#barnes

Click. Too late.

The Polaroid whirs softly as the photo slides out, and you grin, waving it in the air to dry. “Relax, it’s candid. Very artistic.”

“Artistic,” he repeats flatly, finally glancing up at you. “I’m sitting on a couch.”

“Exactly. Vulnerable. Raw. Emotional.”

“I’m reading.”

“Deeply emotional.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no real bite to it. Just that familiar, grumbly resignation “…You’re weird,” he decides.

You beam. “You love me anyway.”

He doesn’t answer that. But he doesn’t tell you to stop either.

It becomes a habit after that.

Not posed pictures, Bucky refuses those outright. No smiling on command, no “stand here,” no “look at me.” The second you try, he disappears.

But the quiet moments? Those you steal.

Bucky by the window, sunlight soft against his face, lashes casting faint shadows. Bucky frowning at his phone like it personally offended him. Bucky half-asleep on the couch, head tilted back, breathing slow and even unguarded in a way he never is awake.

Every time— “Doll.”

Click.

A sigh. A shake of his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

And yet… he never asks you to throw them away.

Weeks pass.

The photos pile up in your room, tucked into books, pinned to the wall, scattered across your desk like little captured pieces of something warm and growing.

Bucky pretends not to notice them when he comes over.

Pretends not to pause just a second too long in front of one where he’s smiling. Pretends not to soften.

One evening, you’re in his room.

He’s in the kitchen, something clattering faintly in the background.

“Hey,” you call, rummaging near his nightstand, “you got a charger?”

“Top drawer,” he answers. “Should be in there.”

“Got it—” You pull it open.

And then—You stop.

Because it’s not just a charger.

It’s them. Your breath catches.

Dozens of Polaroids, stacked carefully, edges worn just slightly like they’ve been handled over and over again. Not crumpled. Not shoved aside.

Kept. You pick one up.

Bucky, mid-laugh—rare, bright, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds. You barely remember taking it.

Another—him asleep, curled slightly on his side, one hand tucked under his head.

Another—

Your heart stutters. It’s him looking at you.

Soft. Open. Something unspoken in his eyes.

You don’t even remember pressing the shutter for that one.

“Find it?” His voice is closer now.

You turn slowly, photo still in your hand “You kept them.”

Bucky freezes. For a second, he looks caught like you’ve stepped into something private he never meant to show you.

His jaw tightens. “Was gonna throw ’em out.”

You raise an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at the drawer.

“…Didn’t,” he mutters.

Silence settles between you, soft and fragile.

You step closer. “Why?”

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck, gaze dropping to the floor.

“It’s stupid.”

“Bucky.”

Another pause. Then, quieter honest in a way he doesn’t let himself be often “…Feels like proof.”

Your chest tightens. “Proof of what?”

He swallows “That I’m here,” he says. “That this—” his hand gestures vaguely between you “—is real.”

Your fingers curl slightly around the photo.

“That you’re real.”

Oh. Oh.

You don’t think, you just move. Closing the distance, reaching for his hand.

He stills when your fingers lace with his, like he’s afraid to react too quickly, too strongly like he might break something if he’s not careful.

“You don’t need pictures for that,” you say softly. “I’m right here.”

His eyes flick to yours. Searching. Uncertain.

Like he’s still not fully convinced this isn’t something temporary. Something he’ll wake up from.

You squeeze his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That does something to him. You see it the shift. Small, but real.

His grip tightens just a little, thumb brushing against your knuckles.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

A beat passes. “…Still keeping the pictures, though.”

You laugh softly, the tension melting away. “Obviously.”

The next morning, sunlight spills lazily into the kitchen.

Bucky’s already there messy hair, worn t-shirt, mug in hand, looking like something quiet and safe.

You lean against the doorway, watching him for a moment.

He glances up. “What?”

You lift the camera.

He sighs immediately “…Don’t.”

Click. Too late.

The photo slides out, and you grin, shaking it gently.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters.

But there’s no heat in it. Just softness. Just familiarity. Just something that feels like home. Later when you’re distracted, busy pinning another photo to your wall, Bucky picks it up from the counter. Looks at it for a long moment. Carefully… quietly… He slips it into his pocket. And when he gets home It joins the others in the drawer. 💙

✦✦✦✦ ✦✦✦✦

💌 tagged babies💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @okaytrashpanda @xamapolax @aceofheartsssss @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @cjand10 @aesthetic0cherryblossom @rosemary-beach-babe @pattiemac1 @morphoportis @sugamilkey @dreammiiee @riah1606 @suri-de-city @ordelixx @galaxygoddess30 @magnificentreviewdreamer @flowstatefic @prk-hoon @multifandomrandomgirl @kodzuminx @sarapolare @sinistersnakey @greatenthusiasttidalwave @najdjjfjjdid @thelastbluecookie @squishyfruitloop @cammiwu @livia087 @boomyoulookingforthis @nvr-land @sebastians-love @lilulicious @themareverine @oscarssebastian @escuzimwa @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @bvcks-cc @onyx8514

Between mental health program expansions and military funding allocations, he’s been up to his head in paperwork and meetings. Stacks of folders on the dining room table. Red tabs and sticky notes poking out like warning flags. His laptop glowing at two in the morning while you pretend to be asleep so he won’t feel guilty.

He always knew this wouldn’t be easy.

And that’s okay.

Because he’s fighting for things he believes in.

Increased funding for active-duty mental health services. You remember the night before he had to pitch it - tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, pacing your living room while rehearsing lines under his breath. He was nervous about talking openly about his own struggles. About admitting that sometimes the bravest thing he’d done wasn’t on a battlefield - it was walking into a therapist’s office.

You remember sitting cross-legged on the couch, listening to him practice. Watching his hands shake just slightly.

He got through enough of those stoic faces in that committee room to secure a second vote. That alone felt like a small miracle.

Then there was cybersecurity funding for the Pentagon.

He’s never been that great with anything electronic. You still have to reset the Wi-Fi router. But he understands what’s at stake. He understands that wars don’t only happen in deserts and oceans anymore. They happen behind screens. And if the Pentagon needs better protection, then he’s going to fight for it.

Being a veteran himself, he’s always felt like he carries something extra. A weight. A responsibility.

Which is why he continues pushing for expanded care access for veterans transitioning home. Housing support. Job placement programs. Counseling that doesn’t have a six-month waitlist.

He says it’s policy.

You know it’s personal.

Bucky has always been hardworking - balancing missions, balancing expectations, balancing ghosts.

But he’s never really had to balance all of it with a girlfriend.

Luckily for him, you’re understanding.

So while he’s in hearings, reviewing classified briefs, and negotiating defense budgets, you’re at your own job.

As a high school history teacher, you know a thing or two about Congress. About how slow it moves. About how necessary it is. About how frustrating it can be.

You teach your students about institutions. About the structure of government. About checks and balances and civic duty.

You believe in institutions.

You believe in service.

And you believe in him.

But that doesn’t make the yearning any easier.

Because believing in something doesn’t stop you from missing it.

—

The morning sun filters through the kitchen blinds, cutting thin golden lines across the countertops. It hits Bucky’s icy blue eyes and turns them almost steel gray. He squints slightly, clearly running on only a couple hours of sleep.

He’s already dressed in his suit. Crisp white shirt. Jacket laid over the back of a chair. His hair is gelled back neatly, though a stubborn strand threatens to fall loose near his temple. A travel mug full of black coffee waits on the counter, steam curling faintly into the air.

The maroon tie hangs untied around his collar, half tucked beneath it like he started and got distracted.

You roll your eyes fondly before stepping closer, taking the fabric between your fingers. You loop it through with practiced ease, smoothing the silk down his chest.

“Good morning,” you murmur, careful not to be too loud. The apartment still feels like it’s waking up.

A small, tired smile tugs at his lips. The kind that doesn’t reach his eyes fully, but it’s there. And that’s enough to make your heart speed up just a little.

Bucky’s hands slide to your hips, warm and steady. He pulls you closer, bending slightly so he’s level with you.

“Mornin’ to you too, doll.”

You lean up and press a kiss to his lips. He tastes like toothpaste and coffee and something warm and familiar that’s entirely him. It lingers for a second longer than it should for two people on a schedule.

“We’re still on for tonight, right?” you ask softly, finishing the knot and straightening it with care.

He nods immediately. There’s no hesitation.

Both of you have been waiting for this weekend away for weeks. A small hotel just outside the city. Two nights. No briefings. No grading. No early alarms.

“I’ll try to leave at seven,” he says, eyes dragging over you slowly.

You’re wearing a red blouse, buttoned high enough to be modest but fitted just enough to catch his attention. Black slacks. Heels that click softly against the tile.

The bags are already packed - placed carefully in your respective cars the night before. It had felt symbolic somehow. Planning ahead. Choosing each other in advance. So that after work, you could both drive straight to the hotel without excuses.

You nod and grab your own coffee. He reaches for your bag automatically, like he always does, and follows you out of your shared apartment just outside of D.C.

The hallway smells faintly like someone’s burnt toast. The elevator hums quietly.

You part ways in the parking lot with another quick kiss.

You drive twenty-five minutes to your school, ready to lecture about revolutions and amendments and the fragility of democracy.

He drives toward the Capitol, toward marble columns and long corridors and decisions that ripple farther than anyone ever sees.

Both of you planning to discuss history.

Or make it.

—

The school day is full of young couples gifting each other flowers, stuffed animals, and chocolate. Pink tissue paper peeks out of backpacks. Heart-shaped balloons hover awkwardly near classroom ceilings.

You’ve already had to tell three separate students to stop running in the hallway on their way to meet their significant other. One nearly crashed into you while clutching a bouquet that was far too big for a sophomore boy to be carrying.

“Walk,” you’d said, trying not to smile. “If you trip and ruin the moment, that’s on you.”

Lockers slam. Someone sprays entirely too much body mist in the hallway. The intercom crackles every fifteen minutes with a reminder about dismissal procedures.

And of course, the excuses.

“My dog ate it” has evolved into “my Wi-Fi glitched” and “Google Docs deleted it.” One student swears their little brother submitted the wrong file. Another insists they thought the assignment was due next week.

Besides all that, it’s been a good day.

The energy is light. Hopeful.

Bucky is still heavy on your mind when lunch rolls around. You sit at your desk, picking at a salad you barely taste, watching students trade chocolates like currency.

And you’re on his mind too.

Even as he stands in the House chamber, defending his position ahead of the floor votes scheduled for today.

Bucky’s days are always busy - morning briefings, staff meetings, press conferences. The rhythm of government doesn’t really slow down. It hums. Constantly.

So balancing you and the chaos inside his head?

Second nature.

He made a surprise reservation to a couples suite weeks ago, knowing he’d want this weekend with you. It overlooks the Potomac River - the water stretching wide and steady beneath winter light - tall buildings framing the skyline, streets below buzzing even after dark.

“A getaway without really getting away,” he’d said when he pitched the idea, leaning against your kitchen counter like he was presenting legislation.

And then, almost immediately, “I can cancel it if you don’t like it.”

He’d already been pulling up the hotel website on his phone, thumb hovering nervously over the cancellation policy.

You’d laughed and kissed him before he could spiral.

That was Monday.

And somehow this week has felt like the longest one imaginable. Each day stretching just a little too thin. Each night ending a little too late.

But it would be worth it.

It always is.

—

I’m here <3

The message pings Bucky’s phone just as he’s gathering his things. His coat is thrown over one shoulder, briefcase in hand, a stack of folders tucked under his arm.

The hallway outside his office is beginning to empty. Staffers wishing each other goodnight. The building settling into that strange in-between hour - not quite late, but late enough.

He smiles at your message. A real one. The kind that softens the sharp edges of the day.

He steps into the elevator and presses the button for the ground floor, already typing a reply.

Can’t wait to see you—

The doors begin to slide shut.

Then the phone rings.

Not the personal one he’s texting you from.

The one in his inside pocket.

The secure line.

The sound slices through the quiet of the elevator.

He answers immediately. “Barnes.”

There’s a pause.

His expression shifts almost instantly - confusion flickering first, then something darker. Focused. Controlled.

“Confirmed authentic?”

Another pause.

“How widespread?”

His jaw tightens, muscle feathering beneath the skin.

“Any indication adversaries have already accessed it?”

The response on the other end is not one he likes. It’s shown in the way his shoulders square. In the way the warmth from moments ago drains from his face.

“We’re holding a classified briefing in five.” They say.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open to the lobby.

He doesn’t step out.

Instead, he presses the button for the upper floor. The doors close again with a quiet finality.

With his free hand, he types quickly.

Emergency briefing. Going to SCIF. I’ll be late.

He hesitates for half a second before hitting send.

The elevator climbs.

—

You swipe the hotel room key, the light flashing green before you push the door open, luggage balanced in your other hand.

The entryway gives you a full view of the suite. Red roses sit on the coffee table in a tall glass vase, petals perfectly arranged like someone fluffed them just minutes ago. The king-sized bed is made with crisp white sheets, rose petals scattered carefully into the shape of a heart across the duvet. Two chocolates rest neatly on the pillows, centered like they were measured with a ruler.

It’s almost funny how intentional it all looks.

You step inside fully and let the door close behind you, the soft click echoing slightly in the quiet room. The carpet is plush under your heels. Warm lighting fills the space, giving everything a golden tint that makes it feel cozy instead of staged.

You set your bags down on the leather couch next to the coffee table and finally notice a small folded card tucked near the vase.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!

- Hotel Staff”

A soft smile pulls at your lips. It’s thoughtful. A little cliché. But thoughtful. You can already picture Bucky pretending to scoff at the rose petals while secretly being relieved that someone handled the romance details for him.

You wander further into the room, taking it in slowly. The windows stretch across the far wall, overlooking the Potomac River. The water reflects the late evening lights from the surrounding buildings, cars moving steadily along the streets below like lines of red and white.

“A getaway without really getting away,” he’d said.

Your chest tightens just slightly at the memory.

You turn toward the mini bar. A silver bucket of ice sits waiting on the counter, condensation beading along the metal. A bottle of white wine rests inside, already chilled. Two wine glasses stand beside it, polished and perfectly spaced.

Two glasses. Two chocolates. Two robes tucked in either the closet or in the bathroom, probably.

Your phone vibrates in your hand.

You don’t know why your stomach drops before you even look, but it does.

“Emergency briefing. Going to SCIF. I’ll be late.”

For a second, you just stare at it.

Of course.

Of course tonight.

You press your lips together and type anyway.

I understand. I love you.

It sends immediately.

Delivered.

Not read.

You know why. You’ve heard him explain it before. No phones allowed inside. Everything stays outside in a locker. Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. Secure walls. No signals in or out.

Still, it doesn’t make the quiet feel any better.

There must’ve been a leak. Or a breach. Something serious enough to pull him back upstairs after he was already heading out. And you know those situations don’t get resolved quickly. They unravel. They get analyzed. They get debated.

You set your phone down on the counter and exhale slowly, glancing around the room again. The rose petals suddenly feel excessive. The wine feels premature.

You move toward the window instead, looking down at the city for a moment, letting the reality settle in.

Then you pick up the room service menu. Might as well eat while you wait.

—

Bucky hands his phone to the security officer outside the secure room without hesitation. The officer places it into a small metal locker and shuts the door.

The screen lights up briefly with your message.

Then it goes dark.

He presents his ID. It’s scanned and handed back. The heavy door buzzes and unlocks.

Inside, the room is stark and brightly lit. White walls. No windows. A long table in the center already surrounded by personnel flipping through binders and classified folders. Laptops connected to secured systems. A projector humming quietly at the front of the room.

There’s no wasted time.

An intelligence analyst stands and begins projecting the recovered messages onto the screen. Each slide change makes a sharp clicking sound, mechanical and loud in the enclosed space.

Encrypted messages pulled from a compromised channel.

Then the image changes again.

A classified U.S. military briefing document fills the screen.

Troop positions. Rotation schedules. Supply routes. Operational timelines.

Everything.

Everything someone would need to plan an attack.

Bucky feels his stomach drop as the implications settle in. If this document was exposed, even briefly, there’s a real chance foreign adversaries have already accessed it. Saved it. Shared it. Hoped they’d be able to act on it.

Defense officials begin outlining exposure windows and possible responses. Move the units immediately. Adjust timelines quietly. Advance extraction. Delay extraction to avoid tipping anyone off. Draft contingency statements in case the leak becomes public.

Every option carries risk. Move too fast and you confirm the breach. Move too slow and you gamble with lives.

His jaw tightens as he listens. His chest feels heavy, not from panic but from responsibility.

These are real people on those schedules. Real soldiers following those routes.

Extraction timelines may need to shift to keep them safe. Logistics will have to be reworked. Communications re-secured.

He signed up for this. He wanted to be in the room where decisions like this get made.

Now he has to do his job.

Even if you’re standing in a hotel suite overlooking the water, wine unopened, waiting for him to walk through a door he can’t get to yet.

—

You specifically said only one meal, since it’s just you. And Bucky can order if he’s hungry - if… no. When he gets here.

But maybe the phone line cut out. Or maybe the hotel just assumes Valentine’s means two, always two, no exceptions. Because you’re now staring at a rolling tray with two silver domes, two sets of silverware, two neatly folded napkins.

They’re presented beautifully. Almost ceremoniously.

The staff member who brought it up was warm and eager, wishing you a happy Valentine’s with a smile that made correcting them feel impossible. You almost said something. Almost explained.

But explaining would feel like admitting he might not show up at all.

So you let it go.

The second plate remains covered, the silver dome catching the warm lamplight. It sits there quietly, like it’s waiting too. Like it’s part of the room’s expectations.

It’s almost been an hour.

Bucky still isn’t here.

You exhale softly and pull your own plate closer, lifting the lid. Steam rises immediately, carrying the scent of butter and garlic and something rich.

You start with the Caesar salad. The croutons are crunchy but fresh, not the kind that shatter like rocks. The shaved parmesan melts slightly against the dressing. It’s balanced. Light. Clearly made with care.

You take a sip of the white wine you poured earlier while waiting on the food. It’s crisp, cold from the ice bucket. It pairs perfectly with the salad.

The second wine glass remains untouched beside the bucket. The ice shifts softly as it melts, a quiet clink every now and then filling the space in between your breaths.

You don’t rush. There’s no reason to. You take your time, chewing slowly, letting yourself enjoy it instead of spiraling.

When you lift the dome off the entrée, the filet mignon is cooked exactly how you ordered it. The outside seared perfectly, the inside warm and pink. It rests on a bed of truffle mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus lined neatly on the side.

You cut into it. The knife slides through effortlessly.

“It’s really good,” you murmur to the empty room, just to break the silence.

The fork clinks softly against porcelain. The potatoes are fluffy but still creamy, rich without being overwhelming. You savor each bite.

Across from you, the second plate stays covered. Untouched. Waiting.

When you finally finish, you push your plate back gently. Dessert sits between the two settings - one slice meant to be shared. You don’t uncover it.

You’ll wait.

—

“There’s going to be a floor vote tonight for emergency funding and authorization adjustments,” leadership announces.

The room hums with low conversation. Papers shuffle. Pens tap against the table.

Bucky barely hears it at first.

His mind drifts to you. Alone in the suite with two sets of slippers, the river flowing outside the window. On the night before Valentine’s, no less. The image of the rose petals flashes briefly in his mind, followed by the thought of you sitting there waiting.

They need to draft formal recommendations for the House of Representatives. The emergency authorization they can approve in SCIF allows immediate rerouting. But additional funding - reinforcements, logistical support, rapid extraction resources - that requires the House to sign off.

The next hour and a half is tense.

“If we fund this, what happens if this problem happens again?” one lawmaker asks, tone skeptical. “Are we setting a precedent for unlimited emergency expenditures?”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. The question feels clinical. Detached.

“Then we fund it then too,” he replies evenly, though there’s an edge beneath it. His eyes lock onto the man across the table. “You don’t gamble with lives because you’re afraid of the invoice.”

A few people shift in their seats.

Another voice cuts in. “Sending reinforcements could alert adversaries that we’re aware of the leak. That escalation alone could increase risk.”

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. It falls back into his eyes almost immediately.

“So we’re just going to leave them there?” he asks. His tone isn’t raised, but it’s firm. Controlled. “I know things have changed. I know strategy evolves. But when I served, we didn’t hesitate to back up our people.”

Silence lingers for a moment.

Then someone brings up optics. Public perception. Concerns about appearing reactive. Concerns about seeming “soft.”

Bucky almost laughs at that.

“So what if they find out?” he says, leaning forward slightly. “It’s lives we’re talking about. Like anyone else wouldn’t do this for their own.”

A few heads nod. Others avoid eye contact.

Gradually, the resistance softens. The arguments become more about logistics than principle. Numbers get adjusted. Language gets tightened.

Eventually, they agree to push forward with the emergency authorization adjustments. Troops can be rerouted immediately. Contingency support can begin mobilizing.

On the digital map projected at the front of the room, small red indicators representing units begin shifting away from the compromised area.

It’s subtle. Just little movements across a grid.

But it means something.

One small victory.

They’re safer than they were an hour ago.

Bucky leans back slightly and exhales, tension easing just a fraction.

For now.

Now comes the harder part - convincing the full House to approve the additional funding for reinforcements. Getting enough votes. Making the case again, this time to a chamber that wasn’t in this room, didn’t see the slides, didn’t hear the urgency in the analysts’ voices.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, beneath the strategy and the numbers and the responsibility, there’s still the image of you.

Waiting at a table set for two.

—

The water is nice.

The huge porcelain tub, filled almost to the brim, feels like a hug. The warmth seeps into your muscles, loosening the tension you didn’t even realize you were holding. You’ve been sitting here for a while, music playing softly from the speaker you connected to your phone. It was already set up near the TV, like the hotel anticipated this exact kind of night.

Soft instrumentals float through the bathroom, layering over you like another blanket of calm. It helps. A little. Even if the ache of missing your boyfriend hums quietly underneath it.

You at least wish he’d reply.

But you know how SCIF works. He’s told you enough horror stories about that windowless room, about the lockers, about the hours that disappear inside it.

You sink a little deeper into the soapy water until it brushes your shoulders, forcing your body to relax further. Steam curls along the ceiling. The brass hooks behind the bathroom door hold two plush robes.

Two pairs of slippers sit neatly beneath them.

Two of everything.

Hopefully he’ll still get to enjoy the weekend. Even if it just means catching up on sleep. Even if it’s just collapsing into the bed beside you at three in the morning.

You shake your head slightly, physically pushing away the tightening in your chest before it can grow into something heavier.

When you finally stand, the water swirls down the drain in a slow spiral. You wrap one of the heated towels around yourself immediately. The towel warmer hums softly on the wall, doing its job to shield you from the February chill that waits beyond the windows.

After drying off, you change into your pajamas and grab one of the robes, tying it securely around your waist. The slippers fit perfectly, soft under your aching feet after a long day in heels.

You pad back into the suite and sit on the couch, reaching for the remote.

The TV flickers on.

A bright message appears across the screen:

“Happy Valentine’s Day Bucky & Y/N!”

Of course it does.

—

Bucky’s shoes tap sharply against the tile as he walks toward the House Chamber, briefcase in one hand while he adjusts his tie with the other.

They finally reached a decision. Now comes the harder part - convincing everyone else.

All he needs is a majority.

That’s it.

“There’s about a hundred expected for the floor vote. Half are leaning yes,” a party whip says quietly as they walk alongside him.

He nods. Fewer people means a quicker vote.

Hopefully.

But it also means every single vote carries more weight than usual.

He thinks about the soldiers overseas. Young. The same age he was when he first deployed.

He remembers what it felt like - that uncertainty. Wondering if the people back home were making the right calls. Wondering if anyone truly understood what was at stake.

That’s why he’s staying.

Not because of politics. Not because he’d rather be anywhere else than with you.

But because it’s responsibility. Because it’s guilt. Because he knows exactly what it feels like to wait on someone else’s decision.

The doors to the House chamber open. He steps inside and finds his seat, placing his briefcase at his feet as he waits for the room to fill.

—

You finally reach for the chocolate from your pillow.

It’s shaped like a heart. Rich and smooth and just sweet enough.

The guilt hits when you swallow.

You can’t blame him. Not for being late. Not for handling something you can’t even ask about. It would be like you having to stay after school for an emergency faculty meeting.

Well. Maybe not exactly like that.

His job is a little more important than teaching high schoolers history they’ll probably forget a week after graduation.

You huff out a small laugh at that thought, red pen hovering over a test in front of you before you correct yourself.

Not red. Never red.

Red was too harsh, at least that’s what you thought.

Today you chose blue.

You glance at the ink and almost roll your eyes at yourself. It matches his eyes too closely.

“Figures,” you murmur, writing a neat 92% in the top right corner.

Your cursive is tidy but slightly looser than usual, the grip on your pen not as firm as it normally is.

Another glass of wine sits on the coffee table. The ice in the bucket has nearly melted completely. The TV plays an old romantic comedy from the seventies - soft film grain, exaggerated declarations of love.

You wonder if Bucky would know it.

You left the flower petals on the bed. The heart shape is still perfectly intact.

It feels like the bare minimum - not disturbing it. Like preserving the intention somehow makes the waiting less pathetic.

You’ve done everything. You ate. You bathed. You changed. You opened the wine. You even graded papers to pass the time.

The pen slips slightly in your fingers before you set it down entirely.

Your hands move to your hair as you lean back into the couch.

The silence presses in now. It squeezes your chest in a way that feels unfair.

Longing for someone who is already yours is a different kind of pain. It doesn’t come from absence. It comes from proximity - from knowing they want to be here just as badly as you want them to be.

It lingers at the edges until something in you threatens to crumble.

You swallow that down too.

Pick the pen back up.

Students handing each other flowers flashes through your mind. Pink carnations. Cheap bouquets from the grocery store. Awkward teenage confessions in hallways.

You smile faintly.

What you wouldn’t give for Bucky to walk through that door with flowers in his hand instead of a briefcase full of classified files.

—

“Members, earlier today we received an intelligence report that active units in Southwestern Asia may be compromised. Emergency authorization has allowed rerouting to begin, but additional funding and support are needed immediately to ensure their safety. This floor vote is to authorize those resources.”

The Chair’s voice carries across the chamber, steady and practiced as he looks out over the Representatives preparing to vote.

147.

That’s how many showed up.

Which means they need 74 yes votes.

Well - 73. Bucky already cast his.

The questions start almost immediately.

“Do they have sufficient fuel, food, and medical supplies for relocation?”

“Does this authorization apply to all units in the region, or only specific brigades?”

“How will oversight ensure the funds are used strictly for operational purposes?”

“Will additional presidential authorization be required for deployment adjustments?”

It’s procedural. Necessary.

But it’s slow.

Bucky exhales quietly, his vote already locked into the electronic panel in front of him. His fingers tap once against the desk before he stills them. He listens. Answers when directed. Clarifies language. Repeats numbers.

He checks his watch.

11:47 p.m.

If he’s lucky, they’ll close debate within the hour.

If he’s lucky, he’ll be out of the building by 12:45.

If he’s lucky, he’ll be at the hotel before two.

If he’s lucky.

He presses his lips together and forces his attention back to the chamber.

—

You’re tired.

The papers are stacked neatly, graded and organized. Lesson plans for next week are already typed and saved. You’ve exhausted every productive distraction available to you.

There’s nothing left to do.

The romantic comedies ended a while ago. The TV now cycles through late-night paid programming and the occasional rerun of George Lopez. The laughter track feels almost mocking in the quiet room.

12:39 a.m.

You glance at the clock again like maybe it’ll change faster if you look at it.

Bucky’s food is definitely cold by now. There isn’t a silver dome in the world that could’ve kept it warm this long. The untouched wine glass beside the bucket looks abandoned. The ice has melted completely.

Maybe it’s the cold plate across from you.

Maybe it’s the robe still hanging untouched on the hook.

Maybe it’s the way the rose petals are still perfectly shaped on the bed, like the room is frozen in expectation.

Whatever it is - it’s suddenly too much.

Your chest tightens without warning. Your throat follows.

You blink hard once.

Then again.

You weren’t planning on crying. That’s the frustrating part. You understand why he’s gone. You know this matters. You know he’s doing the right thing.

That doesn’t make the chair across from you feel any less empty.

Your breathing stutters slightly before you can steady it. You press the heel of your palm against your eye, annoyed when it comes away damp.

“Get it together,” you mutter softly to yourself.

But the tears come anyway - not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet. Slipping down before you can fully stop them.

It’s not anger.

It’s not even really sadness.

It’s the waiting.

The wanting.

The effort of being understanding when all you really want is him walking through the door.

Your shoulders shake once, just barely, and you cover your mouth to muffle the small sound that escapes you. The room feels too quiet for this.

You cry because you miss him.

You cry because you can’t even text him to say that.

You cry because loving someone whose job can pull them away at any second requires a strength you don’t always feel like you have at midnight.

After a few minutes, it slows. Not gone - just dulled.

You wipe your face carefully, staring at the dessert plate across from you.

And for a moment, you almost uncover it.

Just to prove you don’t need to wait.

—

It’s 1:28 am when Bucky finally leaves the Capitol.

The additional funding and support passed. Ninety-two votes.

He’s smiling - actually smiling - as he walks down the marble steps. And for the first time in a while, it’s because he’s a Congressman.

Not because of you. Not because of something private or personal. But because he did his job, and he did it well.

There’s no guarantee the vote will save anyone, and there’s no medals waiting for him. Just a decision that might help - fuel in a tank, medical supplies on a transport, reinforcements arriving in time.

And tonight that feels like enough.

So for a few fleeting seconds, he lets that feeling of accomplishment settle in his chest.

Then he checks his phone.

No new messages.

Not from you.

And that’s the only reason he looked.

The last thing sitting there is from hours ago - before SCIF swallowed him whole.

His smile fades.

He unlocks his car with a sharp beep, climbs inside, and tosses his briefcase into the passenger seat without the usual care. The garage is nearly empty now, the echo of his door shutting louder than it should be.

He types out a message.

Deletes it.

Types another.

Deletes that too.

What is he supposed to say? Sorry I disappeared? Sorry national security came first? Sorry you were alone when I promised I’d be there?

None of it sounds right over a screen.

He exhales sharply through his nose and tries again.

On my way now. I love you.

He sends it before he can overthink it, pulling out of the garage without waiting for a response.

—

Part of you wants to leave.

What’s the point of waiting in a couples suite if it’s just you?

You stare at the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Potomac stretched out below like spilled silver. The moonlight hits it just right, makes it sparkle in a way that feels almost intentional. Like it’s trying to romanticize something that doesn’t feel very romantic right now.

You rack your brain, trying to think of something you did to deserve this cosmic joke. You returned your shopping cart last week. You tipped well. You even let someone merge in front of you in traffic.

Mother Nature couldn’t possibly have beef with you.

A small, humorless laugh escaped you as you finish the last of the wine, setting the glass beside you.

The music still hums softly from your phone - some indie band you’ve loved since college. It feels younger than you do right now.

The clock reads 2:03 a.m. when there’s a knock at the door.

You startle.

Then realize that you haven’t actively checked your phone in a while. You already know who it is.

Your slippers drag across the carpet. You don’t bother with the peephole.

When you open the door, Bucky is standing there, hand half-raised to knock again. Shoulders slightly slumped. Tie loosened. Hair messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there yesterday morning.

“Hey, doll,” he says softly.

He’s holding white tulips against his chest - different from the roses already sitting on the coffee table. Those were for Valentine’s Day.

These are for an apology.

A bottle of white wine is tucked between his fingers. Replacement for the one you just finished.

“Bucky,” you breathe. Not angry. Not relieved. Just… tired.

His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone like he needs to confirm you’re real. You stare at him for a second too long before stepping aside to let him in.

He toes off his dress shoes and lines them next to your heels. Sets the wine beside the empty bottle. Places the tulips next to the roses.

Two pairs of shoes. Two bouquets. Two glasses.

Everything in pairs.

Like the night was designed for two people and just stalled out halfway through. Only picking up again only when Bucky entered the room.

“Where were you?” you ask quietly, sitting back down on the couch that’s been yours all evening.

His eyes land on the tray first. Then the rose petals on the bed. Then back to you.

His jaw tightens.

“I—” He clears his throat. “I can’t get into it. You know that. But it had to be handled fast.”

You nod. Of course you know that.

Rules are rules. Classified is classified. It still stings.

“I understand,” you say, even though the words feel heavy in your mouth. “Hope everything’s okay.”

He misses the way your eyes flicker - not jealousy exactly, not anger. Just something closer to feeling…second.

“Me too,” he replies, shrugging off his coat.

He sits beside you and takes your hand. You don’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. The kind of sorry he doesn’t offer lightly.

“I know.”

Your tone is clipped without meaning to be.

“I love you.”

You let that sit for a moment before answering. “I know.” You swallow. “I love you too. But sometimes I hate the government.”

That earns a tired, almost amused smile from him.

He doesn’t disagree.

—

You sleep, if it can be called that. It’s not peaceful, you’re not wrapped in each other like the movies suggest.

It’s more like collapsing, your body crashing into the mattress as the rose petals scatter onto the floor like discarded confetti.

Bucky showers while you stare at the ceiling. When he comes back into the room, you close your eyes and pretend to be asleep so he won’t apologize again.

He watches you for a moment before climbing into bed beside you.

—

In the morning, steam fills the bathroom as you shower.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, feeling like you’re farther away than the small hotel room should allow.

He made it here, he did what he could in the early morning hour while both of you were half asleep. But still…something seems unsettled.

His phone buzzes.

He checks it immediately.

Just wanted to let you know, because I know how your brain works, they’re safe.

No additional details. No locations. No elaboration.

He knows who it’s about.

Relief washes through him slowly. No injuries. No casualties. The vote mattered.

An exhale of relief escapes his mouth, it worked.

For a moment, he considers knocking on the bathroom door and showing you the message. Letting you see that last night had a reason. That the silence wasn’t meaningless.

Proof.

But he hesitates.

Because it won’t give you back the hours you spent alone, drinking the wine meant for both of you. Or the way you looked at the door every time footsteps passed in the hallway.

It won’t erase the distance that crept in sometime between midnight and 2 a.m.

So he locks his phone and slips it into his pocket.

Maybe later.

Maybe when it doesn’t feel like he’s defending himself.

He doesn’t fully understand the weight of it. He knows you’re upset. He knows he was late.

What he doesn’t know is that you stood by the window at one point and genuinely considered leaving. Or that your feelings had grown so heavy the only way you could cope was by crying over your students’ tests.

And that hurts more than a missed reservation ever could.

Because it isn’t about one night.

It’s about the slow accumulation of small absences.

And he’s starting to feel the space they’ve built.