Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bucky insists Sam wears the suit at all times. "Even when taking a shit, Buck," Sam says, but is ignored like the man doesn’t understand sarcasm. It’s not like the suit’s uncomfortable, it’s the opposite in fact - the Wakandans know how to make stuff.

But it’s not the comfort that Bucky cares about; it’s that it’s bulletproof and absorbs shock. So’s the cowl, but of course a bullet could just rip through the exposed part of his head; when Sam tells him this, Bucky says: "Bullet probably couldn’t penetrate through your thick skull."

Sam wonders, not for the first time, why this is the guy he’s forced to spend the apocalypse with. Bucky scowls, as if reading Sam’s thoughts, then says, again: "Suit stays on."

"Alright," Sam says, suppressing an eye roll; as if he was going to disagree that wearing a bulletproof suit at the end of the world is a good idea. Sam wears normal clothes over it; fatigues, scarf for the wind and sun. The suit can change colors, so the entire outfit is black now. The boots peeking out look like standard combat boots.

For his part Bucky still rips his sleeve off his outfit so everyone can see his arm, but changes it to a dull rust color. They argue over it once; going to outposts and the small communities scattered around the country, it’s a fifty percent chance whether they’ll get a hero’s welcome or be turned away. Sam thought, at the time, Bucky could draw less attention to himself that way. Bucky had stared at him as if he was stupid, lifted his arm and said: "Fear of this keeps us safe, Sam."

He wore his sleeves for a month though, as if to prove a point. The third time they came across someone and were attacked, Sam conceded that he was right. Bucky gloated quietly for a full week after that. It’s not that they couldn’t defend themselves from attack; it’s that any attack is just a moment’s bad luck away from one of them getting injured, or worse. The specters will attack anything, and those they can’t avoid, but if the human tragedies decide they’re not worth the grief, it’s one less chance they’ll run out of luck.

Depending on which side the leaders of the community fell on. Depending on whether they felt they’d been let down or not. Sam would tell them, all the superheroes let you down, don’t look to them for anything at all. But some people still have faith. Some people still believe someone like Sam, or Bucky, can save them.

But you don’t come back from this: everything is just dust, nowadays.

*

At an outpost in Nebraska, Bucky's arm gets them ten days in a small enclave with a mattress and a stove, food. They don’t care here, about Sam being an Avenger, once upon a time. They care about an arm that can withstand high levels of heat and a body that can lift things no human can. A guy that’s fast enough to rip off the heads of any approaching enemies, human or otherwise. Trade, in exchange for a body given super powers against its will.

Sam feels useless, but he’s the reason why they’re here to begin with. Minor head injury from a bullet whizzing past; Bucky had dispatched all of their attackers quickly after that, but seemed angry with himself after. Because of the boy. Even though he won’t talk about it, not to Sam.

"Hey," Sam says, as Bucky helps him out of the van. "I missed it too. It’s not always on you."

Bucky just snarls, and Sam tries to fix a smile to his face, tries to dredge up some measure of positivity underneath his exhaustion, when Bucky says, quiet: "I can’t do this without you, that’s all it is."

And Sam can only nod in return.

The room, such as it is, has thin walls, a mattress and a stove, as promised. It’s unexpectedly clean, for which Sam is incredibly grateful. He sits on the floor to undress, but Bucky's there. Pulling off his boots, then his clothes. The suit. He’d deemed the place "safe" when he’d entered, but nowhere is truly safe.

Except maybe the van, but they need supplies, and the enclave won’t allow them to live in their vehicle. It is what it is; the van’s impenetrable, in any case. Sam knows this because more than one person has tried, and regretted it.

Sam’s grateful to be out of the suit. Bucky’s hands run clinically up his frame, to his head. Gentle, as he clucks. "I’ll trade for antibiotics."

"Trade for whiskey instead."

"No." He makes to leave, but Sam grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, pulls him in for a kiss. Bucky allows it for a bit, before gently pushing Sam away. Color high on his cheeks. Lips wet and pink beneath the beard.

"Come on, man," Sam says. "I’m almost naked here. Take advantage of me already."

"You have a head injury." But he lies down on the mattress next to Sam, tugs Sam’s briefs down to free his very interested cock. Wraps his fingers around it and jerks Sam off slowly, lazily, dropping soft kisses to his mouth in between.

Sam usually tries to be quiet in places like this; this one’s no exception. Even though he needn’t have bothered; there’s no amount of quietness they can achieve that’ll give them any form of privacy here. They’ve both had to endure people fucking, fighting, and anything in between. But that’s a blessing too. Sometimes, when it’s just Bucky and him for days on end, they both go a little mad. Not that Sam hates the company, it’s just: they go a little mad.

Bucky speeds up, runs his hand around the base of Sam's cock, and he comes, gasping. Bucky’s hand on his chest keeps him from moving too much, so he just stares at the ceiling for a while, embracing the high. When he returns to himself, he nods to Bucky's hard on, outlined against his pants.

But Bucky shakes his head: "Gotta go. They want me on at 6am." He licks all of Sam’s come off his fingers, says: "Sleep, okay. Back tonight."

"Yeah, alright." Sam's already drifting off. The last thing he feels is Bucky, pulling a blanket over him, but not before placing Sam’s gun next to his head. Just in case.

These places run on the honor system and the threat of death by people with deadly weaponry. But you can never be too careful, anywhere.

*

There's no Point A to Point B anymore. No GPS, no gas stations to fill up when you run out, no restaurants or convenience stores to buy food at. Instead there's outposts, and places completely overrun by specters that you need to avoid at all costs, and places that are overrun by the roving gangs and you want to avoid them too, although sometimes encounters with these folks are unavoidable. Especially if they think you have what they want.

Such as, a van that's more or less bulletproof. It's Stark tech, given to Sam before he fell out with Stark, but was never un-registered to him. When Sam had returned from dust, months later, he'd received a letter from the GRC, whose new duties included, apparently, sorting out legal inheritance rights for the returned. Sam received a list of things that were once his, and then sat in storage for five years, and are now his again. Including the van.

They've camouflaged it as a normal van, reinforced with steel over the panels and the windows. The real prize about the van though, is not that it's near indestructible; it's that it runs on Stark's arc reactor tech, which means the one thing they don't need to trade for is gas. Which is huge, and why it's imperative no one else gets their hands on the van.

But even normal vans are a hot commodity nowadays. The sensors keep them mostly safe, and also aware when they're headed toward an ambush they can't avoid; they're always out-numbered, but no one is ever ready for the Winter Soldier, or a Captain America with a shield he can swing with deadly, precise accuracy.

*

A week of this. Sam mostly rests; his head hurts and he can’t stand for too long. Bucky returns with food and water, antibiotics, some kind of gel he puts on the wound. He’s gone most of the day, but when he returns he’s never tired, and tells Sam, "Going out for a night shift."

Sam grabs his hand on the third night, says, "Don’t." Bucky pauses, then nods. Mostly, what Bucky can offer is appreciated. But sometimes being able to do the work of ten men means ten men don’t get work. And so resentment builds. Which leads to trouble. It’s always tempting to just push to the limit, because there are so many things they need just to survive, and some things that are nice to have, but Sam’s aware of what it means to be this different, this special, in this new world. Not always what you think it might.

So Bucky stays, and reaches into his backpack. "You get a taste of this now. When you’re better you can have the whole bottle."

Sam makes a small moue of delight when Bucky holds the bottle up to him. It looks like single malt scotch; although it could just be the label. Bucky wets Sam’s lips with it though, and it sure as hell tastes like single malt scotch. He tries to grab the bottle, but Bucky holds it easily out of his reach, puts it back into his backpack. "Spoilsport," Sam says.

"Sorry for not wanting you to overdose from a cocktail of painkillers, antibiotics and alcohol, Sam."

"You better not drink it while I’m asleep or something. This only deserves to go to someone who can get drunk."

"What, I can’t appreciate the taste?" He shifts so he’s lying down next to Sam, pressing his body next to him. There’s a heater in the room, but it’s not nearly adequate, and it gets cold at night. Sam wraps an arm, and then a leg, around him, pulls him closer. "Stop using me as a space heater. I’ll start charging."

"I can pay in sex."

Small snort. "You can barely even move." But he cradles Sam’s face with his palm, kisses him, soft. Sam reaches down to find his cock, strokes him until his face goes slack with pleasure, his blue eyes turn dark. "Yeah, that’s it. Christ, yeah." He shimmies up into Sam’s hand, and when he comes it’s with Sam’s name on his lips. Returns the favor after a while, and then cleans the both of them up with cloth, water from the bucket.

"Running water," Sam says, as Bucky returns to once again press up next to him.

"Hmm?"

"I miss running water. A long, hot shower. Shampoo for my hair. Hey, can you get me something for my hair?"

Bucky groans. "Do you know how expensive that shit is? I’ll have to work more hours than it cost for that bottle of whiskey."

"You should sell your body if you’re tired. I heard a couple of folks here talking about how they want the Super Soldier to rail them till Sunday. Lie back and think of England, Buck."

"I can’t rail people and lie back at the same time."

"That’s because you lack imagination."

Bucky brushes his hand across Sam's hair. It’s just a little bit out of control now, but Sam lost his shaver in an ambush in Charlotte, and shavers, like shampoo, are hoarded like precious gold. Bucky just let his hair grow, and now he looks like how he did in Wakanda. Sam likes it.

Somewhere along the way, Bucky had found leather gear resembling his old outfit, and a mask too, and now when they’re headed to dangerous territory he wears both: a warning to others to steer clear. It's familiar, and yet wholly different. That guy was deadly, but lost; Bucky isn't.

Bucky's reputation stands on its own now though, for how he is now. What he’s done now. Not as the Winter Soldier.

"Maybe just cut it," Sam says, as brushes a thumb across his cheek. "We have scissors, help me hack it off."

"Sure, if that’s what you want.” He stops for a bit. "I like it, though. Maybe I can give you box braids."

"Okay first of all, no. Second of all, how do you even know what a box braid is?"

"One of the ladies I work with, we’ve been talking. Since you started bitching about your hair like, a month ago, I asked her about it."

"I was not bitching about it, I merely mentioned it once or twice."

"Anyway," Bucky interrupts, "if you’d let me finish talking, she gave me some pointers, and I traded for some stuff, and maybe when we can get back on the road I can fix your hair up for you."

"Is she a hairdresser? Because-"

Bucky growls, and pokes him in the ribs.

Sam laughs, then kisses him when he makes a face. The world’s ended; what does it matter if Sam lets Bucky cut his hair? It’s not like Sam's going to be on the cover of GQ or anything, not like anyone’s gonna take a photo of him and sell it to a tabloid: Captain America has a bad hair day. Plus, Bucky’s pretty good at learning, when he actually wants to learn something. When he sets his mind to it. But only then. "I’ll think about it, okay," Sam says, in the end. "When we get back on the road."

Bucky’s snort says he can’t believe that Sam would need any thinking to begin with, but then he sighs. Kisses Sam again.

Sam asks, before he drifts away to sleep: "Did you manage to find anything on Strange or Banner?" They’ve been looking for months now; almost as long as they’ve been on the road.

"No," Bucky says, short. "Sleep, Sam. You need rest."

"Alright," Sam says, yawning. "Tomorrow."

*

No-one knows if Strange was responsible for the world ending, or if he tried to stop it, or even if he was involved at all. It's all just rumors. But in this broken-down universe they've found themselves in, rumors are all they've got.

These fucking things though. As if aliens, androids and wizards aren’t enough. Although technically they could be aliens. No-one fucking knows what they are is the problem. Or where they came from. They just came, and the world fucking ended. The universe, if the rumors Sam's heard are true. But Sam doesn't care about the universe right now; only about earth. And if they can fix the universe while fixing earth, that's just a bonus, that's all.

*

The fifth day Sam’s fit to walk, and he wanders around the marketplace for a while. He only has a couple of things to trade, so chooses very carefully. A woman is cutting hair, and Sam pauses nearby for a while, then thinks of Bucky and that small hopeful note in his voice, moves on. Ends up trading for a pair of boot soles for Bucky; his are pretty worn out on account of how much super speed running he’s had to do the past months.

Has nothing left to trade for, so just walks, speaks to people. Asks careful questions, and his charm always gets him a little bit of trust, a little bit of intel. Nothing on Strange though, nothing on Banner. Not that it’s easy; they’re just two guys in a sea of guys. Unless something happens, or someone recognizes Bruce as an Avenger, that’s all they are. As forgettable as anyone else.

Someone offers him a cup of watered down hot chocolate, and Sam says, "Sorry, I’ve got nothing."

"On me, friend." He nods at still healing wound on Sam’s head. "Looks like you need it."

"Thank you," Sam says, and accepts the offer for what it is. Sits and chats with the man for a while. Turns out he’s from New Orleans, and yeah that city’s gone too. "Crawfish, man," Sam says, leaning back in the lawn chair the guy - Luke - had offered him. "Just that."

Taking the boat out with Cass and AJ, and then once Bucky moved there, he always came along. It was so easy, those early days. Bucky just slid into his life, and it was like he was always there. Just there, whenever Sam needed something, even when Sam didn’t know he needed something himself.

Sam would watch him sometimes, playing with the boys, or helping out on the boat, or making Sarah smile that way he had, and his entire chest would tighten, and yeah, probably they should have done something about it then, but Sam always figured they had time. After everything they’d both been through, they should have had time.

"Hey," Luke says, as Sam's just watching the crowd, the people busy trading or just wandering around, "You like dogs?"

"Yeah, man. Who doesn't like dogs?"

"You'd be surprised. Come on."

He brings Sam around to the back of his stall. There she is, a golden retriever no less, and oh she's beautiful. Too thin, as almost everything alive is nowadays, but beautiful. She whines slightly when Sam crouches down next to her, nuzzles at him with a cold snout. "Hey, how you doing?" Sam pets her, very carefully.

"Name's Stella. She ain't mine, I just found her a couple of days ago, didn't have the heart." There aren't a lot of dogs left; most are wild, roaming in dangerous packs and refusing to be tamed. She must have been someone's pet; she must have been loved. Miracle she survived this long. "You want her? I can't keep her."

Sam shakes his head no; knows, as he sinks to his heels and she puts her head in his lap, he's already said yes. Knows Luke knows it too.

Close to dinner, Sam spots a familiar head in the distance. Luke follows his gaze, says, "That your fella?" Because Bucky had come up; the outpost isn’t that small, but Bucky gets noticed. Fella. He hasn’t mentioned Bucky as his anything other than companion, but it’s probably obvious. Probably written on Sam’s face.

"Yeah," Sam says, pulling himself to his feet.

"He gonna be okay with Stella?"

"I didn't say I'd take her." The dog has been quietly sitting next to Sam all this time. Luke hands him her leash, and Sam sighs. "Better go. Nice to meet you, Luke. Someday, hey."

"Someday, yeah."

Someday, things will get better. They all have to believe that, to keep going.

Sam shakes Luke’s hand and heads toward Bucky, but it’s Bucky that finds him first.

"You feel better?" Thumb on Sam’s cheek. Then glances downward, says immediately: "No. We can't take care of a goddamned dog, Sam. I don't even like dogs."

"Yeah, I’m good," Sam says. "Her name's Stella."

"No. How are we gonna feed her? We can barely feed ourselves."

"You're just gonna have to work harder I guess," Sam says, as Bucky sighs in great consternation. But then he reaches down and gives the dog his hand. She sniffs it, then licks. "Good dog," Sam says.

Bucky sighs again, and it was never really gonna be a debate. Bucky's a soft touch, is what Sam knows. Despite everything. Maybe because of everything.

"There's a bonfire, starting now. Wasn't gonna go, but since you're up to it."

"Bonfire? Is it safe?"

Bucky only shrugs. "They say it's every week, so gotta be."

Sam doesn't doubt so; the place seems well run enough. Whatever they're doing to keep the specters away, it's working. He follows Bucky to the bonfire, where Bucky trades for two blankets. One to sit down on, one to wrap himself in. Drags Sam down in between his legs, puts his arms around him as Sam presses against his chest.

One nice thing about the end of the world: no one gives a shit anymore who you fuck. Stella sits quietly next to the two of them, Bucky patting her idly on occasion, and it's odd, how she's immediately theirs. But it fits too. Bucky and him, they were, almost immediately, each other's, although it took both of them a long damned time to admit it. Equally stubborn, maybe.

"You gotta stop taking in strays," Bucky says.

"Track record’s pretty good so far."

"Not always." There’s an edge to Bucky’s voice.

"Doesn’t matter." Give people a chance, and most won’t let you down. Sam can’t stop believing that, no matter what. Has to keep believing in that, for the both of them.

Bucky sighs, but kisses him on the cheek. Drops it.

The fire is huge and warm, and at some point a woman starts singing, an old folk song Sam hasn't heard in, wow. Years.

O give me a home where the buffaloes roam, where the deer and the antelope play

Someone passes them a metal cup of unidentifiable drink. Bucky tastes it, makes a face. "Moonshine," he says, and then when Sam expresses interest: "No."

Sam's not mad though. It's nice, here, like this. "You know," he says, "This reminds me of Wakanda." He'd visit Bucky, once in a while. Stumbled across him one day while he was taking a walk, and after a moment of awkwardness Bucky had offered him a place to sit by his fire.

Remembering him then, small and vulnerable, a man barely held together. But they'd find stuff to talk about, and when they ran out of stuff to talk about they'd just sit in silence and watch the stars. Sam thinks he maybe invited Bucky to Delacroix once; thinks maybe Bucky remembered that, and then showed up late, as usual.

"Wakanda had way better food though," Bucky says.

"That’s true."

Bucky puts his head on his shoulders, and someone else starts singing a different song.

My Bonnie lies over the ocean, my Bonnie lies over the sea

"I never got that song," Bucky says.

"Yeah, me neither." Sam frowns, but then starts humming along. He drifts away, at some point after it gets dark, and in a daze he feels Bucky, lifting him and carrying him back to their room. Sam buries his face in Bucky's throat, and clings to him.

Falls asleep to Bucky singing softly under his breath, "Bring back my Bonnie to me." Stella pressed warm against his back.

*

They leave on day seven, because someone tries to kill Bucky. A couple of someones. It ends badly for anyone involved who’s not Bucky, but they decide to leave anyway. Sam’s feeling much better in any case. Well enough to drive, and as they pack their stuff into the back of the van Sam’s pleased to note just how many things the work Bucky did managed to get them.

"Fuck," he says, at some point, spying a familiar bright orange packet. "Are those Reese’s peanut butter cups?"

"Yeah, packet wasn’t worth much. Considering how awful it is." Bucky hates anything chocolate, so this, like the whiskey, is for Sam, and Sam alone. Sam tilts his head, gives him a crooked smile. Bucky says: "You’re marginally less annoying when you have sugar in you, that’s all."

"What else you got in there?" Sam tries to peer in, but Bucky pulls him away, scowls and tosses him the keys.

"Just get the fucking van, Sam. Before someone else tries to kill me. Or you." He points, and Stella obligingly gets in, lies down on the floor. Three days, and the dog's already following Bucky's orders without question and whining whenever Sam tries to get her to do something.

Back on the road, Sam’s in a magnanimous mood, and for once let’s Bucky choose the music, even though it’s been set in stone that driver chooses the music. Which, since Bucky rarely wants to drive, means Sam always chooses the music.

The last time Bucky had driven was - when Sam got shot. But it’s a blur. Sam just remembers Bucky yelling at him, and the bounce of bullets as they hit the armor of the van. The boy, screaming, and Bucky had tried to protect him at first, before the knife appeared in his hand.

The boy had gone after Sam then, and that was his first mistake. He hadn’t succeeded, but the sniper had. Sam had heard the shot, and then the ground came up to meet him. When he returned to consciousness, Bucky was in the driver’s seat of the van, one hand on Sam’s neck to hold his head steady in Bucky’s lap. Dim sunlight light streaming through the slats in the metal covering the windows. Then nothing again for a long time, before dusk.

Bucky chooses, surprisingly, Stevie Wonder. Which is Sam’s music. Weirder and weirder; he thought he’d be subjected to Bucky's wretched 40s music or something.

Instead he’s humming along to As while Bucky puts his eyes to the viewer, watching for any potential threats, even though the proximity sensors do that job for them.

*

Bucky had unerring instincts. Watched the news, saw what was coming. Saw what was inevitable, even as Sam raced to prevent the inevitable.

But Bucky had made several phone calls, and a week later Sarah and the boys were on a plane to Wakanda. Sam never asked what that had cost Bucky; known the Wakandans weren’t big on forgiveness. But maybe they saw it coming too. Maybe they too, knew that the world would crumble, and there’d be nothing anyone could do about it. That the specters may have been bad, but the governments’ reaction to it would have been worse. They’d tried to save Delacroix, at least, and Sam knows many made it out, at least survived the first wave, but they could only do so much, and that was all they could do.

It sits on Sam, sometimes. But then everything sits on Sam, sometimes.

The last Sam heard, Wakanda’s not doing great, but far better than the rest of the world. The African continent, in its entirety, is doing far better than the rest of the world.

Sam hasn’t spoken to anyone from there in months, misses his family like it’s physical, but he’s grateful forever that they’re there, and not here. Anyplace but here.

*

They come across a little cabin in the woods. Dead bodies in the living room that they clear, cupboards stripped of anything useful. But standing, and furnished. They’d scoped the surrounding woods, and unless whomever it was that ambushed the house was better than them (unlikely), they were long gone. Safe, for at least one night.

The bodies don’t look like they’ve been dead long, but they’re dead dead, so human and not specter perpetrators. Some folks who had gotten very lucky, and then their luck ran out. But it explains the lack of decay in the house, and explains why Bucky, the asshole, can choose to carry Sam to the bedroom, bridal style, while Sam loudly protests, and put him down on the bed without Sam dissolving into a coughing fit from dust.

Sam stretches, puts a boot on Bucky’s chest and says, "If you’re gonna carry me like that, Buck, you better fuck me like you mean it."

"I always mean it," Bucky’s grin is wicked. Sam shivers a little as Bucky undresses him. It always amuses Sam that Bucky knows how the suit works as well as Sam does; possibly better. He certainly knows how to get Sam out of it easily enough, that’s for sure. He grabs Sam by the thighs and drags him close, settles in between his legs. "Your head okay?" And it’s maybe the fourth time Bucky's asked this.

"Yeah," Sam says, squashing his annoyance and rising up to kiss him. "It's good. Look at you, taking such good care of me. Gosh, I never."

Bucky's face turns soft, mouth opening on a pleased smile, despite Sam’s mildly mocking tone. Sam kisses him again, harder this time, and Bucky growls. Then reaches over the bed down to his discarded jacket, retrieves a tube he wriggles at Sam in triumph. Lube. Well, fuck. They make do, it's mostly fine. Sam can take the burn, even likes it. And Bucky can take anything, even though he whines about it like he's not a super soldier. "Traded your Bowie for this."

"You didn't." Sam tries to sit up in outrage, but Bucky puts a hand on his stomach, holds him down.

"I didn't, but I don't know why you like it so much. Why can't you use the Karambit I got you?"

"Why can't you shut up and not tell me what knife I should be using." He snatches the lube away from Bucky, tosses it aside. "Save that for when I fuck you, you goddamned crybaby."

Bucky growls, but then smiles, sharp. Takes Sam's wrists and pulls them up above his head. Holds him there with one hand and jerks him off, slow. When Sam starts to whimper he says, "Shh, relax. You're still recovering. Don't exert yourself."

Sam swears, but Bucky buries his curses under a kiss. Makes Sam suck his fingers afterward, wet them so he can scissor him open as he keeps Sam trapped beneath him. Then, yeah. Fucks Sam like he absolutely means it.

*

They end up staying there for two days, end up getting boxed in by specters, and by the time the dust clears and they've killed them all Sam's barely healed head wound has reopened, and he's in no state to drive.

Not for the first time, he wishes he still had his wings, but they had gotten trapped under rubble on a collapsing building in D.C., specters closing in on them. Bucky extracted him from the wings and they ran, barely made it out before the entire building collapsed, taking the wings along with them. Theoretically they could still dig the wings out, but last Sam heard D.C.’s a wasteland, overrun and lost. Not worth the risk.

D.C.'s also where they lost Torres, and that still hurts, and Sam still blames himself, even though he knows he shouldn't; the kid was so brave, but bravery only gets you so far. And sometimes, bravery gets you killed. Sam wears his dog tags around his neck, and that way he doesn't forget.

It was a rough day, all in all. Sam tries to keep it together, most days. For himself. For Bucky. But that was a rough day, and he almost couldn’t. Holding Torres' hand as he bled out, knowing he couldn’t do anything to save him. Couldn’t even bury him, in the end. Had to run, and not look back.

They still have the shield, so there's that at least. Sam's ground down the colors to a burnished rust so it doesn’t stand out so much; it’s useful in looping off many heads in a row. The only way to permanently kill a specter. Bucky and him have a tag team routine now that’s second nature by this point, although when they had practiced before all this happened, neither of them had imagined that they'd finally perfect their routine due to it being the end of the world, and lopping off the heads of monsters.

In any case, they’re safe now, here, at this cabin, at least for a couple more days. Sam finds several things in the basement, including an entire case of dog food that's not expired. Stella sniffs at it when Sam opens a can for her, and then gobbles it down. Sam pats her, feels her ribs. Yeah, they'll fatten her up if they can, at least a little.

Bucky’s traded for an old fashioned razor, gives it to Sam after bitching about what it cost for a bit. “You’re welcome,” Sam says in return, kicking lightly at Bucky’s newly soled boots. Bucky only snorts, then leaves because Stella, downstairs, is whining. She’ll be spoilt in a month if Sam doesn’t put his foot down soon.

In the bathroom, Sam shaves his face, then stares at his head for a while in the mirror.

Bucky comes to lean against the open door.

”Take it Stella wasn’t in need of immediate rescue.”

Bucky ignores him. Asks instead, face unreadable: "Need help?"

"Thinking I'd shave the sides, maybe braid the top." He holds up the razor to Bucky, who looks surprised, then pleased. Comes close to take it from him, then drags a stool over for Sam to sit. "I can show you how to braid it," Sam says.

Bucky’s scowl says he thinks he doesn’t need to be told what to do. But then he sighs dramatically and says, "Fine, okay. Show me."

"Also," Sam says, as Bucky moves to stand behind him. "Shave your beard."

"No," Bucky says immediately,

"Yes."

"No, you can’t make me."

"But I like looking at your pretty mouth when you suck my cock."

And, close to a year into an apocalypse, when the two of them have not been apart a day since, and have seen both the best and the worst of each other, have wanted to tear each other’s clothes off desperately or tear each other apart period and everything in between, have revealed to one another the deepest, ugliest bits of themselves.

After all this, and Sam can still make the goddamn Winter Soldier blush.

Bucky shaves and braids Sam’s hair, and then Sam shaves Bucky’s awful beard off, and then they return to the bed, and they fuck, slow and deep, the entire night.

*

Was there anything Sam could have done to stop the blitz? Probably not. Still, he was Captain America. Maybe he could have done something. Anything. All that damage, all those deaths, and what had it accomplished? Nothing at all.

The specters spread across the earth still, ravaging it. Creating more of their kin, infecting so much of an already decimated humanity.

And then the blitz, and the specters survived it. And just like that, the war was lost.

The planet’s theirs now, and humans just a pest that refuse to die out, still. Stubborn, to the end.

*

Bucky told him once, in the early days, when Sam still largely blamed himself, took him by the shoulders and shook him, said: "Snap the fuck out of it. You couldn't have done anything to prevent this."

"Steve-"

"Steve isn't here, and if you couldn't prevent it, what the hell makes you think he could have? You're both fucking idiots in the same way; not everything is on you to fix. You couldn't have done anything about it. I'll fucking deck you the next time you start to feel sorry for yourself like this."

"I wasn't feeling sorry for myself," Sam said, smarting a little. He'd thought he'd hidden his mood well, he always had. Years of practice at just pretending you’re okay, and sometimes you can even convince yourself of it. But somehow, that day, Bucky knew, and it was annoying, is what it was.

Bucky snorted, slammed himself back into the van, like he couldn’t bear to be in Sam's presence a second longer. Sam had just stood there for a while, churlishly refusing to move, until Bucky opened the passenger door and said, "Get in or I'll drag you in, if the specters behind you don't eat you first."

Faced with no choice, Sam reluctantly got into the van and put it into gear so they could escape; they'd both learnt quickly enough that the best fight against the specters is no fight at all. "I'm not feeling sorry for myself," Sam repeated, after a while.

"Sure you're not."

"I feel responsible. I feel-" he had to wipe sudden tears from his eyes. "How is this so easy for you?"

"I was tortured and made to kill people for seventy years. Shit happens, you know. It could be worse."

"I don't see how," Sam said, and had to pull over, because he couldn’t see the road anymore. He was just so fucking tired of pretending, that was all.

"I could be alone." Bucky reached across, squeezed the back of Sam's neck. Held him there until he could get ahold of himself, until the tears ran out. "We could both be alone."

"Yeah," Sam said, when he could speak again. "You're right. It could be worse." Bucky's thumb brushed across Sam's jawline, just lightly, and yeah. It could be worse.

*

They stop for a meal near a river. Sam builds a fire and boils rice, opens newly traded for cans of sardines.

Bucky undresses with intent as Sam’s stirring the rice and then dives in. Stella, confused, runs along the edge of the river for a bit but then when Sam calls her back comes to sit next to him, her head on her paws as she stares at the pot.

"I’ll feed you later, girl, alright?" Sam pats her and then kisses the top of her head, inhales her familiar scent.

They’d always had dogs growing up. Mostly mutts, big and friendly and warm. But Sam hadn’t realized how much the dogs were Dad’s more than anyone else’s, and when he passed the dogs followed, one by one, mostly from old age or sickness, and weren’t replaced. Sam always wanted them though.

Always figured at some point he’d settle down, do the picket fence thing. A distant goal for retirement from active duty, and then he’d retired and realized he’d wanted none of that, save for maybe the dogs. But then Steve Rogers came along one morning, and well.

"Food’s almost ready," Sam calls out, but Bucky only nods briefly before diving back into the water. Sam sighs, pokes aimlessly at the sardines, bubbling in tomato sauce.

Bucky emerges at some point triumphant, with a fucking trout in his hand, squirming. Sam gapes at him for a bit, mostly on account that there’s fish to begin with. Manages to get himself together enough to fetch a bucket, fill it with water for Bucky to throw the fish in. Bucky manages a few more before he tires of it, orders Sam to gut and clean them once Sam analyzes the fish and finds them good to eat.

Sam does as told, then muses out loud, "We could salt or dry these. Would be good."

"Sure," Bucky says. "I’ll catch a few for later."

Used to be, fish were impossible to find in the rivers. But life’s slowly returning. Nature’s slowly recovering. Sam sees it in the birds he spots sometimes, flying high above the horizon. Seen bears a few times, here and there.

Bucky doesn’t bother drying himself, just picks up tin plates to spoon rice and sardines in. For Sam, for himself. For Stella. Sam can’t quite suppress his smirk. Soft touch.

"She has dog food, you know."

"It’s just a treat." Faintly defiant.

"Sure."

Sam undresses after they’ve eaten. Goes to wash the plates, then slides into the water, slow so the shock of the cold isn’t too bad. Wonders briefly if he can still clock a four to five minute breath hold. Probably not; it’s been a while. Bucky joins him after a while, hands Sam a bar of soap.

They usually have the basic stuff made out of oil, water and lye, but this is different. This has a scent of some sort. Shit, it's great. He beckons Bucky nearer and lathers the soap in his hands before passing the bar to him, burying his hands in Bucky's hair. "Hey, you're wasting it."

"And your hair's gross."

"Alright." Bucky patiently allows Sam to wash his hair, and when they return back to shore, Sam untangles all the knots with a fine-toothed comb.

Sam hmms in approval, presses a kiss to the back of Bucky's shoulder. Times like these, you can almost forget the world's ended. That Sam's watch is set to beep in the event a specter or a human comes within range, where they have to decide to leave or fight, or worse.

Sometimes it's someone in need of rescue, or someone who claims to be in need of rescue, and they have to make decisions on what to do. They've been lucky so far, and only been betrayed once.

Sam has the bullet graze against his head as evidence of that, and he just knows this will make things far more difficult in future for Bucky to trust anyone they come across, but there's nothing he can do about that.

"We were right to take him in," Sam says.

His name was Lucas, and he was just a kid, that's all. Sam couldn't leave him behind; even Bucky couldn't bring himself to argue against it that vehemently.

Two weeks, and then his people came. Enough time for them to let their guard down, but not enough time for the boy to learn all of their secrets. Too bad for all of them, then. Especially for Lucas. But still, he was just a kid. Neither him nor Bucky had killed him, but he'd died nonetheless. Ricochet, or crossfire. His people didn’t think his life was worth anything, which isn’t surprising.

"You almost died," Bucky says, voice tight. "You're too fucking trusting, I know this. But I shouldn’t have."

"Don’t." Sam kisses his shoulder again, against the faint scar tissue on his back, and Bucky shivers. "Arm okay," he asks, to change the subject.

"Yeah. It’s vibranium, it’ll survive long past the two of us." His voice is still tight, and now Sam knows he’s not thinking of the boy anymore, has drawn a little bit into himself.

Sam doesn’t ask though, and he never will. Whatever Bucky wants to tell him about what HYDRA did to him has always been up to Bucky; Sam knows more than enough. Bucky’s told him more than enough, so Sam understands why trust is so hard to come by for him, and always will be. "I was the one that said we should take him in to begin with. If anything, it’s my fault. I should have known better," Sam says.

Bucky’s gaze sharpens on him; he turns to cradle Sam’s face in his hands, traces his cheek with his thumb. "Hey, don’t, okay. You don’t need to be like me. We have me for that."

"What, so I’m the dumbass that’s gonna get us killed if not for you?"

"Well, if the shoe fits."

Bucky presses their foreheads together and sighs deeply, but Sam can feel his anxiety bleed away, somewhat.

They grill one fish over a small fire because Sam’s still a little hungry, and settle down to eat. It’s maybe the best meal Sam's had in months. Years. Even Bucky seems to be enjoying it, and he rarely enjoys food, beyond enjoying when Sam enjoys it. Stella gets her own fish, and seems to enjoy it as well. Eats it all before coming to lie down next to Sam, panting.

"Head okay," Bucky asks after a while. He’d gone into the back of the van and returned with a bottle of coke, and Sam had almost cried. Suspects it would be beer if Sam still wasn’t on a hefty dose of pain meds and antibiotics. But he’ll let Bucky keep the surprise for when he sees fit to reveal it. Watching Bucky's face shine when he’s made Sam smile is worth living with the anticipation.

"Yeah, it’s fine."

Bucky hesitates for the longest time. "I heard talk," he says, finally. "Two guys. Man seemed to be able to do magic, of a sort."

"Where?"

"Arizona, thereabouts."

Sam gives a low whistle. All Sam knows is that Strange had been injured during the blitz, and his ability to do magic was hampered, somehow. That he was on the road with Banner. Too dangerous for them to truly settle down, because someone always sees power and wants to exploit it, or take it for themselves.

"We don’t have to chase after them," Bucky says.

Sam frowns, as something strikes him. "How long have you known about this?"

Bucky looks a little cagey. "Not long. But you needed to focus on recovery."

"You could have still told me. Who knows whether they’ll still be there, even if we leave now."

"And, that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you." Bucky sounds angry now. "You would have insisted we leave before you were ready, gotten another fucking concussion or worse, and I’d have to fucking bury your dumb ass in an unmarked grave somewhere nearby."

"Yeah, and that would have been the right call, Buck. Which part of they’re the only hope we have to reverse this, to getting back our lives, do you not fucking get?"

"And which part of I don’t give a shit about any of it beyond you don’t you?" Bucky’s face says he hadn’t meant to say this out loud, that he’d just blurted it, which happens sometimes.

"Buck," Sam says. "That’s not okay. It's also not true, and we both know it."

But Bucky's face has shut down, and Sam knows he absolutely will not see reason on this. So he just nods, in the end. "Arizona, sure. Go catch more fish, please. I’ll fetch more buckets." Sam glances at his watch. The sensors say they have maybe a half hour before a herd of specters descend upon them. Plenty of time, then.

Bucky’s good cheer returns as he dives for the fish, and Sam finds himself laughing, gently teasing him whenever a fish escapes, then laughing some more when Bucky sulks about it. Stella barks approvingly whenever Bucky emerges with one though, and Bucky says, "See, at least someone appreciates my skills. I don't need you at all, Sam."

Sam just laughs some more, until Stella comes to slobber all over him with wet kisses, and then he just hugs her, and for a moment everything's just fine. Everything's perfect.

*

The outposts started popping up a few months after what people called the End. When it was clear they would be no one to save them, that this was worse than the blip. No government, no Avengers to time travel to change things. So people just adjusted. Found ways to keep themselves safe. Found ways to barter, to trade. Shelter, and food. There are plenty of folks still on the road, but more and more, people build communities, and they stay.

It used to be, Sam would be the one that would do all the trading, all the intel gathering. Bucky as his silent, menacing muscle. It worked, and Bucky with his Winter Soldier game face on is someone people just instinctively fear. But Bucky's better now. Understands trading is sometimes a game, sometimes just two people having a good time. And that assholes can also be handled without violence. He can smile like he means it even when he doesn’t.

They learn things from one another; Sam’s a better street fighter than he used to be, even though he was very good before. But he never got Russian training. They were brutal and efficient, and Bucky was their perfect soldier.

Sam practices flips when they have the time with his knife, while Bucky always ignores him at first and then just stops to watch if he can, pride flickering under his face. Sometimes, he grabs Sam's wrist, puts it to his mouth. Sam will say, "I'm practicing," but he doesn't mean it, not with how hot Bucky's gaze is on him, devouring him.

*

On the road again, they run into trouble soon enough. Or rather, trouble kind of shows up and neither of them are willing to turn a blind eye to torture and imprisonment.

Inevitably, as they’ve got binoculars on the bad guys’ camp, trying to figure out a workable plan, they end up arguing. Bucky may like to remind Sam he’s just a guy, but Sam at least knows how to execute a plan beyond just yelling about it. Or having a plan that’s just about the worst plan ever in the history of all plans, until the next plan.

"Did HYDRA ever allow you to execute your own missions," Sam asks, after they’ve been arguing for twenty minutes over how exactly to liberate the prisoners. Kept in cages, like animals. Bucky, maybe, is taking this one personally. Sam is definitely taking it personally.

And some days he has to remind himself that overall, he’s seen more kindness than cruelty or stupidly. That most people are still good. Today is one of those days.

"What’s that supposed to mean," Bucky says.

"I mean, if they did, no wonder they lost, considering how asinine this plan is."

Bucky bares his teeth. Then points savagely at the camp. "We’re wasting time, and you just keep yapping."

They do it Sam's way, in the end. It works, like Sam knew it would.

And, okay, maybe Sam’s satisfaction at getting everyone out alive, including the both of them, is slightly tempered by Bucky's sulking, which continues even after they drop the prisoners off at an outpost willing to take them.

Sam won’t forget their faces for a while; both their gratitude and the despair they couldn't hide. Thinks he’d be immune to it by now, this abject cruelty, but he isn’t. He can’t. Reminds himself again: he’s seen more good than bad.

And he has. Been offered food, shelter, with no expectation of reciprocity. So many outposts offer helping hands to those who need it without expectations of the same either. The place they’d dropped the prisoners at was a safe place. They would be safe. But still, it leaves a sour taste in his mouth, sometimes.

And now he has to deal with Bucky, in an absolute funk and refusing to respond to anything with more than a grunt, as they finally manage to leave the outpost to return to the road.

At least Stella still loves him; they'd left her in the van and she'd come up to lick the both of them effusively when they returned. They'd also found a dog bed as well as a collar at the cabin - Sam doesn't want to think about what happened to that couple's dog, saw in several photos littered around the place it was a pitbull, brown and beautiful - and several toys, including a plush crocodile that Stella's now obsessed with.

Bucky's right that they can't really afford to keep her, but goddamn it's worth it, and Bucky knows that too, from the way his eyes light up when he sees her wagging her tail. Even though he claims to Sam he's a cat person, or a "no small creature" person. Ha! What a liar.

"Ok, spit it out," Sam says, after they've been driving for a while. "I’m tired of this."

"We shoulda done it my way."

"Why? We did it my way and it went fine."

"No, your way put our lives at higher risk."

"No, it didn’t," Sam says, frowning. "It put my life at higher risk, you mean. That’s what you mean, right? But my way meant we had a lower chance of losing civilians."

Bucky just shrugs, and Sam’s had it: "You don’t get to decide for me the risks I take, Buck. I’m not some helpless child in need of your protection, not then, and not now."

"Then was different," Bucky says, flat. "And you know this."

"Why? Because we’re fucking?"

Bucky laughs, bitter, and puts a booted foot on the dash. He knows this irritates Sam, and Sam has to fight the urge to tell him to put it down, or slap it down. "Because it’s the end of the fucking world and you don’t have wings and everyone, just about every fucking one, can kill you without worrying about a damn thing except for me when I kill them. But like I told you, I can’t fucking do this without you, Sam. I just can’t."

"Yeah, you can," Sam says, and keeps his voice calm. "You grieve, and and then you move the fuck on. Because I’ll fucking come back to smack you upside the head if you don’t, Buck. And I know it’s not the same now, but the burden to keep me alive is on me, not you."

Bucky sighs, and his mouth flattens, but finally he nods, defeat dropping his shoulders. Then he says: "They did put me in charge of HYDRA ops. I was good at it, and that wasn’t them training me, that was just me. That’s why I knew my plan would work. I know people like that, because I was people like that."

Sam’s watching the road, so the words don’t register, until they do. He pulls over, even though it’s slightly risky. "You were never people like that, Buck. What the fuck are you going on about?"

"Wasn’t I?" Bucky swallows. "I never think about collateral damage; it's just not how or why HYDRA trained me. I thought about you, and me, and that's about it."

"So what if HYDRA trained you to kill? Goddamn, Buck. I don’t fucking abide by assholes like that, and here I am willingly putting up with your company and you think, what? You’re not that fucking hot I’d give up my principals for you. Can’t believe you’re still this fucking stupid, especially when we’re in the middle of a goddamn apocalypse. Also, what the fuck do you think I did in Afghanistan, or the years I spent as an Avenger? Crocheting?"

"Well."

"Fuck you, Bucky."

Bucky gives a bark of laughter, but then his smirk returns. "You know Captain America wouldn't be so fucking rude. Where's my warm words of encouragement and reassurance, Sam?"

"It's the end of the world, Captain America doesn't have the time for niceties."

Bucky snorts. Then he shifts gears, slides a hot gaze over to him: "I think you deserve a reward for your excellent work today, Cap."

Sam glances around. It’s bright out, and the periphery scanners show no life signs for quite a ways away. Plus the adrenaline high from the op hasn’t quite faded away yet. Doesn’t help that Bucky looks damn good too, color high on his cheeks and smelling faintly of blood and gunpowder.

Bucky’s smirk deepens as Sam observes him. Spreads his legs wider.

"Come on," he says.

"Wait, so my reward for my plan is for me to suck your cock?"

"Yes."

Bastard knows Sam finds the Winter Soldier hot, and as if he knows what Sam's thinking, he reaches into his jacket and retrieves the mask. A click and it’s on his face as he undoes his fly, drawing his cock out and jacking himself until he’s hard.

Sam asked him once if it bothered him, wearing it, and Bucky said, grinning sharply: "Not as much as I like seeing how hard it gets you." Sam had mumbled something about how it wasn't the soldier he wanted, flushing in mild embarrassment, and Bucky just shrugged. "I know. That's why I don't care."

Sam raises his brow as Bucky stares expectantly at him, wants to tell him to get himself off if he wants it so bad. But yeah, he wants Bucky's cock in his mouth now. He sighs. But he's not gonna make it easy for him though. "Say please."

"Shut up," Bucky says, metal fingers coming to wrap around the back of Sam's neck, and that's hot too, the way his thumb settles on Sam's rapidly quickening pulse.

Sam bends down and wraps his fingers around the base of Bucky's shaft, flicks his tongue out against the head. Worth it to see Bucky gasp. Worth it to watch him slowly lose the self-satisfied gleam in his eyes, start gasping beneath the mask. Sam keeps him on the edge for as long as he can, enjoying the taste of him in his mouth, his breathy, muffled sighs. Swallows dutifully when Bucky comes, hips snapping up into Sam.

Bucky rips off the mask, then drags Sam up by the hair, kisses him desperately. Sam breaks the kiss after a while to swipe his thumb under his lower lip. His turn now to smirk, as Bucky releases a heavy sigh, his hand coming to rest on Sam's chest.

"You good," Sam asks.

Bucky nods, and Sam tries to move away. But Bucky grabs him, kisses him again, throughly, fucking his mouth with his tongue and sliding it along Sam’s teeth.

Smiles when he pulls away, says: "I like it when you taste like me." Shoves Sam back into his seat, and Sam restarts the van, puts them back onto the road. After a while, Bucky leans over and switches on the player. Chooses the music, but Sam lets it slide.

*

"You believe that shit you were talking about earlier," Sam asks, the next day, when they’ve stopped by an open clearing to eat. More rice and sardines. Brined fish for flavor. It’s good, but gets better after, when Bucky drags him into his lap and Sam rides him, hand braced against the rough bark of the tree Bucky’s sitting against.

"No," Bucky says. He traces Sam's bottom lip with his thumb, puts it to his own. "But there aren't any rules anymore, no laws. No-one's stopping anyone from doing any damn thing they want."

"Maybe, but we're still doing our best, aren't we?"

"I don’t know. Seems like I belong here, sometimes, more than I did before all this happened."

"You?"

"The Winter Soldier."

"You’re not him though," Sam says, rolling his eyes a little. "You haven’t been him for a long time, Buck."

Bucky grimaces. "His skills sure are more useful now, aren’t they." He takes Sam’s hand, coos slightly over the splinters in them. Sam maybe had gotten carried away, bearing down on Bucky’s cock. "We should get the kit."

"So the Winter Soldier is deeply concerned about my splinters, huh? Didn’t know that guy had such a nurturing side."

Bucky snorts, then glances away, and Sam knows he's thinking about the boy. "Maybe they forced him," he says. "Maybe he didn't have a choice."

He was sweet, Lucas. Said he was fourteen, but he looked younger. Or maybe everyone looks young to Sam, nowadays. Just a child, and Bucky and him got along like a house on fire. Sam had to drive, so Bucky entertained the kid. It was fine; the kid was fine. Bucky let him in, and he never let anyone but Sam in.

"Maybe," Sam says. "But that's on them, not on us. And we can't save everyone."

"Says the man who wants to save everyone."

"Not always," Sam says, tucking a lock of Bucky's hair behind his ear before kissing him, light. He tries to stand, but Bucky grabs his hips and shoves him down onto the ground. His cock is hard again, nudging against Sam’s thigh, then sliding into him smooth. Sam gasps, then swears. "Fuck, Buck. God, fuck."

"We got time?" He grabs Sam’s wrist to check instead of waiting, grins in satisfaction. "We got time." Bucky can be relentless, sometimes. Sam can’t really complain though, not when it’s this good. Not when it’s so great, even in the middle of all this. Maybe because it’s in the middle of all this.

*

The specters came, and no one was prepared. They didn’t come through spaceships, or, as far as anyone knew, through a portal like the one created by the Tesseract. They poured through, everywhere, and within days everything was overrun.

Within days, half the world was dead, the other half bleeding or turning into specters themselves. Fast and deadly, and worse, if one bit you you’d turn into one yourself. Fever, and then your body starts eating itself up, and then you turn black and rotten, like them.

*

On a quiet road, surrounded by forest, the sensors pick up movement. Bucky peers through the scope, then says, "Stop the van."

Sam pulls over immediately, says, "What."

Bucky gets out without saying a thing, and Sam follows him. Not pulling his weapon because Bucky didn't. Whatever it is, it's not a threat. "C'mere," Bucky says, and points to the far right. Sam follows his finger, and finds his eyes widening. It's a baby deer. What are they called again? Fawns, that's right. It's a fawn. Just standing there, lifting its head up to the sky.

Sam's not seen one in so long. Wonders where his momma is. Wonder if he's got a family, if they're repopulating the earth. Specters aren't interested in anything not human, but when the bombs fell in the last ditch effort to save the planet from being overrun, a lot more than just infrastructure collapsed.

"We should shoot it," Bucky says after they've been watching it for a while. It doesn't seem to have noticed they're even there. "I could hit it, at this range, easy."

Sam can't remember the last time he had fresh meat; finds himself salivating at the thought of it. They could eat their fill, and make jerky. Fashion the bones into weapons or something. "Yeah, we should," he says, nodding. "We should."

They both just stand there though, watching. Until some noise startles it, and it bounces off back into the forest.

*

Bucky’s immune to the bite. Sam knows this because he’d gotten bitten, early on. Only the two of them know this, and it’s imperative it stay that way. Which is why Bucky tries not to get bitten again.

The first time it happened, when they found out, Bucky put a gun in Sam's hand and said, "End it." Sam shook his head then, and in the ensuing argument Bucky took the gun back.

"Fine, fucking make me do it myself."

But Sam had always been good at persuasion, and once in a while he even managed to get through to Bucky fucking Barnes. "I’ll do it before you fully turn. In the meantime, you can protect me, right?"

And that’s what did it, even though Bucky knew he was being manipulated. Because he could protect Sam for another day. A minor concession on Sam's part, a swallowing of his pride to keep Bucky by his side just for a day longer.

It usually took two days, and they managed to find a quiet spot by a river the second day. Sat down by it while Sam took Bucky’s hand in his and Bucky said: "I wanted to tell you-"

"I know, Buck."

"Always."

"Always, really? You tried to kill me at least three times."

"It’s how winter soldiers flirt." He gave an exasperated snort. "When you and Steve started looking for me. That’s when. I would watch you, with him. I barely knew who I was then, and it came back slow. But you were interesting. Most people aren’t, you know. You’re gonna say I’m wrong, but it’s true.

Sam snorted. "So what, you spied on me like a creeper and then fell for me?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"And you couldn’t have told me this earlier?"

"When was I supposed to tell you," he said with a confused frown. "When you and Steve put me in a vice after I was triggered? Was I supposed to wake up and then say ‘Hey Sam, by the way I’ve been watching you for months and I think you should be my man.’ Or when we had to take down Spider-man and you said you hated me? Should I have suggested hate sex? Or maybe when I asked you to move your seat up I should have asked you if you had a Grindr profile and would you swipe right on me?"

"Well," Sam said, only slightly mollified. "I came to visit you in Wakanda several times."

"I was going through intense deprogramming. Yeah, I’m sure you would have jumped right on that hot mess of a train I was back then. Jeez, Sam." Now Bucky sounded completely aggravated.

"It’s not like your personality had improved when you finally did make a move, Buck."

"Are you fucking serious right now? I'm dying and you’re giving me grief about not making a move on you earlier? Also, what were you doing all this time? You could have asked me out at any time. I didn’t even know if you were into guys, period."

Sam made a face and was about to respond when Bucky raised his hand to brush his fingers through his hair, and Sam got completely distracted. He grabbed Bucky’s arm and peered at the bite mark on his hand.

"Huh. It’s healed." There was still very ugly bruising, but the wound was gone. It was day two, and Sam had seen this before. Usually by this point veins turned black, spreading through the body. They developed a fever as the infection raged. Bucky’s body seemed cool.

They argued about this too, for a while. Bucky insisting he couldn’t take this chance, Sam calling him the dumbest asshole to walk this earth and how dare he think of taking his own life and abandoning Sam to take care of his own self in a dangerous world.

"That shit only works once, Sam," Bucky said, crossing his arms dangerously.

"Fine, then leave."

"What?" His frown turning confused.

"Leave, and don’t come back in a week. If you’ve turned, you’ll join the other specters far away from me, if you don’t, well. Bring your dumb ass back to me."

"Considering your cavalier attitude with your life, I should leave and not come back anyway."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Bucky made it five steps before he turned and marched back, kissing Sam hard. Tried to move away when they broke apart, but Sam hugged him, holding him tight. Knew Bucky could pull free, but he didn’t. "A week," Sam said, after a long time. "I’ll see you in a week, Buck."

It was the longest seven days of Sam’s life, and when Bucky returned, at dawn on the eighth day, Sam had been close to giving up. Spent the night wondering if a super soldier specter would be different from a normal one. If Sam would recognize him, despite all of them being nothing but interchangeable, writhing, barely-human shaped things.

Spent the night wondering how long before he stopped hoping Bucky would come back. How long before he accepted he wouldn’t, and the grief hit him. Wondered how much it would hurt, and when he’d get over it. Never. He would never get over it.

But at dawn, as Sam climbed out of the van to stretch his legs, maybe think hard about how he was going to go on, Bucky was standing in the distance, staring at him. Sam nodded tentatively, and Bucky walked over to show Sam his hand. Completely and utterly healed. Sam turned it over in his own hand, said, "Huh." Then: "Come on, we gotta hit the road. I’ve been here too long already." But he had to turn away for a bit, had to settle his overly fast beating heart. Had to kiss Bucky, just once.

In the van, Bucky was quiet. "I could still turn, later. We don’t know."

"Lots of things could happen later," Sam said. "You should have come back on day seven. I almost left."

"You should have left. I had my eyes on you, I would have followed."

"Guess I remembered how you’re always fucking late."

A slightly hollow laugh. Then Bucky said: "I’ll always come back to you. It was always."

"I only really liked you after you came to Delacroix for the first time," Sam said. "Before that you were really fucking annoying. Even putting aside you always trying to kill me."

Bucky laughed again, and this time Sam could tell he meant it. Even if they both knew Sam didn’t.

"I thought you were Steve’s," Sam said, after a while. "I would never have."

"Are you serious? He’s like my brother." Bucky sounded completely flummoxed.

"I figured that out eventually, yeah."

"You’re an idiot."

"Yeah." Sam kinda had to concede this one. The assassin on the bridge. The wild card in Bucharest. The man rediscovering himself in Wakanda. The complete and utter aggravating annoyance following him to Berlin.

Always.

That sounded about right, yeah.

*

Bucky says: "Why don't we just go to Wakanda. I can get us passage."

Sam's been pouring over a map, trying to find a safe route to Arizona, a place to maybe gather more intel en-route to there. It's always fifty-fifty, these things. Sam never knows if when he gets there the place will have been overrun. By the specters or by the human versions of the monsters. The ones that see the apocalypse as an opportunity; the ones just waiting to show their true selves. But still, they have stuff to trade now. Fish. Whatever Bucky got from the previous outpost.

Although, when it comes to Strange and Banner, sometimes there are too many rumors, and none of it leads anywhere. It's beyond frustrating, but it is what it is. Hope, that's all they have right now. For a species that, once upon a time, banded together to eradicate the work of a madman who thought he could snap his fingers and erase half the universe, hope is the only thing that matters.

Sam wonders if Thanos, now, would think, if the specters had accomplished what he had set out to do, by eradicating a fair number of intelligent life in the universe. Except Thanos' vision was of a thriving universe. Whatever this is, they sure as fuck aren't thriving.

"Hey," Bucky repeats, calm. "Wakanda."

"We can't go to Wakanda, Buck. Strange isn't there." He frowns at Bucky, not understanding what he means.

"We've been chasing after Strange for months - maybe it's time we acknowledge that he doesn't want to be found, or he's dead. Or even if he can be found, wouldn’t he have gotten rid of the specters if he could have?"

"I don’t know." Sam sighs. "But you’re immune, and maybe that can mean something to someone like Strange. Or Maybe it means something to someone like Banner."

"Wakanda has scientists too. Their tech is beyond ours; Shuri’s smarter than Banner, I’m sure."

"Yeah, but if we could find Strange and Banner and then go to Wakanda, that’s better odds, right?" Sam narrows his eyes at Bucky. "What’s bringing this on, all of a sudden."

"Nothing. Just a suggestion."

"No, what’s going on in your robot head, come on."

"I’m not lying. It’s safer there, for you, that’s all. It’ll be safer there."

Great, so this is still going on, then. But Sam swallows his outrage, and his snappy response, at the look on Bucky's face.

"It’s just." He touches the healing scar on Sam's head.

"It was always like this. Even before everything went to shit."

"Yeah, but now it feels like we're always a day away from our luck running out. And I don't know if you've noticed, Sam, but I'm not the luckiest person in the world."

"You got to make out with me, what, twelve hours ago? I was Captain America once, you know. That seems pretty lucky to me." He tugs on Bucky's scarf, pulls him closer.

Bucky's exasperated eye roll means he knows what Sam is doing, and isn't interested in any of it. "I could keep looking for them, if that's what you want."

"And what, I wait in Wakanda like your worried spouse? Fuck you, Bucky."

"Well, maybe you're just a liability, and I can do this better on my own, how about that?"

"Maybe you can try to sound convincing when you're saying that," Sam says, because Bucky's face has turned red like it always does when he's upset, and he looks this close to tearing up. He's not, it's just his fucking face, that's all.

Sam chooses to ignore the contents of his words, even though it stings. He'd gotten shot, and had been near helpless for more than a week. So yeah, maybe that stings a little.

"I don't need to sound convincing if it's the truth." But Bucky must sense something in the way Sam's looking at him, because he exhales then, and Sam knows he's given up. He squeezes Sam's hand briefly, and that's an apology, of sorts.

Sam says, "The answer will always be no, Buck."

Bucky searches his face, and after a long moment he sighs. But all he says is: "Admit it, you'll miss my dick too much."

"Eh. John Walker had a bigger dick, if I'm being honest."

"That's a low blow, Samuel. Low." He pauses for a while as Sam returns to pouring over the map. "I wonder if he made it out."

"I don't know," Sam makes a face. "I want to say I hope so, but I don't know if I care enough, honestly. I don't wish death on the man, but." Sam thinks about the boy, his chest cracked open as John stood over him, shield dripping blood in his hand. No real repercussions, not for guys like that. Sam's not bitter about it, just that, well. He's not losing any sleep over whether John Walker made it out of the apocalypse alive or not, that's all.

"I don't care," Bucky says, and the quiet fierceness in his voice makes Sam raise his head. "I can't make you go, but if you die I will never fucking forgive you. Never."

"Alright," Sam says. "Now come on, use your android brain to help me figure out how we're gonna get to Arizona. It's the fucking badlands out there."

*

The first time they’d fucked was two months into the apocalypse. Two months into the search for Strange. It wasn’t anything dramatic, it had just happened. They’d cooked beans and rice over a fire, and it was dark and quiet.

Bucky had lapsed into silence for ages, just staring at the flames while Sam nattered on a little, grateful they’d finally managed to set up the sensors to work to track both humans and specters and in a pretty good mood, considering.

"What," Sam had said, because he was a little tired of hearing his own voice. "Did parts of your brain rust? Or you just resetting?"

Nothing.

Sam kicked idly at Bucky's boot. Repeated: "What."

Another kick. Sam thought Bucky would just ignore him again. Instead, a second later, Sam found himself flat on the ground, breath knocked out. Bucky pressed on top of him, and in the light of the fire his eyes were almost black, and gleaming. "Get off me," Sam said, but didn’t mean it. He hadn’t meant it the last time, either.

Bucky just cradled the top of Sam’s head with his hand, and then kissed him. It wasn’t a surprise; Sam knew it was coming. If not that night, if not that moment. Some other night, some other moment. That it was just another ordinary night after the end of the world just meant that it would have happened sooner or later. That it was always coming.

Always.

*

They get ambushed by specters, a trap they should have seen coming, but somehow don’t.

It isn’t a close fight, they always have it under control, but somehow Bucky had still gotten scratched, mostly because he’s sometimes fucking reckless.

Sam yells at him for a while when they’re making their escape in the van, says: "Just because you’re immune doesn’t mean they can’t fucking kill you. Doesn’t mean they can’t tear you apart, bite off chunks of you."

"They’ll probably grow back," Bucky says, blinking gormlessly at Sam. "The bits. If we ever run out of food, you can feed on me."

What the fuck, Buck.

But Bucky grins then, and maybe he’s not serious. Or maybe he is.

"I’m not eating you. Mostly because you probably taste like crap. I doubt hundred-year-old android meat is any kind of delicacy." Sam pauses. "Beignets. There’s a place at home, I always kept meaning to bring you there. Best for miles."

"Yeah, I remember you kept telling me about it, but you never got them for me."

"Well, you kept leaving." Bucky had been busy when he wasn’t trailing along with Sam putting out fires across the world. Sam knew what he was up to, but was shut down whenever he asked, and so stopped asking after a while. Sam may be still a bit pissed off at that one, and may let it show in his voice a little. Not that Bucky owes Sam an explanation, not then, and not now.

"It wasn’t all clean, the things I had to do," Bucky says, after a while. "That’s all."

"No shit." Sam exhales. "I don’t need you putting me on a pedestal, Buck. You don’t have to hide who you are from me."

"I know. Also, I taste fucking delicous."

"Please don’t tell me you know this from experience."

A sharp grin and a non-committal grunt is all Sam receives in response.

They camp for the night off road, but decide to stay in the van. Stella dozes on on her bed as Bucky pulls Sam on top of him on the single mattress they have. "Maybe we stop at an outpost tomorrow," Bucky says, tugging off his shirt, and then Sam’s. But Sam’s the one that undresses them the rest of the way, frowning at the ugly gash on Bucky’s belly.

Bucky never complains about the bruises or the injuries he sustains, insists any medicine they have is kept for Sam. Which makes sense, because he doesn’t need antibiotics, and painkillers don’t work. His body just heals, eventually.

Sam sighs, "At least let me sew it up or something. This needs stitches, at least."

"It’ll be gone in a couple of days, don’t sweat it. You can kiss it better though if you want."

"Alright," Sam says, and watches Bucky's eyes darken with surprised pleasure as Sam lowers his head, presses an open mouth to his belly. He sucks Bucky off, makes him come and holds it in his mouth for a bit before lowering his head to spit it out onto his own cock, slicking himself up.

"What’d I trade that fucking lube for if you never wanna use it," Bucky says, the edge of a whine in his voice.

"It’s too far away, stop talking."

Bucky hooks a leg around his waist and tugs him close, grabs the back of Sam’s neck to kiss him hard enough to almost draw blood. "Tell me to shut up again," he says, when he breaks the kiss, growling against Sam’s lips.

"Shut the fuck up, Buck."

Bucky whines, but lapses into silence soon after, mouth going slack. Sam fucks him while he’s half-asleep and pliant, face open and eyes half-slit with desire, echoed in Sam's own dazed pleasure as he rocks into him, whispering his name.

*

Sam would say he's sick of the fish they’d gotten from the lake, eating nothing but for days, but food isn't something you enjoy anymore. It's just what keeps you going. It is vastly preferable to the canned stuff they usually survive on, regardless.

Anything is better than nothing. They've both lost weight, turned lean and wiry like most survivors here. Sam knows Bucky must be hungry all the time, with his metabolic rate, but he never complains, always tries to give Sam more than his fair share of the food, which is beyond frustrating.

When Sam brought it up once though, snapped at him over it, he shrugged.

"HYDRA didn't feed me much; I got used to hunger. Also, I don't need food to function at a hundred percent, Sam. So fucking eat what I give you, because I can't afford to carry your weight if you can't pull it on account of basically starving."

Sam shut his trap after that, quietly swallowed down the food.

*

On the road again, Bucky spots more deer. A entire herd, wandering near the road. They stop the van and get out, Bucky’s rifle in his hand this time. Sam says, "Give it to me, I’ll do it."

Bucky hands it over, but stands behind Sam, hand on the small of his back and head near Sam’s shoulder. "You know," Sam says,"you don’t have to do that to get close to me. I’m a sure thing."

"Stop talking and take the fucking shot Sam. Don’t miss."

"I won’t." He can’t afford to, if mostly because Bucky's gonna be insufferable if he does. Sam’s no sniper, but Bucky’s been teaching him, and he’s gotten pretty good at it. He’s better with the shield, but he can still do this.

"The wind direction’s-"

"Shush."

"Alright." His breath is soft in Sam’s ear. Sam calculates his angles, steadies his arms. Takes the shot. The sound sends birds flying through the air, and that’s new too. Birds were gone for so long Sam thought they were all dead, burnt to ash like so many things. Next to him, Bucky exhales. Kisses him on the cheek. "Good job, Cap."

“I said shush." Sam returns the rifle to the van and they go to retrieve the deer. Neat bullet through the head. Clean death, merciful. "So you know how to skin and gut her, right?"

Bucky makes a face that indicates that not only does he know no such thing, he has no interest in learning how to do so. "Meat comes from the butcher’s," he says. "And then it’s wrapped in paper and you bring it home to cook."

"It all starts here, no matter where it comes from," Sam says, kneeling down and closing the deer’s eyes, just because. "Come on, my useless city boy. Help me lift her at least."

"We shouldn’t have taken the boy in, and we should have done the op my way," Bucky says, as Sam’s skinning the deer. As if he’s been holding on to this for a while. His face is red when Sam lifts his head to stare calmly at him. "And it's not just this, either. You keep doing stupid shit, taking unnecessary risks."

Sam points his knife af Bucky’s belly, even though the wound’s already healed. "And you don’t?"

"I can survive much worse than this. I don’t get concussions. I don’t bleed internally. I’ve shaken off - you wouldn’t believe what I’ve shaken off."

"Fine, you’re fucking Superman. So what. Doesn’t make you invincible."

"Closer than you, for sure. And I’m right, but you can’t fucking admit it because it would mean you’re less than perfect. And maybe you can pay that price, Sam. But I fucking can’t-" he chokes off, and then turns to storm off.

Sam finishes with the deer, just gets lost in it so it calms him down and clears his head some. When he’s broken it down as much as he can he tells Stella: "Watch the meat, no eating, okay?"

She whines, but sits down next to the carcass dutifully.

Sam heads back to the van, finds Bucky leaning against it, smoking.

"Did you trade for that? You could have traded for something useful, you know." But he's not mad about it. Smoking's Bucky's only vice; it has no effect on him, not physically, but he says it calms it down. Sam thinks it just reminds him of being back in his time. Maybe it reminds him of Steve. Sam used to miss Steve, but that was before he lost just about everyone else. Now there’s just a place where he keeps everyone he’s ever loved and lost.

Bucky shoots him a look, then shrugs. Passes him the cig as Sam moves to stand next to him. Sam takes a drag before passing it back. "I don't think I'm perfect."

A snort.

"I don't, and I know you can survive here better than me. Hell, you're immune to the fucking specters, that puts you ahead of maybe ninety-nine percent of the population left on this planet." He sighs, as Bucky continues to radiate aggravation. "But that doesn’t mean you have to carry everything. We’re a team."

"I know. But you let your guard down, you die. That’s it, you die."

"I get that," Sam says. "But we don't give up on people, Buck. That's all we have left - hell, that's all we ever have. The only reason we're alive to begin with is because people didn't give up on us, because they worked to get us back. That's what matters, more than just surviving." Bucky's not entirely wrong though. Sam hates it, but Bucky's not entirely wrong. It's just that he doesn't quite know how else to be. Not then, and not now.

Bucky seems as if he wants to say something else, but he doesn't, in the end, just nods. Leans into Sam briefly, presses their foreheads together, and that's a promise. "I'll try," Sam says, clearing his throat, and that's a promise as well. "But I can’t do this without you either, Buck." Sam squeezes his hand, and Bucky nods again, exhales shakily. "So, can we get back to the deer before Stella eats it all? You worked so fucking hard to break it down, after all."

"Alright," Bucky says.

*

Like the fish, hot, fresh meat is a goddamned miracle. Roasted meat over a fire, and even Bucky eats his share for once. Stella gets a bone in addition to the meat, and is deliriously happy about it.

Sam takes Bucky’s hand when their bellies are full and they’re too sated to leave just yet, presses his palm to his mouth. "See now I know why your hands are so soft and delicate. You’ve never done any manual labor."

"I worked at the docks," Bucky says, churlish. "My hands are soft because of the serum."

Sam snorts; believes him, but acts like he doesn’t. Moves closer so Bucky can lay a head on his shoulder, blink sleepily at the dying flames. Stella whines, until Sam pats her and then she puts her head in his lap, so Sam can’t move much without dislodging someone. They sit quietly for a bit, and then Sam asks: "Did you think I’d miss the shot?"

"Not for a second. How long we safe for?"

Sam glances at his watch, sighs. "Five minutes. Come on, let's go. You wanna drive?"

Bucky makes a face, and Sam elbows him lightly. "I stand by my assertion that you're useless."

A laugh, and then Bucky's kissing him, until Sam's watch starts to beep.

*

At an outpost, they leave Stella in the van and Sam wanders off to trade for some food. Deer and fish for potatoes, beans. They have enough dog food for now, but maybe they should trade for that in case they run short in future. But there's not much by way of that here.

Sam makes a mental note to stop at some of the abandoned houses along the way; there might be some leftover food there, even though in lean times, people have been known to not be that particular about what species the food is intended for. Still, they could get lucky.

He lingers at a stall selling seeds, wonders if they could grow something in the back of the van. Sam could probably figure out how to do it, but they’re already running out of space as it is. Indulges a giant sour candy ball instead, because that’s the only sweet Bucky truly enjoys.

When he wanders back to where he’d left Bucky, checking out weapons for sale, the man is leaning against a pillar, crooked smile on his face as he flirts with the proprietor, a woman who does not look impressed with his dubious charms. "Hey man," Sam says, going up and offering her a smile of his own.

"I was thinking of getting a couple of steyrs."

"No, you were trying to charm me into giving them to you without trading what they’re worth," she says, the exasperation on her face showing that she's buying none of it. Her gaze settles on Sam after a moment though, and she turns contemplative, accessing. "Guess we could work something out. What's your name?"

At that, Bucky stands up straight, flirtatious expression sliding off his face. Sam grins at her, slow, leans forward a little. Ignores Bucky’s low growl.

"I'll throw in two boxes of ammo for an hour," she says. Bold. Although it's not the first time: everything and everyone's up for trade nowadays, and monogamy doesn't quite matter in the same way anymore. Except Bucky's old and old-fashioned, and Sam's dumb and sentimental, so they don't.

"Sorry, no," Bucky interrupts, growling.

Sam gives her an apologetic shrug and a smile.

"Too bad, then," she tells him. "We coulda had a great time." Then, to Bucky: "World’s ended, you should maybe learn to share."

"No," Bucky repeats, flat.

"Can trade for fish and deer plus whatever he’s offering," Sam says, unwrapping his packet of salted fish and deer.

Her eyes light up in interest, and she nods. "Should have led with that. Although the offer still stands."

"Give her the food, Sam. Give us our guns. And ammo."

She only laughs, rolls her eyes."Someday," she says.

"Someday," Sam tugs on Bucky’s sleeve and Bucky stops glowering long enough to smile and nod at her.

She tilts her head, hair a straight wave, and for a moment Sam sees someone else. Red hair, or blonde. Curls or straight. Smile’s always the same though. He shakes himself as Bucky puts a hand on the small of his back, gentle. Leads him away to another stall.

They manage to get some intel too. Two guys, one with burnt hands. Arrogant and demanding. That would be the one. Passed through a week ago, which tracks. There’s only one safe route to Arizona, so it tracks.

*

Back on the road, Bucky's still sulking. Sam smirks at him, says, "Don’t be mad, it’s not your fault l’m hella cute and you look like a grumpy gremlin."

A faint frown. "I’m not mad because of that. I get to fuck the guy she’d be willing to trade two steryrs for. You’re stuck with the guy she won’t."

"Then what?"

"We might catch up with them, if we’re lucky."

"That’s not good news?" Sam doesn’t get it. But the sensors show specters almost within range, so they can’t pull over to talk about whatever’s going on in Bucky's head now.

"He can reverse it, right? Maybe. Maybe he can kill the specters. Or make you immune to their bite. So that’s okay. But what if he’s just gonna turn back time though, to what it was like before?"

"Firstly, I don’t know if he can do that. Second, if he can - that’s not a bad thing, is it? Billions of people died, reversing that’s not a bad thing."

Bucky’s silent for a while. Then he says: "Stark. He could have brought us back at any point in time, right? With all the stones. He could have just reversed time to five years ago, and made it all not happen. Instead he, and I guess all the Avengers, did what they did, and we lost five years, and people still lost so much, and the world kinda went to hell."

"Yeah, what of it?" Sam doesn’t think about that too much; the man’s dead and Sam’s alive. What is the point of finding a grudge to hold on to just because he didn’t get back the life he once had? Even if he had to lose an entire five years of his life. Sam had asked Banner about it, and the answer was: Tony solved it, so Tony got to decide. It's not fair, but better than being dead.

"I never got it, back then. He did it because he had a family he loved, and that mattered, and he couldn’t lose them."

"That was different Buck. He had a home, a daughter. A life. What we have isn’t living."

"I’m not saying this is great, this is pretty fucking awful." His voice lowers. "You and me. We’re not bad though. We’re pretty good, I think."

"It was always," Sam says now, as Bucky lapses into contemplative silence.

"What?"

"It was always. Let Strange reverse time if that’s what he needs to do. We’ll write new memories. It was always, Buck."

"Really," Bucky says, sliding an annoyed look over. "You couldn’t have told me earlier?"

"When was I supposed to tell you? The three times you tried to kill me? When you were going through deprogramming? Or like, when you came yelling at me about the shield and proceeded to be a giant fucking dick for days afterward?"

"Right. I forgot you thought I was Steve's and couldn’t even ask a goddamned question to either one of us." A pause. "I would have accepted a kiss in response to me coming at you over the shield."

"Please," Sam says, slapping him on the chest and grinning. "Would it have shut you up for two minutes, even?"

"One minute, maybe. If Strange brings us back to that moment, maybe you can write on your palm or something that you should do that. Maybe I should write on my palm too, try not to be a giant fucking dick to the future Captain America."

"That's like your default personality."

Bucky chuckles, and visibly relaxes. Leans back in the seat and tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, tilts his head back. "Just a couple of guys, saving the world, huh?"

"Yeah. Always, man."

They drive, keep on driving. Bucky switches the player on after a while, leaves it on Stevie Wonder.