Chapter Text
The lights and cameras were flashing way too damn bright. They always were. Bucky adjusted his tie a little too tight against his throat as he stared out at the sea of flashing cameras and hands waving in the air.
Standing in front of these people always felt like standing in front of a shark tank. These relentless reporters were always ready to pounce, banging their heads against the glass until the tank finally cracked. Despite his nervousness, he still forced a smile. But these kind of smiles never quite reach his eyes.
“Congressman Barnes,” the voice starts with a polite tone. They always do. “Do you think the American people can trust someone with your… history , to legislate in their best interest?”
And there it was.
He can already feel the cracks of the tank starting to form, droplets of water leaking through. It was always that sly and passive aggressive comment about his history that riled up the crowd. He was already hearing snickers, and as he opened his mouth to speak, the flash of the cameras grew even brighter.
“I believe in accountability,” he begins, standing straighter. “I’ve spent years proving I’m not the man I used to be.”
More pictures. More flashes. More cracks. More water leaks.
Bucky continues. “I didn’t get here by pretending my past didn’t happen. I got here by owning up to it–”
Another hand shot up before he even got to finish. Perfect.
“But some would argue you weren’t just a man. You were a weapon, one that took innocent lives. Shouldn’t a seat in Congress be reserved for those who never had to atone for war crimes?”
Jesus Christ. He needs a drink.
If that same question was brought up to him months ago, maybe he would’ve grovelled and begged for forgiveness right in front of these reporters. But as the days went by—and as hard as it was—he had to accept that he wasn’t in control during that time.
The Winter Soldier wasn’t him.
Bucky swallows. “I was used. Programmed to become something I’m not. That’s not an excuse for what I’ve done, but it is the truth–”
“And yet you’re voting on national security bills now. Do you think families who lost loved ones to Hydra feel safe knowing you’re writing law?”
He freezes. And just like that, the shark tank shatters and water comes gushing through like a tsunami. Click, click, click. Cameras snapped at him as he stood there on the podium like helpless prey. His left hand resting on the podium curls into a tight fist as he tries to compose himself. He has gotten used to showing off his arm without a glove—trying to own up to it. But at times like this, he just wishes he could put that stupid glove back on if it means not to be looked at like a damn monster.
But rather a respectable human being.
“I…I can understand that my position here can be very… worrying—” he begins to stammer.
Bucky’s press secretary, Margaret Voss, was seated in the front row. She narrows her brows at him, eyes sharp. His press secretary knows better than anyone that once he starts adding ‘worrying’ in his sentences, then everything goes downhill from there.
There have even been headlines about it, mocking him. Headlines in big bold letters that say: CONGRESSMAN BARNES IN OFFICE? A VERY WORRYING SITUATION FOR THE NATION.
“...and it is up to me to resolve the worrying matters of this very, worrying issue.” Bucky continues, his eyes disassociating blankly into a random reporter in the crowd. Cameras continue to flash, and the crowd begins to snicker.
He glances down at Voss. She sits there, trying to act calm with her legs crossed. She has her pointer finger circling in motion as she mouths “Wrap it up.”
“Thank you. Excuse me,” he muttered quickly, giving the crowd a curt nod before stepping down and offstage with a quiet, “Shit,” under his breath.
“Congressman Barnes, wait!”
Reporters shouted after him, but he was already gone. He kept his left hand in a tight fist, beginning to feel very self conscious about his prosthetic. He eventually disappears behind the curtain as the press pit continues to erupt in an arrangement of inaudible questions.
Voss caught up to him in a hurry, heels clicking on the marble floor. “Well, that went wonderful,” she muttered dryly, falling into step beside him as they turned a corner, finally out of everyone’s view.
“What the hell am I supposed to say when people ask me questions like that?” Bucky snapped through clenched teeth. “I’ve had this seat for what— three months ? And they’re already raking me through the mud.”
He shoved open the door to a small, empty office and walked in without waiting as Voss trails after him. She was clutching folders against her arms, her wrinkled hand holding onto them tightly.
“It doesn’t help that you have nothing to show for,” she said, not unkindly, but as blunt as ever. “Any chance you’re getting a bill on the floor before the decade ends?”
Bucky leaned against the desk, shooting her a glare.
Voss didn’t flinch. She just let out a tired exhale. “You’ve gotta get on that, Barnes.”
“I am trying ,” he grits through clenched teeth. “There’s just too much to read, and half of it feels like it’s written in another goddamn language.”
She tucked the folders under one arm and pulled her phone from her back pocket, squinting as she held it away from her face. With a sigh, she grabbed the reading glasses dangling from her neck and slipped them on.
“I’ve got a few ideas that could help,” she said, tapping at the screen. “But you’re probably not gonna like them.”
Bucky crosses his arms. “At this point, I’ll do anything.”
“Well… good.” She says, nails tapping away at the screen. “There’s nothing this country eats up faster than a good old-fashioned family narrative. A loving partner. Stability. Something that says, ‘Hey, I’m not a weapon, I’m caring, and I’m husband material.’ ”
He stays quiet.
“It shows you’re capable of love, that you’ve got a soft spot. That you can relate to the average American voter.”
Bucky scratches at his salt-and-pepper beard, giving her a slow, skeptical nod, urging her to get to the point.
“That also says you’re working for their best interests. Because you’re just like them. A man with a home. A heart. But unfortunately for you…” she pauses, glancing up briefly, “you’ve got no family, barely any close friends, and no one to come home to—”
“What are you getting at, Voss?” Bucky cuts through impatiently.
Voss sets the folders she had tucked under her arm down on the desk behind him. She’s still tapping on her phone.
“Marriage.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “That’s real funny.”
She finally looks up at him over the rim of her thin glasses. “I’m serious, Barnes. You need to get married.”
He glares at her with a look that’s stuck between disbelief and disgust. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” he repeats, firmer now, standing straighter.
Voss exhales, lifting her glasses to the top of her head. “Barnes, let’s not be dense. The press still sees you as this… weapon dressed in a suit,” she waves her phone vaguely at him. “They don’t see a man. They see The Winter Soldier . ”
“Wow, thanks,” he mutters.
“What better way to dissolve the rumors than getting married?” Voss went on, ever casual as she swiped through her phone. “And it can’t just be with anyone, no. It has to be someone with American values. Clean record. Squeaky clean image. The kind of person who makes the nation swoon when you walk hand-in-hand in public, like how they did with the Kennedys.”
Bucky flinched.
Voss blinked, looked up, then immediately grimaced. “Right. Shit. Sorry.”
“Anyway,” she cleared her throat, trying to recover, “have a look at this.” She held out her phone, tilting it sideways to show the screen. A livestream was playing, and in the center was a woman–you–standing on a podium with a bright smile on your face. Like you were born for this.
Bucky frowned, voice gruff. “What is this?”
“Just watch,” she says.
You stand on the polished podium with a practiced smile. String of white lights twinkle above the outdoor venue. Banners with your father’s name and the foundation’s logo flap gently in the breeze.
Even after all these years, speaking still makes your palms sweat. You’ve done this so many times before, yet the lump in your throat never fully goes away. Your hair is neatly styled, your modest dress tailored just a bit too tightly, forcing you to hold yourself taller, stiffer. Every flash of the camera reminds you that you’re live and being watched, judged, recorded.
The crowd finally settles into a quiet whisper. Now it’s just you and the microphone.
“My father was one of America’s greatest war heroes, as you may know…” you begin, trying to keep your voice steady. “He dedicated his life to serving this country, protecting freedoms we sometimes take for granted. He was taken from us too soon, murdered in service. Though we still don’t know by whose hand…”
You pause for a moment. You look up at the sky and blink away the tears. God. Don’t cry, don’t cry. There’s probably a few videos online that date back from a few years ago, where you’re standing at this very same podium—crying like a baby the first time you started making these speeches.
As much as it pains you to bring up your father’s sob story countless times, you suck it up and do it anyway. It was for his legacy, and for a good cause.
“Tonight, we gather not only to honor his memory, but to raise funds for the Jameson Foundation. An organization dedicated to supporting veterans and their families, providing the resources and care that too many still go on without.”
You suck in a breath and continue. “This cause is personal. I know what it’s like to wait for someone who never comes home. I know what it’s like to feel forgotten. And I believe no family should have to endure that pain without support.”
The cameras flash, and the people in the crowd are smiling at you with solemn in their eyes. As they always do.
You stand up straighter. “I am proud to carry my father’s name forward. Not just as his daughter, but as someone who believes that real patriotism doesn’t end on the battlefield. It lives on in how we care for those who served, and those they leave behind.”
The applause begins slowly, then builds. People rise to their feet, clapping and nodding. The camera flashes grow brighter, and you continue to force yourself to smile until the very end of it.
Part performance, part devotion. This was your duty.
By the time the event finally winds down, you’re being ushered into the backseat of a black SUV, still waving and flashing that picture-perfect smile. You offer your final goodbyes with polite nods and short words.
When the car door shuts behind you, it’s like a flip in the switch.
You let out a deep, exhausted sigh, one you’ve been holding in for hours. Your fingers immediately reach behind your back, fumbling with the zipper of your too-tight dress. When it finally gives, you exhale like you've just been freed from a corset and slump into the leather seat.
“God, finally,” you mutter. “Can we stop for a burger?”
From the front seat, your driver glances up in the rearview mirror. His dark sunglasses cover his eyes, but you already know the look. “We were called into–”
“Please,” you cut in, desperate now. Your stomach growls. “I’ve been starving myself all day to fit into this dress. I just want something quick and greasy. Burger. Fries. A milkshake if you’re feeling generous?”
He exhales slowly. Grumpy old man.
Then he flicks the turn signal, switching lanes. “Fine. But right after that—”
“Yes! Thank you! You’re my savior, George. I mean it.” You flash him a quick, grateful smile before collapsing back into your seat, dress half-undone and hair already starting to fall from its pins.
On paper, you’re everything the public adores. Clean-cut legacy. Daughter of a fallen American war hero. Ivy League degree, a résumé packed with charity work, fundraiser galas, and “giving back.” Your hair is always done, your posture perfect, clothes modest, and your voice well polished to make it sound like you were born to be on that podium.
You’re America’s Sweetheart. And it’s exhausting.
Because behind closed doors, you’re just the average woman who wants to eat an embarrassing amount of junk food, and rot in bed with your phone or maybe a good book six inches from your face. You’ve got a whole curated public image handed to you on a silver platter, but your real personality is one bad week away from giving the nation a finger on live TV.
Only a handful of people know that side of you. Your driver, George, was one of them. Probably against his will.
After George handed you the greasy brown bag, you didn’t waste a second before diving in. You were finally eating your first meal of the day. You were eating so fast without a care in the world, until you noticed a few drops of mustard dripping down the front of your dress.
“Shit,” you muttered, trying to dab it off with a napkin. “Good thing we’re heading straight home after this.”
George shot you a sharp look from behind his dark sunglasses. “No, we’re not.”
“Are we stopping for gas or something?” you ask him mid-chew.
“No,” he says curtly. Jeez. This guy wasn’t getting paid more to talk, but still. A little more explanation wouldn’t kill him.
“Then where exactly are we going, George?” you pressed.
He kept his eyes on the road and said, “We’re heading to a briefing room in the Capitol. Congressman Barnes and Margaret Voss are there waiting. They want to talk to you.”
“Talk to me?” you ask around a mouthful, swallowing quickly. “About what? I didn’t know we had a meeting with them.”
George shrugs. “Tried to tell you, but you kept interrupting.”
Fair enough. Still, what could a congressman want from you beyond speeches and polite handshakes?
“Okay...” you lower your burger, eyeing the mustard stain on your dress. “But can we swing by the house first? I need to change. I’m covered in sauce.”
“No time,” he says bluntly. “We’re five minutes away.”
Wait, what ? Absolutely not. There was no way you were meeting a congressman covered in condiments. Sure, you were the picture-perfect good girl, but sometimes being a spoiled brat was necessary—and being an only child didn’t help. George had learned that the hard way.
“George,” you hiss, gripping the back of his seat. “Turn the car around.”
“No time,” he repeats with no intention of budging.
“Geooorgeee!” you whine, voice rising, hand tightening on the seat.
“No. We’re pulling up now,” he says with firm hands on the wheel. “And you’re too old to be acting like a child. Knock it off.”
You slump back into the seat and cross your arms.
The car slows and pulls up in front of an imposing government building. Gray stone walls, tall, narrow windows. The entrance is guarded by two stern-faced officers in crisp uniforms, their hands resting casually but deliberately on their holstered weapons. The American flag swaying gently in the breeze.
You can already hear the cries of a bald eagle.
George kills the engine, glances back through the rearview mirror, and says, “Ready?”
“Not like I have much of a choice,” you mutter under your breath.
George doesn’t acknowledge it. He just steps out of the driver’s seat and shuts the door with a soft thud . You hear the familiar crunch of gravel under his perfectly shined shoes as he circles around to your side. The door opens with a gentle pull, and he extends a hand.
You grab his hand stand with a quiet sigh, stepping out of the vehicle.
At the top of the building steps, a woman emerges. She’s sharp-looking with salt and pepper hair pulled back into a sleek bun. She has reading glasses looped around her neck like a necklace, her tailored suit crisp even in the slight breeze. You don’t need an introduction to know this is Margaret Voss.
“It’s lovely to finally meet you! We were just watching your speech on the livestream,” she calls with enthusiasm, her crows’ feet wrinkling deeper as she beams.
“Psst,” George mutters.
You flick your eyes toward him. He’s standing rigid beside you, but you catch the flick of his gaze underneath his sunglasses pointed downward, toward your back.
“Your dress. Zip it,” he says under his breath.
Oh, crap.
Voss gets closer and you take a step closer to George. “Help me,” you grit through your forced smile.
“I can’t,” he murmurs quietly, keeping his face neutral. “Looks bad.”
“Oh come on, since when do you care about appearances?”
“I care about yours, ” he says, voice flat.
“Then zip me up, George.”
George mutters something under his breath in annoyance. Then, reluctantly, he reaches a hand for the back of your zipper but withdraws immediately as Voss gets closer. He goes back to standing straight and composed.
Now Voss is here, standing face to face with you, extending her hand for a handshake. You look at her with the most composed expression you can manage, keeping one hand behind your back to hold the dress together. You reach out with your free one, returning her handshake with a steady grip.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Voss.”
“Oh please,” she waves you off with a smile. “Call me Margaret.”
You smile tightly. Yeah, that’s not happening.
“I’m Congressman Barnes’ press secretary. Come inside, I’ll introduce you to him.” She pulls away and looks between you and George. “Just follow me.”
She turns and starts walking back inside the building. The two front guards give you a curt nod and steps aside, letting you in with George trailing behind.
As you step through the doorway, the solid heavy door shuts behind you with a thunk . The cool air inside brushes your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth outside. Marble floors stretch out beneath your heels, the sound of your steps echoing around the foyer.
Margaret is already a few paces ahead, speaking over her shoulder. “We’re just down this hallway. He’s expecting you.”
You and George linger a step or two behind. The moment she rounds a corner and her heels fade in volume, you grab George by the wrist and yank him toward you. “Now,” you hiss.
He hesitates, glancing in the direction she disappeared, but then gives in with a grumble. “Turn around.”
You turn, holding your dress tight at the back as he reaches for the zipper, trying to tug it upwards. “It won’t budge,” he mumbles. “Did you gain weight?”
You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “I had one burger!”
George exhales through his nose, brows furrowed in concentration behind his sunglasses. “You’re gonna have to stand really straight.”
You groan under your breath but comply, stretching up like you’re back in ballet class. You feel the zipper inch its way up, tighter and tighter, until finally…. click . It’s zipped up. But now you’re standing so stiff, and if you even dare to bend down or breathe too much, it’ll tear.
“Thanks,” you breathe, tugging the skirt down over your thighs. George just grunts and takes a step back.
Voss returns, peeking her head around the corner. She still has her polite smile on, but you can tell she’s getting impatient. “Everything alright?” she calls, voice echoing faintly down the hall.
“All good!” you reply, lifting your chin and offering a poised smile. You move to catch up with her, taking small, careful steps so the dress doesn’t split at the seams. “Sorry for the delay.”
She gestures for you to follow with a pleasant sweep of her hand. You round the corner, heels clicking again, and stop at the open doorway. Inside was a private office, and at the far end of the room, standing near a tall window with its blinds half-drawn, is a man with broad shoulders and a sharp posture.
He doesn’t turn when you enter, he just continues to stand there with his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. What a warm welcome. How polite of him to greet you with such boundless enthusiasm. Voss gives a quick knock against the open door anyway, as if it makes any difference.
“Congressman Barnes,” she says in that bright and diplomatic tone. “She’s here.”
Finally, Bucky turns around slowly. His gaze cuts across the room and his cold blue eyes land directly on you. Standing in front of any person involved in politics would make anyone feel nervous. But for some reason, the way he’s staring—glaring—at you makes you feel more self conscious than you should.
You stand up straighter, both hands linked and politely intertwined in front of you as you wait for him to greet you.
Instead, his eyes drop. They drag across you, up and down. If you didn’t already feel insecure before entering this building, then you definitely already do now. He doesn’t offer a smile. Doesn’t extend a hand. Doesn’t say a word.
He just stands there.
No.
No way in hell was this the woman Voss expected him to marry. Bucky’s stare doesn’t waver. If anything, his gaze deepens as his eyes continue their slow, deliberate drag down your figure, making no effort to hide that he’s sizing you up. Definitely judging.
There was no way you were the same woman on the livestream he saw just half an hour ago.
That woman had poise. That woman had her hair pinned up in a perfect twist, glowing under the lights with the kind of smile that made you look like you were carved straight out of a campaign poster.
Your hair’s undone and an unruly mess. The dress, God. The dress —looks like it shrunk three sizes in the wash. Tight in all the wrong places that makes it seem downright vulgar. And then there’s the kicker, a yellowish mustard stain at the front of your dress. Staring right back at him.
Now you’re standing awkwardly, fingers fidgeting, chewing on your lip like you’re waiting for detention.
This was America’s sweetheart?
Bucky swallows, jaw clenched. His hands dig deeper into his pockets. He doesn’t care how many Ivy League degrees you had or how many foundations you fronted, because this? Whatever you had going on here, it wasn’t going to work.
He knew he wasn’t perfect either, but damn it all. He had a reputation to fix.
Voss glances between the two of you, sensing the tension in the air. She parts her mouth to speak–probably attempting to smooth things over, but before the words come out, Bucky doesn't give her the chance.
“No,” he cuts in, flat and cold. “The plan is off.”
“The plan?” you recoil, visibly confused. Great. Voss hadn’t bothered to fill you in either.
She shifts uncomfortably, forcing a tight, nervous smile at you and your rigid bodyguard. And seriously, why was he still wearing sunglasses indoors? Bucky made a mental note of that.
“Would you two mind waiting outside for a moment—”
“No,” you interrupt firmly with a frown. “If you’ve got something to say about me, say it here. Isn’t that why I was called in?”
That clearly caught him off guard. He’d expected you to nod politely like you always did in interviews, then exit with a polished wave like some stuck-up princess.
Your bodyguard—driver—or whoever the hell he was, just simply nodded and slipped out the door without a second glance.
Voss exhaled slowly, trying her best to be careful with her words. “I understand that this is unexpected,” she began, her voice steady and composed. “But I assure you, this proposal wasn’t made lightly.”
“What proposal?” you stood straight, the tightness of your dress is suddenly the least suffocating thing in this room. Your eyes flickered towards Bucky instinctively. He refused to meet your gaze, instead focusing somewhere near the window.
“That’s exactly what this is. A proposal. A strategic partnership. A public engagement between you and Congressman Barnes.” Voss continued.
You blinked. Then you bark out a laugh. “You don’t mean a proposal as in marriage, do you?”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitches. Sure, he wasn’t thrilled about this arrangement either, but the distaste in your voice hit a nerve. Still, he said nothing.
Voss just nodded. “Yes. In name and in the public view. Nothing would benefit your guys’ public opinion faster than aligning the Congressman with someone like you, an American figure the public already trusts. Someone with strong values, charitable history, and an impeccable background!”
Your stomach turned. She was showering you with compliments, but for their personal gain. You hated every moment of this.
“This is a terrible idea,” you say sharply. “And frankly, quite immature.”
“Glad we can agree,” Bucky says bitterly with arms crossed. It came off ruder than he intended, but he was past pleasantries after already having a shit day. First the stupid questions from the press, and now this equally-stupid arrangement? Anyone would want to rip their hair out over this. Including you.
Before you could even think to spin on your heel to leave, Voss speaks up.
“It’s mutually beneficial,” she says. “Congressman Barnes regains the public’s favor. And you, your foundation and your father’s legacy gains national attention. Think about it. Renewed funding and widespread support.”
You looked between her and Bucky, whose jaw was tight and eyes unreadable. “And when exactly was I going to be brought into this conversation?”
“Now,” Voss said simply. “I didn’t want to come to you until I was sure the Congressman would agree to even entertain the idea. Clearly, that’s still in debate.”
She glanced toward Bucky, but his stare remained fixed on the floor, silent and brooding as ever.
Voss turned back to you. “This isn’t an order. You’re not being forced into anything. I’d rather you both think of this as an opportunity that would greatly benefit you both,” Then she glances at Bucky. “Especially for one of you.”
Bucky hates this. He hates every single moment of this, because he knows that Voss is right. He glances over at you with cautious blue eyes. He knows that he needs this more than you do, especially after seeing you on the livestream. You already have support, but you could have more.
If you were the good person that people made you out to be, then you would accept it, for the sake of your late father.
But instead, you had your arms crossed, an unreadable expression on your face. You looked like you already had your answer to this. You weren’t going to entertain this stupid idea. You were going to spin on your heel and slam the door shut and never come back again.
Bucky lets out a low exhale, already accepting defeat as he turns back towards the window—
“I’ll do it,” you speak up.
He froze. He stops in his tracks and turns slowly to you, eyes slightly wide in shock.
Voss was equally stunned. She straightened up, clearly not expecting that answer either.
“Well—that’s perfect!” She says with a breathless laugh. She cast a quick glance toward Bucky, as if to confirm he’d heard you correctly, then refocused on you. “This is… this is going to be wonderful, you guys. Just give me one moment. I have some calls to make.”
She pulled out her phone, already dialing, and stepped toward the door. Before either of you could say a word, she paused at the door frame and looked back at you both.
“In the meantime, try to get to know each other. On a personal level.” And just like that, she stepped out and closed the door behind her.
And now Bucky is left standing here, face to face with you. Your hair’s a mess, you smell like a walking cheeseburger, and your dress could burst at the seams at any moment.
This was his future wife, his Mrs. Barnes.