Despite the way everything was painted in a great dark blue, shades of grey mixing in at times, despite the time of night. One could see pretty decently, all thanks to the shining moon above their head.

They would see well enough to notice the three figures in the dark alleyway. The figures they were quietly sneaking up on. Well, that Quackity was sneaking up on.

He knows the risks, but he was willing to take them. When most people would hide at night, not wanting to cross paths with the undead at such dark hours, Quackity would walk around. He was careful about it though, never letting his guard down just because no other humans were awake. They weren't even the problem at night. It was making sure to be as quiet as possible and steer clear of the zombies. With those things in mind, the hours of the night could become one's great way to start grinding– collect resources, scout the area, memorise the roads,

And steal from other people.

Quackity's eyes lower to the pack of resources at the man sitting in a basic fold-in camping chair. He's supposed to be keeping an eye open right now, judging by the fact that he was the only one awake and had a gun in his hands.

Quackity couldn't even see what direction the man was looking in due to his shades, that when Quackity squinted his eyes, he could see they were blue and red. Sure he could see at this time of night, but not that well. Not well enough to see which way he was looking.

So Quackity waits in the only hiding spot he could manage, ducked between two dumpsters that were surprisingly not knocked over. This was one thing he didn't like about the whole process of stealing, waiting for the watch guard to go to sleep, and also hoping they don't end up switching with somebody else. So basically, Quackity relied on this stranger's human nature to be too tired to remember to switch out with somebody in his group and fall asleep.

And thankfully, this man was very reliable.

When Quackity hears the new and low noise, he could easily identify it as snoring. Finally.

He steps forward slowly, reminding himself of a kid sneaking around the house late at night. Well, it would have reminded him of a kid if this weren't a bit more serious. This man had a gun. Sure Quackity could probably take him in a fight, judging by the fact he didn't look too much taller than him- and he was a bit bald- not that it meant anything, it was just an observation. But Quackity wouldn't even get that chance to fight if the man used his gun. The one that was still very much in his grasp as he slept.

So he tenses at the sound cracking up from under his shoes. He worries his bottom lip as he tries to move forward and make as little noise as possible. The glass under him made it a bit difficult, but he managed. Now crouching right in front of the sleeping stranger.

There it was. The pack. Right at the man's feet.

Quackity reaches his hands out, tugging on the handles and slowly dragging it closer to him. So far so good.

Yes, so far so- ' Shit .' Quackity knows exactly what the new noise behind him was. So when he turned around to face the low growling of a zombie, he was just disappointed.

He spun his head back around when he heard shuffling. ' Fucking zombie- ' the man was waking up now, eyes widening at Quackity.

"What? Who-" The stranger takes notice of the zombie, and Quackity saw that as an opportunity to yank the pack out fully. No need to be quiet now.

Quackity was about to stand up just as the man gripped onto the pack, and Quackity almost fell onto the still seated man.

So far so so bad. There's a zombie right behind them, stepping closer each second as Quackity tried to take this person's resources.

He didn't think, just did. He did what he needs to get out of here. Grabbing the pack and punching the man, who was now flying back with his already very wobbly chair.

Quackity barely registers that the other two people were awake as he reached for the man's gun, finally in a loose grip as he fell back. Boom, a gun and a bunch of resources.

Now he has to get away.

He's quickly reminded of the zombie when its dead hand was placed on his shoulder, immediately backing up and kicking the zombie. And then he runs.

A great thing to know if you're trying to survive is that you don't actually have to fight the zombies. Well, the majority of the zombies you encounter. You can easily outrun them. Other times, other zombies, you won't be able to outrun. So Quackity was thankful this was just a regular zombie and not one of those weird mutated ones that have been showing up more and more.

Quackity feels the pack in his hands about to slip, so he runs a couple more feet before stopping in the middle of the street, moonlight bathing him like he was the star of the show.

He shoves the gun in the front pocket of the pack, just zipping it up as it's tugged away from him.

Quackity tightens his grip, looking up and seeing a different man. Due to the lighting, it was more of a silhouette he was looking at- and oh no, he was tall with broad shoulders. Quackity didn't know if he could beat this man in a fight.

In an attempt to make the man let go, he kicks the man's shins. Unfortunately, the man's grip doesn't loosen as he falls, making Quackity tumble down with him, the man's knee painfully digging into his side.

So he knees them right in the stomach before pushing to his feet as quickly as he can. He can't see their face, but he hears the man let out a pained huff.

Quackity pulls the pack away, which pulls the stranger's back off of the ground as he still grips onto it. God, he can't be out at night for much longer, he needs to leave.

So Quackity tries pushing him back down with his foot, and it works. The man lets go of the pack just long enough for it to be fully back in Quackity's grasp.

"Fuck-" Quackity ignores the stranger, catching his breath for a second before trying to turn around. "I can't let you take that-"

Quackity's wrist is gripped harshly, the man is holding onto him, on his knees and still trying to stop Quackity. But when he turns around his eyes widen at the knife in the man's hands. It was small but sharp enough to cause some big problems.

So Quackity panics, something you shouldn't really do, but he can't help it.

Next thing he knows he's swinging the pack at the man with full force, only registering what's happened when the man's lying there on the ground. He blinks, shaking it off.

Quackity reaches for the knife, stashing it away quickly. But the man doesn't get up.

Quackity allows himself to catch his breath, still, the man doesn't get up.

' Odd. ' Quackity didn't kill this person. Right. No. He doesn't know.

He kneels down, finally seeing the cut on the side of the man's head. He shifts the pack in his arms. Ouch. something sharp is poking out of it, that's why the man is bleeding.

"Dammit." Quackity stands up. So this is the worst he's done when stealing something. He'll get better. But when he takes another step he can't help but look back at the man.

If he's still alive, he can't really just leave him here. Can he?

Sure Quackity's trying to survive amongst literal zombies and has become used to well, killing things. But that's zombies and animals. Not humans. This is still a human. Quackity's still human.

So he grips onto the dusty trench coat this man's wearing and drags him home. Just in case he's not dead.

Quackity reaches the flat he's been living in, and the man hasn't awoken yet. He pushes off the very possible fact that this man's dead and instead carries the man up flights of stairs to reach the third floor.

And man he was living the life- the life you could live in a zombie apocalypse.

There's one room, a small closet, a desk, and a single bed with grey sheets. A bathroom, which was useless at times (running water was still possible, you just never know when it wouldn't be). A small living room and kitchen, only separated by a counter that's connected to the wall.

Quackity walks into the living room, closing the door once he had fully brought the stranger into his place.

A tattered couch, a small cushioned chair, a coffee table, and a shaggy rug. Like he said, he was living the life.

Quackity eyes the small tableside near the couch, deciding to bring the man to the bedroom instead. Placing the stranger next to a table full of weapons doesn't seem like the smartest idea.

Quackity lets out a huff, placing the body on the bed and turning on the lantern he found a couple of months ago. It was very useful.

Now he could see who was laying in his bed. The man was still tall, that sure didn't change. He has brown curly hair, a white streak slicing through and Quackity snorted.

"Eh, he's old."

But maybe not. The white streak of hair seems tp be the only thing that made this man look old, he had nice skin, Quackity thought so.

"Oh jesus." Quackity shakes his head, walking over to the bed. He needs to be making sure this man was alive- or had any other weapons. Not looking over him to determine how old he could possibly be. He sits on the edge of the bed, frowning at the large trench coat this man was wearing. Checking the pockets, he found nothing too interesting.

A pen that has most definitely been bitten. A deck of cards, now Quackity could find some entertainment in those.

And he does, shuffling them after taking all the knives he found from the man.

Quackity has been playing with these cards by himself for hours now, it's probably mid-day. But hey, when in a zombie apocalypse there's not much entertainment. So these cards are much more fun than they would be before the world went to hell.

He flips a card over, groaning at the sight of a simple two of hearts. He doesn't actually know how to play solitaire, but he's trying his best. He knows that he needs higher cards before he can place ones like a two. Frustrating.

He stills as he hears sudden shuffling from across the room, snapping his head up from where he sits on the floor.

The mystery man groans lowly, flipping on his side unceremoniously before slowly opening his eyes. When he does, they widen as he quickly sits up, whipping his head around.

He can't even get a chance to look over at Quackity before the man reaches a hand for his head, almost falling back down. Apparently just sitting was too much. But he still tries.

"Fuck- my head." He grumbles, hissing when he touches it too harshly. He attempts to look around the room again, finally seeing Quackity staring at him from across the room.

"What the shit?" The man blurts out, eyes wide as he tries to back up when Quackity lifts to his feet. "What? Who the hell are you- Hey! Stay away! Stay-"

"Can you stop screaming like that?" Quackity deadpans, realizing that he's scared the man with a simple request as he instantly shuts his mouth, eagerly nodding. "Now, I ask the questions."

The man gulps, retreating further up the bed as Quackity takes a step forward. What was it that had this man so panicked? Quackity wonders, maybe it's the large scar skidding down half his face toppled with the fact he's just woken up. Seems reasonable.

Quackity holds back a grin, almost laughing at how tense the man was. Instead, he keeps a straight face, placing his hands down on the bed firmly. "You understand that?"

The man downright shivers, scooting so far back that he yelps when he reaches the edge of the bed, sadly falling off and cursing loudly.

Quackity has to laugh at that, because holy shit that was fucking funny to him. Still, he makes sure to round the bed and check up on the man.

He's sitting on the floor, face buried under the sheets he dragged down with him as his body drops to the right, remaining strangely silent in Quackity's opinion. So he leans over, grabbing the blanket away.

The man doesn't even react to it, and Quackity can't help but feel pity for this man. Look at him, trying to keep a single tear from falling as he rubs his head. Pitiful.

"You need help?"

"No. Why would I need help?" He quickly reports, shooting up as if he wasn't just laying on the floor in pain. "Who are you? What's your name huh?"

Quackity shakes his head, a serious look on his face as he kneels down. "Tell me yours, then maybe."

"What? No."

"Name?"

"Fuck you. Go away. I'm leaving."

"Tell me your name, then."

The man stills, hesitantly looking around the room and biting his lip. Then he sighs, finally standing up with slowness.

"I'm Wilbur." He says, holding a hand out. "Wilbur Craft."

Quackity quirks up an eyebrow, sceptical as he shook the man- Wilbur's hand. "Alright, Wilbur Craft . I'm Quackity."

Wilbur giggles, his hand retreating to cover his mouth when Quackity glares at him.

"Quackity?" He repeats through a small fit of laughter. Quackity nods.

Wilbur thankfully stops giggling, his face softening and his tone teasing. "Awh, like a little ducky-"

"No."

"Then like what?"

"Just my name."

"What kind of name is that?"

Quackity huffs, turning away from Wilbur and crossing his arms. "A nickname."

Wilbur stops for a moment, a puzzling look on his face that Quackity shakes his head at. "You don't get my real name."

"Ok then." He sighs, flopping back onto the bed and this time, his head doesn't hurt at the sudden movements. "Well, Quackity, where the hell am I?"

"My place."

"Why?"

"Because I dragged you here."

"Why'd you do that then?"

"You'd rather I have left you out for dead? Those zombies would happily eat your ass up."

Wilbur scoffs, crossing his legs and tapping on his knees with a strange grin. "Well don't phrase it like that , big man."

Quackity scrunches his face before it drops in realization. "You're a sick fuck."

The other only shrugs, a floppy smile on his face before the room falls silent.

Quackity's not sure what to do. He's never had a… hostage? No. Well, he's never had another person just sit around in his house. Should he kick him out now? He saved him from certain death, so now he's done with this man. Does he ask for something in return?

"You could be zombie food right now. Or the aftermath of it." Quackity breaks the silence, not facing the man as he picks up the cards on the floor. His tone is serious, and Wilbur doesn't match it at all.

"You're saying?"

"You could be dead right now."

"Eh, not the first time."

"But then I saved you."

Wilbur shrugs, standing up and patting down his jeans. "Yeah. What about it?"

"So that's not a first either?" Quackity asks, deciding not to get too upset about how ungrateful this man was.

"You'd be correct." He responds shortly, looking around and lifting up a sheet, eyes relaxing when he sees his trench coat. He throws it around his shoulder, then properly puts it on after glancing over at Quackity.

"How the hell is someone like you surviving in a zombie apocalypse?" Quackity blurts out, albeit harshly as he stands up. He almost misses the way Wilbur tenses, it goes by quickly as he simply shrugs, ruffling his own hair.

"I've had people to rely on. And if I didn't then I always had myself."

"I'm guessing those two from earlier are those people?"

"Well yes." Wilbur starts, adjusting the collar of his undershirt. "But I had a different little group before them, it's-" Wilbur stops, eyes narrowing for a moment and Quackity is left to wonder what that means. "They're probably managing fine without me."

"Both groups, that is." He adds on, looking over at Quackity who was already doing the same. He sends over a questioning look, both boys making eye contact for much longer than needed.

Quackity pulls away first, humming as he steps back. "Here's your pen. That you bit on."

Wilbur snatches it right away, shoving it deep into a pocket as his lips sneer up into a grimace. "It's compulsive. Sometimes I don't even realize I'm doing it, okay?"

"Right, right," Quackity says with a shrug, rolling his eyes and turning his back towards Wilbur. "Jesus man." He mumbles, unheard by the other as silence takes over again.

He should really do something about the stranger in his room.

But he has no damn clue what that would be.

How do you kick a random person out of your house after saving them?

Quackity's eyes light up, he's got it. Now, he wouldn't normally do such things. Typically, if he'd save somebody from dying he wouldn't ask for something in return. Normally. But this man was, in Quackity's humble opinion, not even grateful for being saved and way too cocky for his own good. So maybe, he gets a favour and then asks him to leave. Boom, perfect plan.

Quackity clears his throat, aimlessly shuffling the cards in his hands and peering up at the other. "So, if you'd like you can stay the night. It's already past midday. Going outside isn't gonna be much use with around two hours left."

"For you."

"Hey, I'm letting you stay the night."

"And I will be."

"But…" Quackity waits as the taller finally turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow curiously as he sits across the room, one leg over the other and dropping his hand at his side.

"But what?" He asks, British accent prominent in his words as he furrows his brows.

"Tomorrow you've gotta help me go scavenging." Quackity starts, grinning at the unconvinced face Wilbur gives him. "Oh and don't worry, you can keep whatever I don't want. Then you're free to go."

"Free to go? I can leave any time I want, you-"

Quackity walks over to Wilbur, a sneaky hand patting his shoulder. "Really? Then why don't you leave right now?"

It's cocky and taunting, Quackity knows it is. But he doesn't care, not when Wilbur looks up at him from the bed, debating something before he huffs and turns away.

"We both know it's a bit dangerous to be alone out there," Wilbur says, stubbornly avoiding Quackity's gaze as he stares down at the sheets. He messes around with the loose strings absently, tugging one out before shrugging. "If I've got some protective company I might as well use it till it's gone."

"Wow, can't wait to scavenge with you, stranger." Quackity sarcastically deadpans, face dropping before he walks away. He lets Wilbur have the bed, feeling much safer if he's sleeping by all of the weapons as Wilbur takes a room Quackity could effectively trap somebody in (safety reasons).

And that's how the two ended up walking down the empty streets of this dead city the next day. Broken roads, broken windows and vehicles. A lot of things were broken, others were just dirty. Really dirty, but useful nonetheless.

That's what a scavenger has to differentiate. Useful or useless?

Quackity decides it's useless, throwing the worn-out and beat-up record player to the left. He's searching in an old antique shop, Wilbur looking guard and roaming nearby alleyways for anything useful. He doesn't know why he went in here, it's an antique shop.

"Can't wait to defeat so many zombies with my new, a hundred-year-old lamp." Quackity mutters, tossing the lamp to the left as well. Wilbur looks over at him, scrunching his face.

"Maybe don't toss things to the side that loud?" He suggests rather sternly, annoyed at all the noise Quackity was making. He turns to overlook the streets again, standing outside of the building. "I'd rather not have a run-in with a bunch of zombies."

"It's mid-day, we're fine." Quackity tosses back despite how it contradicted what he told the taller before they left, stating exactly how zombies could be around any corner. Wilbur simply huffed when Quackity said that, just relieved that he wasn't stuck in the bedroom anymore. But apparently, he must've taken some note of it. "Just do your job."

Wilbur's eyebrows lift up as he turns to Quackity. "Well now." He steps into the little shop, random papers crinkling under his feet as he points at the other. "Just cuz you saved my life- possibly at that- doesn't mean you get to talk to me like that. You already trapped me in your boring bedroom all night."

"Saftey first," Quackity says simply, picking up a strange-looking china cup. He shrugs, tossing the thing to the right this time and hearing it break into pieces with sharp clinks.

Wilbur instantly steps back, glaring back at Quackity as the broken bits lay at his boots. "And now you're throwing glass my way."

"Oh." Quackity looks up and blinks. Wilbur waits expectingly only to watch as Quackity grins. "Sorry, I mean my safety first. Yours doesn't even have a placeholder, Craft."

"Fuckin awful." Wilbur mutters, shaking the smaller bits of china off his shoes and whipping around, his trench coat flaring out for a second. With a sigh he steps out of the building, eyeing the empty streets and abandoned brokedown cars.

Even if the world was over and zombies walked around, Wilbur thinks the view can still be pretty great. The green flourished moss that plague almost every building and crack in the sidewalk and street. The clouds that never seem to leave, hazily hanging over every head- dead or alive, either a pretty orange and pink or a simple dull grey. The calmness whenever you weren't fighting for your life, the feeling of doing whatever you want. For example, one of Wilbur's favourites, running through the streets on a slightly windy day like he was the only person for miles and miles, hair flowing in all directions as the cold air rushed past him. It's a great feeling.

See, even the worst of the worst has something to admire. Wilbur wonders if the zombie apocalypse was supposed to be this beautiful. Probably not. But that's a query for another time, right now he's got to look out for the undead.

He does his job well, Quackity even drops a lazy compliment about keeping an eye out. So Wilbur smiles proudly as they walk back, swinging his arms like he owns the world. It grows dimmer as they near Quackity's apartment, the man glancing back at Wilbur before clearing his throat.

"Uhm, feel free to take whatever I don't," He says, eyes travelling up and down Wilbur for a response before tearing his head away. Wilbur hums, following Quackity as they ascend up what Wilbur would say was too many stairs. Wilbur opens the door, being the only one with a free hand and letting Quackity step inside first.

It's still and quiet inside, their previous banter seemingly lost in the silence that rings through the room as Quackity and Wilbur sort through everything they collected. Wilbur glances up at Quackity as the man picks up an old decorative stick that was fairly thick and sturdy, Wilbur recalling how Quackity said anything could be a weapon if you wanted while swinging the stick around, almost hitting Wilbur on accident. A small smile pulls at his lips at the memory, still hearing the way Quackity made dumb whooshing effects to go with the act.

Wilbur blinks away as the memory fades, realizing he was staring at Quackity which wouldn't help the silence at all. So he focuses his eyes downward, examining the small trinket he found himself while walking around. Again his mind falls back to earlier that same day, thinking of when he walked up to Quackity, bragging about the silver-coloured trinket of his, only for Quackity to try and one-up it with a black and gold watch he found.

"Is that all you're taking?" Quackity's question breaks the line of memories distracting Wilbur, making the man snap his head up. "I left you a pretty neat bag to carry stuff in. Carry more that that odd keychain of yours."

Wilbur stalls, looking at the bag Quackity's handing to him, it's dark blue, an odd combo of white and pastel yellow accents. Quackity probably found it at the thrift store they came across. With a nod Wilbur takes the bag, standing up and hesitantly grabbing another item Quackity didn't want.

"Thanks then." Wilbur quickly mutters out, brushing down his legs and waiting for some sort of response. "For this I guess."

Quackity smiles as Wilbur lifts the bag up, stepping back and contemplating something before handing Wilbur his small knife back. "Here."

Wilbur softens as the offer, flipping the knife over in his and looking down at Quackity almost endearingly. "Oh? You're giving me weapons now too?"

Quackity doesn't meet his gaze, scoffing as he pushes Wilbur back halfheartedly. "I didn't save your ass only for you to immediately die. So I'm giving you some protection to keep my efforts meaningful."

"Well I appreciate the gift, Quackity," Wilbur says with a warm smile- he feels warm right now. And if wasn't just the way Quackity's company made him feel, then he doesn't know what. Because, admittedly, Wilbur finds himself enjoying their interactions, feels lively. Even if Quackity could be somewhat of an asshole, he's fun. Maybe someday, if the world didn't go to shit and they met, Wilbur would want to be friends with Quackity.

But no matter how pretty Wilbur thinks the sky is, the world has gone to shit. So now he's standing in the doorway, supposedly about to leave and go on by himself. His group is long gone by now, it'll just be him. And Quackity will stay, it'll just be Quackity.

That fact seems to hit them both, Wilbur standing still as Quackity turns away with a slight frown. They're just strangers surviving in an apocalypse, a couple hours together shouldn't make it hard to leave. But here they are.

Quackity blames it on the lack of human contact that the apocalypse brought. That's why he doesn't really want Wilbur to leave, his dumb human desire to be around somebody. Wilbur blames it on Quackity, it's his damn personality and stupid laugh that Wilbur wants more of, making Wilbur even think of being friends.

Quackity clears his throat, finally breaking the lingering silence. "Are you waiting for something?" He doesn't even want to ask, but he does. He regrets it, honestly keeping Wilbur standing in his doorway in silence was better than him being gone. He also regrets admitting that.

"Oh uhm," Wilbur shifts around, shoulders rising before he steps out. "No, no I'm just going now. I'm-" he stops there, looking back at Quackity before walking to the balcony and leaning on the rails.

"You're just?" Quackity takes a step forward, his legs suddenly feeling heavy.

Wilbur doesn't answer, silence once again forming over them as Quackity joins him. He quickly spares a glance at the other, wondering if he could have more of this. A friend by his side, watching the almost-night sky as warm air blankets them, painted by the deep purple and blue hue of the sky. That would be nice.

Quackity sighs, looking up at Wilbur with a slightly concerned expression. Gosh, already worrying about someone he just met. "Hello? You're being awfull-"

"Quackity, I don't think I wanna leave." Wilbur blurts out, looking right back at him as embarrassment creeps up his chest. He waits painfully as Quackity just stands there. Maybe he shouldn't have said that, maybe he should've just left like planned-

"What?" Quackity asks rather loudly, arms dropping at his side. Shit, as if Wilbur wasn't already embarrassed, now Quackity's asking him to say it again.

"I want to stay," Wilbur says, eyes dancing around the room to avoid Quackity. But it doesn't last long, Wilbur faces Quackity and gives him a soft smile. "I want to stay here, Quackity."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Then stay."

Quackity watches as Wilbur's smile widens, making him smile as well. Quackity almost forgets that zombies exist, or that it's the end of the world. He's caught up in the pure warmth of the moment. He's not alone, after such a long time, he's got a bit of company.

"Here, take it since I won't be needing it," Wilbur says, holding the bag up against Quackity's chest who takes it with a shrug. Wilbur steps backwards, tapping Quackity's head. "Matches your beanie."

Quackity swats Wilbur's hand away, adjusting his beanie like it had almost been knocked off. "That's why I grabbed it, idiot."

"And I thought my name was Wilbur, funny." Wilbur drops sarcastically, once again standing in the living room as Quackity slowly slouches over after closing the door.

Quackity plops onto the couch, noticing the pack he still hasn't opened and lifting it up onto the furniture with him. Wilbur turns around, face dropping with boredom.

"If you're looking for some good stale crackers check the third pocket. The applesauce should be there as well."

Quackity pauses, looking up to see Wilbur shrug. He shakes his head, still, he opens up the third pocket. "You eat like a kindergartner."

"I eat what I have, can't be picky in the apocalypse."

Quackity nods at that. Almost all the good foods are perishable, rotten or expired. So one really couldn't complain when they managed to find one thing that's still mostly edible.

"Well I'm going to see what else is in here. So you best entertain yourself until I'm done, then we can eat." Quackity states with a monotone voice, not even looking up at Wilbur as he unzips another pocket. "After that, I'm getting ready for bed so you probably should too- as well as not bother me, that's an important one."

When the answer doesn't come for a while Quackity looks up seeing Wilbur just standing there, eyeing the ceiling. "Okay?"

Wilbur blinks before nodding with a hum. "Yup, got it." And just like that, he walks into the bedroom, closing the door behind him and leaving Quackity to continue rummaging through the pack.

And just like that, Quackity eats dinner with another person for the first time in a long while. He wonders if he should get used to it.