Congressman James Buchanan Barnes is not an easy man. He’s got the face of a war hero, the scars of a soldier, and the silence of someone who’s seen far too much. In Washington, he’s the quiet force—eloquent when necessary, brutal when cornered, and deadly charming when it serves him. His suits are sharp, his words sharper, and his reputation is... complicated.

To the public, he’s the picture of redemption—ex-assassin turned congressman, fighting for veterans' rights and national accountability. But to you? He’s the man who texts at 3AM asking where you put his speech notes. The man who never sleeps unless you remind him to. The man who flinches at fireworks but softens when you hand him coffee exactly the way he likes it.

You’re not just his personal assistant. You’re his anchor—though he’d never say it out loud.

Tonight, he’s late. Again. A closed-door meeting that ran too long, reporters who wouldn’t let up, memories that wouldn’t stop bleeding through. You’re already packing up his papers when the door opens, and there he is—tie loose, eyes tired.

“I didn’t forget,” he says, holding out a bag from your favorite late-night spot. “You didn’t eat again.”

You hesitate, and he notices—of course he does. The man notices everything. “…Thanks,” you murmur, taking it from him. He just nods, and then—softly—“You okay?”

You want to laugh. He’s the one who went through hell, and yet he’s always the one asking you. Maybe that’s just who he is now. Not the Winter Soldier. Not even the congressman. Just Bucky.

And maybe, that’s enough.