Summary : Bucky forgets his birthday. You, his secretary, remember.
Pairing : Congressman/thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Secretary!reader
Warnings/tags : Mutual pining!!! Fluff, angst if you squint. Cursing. Bucky Birthday fic!!!
Word Count : 3.7k
Notes : Hi!!! This is a queued fic for Bucky's Birthday, so my taglist isn't updated yet!! I'll reply to y'all tomorrow.
Bucky Barnes forgot about his birthday.
But then again, Bucky didn’t really have time for birthdays anymore. When you’ve lived as long as he had, when time had been stolen from you in fragments of war and violence, the idea of celebrating another year felt almost… pointless. Besides, no one ever really remembered.
Well, that was a lie. His friends did.
Last year, Sam and Joaquin had grabbed dinner in a greasy burger joint with him, and that had been enough, but this year, they were gone on some mission. And with his days now consumed by endless hearings, press briefings, and committee meetings, the date had slipped right past him. He had no texts, no reminders. Just work.
To be specific, he was just looking forward to spending the majority of the workday with you, his damn secretary.
Who he had been in love with for so long it was starting to become a problem.
It was embarrassing, really— how bad it had gotten, how much of you got to him. He had fought in wars, survived Hydra, been broken and rebuilt over and over again and treated like an inanimate object, and yet somehow, you were going to be the death of him.
He just couldn’t resist you.
Not when you tilted your head in focus, biting your lip as you sifted through dense legal documents. Not when you’d gently ask from the doorway, "Congressman, when was the last time you had a real meal?" like you actually cared. You knew he ran himself into the ground, so there was always coffee waiting on his desk— made exactly how he liked it, even when he hadn’t asked.
And god, did he freeze like a pathetic teenage boy every time you touched him.
Not inappropriately—never inappropriately—but it drove him insane all the same.
You’d adjust his tie, fingers brushing his throat, your touch so damn professional it only made things worse. You’d straighten his cuff before a meeting, and suddenly, focusing on anything else was impossible. Worst of all was that night at a charity gala. He’d been so tense, so sick of all the schmoozing and ass-kissing, so you had rested a hand between his shoulder blades to calm him down. "Breathe, sir," you had whispered in his ear. "You’re going to do just fine."
He’d been around beautiful women before— he wasn’t blind— but you never carried yourself like beauty mattered. Instead, you valued yourself where you were brilliant. You were so good at your job, so damn capable, it was honestly unfair.
And it killed him that he couldn’t have you.
It killed that every glance, every touch sent his brain into overload. It killed him to sit beside you in meetings, watching you flip through your notes, twirling a pen between your fingers.
When he worked late, you stayed too, typing away at your desk, refusing to let him go through it alone. When he got dragged into a PR mess, you were the one handling the fallout, guiding him through all this bullshit, keeping him from saying fuck this and walking out of Congress altogether.
He thought about those late nights in his office, when your exhaustion crept in, though you’d never admit it. You’d stretch in your chair, groaning as you rubbed your neck, and he had to physically stop himself from offering to do it for you.
And he still regularly thought about that one flight back to D.C., when you had fallen asleep on his shoulder. He had spent the entire damn trip staring out the window, doing everything in his power not to think about how easy it would be to turn his head and press his lips to your hair.
And yet, for all the ways you took care of him, he took care of you, too.
Like how he always made sure you got home safe, insisting on a car service whenever you worked late, even though you told him it was unnecessary. When you shivered in overly air-conditioned meeting rooms, he somehow always ended up draping his jacket over you, pretending he wasn’t using it anyway.
Like how he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk when you two were heading out together. How he kept extra pens in his pocket because you always lost yours.
Or that time he figured you were late for work because of the rain as you stepped into the office soaking wet. The very next day, a black umbrella just appeared on your desk. There had been no note, no explanation. But you knew. When you thanked him, he only shrugged.
You probably thought it was just him being friendly. Just a good boss.
But fuck, if only you knew.
But you couldn’t know. That was the point!
You were untouchable.
Not just because you worked for him, though that was a big enough problem on its own. It was because you could do better.
Bucky knew about the job offers you’ve received, from private firms, from more lucrative companies. He’d seen them one evening on your desk, stacked neatly in a folder you probably meant to take home. He was wrong for doing it, but he read them. His heart dropped when he saw the salaries were better. The hours were shorter. Any sane person would have taken them. But you… hadn’t.
And he didn’t know why.
Maybe it was loyalty. Maybe you actually liked this job, despite the long hours, the politics, the absolute mess of it all.
But lately, he’d been worried.
Because you’d been staring at those offers longer, rubbing at your temples after grueling days on the Hill, looking more and more like you were getting ready to walk away.
And fuck, if it made him selfish, but he didn’t want you to leave.
Because even if he could never have you the way he wanted— never touch you, never kiss you, never pull you into his lap when you stood too close to his desk— at least he could still see you every day.
Talk to you.
Be near you.
And if that was all he could have, then he’d take it.
So no, Bucky didn’t have time to think about his birthday.
Not when he was too busy thinking about work and the bills he had to push through.
And not when, no matter how hard he tried, he kept thinking about you.
—
Today, you were acting… different.
And Bucky had no idea why.
The changes had been subtle, but Bucky was a soldier. He noticed things.
He noticed the shift in your steps, the tension in your breath. Something about you was… off.
Not bad, just different.
When he walked into his office that morning, there was a coffee waiting on his desk— not unusual, but this time, it came with a little pastry. One that came from the other side of town, from that tiny café he had mentioned in passing, months ago.
Bucky frowned, glancing at you. “What’s this?”
You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “Figured you might want something sweet, sir.”
Yeah, you, he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. Instead, his eyes narrowed. “I– thank you.”
You finally glanced up, and for a second Bucky felt his heart skip a beat.
There was a hint of something— something he couldn't quite pin down. It’s like you knew something, like you were waiting for him to piece something together.
Your lips curled up into an adorably small smile. “You should eat, sir. You have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”
Bucky sighed and mumbled another disgruntled “thank you” before taking a bite, half-distracted as he studied you from across the room.
It was warm.
Did you…?
No, you wouldn’t have gone out of your way to heat it up for him. You had better things to do, a busy schedule today, he had seen it in your calendar himself. And besides, Bucky had perfectly viable hands. He could have just walked to the microwave himself.
—
A few hours later, Bucky came back to his private office after hours of back-to-back grueling, mind-numbing, why-the-fuck-did-he-do-this-to-himself meetings.
By the time he made it back, his brain was more fried than his metal arm had ever been, and he was two seconds away from telling everyone in the building to go fuck themselves.
And then there you were, waiting with a small box in your hands.
Bucky stopped in the doorway. “What is that?” he asked warily.
You blinked back at him. “A present.”
His brow furrowed. “For what?”
You hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, your fingers tightening around the edges of the box— like you were waiting for him to acknowledge something. You stepped forward and pressed the gift into his hands with a casual shrug. “I saw it and thought of you.”
Bucky’s fingers curled around the box on instinct. He lifted the lid.
It was a leather wrist cuff. Exactly his style, down to the precise shade of black and the subtle silver details.
Bucky stared at it. Then at you. “You just… thought of me?” His voice was rougher than he meant it to be.
You gave another small shrug, “Figured you could use an upgrade, sir.”
Bucky opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then cleared his throat.
“Thanks,” he said.
You nodded, already turning back to your laptop like this wasn’t a thing. Like you hadn’t just made his heart ache.
What does this mean?
Was it the one-month anniversary of that bill he had pushed through? Was it be nice to your boss day? Was this—
What is it, what is it, what is it???
And why the fuck was his heart beating so goddamn fast?
—
Then, just as Bucky was preparing for the last meeting of the day, you dropped a wrapped package onto his desk.
He just stared at it, slowly looking up at you, brow furrowing.
“Another one?” His voice was almost a whisper.
A secret smile tugged at your lips. “I thought you’d like it.”
Bucky hesitated, before finally reaching for it with his human hand. He unwrapped it carefully, like whatever was inside might shatter if he wasn’t gentle.
A first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo.
Bucky froze, fingers ghosting over the worn leather spine in disbelief.
Because he had mentioned this once. Months ago in a passing comment about an offhanded memory of reading it as a kid, curled up in the Brooklyn Public Library in the 40s. He told you he never owned a copy of it.
And you remembered.
Bucky swallowed hard, his throat suddenly too tight.
“Oh, I—” He stumbled over his words, blinking rapidly. “Thank you. For… everything. I… I didn’t get you anything.”
Your brow furrowed, confused. “Why would you?”
Bucky just stared at you, equally as confused.
Before he could even try to gather his thoughts, his accountant stepped into the doorway, clearing his throat and asking for you.
And just like that, you were gone.
The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Bucky alone in his office.
Then it hit him.
Fuck.
There was only one explanation.
You were going to resign.
You were just trying to be nice because… of course you were. Because you were thoughtful and kind and had never been the type to leave things unfinished.
Buck’s grip tightened around the book.
He should be happy for you, and he was, to an extent. But the thought of not seeing you everyday made him, for lack of a better word, really fucking sad.
—
That night, as Bucky packed up for the day, he let out a long sigh and rubbed a hand down his face.
“Long day, huh?” You asked
Your voice was sweet and comforting— like honey, like home. He looked up, and there you were, slipping into your coat and putting your laptop away.
Bucky offered a small, weary smile. “Aren’t they all?”
They were even longer now, knowing you might be handing in your resignation any day now.
You chuckled, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Well, at least you have that appointment.”
Bucky frowned. “What appointment?”
You gave him an amused look. “The one I scheduled for you.”
Right. That. The appointment that had appeared in his calendar last night.
Bucky didn’t even question it. You had taken over his schedule months ago, and he had just let you, because it meant he got to see you hover near his desk, flipping through both his physical planner and digital one, tapping a pen against your lip as you said something about his meetings. So if you said he had an appointment, then he had an appointment.
He held the door open for you and turned off the light.
“Goodnight, sir,” you said, stepping past him, tilting your head up just slightly as you smiled.
He locked the door.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the way you looked at him. Maybe it was the everything about you— but the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Fuck.
He hadn’t meant to say that last part. Hadn’t meant to let it slip.
But… he meant it. He meant the affection seeping from this voice. He spent months trying to ignore it.
You blinked, startled, lips parting just slightly. And Bucky—coward that he was—turned on his heel before he could see your reaction.
—
When Bucky arrived at the address of the appointment, he frowned.
A speakeasy?
What the hell kind of meeting was this? Had you seriously scheduled a meeting in a dimly lit bar? He was starting to question your judgment—until he stepped inside and—
“There he is,” Joaquin cheered from the bar. “Took you long enough.”
Sam raised his glass. “Happy birthday, tin can.”
Bucky stopped dead in his tracks, brain scrambled, flipping through the dates in his head. “…It’s my birthday?”
Sam ran a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”
Joaquin just grinned. “Yeah, man. Your secretary planned all this. She wanted you to have a good one.”
Bucky’s heart plummeted.
You had done all this?
Oh shit, that's what it was.
The pastry. The wrist cuff. The book.
Oh, so you weren’t resigning.
You had just remembered his birthday when he hadn’t even remembered himself.
—
The bar was dimly lit, filled with the humming jazz and the clinking of glasses. It wasn’t the kind of place Bucky usually went to, but of course you had picked somewhere like this— quiet. Thoughtful.
Because that’s just how you were.
And fuck, he still couldn’t believe you’d done all this.
He looked at Sam and Joaquin, finally taking in what they were drinking.
“Wait.” He frowned. “Is that non-alc beer?”
Joaquin took a slow sip, unfazed. “Yep.”
Sam leaned back against the bar. “Thought we’d keep it light tonight.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Since when do you two pass up real drinks?”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Since we wanted to be present on your birthday.”
His grip tightened around his own glass.
Oh.
They knew he couldn’t get drunk. His metabolism burned through alcohol too quickly, making it impossible for him to feel anything from it.
But Sam and Joaquin could, and yet they chose not to. They chose to stay sober. To be here with him, to be with him.
For his birthday.
But Sam just patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, man. No brooding tonight. You’re not alone. We’re here. And she made sure of that.”
Bucky swallowed, glancing down at his drink. “She does nice things for me all the time,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Joaquin snorted. “This is different, man. You don’t pull strings with Homeland Security and expedite our travel just to be nice.”
Bucky stiffened. “She what?”
“You think we were supposed to be back this early?” Sam shrugged, “She made a few calls, got us cleared faster. Probably took her a couple of days just to get through to the right lines.”
Bucky’s stomach dropped. Oh, fuck.
Sam leaned in, smug as ever. “So. How long have you been in love with her?”
Bucky groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. “I can’t do anything about it.”
Joaquin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Bucky exhaled sharply. “She’s my secretary. Besides, she doesn’t like me that way.”
Sam scoffed. “Bullshit.”
“She wouldn’t have done all this if she didn’t,” Joaquin pointed out.
Bucky fell silent before jokingly scowling and trying to change the subject.
And he was happy— spending time with friends, surrounded by laughter and stories. He felt loved. He felt wanted.
It was a good night, and when it ended, he knew exactly where he needed to go.
—
Bucky barely remembered getting to your door, barely registered the way his hands shook at his sides, or the fact that his tie was askew, his shirt wrinkled. All he knew was that the night had been good, but now, standing here, face-to-face with your door, he was trying his damn hardest not to cry.
He knocked.
It took a while, but you opened the door.
You looked sleepy, eyes half-lidded and hair messed up from bed, clad in loose cotton pajamas that draped over you.
“Sir?” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“You remembered my birthday,” he rasped.
You frowned, tilting your head. “Of course I did.”
His throat tightened.
You said it like a fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You didn’t realise—
Oh, you thought to yourself, did he not remember his own birthday?
His shoulders tensed, his fingers twitched, and he sucked in a sharp breath, trying to push all the overwhelming emotions down, trying to breathe through it.
You offered a gentle smile and stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Do you… want to come in?”
Bucky nodded, stepping inside, but he didn’t make it more than two steps before his vision blurred.
He tried to swallow it down, tried to keep it together, but the tears came fast.
“You remembered,” he murmured, as you closed the door behind you. “You… I…” he shook his head. “You’re— You’re the reason I didn’t spend tonight alone. You…”
You could only reach over and offer a box of tissues into his hands.
And that was it.
Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he dropped the box and reached for you, pulling you in, wrapping himself around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.
You felt so real. You felt like comfort personified, at least to him.
And you let him break. Let him cling to you, shaking, breath hitching as he buried his face in your shoulder.
You held him through every ragged sob, never pulling away, never letting go.
For five whole minutes, you let him cry into your shoulders.
And when he finally pulled back, eyes wet, cheeks flushed, he blinked at you in horror.
“Oh, shit—that’s unprofessional,” he blurted hoarsely.
But you just shook your head, smiling so softly it made his chest ache. “It’s okay, Bucky.” you whispered.
Not sir. Not Congressman. Not Mr. Barnes.
Just Bucky.
Hearing his name on your lips like that—sweet and gentle—sent him spiraling.
His hands still rested on your waist, his thumbs brushing over your cute cotton pajamas.
His stomach twisted, heat pooling in his stomach, and suddenly he couldn’t stop himself. Suddenly, he had no filter.
You were just so heartbreakingly beautiful, so thoughtful and kind and—god, he had wanted you for so long.
“Fuck,” he muttered, stepping closer. “Fuck.”
Your eyes widened. “Bucky—”
He reached for you, his hands trembling as they cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones like you were the most precious thing in the world
Gently, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his vibranium lingering just a moment too long.
“Can I kiss you?” His voice cracked, desperate. “Can I—?”
You took a deep breath, struggling to process all this.
God, you wanted to. You wanted to so badly, but—
“It’s against House and Senate ethics rules,” you whispered. “I’m your subordinate.”
Bucky exhaled, pressing his forehead against yours. His grip on your face tightened, just a little for the pressure to feel urgent.
“Resign,” he begged, his voice rough, frantic. Fuck— he had been so afraid of losing you earlier, but now, now he just wanted you to be anyone but his damn secretary. “Take one of those private offers. I know they pay better. I know the hours are easier.”
Your heart pounded. He knew about the offers? About the other jobs, the opportunities waiting for you beyond him?
“B-but I like working for you,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.
Bucky shook his head, his breath warm against your skin. His lips grazed the bridge of your nose, so tender it sent a shiver down your spine.
“How would you like to be mine instead?”
Oh.
And that was it. That was all it took.
With a desperate whimper, you grabbed him by his loosened tie and yanked him in, crashing your lips against his.
Bucky groaned, a deep, guttural sound as his arms wrapped around you.
This was a long time coming, and you both knew it.
He pulled you against him like he needed you to breathe, like a man starved.
His lips moved with a hunger you’ve never known before, guiding you back, back, back until your spine met the wall. Until you had nowhere to go except into him.
And you weren’t complaining.
You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue sliding against yours, tilting your chin up, giving himself more, more, more.
His hands were everywhere— skimming down your back, gripping your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you dizzy. He kissed you like he’d never get the chance again. And you felt his desperation in the way his hands trailed up your ribs, in the way he tangled his fingers in your hair, in the way he kissed you like he never wanted to forget the way you tasted.
You broke apart gasping, foreheads pressed together as if neither of you could bear even an inch of distance.
“I’m giving you my two weeks’ notice,” you whispered sheepishly, cheeks flushed with something a little more than just embarrassment.
Bucky let out a soft laugh, part relief, part disbelief, his lips ghosting over yours, convincing himself that this was real. “Good,” he said.
You giggled quietly as you kissed him again— slower this time, sweeter, a lingering whisper of a touch. “Happy birthday, Bucky.”
If only you knew— you weren’t just his best birthday present. You were his every wish come true.
-end.
Extra notes : I've seen so many people not like Bucky being a congressman, and I get that, but I picture Bucky running for Congress being a lot like Stanley Tucci's character in Conclave lol—he runs not because he wants the job, but because the other candidate running for his district is such an unbearable asshole that he feels morally obligated to step in. Like, "fine, if no one else will do it, I guess it has to be me."
Hey, I know it's fun to make fun of Henry Kissinger. But you know what's even more fun? Donating to organizations that help undo some of the damage that Kissinger inflicted on various countries. Here's a couple of links!
Cambodian Children's Fund (I donated $50 to this one- that's enough feed 26 families by providing 5 kilograms of rice each month!)
FAFG (This is a charity that helps Guatemalans find loved ones who disappeared during the Guatemalan Civil War.)
The Halo Trust (This charity is dedicated to removing landmines in Angola. Since 1994, they've destroyed nearly 100,000 landmines!)
Children of Vietnam (This charity helps impoverished Vietnamese families.)
TECHO-Chile (A really great charity that focuses on housing and community-based projects in the slums of Chile)
Welcome to the Winter Writing Challenge 2023! I can't believe this is already the fifth time we're doing this! (Check out the last Challenges here on my masterlist)
This year we're changing things up yet again with weekly challenges instead of daily. This time you can choose from 4 different prompts!
If you have any questions, my ask box is always open! Have Fun!!
Rules:
Under the cut you will find Winter themed pictures, Prompts, Quotes and Christmas songs (for all the Christmas lovers out there).
It's your choice if you choose just one or more (or all) of them for the week.
The fics can be Christmas themed, but do not have to be!
All fandoms are allowed!
Please tag everything correctly, 18+, smut, etc and add the read more thingie with fics over 500 words
Tag your fic with #StephsWinterWritingChallenge and tag me in your post (if you want) so I can reblog/read it
Reblogs of this post are very much appreciated 😊
"I can't believe you talked me into this."
Snow / Roadtrip / no cellphone service
"Baby it's cold outside"
"I totally definitely did not just watch you chop wood outside."
blackout / only one bed / warmth
"All I want for Christmas is you"
"I have never seen so much snow in my life."
hot chocolate / baking / dancing
"I'll be home for Christmas"
"We can still tell them we have to cancel because of an.... alien invasion?"
my stupid fucking aunt loraine bought us an air friar for our wedding present 🤦♀️ the apartments barely big enough for the two of us now weve got this dumb asshole flying around preaching at us ... every time i get a migraine he tries to give me herbs and poultices 🙄
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
annaxmalina
jacobvanloon
