to have and to hold office | part II
congressman!Bucky Barnes x widow!reader
summary. After a late-night in New Orleans, Congressman Bucky Barnes and his chief of staff wake up legally married. An annulment should be simple, but unfortunately, nothing about their lives is simple. With Bucky's reputation on the line and her past threatening to resurface, staying married starts to look like the safest option. It's only supposed to be temporary. Public appearances, a convincing story, and a quiet divorce once the headlines fade. But fake marriage is harder when everyone else believes it. Especially when Bucky is already in love with his wife. word count. 7.3k warnings. politics, Bucky hasn't realized Peter Parker is Spiderman, fake marriage setup, friends with questionable boundaries, references to the Red Room and Hydra but nothing graphic, lots of jokes about Bucky's age, reader is a little mean but Bucky is exactly where he wants to be
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“Is this thing on?”
“Yeah, camera’s rolling.”
Bucky cleared his throat, adjusting his tie slightly.
He caught a look from you sitting beside him, and immediately let go of the tie, opting instead to rest his arm behind you on the loveseat you were both situated on. You had spent time adjusting his tie before the interview started, and he could see the annoyance behind your eyes as he undid your work.
“Are… are the both of you ready?”
The journalist asked, getting the both of you to pull your gaze away from each other and focus on the camera. Bucky tried for a smile that came across as more of a grimace.
“Yes, we’re ready.” You offered her a bright smile. “Tessa, was it?”
“Tessa Grant.” She nodded, turning to look into the camera facing her. “This afternoon I’m here with Representative Barnes and his wife to talk about congressional life, their recent nuptials, and the Enhanced Persons Protections Act the congressman is sponsoring.”
The journalist launched into more information about Bucky and his first term in office, then introduced you. She read off her cue card the backstory you had provided for her: you grew up in Switzerland, the daughter of diplomats, had returned to the U.S. to attend an Ivy League school, and had eventually met Bucky when you started working on his congressional campaign.
And maybe that could’ve been the life you had if it wasn’t for the Red Room and wasn’t for Valentina, but you tried not to think about that. You settled into Bucky’s side.
“Well, on behalf of the network,” Tessa said, “I’d like to extend my congratulations on your recent wedding. I was personally surprised when I heard the news, I don’t think anyone knew you were seeing anyone, Representative Barnes.”
“Uh, thank you, thank you.” Bucky shifted uncomfortably next to you, you considered if a well-placed jab to his ribs would snap him out of it. “Yeah, we’re… we’re a pretty private couple.”
Tessa gave him a tight smile. “Yes, I can imagine. We’re grateful the both of you made time for this interview. How did the two of you meet?”
The question pulled a real smile from your lips.
The first time you had met Bucky, he wasn’t Bucky at all.
You had met the Winter Soldier about a decade ago when you were on a mission in Manila. You had been deployed to destabilize the local government, and the Winter Soldier had been sent to do the same. You both had different methods in mind to do so.
You never forgot the blue of his eyes, cold and lifeless, hardly containing any man at all. So entirely different from the blue eyes staring down at you now, a smile tugging up at the corners as he recalled the first time he could remember you.
Shortly after Manila, S.H.I.E.L.D. had fallen in D.C., and not long after that, Dreykov’s Red Room fell out of the sky. You didn’t see the Winter Soldier—you didn’t see Bucky—until years later, when Valentina handed you a folder containing details for your next operation.
And you recognized those blue eyes again. No longer a husk of a human, but definitely tired. You read his profile, a former Hydra operative running for Congress. A former weapon trying to do some good in the world. Something twisted in you.
“Well, I had been working a job I wanted to get out of. Paid well, wasn’t the most fulfilling,” you admitted. “And then I came across Bucky’s campaign. I liked his message. I liked him.”
“Was hardly a campaign ‘fore she came along,” Bucky admitted. “Knew I wanted to make a change, didn’t have an idea in hell of how to do it.”
“Oh, it was a trainwreck,” you agreed.
He chuckled, something like admiration glinting in his eyes as he smiled down at you. “Yeah. Didn’t stand a chance of winning until she came around and whipped us into shape. Owe it all to her, really.”
“All the help in the world wouldn’t have made a difference if voters didn’t genuinely like you. Don’t sell yourself short,” you nudged him playfully.
Tessa smiled at the exchange between the two of you. “So how long have you been together?”
You stared at Bucky for a second, silently trying to remember what you had agreed upon earlier.
“Depends what you mean by together,” he answered. “We’ve been together for years now. She’s been beside me through campaigns, hearings, bad hotel coffee, worse polling.”
You softened despite yourself.
“Guess somewhere in all of that, I realized I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Wouldn’t want to. She’s my best friend.”
You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face, despite the fact that you knew you’d be hearing from Sam about that “best friend” comment later.
“And your elopement in New Orleans last week?” The journalist asked.
“Ah, well, when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible,” Bucky said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Did you… Did you just quote When Harry Met Sally?”
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he smiled. “You said you liked the movie, had to see what all the rage was.”
“I-I…” You stared at him incredulously. “When did you even have the time to watch that?”
He shrugged.
“So the wedding,” prodded Tessa, “wasn't just some kind of spontaneous accident?”
“Spontaneous, yes. Accident, no.” Bucky said.
“Oh, me and my dreamboat have just been incredibly happy, y’know?” You squeezed his hand a little harder than necessary. “And we’re also incredibly happy to be given this opportunity to talk about the bill the congressman is sponsoring.”
Beside you, Bucky’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles where your hands were joined together.
“Yes, of course,” Tessa said, glancing down at the card in her lap before looking back up. “The Enhanced Persons Protections Act. Representative Barnes, you’ve been very clear that this bill is one of the central priorities of your first term. Could you explain what it would do?”
The question steadied him. Bucky never liked talking about himself, but the work was different. He leaned forward slightly, his hand still holding yours.
“It protects people who’ve been treated like assets instead of people,” he said. “Enhanced people, but also former operatives, people with abilities they didn’t ask for. The bill creates clearer legal protections against forced recruitment, unlawful testing, coercion, and unauthorized experimentation.”
“You’ve spoken before about your own history making this issue personal.”
“It is personal,” Bucky said.
You watched his profile rather than the camera. His jaw was relaxed, but his eyes were not. There was always a point when interviews turned toward his past where the room seemed to forget he was sitting there.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles again in a grounding way. You did not know if he was grounding himself or you.
“Too many people have been used by governments, private groups who figured no one would stop them,” Bucky continued. “This bill is a declaration that we will not accept that.”
This was Bucky Barnes, with his crooked tie and his competence, and his stupid, steady voice that said things like that and made you remember why you had stayed with his campaign in the first place.
You had been sent to him once. Valentina had handed you the file with his picture clipped to the front and smiled like she’d given you a gift.
It should have been easy. Former assassin turned congressional candidate. Men with guilt complexes were usually easy, you found the wound, pressed your thumb into it, and waited for them to bleed.
Except Bucky had looked at you across a folding table in a half-empty campaign office and asked what you thought of his veterans’ housing plan.
He didn’t ask you about your resume, or your story, or why someone like you had appeared in his life with a perfect cover.
And you had given him your honest opinion on the housing plan. And he had given you a pen with the instructions to “fix it.”
“Well,” Tessa said, pulling you back into the room, “critics of the bill have argued that it creates too much federal oversight. That it may make private security firms or contractors hesitant to work with enhanced individuals at all.”
“Good,” you said. “If a company’s business model depends on exploiting enhanced individuals without oversight, then hesitation seems like a healthy first step.”
Tessa turned slightly toward you. “So you see this as an accountability bill?”
“I see it as a very basic don’t-put-people-in-cages bill,” you replied.
Bucky made a sound beside you.
You looked up at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You made a sound.”
“Usually I’m not supposed to say ‘cages’ on camera.” He shrugged.
“I’m not an elected official, your rules don’t apply to me.”
His expression warmed. You realized too late that you were smiling at him.
You were smiling at him the way you smiled when he found you in the hallway after a long vote and silently handed you the tea he pretended not to remember you liked. The way you smiled when he stood in front of a room of powerful men and refused to make himself smaller for their comfort.
You turned back to Tessa. “He needs correcting. Every now and then.”
“And what does Mrs. Barnes need?” Tessa asked.
Your spine tried to leave your body. Mrs. Barnes. You kept your expression pleasant through what could only be described as an internal systems failure.
You opened your mouth to answer but nothing came out. Deeply off-brand.
“She needs people to listen to her the first time,” Bucky said, filling the silence.
You looked up at him. He wasn’t looking at Tessa, he was looking at you.
“She’s usually already figured out the problem,” he continued. “Most folks just waste time making her prove it.”
Tessa leaned forward slightly. “Do the two of you ever find it difficult to separate the personal relationship from the professional one?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
Tessa looked delighted. “And why is that?”
“Congressional offices are terrible places to have feelings,” you said. “But the work hasn’t changed. We trusted each other before any of this was public. The marriage didn’t create that, it just made people notice.”
The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them. They were true.
Tessa gave you a softer smile. “That’s a beautiful way to put it.”
“I’ll deny saying it if you make it sound sentimental.”
“We have it on camera.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Too late now, sweetheart,” Bucky leaned in closer, his voice low enough that the microphone might catch it but the crew probably wouldn’t.
Sweetheart.
He had called you that earlier. You had nearly blacked out from irritation. Or something similar to irritation. Something in the same district as irritation.
The interview went on. Tessa asked about the bill again, about the coalition behind it, about why some members were hesitant to support it. Bucky answered most of those questions. You corrected him twice when he understated his own work and once when he tried to say the bill had “a few” bipartisan sponsors.
“It has seventeen,” you said.
“Seventeen is a few.”
“Seventeen is not a few. Three is a few.”
“Fine.”
“Say coalition.”
“No.”
“Say coalition for the camera.”
He looked directly into the lens. “Coalition.”
“Good job, hotshot.” You patted his knee.
Bucky’s ears went faintly red.
Tessa asked if marriage had changed his perspective on public life.
Bucky took a moment with that one. Not too long, just long enough for you to feel him choose his words carefully.
“Maybe,” he said. “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to keep parts of my life separate. Public, private. Past, present. Work, home. I don’t know if that always works.”
He was looking at Tessa, but his hand was still holding yours.
Bucky continued. “Sometimes the people who know you in one part of your life are the reason you can stand in the other parts.”
You hated that he could say something like that without sounding like he had rehearsed it in a mirror. You hated that you knew he had not rehearsed it because Bucky Barnes would rather walk barefoot across Legos than prepare an emotionally vulnerable answer for television. You hated that the answer landed somewhere under your ribs and stayed there.
Tessa let the silence sit for a moment, then smiled. “That sounds like a good place to end.”
The red camera light went off. Tessa unclipped her microphone with a pleased expression that made you deeply uneasy. You released Bucky’s hand, standing to smooth your dress.
“Tessa,” you said, offering your hand. “Thank you for your time.”
“Thank you.” She shook your hand, then Bucky’s. “You two were wonderful. The bill portion was strong, but the two of you together? There’s a warmth there. It will help people see a different side of him.”
“Yes,” you said. “That’s the hope.”
When you entered behind Bucky, silence rippled across the bullpen.
The office had a rhythm on normal days. Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. Someone near the kitchenette swearing under their breath because the coffee machine was broken again. Mia saying, “No, absolutely not,” into a phone like she was sentencing someone. Papers moving. Shoes against carpet.
Today, all of it stopped.
Bucky stepped through the doorway first, one hand still near the small of your back from where he’d guided you through the hallway outside. He dropped it before anyone could read too much into it. The whole staff looked up at once.
Legislative aides. Press assistants. The district team.
And Peter Parker.
Bucky’s eyes landed on the kid without meaning to.
Peter stood near the copier with a stack of constituent letters in his arms, shoulders lifted nearly to his ears, eyes too wide behind his earnest little face. There was always something off about that kid. Bucky had seen Peter catch a falling stapler from across a desk once without looking. He had also watched the kid nearly trip over a trash can immediately afterward.
Behind him, you walked into the middle of the office, dropped your bag on the nearest empty chair, and looked around like you were daring the room to make a sound.
“Everyone,” you announced to the room, “if we could gather for two minutes.”
The staff gathered in clusters. Legislative aides near the conference table, press hovering by Mia’s door. Priya from constituent services holding a mug she had not taken a sip from. Oliver pretending not to look directly at your rings.
“I know this is personal news in a public office,” Bucky said, “so I’ll keep it simple. We’re married.”
Peter raised his hand.
Bucky ignored him.
“We wanted to tell you ourselves. The timing got away from us, and I know that puts this office in a strange position.”
Beside him, you did not move. He could feel how carefully still you had gone, as though if you held yourself together tightly enough, no one would see where the lie met the truth.
He wanted to reach for your hand.
He did not.
“Our expectations do not change,” you added. “We are still focused on the bill, the district, and the people this office serves. Our official statement is that the congressman and I are grateful for the kind words, we value our privacy, and we remain focused on the work.”
Peter raised his hand higher.
Bucky stared at him.
The kid lowered it halfway, seeming to reconsider the whole concept of having an arm, then lifted it again like he had committed to the bit and now had to die there.
You looked at him. “Yes, Peter?”
“Is,” Peter began, his eyes moved from you to Bucky, then back to you. “Is congratulations allowed?”
The sharpness in your eyes softened and you offered Peter a smile.
“Yes,” you said. “Congratulations is allowed.”
Peter nodded, very seriously. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, kid.”
A few staffers murmured congratulations. Priya smiled warmly. Oliver whispered something to the press assistant beside him until Mia turned her head one inch in his direction and killed the thought in his mouth.
Then Elise from scheduling said, “Honestly, I think we’re all just happy for you. I mean, we were surprised. Obviously. But not… that surprised.”
You went very still beside Bucky.
“Not that surprised?” You asked.
“I mean, respectfully,” Peter said, trying to help, “you do fix his tie a lot.”
Both you and Bucky stared at him.
And because Peter Parker didn’t know when to put down the shovel, he continued.
“I mean, he lets you fix them. Which seems like a trust thing. Not a romantic thing. I mean, maybe romantic now. You’re married. Congratulations again.”
Tomas, clearly emboldened, added, “You also know his coffee order.”
“I know everyone’s coffee order,” you said.
“No, you don’t,” Mia said, not looking up from her tablet.
“Traitor.”
“Alright, well that’s probably enough of Q&A time for now,” Mia said, her tone shifting. “We have a veterans’ group arriving in ten minutes, the congressman has a call with Senator Alvarez at two.”
Peter raised his hand again.
Bucky looked at him. “Yes, Peter?”
“Sorry, just for clarity, if someone asks if we’re happy for you, can we say yes?”
Bucky tried not to smile.
You failed first.
“Yes, Peter,” you said. “You can say you’re happy for us.”
Peter smiled. “Great. Because I am.”
Bucky had expected scrutiny or awkwardness. Maybe suspicion. He had prepared for the sharp edge of it. He had not prepared for people being happy or for his staff looking at the two of you and deciding this made sense.
“Wonderful. Emotional moment concluded,” you announced. “Back to work.”
The staff scattered, the office resuming its rhythm. Phones rang again, someone typed too loudly. Peter finally delivered the letters to Priya’s desk, nearly colliding with a chair, caught the chair before it fell, then pretended that had not happened.
“Stop glaring at the intern,” you said beside Bucky.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You absolutely are.”
“There’s something off about him.”
“He’s just a kid,” you shrugged.
Bucky turned to you, narrowing his eyes. “You know something.”
“I know many things.”
“About Parker. You hired him.”
“I hire a lot of people.”
“What do you know?”
You gave him a pleasant smile. “I know we have a veterans’ group in eight minutes and if you keep staring at Peter like that, people are going to wonder why you’re beefing with the intern. Pick on someone your own age, why don’t you, Barnes?”
Bucky huffed in annoyance, but a slow smile spread across his features. “Y’know, speaking of age…”
“What,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “did you leave your dentures somewhere, Optimus-past-his-prime?”
“Optimus…?” Bucky looked confused.
Your mouth formed a little ‘o.’
“You haven’t seen Transformers, have you?”
“I’ve been a little busy, with the Russian brainwashing and everything, sweetheart,” he rolled his eyes.
You scoffed. “You think you’re special, Gandalf?”
“Alright I think—and I understand that reference—we’re getting away from my point. You remember what you said to me in New Orleans?” Bucky asked.
You made a face.
“I said a lot of things, and I definitely don’t remember them all. I have to assume two of those words were ‘I do,’ so I guess that’s something.”
He shook his head. “Not that. You were telling me that no one would believe I’m your boyfriend because I’m too old. Said you were too ‘youthful.’”
You nodded. “Sure, sounds like me.”
A smug grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he nodded at the staffers. “I just want to make sure you know that you were just proven wrong. The staff had no problem believing I’m your husband. I guess I am a spring chicken after all.”
You opened your mouth to respond with something sharp and witty, but no words came.
“They’re here,” Mia called from her office.
Bucky nodded, stepping away from you and walking to the front of the office to greet the veterans’ group.
He stopped halfway, turning back to you.
“And one more thing, chief?”
You met his gaze. “Hm?”
“Gandalf was an incredibly powerful wizard. The Dwarves of Durin’s Folk never would’ve been able to retake Erebor without him.”
He shot you a cocky grin and continued on to the front of the office.
You scowled at his retreating form.
“Fuckin’ nerd.”
The jeweler was exactly the kind of place you expected Bucky Barnes to know.
It was tucked into a side street in Georgetown, behind a dark green door with a brass handle polished so thoroughly you could see your own distorted reflection in it. There was no flashy sign out front, no diamonds glittering in the window. Just a small gold plaque that read Feldman & Sons and a narrow window displaying one antique watch, a strand of pearls, and a sign that said “By Appointment.”
“This looks like a place where old money comes to buy its blood diamonds,” you muttered.
“They don’t sell blood diamonds.”
“You asked?”
He glanced at you. “Yes.”
You turned to him.
He looked back, annoyingly calm.
Of course he had asked. Of course James Buchanan Barnes had made sure his fake-marriage ring upgrade did not involve exploitative mining practices. Of course he had probably researched the place, called ahead, and asked careful questions.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re very prepared for a man who accidentally got married.”
His face did something small, there and gone.
“I like being prepared.”
You looked back at the green door.
You could handle a chapel ring. A cheap little silver thing from a rotating display case between a plastic bouquet and a brochure for the Jazz It Up package. That ring had been ridiculous. Temporary. An object with an exit strategy.
This place had insurance policies and probably used words like “heirloom” seriously. You did not like it.
Bucky looked at you. “We don’t have to do this.”
You snapped your eyes to him. “Excuse me?”
He lifted one shoulder. “If you don’t want to.”
“Oh, I want to. I just want to complain a bit while doing it.”
“That’s different?”
“That’s marriage.”
His mouth twitched.
You pointed at him. “Do not look pleased. I’m using the word as a legal category.”
“‘Course.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you sound agreeable, but your face is smug.”
“I have a smug face?”
You nodded. “You have many faces. I’m building a database.”
He reached around you and opened the door.
“Always the gentleman,” you said.
“It’s polite.”
“It’s very 1940s.”
“Been told.”
You stepped past him into the shop. “Thanks, Captain Chivalry.”
He sighed behind you.
The inside of Feldman & Sons smelled faintly of lemon oil, old wood, and cold metal. Glass cases lined the walls, each one carefully lit from within. Nothing sparkled aggressively. Everything gleamed with restraint. Rings sat in velvet trays like they were waiting to be chosen by people who knew how to pronounce all the French words on a wine list.
There were antique brooches, men’s watches, signet rings, tiny gold lockets, and diamond bands that looked as if they had survived better-dressed wars than the one currently being waged in your chest.
An older man stepped out from the back room almost immediately.
He had silver hair, rimless glasses, and the composed expression of a person who had seen enough engagement panic to become immune to it. His suit fit beautifully, in the way that made you suspect his tailor knew family secrets.
“Congressman Barnes,” he said warmly.
Bucky nodded. “Arthur.”
Of course he knew his jeweler by first name.
You looked at Bucky. He ignored you.
“And Mrs. Barnes,” Arthur turned to you, his expression softening to something respectful without becoming familiar.
“A pleasure to meet you,” you said brightly.
Arthur smiled. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
“Are they?” You asked.
Bucky said your name under his breath, his tone laced with amusement.
Arthur’s smile deepened. “I’ll say they are.”
Arthur gestured toward a seating area near the back. Two chairs sat before a glass-topped consultation table. A tray had already been arranged there, covered with a dark velvet cloth.
Already arranged.
Bucky had called ahead.
You sat first, because standing there would look suspicious, and because Bucky remained beside your chair until you did.
Arthur took the chair on the other side of the table and folded his hands.
“I pulled a few options based on what Congressman Barnes mentioned over the phone,” he said.
You turned to Bucky. “You mentioned things?”
“He asked what you might like.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing strange,” Bucky said. “Or too showy.”
He was right.
“And that you’d probably prefer something with a little history.”
Also not wrong.
Bucky Barnes knowing things about you was not new. He knew your coffee order, the way you hated having your back to open doors, how you kept snacks in your desk drawer but forgot to eat them, which donors made your jaw clench, and which jokes meant you were actually upset.
You leaned back in your chair. “Fine. Proceed, Arthur. Show me the tasteful evidence.”
Arthur lifted the velvet cloth, and for a second, you forgot to be sarcastic.
There were maybe a dozen of them. Some gold, some platinum, some with diamonds arranged in clean lines, others with sapphires or small emeralds or filigree work delicate enough to make you worry about crushing them in your fist.
Arthur began explaining Edwardian settings, old European cuts, mine cuts, platinum bands, hand engraving, restoration work. You listened with half an ear, because you were good at listening while pretending not to.
Arthur slid a ring with a halo of tiny diamonds around a center stone toward you.
You tilted your head. “I don’t know… it just has third-wife energy. Maybe for one of my next marriages?”
Bucky stifled a laugh.
“I see,” Arthur said with a nod.
Arthur then handed you a thin gold band with small stones.
You tried it on. It looked wrong on your hand. Pretty, yes, but wrong. Like something that would apologize after being stepped on.
“No,” you said. “It would not survive me.”
Bucky’s eyes dropped to your hand, then back to your face. “No?”
“No.”
Arthur moved the next ring into the center of the tray.
It was smaller than some of the others, but not timid. A central diamond set low, not raised like it needed to be shown off. Old cut. Softer than modern stones, catching the light in flashes rather than fire. On either side, tiny sapphires were tucked into the setting, dark enough that they looked nearly black until light hit them.
And when light did hit them, they were the exact same shade of blue as—
No.
No, you were not going to think about that.
“What’s this one?” You asked.
“Old European-cut diamond, with sapphire accents,” Arthur informed you. “The engraving is original, though worn. It’s been cleaned and checked, but not over-restored.”
“Not over-restored,” you repeated.
“No, some pieces lose character if you try to make them look new.”
You picked up the ring, turning it once, watching the light move across the worn detailing. There were tiny imperfections in the metal, softened by time. It looked like something that had survived being loved.
You slid it onto your finger before you could talk yourself out of it.
It fit. Of course it fit. You stared at your hand, your fingers flexing once. The sapphires flashed.
Beside you, Bucky did not move. You could feel his stillness, but you did not look at him because if you looked at him, you would have to name whatever was happening in the air, and you had survived too long by refusing to name things until absolutely necessary.
Arthur smiled faintly. “It suits you.”
You swallowed.
Then lifted your chin. “Well, obviously.”
Bucky’s voice came lower than before. “You like it?”
You looked at him then.
Big mistake.
His eyes were on you now. Blue, steady, unreadable in that infuriating way of his. There was something behind them you didn’t know how to hold.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” you said. “I’m capable of liking beautiful things.”
“I know,” he said softly.
You cleared your throat, looking down at the ring again. “It might be too expensive.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It’s covered.”
“By who?”
“Me. Are you done?”
“No. I’m just warming up.”
Bucky sighed. “We need rings.”
“We need rings,” you agreed, “we don’t need to put a down payment on something that could have an ancestral curse.”
His mouth twitched. “Ancestral curse?”
“It’s from the 1910s, anything could have happened.”
“We do inspect for structural damage,” Arthur said gently.
“I am speaking spiritually, Arthur,” you replied.
“Ah.”
“You want to look at more?” Bucky asked.
You looked down at the tray, and suddenly every other ring looked like someone else’s life.
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
“But don’t look too pleased about it,” you added.
“Can’t be pleased my wife likes her ring?”
Your breath caught. You hated how easily he had said it.
You looked toward Arthur. “Do you have men’s rings? Preferably something for a man whose personality is stuck in the stone age?”
“Of course,” Arthur said. “I pulled a few options for Congressman Barnes as well.”
“Excellent,” you said. “He doesn’t get to be financially noble alone.”
“You don’t have to buy mine,” Bucky said, turning to you.
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t–”
You leaned closer and smiled. “Husband.”
He stopped. Good. Effective.
You continued sweetly. “Are you denying your wife the joy of gift-giving?”
“You are enjoying this too much,” Bucky muttered.
“I enjoy very few things in life. Let me have this.”
Arthur returned with another tray of men’s bands. Gold, platinum, brushed metal, darker finishes. Some plain, some engraved, some too modern, some too delicate. Bucky tried on a few, but you could tell he wasn’t overly impressed with any yet.
You picked up a simple band with a narrow engraved line around the center. It was solid without being showy. Clean. Old-fashioned. It looked like him. Steady. Understated.
You handed it to him.
“Try this one.”
Bucky took it.
His fingers brushed yours.
He slid the ring onto his left hand, looking at the ring, then at you.
“Well?”
You tried to summon a joke, but for once, it came late.
“It’ll do.”
His eyebrows lifted. “That’s all?”
You shrugged.
After being given the green light for both rings, Arthur took them to a different counter to wrap them up. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms.
“You didn’t have to say yes,” Bucky said after a minute.
You turned to face him.
“To the ring?” You asked.
“To any of this.”
You felt your body go still. There it was, the thing under the thing.
“I know,” you said.
You drummed your fingers lightly against your knee, adding, “the old rings looked ridiculous.”
“They did. Probably best that we have rings that don’t look like they came with a free souvenir cup.”
You snorted. “That was almost funny.”
“I try.”
“Do you?”
“With you.”
You stared at him.
He seemed to realize what he had said only after it was too late, his eyes shifting away.
Bucky had expected you to complain more.
He had prepared for it, actually.
Not because you were unreasonable, but because moving into his townhouse had seemed like the kind of thing you would resist on principle. It was one thing to wear a ring in public, one thing to sit beside him in an interview and smile like the marriage had been a private choice, one thing to let the office believe the story because the alternative was worse.
Moving in was different. Closets, toothbrushes. Your shoes by his door next to his. Your books on his shelves. Your life occupying space in his.
Bucky had expected a fight, he had not expected you to walk through the front door of his townhouse, stop in the entryway with a box balanced against your hip, and go silent.
You were trying not to show it, but Bucky had learned you too well for that. Your shoulders lowered the smallest amount. Your eyes moved over the space with the quick, precise assessment you gave every room you entered.
The townhouse was not grand. Narrow, brick-fronted, with creaky stairs and too many built-ins. But it was solid, and significantly nicer and safer than your apartment. Better locks, no alley-facing bedroom window. No lobby where anyone with a clipboard and confidence could talk their way inside.
“Okay,” you said.
Bucky shut the door behind him. “Okay?”
You set the box down on the console table and walked deeper inside, slow enough that he knew you were trying not to seem impressed.
“This is irritating.”
He leaned back against the closed door. “My house?”
“Your house being so nice.”
His mouth tugged despite himself. “Sorry.”
“You should be.”
You glanced around the living room, taking in the dark wood floors, the fireplace, the bookshelves, and the deep green couch Sam had bullied him into buying.
“This severely undermines my moral position,” you said.
“What moral position?”
“That moving in with you is a sacrifice.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Is it?”
You looked back at him, eyes narrowing. Bucky held up both hands. You turned away, but not before he caught the small curve at the corner of your mouth.
“It’s inconvenient,” you shrugged, stepping into the living room and running a hand along the back of the couch. “But materially? This is a significant improvement.”
Bucky picked up the box you had abandoned and carried it toward the stairs. You had packed quickly, which meant very little had been labeled in ways a normal person would understand. This box had DESK/FILES/KNIVES? written on the side in black marker.
He paused at the bottom of the staircase and looked back at you.
“Knives?”
You waved him off. “It’s an old box.”
The townhouse had been quiet for years. Too quiet, sometimes. After everything, he had wanted quiet. He had wanted a place where no one came through the door unless he let them in, where the walls stayed where they were, where the furniture did not move unless he moved it. A place that belonged to him, because for a long time nothing had.
But quiet could turn on a man. The house had a way of making his own breathing sound too loud. A way of stretching night into something flat and empty. He had gotten used to it, or told himself he had. He cooked badly in the kitchen, read reports in the living room, slept poorly in the bedroom, and let the place stay clean because clean was easier than lived-in.
In the space of ten minutes, you had placed two boxes in the hallway, a coat over the banister, your bag on the entry table, and a pair of sunglasses beside his keys.
He carried the box into the bedroom and set it near the dresser. The room felt different with your things in it, even boxed. Warmer.
He looked at the bed and made himself look away.
You were not really his wife. Not like that.
By the time he returned downstairs, you were in the kitchen, opening cabinets. Of course you were. You had your blazer sleeves pushed up and the expression of a woman conducting an inspection that would end badly for someone.
You opened one cabinet, stared inside, then slowly closed it. You opened another. Closed it. Opened the pantry. You went very still.
He braced himself.
“Barnes?”
“Yes?”
“What is this?”
“My pantry?”
“No.”
“It is.”
You stepped aside so he could see.
Coffee. Protein bars. Peanut butter. A few cans of soup. No cereal. No snacks that could be described as anything other than fuel. A small box of tea that Sam had once left behind.
You gestured to it like a prosecutor presenting Exhibit A.
“Y’know we don’t have to ration anymore, right?”
“It’s food.”
He smiled despite himself and reached for one of the smaller boxes near the doorway. This one was labeled KITCHEN/NO KNIVES :(, which worried him more than the knife box. He opened the box. Tea, mugs, a small jar of honey. Two mismatched bowls. A tiny bottle of something labeled in a language he didn’t recognize.
You gave him a small smile, helping to unpack the box.
There it was again: the strange, sharp brightness of having you in his space. You made the air move. You made the kitchen feel less like a room he used and more like a room where things might happen. Arguments, coffee, bad jokes. You opening cabinets and declaring war on his grocery habits.
“I can clear a shelf,” Bucky said, putting the tea on the counter.
Your fingers paused around the mug you were unwrapping.
“A shelf?” You said.
“For your tea.”
“I don’t need a whole shelf.”
“I’ll clear a shelf.”
Bucky opened the pantry and started moving things. Coffee to the top shelf. Protein bars into a basket. Soup to the back. He could feel you watching him, though you pretended to be busy unwrapping mugs. This was his home, and he was shifting his things around so yours could fit.
Behind him, you said, quieter, “You don’t have to rearrange everything.”
He kept moving the coffee. “I know.”
“It’s your house.”
He looked over his shoulder. You were standing by the counter, one mug held in both hands. It was chipped on the handle. Blue. He had seen it on your desk.
“Our cover’s better if it looks like you live here,” he said, turning back to the pantry before you could read him too closely. “Which shelf?”
“One I can reach without climbing.”
“That eliminates a third of them.”
You scoffed, coming up beside him and arranging boxes immediately. He leaned one shoulder against the cabinet and watched you take over. You looked comfortable. Not fully.
You were still too aware of the room, still clocking exits and windows, still moving with the restless caution he knew came from training neither of you liked to name too often. But under it, there was relief. He could see it in the small things. The way you did not flinch when the pipes creaked. The way you left your bag on the chair instead of keeping it looped over your shoulder. The way you had not once asked about the locks, probably because you had already approved them.
“You like it,” he said.
You did not look at him. “Like what?”
“The house.”
You shrugged. “The bathroom is excellent.”
“Glad it passed.”
“The closet is also acceptable.”
“Acceptable?”
“Don’t get cocky. Your living room only has one decorative pillow.”
“It has two.”
“One of them is lumbar support.”
“I like that pillow.”
“That’s because you’re elderly.”
He rolled his eyes. You caught it and smiled, pleased with yourself.
That smile did something to him. It always did, but here, in his kitchen, with your tea on his shelf and your ring catching the light as you moved boxes around, it was worse. Harder to ignore. The whole day had been a long exercise in pretending that every ordinary thing was strategy. The interview. The office. The jeweler.
The lies sat next to the truth so neatly that sometimes he had trouble seeing where one ended. You were moving in because the marriage needed to look real and because your apartment was terrible and his house was better. You were not moving in because he wanted you here.
The house hummed quietly around you. Refrigerator, pipes, distant traffic outside. Your box of tea sat in his pantry. Bucky did not know what to say.
You saved him from trying.
“Well,” you said, turning back to the counter and lifting another box, “that ends today. You’re going to own snacks.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“It is. That’s why people enjoy it.”
He stepped closer and took the box from you before you could lift it.
You frowned. “I had that.”
“I know.”
You crossed your arms. “You know, the chivalry thing is going to get old.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It might.”
“It won’t.”
He carried the box upstairs.
Your bedroom–his bedroom, no, the bedroom–was next. That was the part he had been avoiding in his head, which was useless because the bed was not going to become less obvious through neglect.
You stood near the closet, looking inside with the same expression you had given the pantry, though softer this time. He had cleared half of it before you arrived. More than half, technically. His suits had been pushed to one side. The drawers on the left were empty. The top shelf had space for whatever you kept in those alarming little bags you never let anyone touch.
You looked at the empty side, then at him.
“You did this already?”
He set the box down. “Yeah.”
“When?”
“Before the interview.”
You stared.
“I knew we’d probably need to move fast,” he said.
“You cleared a lot,” you said.
“I don’t need much.”
You passed him on your way out of the closet, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm. He did not move. Neither did you, not for half a second. Then you continued into the bedroom, scanning the space like you could avoid the bed by sheer force of will.
Bucky watched you notice it.
The bed was made. Neatly, because he had made it this morning before leaving, before the interview, before the office, before rings, before you walking through his front door.
You put both hands on your hips.
“Well,” you said.
Bucky leaned against the doorframe. “Well?”
“We should discuss the sleeping situation.”
“Couch is fine.”
“No.”
He blinked.
You turned toward him. “Absolutely not.”
“I don’t mind.”
“That’s because your relationship with discomfort is alarmingly intimate.”
“It’s one night.”
“It won’t be one night.”
Of course you were right. If you were moving in, if the building staff saw you, if anyone in the office dropped something off, if the public marriage had to survive more than a week, the couch would not work.
More than that, Bucky knew you. You would not let him sleep on the couch in his own house. Not because you were sentimental, but you wouldn’t let him accuse you of elder abuse.
“You take the bed,” he insisted.
You stared at him. He recognized the expression. Wrong answer.
“Barnes.”
“What?”
“You are not being exiled from your own mattress because of a fake marriage we drunkenly wandered into.” You walked to the left side of the bed and put your hand on the pillow. “I’ll take this side, you’re okay with the right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not going to stare at the ceiling all night like a haunted portrait?”
“I can’t promise that.”
You sat on the edge of the bed and bounced once, testing the mattress.
“This is a very good bed,” you said. “It’s further incentivizing me to stay in this marriage.”
He snorted. “Could be worse reasons.”
“You’re being very agreeable today,” you observed.
He moved toward the door. “I’ll bring up the rest of the boxes.”
Bucky turned and walked downstairs, stopping for a moment at the bottom, hand on the banister, and let himself listen. Not for threats or movement outside.
For you.
Moving around upstairs. Opening a box. Muttering something about his closet. Laughing once under your breath at your own joke.
Bucky looked toward the living room, where your bags sat beside his keys and your coat hung over the arm of the couch. One of your shoes had tipped onto its side near the entry table. Your sunglasses were still beside the bowl where he kept loose change.
Bucky picked up the next box and carried it upstairs to his wife.
