sofia

“Your whimsy!”

“Doll, I don’t—”

“You’re tellin’ me you don’t have ONE trinket? This is unacceptable.”

It’s the first time you’d seen Bucky’s room—having come to lend him a book when you noticed there was not a single sign that the room was occupied, aside from the slightly crumpled sheets and the wrappers from his protein bars in the bin beside him. You stand in the doorway with your hands on your hips, entirely exasperated at the sight before you.

In the year he'd known you, Bucky had become used to your dramatics—exclaiming like someone had taken the thing you love most when your favourite cereal was finished or groaning loudly like your whole day was ruined at the training time being moved by thirty minutes.

“Bucky, you don’t even have a lamp— what do you—?” You sigh, moving further into the room. His bed is pushed into one corner of the room and your eyes catch on the single blanket laid out on the floor. The walls are completely bare, the shelves sit empty and the overhead light casts a harsh glow over the room, making it look less like a bedroom and more like a lab.

Bucky tenses—a tiny shift that no-one else would have noticed but you’d spent every day with Bucky since he arrived at the tower. You’d taken the time to learn him. To understand him in a way no-one else did.

You knew the distant look he’d get when he was stuck in a memory. You knew when he needed space and when he needed you to push back. You knew the permanent crease he held between his brows, and you especially knew the way it’d soften and turn into smile lines when you’d make him laugh.

Your voice softens then.

“You don’t have anything to make the place yours?”

“M’used to it doll.”

Your heart tugs painfully at that. The thought of him alone and cold in a room—a cell more like, with nothing but his memories for company.

You look at him then, eyes focused on his—the soft, uncertain look peeking out between his usual stares. You move closer to him, taking his hand in yours and he pulls away slightly. You know the hesitation doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it—crave it really. Just that his body is still learning touch. Still learning what’s safe. Still learning you.

“Just because you’re used to it, doesn’t mean you have to be.”

Bucky inhales sharply, looking anywhere but you, getting uncomfortable in that way he usually does when you read him too easily, when you say things others are too afraid to.

You don’t let it throw you—instead tugging on his hand gently, bringing his focus back to you.

“Let’s go shopping. There’s a few thrift stores close to here I like to go to that I think you might like.”

“Doll, I really don’t want to…” His voice trails off as he notices the look on your face—soft and half-pleading, and he sighs, running a hand down his face before brushing his hair back and standing with a grumble.

“Fine, let’s go, you can take me to ONE thrift store and we’re just goin’ to have a quick—”

Bucky’s still rambling on but you’ve stopped listening, already jumping up and down in excitement, tugging at his hand and squealing.

“—and we’re not stoppin’ for coffee either.”

~ 25 mins later ~

You walk into the thrift store you frequent on your days off, hot coffee in hand, giving Bucky a small smirk as you sip. He shakes his head in disbelief.

God, the effect you have on him.

Bucky takes it all in—the vastness of the store taking him by surprise.

The sides of the store are lined in bookshelves, carrying everything from children’s books, knitting patterns, vintage magazines, novels with the covers worn back, old records, cds, dvds, cassettes and board games.

There’s rows and rows of old tables, scattered with various items—a doll from the 1950s, jewellery stands filled with bangles, necklaces and bracelets, the soft light from the various lamps around the room glinting off the jewels.

Bucky turns to you, brow furrowed.

“M’not buying anything, you know that right?”

“That’s okay, we can just have a look.” You shrug, moving further into the store, trying your best to not scare him off now that he’d agreed to come.

Bucky gives a solemn nod, like it’s decided, already zoning out as he carelessly rustles through the items on the table closest to him. You dawdle along the clothes racks, eyeing out a jacket that looks about your size.

Of course, you’re not in full thrifting mode, still carefully keeping an eye on Bucky as he takes maybe three more steps into the store—arms crossed over his chest, feigning disinterest as something on the shelf clearly catches his eye.

He looks over at you, and you give him a small smile, nodding towards the shelves with encouragement. He softens ever so slightly, arms uncrossing and wandering into the store. You smile into your coffee when you see him pick up an elephant carved from wood and place it back down.

“Doll, come over here.” Bucky’s a few tables down from you, gesturing you over to him.

He’s holding a brooch in his hand—nothing too fancy—a small blue and green floral thing. You raise your eyebrows at him, questioning.

“This brooch— it um—” Bucky looks at you, eyes welling with tears as he tries hard to control his wavering voice.

“—it looks exactly like one my ma used to wear. Same design. Same colors— I—”

He turns it over in his hand, studying every detail. The tiny glass beads, the tarnished gold metal, the pin slightly bent out of shape at the back. You place your hand on his upper arm, smiling up at him.

“Get it.”

Bucky turns to you, startled—almost like he forgot you were there—lost in the memory of his mother’s hands gently working the brooch, pinning it to her dress on Sunday mornings.

He shakes his head as if to shake off the memory, placing the pin back down and wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.

“What? No—I don’t— I don’t need it, I was just saying—” He’s already turning away when you squeeze his arm, bringing his attention to you.

“Bucky listen to me. It’s okay to want things. It’s okay to find meaning in small things. You’re allowed to want Bucky.”

The words hit him somewhere deeper than just this moment.

He nods slowly before picking the brooch back up, flipping it in his metal hand a few more times, thumb brushing over the top and hands it to you wordlessly.

You smile, placing it gently into your basket, careful not to break it and give him a solemn nod.

He returns it with a smile.

It’s easier after that.

He notices a few old records with names he recognises and tucks them away with a smile. An old record player, a copy of The Hobbit, vintage magazines, knitting patterns that reminded him of his mom.

He calls you over to him again when he finds a lego set of a working helicopter and your heart warms at the excitement in his voice.

You pick up a couple things for him too—fairy lights, a desk lamp, another lego set and a couple more records you think he might like.

Bucky’s flipping through a photo album when you approach him. You can’t help but smile when you see the photo he’s looking at. It’s in black and white — two teenagers eating ice-cream, the boy smiling at the girl and tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. It’s dated June 4th 1937.

“Do you think we would have been friends if we met back then?”

Bucky looks at you—really looks at you and you don’t fully understand the look in his eyes. But it’s the same one he gives you when you bring him coffee in the morning. Or the one he gives when you’re on a mission—loud bangs, debris flying and you turn to him before anyone else.

“I think—I think I’d be lucky to find you in any lifetime.”

Your heart skips a beat, face warming at his words and you have to bite down on your lip to stop your eyes from welling with tears.

“Me too Buck, me too.”

“Ready to go?” You swing your basket on your wrist, nodding your head in the direction of the checkout.

Bucky nods and follows, still looking back at the armchairs along the wall and you make a mental note to bring him back another time.

“What’s that book?”

“Oh I don’t know, some rom-com.”

You nod, tilting your head slightly, narrowing your eyes at the title.

The Love Hypothesis

Not something you thought he’d pick but you’re not about to question what he’s buying when he’s finally letting himself buy things.

He sighs before you get a chance to let a word out, opening the front cover of the book and showing you the small hand-written inscription.

Becca’s ♡

“Your sister?”

“I know it’s not hers but I—” He trails off, letting out a shaky breath.

“I know Buck.” You place your hand on his arm, warm and reassuring and he gives you a small smile before avoiding your eyes.

“Alright, let’s go pay for our stuff then.”

“You can just leave the bags there.” Bucky nods towards his desk, placing the record player and the burgers you’d picked up on the way on the table.

“Okay…orrr I could help you set everything up. We could have a movie night. Eat our burgers.” You suggest softly, not expecting the slow nod he gives.

You smile up at him, warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of him setting up the record player on his desk, moving it side to side until he’s happy with the positioning.

The two of you move around the room in perfect tandem—Bucky setting the books and records on the shelves, you making a small display of the lego sets and placing the brooch carefully in front.

You turn to ask Bucky how he likes it and stop mid-breath, biting your lip and trying not to laugh at the 6 foot super soldier fumbling with fairy lights—swearing under his breath, one end of the wire tangled around his metal arm.

“Here, let me.” You giggle softly, reaching for the wire, untangling it from his arm.

“Something funny?”

“No,” you lie, voice entirely too amused, still holding back a laugh.

You pull on the end, draping it across the back of his bed when Bucky lets out a frustrated huff and this time you can’t help the laugh that escapes.

Bucky turns to you, glaring, but there’s no real bite to it, and soon he’s laughing too, running a hand down his face like the day had worn him out.

He glances over at you—cross-legged on his bed, grinning up at him, the glow from the fairy lights framing your face.

Bucky thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

The air in the room grows thicker and you can almost hear your heartbeat outside of your chest—Bucky’s eyes boring into yours—so bright and blue and beautiful.

“Thank you for today doll, I’m—”

He pauses to look around the room, his heart so full it aches.

You care.

Not just about if he’s eaten or if he’s been keeping up with his medical checks and his therapy, not just about how he was on a mission or if he might be injured. But about him and whether or not he’s happy—if he feels at home.

Bucky hadn’t felt home in over 80 years, but here—with you smiling at him like there’s nowhere you’d rather be—he feels like maybe he could.

“Of course Buck.”

He’s still looking around the room in disbelief. It’s then you realise the reason he never put anything in his room. He didn’t believe he’d be staying here, that this would last, that he could have a home here—because when you’ve spent your life running, and all you’ve known is survival, how do you accept softness and stability without it feeling like a threat?

You stand slowly, taking his hand in yours and press your forehead to his gently. Bucky’s eyes flutter closed, taking a shaky breath.

“Doll, I don’t know if I’m—”

“S’okay Buck. Don’t need to be. M’not going anywhere.”

He gives you a soft look like he doesn’t fully believe it, but like he might start to soon.

You pull his arms around your waist, not breaking eye contact. His fingers flex against the small of your back, still unsure—almost like he’s expecting you to pull away. You wrap your arms gently around his shoulders, placing your head onto his shoulder. Softly but not hesitant—never hesitant. You feel his body shudder slightly, a subtle tense of muscles before he leans into it—into you.

And for the first time—in the softness of the fairy lights and the warmth of all the small things—Bucky Barnes lets himself be held.

It was just a dare that people gave him, and he took it half-seriously. 

He didn’t think he’d actually get in. 

It was supposed to be one term, a few speeches, some votes. Smile for the camera, shake some hands, look like a functioning member of society. Do enough to convince the world—and maybe himself—that he wasn’t just a broken weapon trying to pass as a man.

And then he met you.

An independent senator born into old money—exactly the kind of person he was supposed to be suspicious of. Legacy Ivy League, tailored suits and dresses that probably cost more than his first apartment, and the kind of name people recognised from museum wings and political dynasties.

But you were something else entirely.

You were a walking contradiction: born into wealth, but ferociously progressive. The kind of person who argued that people like you should be taxed more. That inherited wealth was a societal rot, and the system was rigged in your favour. You were intelligent, articulate, relentless— and you meant every word.

He first saw you during a bloated committee hearing on national defense spending. Bucky had spent most of it zoning out, trying not to twitch every time someone mentioned “strategic elimination” like they were ordering lunch. And then you walked in— heels clicking, shoulder squared like you were preparing to box a colleague. 

When you took the floor, you destroyed a five-star general with nothing but a mildly uninterested tone and a stack of paper. 

Technically, he was supposed to be paying attention. Taking notes, even engaging in conversation. But his brain short-circuited somewhere around “our national priorities are upside down,” and all he could think was very sinful thoughts about you.

It was deeply humiliating.

He wasn’t some starry-eyed intern. He was a hundred-year-old super soldier with a metal arm and enough emotional trauma to fill several Olympic-sized swimming pools. But you had him blushing like a teenager and rethinking every life choice that led to this moment.

“General,” you said, voice sharp as glass, “let me get this straight. You’re asking for a thirty-two billion dollar increase to the black budget, and yet you can’t provide so much as a redacted audit?”

He opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the space. Not yet.

“I have constituents rationing insulin and getting evicted over hundred-dollar rent hikes,” you continued, “And you’re sitting there telling me you need more stealth bombers?”

“Senator, we need to keep foreign powers in check—”

“Oh?” You tilted your head and smiled a scalpel. “Since you’re asking for a blank check, let’s have a little transparency. I want a full accounting of every regime change operation we’ve bankrolled with taxpayer dollars. How many foreign elections have we meddled in this year, General?”

The room shifted. You heard the uneasy scrape of a chair leg, felt the flicker of glances darted like knives.

The general’s teeth clenched. “Senator—”

You leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished wood, spine straight as a bayonet.

“This isn’t about national security,” you said, like the room belonged to you. “This is about institutional gluttony. This is about feeding the military-industrial complex while our infrastructure rots and veterans sleep on the streets.”

That one hit him.

Bucky shifted on his feet, pulse getting too quick for comfort as your words carved clean through the theater of power like you had no time for pageantry. 

God, you were so pretty.

Not pretty like a diamond on a pedestal. Pretty like lightning. Pretty like the kind of woman who left men aching and terrified all the same. Pretty like you’d taste like red wine and righteous fury.

Bucky adjusted his tie. Bad move. His hand was shaking.

“Until then,” you said to the general. “you’ll have to win your wars with the money you already wasted.”

Then the general backed off, and Bucky watched the way your mouth pressed into a faint, satisfied line. You turned slightly, eye sweeping the room. You didn’t look at him, not really, but it still hit like a sucker punch.

It was his first week. He hadn’t voted yet. He hadn’t been whipped into line by the party. And there you were, ruining and making his day at the same time. 

The first person in the chamber who didn’t sound like a politician. 

He watched you sit down, watched your blazer slide just enough to flash the curve of your throat, the delicate line of your collarbone, and he thought:

Oh, I’m fucked.

—

It didn’t stop there.

He started noticing your name everywhere. Not just in headlines or on committees, but stamped onto action. He did some research, and found that your office quietly funded a network of off-the-books health clinics in rural counties the state wouldn’t touch. Through your “charity”—technically a nonpartisan foundation—you rerouted your family’s trust fund into safe needle exchanges, mobile mental health vans, domestic violence shelters in red districts, and reproductive care buses that crossed state lines.

He soon realised you didn’t wait for the system to work. You circumvented it.

And then you got back on the floor, dragging corrupt policy into the light with a dangerous smile. 

“If we have money for drones, we have money for dialysis. If we can find $14 million to research a new combat exosuit, we can find money to put roofs over people’s heads,” you said once. “Let me be clear: I'm not against defense. I'm against waste. I'm against empire. I'm against bleeding the people dry while contractors get rich off fear. Patriotism isn’t writing blank checks to private corporations. It’s making sure kids don’t go to school hungry.”

And when anyone tried to counter, quoting national security you said, “Fine. But fund healthcare. Fund education. Fund the VA. Fund cyber security that doesn’t involve selling civilian data to private firms. Don’t sit here and sell me a war machine when our bridges are collapsing and towns still don't have clean water.”

And every time, Bucky felt something deep inside him unravel.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He was supposed to stay quiet, play the game, and vote his party’s way.

But you weren’t playing. You were rewriting it.

And he was obsessed.

He’d scroll through C-SPAN footage like it was porn, watching you deliver moral beatdowns with the prettiest smile he’d ever seen in his overextended life. He caught himself lingering outside your office more than once, pretending to check his phone, knowing your aides saw him. Knowing you probably did, too.

—

AFTER HOURS

U.S. Capitol – Private Committee Room

It was Bucky’s second month in Congress when you called for a private meeting.

You just put your name on his schedule— no context, no agenda.

He told himself it was probably routine. Some strategic alignment thing. You were an independent— you needed people you could count on. 

Or perhaps, it was a courtesy meeting. Maybe you wanted to trade notes on legislation or something.

Bucky spent the three days leading up to the meeting nervous. He didn’t know why. 

You were younger than him, one of the youngest senators ever sworn in. Smaller than him, too—he was a six-foot hunk of super soldier beef, and yet you were the one who made his palms sweat.

He wasn’t sure what he expected when he opened the door to the meeting room you booked out. 

Definitely not this.

The room was dark, save for the warm glow of a desk lamp and the shimmer of DC lights bleeding in from the window. 

You were at the head of the long table—blazer off, sleeves rolled to your elbows, collar loosened just enough to show a line of cleavage that made his thoughts derail immediately.

You looked up when he entered. “Close the door, Barnes.”

He froze for a second.

You arched an eyebrow. “Unless you want them to hear how badly I’m going to make you admit what you really think.”

His heartbeat spiked. 

He closed the door and locked it.

You didn’t stand, didn’t even offer a seat.

He sat anyway, opposite you.

“You’ve been voting neutral on defense amendments,” you said, voice smooth as butter and sharp as the stiletto heels you always wore. “Even when they gut oversight. Even when they reroute billions to black ops programs.”

“I’m not here to make waves.”

“That’s a coward’s answer,” you said calmly, though he could hear the grit through your teeth. “And you are not a coward.”

His muscles flexed. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you haven’t said a damn word in committee,” you said, “I know you abstained on the surveillance expansion, but signed off on the military budget with a barely legible signature.”

You stood.

Bucky sat straighter, his breath hitching. 

Fuck.

He watched you walk as you circled the table.

“I’ve read your file,” you said, now behind him. Your voice was close, borderline intimate. He could feel your breath in his ears, feel his body trying not to react. “Not the redacted fluff they released to the public. The real one. I know what you were turned into. What they did to you. What you could be.”

His fists clenched in his lap. Where were you going with this? 

“I’m not trying to use you, Barnes,” you murmured, and your tone shifted— now gentler, more empathetic. “I’m trying to wake you up.” 

You leaned in. Your lips grazed the shell of his ear, and that was when he stopped breathing.

“You’re not a weapon anymore,” you whispered, “But you could be a bomb, placed exactly where they won’t see it coming.”

He let out a deep breath through his nose. “And what?” he managed to rasp, “You light the fuse?”

You moved in front of him now, stepped between his knees, hands braced on the table behind you.

It was so casual, so maddeningly dominant, towering over him without ever needing the height.

It was devastating.

“I fund clinics they won’t touch. I move money across invisible lines to make sure queer kids in red states stand a chance. I've bought entire warehouses full of Narcan to smuggle into countries that don't believe in harm reduction,” you slammed a first in the table behind you, “I’ve turned every cent of my family’s blood-soaked money into a spear— and I’m not done yet. I have already lit the fuse, Barnes. I just need someone to spread the fire with me.”

Bucky knew exactly what you were doing. You weren’t virtue signalling— you were trying to set a standard. You need him to know what that standard was.

He stared, chest heaving, locked on the soft dip of your throat, on the way your shirt pulled just a little too tight across your chest, how your lipstick hadn’t smudged even a little.

“You… is this even allowed?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“I’m free to do as I wish with the money I inherited,” you told him.

You leaned down again, just enough to let your neckline dip further—just enough for him to realise how much he wanted to fall to his knees for you and stay there.

“Tell me something, Barnes,” you said. “When you look at all those men selling war—do you want to follow them?”

“…No.”

“Do you want to stop them?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

You smiled a wicked smile then. It tasted like victory.

“Then stop compromising for your party’s sake. You’re not Switzerland, James. You’re a powder keg with a heart,” you sighed, brushing dust off his shirt, “Be useful.”

And just like that, you stepped back, smoothed out your sleeves, picked up your folders, already reading through your next meeting like you hadn’t just dismantled his thoughts.

But before you opened the door to leave, you paused.

“Next time you vote,” you said, looking back. “Try using the part of you that’s still dangerous. Not the part that wants to be forgiven.”

Bucky knew he shared values with the party he belonged in. But for the first time, he wondered if they lacked the spine.

—

ONE WEEK LATER

House Floor – Defense Authorization Act Vote, Section 42: Expansion of Overseas Military Facilities

This was the kind of amendment that slipped under most radars— buried in bureaucratic language, pretending to be“regional stabilisation.” On paper, it looked harmless. Just another billion-dollar expansion of drone bases and “forward operating stations” in oil-rich regions that happened to be politically unstable.

For most in the room, it was routine.

For Bucky Barnes, it was a line he couldn’t cross. Not after he was used as the Winter Soldier. 

He sat there, card in hand, listening as name after name was called. Every “yea” felt like a drumbeat, a reminder of how easy it was to slip back into the machine, how easy it was to disappear into the grind of votes until your hands were bloody and your conscience ran dry.

He could see all these men in suits who’d never seen war, pushing buttons that sent kids to die. And then he saw you, across the chamber, watching him like you already knew.

You didn’t blink.

“Congressman Barnes?” the clerk called out.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Nay.”

The room didn’t react all that much. One no vote in a sea of yeses. The machine kept churning.

But you heard him.

—

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Antechamber off the Rotunda

You didn’t knock. Just opened the door and stepped in like you had every right—which, of course, you did.

You found him leaning against the far wall, jacket off, tie loose, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance.

“You broke party line,” you said.

He didn’t look at you. To be honest, he didn’t know what to say.

You walked in slowly, like you weren’t sure whether you wanted to punch him or drag him into your office. Maybe both.

“You know what you just voted against?”

“I read the whole thing,” he said, looking down. “The base in northern Syria is going to displace an entire village. The one in Nigeria is three miles from an elementary school. And the contractors running ‘support services’ are private militias with a human rights record almost as bad as Hydra’s. I recognised one of their tattoos, actually. The head of the program used to work for the winter soldier program.”

You stared at him.

He finally turned to look at you.

“I watched them build empires with blood,” he said. “I’m not signing off another one.”

You let the confession just sit there for a few seconds, untouched. 

Then, you stepped closer, “You think you’re a good man for finally seeing it?”

“No,” he said. “I think I’m already too late.”

You were close now— almost chest to chest.

His breath was shallow, but steady, as if stepped into a fight he wasn’t sure he wanted to win.

You tilted your head, “Then why do it?”

He looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the present. “Because you asked me to stop pretending.”

And that—that did something to you.

He wasn’t apologising. He wasn’t posturing. 

He was offering.

Not a clean conscience. Not redemption.

But loyalty to the version of himself that you saw. 

Your hand came up, fingers brushing the lapel of his shirt.

And then—because this wasn’t the time, and because you both knew what would happen if you gave in now—you let go and stepped back.

“You’re not off the hook,” you said, already walking toward the door. “You’ve got a long way to go before I believe you’re not still sleepwalking.”

He didn’t follow.

But when you glanced back just once, he saw your… approval.

The kind that could either kill a man or remake him.

Bucky was excited to see which he would fall under. 

—

After that, tension built. 

Every committee hearing, every closed-door strategy meeting, every hallway brush of shoulders was… charged now.

He started showing up more— to panels you hadn’t invited him to, to press conferences where he had no reason to be. He stayed just outside your orbit like he was waiting for permission to fall into it.

And when you challenged someone in session, his eyes would find yours like he was feeding off it. 

Like he wanted to kneel in the wake of your ambition.

But it wasn’t just the glances. It was the touch.

It started small. His hand would graze your lower back when he passed behind you in a hearing room. His fingers brushed yours when he handed over a folder. One late night, he reached around you to grab a glass and let his knuckles drag across your waist. You never stopped him.

He was bolder after that.

“You know,” he whispered once, as the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder behind the Senate chamber, “you could tell me to behave. Just once. I’d probably listen.”

You didn’t look at him, but chuckled, “You wouldn’t.”

And he laughed and leaned closer, like he couldn’t help it. “Only one way to find out.”

Another night, at a policy summit out of town, he found you in the hallway of the hotel after your keynote. He was loose-tied and grinning, one hand pressed against the wall beside your head. He couldn’t really get drunk, but he was a little drunk on you. A little desperate for permission he hadn’t figured out how to ask for yet.

“You keep looking at me like I’m a problem you’re trying to solve,” he said.

You raised a brow. “You are a problem.”

“And what if I want to be?” His tone dropped. “For you.”

You just stepped forward, close enough that he had to either move back or let you invade his space. He didn’t move.

“You really think you’re ready for that kind of trouble, Congressman?” you whispered, sultry, fingers ghosting over the hem of his shirt.

He shuddered.

And just like that, you knew that he liked it when you were the one in control.

—

After that night, he became flirty in a way that barely skirted on professional, but always left you wondering if he’d drop to his knees the moment you told him to. He called you “Senator” with that smooth Brooklyn drawl, as if he knew it drove you insane. He touched your fingers when he passed you documents. Let his thigh press against yours under the table during closed sessions.

And every time you checked on him, you felt him fold just a little more.

He was waiting, waiting, and wound tight around your little finger, loving every second of it.

—

THREE MONTHS LATER

U.S. Capitol – Outside the Senate Floor

It started with a vote.

Of course it did.

He blindsided you on the floor. Not by going against the party line—that wasn’t new anymore—but by attaching an amendment you hadn’t signed off on. One that would gut your infrastructure bill if the wrong committee caught wind of it.

You barely made it off the Senate floor before you turned on him.

“Barnes,” you snapped, heels sharp against the marble.

He slowed to a stop, irritatingly casual. 

You shoved open the door to an empty hearing room and walked inside, not even checking to see if he followed. You knew he would.

The door clicked shut behind him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you hissed, turning to the supersoldier. “You went behind my back.”

He didn’t flinch. Just crossed his arms, standing his ground. “I strengthened your bill.”

“You undermined it. That amendment will kill support in Appropriations, and you know it.”

“I know the version you want passed is safer for everyone except the people who need it most.”

You stared at him, breath hitching. 

“You’re not the only one who gets to steal the show, Senator.” His voice was low, controlled. But there was heat behind it. It sounded almost…. reckless, almost hungry.

You stepped in closer.

“Don’t you dare— ugh, fuck!” You raised your hands, exasperated. “You could’ve talked to me! You chose to pull that stunt in public. You wanted to make a point.”

He tilted his head, smiling a beautiful smile. but it was all teeth. “Maybe I wanted to see how far I could push you.”

Shit.

There it was.

You were toe to toe now. You could feel the tension rippling off him in waves. It barely contained under the surface that unruly front he liked to wear for everyone else. Not for you.

Never for you.

“Even if I did tell you,” he said to fill the silence, “Would you have listened?” he said again, almost smug. 

Fuck him.

You should’ve torn into him. Told him he was reckless, self-righteous, impossible to work with at times. 

Instead, you grabbed the folder from the table beside you and flipped it open—anything to put distance between you and that fucking look on his gorgeous face.

But the moment your eyes read the amendment again, the realisation hit like a gut punch.

Damn it.

It was good.

Not just some posturing idealist’s rewrite—it actually filled in what you hadn’t been able to get past the budget committee. 

He proposed relocating funds from defense surplus, rebalanced long-term projections so the bill could stretch further without tanking in Appropriations.

But you still hated that he’d gone behind your back.

You hated even more that it worked.

You looked up slowly. “Goddamn you, Barnes.”

You threw the files on the fucking floor.

And before you could stop yourself—before you could think about how wrong this was, how stupid—you grabbed his lapel, yanked him down, and kissed him.

His hands were on you in an instant, his metal one gripping your waist like he’d been waiting for this moment for months, the human one cradling the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. His mouth met yours with a hunger that made your knees weak.

You made a sound—half a growl, half a whimper—and pushed him back against the wall, biting his lower lip as he groaned into your mouth. Your hands were under his jacket, fingers brushing the belt at his side, trying to pry it off before giving up and letting your palm run under his shirt instead, feeling every plane of muscle.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This was a scandal waiting to happen.

But you liked the feeling of him moaning in your goddamn mouth too much to care.

And then—knock knock knock.

You froze.

“Senator?” your secretary called through the door. “They’re looking for you upstairs.”

You jerked back instantly, heart beating too fast for your ribcage to handle. Bucky blinked down at you, lips swollen.

Shit.

Your hand pressed to his chest firmly, pushing him back. “Don’t—don’t say anything.

He raised a brow, still dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“No one can know,” you hissed, “No one.”

He just nodded, eyes raking over you. “Whatever you say, Senator.”

You adjusted your suit jacket, tried to fix your hair, ignored the heat still thrumming between your thighs.

And as you opened the door to leave, you thought to yourself—

Fuck. What did I just do?

—

The week after the kiss was brutal.

You shut him out.

No meetings. No calls. His name popped up on your calendar twice and both times, you had your scheduler cancel. You claimed conflict: Travel got in the way. There were urgent committee matters. Anything to avoid sitting across from him. 

Because you didn’t trust yourself to be around him. 

You didn’t trust the way your body reacted at the thought of his mouth on yours. How it replayed on loop when you closed your eyes. You didn’t trust that if he gave you that look again, that you wouldn’t grab him and make an even bigger mistake.

But Bucky noticed.

And it wrecked him.

His expression wasn’t quite as cocky. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. And in the one hearing you couldn’t avoid, he was burning a hole through the side of your head with his stare, as if daring you to acknowledge him. 

You didn’t.

—

TWO WEEKS LATER

The Freedom Forum Benefit

It was an annual auction event, all champagne and schmoozing and high-dollar promises. You wore black and entered with your head high, your staff two steps behind you.

You felt untouchable.

Until you saw him.

Bucky stood near the bar, fake-laughing at something a donor said, until he saw you.

His expression instantly changed.

He looked like he’d been sucker-punched.

He was in a gorgeous black suit that hugged his shoulders sin incarnate, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make you remember exactly what you’d tasted last week. His hair was slicked back, his stubble rough.

He barely lasted an hour before finding you again.

You’d just stepped out into one of the gallery’s quieter hallways, wine glass in hand, needing a break from the circus when you heard his footsteps. 

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Bucky said quietly.

You took a breath, controlled. “I’ve been working.”

“Bullshit.”

You turned to him and sighed. “This isn’t the time.”

“Then tell me when the time is,” he said, exasperated, “because I’ve been trying to give you space, and you’ve been using it to pretend none of it happened.”

“We kissed,” you narrowed your eyes and finished the rest of your wine. “It was a mistake.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth like he didn’t believe a word you said. “Funny. Didn’t feel like a mistake when your hands were under my shirt.”

“That was—” Your voice hitched. “We weren’t thinking clearly.”

“I was.” His voice dropped. “I’ve been thinking about it every second since.”

Your back hit the wall before you even realised he’d cornered you there. He didn’t touch you—he wouldn’t—but he stood so close you could smell the spice of his cologne.

“You looked at me like you wanted to eat me alive,” he said. “And what, now you’re telling me you don’t feel the same?”

Your pulse thundered in your temple as he pushed in closer.

“Tell me to back off,” he said. “Say the word and I’ll walk away.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you whispered, “Come home with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Tonight. After the gala,” you told him, “if you want to talk this out, I’d rather not do it in public.”

His breath caught.

You could see him recalibrate—like every wire in his body short-circuited, then surged back online.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, okay.”

—

LATER THAT NIGHT

Your Residence

And when the gala ended, the motorcade took you back to your place, careful not to attract any unwanted attention.

You locked the door behind you, turned, and gave him that look.

That look that made his knees weak and his mouth dry.

He followed you into the kitchen like gravity had shifted in your favour. 

You poured yourself a glass of water to sober up, not that you were too drunk to begin with. “You wanna talk?” You asked, “Then talk.”

What?

“That’s it?” he asked, almost hurt. “You shut me out for a week, pretend it never happened, and now I’m just—what? Why did you even bring me here? You want me to be your secret late-night one night stand?”

You turned slowly, arms crossing as you took him in.

“No,” you said coolly. “You’re a scandal waiting to happen.”

He flinched.

You stepped closer. “A walking PR nightmare, and those pretty eyes could cost me reelection. You’ve got a mouth that’s going to get you in trouble if you don’t stop pouting.”

“I’m not—” he started, defensive, but his voice cracked.

“Poor Congressman Barnes,” You tilted your head. “Thought one kiss made him special?”

He opened his mouth, but you were already closing the space between you.

“Because you’re right. You fucking are,” you said through gritted teeth. Your hand found its way to his chest, fingers curling around the silk of his tie. You tugged. “Because you know you’re a good man now, Congressman Barnes.”

He gritted his teeth. “I never said that.”

You tilted your head. “But you voted like one. You voted against drone strikes in civilian zones. Against privatized cyber warfare. Against mandatory surveillance of activist groups.”

You stepped closer, “You stood on the floor yesterday, opposing my proposition of keeping tabs on vigilantes and said ‘a government that fears its people more than it protects them is not a democracy—it’s an empire in decline.’ And you changed my mind. Do you know how hard it is to make me change my mind?”

He was breathing hard now.

“And fuck, darling…” you drawled, “I just can’t resist a good man,” your voice was so sweet and sour, like you wanted this but knew you shouldn’t let yourself have it. “You think I’ve been pretending nothing happened?” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve spent every day this week trying not to picture you on your knees between hearings.”

He took a deep, shaky breath. His hands clenched at his sides.

“I’ve been rewriting statements while imagining how pretty you’d look with my hand in your hair between my legs. I’ve been arguing tax reform while wondering if you’d whimper when I told you to open your mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you again. Not because I didn’t want to,” you leaned in, lips at his ear, “but because you’d let me. And I just. Can’t. Resist. A. Good. Man.”

He was trembling now.

You stepped back, “But here you are. In my home. Looking at me like you need me to take control.”

“I do,” he said, voice hoarse, wrecked. “I do.”

You shoved him back against the island kitchen and climbed on top of him like a campaign you meant to win. Your mouth found his ear, hot breath slipping into the space where his composure used to live.

“Then be good, congressman,” you purred, teeth grazing the shell of his ear, “Can you do that for me?”

He groaned, deep and wrecked. It didn’t take long before he was grabbing and tearing.

Clothes came off in pieces. Buttons hit the floor. His tie stayed wrapped around your wrist because you yanked it free and didn’t want to let it go. Zippers were wrecked like decorum— ripped right through. He switched over your position, lifting you up and laying you out across your marble kitchen island instead. 

His hand slid down your thigh and then up, right where you needed him.

“You’re so wet,” he breathed, almost like he couldn’t believe it. “You wanted this.”

You arched beneath him, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other fisted in his hair.

“I wanted to ruin you.”

His eyes shot to yours, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

“You already have.”

That night, you learned that Bucky Barnes fucks like he fights. He was precise. He was relentless. He was a machine, a man trained to outlast anything. 

So you rocked together there in your marble kitchen like the Capitol couldn’t burn fast enough. You bit his lip. He swore against your throat. He grabbed your hips like you were both anchoring him and tearing him apart.

At one point, you leaned in close and said, “I should filibuster you. Keep you here for hours. See how long it takes before you break protocol.”

He whimpered.

And when it was over—when you both were trembling and flushed and too ruined to speak—you dragged your nails down his chest and whispered, “Still think I’ve been pretending nothing happened?”

He could only shake his head.

“You ruined me,” he said, quiet. “And I liked it.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real bite in it. “Don’t get poetic,” you reminded, “You still tanked my vote yesterday.”

He leaned his forehead against your chest, groaning.

“Fuck, I know,” he laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re gonna destroy me in committee next week.”

“I might.”

He looked up again, playful while still managing to be sincere. “Will you at least destroy me like this again afterward?”

You tried to be annoyed. You tried to remember all the ways he drove you insane. But his voice was a little hoarse, his hands were still on your hips like you were the only solid thing left in the world.

And you knew what that meant— loyalty. 

Not weakness. Not worship.

But it lived in between.

You slid off the sticky counter, standing on shaky legs, and he caught your hand before you could step away fully.

“Stay,” he said.

You looked at him. Bare, naked, still burning from the inside out.

“You’re in my house,” you chuckled.

“I know.” His thumb brushed the inside of your wrists.

Fuck, this wasn’t just politics anymore.

This wasn’t strategy or tension. This was something you could walk away from unscathed.

You pulled him up with both hands and pressed a kiss to his mouth— much softer this time.

“I’ll stay,” you said, “if you do, too.”

And he did.

—

And things… evolved.

He kept it clean in public. Professional. 

Well… mostly. He’d place the occasional hand on your lower back, he’d give you kisses on your temple when no one was around.

But behind closed doors, your townhouse became home base. He cooked surprisingly well. 

He’d make pancakes on Sundays. Steak when you were pissed off. Toast and black coffee after sex so good it felt like treason.

You’d read from draft bills while lying across the bed in nothing but his flannel shirt. He’d rest his chin on your thigh, half-listening, half-worshipping.

Sometimes you'd argue between kisses, about anything and everything. Foreign policy. Trade sanctions. Use of force authorizations.

Once, after a particularly vicious day on the floor, you were pacing the living room, still in heels, when he sank down to his knees in front of you, hands sliding slowly up your calves.

“Ma’am,” he murmured, eyes dark with devotion, “I’m just a humble public servant.”

Then you made him shut up and prove it.

And he did. On the floor. With his mouth. With his hands. With everything he had.

His house was no better off.

The bed smelled like sweat and parchment. There are bills marked with lipstick smudges. A copy of the Intelligence Committee’s black-budget proposal lay under the couch with a condom wrapper on top of it.

He read your notes. You wore his shirts. He’d eat you out mid-argument, face between your thighs while you’re yelling about how best to handle money-driven foreign ambassadors.

“I’m not voting for that amendment,” you’d gasped. 

He dragged  his mouth away from you for just one second.

“I’ll change your mind.”

You didn’t win that one.

—

AFTER MIDNIGHT

Your Office

Even your place of work wasn’t safe from Bucky Barnes.

You’d tried to draw a line—several, in fact—but Bucky never much cared for red tape. Or rules. Or doors, apparently, because he stepped into your office without knocking, shutting and locking it behind him with a soft click. 

A Homeland Security report sat open on your desk, pages half-read and already bleeding red ink from your pen. You tried to stay focused, legs crossed. 

But then he was there and he dropped to his knees in front of your chair like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

He pushed your skirt up with both hands—one warm and calloused, the other cool and metal— like it was his constitutional duty.

“I’ve got a briefing in the morning,” you said, trying to keep your voice even and failing.

“I’ll be quick,” he said, his mouth was anything but.

He was thorough. He took his time, tongue tracing patterns into you like your pleasure was classified intelligence and he was breaking into it for the first time. 

When you came undone, legs locked tight around his shoulders, one hand tangled in his dark hair, the other gripping the armrest of your chair—you didn’t scream his name. You threw your head back, tried to remember how to breathe, and with the last shred of composure you could muster, you said, “Recess adjourned.”

He grinned into you, smug and satisfied, like he’d just won a vote with both sides of the aisle.

And just like always, he made you wonder which of you really held the power.

—

SIX MONTHS LATER

Barnes' Residence

Even now that he had you, Bucky still found congress to be a little… too much. 

The marble halls, the cameras, the backroom deals— none of it felt like him. Not really.

You found him in his house, suit jacket crumpled on the floor, tie discarded somewhere on the kitchen counter. His metal hand rubbed slow circles over his tired temple as he sat slumped on the couch. He looked so out of place in his own home.

You padded over quietly, barefoot, your old oversized campaign shirt hanging off your body.

“You didn’t even make it to the bedroom,” you said softly, running your fingers through his hair.

He leaned into your touch immediately. He craved you. 

“They're pissed,” he said, eyes closed. “My whole damn party. Said I vote too… independent. That I don't ‘play nice.’ As if any of this should be about sides.”

Your heart broke just a little. You hated what this job did to him— how it wore him down and made him question if he was doing enough. You climbed onto the couch without hesitation, curling into his side until your head was tucked under his chin and his arms were around you.

“You’re not here to play nice,” you whispered against his chest. “You’re here to do what’s right. And that means they’re going to be mad sometimes. But I’m proud of you, James.”

He let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, almost a sigh—as his arms tightened around you. 

“This is so fucked,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I spent a year of my life trying to get elected only to regret it.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheek, guiding his eyes to yours. His blue eyes were tired, but still full of fire.

“You don’t have to pretend,” you said. “Not with me. If you want to leave politics tomorrow, I’ll be the first to pack up your office. If you stay, I’ll be in the front row of every speech.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your nose. You giggled, and he did it again, because he loved the sound— because it reminded him that he managed to tame a senator with knives for a tongue.

God, how did he even end up in a relationship with a career politician?

His metal hand came up to cradle the back of your head as he kissed you.

And later, as you lay tangled in each other beneath a blanket on the couch, he whispered sleepily, nose brushing yours. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You know what I’d vote for?”

You smiled. “What?”

“More nights like this. Just you and me. No debates. No bills. Just… us.”

You kissed him softly. “Unanimously approved.”

He smiled his real smile—the one he only saved for you. And for the first time in days, he looked like he could breathe again.

—

ONE MONTH LATER

House Floor – Supersoldier Proposal Hearing

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine walked into that chamber.

And when the CIA director came in, people listened.

Her heels clicked like gunfire against the polished marble.

She presented her proposal like it was already law. A radical new supersoldier program. No more Avengers. 

You watched it unfold with ice in your veins. Her plan took fear into account, and weaponised it. It was disguised as strategy. 

And Congress—both parties—ate it up.

Except Bucky.

He stood alone.

“I’ve been in that program,” he said, and you heard the crack in his voice even if no one else did. “You don’t force heroes. You don’t use people. You don’t turn them into weapons just because you’re scared of the next big threat.”

Val didn’t miss a beat. She turned toward him with that shark-like smile and ripped into him. 

Not his policies.

Him. 

His past. His record. The Winter Soldier. The man who was programmed. 

“You, of all people, are going to lecture us on this?” she sneered. “You’re a reminder of why this program is necessary.”

He stood there, eyes glassy, but he didn’t yell. He didn’t fight.

He just walked out.

—

LATER THAT NIGHT

Your Residence

You found him hours later in your dark bedroom, after a social event. He hadn’t turned anything on. No lamp. No TV. 

Bucky was sitting on the edge of your bed, his back hunched, hands limp in his lap. His suit still clung to him like a cage. His tie was crooked and loose, shirt wrinkled like he’d pulled and scratched anxiously at it. His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths he only took when he was trying his hardest not to break down.

He didn’t even look up when you stepped inside, he just kept staring at the floor like it stretched miles beneath him.

You stepped inside the room and knelt in front of him carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. You reached for his shoes, slipping them off one by one. He blinked slowly, as if only now noticing you were there.

You took the suit jacket away gently, as if it were battle armour. In a way, it was. 

The tie followed. Then the first few buttons of his shirt. Bit by bit, until only the man remained.

And that’s when he broke.

A quiet sound escaped him— a sound that broke your heart. His shoulders trembled, and his hands came up to cover his face. “I can’t do this,” he choked out, barely audible. “I can’t—this place, these people… they don’t want me. Not really.”

You climbed into his lap without hesitation, knees on either side of his hips, arms sliding around his neck

“They’ll never trust me,” he went on, breath catching, hot tears leaking past his finger before burying his face in your neck. 

“No matter what I do. No matter how many times I show up, or fight, or play by their goddamn rules. I’m still the monster in the room.”

“James,” you whispered, pressing your cheek to his temple as his arms wrapped around you. “You are not a monster.”

He held onto you like he was drowning, his tears soaking into your blouse. “I thought if I did everything right… if I followed every step they gave me, every rule, maybe I could fix it. Maybe I could fix me.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his face— your thumbs brushing at his tear-streaked cheeks.

“You are not broken,” you said, driving the point home. “You are brave. And kind. And you’ve saved more lives than they’ll ever understand. You carry more pain than they ever will—and still, you choose to fight.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

“And I love you for that,” you breathed. The words escaped before you could second-guess them. “I love you, Bucky. All of you. Not just the soldier. Not just the survivor. But the man who still believes there’s something worth fighting for.“

His breath hitched —and then he was crying in earnest. He was not hiding begin silent tears anymore. 

Was that the first time you’d said it?

He didn’t answer right away. Just buried his face in your shoulder and cried like he hadn’t in years, because he knew, no matter how intimidating you seem to be on the house floor, it was safe to fall apart here, with you. 

“I just…” he finally whispered, voice barely there. “I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to face them again. I just want to be with you.”

You pressed a kiss to his hair, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Then be with me,” you whispered, a small smile breaking through the ache in your chest. “We’ll figure it out together.”

His metal hand came up and settled between your shoulder blades. 

He nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. 

—

Later that night, when he was done crying his heart out, he became… calmer.

Still exhausted and red-eyed, but calmer nonetheless. 

You found him in the kitchen, his shirt still unbuttoned, stained faintly with some red sauce from the food you ordered in for him. He’d forgotten to take his socks off, and one sleeve was slightly rolled higher than the other. 

There was still plenty of food on the counter.

And next to it was a printed copy of Valentina’s proposal.

She sent it to him, not because he asked. She wanted to taunt him.

He must’ve read it a dozen times. Couldn't stop. Couldn't help touching it, even though every word made his skin crawl.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

“You know…” you said finally, your voice steady. “I know what you’ve been doing,” 

He didn’t turn around, but he froze. 

What were you talking about?

“I’ve known for a while,” you went on, stepping closer. You had found the files accidentally, when you were looking for a pearl necklace in one of his drawers. “I just didn’t know how to bring it up… until now.”

You watched the tension ripple through his shoulders.

“You’ve been keeping tabs,” you continued, “The former Red Room Widows. The Soviet super soldier who’s still off the grid. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who can phase through walls. Even that fucking dollar store Cap. You’re thinking of building something, are you Bucky?”

He still didn’t face you, but his hand dropped to his sides.

“You’re… putting a team together,” you said, more gently now. “I… don’t need to know the details. But I see what you’re trying to do.”

He turned then.

He hadn’t known how to bring it up to you. Hell, he hadn’t even known if it was really going to happen. It had all started as just instinct— keeping an eye on the kind of people most had written off as monsters or mistakes. People like him.

And what was he supposed to say, anyway? To you—his girlfriend, a sitting member of the Senate? That he was considering building a team made of people with blood on their hands and trauma in their bones? That he was offering them redemption not because he was certain they deserved it, but because he hoped they did?

He couldn’t picture your reaction. Would you be proud? Horrified? Would you see him as foolish… or as the same broken man they once turned into a weapon?

So he had said nothing… until now.

“You’re right.” The words fell out of him like a confession. 

He ran a hand through his hair, mussed and sauce-stained and tired as hell. “This… this whole thing,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos of the kitchen—the proposal, the uneaten food. “Politics. Committees. Playing nice with people who smile while they sharpen their knives behind your back.”

He looked down at himself, and for a second, you thought he might shatter all over again. “I never wanted this,” he whispered. “I just wanted to help. I thought—if I did this job, played the game—maybe I could protect people. Maybe I could stop people like Valentina from getting a foothold.”

“But this isn’t it,” he said quietly. “Maybe it is for you. God, it is. Every time I see you on that floor, you own it. You belong there.”

His breath caught, a shaky exhale slipping past his lips.

“I… don’t,” he whispered. “Fuck, I try—I… I sit in those chambers and pretend I’m part of it, but I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. This is not who I am supposed to be.”

You came up and slid your arms around his waist. His breath hitched, and his hand came to rest at the small of your back—metal fingers curling in tight.

“Then who are you supposed to be, darling?” you asked, not caring that your blouse was now stained, too.

He hesitated. The answer had been in him for so long, it was almost scary to say out loud.

“I’s supposed to be in the field,” he admitted. “Tracking these threats. Taking them out before they grow roots.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “But I don’t have Stark money. Or a tower. Or a government stamp of approval. Half the people in D.C. still think I’m one bad day away from a murder. It would be impossible to get fucking funding for this.”

“Well…” You smiled the kind of smile that could wage wars and stitch hearts back together. It always made his chest ache in the best way. “I transferred… a little something to your account,” you said with a shrug.

Bucky blinked. “You… you what?”

You chuckled, and it was insane how mundane you were going on about this. “It’s from my discretionary fund. Technically it’s filed under ‘independent research security initiative,’ if anyone’s asking.”

His brows furrowed, “You’re—wait, you’re funding this?”

You stepped in closer and kissed his jawline. “It’s barely a dent in my inheritance,” you said. “And if it means I get to sleep at night knowing you’re out there doing what you were meant to do? Then, yeah, sweetheart—I’m backing your project.”

He stared like you’d just handed him the world on a silver platter, then kissed the nape of his neck and told him it had been his all along.

“You’re… serious,” he breathed.

You gave an amused laugh, brushing your fingers along the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “Do you even know me?” you whispered. “I am always serious when I believe in something.” You leaned in, close enough that your lips ghosted over his. “And I believe in you, James Buchanan Barnes. I always have.”

He sighed— along with a half-sob, half-laugh—and crushed your body in his arms like he was terrified you weren’t real. He kissed you like you were the only clean air left on Earth and he’d been suffocating for years.

And when you pulled back, your hands cradling his face, your thumbs gently chasing the dampness from under his eyes, your voice was nothing short of conviction. 

His eyes glistened with tears— and finally you saw a spark return. 

A purpose.

“I don’t deserve you,” he choked, barely holding himself together.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “No, sweetheart,” you murmured, brushing your thumb gently along his cheek. “The world doesn’t deserve you.”

Your fingers reached up and slipped into his hair, combing through it, grounding him one tender touch at a time. “But it needs you anyway. So quit Congress if that’s what it takes. I’ve got this— I can hold the line in the halls. You take the field, yeah?”

His arms wrapped around you tighter, like he was afraid you were too good to be true. 

He held onto you with everything he had left, bending down and burying his face in the curve of your neck like your skin was the only place in the world he felt safe.

He still smelled like stress, coffee, and metal but under it all, he smelled like home.

And then—barely a whisper, he told you. “I love you.”

Oh.

Your smile bloomed as you pressed your forehead to his, fingers curling at the nape of his neck like you never wanted to let go. “I know,” you whispered back, “I know, darling.”

—

By morning, his resignation letter was written. You proofread it over pancakes, still wearing one of his t-shirts, a pen tucked behind your ear and syrup on your fingers.

He read through it again at the kitchen table, hair still messy from sleep. He hadn’t even bothered to put on any trousers. 

But his eyes were more focused than you’ve seen in weeks.

You even brought him coffee in his favorite mug (the custom one you got from Etsy that said I Fought Hydra and All I Got Was This Lousy Mug), and pressed a kiss to his temple before handing him a pen.

“You sure?” you asked.

He looked at you like you’d just asked if the sky was blue and nodded. 

By afternoon, his first mission plan was already sketched out on the back of a napkin—next to a plate of half-eaten fries and a mostly empty bottle of ketchup.

“This is not normal,” you muttered, staring at the haphazard yet oddly brilliant strategy chart scribbled in blue ink and crumbs. “You’re literally building a rogue ops unit on a paper towel.”

“It’s got character,” Bucky said, popping a grape in his mouth like a smug little gremlin.

You helped him map out every potential recruit. The names rolled off your tongue like a to-do list: Yelena Belova. Alexei Shostakov. Ava Starr. Antonia Dreykov. And—because the universe had a sense of humor—John fuckin’ Walker.

Red tape covered your living room floor like crime scene string art. The place looked less like a D.C. home and more like a joint ops bunker. A Post-it with “Call Sam” was stuck to your microwave. You had government dossiers, encrypted USB drives, and half a dozen color-coded sticky notes labeled ‘THREAT LEVEL: Eh, manageable.’

It was chaos. Beautiful, ridiculous, late-stage-caffeine chaos.

All of that, and you were still in your pajamas.

Bucky looked at the mess of documents, then at you—hair tangled, chewing the end of a pen, a folder in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other.

“You sure you don’t want to fund a think tank like a normal senator, sweetheart?” he asked with a smile.

You shook your head. “Think tanks don’t get to blow stuff up with their hot ex-assassin boyfriends.”

He laughed as he leaned over and kissed your forehead. “You’re absolutely out of your mind,” he murmured.

“I’m in love,” you said simply, poking his chest. “Which is a lot more dangerous.”

By evening, the resignation was submitted. The burner phones were ready. You’ve tracked every recruit to their last known location.

Bucky Barnes was no longer a congressman.

But for the first time in a long, long time, he was exactly what the world needed.

Not a suit. Not a symbol.

A good man. 

With a good heart. 

-end.

Extra Note : so many tag requests got buried in all your wonderful comments! if you'd like to be tagged in the general Bucky masterlist, please message me either personally, or write to my inbox! <3

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@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

There was a spark about her—a being of chaos and confidence wrapped in a teenage body. Even the air around her seemed to him with potential. As you walked toward her, preparing the same measured welcome you gave all new students, she looked up, caught your eye, and smiled. 

“Hi!” She exclaimed, “I know you!”

You furrowed your eyebrows, puzzled. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“Not this you,” she said with a smirk. “Other yous. I can travel to different realities.”

You studied her for a moment, and in that instant, your understanding of the multiverse shifted slightly—not in theory, not in abstract philosophy, but in practice. 

She was real, tangible, and standing three feet in front of you, smiling like this sort of thing happened every Tuesday.

And maybe, for her, it did.

—

You quickly became her favourite teacher.

She liked Strange, but you were more sympathetic than him, and less rigid than Wong. You were enough of a challenge to keep her attention— on good days, anyway. America had a habit of brushing off lessons she didn’t think she needed. If a spell didn’t explode or glow or bend reality sideways, she wasn’t that interested. But she also had a habit of punching holes through space and tearing through dimensions like they were paper. She could travel without a Sling Ring, which made her a magnet for trouble.

See, that kind of power doesn’t go unnoticed. That kind of power needed protection.

So you pushed her a little harder. Taught her advanced shielding techniques, the kind that could hold up against dimensional anomalies and the occasional demon. You worked patiently with her, correcting her form, teaching her to stabilise her breathing, to anchor her focus in the midst of chaos. 

She rolled her eyes more than once, but she listened. And when it mattered, she applied what she learned.

She wasn’t a quick learner, but she was talented. 

You liked her instantly.

By the end of your first month teaching her, you established a rhythm. She’d show up (sometimes late), and you’d teach her something new. 

Sometimes she challenged you, sometimes she surprised you, but always, she reminded you why you taught in Kamar-Taj in the first place.

That day, after a particularly solid session—she’d finally nailed an advanced protection spell, the Sigil of the Aegis, and managed to hold it steady under pressure. “You’ve been practicing—good. It shows,” you said with a smile. “But I gotta run. My husband’s waiting for me at home.”

America perked up immediately. “Oh! Tell Bucky I said hi!”

You blinked. “I never told you about Bucky.”

She gave a little shrug, casual as ever. “Didn’t need to. You’re with him in every universe.”

Oh?

You paused, her words lodging deeper than you ever expected. You felt a gentle warmth bloom in your chest— perhaps a sense of inevitability, of cosmic affection. You smiled, more to yourself than to her.

“Well,” you finally said, after processing her words, “That’s good to know.”

—

After the first six months, the classrooms of Kamar-Taj weren’t enough for America anymore. She craved more than theory, more than chants and sigils. She wanted something real. She wanted something to punch.

And being married to a feisty ex-assassin, you understood that hunger better than most. You understood the calling that came from knowing you were built for something bigger than the four walls of a training room. 

So… you started bringing her on missions.

At first, it was small stuff— clearing out rogue spirits in the Alps, helping Wong seal a breach in an ancient temple, handling a cursed artifact that had ended up in the hands of an unsuspecting kid in Tokyo. 

She was fearless on the field, and just reckless enough to keep you on your toes. And she loved every second of it.

Sometimes it was just the two of you. Other times, when physical force was needed, Bucky joined you.

Where you moved with grace, he moved with force. Where you cast with precision, he fought with instinct. You were opposites in many ways— but you worked like clockwork together. 

The first time the three of you teamed up, America gave Bucky one long look and smirked. “So, the Winter Soldier in this universe, huh? Doesn’t look so scary.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Give me five minutes and a reason.”

“He’s all bark until someone threatens me,” You laughed. “Then it gets messy.”

From then on, the three of you became a strange little unit. America would tease Bucky constantly—calling him grumpy, old man, or “Sergeant Sunshine” on good days. She’d stick close to you when he got too serious. You always laughed.

—

When this all started, America had two legal guardians— Wong and Strange. Recently, you and Bucky were added to the list. 

So you started inviting her to yours and Bucky’s home more, especially when Strange or Wong had pressing matters to attend to. Dinner at your apartment became a regular thing. She’d crash on the couch in an old hoodie, eating popcorn and flipping through your spellbooks like they were comic books. Bucky cooked big, hearty meals more often than not, recipes that reminded him of a time before this one. You’d float the dishes clean afterward with a flick of your hand, and America would clap.

Strange and Wong would sometimes be invited too, and they’d bicker about magical ethics. At least they’d brought dessert. One time, Wong showed up with six tubs of ice cream and didn’t explain why. No one asked.

Then came Madripoor.

A Skrull impersonated you during an ambush, but America decked her with a right hook, and she dropped like a sack of bricks.

“My sister doesn’t stand like that,” she said, shaking out her fist.

You didn’t say anything right away, but you beamed with pride. 

After that, she started calling you her big sister like it had always been the case.

Bucky didn’t argue. In fact, he was fond of it. 

He started teaching her how to throw knives, how to read people’s movements in combat, how to hit where it counted. “Just in case the magic fails.” he’d say with a shrug. 

He trained her like she mattered to him, like he’d already decided she was family.

“She reminds me of you, you know,” he said one night, after America had passed out on your favourite armchair in the living room with her mouth open, TV still on.

You were curled up beside him on the couch, your legs over his lap, a cup of tea floating in the air between you.

“She’s louder,” you replied with a smile.

He chuckled. “Yeah, but she’s got that same… fire. She knows she’s meant for more, just waiting for the world to catch up.”

You glanced at her, snoring under your old jacket, curled up like she hadn’t fought a demon with Wong twelve hours ago. “I get it. She doesn’t just want to survive. She wants to matter.”

Bucky tangled his metal arm in your hair, scratching softly at your scalp. “She does. Especially to you.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “To us.”

Bucky smiled and nodded, kissing the top of your head.

—

Then, something started… changing. Especially in lessons.

America started showing up late, later than usual—and when she did, her energy was all over the place. Spells fizzled out, sigils came out crooked, and her focus was… somewhere else entirely. 

She was still trying, still cracking jokes, but something had… shifted. 

After the third lesson in a row where she couldn’t hold a basic containment shield (even though she’d mastered it weeks ago), you finally decided to ask around.

You found Wong and Strange in the library, deep in a debate about magical interference patterns in unstable realities. They paused when you walked in, and Wong raised an eyebrow at the look on your face.

“America is distracted,” you said simply. “I’ve tried scolding her, grounding exercises, even bribing her with snacks. Nothing’s working.”

Wong gave a thoughtful nod. “Food usually does the job. That is serious.”

Strange leaned back in his chair with an annoyingly smug grin. “I think I know what it is.”

You folded your arms. “If it’s dimensional exhaustion, just say so. Don’t be cryptic.”

“Oh, it’s not that.” He smirked. “I think she’s got a crush.”

You blinked. “A what?”

Strange gestured vaguely toward the southern wing of the compound. “On that new teenage sorcerer. The cocky one from London. You know, the one who wears sunglasses indoors and thinks enchantments are a ‘vibe.’”

You stared at him. “Huh?”

Wong groaned. “Dear gods. Leo?” 

“Yeah,” Strange said. “I caught her staring at him throw basic sparks into the air. She didn’t blink for, like, five whole minutes.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “She’s letting her shields drop because she has a crush?”

“She’s sixteen,” Wong said with a sigh. “It’s developmentally appropriate.”

“Tell that to the demon who nearly melted my eyebrows off yesterday.”

Strange raised a finger. “To be fair, you were the one who let her take point on that breach.”

You scowled. “She begged to.”

“She wanted to impress Leo,” Strange said with a shrug. “Teenagers do dumb things when they have crushes.”

Wong crossed his arms. “So did you. Still do.”

Strange narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make this about me.”

You sighed and dropped into the nearest chair. “Okay. So. Teen crush. What do I do? Forbid her from seeing him? Set your cloak on surveillance duty?”

“Or,” Wong said gently, “talk to her. Like you always do.”

You groaned dramatically, head in your hands. “I liked it better when the only thing she wanted to punch was interdimensional rifts.”

“She still does,” Wong said with a small smile. “She just also wants to punch them while looking cool in front of Leo.”

“Honestly, you should be proud,” Strange added, “She’s becoming terrifyingly normal.”

You could only chuckle, because they were right. She was growing. And real growth was never clean or controlled.

Especially not when teenage feelings got involved.

But you were still a legal guardian to her. The only female one, too. Neither lunatic wizards in front of you would know how to handle it, and as much as you loved your husband, he would not know how to handle girl talk. 

So you stood up, dusted off your robes, and said, “Fine. I’ll talk to her. But if he hurts her, I’m sending him into a mirror dimension for a week.”

Strange grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

—

You found her by the koi pond, skipping stones with the same power she usually reserved for punching demons. Her robe sleeves were pulled down over her hands.

You didn’t approach right away. You stood there for a second, arms crossed, watching the way she groaned every time a stone bounced fewer than three times.

Finally, you said, “You know your shields are garbage lately, right?”

America sighed without looking at you. “Yeah.”

You stepped beside her, picked up a pebble, and skipped it clean across the pond— six hops. 

She gave you a side-eye. “Okay, show off.”

You smiled. “You wanna talk about it?”

She hesitated, but then said without looking up, “You ever like someone who’s... dumb hot but also kinda ridiculous?”

You nodded solemnly. “Bucky had an eyeliner phase.”

She turned to you, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Long story,” you shook your head, “Focus. You mean Leo?”

She winced. “You know?”

“Everyone knows. Wong’s pretending he doesn’t, but Strange tells me you stare at him like he’s a walking portal to a candy dimension.”

“I hate it,” America groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I hate it.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s cool and I’m… I dunno. I punch holes in space,” she sighed, “Not exactly first-date material.”

You nudged her shoulder. “You just need a plan, kid.”

She looked up, hopeful. “You’re gonna help me?”

You grinned. “What are big sisters for?”

After some (a lot) of encouragement, she found him in the spellcasting chambers and stammered out something along the lines of, “Hey, do you wanna get noodles and maybe talk about...like...not magical stuff for once?”

Leo blinked behind his ever-present sunglasses and gave her a grin that somehow tied her stomach into a knot and annoyed her all at once.

“Only if you don’t punch open a portal in the middle of dinner,” he said.

She punched his arm lightly. “No promises.”

He smiled. “It’s a date.”

—

Back in your home, America was pacing like a storm in a bottle while you tossed clothes across the guest bed, which has turned more and more into her second bedroom.

“I don’t know what to wear. I can’t look like I’m trying too hard, right?”

You held up a bright red flannel and black jeans. “There. Makes your eyes pop.”

She grabbed them, holding them up in the mirror. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Then came the shoes decision, and the hair style spell, and a tiny protective charm you discreetly stitched into her jacket pocket— just in case.

And when she was almost ready, Bucky strolled in.

He looked at the pile of clothing chaos, then at America.

“…Where are you going?”

America froze like a deer in headlights. You smiled. “She has a date, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “With who?”

America muttered under her breath, “Leo.”

Bucky stared at her. “Sunglasses Indoors Leo?”

She nodded, cheeks burning. “Yep.”

He crossed his arms, metal plating shifting with a whir. “Is he human? Does he have a criminal record? What’s his GPA? Has he ever made a pact with an ancient entity?”

You stepped between them before America combusted from secondhand embarrassment. “He’s fine, Buck. Wong already did the background check.”

Bucky looked unconvinced. “If he hurts her—”

“I’ll punch him into another reality,” America said quickly. “Relax, Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head, but he still handed her a switchblade. “Keep it in your boot. Just in case.”

“I can tear open a hole in space.”

“Still.”

—

That night, America left through a portal with flushed cheeks, perfect eyeliner (Bucky’s doing), and the world’s most awkwardly concealed switchblade in her boot.

You and Bucky watched her go, standing side by side at the window.

“She’ll be fine,” you said.

“She’s still just a kid,” he grumbled.

You leaned into him. “She’s got this.”

Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed your temple. “Still interrogating the boyfriend when I see him.”

You smiled. “Obviously.”

—

The date went well—really well. America came back that night practically floating. 

She walked into your study smiling from ear like she’d just discovered treasure in a new universe, then immediately collapsed face-first onto the couch with a dramatic groan.

“He ordered dumplings for me without asking,” she mumbled into a cushion. “Because I mentioned it one time like two days ago.”

“That’s your bar?” You raised an eyebrow. “Dumpling telepathy?”

She rolled over, eyes bright. “It’s not just that! We talked for hours. Like, real talk. He told me about how his dad was a monk and he hated it. He said I’m like— this walking, talking reminder that the multiverse is bigger than all the rules he grew up with.”

Bucky, sitting nearby cleaning a knife, glanced over. “Sounds like he talks a lot.”

America waved a hand. “Yeah, but it’s good talk.”

For the next few months, it was like a new light had switched on in her. Still reckless, still stubborn—but brighter around the edges. 

She practiced spells with more purpose (if not more focus), sometimes scribbling his name in the margins of her notes with tiny hearts, like magic school had turned into high school overnight.

And she gushed. Oh god, she gushed.

Leo said this. Leo did that. Leo levitated an entire tray of fries because he didn’t want to stop holding her hand. Leo cast a musical glamour to make her laugh. Leo kissed her in the rain and she swears it was like being in a movie.

You smiled through most of it. You’d tease her sometimes. You offered advice when she asked. And when she didn’t, you still made sure she knew you were there.

Bucky, of course, took longer to warm up. He never threatened Leo outright, but every time the boy showed up at your door, Bucky just happened to be cleaning a rifle.

“Be safe,” he’d always say as America ran out the door. “No unsupervised pocket dimension hopping.”

But then the stories… changed.

Not in tone— she was still breathless, still had rose tinted glasses on—but in content. She started mentioning how he didn’t like sparring with her anymore because he said she “came on too strong.” How he’d get quiet when she talked about going on missions.

“He says I make everything too big,” she said once, curling deeper into a blanket while your tea kettle whispered in the background. “That I treat magic like it’s a fight instead of a philosophy.”

You didn’t say anything then.

You just handed her a cup and listened.

Because it wasn’t your place to step in— not yet. Not when she was still so hopeful, still so sure she could bend the edges of her world to match his if she just tried hard enough.

But you noticed the red flags.

You noticed how, after a couple of months, her posture shrank when she talked about him. She laughed less when he was around. How her magic sparked in unpredictable, frustrating bursts when she thought no one was looking. How she said “sorry” too often. For being late, training too hard, for simply… taking up space.

Once, during a lesson, she flubbed a shield charm she could’ve done in her sleep, and when you offered to go over it again, she waved it off with a tired smile. “Leo says I overthink everything. Maybe I should just... stop trying so hard.”

That one hurt.

But still, you didn’t say anything. You just adjusted the angle of her stance, guiding her through the sigil again. 

You’d built a relationship on trust and choice, so you needed to let her figure things out for herself while still making sure she held her head up high.

Now, even Bucky’s muscles tensed every time she brought Leo up. But even he couldn’t bear to tell her the truth he were starting to see:

That sometimes people can love you and still not understand the way you’re built.

That sometimes, someone wonderful just isn’t right.

That he wasn’t bad— but he was small, and she was infinite.

So you just waited and watched.

—

One day, Strange poked his head into the training hall after a novice lesson, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, like a man who had been asked to do brain surgery with chopsticks.

“America in Wong’s study,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “She asked for you.”

You raised an eyebrow, lowering your spellcasting hand. “Everything okay?”

“Leo… well...” Strange scratched the back of his neck. “I... tried. I made tea. I offered her a lecture on heartbreak through a metaphysical lens.”

You snorted. “You two tried to girl talk, didn’t you?”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “I thought I was doing well. Wong even mentioned Beyoncé.”

“… dear god.”

“She’s waiting,” he said, already walking away.

—

Wong’s study was unusually quiet when you stepped inside. The Sorcerer Supreme himself was nowhere in sight.

America probably told him to go because he just didn’t have anything worthwhile to say to get over a boy. 

She sat curled up in one of the high-backed chairs by the fire, legs tucked beneath her, oversized robe sleeves hanging past her hands. She stared at the floor.

You didn’t say anything, but you walked in slowly, careful not to startle her, and took the chair opposite her. You waited.

Eventually, her voice came flat, like it had been sanded down. “I told Leo it’s over.”

You nodded once. “Want to tell me what happened?”

She took a deep breath. “He said I’m becoming… too much.”

There it was, the dealbreaker. 

You could almost hear it, the way she'd been turning that phrase over and over in her mind.

“He said he loves how strong I am, but he also said I have too much of a temper. That I make everything a fight. That he doesn't like being around someone who’s always ready to run headfirst into danger.”

You let her keep going.

“He said I never sit still. That I always want more. And I tried, you know? I really tried. I stopped portaling. Skipped training. Just to show him I could be… less.” She swallowed hard. “It didn’t help. He wasn’t happier. I just felt like a stranger to myself.”

“You’re never too much,” You leaned forward slightly, “He was just too little.”

“You knew, didn’t you?” She blinked, tears threatening to spill but not quite falling. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” 

“Would you have listened?”

She froze, before giving you a rueful shake of her head.

“I was a teenage girl once, too, y’know.” You smiled gently. “Sometimes you have to feel it for yourself. Sometimes love has to fall apart before you see it was never really whole. But I need you to know— I’m here. No matter what.”

Her fingers trembled, just slightly. “It sucks.”

“It does.”

“He was almost enough,” she whispered. “But I can’t do almost.”

You studied her, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, wide with the kind of grief that makes a person seem older than they are. 

You reached over and took her hand in both of yours, “America, your standards are already higher than most people twice your age. That’s not something to be ashamed of. That’s something to be proud of.”

She gave a choked laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You gave her hand a squeeze. “You knew it didn’t feel right, and you walked away. That takes guts.”

She sat quietly for a moment. Then, she hiccuped. “You know… there’s a reason for that.” She looked up at you now. “It’s you. You and Bucky. You’re always together.”

Your breath hitched. She hadn’t said it like a compliment. She said it like it was an undeniable truth. 

“In every version of you I’ve seen,” she continued, “you two are always in love.”

You tilted your head. She had mentioned this before, but never quite expanded on it. “What do you mean?”

America sniffled, shifting slightly in her seat. “There’s a universe where you’re Spider-Woman. Bucky’s this sarcastic, reckless reporter who keeps getting himself kidnapped. You save him from actual robot ninjas and kiss him upside down in an alley.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Sounds dramatic.”

“Oh, it was.” She smiled faintly. “There’s another one where you’re a Nova Corps commander and he’s a Ravager. You risk everything to protect him. Your rank, your life. You betrayed your division to be with him.”

You hadn’t asked for these glimpses before—never wanted to pry into how the multiverse folded versions of you into different shapes. But now… now you realise how much more she actually knew you and Bucky. 

“And this one—this medieval one—where you’re a princess, and he’s your knight. He loses an eye protecting you during a siege.” Her voice cracked. “I cried in that one.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of it all settling in your soul.

“In every universe,” she said softly, “you choose each other. No matter how different the world is. Even when it doesn’t make sense. You always find your way back.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers gently along her skin. “That’s… a lot.”

“Well…” She shrugged, cheeks flushed, but didn’t look away. “You’re why I have high standards. Every time I see you, I think—that’s what love is supposed to look like. That’s why I couldn’t take ‘almost.’”

You hadn’t realised she'd been watching. That across every world she slipped through, she’d been collecting pieces of your love story like broken glass, trying to piece together something whole for herself in the process. Perhaps, it explained why she got attached to you both so quickly. 

You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, your voice soft. “You just haven’t met your Bucky yet.”

“Yeah. Okay.” A tear rolled down her cheek, but she smiled through it. “That makes sense.”

You opened your arms, and she folded into them like she’d been waiting for permission. You held her close, her forehead against your shoulder, breathing finally evening out.

Because maybe that was the secret the multiverse had been trying to whisper to her all along—that some loves echo. That some hearts are meant to find each other, no matter how many versions of the world exist. No matter how far apart they start.

And maybe one day, she would find that kind of love. A love that wasn’t almost. A love that chose her back, again and again, across time and space.

But until then—she had you.

She had Strange.

She had Wong.

She had Bucky.

And for now, that was more than enough.

—

Meanwhile, on Earth 363…

You crept in through the second-story window like you always did, the faintest thwip of your web the only sound betraying your arrival. The apartment was dark, save for the soft glow from the living room

Still in your Spider-Woman suit, you moved stealthily through the hall, peeking around the corner just as Bucky stepped into view, holding a mug in one hand and a half-eaten cookie in the other.

“You’re late,” he said, amused and entirely unsurprised. He was still in his work clothes, the name tag from the Daily Bugle still clipped to his pocket.

You groaned and flopped dramatically over the back of the couch. “How do you know I’m here? I didn’t even make a sound.”

Bucky grinned, setting his mug down as he walked over to you. “You smell like roof tar and adrenaline.”

“…well, shit.”

He leaned down and gently tugged at your mask. “C’mere.”

You let him peel it off, your hair a messy halo from hours of swinging across rooftops. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks, then kissed you. You felt loved and warm and so very home.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“I saw you this morning.”

“Still.”

You grinned and kissed him again, slower this time, one arm snaking around his back, the other cradling the back of his neck. The cookie he had was now abandoned for good.

Eventually, you both sank onto the couch, limbs tangled and a blanket pulled over you. 

“I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” Bucky said suddenly, as if the universe had given him a sudden urge to ask, his voice muffled as he buried it in your shoulder. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

You blinked, then smiled. “Me neither… wonder where she’s gone off to.”

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the slight thump of Bucky’s heartbeat against your ribs.

Wherever she was, you hoped she was safe.

You hoped she found good people. 

—

Meanwhile, in Universe-8990…

The engine hum of Bucky’s ravager ship was a familiar purr beneath your boots, the kind of sound that settled in your bones’ memory after enough time spent in deep space. You sat cross-legged on the floor of the weapons bay, your busted blaster disassembled on a crate in front of you, hands smeared with grease and face in frustration.

“I swear,” you muttered, yanking at a stubborn coil, “I could field-strip this thing in my sleep during basic training, and now I can’t even hold it right.”

“You’re probably just mad because it reminds you of the Nova Corps, babe,” Bucky said, waltzing over with a crooked grin and a Nanobot Welder in hand. 

You narrowed your eyes at him, but couldn’t quite stop the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not. I'm devastatingly handsome and occasionally insightful.”

He dropped to his knees beside you, his shoulder bumping yours. Without a word, he took the blaster from your hands, flipped it over, and adjusted the coil with a flick of his wrist. The click of realignment was so smooth, you almost didn’t hear it.

You gasped. “You’re kidding.”

“Ravager skills,” He winked. “We get creative out here without a billion credits in R&D.”

You rolled your eyes. He always looked and sounded so cocky, but underneath was the man who risked a death sentence by harboring a former Nova Commander like you. The man who never once asked if you regretted choosing him over the Corps.

“Thanks,” you said, gentler now.

“For fixing your weapon, or for stealing you away from a galactic space militia?”

You tilted your head. “Both.”

Bucky smiled, then leaned in slowly and kissed you. As always, the kiss was gentle. His fingers brushed under your chin, thumb ghosting over your cheekbones. 

When you pulled back, you let your forehead rest against his. 

“I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” Bucky said suddenly, as if the universe suddenly told him to say it. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “Yeah... me neither.”

She had helped you once—ripped open the stars and gave you a door when you thought there wasn’t one. And now, with the Corps calling you a traitor and half the galaxy after your head, you hoped she was somewhere out there, safe and happy. 

–

Meanwhile, on Earth-223…

The castle halls had been quiet for hours, the usual echoing bustle replaced with the rustle of wind through ancient stone and the occasional hoot of an owl beyond the nursery window. You rocked gently in the gilded chair beside the cradle, your newborn swaddled in your arms, his tiny fists curled against your chest as he breathed in adorable hiccupping sighs.

The fire crackled low in the hearth. Everything felt… right.

From across the room, you heard the familiar clink of armour being put down. James stood by the wardrobe, his tunic slung over one shoulder, hair damp from a quick wash. The eyepatch over his left eye caught the firelight like polished obsidian— your knight, and now your husband.

“You’re still awake,” he said as he padded over barefoot.

“He wouldn’t settle,” you whispered, glancing down at the bundle of joy in your arms. “Too curious, I think. Like his father.”

James chuckled softly, lowering himself to one knee beside you. He reached out and ran a calloused finger down the curve of your son’s cheek— the heir to the throne. 

“He’s perfect,” he said.

“You say that every night.”

“And I’ll say it every night after this.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead. “He’s going to be strong, like his mother. Brave, too.”

You looked at James, heart swelling until it threatened to spill over. “You’re not too bad in those departments yourself, my love.”

He could only give you a tired grin. 

You reached out, brushing your fingers through the hair above his ear— careful not to disturb the scar that ran beneath his eyepatch— a souvenir from the siege. The day he nearly gave his life for you. The day he threw himself in front of you, sword drawn, as the enemy breached the gate.

“I still think about that night,” you whispered.

“I don’t,” he replied just as quietly. “I only think about this one.”

You smiled down at your child, who had finally drifted into a peaceful sleep.

James leaned his head against your knee for a moment, before sighing, as if the universe had told him to ask this question. “I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” he said, almost absently. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

Your smile faltered just slightly, but fondness curled in your chest. “Me neither, my love.”

She had disappeared like a star falling sideways through the sky, always moving, always needed somewhere else. But there had been a time, not so long ago, when she stood at your side—young and fierce and loyal beyond reason. 

Wherever she was, you hoped she found a kingdom to settle in. 

—

Back in Earth-616…

You had just gotten back from Kamar-Taj. 

The buzz of a sling ring portal hummed behind you, your muscles sore from the emotional more than the physical toll. The second you stepped into your home and shut the door behind you, you let out a deep breath.

And there he was, your husband, half-reclined on the couch, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a book resting on his lap. He looked up the second he sensed you, and the lines on his forehead relaxing instantly. 

“Hey,” he said, already setting the book aside as he stood.

You let your bag drop to the floor and walked straight into his arms.

He pulled you in without a word, hugging you, metal hand pressing gently against the small of your back while the human combed into your hair. You melted into his chest, burying your face in the cotton of his Henley.

“The kid okay?” he asked after a moment, “Wong called. Told me everything.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and nodded with a sad smile. “She will be.”

He watched you for a second, like he was trying to gauge how okay you were. Then he led you to the couch, letting you curl into his side with your legs thrown over his lap and his arm around your waist. 

“America was the one who broke it off,” you said, head resting against his shoulder.

Bucky’s arms twitched just a little. “Good.”

You blinked, tilting your head up at him. “Good?”

He gave you that wicked smirk—the one that said he was already plotting something. “Where’s this Leo kid live again? Is it the left wing of the eastern temple?”

You groaned. “Bucky—”

“I’m not gonna do anything,” he said, which was exactly what he would say before doing something. “I’m just saying. You care about her. So I care about her. That’s the rule.”

You bit back a smile. “Since when is that the rule?”

“Since I fell in love with you,” he said without missing a beat.

Even after all these years, your heart still did a stupid little backflip.

“Well…” You hesitated, tracing patterns on his vibranium arm with your fingertip. “She said we are the reason she has high standards. She’s seen us together enough times to believe that kind of love is real. That she… wouldn’t settle for anything less.”

Bucky was quiet for a beat, processing that. Then he exhaled, brushing his fingers gently through your hair.

“Huh,” he said, “I’m proud of her.”

You smiled. “Yeah?”

Bucky nodded, “Took me long enough to learn that lesson. She’s ahead of the curve.” He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. 

You kissed him then. Slowly. Sweetly. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye as he pulled you closer, if that was even physically possible.

“Have I mentioned lately,” you whispered, “how much I love you?”

“Not since this morning,” he let out a small laugh, kissing you again and smiling into it. “I was starting to worry.”

You chuckled.

One day, you’d tell him the rest of the conversation. You’d sit him down and let America tell him about all the other versions of the two of you she’d seen—the princess and the knight, the runaway and the Ravager, the dramatic spider-kiss. 

But not tonight.

Tonight belonged to just this version of you and him. The one where his hand fit perfectly in yours, and your hearts beat in sync on a worn down couch that felt like the center of the universe.

And honestly… it kind of was.

-end.

yes it’s 616 for all intents and purposes even though I am well aware it is also the designation for the main comic universe. Edit: a lovely comment pointed out that America is a lesbian and dw, I am aware and I didn’t mean to undermine her sexuality! I should’ve mentioned that I am currently working on a part 2 where America starts questioning her sexuality ft. Bi!reader that centers around setting apart aesthetic attraction vs romantic attraction 🫶

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

When he died— poisoned, most likely— you didn’t cry.  

You just sat before your father’s grand mahogany desk. 

For years, your father’s enemies called you Bloody Mary– a reference to the ghost, but more likely, the queen who came before. They thought of you as your father’s most loyal asset. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Your family, your father’s men, gathered after the funeral, waiting to see what you would do. Some expected you to crumble under the slightest bit of pressure. Others expected you to follow in your father’s footsteps, continuing the cycle of violence without hesitation.  

But they underestimated you.  

You took your father’s empire and turned it on its head.  

The rich still paid their dues. You still ran the protection racket. The fine art front still laundered money. On the surface, it looked like business as usual.  

But behind the scenes, you didn’t hoard wealth anymore, you gave it off into schools, clinics, food banks— places that actually mattered. You paid your men well so they never felt the need to betray you, and you never kept more than you needed to keep up appearances.

You had done something your father had never thought to do: You built your men’s loyalty based on something stronger than fear.  

You built respect. 

You gave them purpose beyond mindless violence and greed.

Still, you were brutal… sometimes. You made examples out of those who crossed the line, but you never ruled through unnecessary cruelty. 

You spent so many years watching your father’s empire rotting Manhattan to the core. 

But under your rule, you would reshape the city.

—

Bucky had been watching you for weeks.  

Daredevil had passed the tip that the Bloody Mary had taken over her father’s empire, and Bucky, still getting used to his new role as a congressman, had decided to investigate you himself. He expected the usual— a power-hungry heir stepping into their father’s shoes, making sure the cycle of violence and corruption stayed alive. 

Your family’s protection racket, laundered through the illusion of fine art sales, had made your family filthy rich. You could have kept it going, could have doubled your wealth and expanded your influence. But that was not what you did.

The more he watched you from the shadows, the less it made sense to him.  

He observed you handling money, moving millions through shell companies and offshore accounts. 

Dirty money. That much was clear.  

But then he saw you funnel that same money into anonymous donations. He tracked the transactions, saw the new school supplies, the renovations, the overworked but relieved doctors who suddenly had the medicine they needed to save lives. 

At first, Bucky thought it was just an act, a way to buy public goodwill while you conducted business as usual. But he soon realised it could not possibly be the case.

Your donations were always anonymous. 

You were doing this because you wanted to.

And your men— oh did they adore you.

Not out of fear. Out of loyalty. And that, Bucky knew, was more dangerous than any brute force.

Still, he wasn’t convinced. 

But then, he saw you meet with an old woman in a tiny flower shop tucked between two high-rises.  

—

Mrs. Abram had been running the shop for decades, selling fresh-cut flowers in a small stall. She has had this business since you were just a little girl, giving you day-old daisies when you walked home from school. 

She had no idea who you really were—just that you were a loyal customer, always stopping by to buy a bouquet when you had the time.  

Today, she looked worried.  

“Are you okay, Mrs. Abram?” you asked as you paid for the bouquet of white lilies that you wanted to use to decorate your mahogany table.

“Oh, my dear, I hate to burden you,” she said, frowning only a little.

“I’m all ears,” you smiled. 

“My landlord raised the rent again,” she sighed, “I don’t know how much longer I can keep the shop open.”  

You tilted your head, gears clicking together in your head. “Did he now?”  

Mrs. Abram nodded. “You know how it is, flowers aren’t exactly high-profit.” She gave you a sad smile. “Maybe it’s time for me to retire.”  

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Abram,” you said, leaving a good tip on the cash register, “Things have a way of working themselves out.”  

That night, Bucky followed as you and your men hunted down her landlord— a corrupt official, one who owned more than a few buildings and had a habit of extorting his tenants.  

Bucky watched from the rooftops as you dragged the man into a dark alleyway, as you told him to lower the rent or never see the light of day again.

He nodded, terrified.

And just to make sure he understood the gravity of the situation, you had your men break two of his fingers before sending him on his way.  

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, you had one of your people anonymously pay for Mrs. Abram’s rent for the next twelve months.  

The next morning, Bucky was watching from across the street as you passed by the flower stall.

Mrs. Abram beamed at you. “Oh, my dear, you will never believe it!” she called out, “My landlord had a change of heart! He lowered my rent back down. Said he had a revelation last night. And that a kind stranger paid for a year of rent upfront!”  

You gasped, faking wide-eyed innocence. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Abram.”

Bucky exhaled as his super-soldier hearing picked up the entire conversation.

“Oh.”  

This was not what he expected at all.

Now, he wasn’t sure what to do about you.  

So he kept watching.  

Until one night, you forced his hand.  

— 

It was almost midnight when you stepped into your penthouse. Bucky was already there, sneaking in hours earlier to find a document, more evidence, anything– anything at all– to justify him watching you for weeks.

He hid behind a pillar when you walked in, lurking in the shadows.

You took off your coat and dropped your keys onto the marble counter.

Okay, Bucky thought to himself. Once she’s out of the living room, I’ll get out of the house.

"It’s rude to follow a lady into her home, congressman."

Bucky froze. 

Fuck.

Then he stepped out of the shadows.

"You knew?" He asked, but there was an undertone of curiosity in his voice. 

You turned, finally meeting his stare. There was no fear in your expression, only maddening confidence. A sweet smile curled at the edge of your lips.  

"Did you really think you were being subtle?" you confirmed.

Bucky shifted his weight. "Why didn't you say anything?"  

You shrugged and began walking toward the hallway. He hesitated for half a second before following you.

"I want you to figure it out yourself," you said as you pushed open the bathroom door but didn’t bother to close it. “I know the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen thinks I am an extension of my father, but he believes that because I want him to believe it. And now you know I’m not the bad guy.”

Bucky leaned against the doorframe. "So what exactly are you?"  

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached behind you and pulled the zipper of your dress down, the silky fabric sliding off your shoulders. You let it pool at your feet before stepping out of it.  

Bucky quickly turned his head away, heat rising to his cheeks.

You laughed quietly. "You can look if you want." You stepped into the glass-walled shower, unhooking your bra and slipping out of your remaining underwear. "You’re not getting shy now, are you?"  

Bucky kept his eyes on the ceiling. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.  

"You’ve been watching me for weeks," you teased, turning on the shower and washing dried blood off your hands. “Surely you already know what I look like by now."  

Bucky forced himself to look at you— not fully, but enough. You were standing under the stream of water, eyes half-lidded, as you shampooed your hair. 

You were… completely at ease in your own skin.  

Bucky had been prepared for a cold-blooded crime boss. He had been prepared for easy to hate.  

He hadn’t been prepared for you.  

Charming. Smart. Good, in your own twisted way.  

And he definitely hadn’t been prepared to find you so fucking attractive.  

"Why didn’t you say anything?" he asked again as you cleaned your body with milky soap. 

You wiped water from your face. "Because I need you."  

Bucky frowned. "For what?"  

You stayed quiet for a second, washing the bubbles away. 

Then, you turned off the shower, stepping out.

“Grab me a towel, will you?”

Bucky didn't know why, but he complied.

You took it and resumed the conversation. "Because funding schools and shelters isn’t enough," you said simply. "I am still enabling people to ruin my community."  

You wrapped the towel around yourself, walking past him like he wasn’t even there. He followed you into the bedroom.  

"I can give you the names of the people arming the streets," you said, opening a drawer and pulling out a fresh set of comfy lounging lingerie. "The people pumping drugs into the city. The corrupt cops." You turned to face him. "But they can’t know it’s me."  

Bucky crossed his arms, realising what you truly wanted. "You want me to be your middleman."  

You sat down in your bed after putting at least something on, but still showing too much skin for Bucky to think straight. "I want you to do something about it, congressman. Because I can’t."  

The filthy rich still thought they were untouchable. But now, you wanted to double-cross them. Funding communities wasn’t enough for you anymore. 

Bucky exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He should walk away. This wasn’t the kind of alliance he was supposed to make.  

But you had information.  

And God help him, you were just so fucking persuasive.  

"Fine," he said finally. "But I’m not covering for you if this goes south."  

—

Over the next few months, your alliance grew stronger.

You and your men fed Bucky intel. He took it to the right people. Major players and corrupt government officials began dropping like flies—arrested, exiled, convicted. No one suspected you.  

Through it all, you and Bucky kept meeting. Sometimes in your penthouse, sometimes in the back room of an upscale restaurant, sometimes in a dimly lit alleyway where no one would hear you whispering names in his ear.  

At first, he called you by the name, too. Bloody Mary—like you were just another villain in the long line of Manhattan’s criminals. You did not like that. It was a name your enemies had given you. You never called yourself that. Neither did your men.

To them, you were just you.

Somewhere along the way, Bloody Mary stopped making sense.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped being just a crime boss to him.

So when he started referring to you by your name—your real name— you just smiled.

Because you knew.

You had him.

—

Bucky didn’t know why he agreed to meet you like this.  

A casual coffee walk, in broad daylight, as if you weren’t a crime boss feeding a congressman classified intel over overpriced lattes. As if you weren’t two people on opposite sides of a game neither of you should be playing together.  

And yet, here he was.  

The late afternoon sun blanketed the city in gold as the two of you strolled down the sidewalk, your coat draped over your shoulders. 

“Four big investigations in a week,” you quipped, sipping your coffee. “Busy week for the feds.”

Bucky laughed in sarcasm. “It’s almost as if someone’s feeding them information.”  

You shot him a knowing smile over the rim of your paper cup, knowing full well what you did. “Weird.”  

Bucky shook his head. He should’ve been used to this by now— the way you played with fire so arrogantly, never once thinking you might get burned.  

You walked another block, your voice just loud enough for him to hear. “The Blackwoods are smuggling firearms in waves. I’ve got two underboss names for you. Lou White and Carter Yeun. They’ll be at the warehouse on 34th Street in six days, moving a shipment.”  

You were close enough that Bucky caught the faintest scent of your amber and spice perfume. It messed with his focus more than he cared to admit.  

He nodded. “I’ll get someone on it.”  

You smiled like you’d already known he would. 

As you neared the familiar little flower stall tucked between two high-rises, you slowed down. “Oh, look," you said, nodding toward the stall. "Mrs. Abram is working today."  

Bucky followed, watching as the old woman meticulously arranged a bundle of fresh daisies, her weathered hands moving with care.  

You slowed your pace, and without thinking, Bucky matched yours.  

Mrs. Abram looked up and smiled. "Oh, my dear! I was just thinking about you. I just got fresh batches today.”

Bucky watched as you ran your fingers over the different kinds of delicate petals. Your eyes seem linger at the colourful tulips. “These are gorgeous.”

Mrs. Abram nodded. “A beautiful girl like you deserves beautiful things."  

Bucky didn’t even think before he spoke. "She does."  

You paused, glancing at him. Bucky could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, but he refused to look away.  

Mrs. Abram, bless her, was oblivious to the tension shifting. "What a gentleman! Would you like to buy her a bouquet, dear?"  

Bucky knew he should say no. He should let you pay for your own damn flowers and keep things professional between you. But instead—  

"I’ll take the tulips," he said.  

He wasn’t sure why he did it—maybe it was the way you looked so… normal with civilians, or maybe it was the way he was starting to want things he shouldn’t.

After he paid for the flowers (and told Mrs. Abram to keep the change), the two of you walked away. 

You arched a brow. "James Barnes, buying me flowers?"  

Bucky exhaled, hastily handing you the bouquet you were going to get anyways. "Don’t make it weird."  

“Are you trying to bribe me?" you considered, accepting them with a wicked sparkle in your eye.

Bucky scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You already gave me the intel."  

"So it is just a gift, then?"  

Bucky didn’t answer. 

As you twirled one of the blooms between your fingers, Bucky swore he caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction on your face— like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Bucky didn’t know what the hell this was, this game you played with him, but he knew one thing for certain: He was losing.

—

One night, after Yeun’s and White’s successful takedown, you stood close to him in your office, swirling a glass of whiskey in one hand.  

"You like this," you observed, looking up at him through your lashes. 

Bucky scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I like locking bad rich people away."  

"You like me, too." you corrected.  

He grinded his teeth. 

"You can admit it, Barnes,” you chuckled, handing him his own glass of whiskey as you sat on your mahogany table. A bouquet of pink daisies that Bucky had picked up for you from Mrs. Abram’s stall yesterday sat pretty next to you. “I won’t bite."  

He smiled, taking a sip. "I think you would."  

You tilted your head. "Would that be such a bad thing?"  

Bucky swallowed hard.  

You set down your glass and gesture at him to come closer. He moved between your legs, almost nervously.

You reached up, fingers grazing his vibranium arm. "You’re wrapped around my little finger," you murmured, tilting your chin up toward him. "Aren’t you?"  

Bucky exhaled through his nose. His hands twitched at his sides.  

Then—finally—he grabbed you by the waist and you smiled.

Bucky’s lips were barely an inch from yours when—  

Knock knock.

“Boss?” A voice muffled by the heavy door said.

You sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in your eyes as you pulled back. Bucky let out a ragged breath, his grip on your waist tightening for just a second before he let go.  

“Not a great time, Ollie,” you called out, smoothing your clothes like you hadn’t just been in very close proximity to the former Winter Soldier.  

Oliver, your underboss, sounded apologetic. “Yeah, sorry, but you said to tell you when the files came in.”  

Your lips twitched. You glanced at Bucky, who looked half-ready to strangle Ollie once you opened the door.

You turned your back toward the door. “Give me five minutes.”  

Bucky ran a hand down his face as soon as Ollie’s footsteps retreated. “Fuck’s sake.”  

You just smirked. “What?”  

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You planned that.” he said, but the accusation was half-hearted. 

“I didn’t, but it’s not my fault you think too much, Barnes.” You tidied up your desk a little, bending over just enough to drive him utterly insane. “Could’ve had me already.”  

You liked this game. This will-they-won’t-they tension. You liked watching him struggle, watching him want.  

Bucky was a disciplined man, trained to endure pain and resist temptation.  

But you were testing the limits of his restraint.  

And you knew it.  

Bucky stepped closer. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”   

“I think,” you said, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look in your eyes, “that you like this game as much as I do.”  

Bucky’s neck muscles flexed. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. He wanted to wipe that smug look right off your face.  

Maybe with his mouth.  

“Now, come on, Congressman,” You patted his chest lightly as you stepped past him. “We’ve got business to handle.”  

Bucky closed his eyes and clenched his fists.  

You were going to drive him insane.

—

But that was months ago. 

Tonight, the red wine in your glass swirled lazily as you leaned back in your chair. You were sitting on the table on the balcony of your penthouse. Up here, the world felt quiet. 

On the table sat a small vase of peonies— Bucky had bought them for you this week. It had become a tradition. He insisted that it was just a nice thing to do, that he bought you flowers because he wanted to keep a good professional relationship, though you knew it was bullshit. 

But now, the beautiful blooms seemed out of place considering the company you hosted tonight.

Across from you, Eddie Blackwood reclined with the arrogance of a man who had never faced real consequences. The overprivileged, overconfident son of one of New York’s most ruthless crime lords— Liam Blackwood.

The same Blackwood whose weapon shipment had been taking over the city like wildfire. Sure, Bucky had stopped a couple, but more kept coming. 

You needed to know more, so you invited Eddie here under the pretense of diplomacy.

Predictably, he had gotten the wrong idea.

"You know," Eddie murmured, swirling his wine. "I was surprised you invited me over."

You arched a brow, feigning amusement. "Hm?”

He leaned in, the scent of his cologne sickening. It was suffocating. "My father thinks you’d benefit from an alliance marriage, Bloody Mary,” he said even as you winced at the nickname. “I didn’t peg you as the type, but then… I got your call. I’m glad we’re discussing it tonight."

From the earpiece nestled discreetly in your ear, Bucky’s voice came through. He was unimpressed and already done with this conversation.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me."

You hid your smirk behind a sip of wine.

Eddie couldn’t hear him. But Bucky could hear everything. And it was killing him.

You had asked him for a favour tonight. You had stationed him on the rooftop across the street, watching through the scope of a sniper, his finger resting near the trigger. He was there as a precaution, in case things went south.

"You’re mistaken," you said smoothly, setting your glass down.

“No?” Eddie grinned, mistaking your resistance for playing hard-to-get. “Then why did you invite me here?"

For information.

His father was too smart to talk. But Eddie? Eddie was an idiot. And you knew men like him would spill anything, given the right… distraction.

So you played along.

For now.

His fingers traced the rim of his glass before sliding onto your knee.

"He’s getting handsy." Bucky snarled in your earpiece. "I’ll fucking shoot him," 

You shook your head subtly, just enough to get your point across to the super soldier. Not yet.

Eddie, blissfully unaware of the expert marksman lining up a shot on him, let his hand drift higher, resting it on your waist.

"You're tense," he said, kneading your hip. "I can fix that."

Bucky thought, Enough.

Then a single shot rang through the night.

Eddie screamed, his body jerking backward as his wine glass shattered when he dropped it. 

Across the street, Bucky’s voice came through the earpiece, utterly unapologetic.

"Oops."

You exhaled, dabbing at the corner of your lips with your napkin before standing.

"Fuck," Eddie gasped, clutching his shoulder as blood seeped between his fingers and into his very expensive ivory suit. "You— you had a sniper on me the whole time?"

You stepped around the table. He trembled  as he realized just how precarious his situation was.

You crouched beside him, gripping his bloodied shoulder hard enough to make him whimper.

"You’re going to tell me," you demanded, "where your father’s next shipment is coming from."

Eddie’s breath hitched, "I—I can’t—"

Your nails dug in his wound. "I wasn’t asking."

His eyes darted in panic, allowing a beat of silence.

"The docks," he finally choked out, his voice shaking. "Pier 7. Two weeks from now at midnight."

“See?” You smiled, patting his cheek mockingly before standing. "That wasn’t so hard."

Eddie slumped against the chair, panting. Blood dripped onto the tablecloth, staining it red.

You leaned in one last time, "If I hear you running your mouth," you said, "the next bullet will be between your eyes."

Eddie nodded frantically. 

You tilted your head toward the door. "Get out."

The moment the words left your lips, Ollie and the rest of your men moved in, hauling him to his feet. He groaned in pain as they dragged him away.

Only when the door slammed shut behind them did you let out a breath, rolling your shoulders.

"You okay?" Bucky’s voice crackled in your ear, gentler now.

You smiled, knowing he was watching.

"Nice shot, Congressman," you said, turning toward the doors. "Get down here. I have whiskey."

"On my way."

—

Your penthouse was beautiful. 

The city lights glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. But Bucky wasn’t looking at the view.

He was watching you.

You poured two glasses of whiskey and slid one toward him. You were still in your dinner dress with a slit that rode high up your thigh.

Eddie Blackwood had touched you there.

Bucky hated it.

He took the glass. "You didn’t have to let him touch you," he said.

You leaned on the bar lazily. "Jealous, Barnes?"

Yes.

Yes, he was.

And he fucking hated himself for it.

This—whatever this was between you—wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a business arrangement. But every time another man so much as looked at you, a sense of possession coiled in his chest.

You stepped closer, tilting your head, studying him like you could read his thoughts. 

Bucky knocked back his whiskey in one go. It burned, but not as much as the fire curling in his stomach.

"You had me watching through a damn scope while he put his hands on you," he muttered, setting the empty glass down with a clink. "You think that was fun for me?"

"Relax," you teased, running a slow finger along the rim of your glass as you took another sip. "I knew you’d take the shot when I needed you to."

That only pissed him off more.

Because you had trusted him. Enough to put yourself in harm’s way, to let another man touch you, knowing that Bucky would be jealous enough to end it before things went too far.

Your underbosses still lingered at the entrance of the penthouse, waiting for your next order. 

"Ollie, Jack," you said, turning towards them. "Do you boys want a drink?"

They both shook their heads no, murmuring their refusals.

"You should go home, then,” you continued empathetically. "Be with your families."

They hesitated, their eyes flicking toward Bucky, who stood rigid by the bar. 

You reassured them, "The Congressman will keep me safe. Right, darling?"

Bucky’s grip tightened around the edge of the bar.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your men exchanged a glance but didn’t argue. With brief goodbyes, they left.

As soon as you were alone, you turned back to Bucky as he considered his next move. 

He should leave.

He should walk out of here before this thing between you got even more complicated than it already was.

But then you took a step closer.

And Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t want to move.

You set your glass down, and leaned in, your voice dipping into a sultry whisper against the lobe of his ear.

"You know, you have no right to be jealous, James," you mentioned, your lips just barely brushing his jaw. "You don’t even have me."

Bucky gulped.

Fuck.

"But I know you want me," you continued, your voice like velvet. "But you’re just such a gentleman. You haven’t even kissed me yet."

“I know,” he confirmed, almost with regret.

“And why is that?” You asked.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

His fingers twitched with the urge to take. 

You made him reckless.

You pulled him from the bar and pushed him onto the couch, standing tall and imposing over him, the slit in your dress parting just enough to remind him of where Blackwood had touched.

Bucky’s hands found your hips before he could stop himself, gripping tight— possessive. The same hips Blackwood had squeezed before Bucky had put a bullet in his shoulder.

"Because…" he trailed off, unraveling under you.

His grip tightened.

His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.

Then, finally, the words slipped out.

"Because I want you to claim me."

That undid you.

You had been toying with him for months, teasing, pushing and pulling until neither of you could not see where the game ended and reality began. But now there was no mistaking it.

Bucky Barnes—Congressman, soldier, sniper—wanted you.

And he wanted you to take him.

So you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was raw, all heat and desperation. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, owning. He groaned into your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips like he was daring you to ruin him.

And you would.

Bucky pulled you down onto his lap, his hands roaming, marking you just as much as you were marking him. Your dress had ridden up high, his calloused fingers skimming your bare skin. You rocked against him, swallowing the way he gasped against your lips.

He was usually so controlled— but now he was unraveling like loose thread and you loved it.

But when you pulled back with your fingers tracing his pulse, you saw something tender in his eyes. It was more than just lust, more than just the frustration of a months-long push-and-pull finally breaking the surface.

Bucky swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling.

“You gonna run your mouth again, Congressman?” you teased, fingers still fisted in his hair.

His hands tightened on your thighs. “Depends,” he whispered, the words coming out rough. “You gonna keep pretending this doesn’t mean something to you?”

Now that was a line you hadn’t expected him to cross.

You could handle flirting. You could handle games. You could handle sexual politics. But this was dangerous.

So you could only lean in, your lips just barely grazing his again, but instead of kissing him, you whispered, “What do you want this to mean?”

Bucky’s metal fingers flexed on your skin. 

Then—

“You already know,” he rasped.

Fuck.

For all your power, for all your control— for weren’t sure if you wanted to admit it. Yet. 

Bucky was still beneath you, breath ragged, pupils blown wide. You hadn’t kissed him again. You liked watching him unravel first.

His human fingers dug into your hips and bunched the fabric of your dress. His restraint was slipping— you could see it in the way his throat worked around a swallow, in the way his hands tightened on you like he was afraid you’d disappear into thin air.

You dragged a hand down his chest. There was no more space left between you. Not physically. Not in any way that mattered.

"You’re tense, Congressman," you teased with amusement. "I can fix that."

A deep growl rumbled from his chest. "Don’t you fucking use his words on me."

He was wild. Dangerous. You liked him like this.

And when you leaned in, dragging your lips over his pulse, you felt the exact moment he shattered.

Then you lead him off of the couch and to the balcony.

—

In the morning, Bucky was still here.

You had expected him to leave. To slip out before dawn, pretending nothing happened. That’s what powerful men often did.

But instead, he was still in your bed, arm slung lazily over his eyes, chest rising and falling beautifully.

You stretched, the ache in your muscles serving as a reminder of exactly how the night had unfolded.

Bucky shifted, humming from low in his throat. Then—

"You fucked me on a balcony table." His voice was still rough with sleep, still in disbelief.

Your brow arched. "I know."

He exhaled, shaking his head as he finally turned to look at you. His hair was a mess, but he was still beautiful.

Bucky huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Blackwood’s blood was still on the table."

Your smile was wicked. “I know,” you repeated.

His eyes darkened.

He liked that, didn’t he?

You hummed, propping yourself on one elbow. The sheet slipped slightly, revealing the bare skin of your shoulder, the faintest trace of where Bucky had gripped you too hard and left bruises on accident— or maybe not.

Bucky flopped back against the pillows, shaking his head. “I’m gonna need to go back to therapy,” he joked. You could tell he really didn’t mean it.

You laughed, pressing your lips to his bare shoulder. "Poor thing," you teased, nipping lightly at his skin. "Invoice me. I’ll pay for the sessions.”

—

You hadn’t meant for it to become a pattern, hadn’t planned for Bucky to become a fixture in your bed, but that’s exactly what happened.   

The first night happened almost two weeks ago, now, he was coming over every other day. You’d call him over under the guise of business, giving him another scrap of intel about the Blackwood arms deal, another excuse to keep him coming. Then, when business concluded, you let him stay.   

You liked it that way.   

Your men knew the drill. You’d tell them to leave, to go home, that The Congressman would keep you company tonight. That he would keep you satisfied. 

And god, did he keep you satisfied.  

See, now, when Bucky came over, he left his title at the door. He stopped being Congressman Barnes the moment you had your hands on him. In the privacy of your home, away from the prying eyes of the world, he was your James. Just yours.   

And fuck, he was such a mess for you. 

You had him surrendering completely to your touch in less than a week, and he took to it beautifully. You liked him this way— on his knees as he tried to earn your approval. He never rushed, never took more than you gave him, and fuck if that wasn’t the hottest thing in the world. 

Because Bucky was powerful. He was respected. But here, he surrendered to you so easily, like he had been waiting for you to take the reins. Like he was enjoying being ruined.

But neither of you wanted to define it.  

Out loud, this was just business. It was just intel swapping. If you didn’t put a name to it, then maybe it wouldn’t matter that you supposedly ran a criminal empire and he had a seat in Congress. 

You convinced yourself it was better this way. 

But it was getting harder to ignore how much you wanted him… in ways that was more than just physical. You craved more, and it was starting to eat at you.   

And Bucky… he had his own ways of making things worse, even when his heart was in the right place.

He still bought you flowers every week. Always from Mrs. Abrams’ stall, always something different. This time, it was red roses.

“She’s going to like these,” Mrs. Abrams said as she wrapped them in brown paper. She had known you since you were young, back when you used to visit the stall with your mother. When you grew older, you always left a generous tip, and sometimes, she wondered what exactly you did for work. But you’d never tell her, and she never pried.

Bucky handed her the money and added a hefty tip of his own. 

“She has always been so independent,” she tucked the bills away. “It’s nice to see someone care for her like this.”  

“She doesn’t need taking care of,” Bucky shrugged. “She just likes flowers.”

“Still,” she handed him the bouquet, “it’s nice to see someone finally love her.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “You think I love her?”  

Mrs. Abrams looked at him like he was stupid. “Of course. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”  

That rattled him. He took the roses and left without responding, without letting himself think too hard about it.

But that was easier said than done. The entire walk to your building, he thought about it.  

By the time he reached your office, you weren’t there. Too busy with the Blackwood arms deal that was happening tomorrow.  

So instead, he left the bouquet on your desk, tucking a note into the wrapping.   

For the not-so-bloody Mary.

He didn’t know why he wrote it. Maybe he just wanted to remind you that you weren’t that to him. You weren’t a queen of the criminal underworld to him. 

You were just… you. 

And you were a good person, no matter what your enemies thought of you. 

—

The next night, Bucky stared out to the Hudson.

Daredevil stood beside him, arms crossed, listening intently to the distant sirens as they closed in.  

Thanks to the airtight intel you’ve collected for months, the two of them successfully took down the Blackwood arms deal, and there was a little less filth in the streets of New York.

In the warehouse, they left people tied in thick rope, mouths taped shut, waiting for law enforcement to collect them. 

Thanks to you, it had been a clean operation. No one died.   

“So. Bloody Mary,” Matt Murdock mentioned. “Still can’t believe she’s one of the good ones.”  

Bucky’s jaw clicked as he thought about you.  

The way you had looked at him, head tilted in pleasure.

So Bucky only let out a nervous chuckle, shaking his head as he turned away from the dock.

Because if Matt Murdock ever found out—if anyone did—it would ruin this little arrangement that you had.

—

He found you in your penthouse later that night.

You were perched at your mahogany desk, the red roses in vase next to you.

You barely acknowledged him at first, too focused on the numbers on the screen.  You were moving money around, no doubt— perhaps another private donation to a rehab clinic. 

Then, after you’ve wrapped everything up, you dismissed your men with a flick of your wrist.  

The second the door shut, you smiled at him. 

“Good boy,” you praised him. “Took them down, just like I told you to.”  

Bucky swallowed hard as heat grew in his stomach.

He wasn’t sure if it was the praise or the way you looked at him when you said it.

“What’s your plan now?” he asked, pouring you and himself a glass of whiskey before going out of your study and into the living room, plopping down on the couch. 

You could only follow, sitting next to him and sipping from the glass he poured for you. You considered his question for a while. 

“I’ll do it all over again,” you said. “Until I atone for my father’s sins.” You paused, letting out a short, humourless laugh. “Which is never.”

His chest tightened.  

You rarely talked about your father at all, at least not in any way that mattered. But Bucky had done his research. He knew of the trail of blood your father had carved through this city. And he had known you long enough to know that you were trying to be something different.  

“You’re a good person,” Bucky said, like it was the only truth in the world.  

And yet, you struggled to believe it.

A bitter, unrestrained laugh slipped past your lips. “Think again.”  

Good? What on Earth was he on about?

There was blood on your hands, enough to stain a lifetime. You had taken lives, burned bridges, walked through fire to build something better from the ashes. You were beginning to understand why your enemies called you Bloody Mary.

But Bucky still looked at you like you were sacred. He saw past the destruction, past the sins and the wreckage, straight where your heart was— in the right place.

It drove him mad that you didn’t see yourself the way he did.  

Then, Mrs. Abram’s words echoed in his head. Of course. I’ve seen the way you look at her.

She was right. He had spent months pretending this was just intel, just politics. But he wasn’t a good liar when it came to you. He couldn’t keep it inside any longer.  

“You know,” he carefully considered his words, “maybe the Blackwood kid was onto something. Mafia marriages are supposed to symbolise alliances, right?”  

You groaned, tipping your head back. Where on earth could he possibly be going with this? you thought. “You are joking,” you said, “No family in New York could possibly strengthen me.”  

“But I’m just saying…” he gulped nervously, leaning closer. Close enough for you to smell his expensive cologne. Close enough so that his heartbeat rang in your ears, too.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be another mob boss,” he murmured. His lips ghosted over your jaw, not quite touching yet just a whisper away. “Maybe… it could be a congressman.”  

Your breath hitched. What?

His next words were a confession. It was a vow.

“If you wanted a king, my queen,” he said, voice soft and steady, “all you had to do was say so.”  

Oh?

You tilted your head. “What are you trying to say, Barnes?” You asked carefully, setting down your drink. “That you love me?”  

His smile faltered. Just for a second.  

Then in a voice that held no hesitation, he said:  

“Yes.”  

Your fingers curled against the armrest so tightly you might have permanently warped the cushion. 

Holy shit.

“Oh.”  

It wasn't a surprise —not really. Deep down, you’d known. You’d known it from the way he looked at you, the way his touch lingered too long, the way the lines on his forehead softened when he was around you. 

But knowing it— hearing it— was different.  

Your heart slammed against your ribs, and you even wondered if it would ever settle down again.

Bucky had never been the kind of man to say things lightly. So when he said it—yes, he meant it.

Your fingers finally reached for him. Cupping his jaw, tilting his face toward yours, forcing him to look at you the way you knew he wanted to.  

“So loyal,” you admired his beautiful features. Your thumb brushed over his stubble, tracing the shape of his lips. “So pretty.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his lips parting, pupils dilated. His breath was rattling in his chest. Little did you know, he was fighting the urge to drop to his knees before you.  

Then, you kissed him.  

For the first time, it was sweet. It was soft.  

His reaction was instant—he’d been waiting for this. His hands found your waist, fingers digging in, dragging you closer with a desperation that made heat pool low in your stomach. 

He was solid, real. You could even feel the way his muscles twitch as if to keep himself from devouring you completely.  

But you didn’t want him restrained.

You rewarded him by sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, as if to say take what you want, James.

And fuck. He did.  

He kissed you harder. His grip on you tightened, fingers splaying over your spine, pressing into your skin as if he could pull you beneath it.  

And when you finally pulled back, Bucky was wrecked.

His chest heaved, lips were red and swollen. His hands were still locked around you, and letting go wasn’t an option.

You studied him, thumb dragging over his bottom lip, feeling the way it parted under your touch.  

God.

He was lovely. He was perfect. 

It was almost laughable— how you had been so caught up in the Blackwood arms deal, that somehow, you had missed the way he completed you.  

“Maybe not a king,” you entertained his thoughts. “Maybe… prince consort.”

Bucky blinked, his brain clearly short-circuiting. 

Before he could process, your lips brushed against his ear, your voice dipping into something sinful.  

“What do you say?” Your fingers tugging his hair slightly, earning a soft pant. “Be my prince?”

And Bucky—  The former Winter Soldier— fucking melted.

“Yes,” he whimpered. He pleaded.

You smiled wickedly, fingers threading through his hair before cradling and squishing his cheeks.

“I’ll buy you the nicest ring, sweetie,” you cooed, your voice dripping with affection as you brushed a stray lock of hair from his face.  

It wasn’t a joke. You weren’t teasing. 

No, you needed him to understand that this was not just a union of alliances.  

That this was you choosing him.

And then, you said, “Because I love you too.”  

Bucky let out a shaky breath, hands tightening around your waist. He needed to anchor himself. He couldn’t even believe this was real.

Because love?

He had forgotten what that felt like.  

Affection, yes. Lust, of course. But love was something he only observed from the outside.

Love was distant. Foreign. Love was something people like him weren’t supposed to have. He had lived more than one lifetimes and never once belonged to anything.  

Until now. Until you. 

His queen.  

And fuck—he was devoted.

To your power. To your ambition. To every wicked and holy piece of you.  

He was so utterly devoted that he would place his knife in your hand and bare his throat and trust that you would not destroy him.  

And you?  

You were going to spoil him rotten.

The finest suits. The best weapons. A fucking allowance because between the mob and a literal superhero, you were the most powerful couple this city had ever seen, and you wanted him to have everything.

You wanted to know that he was yours.  

That he was precious. 

That he was loved.  

Because Bucky Barnes was yours now.

And you had every intention of keeping it that way. 

You dragged your nails down the back of his neck, unravelling his resolve. “Look at you,” you pouted adorably, “all mine.”  

Bucky swallowed hard, but he didn’t argue. 

Your lips brushed against his, teasing, just barely touching.  

“You know what, baby?” your fingers sliding into his hair, “You would look good on your knees right about now.”

He groaned, needy. 

“Say it again,” he rasped, voice wrecked.  

“Say what?”  

His hands tightened on your waist, as he dropped from the couch and sunk on the floor, peppering kisses on your thighs.

“That you love me,” he said. It was nearly a plea, nearly a demand.

“I love you, James.”  

Fuck—

“I love you, too.” 

He kissed you hard, pushing you back against back of the couch, hands grabbing, desperate, needing—

He was going to worship you tonight.  

And by morning, the entire city would know exactly who he belonged to.

-End.

If I make another one shot connected to this one where Congressman!Bucky takes mob boss!reader to a state gala for the first time, would you read it? Also, if you like this one, please send me more Bucky x Mob boss! reader. I loved writing this so much!

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