As Real as Fear and Death

"Hey," Bucky gasps, letting his head fall back to hit the wall. Clint still has his between his hands, panting into the ground, and Bucky reaches out to grasp his shoulder. "Come on, we gotta go -"

"That was Bobbi!" Clint shouts, slapping his hand away. In the gloom, Bucky can just make out the shining of unshed tears. "That was Bobbi, and you just - she - we could've -"

"Done what?" He doesn't snap, just states the truth: "That wasn't Bobbi, Clint, anymore than it was Wu or Quartermain. I was doing her a kindness."

Clint looks like he wants to disagree, but Bucky waits until his anger dissipates in a harsh "Fuck…", his gaze directed back to the ground. As much as he wants to let Clint grieve for their friend (as much as he wants to do so himself), he needs to get them moving.

"Steve said they were going to New York," he says, hauling Clint up from behind the broken wall. "If we're quick, we could probably still find them."

After a beat, Clint shrugs. "There any point?" he asks dully. "What if they've all been… turned as well?"

Though entertaining the thought is hardly pleasant, he can't deny it hasn't already crossed his mind. Bucky steps into Clint's space, resting his hand at the base of his neck and his forehead against Clint's temple. "Then you might have to take out Steve for me," he murmurs.

Clint nods. "What about Natasha?"

"Maybe we could flip a coin." It's not funny, not really, but Clint chuckles hollowly anyway and angles his head so they can share a brief kiss. "Come on. We need to go." One glance is spared for Bobbi, now truly at peace, and then they're off into the night, with no idea what awaits them or even if they'll make it themselves.

It's a dead world, a living nightmare, and not even Bucky's worst dreams have spited him like this. Oh, sure, he's been plagued with the idea of his victims coming back to life, shambling towards him with gushing wounds and rotting flesh, expressions of permanent horror or pain directed at him, but this he never thought possible. He doesn't know what happened, how Washington DC ended up reduced to deserted streets that reek of death, boarded-up homes, and corpses, dead and 'alive', littering the city. All he knows is that this attack was bad enough to wipe out most of S.H.I.E.L.D, to send the Avengers running, and that he needs to get Clint (at least) to safety.

Once they're too exhausted to run they duck into the first building that isn't completely impenetrable - a clothes store of some sort - and tuck themselves into one of the offices at the back. They board the windows, barricade the door, and hunker down together with some coats they nabbed on their way inside. Sleeping lightly goes unspoken between them – and yet…

Bucky is running, because the other option is to not run, and that means he'll be killed unless he kills first and for some reason he can't let either happen – no killing, just running. If he focuses on running, he doesn't have to worry about what's chasing him. Which is what, exactly? Oh, right, of course – it's that thing that looks like Clint, that thing that was Clint, and the minute his eyes settle on it over his shoulder he stops running, feels his feet turn to lead at the ends of his legs; and part of him has time to wonder: how? Clint isn't Wu, or Quartermain, but then neither was Bobbi, and before he can think any more he has to defend himself because at some point he fell and now the Clint-thing is coming and his instinct kicks in at the last minute. It drops on top of him, and suddenly he's wrestling with it, knife in hand, and for a dead thing it's strong, almost as agile as – and he's determined, now, to do the kind thing, because Clint would want him to live, and even as it starts shouting his name, even as his vision blurs, he knows he'll follow through on –

"Bucky, please!"

Bucky blinks. He blinks some more, and the road they were fighting on morphs into a wooden floor; the thing he'd pinned under him starts to look properly alive again, properly like Clint, and there's fear in his eyes, and the knife feels very solid in his hand, and his other hand is pressed too tightly against Clint's throat.

He recoils immediately, backing away until he bumps into the wall and falls onto his knees. In the distance Clint is coughing, barely audible over the sound of his own blood in his ears, and he doesn't really see when Clint drops down in front of him and pulls him in, pressing Bucky's head against his shoulder and pressing kisses into his hair, against his ear, to his cheek; "I'm alright," he says, low and raw, as the tears start to spill out. "I'm here, I'm alive, it's me, we're okay, Bucky, we're okay…"

"Promise me," Bucky chokes out later, when he can breathe enough to speak and his eyes are simultaneously wet and gritty.

"Promise you what?"

"Don't – don't make me go on alone." Clint moves, and Bucky raises his head. Hands cup his face, thumbs wiping away long-dried tear tracks, and Clint nods.

"Promise," he whispers. "You too?" Bucky returns the gesture, body sagging as his eyes flutter closed, and Clint leans forward to kiss him, firm, but with a tenderness that he hopes conveys just how much he intends to keep that promise. If part of his mind vaguely thinks that he wouldn't mind kissing Bucky as his last act, another part decides that he'll tell him only if necessary.

Back under the coats, they hold each other as close as possible, and think not of death or what they now know comes after.

AN: In response to this post: "Someone should write me a feelsy Clint/Bucky or Clint/Loki since I can't write and I need feels…. maybe a zombie au those are nice… just a thought".