“I know I was the one pushing for Barnes originally,” you had to focus on your steps to keep up with Eileen, who was quickly outpacing you on the way to the Georgian restaurant you had been to twice already this week. “But there has to be a better way to do this than going to a restaurant he was spotted at once everyday. I mean, how much more khachapuri can we afford?” 

“We’re not here for the cheese bread,” Eileen whirled on you, causing you to stop in your tracks. “We’re here because we don’t have a better plan. But if the cheese bread is a problem, get something else! Maybe the staff will tell us what day he comes in if we bought more than fifteen dollars worth of food when we came in.” 

You held up your hands in surrender and smiled awkwardly. This was not a fight you wanted to get into a block away from the restaurant. 

You both were at the end of your rope from a week of rejection— from the list of eighteen names Julian Mota had given you, eighteen had turned you down, citing work, personal, or political reasons. Eighteen dead ends had led you both to trawl the internet for leads on how to contact James Barnes. 

It was Eileen who had found a Reddit thread called r/superherospotting, which was mostly blurry pictures of the back of heads, but it had just enough credible posts that you and her spent an afternoon scrolling through the previous two months of posts. 

There weren’t many posts of the Winter Soldier, and less that looked real, but right before you were about to give up and suggest contacting an Etsy witch, Eileen had come across a blurry picture from u/hulksmash69. It shows a man sitting at a cafe table wearing a coat and gloves. The location was tagged as Brighton Beach, about the right neighborhood given Barnes’ listed zip code, but the pièce de résistance was a reply to the post: 

“I’m actually a server at Tone Cafe, and Bucky Barnes comes in pretty often! He’s a good tipper :)” 

This month old comment was the wild goose you had chased to Neptune Avenue. 

“Third time’s the charm,” you tried to sound chipper as the restaurant came into view. “Although if we don’t find him today, I think we should pivot.” 

“If we don’t find him today, I’m done,” Eileen’s voice held a note of finality. “I don’t work for free, so…”

“Let the circus find its own monkeys,” you finished for her. 

“Exactly.” 

Eileen entered the restaurant first and found a table towards the corner by the window, with a good view of the restaurant's interior and the foot traffic outside. Luckily, the server who brought you the menus today was different from the girl who had taken your order the past two days in a row, saving you a bit of embarrassment. 

It was your turn to pay for the food, so you chose a plate of Georgian beef dumplings to split with your roommate. Even though it was sixteen dollars instead of fifteen, you doubted that would stop her from calling you broke.  

After placing your order, you started scanning the faces in the restaurant. The restaurant itself was actually quite small, but it was jam-packed with four-top tables, which meant it could seat more people than a restaurant of its size had any right to. The lunch rush today was busier than yesterday’s, so it took you a minute to look through the tables.

There was a group of office workers who had ordered several plates of food to share between them, laughing and joking. An elderly woman and her middle-aged daughter were talking in Russian across from you, and there was a mustachioed urban lumberjack eating beef khinkali while typing away on his laptop. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a man sitting in the back by the kitchen door, facing the restaurant entrance. He was by himself and had his face buried in a real newspaper. Once you were certain the man was engrossed in his paper, you shifted in your chair, turning to face the kitchen and to get a coincidentally better view of the Paper Man. 

He had short, dark brown hair that wasn’t styled in any distinctive way. The paper obscured his face and features, so you couldn’t gather anything there, but he was still wearing a coat, when both you and Eileen had shed yours upon being seated. You briefly scanned the room; most other patrons had taken off their coats as well. You hazarded a direct look at Paper Man, hoping you’d be able to catch a glimpse of his hands…

Bingo. 

He was wearing gloves, like the photo online. 

You turned back to face Eileen, who was still on her phone. You watched as your own text message pinged at the top of her screen.

Eileen looked up at you, confusion evident on her face. You tapped your ears, willing her to remember that if it really was Sergeant Barnes, he would have enhanced hearing. The last thing you needed was for him to hear you scheming and leave before you could start your pitch.

Eileen gently set her phone down and turned in her seat to grab something from her bag that was hanging on the back of the chair, but her eyes never left Paper Man. When Eileen turned back to you, her brow was furrowed and lips pressed into a soft frown. 

You didn’t need to wait long for confirmation. Seconds later, a server emerged from the kitchen and set a bowl of something steaming in front of the man, who folded his paper and placed it next to him. 

“Not our food,” you commented casually, taking the few seconds left you had to plausibly look at the kitchen door to study Paper Man’s features. If you hadn’t just been looking at photos of Sergeant Barnes, you don’t think you would have been able to recognize him. Without a 1940s coif or the long hair characteristic of the Winter Soldier, the man in front of you looked like any other guy. 

The two of you pretended to talk about other things. You asked her if she was planning to see Jackson this week, her on-again-off-again whatever, which must have struck a nerve because she asked if you had any luck with the dating apps recently. A sore subject. 

“Touché,” you conceded. “We really’ve got to get out more. You know it’s bleak when we would both rather talk about a cheery subject like the state of American democracy.” 

The conversation turned to the latest series of Ross appointments. The general-turned-president had appointed a number of military meatheads to important positions of power handling fields they knew nothing about. Valentina de Fointaine somehow managed to be re-appointed head of the CIA, but luckily the Department of Education was going to be chaired by someone who believed in higher education. So, you know, small victories.

Eileen was midway through her rant about the de-emphasis of foreign policy over the past decade, and how that’s going to create problems in the Indian Ocean— a familiar rant in your apartment— when the server brought out the plate of dumplings you ordered for the table. 

“These look so good,” you smiled at the server, a tall college student with a dark blond hair pulled into a ponytail. “Thanks!”

“And one more thing,” Eileen said quickly, attempting to stop the server from disappearing into the kitchen. “We’d like to pick up the tab for the gentleman sitting by the kitchen.” 

The server’s ponytail swung as he turned his head to look at the kitchen door. 

“Him?” He asked, cocking his head to gesture towards Sergeant Barnes. 

“Yeah,” Eileen smiled blithely. “When he’s ready to pay, just let him know that we’ve got it.”

“Okay,” the server shrugged apathetically before he walked off. 

“Dude,” you hissed, hoping the chatter of the other guests would hide your panic. “This was not part of the plan! We didn’t see what he ordered! What if he balled out?”

“Relax, I saw this on VEEP.” Eileen sounded more calm than you would have liked. “It will work. Probably.” You followed her line of sight across the restaurant and saw Sergeant Barnes trying to flag down the waiter. 

“I don’t think we should be taking career advice from that show,” you sounded more frantic than you meant to. 

Before you could finish the thought, Sergeant Barnes was already looking over at your table while the waiter spoke to him. Without missing a beat, Eileen was halfway out of her chair, which left you with no choice but to follow her across the restaurant to his table. By the time you had squeezed through the patrons to get to him, the waiter had already left, leaving just the three of you in the corner. 

Up close, it was clear that the man sitting in front of you was James Buchanan Barnes from the history books.

“Sergeant Barnes, hi,” Eileen greeted him brightly, “I’m Eileen Chen, and this is my associate.” 

You cut in to introduce yourself but stopped short of offering a hand out to shake when you noticed that the man looked liable to bolt. 

“We’re sorry to interrupt your lunch, but we were hoping for a moment of your time.” 

“Thanks for the lunch,” Sergeant Barnes’ voice was tense and he didn’t smile. You could almost see the threat assessment running behind his eyes. “Are you with the government? Damage Control?”

“Sort of,” you resisted the urge to shrink under his icy stare and straightened your posture. “We’re with the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee.” No recognition flashed across his face, so you figured it was time to rip the band-aid off. “Have you ever thought about running for office?”

Sergeant Barnes finally reacted. His brow furrowed and he looked almost confused. Eileen took him not saying anything as an invitation to sit, and you followed suit. 

“You know, you think you’ve heard all the weird questions,” He leaned back in his chair, marginally relaxed. “No. I’ve never thought about running for office.” 

In hindsight, maybe showing up in suits and addressing him as ‘Sergeant’ gave the wrong impression. 

Eileen jumped on Bucky’s dismissal before it could fester. “Do you follow politics, Sergeant Barnes?” she asked, placing her hands on the table and casually leaning forward. You envied how naturally this came to her.  

“When I can stomach it.”

“So you're aware that Representative Hamer passed last week.” The man across from you nods, just barely. It’s enough for Eileen to continue on her script. “There’s going to be a snap election to fill the seat, as soon as the governor sets a date. We were hoping you would consider running as the Democratic nominee.”

“Why me?” 

It’s a fair enough question. It also meant you were up. You reached into your bag and pulled out a thin file folder, opening it and thumbing through to find the list of dead-end candidates. 

“Under normal circumstances,” you slid the sheet across the table to Sergeant Barnes, “we would look for candidates from a pool of local leaders. Non-profit heads, city council members, businessmen—”

“Let me stop you there. You’re wasting your time. I’m none of those things. I’m not a public figure. I mean, I work at a food pantry, but I’m—that’s just not my world.”

“As I was saying, that’s the pool we’d usually look for candidates from. But since the election, since Fisk’s election, things are changing fast. Factions are forming in city politics—”

“I still don’t see how this has anything to do with me,” Bucky interrupted you again. You took a beat to recenter yourself. 

“There are some, including the late Representative Hamer, who disagree with the direction that Wilson Fisk is taking democratic politics in the city. He infiltrated the FBI from prison. Now that he’s mayor, his reach has grown exponentially. If we act fast, we can ensure that the Democratic nominee for this seat isn’t a Fisk puppet.”

The table was quiet for a moment as your words sank in.

“The Democratic Party headquarters asked us to find a nominee,” Eileen talked with her hands more than most, waving them casually to point at the sheet on the table, “They gave us this list. Most of them would be a solid pick for the job. All of them said no. Most of these folks didn’t want to leave their positions out of duty to their organizations. Or fear of retribution.”

“Because Fisk would appoint their successors, or could control funding.” Sergeant Barnes filled in what was implied. 

He picked up on that quick enough, you thought. Maybe this wasn’t a lost cause after all, but your body refused to relax. 

“Exactly,” Eileen said.

“Ok, I’ll bite,” Sergeant Barnes leaned forward in his chair. “Fisk was elected on an anti-vigilante platform. What makes you think voters would be receptive to a former assassin as their congressman?” He holds eye contact with you for a moment, like he’s trying to make you understand. “I’ve got a rap sheet longer than your reject list.”

It was a good line, but you'd spent the better part of a week preparing for this pitch and weren’t about to lose your steel now. Despite all your confidence, what you were about to say didn’t sound any less stupid in your head. 

“Well first of all, you’ve already been pardoned. Second, I would rather have someone like you representing me in congress instead of a Fisk acolyte with no criminal record. And third, there’s evidence to suggest gaining public approval wouldn’t be the uphill battle you think it is.” 

You reached into the manila folder and pulled out the only other sheet in there: the polling data from this year. Bucky took the sheet and studied it for a moment before saying anything.

“This is only slightly favorable,” he didn’t look up, eyes still on the polling data, “and why do you even have this? I’m not a politician. Why would you be polling on my electability?”  

“The DCCC occasionally polls on any public figure they think may be a good potential candidate.” This was true, but you had to pivot fast and make your point before you lost him. 

“Eileen and I have worked for plenty of 'traditional' candidates and typical congressmen. A lot of them are, well, idiots." The words picked up speed before you could second-guess them. “They’re in congress because their grandfather was, or because they want to make the oil lobby even richer, or because they think it’ll increase their celebrity status.” 

Bucky didn't interrupt you again, but he did let out a dry laugh. 

Undeterred, you pressed on. “Someone in the right place, at the right time, and for the right reason can make all the difference. You can make a difference.” 

Eileen took over smoothly. “Listen, we won’t lie to you and say the campaign will be easy. No campaign ever is. But we have some of the most favorable conditions you can ask for." She paused, making sure the strategic breakdown would land. "New York’s snap election rules call for an accelerated timeline, which means no primary. If you decide to run, you’ll only be running in the general. You debate an aging Republican, once, maybe twice, and if you don’t fall on your face you’ll be elected by spring.” 

She wasn’t wrong. NY-8 hadn’t elected a Republican in over a hundred years. It might not be painless, but it would definitely be easier than all of the campaigns you had worked on at home.

“We know this is a big ask—” 

Bucky cut you off. “You think?”

“But we wouldn't ask if we weren’t at the end of our rope.” You held his gaze, allowing for earnest emotion to creep into your voice. "This district, our neighbors, they’re people like you. Immigrants. Veterans. People who know firsthand the consequences of government failures.” 

“I don’t see why they would have any reason to trust me. I wouldn’t even vote for me.” 

“Then we’ll build trust,” Eileen said. “It’s much easier to trust in something flawed but real over something manufactured and perfect.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that simple.” 

“Maybe.” Eileen uncrossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. “But I don’t think it's as complicated as you think. You have a hell of a story, Sergeant Barnes. I think people will listen.” 

“Look, this is your choice.” You keep your eyes trained on him, watching for a reaction. On the word “choice”, his expression shifted, ever so slightly. “If you decide you're not interested, for whatever reason, that’s okay. Really. We’ll pretend this conversation never happened.” You fished a business card out of your pocket and resisted the urge to fiddle with it as you continued. “But if you want to do something that’ll help people, help your neighbors, this is your way in.” 

You smiled and handed him your’s and Eileen’s business card. They weren’t really business cards, but rather a sheet of cardstock that you had printed out and cut to size at the library. They weren’t fancy, but looked real enough and would have to serve for now. 

“Remember, you wouldn’t be doing this alone,” Eileen chimed in as she grabbed her bag and stood. “We’ll help you through the process for as long as you need us.” 

Sergeant Barnes nodded curtly, eyes dropping to the cards. You couldn’t tell if he was genuinely considering the offer or appraising the rudimentary graphic design. You were just glad that he didn’t crumple it up in front of you. 

If Sergeant Barnes made up his mind, it didn’t show on his face. After what felt like forever he said, “Thanks again for lunch. I’ll think about it. No promises.” 

“Of course,” you smiled, hoping the last of your equanimity would hold on for thirty more seconds. At least until you got out the door. “Thanks for your time. And for thinking about it.” 

When the December air hit your face, you allowed yourself to exhale. You thought about unspooling the anxiety in your stomach like a purl of yarn, then stole one more look in the cafe window just before walking out of view. Sergeant Barnes was putting your business card into the inner pocket of his coat. 

“We laid it on pretty thick,” Eileen said, looping her arm through yours. “Did I come off as too preachy?”

“Just the right amount of preachy,” you gave Eileen’s arm a squeeze with your free hand. “I think you were right about appealing to his sense of helping the greater good. I don’t think it would have gone over very well if we led with the salary and insurance benefits.”

“Superheroes are fools,” Eileen laughed. “The benefits are the only real perk of the job.” The two of you walked in silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city around you. “He’ll call, right?” she asked, her voice quieter than it had been all day. 

“Of course he will,” you smiled at your friend, mustering all of the confidence you had left. “We’re very convincing.”