Chapter Text
The office was too quiet. Too neat. Too... sterile.
Bucky hated it.
The high-rise view of Washington, D.C., sprawled behind him through floor-to-ceiling windows — a far cry from the gritty, dim safe houses he used to hole up in. The sleek desk, polished floors, and leather chairs didn’t suit him either. He wasn’t meant to be here. He wasn’t meant to be a Congressman.
Steve had insisted.
"You want to make a difference, Buck? Help from the inside," Steve had said, blue eyes steady. "This country doesn’t just need heroes — it needs people who understand what it’s lost. People who know what it’s worth fighting for."
It wasn’t like Bucky could argue with that. Not when Steve looked at him like that — like he still believed Bucky could be something more than a weapon Hydra once controlled.
So here he was. James Buchanan Barnes, United States Congressman. The title felt like a joke.
He didn’t go to law school. He wasn’t a smooth-talking politician. He didn’t trust half the suits who shook his hand and smiled for the cameras. He didn’t trust anyone, really.
Which was why the idea of hiring a secretary — a stranger hovering around him, managing his schedule, answering his calls — made his stomach twist. Steve had suggested it, and his campaign manager practically begged him to hire someone.
He refused. He didn’t need anyone. He could handle himself.
Until he couldn’t.
The meetings piled up. The paperwork became a mountain. Press conferences, policy briefings, foreign relations — Bucky was drowning. He sat through more than one hearing barely listening, jaw clenched, eyes distant as the ghosts in his head screamed louder than the senators across from him.
He didn’t realize how bad it got until Sam cornered him in his office one night.
"You look like hell, man," Sam said bluntly, arms crossed. "And that’s saying something. Get help — or I’m finding you a secretary myself. Probably a mean one."
Bucky scowled. "I don’t need—"
"You do."
The argument ended with Sam throwing a thick folder of résumés on his desk and walking out.
Bucky ignored it for three days.
When he finally cracked it open, half the applicants felt wrong. Too pushy. Too cheerful. Too polished. He didn’t need a smiling yes-man. He needed... well, he didn’t know what he needed.
The last résumé in the stack was yours.
He almost tossed it aside like the others.
But something about the handwritten cover letter caught his eye — a mix of professionalism and sincerity. No over-the-top pleasantries. Just confidence.
"I know you don’t want a secretary, Congressman Barnes. But you need one. And I’m the best you’re going to find."
Bucky huffed a dry, reluctant laugh. He didn’t hire you, not yet. He agreed to one interview — mostly to see who the hell had the audacity to write that.
And then you walked in.
You were all bright eyes and strong energy, balancing confidence and kindness so effortlessly it made him uncomfortable. He expected someone arrogant, but you weren’t. You spoke to him like he was a person, not a congressman or an ex-assassin. You didn’t flinch when his voice came out low and cold, didn’t falter when he dismissed you with a grunt and a shake of his head.
You stood your ground, chin lifted.
"You can push me away, Congressman. But that won’t make the press stop calling or your schedule disappear." You paused, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. "And from the look of things, you’re about two bad days away from throwing a senator out a window. Let me help."
He almost smirked — almost.
He didn’t hire you that day. He wasn’t ready to admit he needed anyone.
It took two more weeks of chaos before he caved.
The moment that sealed it wasn’t during some grand speech or high-stakes meeting. It was late one night, after another brutal session on the Senate floor. He came back to his office — exhausted, head pounding — and found his desk organized, reports sorted, and a steaming cup of black coffee waiting for him. A note sat beside it:
Figured you wouldn’t eat dinner. The coffee’s strong enough to keep you awake for three days. Don’t ask how I made it.
He stared at the note for a long moment, something tugging in his chest.
He hired you the next morning.
——
The present-day buzz of his office snapped him back to reality. He sat behind his desk, sifting through a stack of bills and amendments, his jaw tight. He hated politics. Hated playing the game. But maybe — just maybe — it was worth it.
The sound of heels clicking against the floor made his head lift. He didn’t need to look. He knew it was you.
"Morning, Congressman," you greeted, voice light and cheerful, as always.
He grunted in response, but his eyes softened just a fraction.
"Briefing with Senator Marshall at ten," you continued, dropping a folder on his desk without missing a beat. "Press conference at noon. And your speech on veterans' benefits is scheduled for three. I highlighted the important bits. You’re welcome."
Bucky huffed a breath through his nose — his version of a laugh.
"You’re too cheerful for this job."
"Someone has to balance out your grumpy energy," you teased.
He didn’t argue. He never did.
As you turned to leave, he watched you go, something unfamiliar twisting in his chest.
Yeah. Maybe it was worth it after all.