I'm Not Going Anywhere
Bucky barely felt the water anymore.
It had long since lost its warmth, the once-steaming cascade now nothing more than an icy, relentless downpour, battering against his skin like needles. It soaked through the sweatpants and hoodie he hadn’t bothered to take off, weighing him down, turning his limbs sluggish and uncooperative. He had turned the temperature as low as it would go, had pushed the handle until the water was nearly freezing, but it still wasn’t enough.
It didn’t burn the way he wanted it to.
Didn’t shock him into feeling something different—something that wasn’t the hollow ache expanding inside of him, stretching deep into places he didn’t know how to reach.
So he stayed.
Curled up against the tile, arms wrapped loosely around his bent knees, head tilted back against the wall as the water continued to pour over him, soaking into his skin, into his hair, into the cracks forming in his chest.
He was SO COLD.
And still—
It wasn’t enough.
His fingers were stiff, barely responsive when he flexed them, the metal of his left hand barely registering in his own awareness. He had reached that edge—the point where the body began to shut down, where shivering stopped, where the cold burrowed deep into the bones and settled there, sinking into the spaces between every breath.
That was fine.
He didn’t care.
Didn’t care about much of anything anymore.
It was easier this way.
Easier than sitting in the quiet of his apartment, staring at the shattered pieces of his phone, waiting for a message that would never come. Easier than thinking about how stupid he had been, how naive, how fucking hopeful—
Because Sam was gone.
And Bucky should have expected it.
People always left.
That was the rule, wasn’t it?
It didn’t matter what promises they made, what words they whispered in the quiet moments between battle and silence. In the end, they always walked away.
And he?
He was always left behind.
So he stayed in the cold.
Let it swallow him whole.
And waited for nothing.
The sound of his apartment door slamming open barely registered.
Even the heavy thud of boots against the floor, the hurried, frantic movement—none of it mattered.
Not to him.
Not anymore.
Then—
The shower curtain ripped aside, and suddenly, there was a rush of warmth, of life, of something piercing through the numbness like a blade.
“Jesus CHRIST, Bucky!”
The voice barely cut through the fog in his mind.
Then—hands.
Gripping his shoulders, shaking him—hard.
“Bucky! Talk to me!”
He blinked sluggishly, barely able to lift his gaze, water dripping from his lashes, pooling against the sharp planes of his face.
Sam.
Bucky stared at him, sluggish and slow, watching as Sam’s expression crumpled into something dangerously close to fear. His hands were gripping Bucky’s hoodie, his entire body soaked, his clothes drenched from the water still pouring over both of them, but he didn’t seem to care.
Didn’t seem to even notice.
Bucky blinked again.
Then, voice barely above a whisper—
“‘M fine.”
Sam made a sharp, guttural sound—something between a scoff and a curse, something that sounded wrecked.
“No. No, you’re not.”
Bucky let his head tilt back against the tile again, eyes half-lidded, breath slow and steady. “‘M just cold.”
Sam swore, his grip tightening, his thumbs pressing against Bucky’s collarbone like he was trying to anchor him.
“No shit, you’re cold. You’re fucking FREEZING, Bucky,” Sam snapped, his voice raw, his hands shaking. “What the hell is this? You just—just sitting here in the damn cold, not answering your phone, not showing up to work—”
Bucky blinked at him. “Broke it.”
Sam froze.
His fingers twitched against Bucky’s shoulders, something shifting in his expression, something deep, something Bucky couldn’t name.
“You—” Sam’s voice cracked. “You broke your phone?”
Bucky swallowed, the motion slow, deliberate. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
Sam let out a sharp breath, something breaking in his face, something raw and open and aching.
“Oh my God,” Sam whispered.
Bucky frowned slightly. “What?”
Sam exhaled, dragging a hand through his soaked hair, his breath coming sharp and fast. “You thought—I didn’t—” He broke off, pressing his lips together, eyes flashing as he finally understood.
As he finally saw what Bucky had been feeling, what had been eating away at him, piece by piece.
“You thought I left.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was gut-wrenching realization.
Bucky inhaled slowly, gaze flickering, throat working as he tried to force himself to breathe through it.
Sam’s hands were suddenly there—both of them cupping his face, tilting it up, forcing Bucky to look at him.
“I didn’t leave,” Sam said, voice low, steady, desperate in a way Bucky had never heard before. “I. DIDN’T. LEAVE. YOU.”
Bucky didn’t move.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t believe him.
Sam exhaled sharply, thumbs brushing over the sharp edges of Bucky’s cheekbones, the warmth of his palms so stark against the coldness of Bucky’s skin.
“I thought you were mad at me,” Sam continued, voice rough. “I thought you needed space, Bucky. That’s the only reason I didn’t call—”
Bucky blinked at him. “Didn’t want space.”
Sam inhaled sharply, visibly shaken, his grip tightening. “God, man—why didn’t you say something?”
Bucky swallowed. “Didn’t think you’d care.”
Sam’s hands jerked against his face, his entire body tensing. “Are you kidding me?”
Bucky exhaled slowly. “People leave, Sam.”
Sam shook his head, something dangerously close to grief settling in his expression. “Not ME.”
Bucky didn’t respond.
Didn’t know how.
Sam swore again, his thumb brushing against Bucky’s temple, a gesture so intimate it made something deep inside of him ache.
“I didn’t leave,” Sam repeated, voice hoarse. “And I never will.”
Bucky swallowed hard, throat tight.
Then—
Sam exhaled sharply, shifting, suddenly moving, gripping Bucky’s wrists and pulling, trying to get him up.
“Come on, man,” Sam murmured, his voice softer now, still urgent. “You need to get warm, okay? You need to get out of here.”
Bucky hesitated.
For just a second.
Then, finally—
He let Sam pull him up.
Let himself be led out of the cold.
And for the first time in days—
He felt something.
--------------
Bucky barely felt himself being dragged from the bathroom, his feet stumbling over the floor as Sam guided him with a forceful grip. His body was stiff, unresponsive, soaked to the bone, his limbs uncooperative as the deep chill sat heavy in his bones, refusing to loosen its grip.
He didn’t fight it.
Didn’t care enough to fight it.
The numbness had settled into his chest, into his fingers, into his mind, dulling everything else, making it easy to just let go.
But Sam—Sam wasn’t letting anything go.
“Come on, man, stay with me,” Sam muttered, half dragging, half carrying Bucky to the bedroom, his voice sharp, urgent. “Jesus, you’re like a damn ice block.”
Bucky barely blinked, his mind drifting, slow and detached, still caught in the quiet void he had buried himself in.
Then, suddenly—
Sam was ripping the drenched hoodie off him, his hands yanking at the soaked fabric, frustration bleeding into every movement.
“Bucky, I swear to God, if you just sit there like a damn mannequin, I’m gonna lose it,” Sam snapped, his voice tight with barely restrained panic.
Bucky exhaled slowly, his lips barely parting. “Didn’t ask you to come.”
Sam froze.
Just for a second.
Then his jaw tightened, his fingers clenching around the fabric of Bucky’s shirt before he ripped it away, tossing it to the floor with a sharp flick of his wrist.
“The hell you didn’t,” Sam muttered, voice rough, angry in a way Bucky wasn’t used to hearing. “You didn’t answer your damn phone. You didn’t show up to work. You left people worried, Barnes.”
Bucky didn’t respond.
Didn’t know how to respond.
Sam let out a sharp breath, his hands moving again, tugging at the waistband of Bucky’s sweatpants with quick, efficient movements.
And then—
Bucky flinched.
It wasn’t much. Barely a reaction. But Sam caught it.
His hands stilled immediately, his expression shifting, something softer flickering in his eyes beneath the worry, beneath the frustration, beneath the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
“Buck,” he said, quieter now, gentler. “You’re soaked. You need to get dry.”
Bucky swallowed, his throat tight, his body still refusing to warm, still caught in the deep, lingering cold that he had willingly let consume him.
Sam exhaled, his hands loosening their grip, but he didn’t let go.
“Let me help,” Sam said, voice steady, unwavering.
Bucky didn’t argue.
Didn’t have the energy to argue.
So he let Sam pull the last of the soaked clothing from him, let him wrap a thick, heavy towel around his shoulders, let him press another to his chest, rubbing warmth into his skin with brisk, practiced movements.
His hands were everywhere, not in a way that made Bucky flinch, but in a way that felt deliberate—firm, grounding, like he was trying to pull Bucky back.
“You’re not gonna die from hypothermia on my watch, you hear me?” Sam muttered, his voice still tight, but there was something else in it now. Something closer to fear.
Bucky swallowed again, his fingers curling weakly around the edge of the towel. “I’m not dying.” He said blandly.
Sam froze.
Then—
His hands gripped Bucky’s shoulders, squeezing just hard enough to force his attention, his touch commanding in a way that made Bucky finally, finally look at him.
“Don’t say it like that,” Sam bit out, his breath coming a little too fast, his eyes sharp, cutting. “Like it doesn’t matter. Like you weren’t—” He stopped, exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Like you weren’t trying to freeze yourself out.”
Bucky’s throat tightened.
Sam saw it.
Saw everything.
His grip shifted, one hand lifting to cup the side of Bucky’s face, thumb brushing over his temple, the warmth of his touch stark against the lingering cold in Bucky’s skin.
“You turned the heat off,” Sam murmured, realization settling in, his voice suddenly too quiet.
Bucky didn’t respond.
Didn’t need to.
Sam inhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders shifting, his body easing into something less frantic, but no less urgent.
“Bucky,” he said, voice steady now, unwavering. “You know what the cold does to you. You KNOW.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he still didn’t speak.
Sam exhaled through his nose, his fingers tightening just slightly against Bucky’s skin.
“You did this on purpose.”
Still, Bucky said nothing.
Sam shook his head, letting out a soft, almost disbelieving breath. “You really thought I left, didn’t you?”
Bucky swallowed, something heavy sitting in his chest, pressing against his ribs, breaking at the edges.
Sam’s hand shifted, his fingers moving to tilt Bucky’s chin just enough to keep his gaze locked on his own.
“I didn’t leave you,” Sam said, voice low, fierce. “I never left. I never would.”
Bucky clenched his jaw, his pulse hammering against his ribs, his entire body aching with something he didn’t have a name for.
Sam’s thumb brushed along his cheek, an absent motion, something instinctive, something softer than Bucky thought he could handle.
“You hear me?” Sam murmured, his voice dipping into something closer to pleading. “I’m right here.”
Bucky let out a slow, unsteady breath, his body finally, finally registering warmth in the way Sam’s touch sank into his skin.
Then, after a long, stretched-out pause—
He nodded.
Sam let out a breath of his own, his fingers pressing just a little tighter against Bucky’s face before he finally moved, grabbing one of the dry hoodies from the bed, pushing it toward Bucky with quiet insistence.
“Get this on,” Sam murmured. “You’re warming up too slow, and I’m not letting you drop on me.”
Bucky hesitated—just for a second.
Then, slowly, he took the hoodie, pulling it over his head, the fabric settling over his shoulders, bringing with it an unfamiliar weight.
Sam exhaled, nodding in approval, his hands briefly resting against Bucky’s arms, giving him one more firm squeeze before finally stepping back.
Then—
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam said, his voice softer now, but still carrying the same undeniable weight. “And neither are you.”
Bucky stared at him, his chest aching with something deep, something raw, something he wasn’t sure he could keep holding onto.
----------------
Sam didn’t leave.
Even after Bucky had been stripped of his freezing clothes and forced into something dry, even after the color had started returning to his skin, even after his fingers had stopped trembling from the cold that had settled into his bones—Sam stayed.
Bucky wasn’t sure what to do with that.
He sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched forward, the heavy fabric of the hoodie Sam had given him pressing against his skin, bringing with it an unfamiliar weight. The warmth was slow to return, creeping back into his limbs like it wasn’t sure if it was welcome.
Sam stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his body tense in a way that told Bucky he was still angry, still worried, still trying to work through everything that had just happened.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, but Sam didn’t break it.
Not yet.
Bucky wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that.
Then, finally—
Sam moved.
Not away.
Closer.
He took a slow, measured step forward, then another, before finally stopping directly in front of Bucky, his arms still crossed, his expression unreadable.
“You need to eat something.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly to glance up at him. “Not hungry.”
Sam huffed out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Don’t care. You’re eating.”
Bucky almost smirked at that—almost—but the exhaustion weighing him down was too thick, too heavy, too all-consuming for anything other than quiet resignation.
Sam must have seen it.
Because the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease, didn’t shift.
If anything, it only deepened.
Then, after a long pause, his voice softened.
“You scared me, man.”
Bucky swallowed, his fingers curling slightly against his knees.
He didn’t have an answer for that.
Didn’t know how to answer that.
So he didn’t.
Sam sighed, running a hand over his head before letting it drop to his side.
“I thought I was too late,” he admitted, voice quieter now, rougher. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. But I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve been here sooner.”
Bucky finally looked at him, brows furrowing slightly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Sam let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Doesn’t feel that way.”
Bucky frowned, shifting slightly, his limbs still sluggish from the cold, his body still trying to catch up to the fact that he wasn’t in that damn shower anymore.
“You DID show up,” he said, voice steady despite the exhaustion sitting heavy in his chest. “That’s what matters.”
Sam’s jaw tightened.
His hands flexed slightly at his sides before he finally moved again, this time crouching down in front of Bucky, his eyes locking onto his like he was trying to make him understand something.
“I need you to stop thinking I’m gonna leave,” Sam murmured.
Bucky inhaled sharply.
Sam’s gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften—but there was something else there. Something firm, something unshakable.
“I need you to believe me,” Sam said, voice steady, sure. “I need you to understand that I’m not going anywhere. No matter what.”
Bucky swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat.
Because this—
This was new.
This was something he didn’t know how to process.
Because people did leave.
People always left.
But Sam?
Sam wasn’t letting him believe that.
Not for a second.
Bucky exhaled slowly, his hands still curled loosely against his knees, his body still struggling to shake off the weight of everything that had happened.
But then—
Sam’s hand was on his wrist, his grip gentle but firm, grounding in a way Bucky didn’t realize he needed until that moment.
“You still with me?” Sam asked softly.
Bucky nodded once.
Sam gave his wrist a light squeeze before standing, exhaling through his nose. “Good. Now, come on. You’re eating.”
Bucky sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re bossy, you know that?”
Sam shot him a look—one that carried none of the usual bite, none of the teasing edge, only quiet concern.
“Yeah, well,” Sam muttered, turning toward the door. “Someone’s gotta look out for your dumb ass.”
Bucky huffed.
But for the first time in days—
The weight in his chest didn’t feel quite as suffocating.
-------------
Bucky didn’t argue when Sam guided him into the living room, his body still stiff, his movements slow, exhaustion pulling at his limbs like dead weight. He sank onto the couch without a word, the fabric of the hoodie Sam had all but forced him into still warm against his skin, the residual cold lingering in his bones but not nearly as suffocating as it had been before.
Sam, however, was anything but still.
The second Bucky was seated, Sam moved with the kind of determined energy that Bucky had come to recognize as his handling shit mode—the same sharp efficiency he’d seen in battle, in briefings, in the way Sam always seemed to know what needed to be done before anyone else did.
Only this time, there was no battlefield.
Just Bucky.
And Sam wasn’t about to let him sit there shivering like some half-frozen idiot without doing something about it.
A blanket—one of the few Bucky actually owned—was shaken out with a brisk flick, its edges billowing slightly before Sam draped it heavily over Bucky’s shoulders. The weight of it was immediate, warm, familiar.
Bucky blinked up at him. “I’m not a child.”
Sam didn’t even pause in his movements, tucking the blanket around him with the same no-nonsense efficiency he applied to everything else. “And yet you almost gave yourself hypothermia like one.”
Bucky sighed, but didn’t protest further, letting Sam fuss. The warmth was welcome, even if he hated to admit it.
Then, just as quickly as he’d settled Bucky onto the couch, Sam was pulling out his phone, tapping at the screen with focused precision. Bucky frowned slightly, watching the way his brows knit together in concentration, his lips pressed into a firm line as he scrolled.
“What are you doing?”
“Ordering food.” Sam didn’t even look up as he spoke, his thumb moving with practiced ease.
Bucky tilted his head slightly, still sluggish, but not uninterested. “I told you I wasn’t hungry.”
“And I told you I DON’T CARE,” Sam shot back, still typing. “You’re eating something whether you like it or not.”
Bucky huffed, but there was no real fight in it.
And then, after a moment, he realized exactly what Sam was doing, recognizing the colorful menu on his phone screen.
He was ordering from his spot.
The small Thai place tucked away in the city, the one Bucky had mentioned once in passing, weeks ago.
Bucky stared.
Sam still hadn’t looked up, too focused on getting the order just right, too busy making sure he got Bucky’s usual like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like he had always known.
Like he had always been paying attention.
Something shifted in Bucky’s chest, slow and unfamiliar, an ache that wasn’t quite painful but wasn’t comfortable either.
Because this?
This wasn’t someone who had been ignoring him.
This wasn’t someone who had left.
This was Sam, running around his damn apartment like he belonged there, like making sure Bucky ate was his responsibility, like checking the thermostat to make sure the heat was actually on was just part of his routine.
Bucky swallowed hard, his fingers curling slightly against the edges of the blanket.
He had been wrong.
Wrong about Sam.
Wrong about everything.
And Sam?
Sam was still here.
Still fussing, still talking under his breath about how Bucky needed to have more food in his fridge, still moving with that unshakable, steady presence that made it impossible to believe, even for a second, that he had ever really walked away.
Bucky exhaled slowly, watching him with something dangerously close to fondness.
The realization settled in, a quiet, undeniable thing that felt too big for his chest.
Sam hadn’t left.
Sam had never left.
And Bucky?
Fuck.
He wasn’t sure what to do with that realization.
But maybe—
Maybe that was okay.
Maybe, for tonight, he didn’t need to know.
Maybe, for tonight, he could just sit here, wrapped in warmth, sipping the hot chocolate Sam had placed into his hands without asking, watching as Sam made himself at home in his space, moving through it like he had always been meant to.
Maybe, for tonight—
That was enough.
------------------
Bucky wasn’t sure what was more unsettling—the fact that Sam was still here, moving through his apartment like he lived there, or the fact that Bucky wanted him to stay.
Sam had barely sat still since deciding Bucky was his personal responsibility for the night. He’d taken it upon himself to assess the state of the apartment, checking the fridge, opening cabinets, muttering under his breath about how the hell do you live like this, Barnes? before pulling out his phone and making a grocery list.
Bucky sat there in stunned silence, wrapped in his blanket, watching the scene unfold with a kind of slow, dawning disbelief.
Sam—who had every right to walk out that door and never look back—was here, fussing over him, cleaning up half-empty coffee mugs from the counter, straightening the books on his shelf like he belonged here.
Bucky had no idea what to fucking do with that.
So he sat there, barely blinking, tracking Sam’s movements with something close to shock, feeling the faint warmth in his chest that hadn’t been there for days, something that had started thawing the second Sam had stepped into his freezing apartment and found him.
“This is unacceptable,” Sam muttered to himself as he pulled open another cabinet, shaking his head at the bare shelves. “You have, like, ONE can of soup and a bottle of whiskey. What’s the plan here, Barnes? Just starve and drink yourself into oblivion?”
Bucky blinked. “I was going for ‘minimalist survival,’ actually.”
Sam turned his head slowly, giving him an unimpressed look. “Yeah? Well, your minimalist survival looks a hell of a lot like reckless self-destruction, so I’m fixing it.” He jotted something else down on his phone. “Jesus. You don’t even have milk.”
Bucky huffed, tightening his grip on the blanket draped around his shoulders. “Didn’t realize I had a live-in nutritionist now.”
Sam smirked, tossing his phone onto the counter before leaning against it. “Oh, you absolutely do. I’m adding ‘personal chef’ to my list of responsibilities.”
Bucky’s stomach twisted at that—because Sam said it so damn easily, like of course he was still here, of course this was his responsibility, of course Bucky wasn’t someone he was willing to just walk away from.
The words were right there on the tip of his tongue—Why are you still here?—but he didn’t say them.
Didn’t want to say them.
Because if Sam had an answer he didn’t want to hear, he wasn’t sure he could take it.
A knock at the door broke the moment, and Sam pushed off the counter, giving Bucky a sharp look. “Stay.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Not a dog, Wilson.”
Sam just gave him a smirk before heading for the door, pulling it open and exchanging a few quick words with the delivery driver. A minute later, he was back, setting the food down on the coffee table, the familiar scent of Thai filling the space.
“Eat,” Sam ordered, handing Bucky a container and a pair of chopsticks, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Bucky hesitated.
Sam’s expression darkened.
“You WILL eat, Barnes,” he said, slow and deliberate, “or I WILL force-feed you.”
Bucky huffed but took the container, begrudgingly digging into the food.
Sam gave him an approving nod before settling in and opening his own meal, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he had to threaten a grown man to take care of himself.
“Now,” Sam said, flipping on the TV, “we need something dumb to watch.”
Bucky frowned, chewing slowly. “Why dumb?”
Sam shot him a look. “Because I refuse to let you sit here and wallow in misery while we eat your comfort food. We’re watching something that doesn’t require brain cells.”
Bucky sighed, leaning back slightly, shifting his grip on the chopsticks. “Fine. Whatever.”
Sam grinned, scrolling through the options.
A few minutes later, he found something—a dumb buddy comedy, full of slapstick humor and bad one-liners. Exactly the kind of thing Bucky never watched on his own.
But somehow—
He didn’t mind.
What he DID mind, however, was what happened next.
Sam, without a single word of warning, plopped down on the couch.
Right next to him.
Not just next to him—directly beside him, so close that their shoulders brushed, the heat of Sam’s body unmistakable through the layers of fabric.
Bucky choked on his food.
Sam barely glanced at him, lifting his fork and taking a bite. “You good?”
Bucky coughed, clearing his throat as he shifted slightly, caught completely off guard. “What—why—”
Sam glanced at him, brows raised. “Why WHAT?”
Bucky gestured vaguely. “There’s a CHAIR Right there.”
Sam shrugged, shoving another bite into his mouth. “Yeah, but the couch is more comfortable.”
Bucky stared. “And you had to sit right here?”
Sam smirked. “You hogged all the blankets. This is YOUR fault.”
Bucky sputtered, still trying to get his mind to catch up to what the hell was happening.
Then, before he could protest—
Sam shifted, lifting his legs and shoving his feet right into Bucky’s lap.
Bucky choked again.
Sam sighed dramatically, stretching out like he was settling in for the night. “You okay over there, Barnes?”
Bucky stared at him, mouth slightly open, completely at a loss.
Sam—still unbothered—just gave him a lazy grin. “Listen, I JUST got comfortable. If you start choking again, I’m NOT moving to save you, and that’d be a pretty dumbass way for you to die. Just saying.”
Bucky gaped.
“You—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Wilson—”
Sam just smirked, continuing to eat his takeout, completely unbothered and relaxed.
Bucky had no idea what to do.
No clue how to handle this.
The man had completely invaded his space, made himself at home, acted like this was just how things were now.
Bucky could feel it. He was flustered as hell.
But Sam?
Sam just kept eating, watching the movie, pretending like none of this was a big deal.
Like this—
Like they—
Were completely normal.
What. The. Fuck.