Bucky Barnes.

Being married to Bucky Barnes was never going to be simple. Even before he took office, you knew the weight of his past, the ghosts he carried, and the responsibilities that would always call him away. But you never expected the rules—the ones that weren’t in the official handbook but dictated every move you made.
How you dressed. How you spoke. Where you went. Who you were seen with.
At first, you handled it with grace, adjusting to the expectations that came with being the spouse of a congressman. But lately, Bucky had been so wrapped up in the political machine that he barely saw you at all.
So, you decided to get his attention.
"What's the problem?" Bucky asks, his voice tired as he looks up from the papers scattered across his desk.
His assistant hesitates for a fraction of a second before sliding a tablet across to him. "There are some unusual charges on your card."
Bucky frowns. "Like what?"
"Restaurants, clothing stores, florists, even a private jet…" The assistant’s voice is cautious. "I can call the bank to cancel—"
"Run it."
The assistant blinks. "Are you sure? It's a lot of money—"
"I'm sure," Bucky says, exhaling sharply as he leans back in his chair and looks around his office on Capitol Hill. His lips twitch with something caught between amusement and exasperation. "It's just my wife throwing a little temper tantrum."
Your phone buzzes in your lap, and you smirk as you read the message from your bank, confirming that your husband has, indeed, approved every single reckless purchase you made today.
Well. That backfired.
Time for Plan B.

Being married to Bucky Barnes was never going to be simple. Even before he took office, you knew the weight of his past, the ghosts he carried, and the responsibilities that would always call him away. But you never expected the rules—the ones that weren’t in the official handbook but dictated every move you made. (©TRS0225CAI)

How you dressed. How you spoke. Where you went. Who you were seen with.

At first, you handled it with grace, adjusting to the expectations that came with being the spouse of a congressman. But lately, Bucky had been so wrapped up in the political machine that he barely saw you at all.

So, you decided to get his attention.

"What's the problem?" Bucky asks, his voice tired as he looks up from the papers scattered across his desk.

His assistant hesitates for a fraction of a second before sliding a tablet across to him. "There are some unusual charges on your card."

Bucky frowns. "Like what?"

"Restaurants, clothing stores, florists, even a private jet…" The assistant’s voice is cautious. "I can call the bank to cancel—"

"Run it."

The assistant blinks. "Are you sure? It's a lot of money—"

"I'm sure," Bucky says, exhaling sharply as he leans back in his chair and looks around his office on Capitol Hill. His lips twitch with something caught between amusement and exasperation. "It's just my wife throwing a little temper tantrum."

Your phone buzzes in your lap, and you smirk as you read the message from your bank, confirming that your husband has, indeed, approved every single reckless purchase you made today.

Well. That backfired.

Time for Plan B.