every mental trick in the book, envisioning the most unsexy things he can think of—decaying zombies, that one time he got food poisoning from a questionable taco, the horrific realization that his web-fluid once accidentally got swapped with Aunt May's facial cream.

Sadly, predictably, despite his best efforts, his body remains a traitor, utterly unimpressed with his brain's desperate attempts at redirection. His dick is filling more and more with every subtle shift, blood rushing loudly in his ears, and he digs his face into a pillow, wanting to hide, wanting to ignore the human equivalent of an electric blanket behind him, wanting to—

Bucky's stubble scrapes the sensitive skin of his neck and Peter's body just… rebels.

He tries to stop it, tries to catch it on the way out, but the room is dark, his brain's foggy, he might be hyperventilating, he might have tachycardia, and he can smell Bucky, even though his nose is currently pressed into the stale pillow; and it's just too fucking much, and Peter is only fucking human, and Bucky is only separated from him by two layers of thin cotton, his arm so warm, and so fucking right. And.

Peter whimpers. And it isn't quiet. Or maybe it is, but it feels loud, and there is no mistaking it for what it is. 

And Bucky has obviously not mistaken it for anything else, because he stops breathing himself, that last inhale never making its way out.

The room shrinks to the size of a coffin—cramped, a tad melodramatic, and with an air supply that feels suspiciously finite. How much emotional stress can a human being endure before spontaneously combusting? Peter has a vague feeling he is about to find out, with the silence stretching on, becoming a third presence. This is what astronauts must feel when they're floating in the vacuum of space—completely disconnected, adrift, and a hair's breadth away from a catastrophic oxygen failure. Except, instead of the cold void of space, it's the suffocating warmth of a bed he's sharing with Bucky, and instead of an oxygen tank, Peter’s running low on willpower, common sense, and possibly sanity.

Because Peter knows. He knows. He knows that Bucky knows, and now they're both stuck in this purgatory he has plunged them into, not moving, not breathing, not speaking, because what the hell do you say after that? "Sorry, your stubble turns me on"? Or, perhaps, "I'm embarrassingly aroused by your mere existence, please send help." Right.

Not a single movement is made for too long, the panic meter hitting the red zone, and Peter might as well be encased in concrete, not surrounded by it, until—

Bucky’s arm pulls him even closer, the fingers of his hand dragging themselves against Peter’s abs over the t-shirt, and Peter’s world just… breaks.

Because. Because. 

That first time, Peter’s first time, happened because of pity, no matter how Bucky had put it back then; pity and adrenaline after Peter nearly got a zombie makeover. The second time Peter was half out of his mind with need, a bit high, and while he didn’t exactly beg, it was what it was, and Bucky said yes and didn’t turn him down—but. But. Okay. Peter still doesn’t quite know what that time was, but he knows what it wasn’t.  

This, however. 

Peter would laugh, if he wasn’t too busy burning up from the sensation of Bucky’s fingers on his stomach, from the feel of his body being pressed even closer, from the way Bucky’s chin rubs against Peter’s shoulder and the absolutely impossible way he breathes out this jerky kind of breath that struggles. Straight or not, Bucky's either the world's most confused wingman or he's got a thing for making bad decisions, or maybe he doesn’t realize how fucking cruel it is. But. But.

Peter, face still half tucked away into the pillow, moves one of his hands to cover his mouth and stop himself from making any more sounds. Even as he shifts against Bucky himself—on purpose—just a slight shift of his hips, his ass rubbing against the dip of Bucky’s groin. Just. Not testing the waters, there is no testing the waters, everything’s a fucking blur and white spots in front of Peter’s closed eyes, the Earth spinning too fast, the room spinning too fast, and—oh god, please please please don’t stay still. Peter waits, just waits for—

Bucky moves against him; a small, almost imperceptible roll of his hips. Oh god.

It’s not one-sided. Not a handjob under a towel with Peter on his lap, with Bucky telling him to find a nice virgin to fuck. Not a blowjob that Peter had offered, and Bucky just didn’t refuse. 

It’s two of them, moving, in these cautious shifts on the bed, and it’s just building—whatever is happening, and something is happening, again—building and building, in a matter of seconds, or maybe minutes, until Peter can feel Bucky being hard even though the layers of jeans, and then it’s just insane, insane, Peter has obviously gone absolutely batshit fucking crazy. 

The hand over his mouth does absolutely nothing to cover up the most drawn out moan he effectively produces, so Peter gives up on his whole no-noise plan, and then his breaths are just ripping out of him, his mouth half open, his lips drying out, and there are these still small-ish, but real rolls of Bucky’s hips against his ass. Bucky’s hand relocates lower, past Peter’s stomach, past his belt, and then Bucky is gripping Peter over the zipper, palm rubbing against his dick, and Peter’s whole body shakes.

"Oh god," comes out together with his last breath, hitchhiking out, and Peter shudders against Bucky’s palm, rubbing his ass against Bucky’s dick through the layers of clothing, the springs of the bed creaking underneath their bodies. “Oh god, oh god, Bucky, what—”

And maybe it's a mistake to say something. Anything. But it's out, and the air prickling Peter's skin is hot and thick, nothing making sense. 

The mattress groans and Peter is being pulled under, Bucky rolling over him, trapping Peter under the weight of his body, his thigh slipping between Peter's legs, and nothing, absolutely nothing exists in this moment except for the absurd weight of Bucky's body pressing Peter into the ridiculously tiny bed. Peter arches into it, the back of his neck suddenly chilly from the feeling of metal against the nape—Bucky's hand there, fingers digging into Peter's scalp—and Bucky's face is close. So close. Closest it's ever been to Peter's.

Life is really a series of bullshit choices that aren't really choices at all. Like now, for instance. There's no choice here, not really. Not when Bucky's this close, and Peter can smell his breath, can almost taste it, and Peter had never imagined he'd have a chance, despite wanting this like something fierce. And Peter can't see well in the dark, and he has no idea if Bucky's eyes flicker down to his mouth, but he does know that metal hand of his is tightening ever so slightly in his hair, so the decision makes itself.

So Peter just does it. Lifts his head enough to reach, and presses his lips against the warmth of Bucky's mouth. And there’s no dam, no impending compound drama, no end-of-the-world. Just the surprising softness of Bucky's lips, the slight scratch of his stubble against Peter's face, a huff of air against Peter's cheek when Bucky breathes out through his nose.

And... it’s everything. It’s better than anything else they’ve done before, better than anything Peter has done before. Even though it’s just a press, Peter's lips slotting around Bucky's bottom one, his heart clenching, his eyes squeezed so tight he can feel his eyelashes brush the skin under his eyes.

Just. Everything.

Until—and it takes Peter maybe a few seconds to realize this—it’s everything encompassing one colossal, potentially life-altering fuck-up. 

Bucky… isn’t kissing him back.

And when Peter pulls away, shitty night vision or not, he can see that Bucky's eyes are opened wide, and he looks—

Peter can’t tell, going with his first instinct.

The "Sorry," Peter’s "Sorry" (or maybe it is "Shit, sorry, sorry, shit") escapes Peter like a convict sprinting for freedom, tripping over his own feet. It's pathetic, the apology, but so was the kiss that felt like every single thing that is right in this world, which also was apparently as one-sided as it can get.

Super-soldier or not, the physics of pushing away from Bucky requires no superpowers—just a desperate need to flee. Bucky lifts off the second Peter tries to push, and Peter fucking rolls out of bed, a mess of limbs and sheer panic. Bucky’s nearly confused "What?" is completely drowned out by Peter’s mind screaming on retreat. 

Shoes? On. Laces? Tied at the speed of light while Peter's avoiding Bucky's gaze, yanking a jumper over his head with trembling hands.

Jacket. He had a jacket too, Peter knows that, and he needs this jacket—really he does—it’s cold outside, colder than here, and the Bus is at least five minutes run, not walk away. And Peter fully intends to run.

Bucky is still saying something, his voice a distant murmur Peter's determinedly tuning out—until he can't. Bucky's right there, hand heavy on Peter's shoulder, grounding in the worst possible way.

"—what the fuck are you doing?" he demands, and there's a tone there that Peter can't decipher over the ringing in his ears.

But the world is ending. Has ended. And they are in the middle of the fucking coup of their own right now, about to betray the very compound they’ve built from the ground up, some extensions literally, including that fucking moat that they never used, and Peter had just kissed Bucky, and Bucky didn’t kiss him back, and he fucked up, fucked up, fucked up, of course he did, so Peter's response comes out in a form of an absolute torrent.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, okay? I mean, clearly. Because I kissed you. That's, like, not something you just do, especially when you spend every day, every single fucking day, thinking about it but never actually doing it because. Because. And, fine, alright, you are not interested or, like, only interested sometimes, when nobody better is around and available, or, just, whatever. And I'm sorry for the kiss, I am, but come on. It’s. It’s. I mean, it's not like I've been dropping hints. I've been dropping anvils. And you'd have to be blind, deaf, and living on another planet not to see how—how—how. And I get it, I do, if you're not—whatever. But don't act fucking surprised, because it’s all I am, and if you are not you are not, and it’s fine, fine, but I gotta go, because I can’t stay here right now, with you feeling sorry for me, always feeling sorry for me, or I am going to fall apart even more, and I can’t talk about it, I will literally fucking cry if you make me talk about how being in love with you is the stupidest thing I can—"

Oh.

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, Bucky's expression shifting from concerned to completely flat.

Peter runs. Jacket barely zipped, the world reduced to the thud of his shoes against the snow and Bucky’s right behind him. Fast, Peter is fast, but on the ground, not so much, and Bucky has that super-soldier serum coursing through his veins, making this less of a chase and more of an inevitable capture. Peter's sprinting, half because he's fleeing the scene of his emotional crime, and half because he's mortified enough to want to outrun his own skin.

The Bus looms ahead, its cloak doing a shitty job against the fresh layer of snow dusting its outline, making it stand out like a sore thumb—or, in Peter's case, a beacon of 'get me the fuck out of here or at least let me hide away in there.' But it might as well be a mirage for all the good it does him.

Snowflakes cling to his eyelashes, blurring his vision, and then eventually, predictably, Bucky's hands clamp down on Peter's shoulders, halting him with a jerk that nearly sends them both falling. Peter's fight or flight kicks in, but with Bucky's grip firm around him, flight isn't an option. 

Peter turns around, looking right at Bucky or, more specifically, at the bridge of his nose, which should give an illusion of looking him right in the eyes. He grimaces—Peter—and shakes his head when Bucky tells him to get inside. Alright, more like fucking orders, if Peter is going to be technical about it.

"Are you insane? Get back inside," his hands now holding Peter’s forearms, and Peter looks away, has to.

"I’ll sleep on the Bus, alright? I can sleep on the Bus," he rushes out and then he gets a sense Bucky is angry—of course he is fucking angry—because Peter feels this zing. This zing that always tells him shit’s about to hit the fan, and surely Bucky is not going to deck him for something like this.

But maybe he is, because Peter's spidey-sense is having a full-blown rave in his skull, lights flashing, bass thumping, and he's pretty sure it's all because Bucky's pissed at him—insistent, unstoppable force he is, pushing Peter towards the Bus, practically dragging him. Peter stumbles a few steps, automatically following, but then something in him just snaps. He plants his feet in the snow, stubborn as hell, because damn it, the whole point of this midnight dash was to get the fuck away from Bucky, not to relocate.

"I am not fucking going anywhere with you. The point is to get away, do you understand, do you even—" Fuck this, fuck that, and especially fuck being close to Bucky right now.

"Shut the fuck up," Bucky hisses, stopping, and oh, what brilliant advice that would have been just a few minutes ago. Stellar.

Peter's about to argue, to unleash every single thought and feeling he's been bottling up because who the fuck cares anymore, when Bucky goes even more statue-still, his head snapping north.

"Do you hear that?" he asks, and it's not anger in his voice.

Peter shakes his head; there's nothing but the pounding in his ears, the hammering of his heart, the white noise of panic. "I don't..." He starts to object, but then his words die in his throat.

He doesn’t hear it; doesn’t have that super hearing or whatever Hydra were peddling in when they pumped Bucky full of their knock-off serum. He feels it though. And once Peter does, once the different kind of panic—this emotional meltdown—takes a small step back, a cold dread washes over Peter, this fear that turns your bones to ice, the kind of fear that he doesn’t remember feeling in so long, last time maybe being when—

"Shit," he whispers under his breath against the wind, his fingers gripping Bucky's arms now, seeking something solid. He half-turns towards where Bucky’s looking, but he can barely make out the outline of the Bus in the periphery, and almost nothing else. But there has to be something there, has to, because while Peter can’t see, he can sure as shit feel, and what has to be—oh god. Oh god.

"Shit," Peter exhales, absolute terror flooding his insides. "Oh shit. Oh shit. Shit. Run!"

Chapter Text

They are at the cargo ramp of the Bus, hovering a safe yet terrifyingly close distance above what can only be described as an endless sea of decay. Below them, the undead are having a field day, shuffling, moaning, and generally doing a great job of embodying every zombie stereotype. Peter absentmindedly rubs his arm, his spidey-sense freaking out almost as bad as it did during the first few days of the outbreak. He can’t shake off the terror.

Everything else had taken a backseat. 

Peter can’t even ballpark the headcount of this horde. Thousands. Tens of thousands? A fucking lot. They need a bigger moat. About a hundred times bigger. Jesus.

Bucky throws a grenade just at the tip of the swarm. This explosion sends chunks flying, a small gap forming in the mass only to be filled again as zombies mindlessly press forward, drawn by the sound. Not even a dent. Too bad there’s no White Walker or a Night King they could off; one shot, the whole army down. Would have been nice. Peter bends over to open the last crate of grenades they have on the Bus and wishes for things to be as easy as in fiction.

They’ve already radioed David and Ethan to stay put, as well as notified the compound. Drawing the horde away from the dam is a priority—they can’t have this shit in their water supply—which also ultimately means drawing it closer to home. Not ideal. Better than the alternative, however, even if it does mean risking the fence being overrun within minutes. Peter still remembers how quickly the fence around Camp Lehigh came down as soon as the Mind Stone was no longer holding zombies at bay. Not ideal at all.

It stinks, even from here, and Peter forces himself to breathe through his nose, not wanting the stench of rotten flesh anywhere near his mouth, cursing under his breath over the fact that trying to turn this horde back to where it came from is nearly impossible. It spills into the land, stomps over the snow, and it's just a never-ending stream that seems to be only propelled forward.

Bucky grabs another grenade from the crate, and waits until the horde starts moving slower to toss it down. A bunch of pins are littering the floor by his feet, and Peter calculates if they have enough to keep this up until they are nearly at the compound. They might.

Another explosion sends a bunch of zombies flying, limbs akimbo, but does little to deter the rest. If anything, it seems to invigorate them. Zombie logic, go figure. Peter could have set up a nice soundtrack and blasted it over from the Bus to get zombies to follow, but he’d rather they try killing two birds with one stone so to speak; try taking out as many as they can before they get to the decided on coordinates.

Too bad they can’t call an airstrike either, drop a small bomb and call it a day. Maybe, if they had the time, Peter could come up with something, but building bombs is not exactly something he can look up. Bucky could put something together too, in theory. If they had the time. So, nothing left to do but go the hard way. Meet the zombies in the valley below the dam, walking distance away from the fence, and chuck everything they have at them, hoping for the best.

“We are gonna be fine, yeah?” Peter asks, unsure. “Please tell me we are gonna be fine.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. Haven’t said more than a few words to Peter since they legged it to the Bus, just about making it. That’s—

Well, if they fail, at least Peter will get to avoid dealing with the aftermath of what happened in that room. 

It’s nearly dawn by the time they set the Bus down inside the secured perimeter; close to the fallback point, away from the main building and the camp.

The plan is to try and take the zombies about half a mile away from the fence—close enough for the range of the Iron Man suits to swoop in and deliver some much-needed ass-kicking. Hopefully. That's the idea, anyway.

Trucks are lined up like soldiers, each pair tied together by lengths of barbed wire. Another idea is to run these bad boys through the horde, slicing and dicing or, at the very least, giving the zombies a good shove back. Anyone with a pulse and a vague recollection of how to hold a gun is now packing heat, the air thick with mild panic and the very real possibility of becoming zombie chow.

"We are gonna die," comes the cheery observation from someone, and Peter, snug in his nanosuit with the mask still retracted, can't help but frown. Not the time to be choosing to embrace the inner pessimist.

Bucky, ever the helpful quartermaster, throws two machetes Peter’s way, and Peter gives them a test swing. Not bad. He leaves the blades perched on another truck for now and moves on to check the ammo. He has no idea if they have enough.

He climbs on the roof of a van filled with explosives when Bucky gives him a nod.

"Alright, folks, remember: aim for the head or sever the spine. And if you run out of bullets, fall back. Fast," Peter announces, hopping from one foot to the other, nerves getting the better of him. "Oh, and if anyone's got a spare lightsaber, now would be a great time to whip it out."

Nobody laughs. Tough crowd.

He gets down and checks the ammo again, making sure everything's as ready as it'll ever be. 

“Are we?” He asks Bucky, coming up to stand next to him and passing him clip after clip that Bucky is storing in the pockets of his tactical gear.

“Are we what?” Bucky grumbles, not looking at him.

“Are we going to die?” Peter clarifies, voice hushed. “Because I’d rather not. If there is a choice.”

He waits for Bucky to say something back, preferably something slightly uplifting, but then gives up after a while, Bucky seemingly not interested in uplifting Peter right now.

“Everyone dies eventually,” he hears Bucky after already turning to walk away.

Yeah. That’s just—

The last few minutes before they go full medieval on the zombie horde are bizarre. The shadow of the undead mass creeps closer, an unfurling carpet of death inching towards them. Peter sincerely hopes it’s not their "final stand." He’d like there to be nothing final about it, please. His adrenaline is already spiking, the kind of old-familiar feeling you can't bottle. They’ve survived worse though, haven’t they?

It’s loud. 

Engines roaring like caged beasts hungry for a sprint, the trucks ready to carve through. The ragtag militia is jittery, their hands tight around weapon stocks, and Peter really hopes for no friendly fire. The suits are hovering just above them. The snipers in their towers some distance away seem to be calm enough. Bucky's off to the side, definitely too far from any tower for Peter's liking. He should be up there, overseeing, making those impossible shots he's so casually good at. But hell if Peter's going to be the one to suggest it. Peter just hopes and hopes—

Would pray too, if he wasn’t suspecting that God is a zombie also.

They’ve got this. They do.

As ready as they'll ever be, armed to the teeth with more firepower than a small country. Molotov cocktails, guns galore, and, of course, two bona fide superheroes, plus Iron Man suits. They can do this.

They’ve got—

Wait. Is that random moron really pointing the grenade launcher backward?

Peter's gaze flicks to the disaster in the making; the self-inflicted, facepalm-worthy disaster that's aiming the barrel right at one of their sniper towers.

What? Oh. No. 

Peter then looks to Bucky, catching the exact moment his realization dawns too—eyebrows shooting up, eyes widening, the "Oh, fuck" expression mirrored in living color. Back to the grenade launcher, back to Bucky—like Peter's watching tennis from hell, except every volley brings them closer to being unintentional extras in a Michael Bay film. 

It's both a slow-motion clusterfuck and a blur so fast Peter's brain barely has the time to scream a string of expletives.

Peter measures the distance between himself and Captain Oblivious—too far to smack it out of his hands, close enough to see something awful happen. The finger's on the launcher already twitching, ready to press that damn button and rain hellfire on their own heads. There is an inevitability to this that Peter knows all too well.

In a split-second calculation that would make his high school physics teacher proud, Peter estimates the blast radius.

Oh. Shit.

Then, he's jumping.

His web-shooter is faster than thought, the payload already hissing through the air, even though nobody's actually given the go-ahead yet. 

The webbing flies, a desperate arc of sticky salvation, snagging the grenade mid-flight over the shouts. It's a beautiful, heart-stopping second of "holy shit, I did it." Except. Fuck. The momentum.

Payload flies, attached to the web. Away from the sniper tower, away from the assembled would-be heroes, but. Towards. Shit.

It explodes.

Everything goes very bright, then very fucking dark.

The void he is floating in feels suspiciously like the afterlife. A little less pearly gates and more "we've run out of budget for anything but darkness" though. It's been... what, a few years? A century? A couple of minutes? Time is a construct, and here in the black, it's constructed from nothing but confusion. 

Occasionally, the silence breaks for quiet murmurs, whispers that for some reason sound like threats.

"If you die, I am going to fucking end you," he hears just before his senses start rebooting.

First to sign on during the reboot is his stomach, weirdly. A hunger so sharp, Peter could eat the void itself—assuming it's not carb-free. This hunger gnaws at him, and eventually reminds him that, oh yeah, his body is still a thing. With that hunger comes a trickle of other sensations—pain, a classic favorite, throbbing in places Peter forgot could throb. A bunch of unpleasant aches all over his body, crescendoing in his head in a grand finale that has him wishing for the sweet silence of the void again.

For a while, the whispers grow clearer, morphing into voices, then mostly into one voice. Bucky's saying something less threatening now, laced with that edge of worry.

"You're such a pain in the ass," Bucky whispers, but the concern cuts through the fog in Peter's brain. "Wake up already, I’ve got things to do. You’ve got things to do too."

Eyes still shut, Peter does try to respond, tries to tell Bucky that, all things considered, being a pain in the ass is better than being dead. What comes out is more groan than words, a sound that says, "I'm alive, but let's not throw a party just yet."

It takes a lot of effort—that groan—and Peter takes a very long nap after.

Peter wakes up to a world that's surprisingly pain-free. Yeah, alright, his muscles are complaining with the same fervor they did that one time he'd stayed in (binge-watching Netflix all day, marinating in bed with a cold, stewing in his own heroic juices—except, you know, there's no Netflix anymore.) Other than that, he feels pretty damn good, actually.

First thing he notices—besides the antiseptic smell of cleanliness and his own probably misplaced optimism—is the distinct lack of that dreadful feeling of being surrounded by too many undead.

Huh. Okay. Good news, then, it seems.

He blinks his eyes properly open, a slow, sticky process, his eyelids flirting with the idea of being glued shut. Then looks around, moving his head—

And there, just by his bed, is Bucky.

Asleep in a chair that looks about as comfortable as… hmm. Not comfortable at all. Bucky's legs, clad in military boots, are thrown over the side of the bed, resting against one of those medbay metal guard rails that are presumably there to prevent Peter’s body from making an unplanned escape attempt.

And Bucky kind of looks like shit.

It's as if he's been personally duking it out with every zombie that dared to cross their path—hair a mess, face sporting a shadow that's trying its hardest to become a full-fledged beard, and there's this overall vibe of exhaustion that clings to him. You know the one. The 'I've been wearing the same clothes for what might be days.' Even in his sleep, he seems to be frowning. Which makes Peter frown too, as he observes a perfect example of someone taking the concept of 'beauty sleep' and deciding to reverse engineer it into a living, breathing cautionary tale, bags under Bucky’s eyes so big they could carry groceries.

"Hey," Peter tries, raspy as if he's been gargling sand.

Bucky's eyes snap open way too quickly for someone who was visibly very much conked out, just as Rebecca, very much the embodiment of medical authority with her stethoscope and all, materializes from behind the privacy blind.

"Excellent," she declares, catching Peter mid-try at a small smile directed at Bucky.

Peter moves to sit up, turning his head toward her.

Ugh.

He grimaces as he becomes all too aware of the various tubes hooked up to him—some poking and prodding in places that should never be poked or prodded without consent. He doesn't need to pee, which, embarrassingly, makes a lot of sense.

"How are you feeling?" Rebecca asks, clipboard at the ready.

"Good," Peter confirms, the word a lie. Good physically. For some reason, he's suddenly very keen on not looking at Bucky, his gaze fixed on Rebecca, even though his entire being is painfully mindful of Bucky's boots dropping from the guard rail of his bed.

"You've been out for four days," Rebecca informs him.

Everything’s fine. Peter can feel it is. They’ve made it. Yet, Rebecca’s calmness does nothing to soothe the mild panic setting in. Panic that has nothing to do with the undead.

"That would explain... the attachments," Peter gestures with his arm, pulling on one of the tubes.

"Yes, let's take care of those, shall we?" she says, stepping forward. Peter is busy nodding, a bit too eagerly, now decidedly panicking, when he sees Bucky walking away, even his back doing a great job at mimicking a frown, red hoodie and all; folds of the fabric creased as if he hasn’t moved for ages.

Privacy.

That has to be it. Peter clings to the thought like a life raft. Bucky's just giving him some privacy, not running away from him as soon as Peter is awake. Gotta be it.

He is shoved back into the land of the living with a fresh set of his own clothes. Waving goodbye to Rebecca and that one guy nursing a self-inflicted gunshot wound—mental note: propose a community-wide seminar on gun safety—he steps out. Bucky's conspicuously absent outside the medbay, and Peter's not sure whether to be relieved or worried. 

Worry wins—worry always wins when it comes to Bucky. 

Trudging through the compound, Peter notes the mingling of camp folks and compound originals. A silent nod here, a quick half-smile there, with Peter deflecting any attempts at conversation. He's got a one-track mind for once, and it's currently speeding towards a confrontation he's been dreading since he woke up. In some ways, dreading since he realized that he likes Bucky Barnes a bit too much.

The compound's stairs might as well be the gallows, each one making a mocking sound under the weight of his impending doom instead of his sneakers. Peter pauses at the roof, just before the entrance to the Bus, cold air hitting his skin, and takes a minute to survey the perimeter. From here, even with the sun already starting to set, he can see the dark stretch of land over the snow, where presumably extra dead bodies are now littering the ground. The fence seems intact. And so is every single one of the sniper towers.

They've won, with or without his conscious participation. A huge relief mixed in with a buttload of curiosity. 

Attempting to shake off some of the dread, Peter gets himself inside the Bus before he catches an actual cold, the cargo door thudding shut behind him. Inside, the Bus is just as he left it—normal, lived-in by two guys who've been through hell and back, minus any actual living hell, for once. Peter's heart sinks when he finds the place currently unoccupied. He'd half-hoped Bucky would be here, asleep or at least pretending to be.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of everything —or at least the weight of his and Bucky's fractured something—bearing down on him. The Bus seems a bit too big, too empty also; just a container for his apprehension, every inch of it reminding him of Bucky. Bucky, who's become as essential to him as swinging through the skyscrapers of New York once was. Bucky who is nowhere to be found by the looks of it. Maybe busy. Maybe hiding. 

Peter flops down on the couch, letting his head fall back, eyes closed against the predictable swell of emotions. He knows he can't avoid talking to Bucky about this forever. 

Or can. Maybe can. 

Perhaps the way to go is to pretend it never happened. Been down that road already though—paved with good intentions and lined with explosive emotional landmines. It always leads back to situations like in that room however, where his tongue decides to say shit without consulting his brain first. And last time it resulted in the most devastatingly awkward love confession in the history of ever. Didn't it?

Or, maybe they could just finally talk it out, acknowledge the giant elephant between them and then... what? Move on? As if it's that easy. As if every time Peter looks at Bucky, he doesn't—

Fuck. So, what's the play here? Wear his heart on his sleeve, like some sort of emotional exhibitionist, and hope for the best?

Peter considers his options, foot mindlessly tapping the floor.

Door number one: continue the charade, weaving through their days with the finesse of a drunk spider, hoping Bucky's either too polite or still somehow too clueless to call him out on it.

Door number two: face the music, sit down with Bucky, and hash it out like adults.

Adulting. Now there's a foreign concept when it comes to anything that doesn’t involve the logistics of survival.

Peter sits up, rubbing his face.

"Shit," he mutters, glancing at the thin hallway lined by pods, as if Bucky might walk in at any moment, ready to have that talk. The talk. How would that even go?

He flops back down, arm draped over his eyes. The truth is, he doesn't know what to do. It's not like he has magically woken up with a perfect solution on how to not get his heart even more broken. And now he is just dripping with enough fear—that it will never be the same between them again—to stain the upholstery.

It's in this near-catatonic state of not knowing what the hell to do that the sound of the shower door sliding open nearly launches Peter into orbit. 

His heart does a panicked dive against his ribcage. Fuck. Soundproofing at its best-worst.

"Oh," Peter stutters out, grace and eloquence clearly deciding to take a rain check, abandoning ship at the first sight of human interaction. The interaction.

Bucky steps out, hair wet but otherwise looking like he's got his shit somewhat together, fully dressed, the almost-beard more of a neat stubble again. The sight is so normal that Peter can't help but stare, completely caught off guard. There's a second, brief and somewhat confusing, when Peter tries to kickstart himself back to functionality.

"Sorry I didn't stick around," Bucky says, not waiting for him to properly react. He saunters past Peter, heading straight for the bar. "Didn’t think you’d want me there. I'm gonna make coffee. Want some?"

"Yeah," Peter swallows audibly, still glued to the couch. "Feel like I haven't had any in days."

He ignores the comment of not wanting Bucky at the medbay, witnessing his detangle. Sure, it would have been embarrassing as hell, but not wanting Bucky there is a pretty foreign concept. Peter always wants Bucky around, no matter what that there is.

That small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of Bucky's mouth at Peter’s rather weak joke, the crinkles by his eyes deepening.

"It's good to have you back," Bucky says, not looking at Peter, but it's so earnest that Peter's heart does something severely complicated. Peter nods, back straight, nervously picking at his own finger, a habit he thought he'd kicked back in high school. 

So, they're doing the pretending thing, huh? Acting like that night's emotional striptease never happened. Peter’s almost relieved, actually, if he ignores the tiny voice in his head calling him a coward. An even tinier voice calling Bucky a coward too.

For about a minute, Peter just watches Bucky wrestle with the coffee maker, emptying and refilling it with beans. He's desperately searching for something to say, anything that doesn't scream 'I'm an emotional trainwreck, please handle with care.'

"I could probably use a shower too," Peter comes up with this gem eventually and stands up. An escape plan thinly veiled as a statement of personal hygiene. Not that he couldn’t use a shower, sponge baths be damned.

He grabs a few things from his pod—random bits of clothing. Then strides towards the shower room, the click of the door behind him sounding a bit like a cell locking. It's not, of course. It's just a shower door. A door to a small room—humid and warm—with Bucky's clothes piled up on top of the overflowing laundry basket.

Peter hand hovers over the basket with a resolution that feels more like defeat and then slowly pulls on the red sleeve of Bucky's hoodie. Peter brings it closer to his face, not really smelling it—because that would be weird, right? Just sort of letting his skin touch it, absorbing the residual warmth, the lingering scent of gunpowder and sweat. He gives himself a bit of time to breathe. Just breathe, nothing else.

And Peter knows. If he has to do this—this whole act of pretending—then it's just going to keep gnawing at him, day after fucking day, until there's nothing left of him. He'll probably end up hating himself for being such a coward and then, inevitably, start resenting Bucky too. And it’s not—

It’s not what he wants.

Shaking his head, as if to physically dislodge the thought, Peter tosses the hoodie’s sleeve back on top of the basket—because emotional masochism isn't on his to-do list today (or ever, if he can help it). Which is… another lie.

He grabs a quick shower, the water pressure a poor man's massage, but it does the trick. The water sluices down his back, taking with it the grime and the edge of his overly dramatic crisis, leaving him feeling marginally better.

Later, inspecting himself in the mirror, he finds no scars or burned-off eyebrows. The suit obviously took the brunt of the damage. Rebecca was vague on the details, her medical jargon a smooth blend of comforting unspecificity. But if Peter had to guess, "nothing good" pretty much sums it up. He probably ended up with some sort of internal trauma from the blast at the least. If it wasn’t for the nanotech, Peter is quite sure he wouldn't be currently obsessing over how to act around Bucky. Funny, how even posthumously, Mr. Stark keeps protecting him. 

Thinking of Mr. Stark stabs him in the chest, but Peter can’t think of that now. Now, he’s just a guy, standing in front of a mirror, asking it to not show him a total disaster. Too much to ask, though, apparently.

He towels off, throws on whatever clothes he'd grabbed in his haste—sweats, t-shirt, mismatched socks, and prepares to re-enter the main lounge of the Bus—a little cleaner, a little lighter, but still fundamentally Peter. Peter who is not ready for this soul-sucking, heart-wrenching act of pretending—the one that will chip away at him, day after agonizing day. Until there's fuck all left of him. 

It's in that mood that he walks out and essentially almost slams into a wall that turns out to be Bucky.

"Oh," Peter blurts out, his go-to exclamation for when his brain can't decide between fight, flight, or freeze. "Hi."

Without a word, in a move that Peter's definitely not prepared for (because preparing involves at least three panic attacks and a pep talk in the mirror), Bucky just steps up to him. And fuck, if he doesn't pull Peter into a hug so tight it squeezes every bit of that mood out of him. It takes a hot second for Peter to process this—like, are we hugging now? Is this a thing?—but then he just goes with it, sinking into the embrace, arms winding around Bucky's back, face tucked in the safe space between Bucky's shoulder and neck. He feels Bucky's chin rest on his head, and everything, everything is okay.

"Don't do that again," Bucky says. He's not whispering, not making it a secret, just stating it with weariness, sounding exhausted, the kind of tired that sleep won't fix. "Even if everyone in this compound decides to die tomorrow, you don't get to. Do you understand?"

And Peter... he doesn't. Not really. But Bucky is hugging him, and the smell of his skin—clean, with a hint of whatever body wash they both use that's probably got a name like 'Mountain Rush' or 'Ocean Breeze' (or whatever it is this month, since they can't exactly be choosy with brands)—is about a million times better than his hoodie. Peter lets himself be hugged, and a new thought, not even that much of a sad one, rumbles about in his head: if this is it—if this is as good as it gets between them—Peter can live with it.

Hell, it could even be enough.

Even if Peter keeps scribbling Bucky's name in his imaginary diary, surrounded by doodled hearts and question marks, as long as Bucky cares enough to hold him like this, Peter's okay with that. Okay, as long as they can still have this, with Bucky's arms around him, and fuck the faint echo of a world gone to shit outside their little bubble. 

He's Bucky's person, as much as Bucky is his, however unintentional it is—was—pushed together by the circumstances beyond their control.

And that's got to count for something. Right?

Peter had missed the coffee, alright. Missed it like he might miss oxygen if someone decided to vacuum all the air out of the room. How the hell you miss something when you're knocked out cold is beyond him, but here he is, craving caffeine and gulping it up while washing down a power bar as if it's the elixir of life after a four-day coma.

They are leaning over the bar on opposite sides of the counter, their elbows propped up on the shiny surface, and the steam from their cups is doing this weird, intimate dance in the air between them.

Bucky's filling the caffeine-fueled reunion with a debrief, recapping the zombie carnage. Turns out, all the painstaking preparation they'd done was about as necessary as a credit score these days. Aside from Peter's near self-obliteration, the only action was seen by the suits, which have apparently sliced through the entire horde with lasers like it was butter and they were the world's most overqualified knives.

"Took about… five minutes?" Bucky says, his gaze flicking away from Peter when he adds: "Or so I was told."

"That's..." Peter nods, his face scrunching up as he tries to reconcile the idea of efficient mass zombie disposal with Bucky not being there to witness it, probably busy dragging Peter’s body to the medbay as it was happening. "Awesome."

"There's more," Bucky’s mouth twitches in a smirk. There's a twinkle in his eyes too and he pauses, as if he's about to drop something even more significant, rather than just a post-battle report. "We had a look at them. After."

"And?" Peter leans in, his interest piqued, eyes inadvertently locked with Bucky's.

"They didn't look that hot. The rot's really settling in. That and a whole lot of frostbite. I had a team drive back in the direction they came from. Looks like some might be expiring on their own already; they found a few hundred mostly intact, but not moving."

"Oh," Peter nods, the information taking its sweet time to travel from his ears to his brain, much like understanding Bucky's earlier hug. "Ohhh. Whoa."

He takes almost too long to process. The implication of the undead becoming less... un-dead by the minute is sort of a big deal. Like, maybe they won't have to spend the rest of their lives playing whack-a-mole with zombies. Which was always a hypothetical understanding, but. Still.

"That's—" Peter can’t help it, unable to hide his excitement. "Holy shit!"

And just like that, they are both grinning.

Bucky tells him about the big showdown with the council that Michael was gearing up for that didn't even end up happening. It seems that nothing brings people together like the imminent threat of joining a non-government-approved army of the dead. The willingness to fight and possibly die together bred a sliver of good faith and camaraderie instead of the anticipated political standoff. So, Michael didn't have to play his ace card—the control of the water supply and the dam—after all.

David and Ethan are still manning the fort at the dam, ready to radio in about any stray walkers that didn't get the memo about the laser light show. But for now, all's quiet on the western front, and the water's flowing.

"I watered your stupid strawberries too," Bucky mentions at some point, hand rubbing his chin, as if he's almost uncomfortable admitting it.

Peter can't picture it—Bucky, the former Winter Soldier, taking a timeout from sitting at his deathbed to play gardener. And yeah, sure, Peter would be pissed if he woke up only to find his beloved plants looking like they'd gone ten rounds with a blow dryer, but it's such a ludicrous gesture from someone who's more at home with a rifle than a watering can, it's almost too endearing.

Bucky Barnes, making sure Peter's strawberries don't kick the bucket before he does.

And—

Damn.

"I meant it, you know," Peter says out of nowhere, his finger dragging along the rim of the cup, some coffee still leftover at the bottom, eyes on it. "What I said. About being in love with you. Sorry."

For a microsecond—a ridiculously brief slice of time you'd miss if you blinked—Peter feels a sense of calm washing over him. Yeah, he's got this bravery thing down; fighting villains in the past, dodging apocalypse-themed party favors in the present. And, look at that, applying this bravery to, you know, real-life shit that doesn't involve nearly getting blown to pieces by a grenade. For once. 

He floats in this weird tranquility after his heart falls out of his mouth along with the truth. No more hiding. Just raw, unadulterated honesty with a side of "sorry" because, let's face it, Peter's not Peter if he isn't apologizing for something. Sorry for complicating the shit out of everything. Sorry for dumping this... ‘I’ve got feelings for you’ nuke on Bucky like it's some kind of twisted gift.

A very brave, calm span of time, lasting precisely a few heartbeats.

And then he freaks the fuck out. Predictably, utterly, annoyingly so, and he's mad at himself for it, but he can't help this either. Because Bucky is as silent as a mime at a vow of silence convention, and for all the bravery in the world, Peter can't bring himself to look up. Can't do it, his imagination now painting doomsday scenarios. Because what if he sees that same flat expression he saw back at the dam that sent him running out? Or, worse, pity? 

"We don't need to talk about it," he hurries. "Ever." It's his voice trying to slam the door on his own face, to shove every spilt feeling back into the can.

"I am going to go to bed, I think," Peter declares next, another heartbeat later, getting up and already walking towards his pod, even though he's just clocked out of a coma-sized nap and nearly jittery on caffeine, not a hint of sleepiness in sight.

"Don't even fucking think about it," Bucky throws at his back, and Peter freezes mid-step. "Stop doing that. Why do you keep doing that?"

With Peter effectively rooted to the spot, cosplaying a particularly anxious statue, his heart seems to take Bucky's "stop doing that" as a literal cease and desist. Seriously, it skips a beat or maybe even a bunch of beats, leaving him on the edge of a full-blown fainting episode. It's a fucked-up sensation, feeling your own heart play hooky, especially when you hear the rapid footsteps of a super soldier rounding the bar. And even those steps sound pissed off.

Then it happens—a not-so-gentle jerk on his shoulder that spins Peter around, and bam, he's face-to-face with Bucky, whose expression is mostly frustration.

"Two fucking seconds," Bucky snaps, and it's not just his footsteps that sound really mad. Peter can only manage a squeak that would do a great job of voicing a confused mouse.

"What?" comes out, failing to compute the situation entirely. Bucky's about a step away, his metal arm weighing a ton on Peter's shoulder, each finger pressing through the thin fabric of his t-shirt with enough strength to find it almost alarming.

There's definite, not even understated anger on Bucky's face too. His breathing is sharp and labored, as if he's just after running or fighting.

Peter is about to try another "What?", his mouth already opening to form it, when Bucky's other hand comes up to yank Peter forward by the back of his head, crashing their lips together. It's so unexpected it could've knocked the wind out of Peter if he'd had any left to lose. It dazes Peter, confuses him even more, and makes him oddly light-headed. So much so that gravity doesn't seem to apply to him anymore.

He doesn't move, doesn't respond, his eyes don't even close, and Bucky's mouth tastes vaguely of the coffee that Bucky had been nursing. Peter's mind goes blank, a whiteout of shock, because this—this is Bucky Barnes, the guy he's been doing a spectacularly shitty job of not falling for since god knows when, kissing him. On purpose.

It lasts… precisely two seconds.

And just as quickly as it happened, just as quickly as this kiss happened, Bucky's hands and lips leave Peter, and Bucky steps away. Peter blinks—once, twice—his mental faculties in a tailspin. He just looks at Bucky, eyes wide, and then brings his own hand to touch his mouth, as if confirming that, yes, this just—

"So?" Asks Bucky, tilting his head to his shoulder, which is normally a relaxed move of his, but he still looks a bit angry and he is still frowning. "Was it fucking enough?"

"What?" Seems to be the word of the day for Peter, because he doesn't understand.

"Was it enough to get what's happening? What you want? How you feel?" Bucky helps him, sighing, now rubbing the bridge of his nose and then turning away for a moment, only then to turn back and look at him again. "Was it enough to fucking unpack what's going on and make a decision? To realize that—that." He seems to be struggling now, almost, and Peter is too shell-shocked to make sense of it all. "So why the fuck do you keep doing this? Drop something on me, or say something, and then fuck off and run away, before I even have a chance to—"

"What?" Peter could slap himself for saying this, but it's all he seems to be capable of doing right this moment. Until a brilliant follow-up makes an appearance. "But. But you're not even gay."

The emotional spectrum on Bucky's face is comparable to the Northern Lights. There's disbelief for starters. Then there's that residual frustration simmering beneath, and a whole bunch of 'are you fucking serious right now?' His hands cycle through clenched fists and open palms, as if internally debating whether to strangle Peter.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, shaking his head as his mouth twists into something that might pass for a sad smile in a parallel universe. It's so far removed from any real smile, though, it might as well be a snarl. "You are not an idiot. Why do you behave like one?"

And Peter's grasping at straws here, things falling out of his mouth like he's drawing them from a hat of 'shit not to say.'

"I can't do this if you're going to sleep around with other people," he hears himself mumble. It's possibly the wrong thing to say at the moment—wrong on so many levels, again—but this time, Peter isn't bolting. He's not exactly sure what he's doing or why he is saying what he is saying, truth be told. But at least he isn't bolting.

"Then we don't fucking sleep with other people!" 

And just like that, Bucky's there, right there, and he's kissing Peter, his hands on each side of Peter's face, his lips against Peter's, and there is decisiveness about it that leaves no room for doubt.

Peter holds his breath in. And, what do you know, once more, it takes him longer than two seconds to come to terms with the fact that it's happening.

He doesn't actually know how long it takes. How long he stands here like this—his arms passively hanging down, Bucky's hands on his face, his thumbs over Peter's cheekbones. Could be a long time. Could be no time at all, really. Everything else just… falls away.

And then he's moving his lips, just a fraction, only somewhat aware that they might be trembling under the press of Bucky's. It's a small touch, at first. This unsure rub of skin against skin. His lips part, and he feels a hot puff of air from Bucky's lungs invade the inside of his mouth. His whole body goes slack. His knees go weak. His heart takes another pause—an infinite break—while he registers the reality of how rough Bucky's stubble is against the sensitive skin of his face. Of how cold Bucky's palm is on one side, and how warm it is on the other. Of how Bucky smells of—yes—coffee, and how simply close he is.

He is kissing Peter. Kissing him. Kissing him—

Suddenly, it's not just a press of lips against lips, but so much more, so fucking much. Bucky bends Peter's head, his tongue licking into Peter's mouth, and Peter moans—loudly—and then again, when he hears, feels, Bucky's own—albeit not as shocked moan—vibrate all the way through him, setting everything on fire, from the ends of Peter's hair on top of his head down to his toes. A very sharp coil of arousal runs through his body, culminating in a nearly oppressive, powerful urge in his groin. Peter lifts his arms, remembering he has them, his fingers gripping Bucky's back, digging into his skin over his shoulder blades, solid muscle under his touch, Bucky's mouth on his, and something just breaks.

Oh fuck. It's so much; just this kiss alone. It's demanding, Bucky is demanding, and Peter is fucking overwhelmed, unable to believe this is actually honest to God taking place, but for once not overthinking, not even able to overthink, just letting Bucky do what he wants. Letting him cradle Peter's face in his hands, pressing on his cheeks almost too hard. It even tastes like frustration now—this kiss—because Peter can almost physically sense this frustration pouring out of Bucky through it.

“I haven't. Fuck. I haven't stopped thinking about this ever since you sat on my lap and whimpered in my ear." Kissing while talking is a talent, really, and Bucky has it down. The words pour out too, mixed in with short quick kisses, with teeth biting Peter's lips, with Bucky's tongue stroking Peter's own. “Fuck. Fuck, Peter, doll, you are such a fucking pain in my ass.”

“Mhhhh,” is all Peter can offer back, completely speechless, grasping at Bucky everywhere he is able to reach. He drags his hands over the slope of his back, then to his wide shoulders, then up Bucky's head. The heat of Bucky's body, even his scalp, warms Peter everywhere, including in those gaps between his fingers, where soft hair slides between them, every inch of his skin tingling.

He makes a lot of noise, Peter. Appreciative, maybe, but mostly nonsensical and unhinged, whimpering when Bucky all but pulls him down to the floor. And then there is just this. 

Peter is on his back, the carpet scratchy, the Bus hard under him, but it's a different kind of hardness that he's more aware of—Bucky's hips pressing into him, Bucky's mouth all over him. He kisses Peter on his lips, he sucks a small hickey on his neck, he licks the lobe of his ear. He talks, and talks, and talks, as if now that he has started, he can't stop.

“I want to fuck you,” Bucky says when lifting the hem of Peter's t-shirt to move it up his body, then stopping to bite on his collarbone; Peter arching, moaning at the sensation of Bucky's fingers dragging past his nipples and rubbing them in passing. Peter has just about enough brainpower left to lift his arms and feel the fabric slide across them and off, the collar of the t-shirt too tight around his face. There is a moment, when his eyes are still covered by it, when Bucky kisses him again, deeply, and rough.

“I want to fucking destroy you, do you understand?” He whispers into Peter’s mouth after swallowing his groan. “You should be scared of how much I want you, get it?”

Does Peter get it? Not even a little. But scared? Hell no. Excitement is zipping through him like lightning, because holy shit, this is happening. He can’t believe it, sure, but fear doesn’t touch him, not even a bit. Instead, there's this electric buzz, crackling under his skin, turning everything upside down—not from terror, but from anticipation.

And, really, scared is for situations that don’t involve being wanted this badly by someone who’s essentially a walking tank with a heart of, well, something surprisingly soft. Even if spiders, after all, are predators, not prey, Peter feels like one anyway, under this onslaught of things that Bucky is doing, the way he seems to be touching, grabbing, kissing Peter everywhere, as if it is Peter who is a flight risk, as if Peter who is in danger of changing his mind.

Peter could write a whole stand-up routine on the improbability of it all. On how his heartbeat doesn’t know whether to sprint or marathon it; it settles on doing both, the traitorous organ. He feels like he’s been thrown into the deep end, yes, but as Bucky’s words wash over him, Peter’s only fear is that he might actually implode from the thrill of it all, this… dizzying excitement.

It’s fast, too. Everything. Peter's sprawled on the floor, the carpet’s bristle adding to the sensations Bucky's causing. And it’s nearly uncomfortable against Peter’s skin, but who gives a shit about comfort when there's a human furnace on top of you?

It's a sensory overload, everything flammable, every touch of Bucky’s—the kind that should come with a warning label: "May cause spontaneous combustion. Proceed with caution." Bucky’s lips are burning, too, everywhere he kisses Peter, and if Peter had known lips could double as blowtorches, he'd have come to this with a fire extinguisher. Because everything, everything’s just—

“Please, Bucky, oh, please,” he begs, for something. Anything. Just. Peter’s dick so fucking hard, so hard.

There is a huff from up above him, a growl nearly, and Bucky starts taking off Peter’s sweats and underwear. No, ripping them off, almost, and if the fabric could complain, it would—it stretches when Bucky pulls on it, pulls it down, stopping to suck in another hickey, this biting pressure on the inside of Peter’s thigh, and Peter arches further, higher, the stupid carpet burning his shoulders. He might come just from this—from the idea that Bucky wants, wants him.

Peter watches, with eyes as wide as saucers, as Bucky takes his sweats and boxers off, chucking them away. He takes off Peter's silly mismatched socks too, stops to drop a kiss on his ankle, then on his knee, stubble scratching when Bucky rubs his face on Peter's leg, and then. Oh.

Everything sort of falls apart after that. Peter falls apart—nearly instantly—because Bucky doesn't even pause before taking Peter's dick into his mouth with a kind of curious hum, staring right at Peter, and it's just wet, hot, tight pressure around Peter's dick.

“Oh god, oh god, oh, ohhh,” Peter barely has time to comprehend that, that, oh god, oh fuck. “Oh my god, Bucky, oh, god, stop, I am gonna, I am gonna, ahh!”

It's. It's…

It's blinding.

Peter comes inside Bucky's mouth. That's the only thing he is truly grasping right this second. That he comes inside Bucky's mouth, Bucky's hands holding down his hips to stop Peter from jerking them up, Bucky's tongue lapping up around the head of Peter's dick, his lips around it, around Peter. And it's Bucky. A single thought—not how great it feels, even though it does, not how impossibly amazing it is to come inside something soft and moist and have this happen to begin with. But, just. Just Bucky.

“Sorry, hhahhh,” Peter tries to catch his breath, his mouth closing and opening, his whole body shaking, knees apart, trembling. “Sorry, sorry,” he keeps rambling, a bit embarrassed, a lot embarrassed actually.

It's over so fast, he is spent so fast, but it’s not like he expects Bucky to pull out a stopwatch and start giving him shit for premature ejaculation. Still. So embarrassed, his cheeks burning hotter than his entire body did a moment ago, and that's saying something. Peter covers his face with his hands, all flushed skin, mumbling apologies like that time he accidentally revealed Spider-Man's identity to the world. Except, this feels a hundred times more personal, a thousand times more mortifying.

"Sorry, sorry," he stammers, because apparently, that's all his brain can muster. It’s not like he expected to last an eternity, but, ugh, some warning from his body would've been nice. But hey, at least he’s consistent. Always quick to jump into action, just... sometimes a little too quick.

Bucky laughs. This soft, almost guttural laugh, as he crawls on top of Peter’s body, moves his hands away, gives him a hundredth quick kiss, and then snakes his arms under Peter’s back, pulling him closer to himself and up.

“I don’t think you’re sorry, doll. Are you?” He asks, his face nuzzling against the side of Peter’s head, as he effortlessly lifts Peter off the floor. “Hold on to me.”

Peter does, his still shaky legs somewhat getting with the program and wrapping themselves around Bucky’s hips.

“Take off my shirt,” Bucky’s breath is tickling Peter’s ear, and Peter holds on a bit tighter, all limbs and awkward movements as he helps Bucky dispose of his t-shirt. Peter then presses himself against all this skin, all this muscle, even as Bucky is swapping the arms he is holding Peter with, one after another, to get rid of his clothes.

“You should be sorry, though,” Bucky continues, his metal arm a vice around Peter’s waist, another one nudging Peter a bit up his body, then tugging on Bucky’s own jeans. He could put Peter down, it occurs to Peter—not that Peter wants him to—but doesn’t. Maybe Bucky also doesn’t like the idea of letting go, as he works his pants down with one hand instead, stepping on them, essentially stepping out of his clothes.

“You should be so fuckin’ sorry,” Bucky murmurs with an insanely sexy smirk, some of his Brooklyn accent coming through stronger, easily carrying him towards the pods, Peter’s heels digging into Bucky’s naked ass. “You should be really fuckin’ sorry for drivin’ me crazy for months. We could have been doing this for months.”

If Peter had even half of his mind operational right now, he would have half a mind to launch into a protest, a part of him itching to point out that this clusterfuck of miscommunication wasn't entirely on him. Sure, there might’ve been clues sprinkled around like breadcrumbs in a very shitty, very confusing Hansel and Gretel scenario, but come on. It’s not like Bucky wore his wants and whatnot on his sleeve as opposed to Peter, and had it embroidered with, “Hey, Peter, I’m into you, you oblivious fuck.” It’s not like he had chased after him every time Peter, in his infinite awkwardness, decided to run away having assumed too quickly. It’s not like—

Bucky presses Peter against the wall by his pod, his dick rubbing against Peter’s ass just momentarily before the angle is lost, and Peter forgets what he was thinking. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck and holds on for dear life, Bucky kissing him again, and again, and again, just standing like this, by this wall made out of cold and shiny polymer, kissing the life out of him while all Peter can do is just let Bucky devour his mouth, Bucky’s tongue slick and clever, and teasing. It’s sinful. Anything that feels this good has to be.

“You know how hot it is that I was your first?” Bucky’s asking after a while, voice low, moving again, the pod door sliding open. “Jesus Christ…”

He kisses him again, and Peter sticks to Bucky’s body like a possessive koala with severe attachment issues. And no matter how many times Bucky will choose to kiss him, Peter just knows, knows, that he wants Bucky to be his first and only for everything. And not just because every kiss detonates a new explosion inside Peter, and he's about two seconds away from forgetting his own name every time Bucky touches his lips to his. But because it is Bucky Barnes. Because Peter was gone, so fucking gone for him so long ago already, that he might as well have 'Property of Bucky Barnes' tattooed on his forehead at this point.

Bucky doesn't bother setting Peter down on the bed in his pod like Peter expects—not even for a second. Instead, he snags something off the small shelf, all while keeping Peter hoisted against him. Peter, for his part, might have questioned their strategic pit stop, had he not been completely and utterly overwhelmed by Bucky's assault of kisses.

Carrying Peter across the lounge of the Bus, Bucky navigates past the couch, the bar, and a myriad of spots Peter internally marks as 'perfectly acceptable.' Yet, Bucky seems to have a very specific destination in mind, one that requires a trek to the third level of the Bus—the seldom-used floor that once housed Coulson's bedroom. Now, it's more of a storage unit for their accumulated tech junk, Peter's Spider suits, and all the other paraphernalia they couldn't bear to leave behind at the compound but also couldn't find a practical use for.

It still has a bed though.

A large bed.

Peter is somewhat aware of this, as he is being carted around like some kind of oversized, overly hormonal parcel. But each kiss Bucky plants on him is dizzying, making it increasingly difficult for Peter to keep his mental commentary running. He just clings tighter, surrendering to whatever Bucky has in mind, all while his anticipation is ramping up to match the pace of his skyrocketing heart rate.

“Oh god,” he moans, when Bucky lowers his body on the bed, the sheets cold and silky against his overheated skin. “Are you—I—I—god.”

Peter has no idea what he is asking and he still hasn’t let go of Bucky. His legs are still wrapped tight around him, only now the angle is better, so much better, and Bucky’s dick is rubbing against Peter’s ass, hard and Bucky’s, Peter’s own trapped between them, the slightly oversensitive head pressed up against Bucky’s abs.

If his brain were a little less scrambled by the Bucky-induced euphoria and his body a little less preoccupied with being pressed against every inch of Bucky's very, very distracting physique, Peter might have an answer to what he is asking—what he is asking for. But as it stands, Peter's thoughts are about as coherent as a drunk text at 3 a.m. Hell, maybe he's half-asking if this is real, half-wondering if he's somehow stumbled into an alternate dimension where wishes actually come true.

Bucky is sucking another hickey into his neck, his teeth hard and lips soft. It feels almost punishing, or maybe Bucky is, in fact, punishing Peter for being an idiot in love to the point of screwing himself over and over again.

It doesn’t fucking matter. Not at all, as it turns out. Because Bucky takes a break from torturing Peter’s neck and pulls back a bit, making Peter let go. A plastic cap pops off, and then Bucky is smearing this slickness in the cleft of Peter’s ass, his fingertips stroking Peter’s hole.

Oh.

“Yeah, doll,” Bucky both drawls, as if appreciating Peter’s gasp, and inadvertently answering Peter’s question.

“Fuck,” Peter reaches, hands in Bucky’s hair, gripping it tightly and forcing Bucky into another kiss. He sticks his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, and his whole body goes completely wild at the way Bucky sucks at it, making an approving kind of noise in return.

And Peter thinks he’s ready, ready—he has done this before, fingered himself open while jerking off, trying to imagine it’s Bucky’s fingers inside him—but nothing could have prepared him for this. 

In his mind, it was always smooth sailing—passionate, sure, but with a grace and finesse that only exists in the well-edited scenes of rom-coms or his own overly optimistic brain. Reality, though, is messier. It's slick hands and shaky breaths, a bunch of small noises that would be embarrassing if Peter had any capacity left for embarrassment.

He'd pictured Bucky's touch as confident, assertive—okay, maybe it is—but what he hadn't accounted for was how intense and wanton it makes him feel when Bucky eases a single finger inside him, the way it puts Peter’s entire body on high alert. In his fantasies, Peter was always smooth, collected, maybe even a little suave too. But now he's a whimpering, clinging mess, and suave is the last word he'd use to describe himself right now.

There was also the matter of talking. In Peter's head, they were both eloquent, exchanging witty banter and sultry whispers. Instead, Peter is completely speechless, his whole vocabulary reduced to monosyllables and moans. Bucky, meanwhile, seems to have found a happy medium, his voice low and husky in a way that rattles Peter's spine.

“I could hear you, you know,” Bucky whispers, his metal hand on the nape of Peter’s neck, his other one busy working him open. “Every single time you’d jerk off before going to sleep, the way you would kneel on your bed, face pressed into the pillow, your mattress creaking. Could hear your hand on your cock, could hear every single noise you would try not to make and make anyway. Fuck, Peter, do you even know how many times I was almost at your door, thinking that I could do a lot better than you fucking yourself on your own fingers? Mmm, doll? Do you have any idea?”

It's also the little things Peter hadn't even considered—the warmth of Bucky's breath against his skin, the weight of his body, the way he moves with a purpose, yes, but with certain care too. In Peter's fantasies, these details were glossed over, but in reality, they're some of the most poignant parts of this, this—

Peter didn't see that coming. He didn't expect the way his heart would do a triple axel every time Bucky just looks at him, the intensity in his eyes so potent it's downright radioactive. Like he looks at him now, two fingers inside at this point, hovering above his face, Peter’s dick hard again and just about not leaking.

“Fuck, you are so tight,” Bucky keeps talking, keeps whispering these things that flatten Peter with every word. “I kept waiting, you know. Kept thinking… hmm. Maybe if he says my name once. Maybe—”

Oh god. Peter chokes out a strangled moan, his head falling back, Bucky's fingers rubbing against the wall of his ass, pressing on his prostate, and it's so, so. Fuck.

“Did you? Hmm?” Bucky is asking, his voice getting louder, the way his fingers move inside Peter more urgent, impatient almost. “Did you think of me fucking you all those times? Did you—”

“Yes. I. Yes,” Peter nearly whines, his skin on fire, not knowing what to do with himself, so turned on and suddenly smacked in the face with this pathetic shyness, but also— “Please. I. Please, Bucky, Bucky. Please, I, god, oh my god, there!”

Bucky noses at Peter's neck, and Peter can imagine him smiling, maybe smirking, but he can't open his eyes right now, ultimately so out of it, because he didn't imagine it like this. Real and imperfect, with breaks for squeezing more lube, with Bucky swearing under his breath when he pulls back completely and mutters, absentmindedly:

“Shit. Condoms.”

He moves to get up, his fingers sliding out of Peter, and Peter just shakes his head, blindly grasping at his metal arm with both hands, mumbling back, unsexy and honest:

“Please don't. It's. You could. I want.”

And Peter is more likely to die from hyperventilating at this stage than to say it out loud. That he wants Bucky to fuck him as is, to come inside him, sloppy and raw.

“Fuck,” Bucky yanks on Peter's legs, and Peter snaps his eyes open to see his face completely wrecked, lips parted, expression dark. Bucky's half sitting on the bed, half kneeling, and he isn't looking at Peter’s face right now. Just at his body; the way it's displayed in front of him, Peter's legs shamelessly spread, his stomach heaving with every shaky breath, dipping in with each exhale, Peter's dick pink and flushed over his abs.

“I,” Peter starts again, and Bucky's eyes dart to meet his as he pulls Peter's body closer, placing his legs on top of his thighs and then reaches to rub his thumb over Peter's hole. “You can. If you want. Now.”

Bucky shakes his head, a small smirk in the corner of his mouth as he adds more lube to his fingers, spreading some on his dick—which is unfairly hot and makes Peter swallow loudly, nearly salivating.

“I said I want to destroy you, doll,” he chuckles, tilting his head to his shoulder, back to looking down. “I didn't say I want to hurt you.”

And this… this also has no business being as hot as it is, with Bucky almost thoughtfully sinking fingers into Peter again, watching them disappear inside.

Peter feels himself flush bright red, hands gripping at the sheets. He just… he just. Can't wait.

It takes a while, or at least it feels like this. Maybe, just like before, it doesn't take that long, but time drags out, and when Bucky finally makes this humming noise and pulls his fingers out, Peter has been writhing in bed for quite possibly five years, keening at every touch, desperate and weak, ready and not ready, everything’s a mess in his head, jumbled, confusing and heady.

He barely acknowledges how empty he feels when Bucky is maneuvering his body around, Peter's limbs all over the place, definitely nothing graceful about it. But there is urgency in the way Bucky manhandles him to flip around and kneel, ass in the air, forehead against the pillow, and Peter just shakes and shakes, unable to stop these tremors even when Bucky's hands settle on his ass.

“Hmmmh,” spines should not bend at the angle Peter manages when Bucky's dick just presses against his hole, nothing else. “Mhh.”

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters quietly, so quietly, as if he isn't talking to Peter and maybe he's not. “Shit.”

And then—

God.

Peter tries to relax, he knows that much. Tries to loosen his body, but it's happening, actually happening, and Bucky is about to fuck him, and. And. And.

Bucky pushes inside, and Peter would lie through his teeth if he said it doesn’t hurt. So much so that this initial burn makes Peter want to very inappropriately recite every science fact he knows just to distract himself, his mind sharpening.

"Did you know the sun is a star?" he almost blurts out, because, holy fuck, it feels like one's decided to take a detour through his ass.

It's not that Peter wasn't expecting it to hurt—a part of him knew, surely, had braced for it. But knowing and feeling are two different things, and right now, his body's screaming, because he is possibly bracing too much. He tenses, letting out a sob muffled by the bedding. Shit.

Bucky is big. Peter remembers that. Not just from seeing today—but from touching him before, from having his dick in his mouth, struggling to fit it in. And even though Bucky's being careful, achingly slow, murmuring reassurances that Peter's brain registers but can't fully process, all Peter can think about at first is the stretch, the burn, and an overwhelming sense of fullness that makes him wonder where was this part in his fantasies? Conveniently edited out, it seems.

“Breathe,” Bucky says, and he sounds like Bucky. Bucky who would never hurt him, who would never—

A hand strokes his back, lips press against his spine, and Bucky murmurs, again, strained:

“Come on, doll, breathe,” and then. “Fuck, Peter, how are you so fucking tight—”

Peter makes a broken noise, trying to relax, trying to concentrate on Bucky’s lips against his skin, on the way his metal hand is rubbing comforting circles on Peter’s side. And, gradually, impossibly, the sharp edges of pain dull, making room for a burgeoning curiosity. What does this feel like when it's good? When does the pain give way to—

Oh.

It almost takes him by surprise. This slow build, a creeping warmth that starts to spread from the base of his spine, igniting nerve endings he didn't even know he had. And suddenly, the discomfort isn't the only thing filling him; there's something else, something far more—

“Oh,” Peter sighs. And then, again: “Oh, fuck.”

And then there's Bucky's voice, that low, velvet timbre that somehow sounds even better now, laced with a hint of awe.

"You're doing so good, doll, so good for me," he praises, and Peter's heart just somersaults, that warmth now blooming in his belly and spreading through his veins like wildfire. Bucky sneaks his hand under Peter, grabbing his dick and makes a small movement easing out just an inch and then slowly, nearly too slowly, back in. It flips the burn, the pain from 'oh God, why' to 'oh God, yes' pretty fucking quickly.

The shift is seismic, a tectonic plate rearrangement of his sensory inputs, and Peter's all here for it. It starts rolling over him in waves, each patient press of Bucky’s dick inside him sending ripples through his entire body, lighting him up from the inside out. It builds and builds, Bucky moving just a bit surer, faster, and out of fucking nowhere, Peter is a single electron orbiting its nucleus at the speed of holy shit. 

Peter moans.

The pain that initially felt like a misstep becomes a very distant memory, overshadowed by this growing need.

“Oh my God,” Peter rasps, loudly, for the first time moving back to meet the roll of Bucky’s hips, and the sensation of being filled now feels like fucking coming home, a perfect fit that has Peter wondering why they ever wasted time not doing this. Each push and pull seems to meld them closer and closer, and when Bucky hits that spot, changing the angle just slightly, Peter nearly screams.

"There! Oh, fuck, there!" Holy fuck, holy shit. Because this—this is beyond not painful.

Bucky grunts, swears under his breath again, his metal digits now sinking into the skin on Peter’s hip, grip hard, he actually starts moving, and Peter finally understands what Bucky meant when he said ‘destroy’.

Bucky is… thorough. Thorough and fucks like a machine.

The word 'destroy' has nuances Peter hadn't considered. And, oh, are they good.

"Destroy," in the Book of Bucky, apparently means to dismantle all prior conceptions of what Peter thinks sex is meant to be, until all that's left is raw, unfiltered need. Peter can't help but think there should be more words, better words, to describe this. It's not just sex; it's an overhaul of every sense, every nerve ending singing Bucky's name like a hymn. "Destroy" means Peter's body is not his own anymore; that the person he was before this—before Bucky steadily fucking into him over and over, pace building, strength of his thrusts increasing—feels like a stranger.

Every single time Bucky buries his dick in, is a nail in the coffin of Peter's coherence. Places Peter didn't even know could even fucking feel pleasure are now alight with it, burning bright enough to blind. It's overwhelming, this feeling of being so completely known, so thoroughly owned.

"Just like that," Bucky hums, approval thick in his voice, and Peter—it feels like he's been given the first prize at the science fair all over again, but so much better. Because this praise doesn't come with a trophy; it comes with a surge of pleasure so intense, Peter can barely see straight. It's melting him from the inside out, it's turning him into a blubbering idiot, not that he could give a crap.

And oh, does Peter thrive under that praise. He's always been a bit of an overachiever, after all. Give him a task, a goal, a hint of acknowledgment, and he'll chase it down with the tenacity of a man possessed.

"Fuck, Bucky," Peter gasps, encouragement fueling his boldness, driving him to meet Bucky's movements with enthusiasm that borders on reckless. “Oh, shit.”

It's one thing to be wanted, but it's quite another to be praised for wanting in return. He starts meeting Bucky halfway, even though his knees are definitely in danger of wobbling, if it weren’t for now both of Bucky’s hands holding his hips. Still, here Peter is, getting fucked within an inch of his life, and what does he do? He mentally pats himself on the back because Bucky Barnes thinks he's doing a decent job of taking it. Peter smiles into the sheets through an embarrassingly whiny sob, and it’s just so good.

Good, great, amazing, unreal, and then Bucky pulls him up, holds him by his torso, lips brushing against Peter's ear, murmuring, "Peter," it's all Peter can do not to come right then and there.

He can’t move like this though, not really. Actually move. With Bucky. Against Bucky. For Bucky. So Peter lets out a frustrated moan, his head thrown back on Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky quietly laughs, his body hot and solid behind him, inside him.

“Wanna try something else?” He asks, and Peter mumbles something that could pass for an agreement, before Bucky pulls out, just about not throwing him on his back, pushes one of Peter’s knees to his body, and dives into him again, both of them groaning at the same time. Bucky’s metal arm slides under Peter’s other knee, holding it up, and this is, this—

Peter nearly fucking shatters into pieces, yelping, when Bucky’s dick fills him so, so—

And it’s better. So much better, because it’s not just a blur of sensations, and Peter can see, the view's enough to leave him even more breathless—or maybe that's just Bucky's doing. It's the way Bucky’s eyebrows are pulled together in concentration, lips parted as if every thrust takes as much from him as it gives. Seeing Bucky like this, Peter's struck by the realization that this is what he was missing all those times in his fantasies. It's one thing to imagine what Bucky looks like, sounds like, feels like when he's fucking. It's another entirely to witness it—to be the cause of it. Peter watches, fascinated, as Bucky pulls back and then sinks into him again, the way they both seem to be shaking every time it happens, and there is something really fucking spellbinding about the whole thing.

But it's not just Bucky's face that has Peter's attention. It's the way his muscles move under his skin, each time he fucks into Peter a display of this power and control. And that metal arm, god, the metal arm. And. And.

Peter reaches for his dick, his strokes messy and almost uncoordinated, because he is close, so close, and he feels like he will die from all this overbearing pleasure if he doesn't release at least some of it. And he can almost feel Bucky's eyes on him now, the way they burn, and Peter just wants and wants, and wants so much.

He doesn't think why he is doing it, barely any capacity to think left, really, but he squeezes around Bucky's dick on this last thrust, and—

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky moans, his eyes closing for a second but then opening wide, almost bewildered. Peter does it again. “Peter, doll, what the fu—”

Bucky makes another sound, his breaths rapid, and Peter commits it all to memory, even as he is desperately jerking himself off. It's knowing that he, Peter, can elicit this response, can pull these sounds from Bucky's throat, can make his stoic, unflappable Bucky look at him like, like. So. Fuck.

“Oh, god, Bucky,” Peter nearly mewls, this perfect grind into him getting almost too fucking much, this pounding, this slap of skin against skin, shine of sweat on Bucky’s body, and everything’s complicated and simple, and so much, so fucking much. “I am—ah, ah, aaahhh!”

Eloquence abandoned, syntax shattered, every nerve ending screaming, and Peter comes and comes all over himself, all over his stomach, Bucky wild on top of him, his dick stuffing him so full, just pumping and pumping inside him as Peter’s whole body seizes, down to his toes, and there is this all-consuming blaze that leaves absolutely nothing untouched; he’s open, and exposed, and so full, and it lasts and lasts. It lasts through the vague awareness of Bucky pushing both of Peter’s knees to his stomach now, Peter’s still hard dick slapping against his abs, and Bucky just goes crazy, insane, and he is so fucking strong, and hot, and gorgeous, and, holy shit, oh god, he is coming inside Peter now, fucking into him without care, his eyes black, his face so fucking tense, and—

Bucky pretty much collapses on top of Peter, his dick slipping out, and Peter makes a quiet sound, this huff of air against Bucky’s neck, pressing his lips toward his pulse, arms too weak to move, but somehow finding enough strength to drape themselves over Bucky’s back, skin warm and dizzyingly soft, all meshing into a singular focus of feeling, of being. Just. Here.

A bit later, in the aftermath, after Peter reaches for the conveniently stored package of bottled water—which shockingly didn’t drop on them during—and peels some plastic off to get a bottle out, he drains half the thing, before pressing it into Bucky’s hand and letting him finish the rest. Peter feels, he feels… whoa.

They’re still somewhat tangled together, their legs at least, a mess of limbs and lingering heat, when Bucky’s lips find Peter’s in what can only be described as the most gloriously lazy wet kiss in the history of mankind. It’s slow, and Peter kisses and lets himself be kissed without saying shit that his post-orgasmic brain can’t quite articulate.

It’s like they’re both too sated, too drained to put in any effort, and yet, somehow, it’s perfect. It’s the kind of kiss that says, "I’m here, you’re here, and isn’t that just fucking amazing?"

There’s no urgency, no goal, just the simple pleasure of feeling Bucky’s lips move against his in a kiss so fucking leisurely. And Peter’s content, wrapped up in the warmth of Bucky’s body against his, and doesn’t bother with thinking. Any thinking at all.

And Bucky, god, Bucky seems just as content to keep it slow too. There’s a gentleness to him that Peter rarely gets to see, a tenderness in the way he kisses, relaxed and unhurried, as if they’ve got all the time in the world. And maybe they do.

They take a shower together. Which is a bit of a disaster, and Peter squirms and giggles under Bucky’s touches, every inch of his skin so sensitive even water feels like it’s attacking his body. The cabin’s too small, but Bucky’s there, and it’s just… easy. So easy not to talk, not to worry, not even to wonder what the fuck it all means.

There is this happiness that’s rare and sweet, almost as sweet as the marshmallows Bucky keeps lobbing at Peter’s mouth. And sure, maybe Peter will never be as happy as he could have been, the end of the world and all, but as they’re sprawled on the rounded couch, a bag of the sugary puffs between them, both clad in nothing but sweats, it’s pretty fucking close to real happiness. Peter’s slacked against the couch rest, feet propped up in Bucky’s lap, and all of this is just full of casual comfort.

Bucky seems to be quite satisfied with the act of marshmallow tossing. When he sneaks one into his own mouth though, chewing on it with a thoughtfulness that seems almost out of place for the situation, he doesn’t seem to enjoy it as much as Peter. Grimaces almost, and reaches for a glass of whiskey he’s been sipping on. And Peter’s just… in love. Happy. A little shocked, still, but not enough for it to be an issue right now.

"I think," Peter starts, the lingering sweetness of sugar on his tongue making the words feel lighter. "I think we are really done here now."

Bucky’s response is instantaneous, the corner of his mouth ticking up in amusement. "What, you breaking up with me already?" It’s a joke, sure, and it has a sense of déjà vu about it, but Peter feels a flush creep up his neck for no reason at all. Turning away, he tries to hide the blush, but he knows Bucky sees right through him.

"So?" Peter deflects, catching another marshmallow with a practiced snap of his teeth about a minute later. "Think we can do it? Leave?"

"Sure," Bucky shrugs and takes another sip. "We'll still have to come back once in a while, drop off the basics. But if you want... yeah, we can leave."

Leaving, it turns out, isn't as straightforward as packing a bag and flipping off the apocalypse on your way out. No, it's a shitshow of logistics, a lot of second-guessing that would make even the most decisive person want to curl up in a ball and pretend they're a rock.

Planning where to go is actually, unfortunately, nearly uninspiring and kind of depressing. They get Friday to spin the dials of shortwave radio, searching for life signs in the static. They make lists—places to go, people to see, help to offer. It's not exactly a honeymoon itinerary, but then again, for most of the people these days the idea of romance is sharing the last bar of soap without complaining.

For Peter it is moving into the bedroom on the Bus. And not just because it means they can properly stretch their legs. It's the little things, like falling asleep to the sound of Bucky's breathing or the warmth of waking up tangled together. It's more, so much more than Peter dared hope for, and if he's honest, it kinda scares the shit out of him sometimes. But in a good way, sorta.

In the end, leaving is as simple and as complicated as they make it. The compound doesn't just let them go with a pat on the back and a cheerful "don't let the zombies bite!" No, there are supplies to stockpile, defenses to reinforce, and a whole lot of reassuring everyone that yes, they'll come back, no, they're not abandoning ship, and yes, they promise to radio in.

It takes over a year for zombies to become much less of a pain.

They don't all drop dead one fine morning hitting their expiration date; no, it's a slow, staggering decline into 'why the fuck are you still here?' territory. The reason it takes longer for some and not for others is anyone's guess—maybe they had more preservatives in them, like those hot dogs that last a century.

Things are not that much better after that, if Peter is honest. Disease from rotting flesh, medicine scarcity, and resources getting thinner and thinner. Occasionally, they get word of a small outbreak that takes out an entire shelter faster than you can say "apocalypse nostalgia." It’s devastating.

On the bright side, they find people. Loads of them. More than Peter thought still alive but fewer than he'd hoped.

They find not one, but two jets too, and park them behind their place in Alaska as if they’re just oversized lawn ornaments, keeping them ready for a rainy day. 

Alaska, of all places. Peter still isn’t sure how they ended up here. One day they just landed, looked around, and Bucky simply said, “This is nice.” Makes total sense.

Bucky gets really into fishing. Who knew? He can sit for hours with a rod in his hand at their dock, and Peter can’t decide to this day if it’s meditative or just plain hot. Both. Definitely both.

As for Peter, he’s the jack-of-all-trades, master of... well, some. He tinkers. Puts together basic meds in his lab on the Bus, running a post-apocalyptic CVS. Keeps the Bus and all their tech from falling apart also. He even tries to learn how to cook, which is a bit dangerous given his culinary history involves setting cereal on fire.

Their house, this cozy little thing perched overlooking the shore, it’s more home than anywhere else has been in a long time. Sure, Peter wishes they could spend more time grounded than airborne, dreams of a day when their biggest worry is what’s for dinner rather than, you know, surviving the aftermath of the end of the world and worrying about nuclear power plants melting down. But that day’s still a flight or two away. For now, they make do. Even get two dogs, a very pregnant-looking cat, and there is a rather friendly herd of deer that’s been rumbling about.

Peter doesn’t just wake up one day and decide it’s high time to revise and expand his apocalypse survival guide. But it does happen. Gradually.

Cardio is still king. If you can't run faster than a zombie, or Bucky when he spots the last can of plums, you're as good as dead.

Double-tap. Be it zombies or awkward conversations about feelings, make sure it's finished. 

Don’t get Bucky jealous. Not that there’s a lot of competition in the apocalypse, but apparently, even a smile too long gets you the side-eye.

Accept that Bucky’s a flirt. He flirts like he fights: effortlessly and effectively. But remember, at the end of the day, he’s only got eyes for you.

Communicate. Whether you're planning your next supply run or trying to express your feelings without actually saying “I love you” because that’s still somehow terrifying, communication is key. And yes, grunts count. Sometimes.

Bathroom breaks are sacred, but don’t be stupid. When visiting another shelter, always announce them because nobody wants a repeat of the 'incident' where Peter almost got shot for being a very quiet and suspicious shadow in the hallway. Try to forget the look on Bucky’s face when he realized he almost lost you.

Do not act shocked after finding out Bucky can be a bit kinky. Enjoy it.

Actually learn to cook. Because apparently, love does go through the stomach, and nothing says “I adore you” like not poisoning each other. At least twice.

Keep the romance alive. Even if that means your date night is defending the perimeter of a friendly farm (from bandits, people still suck), try to make it romantic. Light a fire, share a bag of nuts, and remember why you fell for each other in the first place.

Don’t forget to laugh. At yourself, at the situation, at Bucky’s terrible attempts at fishing (seriously, they never have fish). The apocalypse is grim enough without taking yourself too seriously.

Be patient. And if you are, one day Bucky will not tell you he loves you, but he will pull you close to his chest and murmur “I think I’d want this even if the world didn’t end.”

And there you have it, Peter’s survival guide, now with added relationship advice because surviving—living—with someone you love is a hell of a lot better than doing it alone.