#satelliteangel

AN: If you would like additional context for this chapter, please read this deleted scene taking place in January 2027, wherein Eileen and the main character complain about how stupid their job is.

In the span of a month, Bucky Barnes had learned more about elections than he ever cared to. It was nothing like his high school civics class of neat diagrams of checks and balances, but a wilder, messier thing that involved adjudicating every single sentence he spoke and re-learning how to smile for photos. He had borrowed a book from you that had outlined the process of what a typical campaign was like, but even that hadn’t been able to totally acclimate him to the realities of being a candidate. 

Truthfully, if he had known ahead of time, he might have had a different answer when asked to run for office. 

It’s not that Bucky didn’t believe in the campaign. He vehemently disagreed with Wilson Fisk’s policies and the culture of fear he was cultivating in New York politics. He liked his team too, and having goals to work for filled up the quieter parts of his life with a sense of purpose. But Bucky had gotten used to anonymity—his neighbors knew him as ‘James,’ his friends at the food bank were mostly retirees who hadn’t kept up with the news in years, and if he wore a jacket and gloves, he could go outside without stares. 

When he first agreed to run, he’d told himself it was a kind of penance. The Winter Soldier had broken things. Maybe Bucky Barnes could help mend them. And for a while, it almost seemed possible—local race, low stakes, just a chance to serve. Besides, local house races rarely got media coverage, especially not in safe districts. 

This was until Donato threw her hat into the ring. Since last week, journalists had started reaching out for interviews, producers for media appearances, and pundits had begun discussing his past like it was new again. Headlines bloomed overnight and Bucky’s quiet was gone.

The addition of Donato to the race also meant that his staff had become incredibly anxious. Previously, it seemed like Eileen and you were convinced that they could get Bucky elected with him making only a handful of appearances in the media. But now, they were drilling him everyday on platform issues and had made him full-out rehearse the town hall format three times already, in between his canvassing and other chores. You had said that if a town hall went poorly, it was a failure to prepare. Bucky didn’t know if he felt prepared per se, but it wasn’t for lack of his team trying. 

Today, the focus of the public speaking exercises were “how to respond to questions that aren’t questions.” He was not doing well. No one would outright say it, of course, his managers would never be openly critical of him in front of the interns, but Bucky could tell their patience was wearing thin. He could hear Eileen twirling a pen between her fingers as he kept making mistakes, and if Bucky paused for a moment too long you would jump in with suggestions on how to respond to the audience member. 

“Every politician says they’ll fix things, but all I see are higher taxes and more handouts for people who don’t work,” Vijay “asked” from his seat in the front row of the makeshift audience.

“I get where you’re coming from,” Bucky started slowly, acknowledging and hoping to sound sincere, like had been drilled into his head over and over again. “People are tired of hearing promises and not seeing results. I’m tired of it too. But I think most folks don’t want a handout; they want a fair shot to get back on their feet. Now, I’m not here to raise taxes just to make a headline. I’m here to make sure the money we do spend actually helps working people—not the folks at the top who already have everything they need. If that means holding people in power accountable, I’ll do it.” 

At one point towards the beginning of his response, Bucky could have sworn he saw a soft smile on your face, but it was gone by the time he finished. He tried to think about what he could have done better. He was too general when talking about the handouts, maybe he should’ve used a concrete example? 

“Did anyone catch Bucky’s biggest mistake here?” Eileen asked from her spot in the back row.

“I was too vague,” he offered first, trying to get ahead of it. 

“He used Vijay’s framing device to answer the question,” Georgia tried. 

“Great observations, and something to keep in mind,” Eileen said, pacing behind the couches. “And it was a solid answer otherwise. But the biggest issue here was that you said you were going to raise taxes. Which is political suicide.”

“Right.” Bucky nodded, rubbing at his jaw. “I meant, well, I didn’t mean to—”

“We know what you meant,” Eileen said, voice softer. “You just can’t say it that way. The word ‘taxes’ shuts people’s brains off. ‘Raise taxes’ is their language, not yours. You have to make it about fairness—about what people get back when they pay in.”

“Why don’t you try again,” you said from your seat in the corner. “Focus on the ‘relate, reframe, redirect.’ You got it.” 

Bucky wanted to believe you believed in him, but people who worked in politics were famously liars. 

So that was how Bucky’s second-to-last town hall practice session with the entire team ended: poorly. Bucky knew he was disappointing his staff, painfully aware of his own inadequacy, He found himself wishing he had more time, more opportunities to practice with someone. It’s not like he knew anyone in his personal life who could help with this. That was how Bucky found himself in Eileen’s office, asking for help. 

“I love the energy,” Eileen said, twisting slightly back and forth in her office chair. “But we’re swamped this week. We have the committee meeting as soon as we get off tomorrow, then Wednesday we have to go shmooze with those ad execs. I mean, I guess we could try and squeeze in a little practice before the campaign committee meeting. And today isn’t good because I have a thing after work, and so does—”

You appeared in the doorway, wearing a coat with a thick pink scarf wrapped around your neck. “What am I too busy for?” 

“Additional town hall prep before the last full-out rehearsal.”

“Well, hold on. Let me check the calendar. If you want to work on the town hall more, I should be able to make time for it.” You hummed slightly as you scrolled through your phone. “Are you free tonight?”

“Don’t you have your, uh, thing tonight?” Eileen asked, with a skeptical look. 

“Yeah, after. Are you free sometime after eight?” Bucky nodded. 

“Cool. I’m headed out right now, but I’ll text you a restaurant or somewhere we can meet up.”

Later that evening, Bucky found himself wandering around Coney Island Avenue. He had arrived to the restaurant you had sent him early so he decided to walk around to settle his nerves. The night was sharp with wind, but it didn’t deter him—it’s not like Bucky wasn’t used to the cold. As he walked, he tried to take in the details a bike shop that was playing reggaeton, a Walgreens with Christmas decorations still up, an electronics repair store with flickering neon lights.The community center had a big open window into the front room and a group of parents were standing outside, peering in. 

Bucky lingered for a moment. Inside, a dozen children were dancing. He could hear the faint piano music of a song he thought he knew and the children laughing as they twirled across the floor. He smiled despite himself and turned to continue his walk before something caught his eye: you were in the corner of the room, crouched beside a little girl, your hand steadying hers as she spun, both of you laughing. He lingered a moment longer, then turned away, feeling strangely self-conscious. He didn’t think you’d seen him, which was for the best. He didn’t want to add ‘creep’ to the long list of things people probably called him behind his back.

Still, the image stayed with him as he walked toward the restaurant. Sam had told him that New Yorkers and people who worked in politics both tended to be all hustle and ambition. Not that you were anything other than unyieldingly polite, but Bucky had noticed that some of the interns were intimidated by you. Hell, he was too. He’d spent the past few hours hunched over his issue packet, running practice answers through his head, trying to sound like someone who knew what he was doing. Bucky didn’t want to waste your time. You were a busy person, someone who went to meetings after work (Or maybe dates? He thought he had overheard Eileen say something about that). The fact that this revelation was so jarring to his mental image of you made him realize how little he actually knew about you, beyond your encyclopedic knowledge of election law and the way you could poke holes in his arguments in five seconds flat. He wanted to ask you about why you were there, wondered if he’d get the opportunity to bring it up naturally.

By the time Bucky reached the restaurant, he was humming the piano song he had heard at the community center.

The community center and Tandir Rokat were only a block apart, but you still rushed there. Old habits die hard—you were two minutes early and still felt late. Warm air and the smell of lamb hit you all at once as you entered the restaurant. It was empty except for Bucky sitting at a table in the back corner.

“Hi,” breath catching as you dropped your dance bag and unwound your scarf. “Did you find this place okay?”

“Yeah. Have you eaten yet?”

“No, uh, not yet. I was going to order something to eat in between questions. Do you want anything?”

“What’s good here?”

You ended up ordering a plate of manti to share and a samsa for both of you. Before you were able to get your phone out to pay, Bucky had already handed over his card. Normally you would protest, but hunger overruled pride so you thanked him and went to get some napkins for the table. The food came out steaming and aromatic and it took real restraint to not bite into the samsa immediately and burn your tongue.

“Alright,” you said once your hunger had dulled. “Are you ready?”

“Hit me.”

“I’m concerned about the escalating tensions in the Indo-Pacific. In Congress, what will you do to stop another arms race?”

“No warm-up questions?”

“Did you need a warm-up question?” You asked, looking at him over your cup as you took a sip of water. 

“No, no. Let’s get into it.” Bucky paused and looked at the table, as if he was looking for notes that weren’t there. You pulled out your phone and started a timer. 

“I think you’re right to be concerned. Even though I disagree with the president on many issues, I think President Ross’s treaty to split mining rights is a good start to preventing conflict over Celestial Island. But it’s only a start. I’ve seen what happens when weapons get made faster than people can ask if they should exist.” You blinked. Damn, that was a good line. Were you feeling… proud? 

“As your congressman, I’ll push for oversight on who gets these rare materials, what they’re used for, and who profits. We don’t want an arms race, we want accountability.”

You stopped the clock and looked up at Bucky, eyebrows raised and a look of admiration on your face. “You practiced.”

“I did.” 

In between bites of manti (which Bucky liked, much to your satisfaction), you ask him more questions about the economy, social security, and universal childcare. He did okay. Which, compared to a month ago, was practically stellar. You had to remind him a few times to not stray too far off topic and off message, but overall? Not bad at all, especially for an event that’ll likely be attended by fifteen senior citizens and some campaign volunteers. 

“Can I ask you something slightly off topic?” The words came out too casually and you were suddenly aware of the pinging noise made by the bright fluorescent lights overhead. Bucky’s intense stare didn’t help. When you had met Sam Wilson last December, he had joked Bucky’s staring was something to get used to. You didn’t know if that was possible. 

“What’s up?”

“At the townhall, there’s a non-zero chance people are going to ask you about your past.”

“I thought we had a response for that,” he pulled out the packet and flipped to a heavily annotated page. “I am no longer the Winter Soldier…”

“Not that. As long as you’re happy with that response, I am too. I meant the more recent stuff.”

“Thanos? You think some of the ‘Thanos Was Right’ crowd’ll show up?”

“God, can you imagine?” You laughed, but it came out thin. “No, I meant what if someone gets up to the mic and says, “I was displaced by the Blip. I saw the refugee camps, the poverty. The harm done by the GRC. At any time, did you support the Patch Act?”

Bucky seemed confused for a moment. Then his gaze softened, just a bit. 

For the first time, you noticed how blue his eyes were before banishing the thought immediately. 

“Well, if someone asked me that,” he said slowly, “I’d listen. If they were willing to tell their story.”

“Life was really hard. For a lot of people. And for a while, the Flag Smashers were the only ones willing to do anything about the suffering. Instead of dealing with the conditions that created the Flag Smashers, the GRC just wanted to deport everyone.”

He leaned back, eyes distant for a second. “Then I’d say… a lot of mistakes were made after the Blip. By people who thought they were fixing things. I’m proud I got to stand with Sam and help stop the Patch Act before it made things worse.”

He paused for a moment, and you furrowed your brow. “That’s it?”

“I thought this was hypothetical!”

“You hypothetically should have said something about your future as a congressman,” you said, tearing off a piece of your samsa Something like… I know what it’s like to lose everything. To feel like you don’t have any options. But how we treat people at their lowest, how we decide to rebuild, that’s something we always have a choice in. As your congressman, I will fight for the dignity of all peoples.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah?” You ate the bite of samsa you had been waving around as you spoke. 

“Yeah, that was good. Maybe you should run for Congress instead.”

You let out a small laugh. “No thank you, I enjoy my private life.” Bucky’s smile faded. “But the insurance would be nice,” you added quickly, and he smiled, but it didn’t totally reach his eyes. “Speaking of insurance…”

Bucky did less well for this question, he bungled the statistics and had trouble maintaining eye contact. At one point, he reached across the table and stopped your phone timer. 

“Do you think people are really going to care about this town hall?”

“Honestly? It’s hard to say. Before Donato entered the race, I would have told you to view it as practice. There might be some journalists there Thursday, but that’s not what you should focus on. You should think of this as an opportunity to hear from you, to hear your story in your own words.” 

He nods, and gestures for you to restart the timer, but his eyes still seem far away. 

“How do you plan to gain the public’s trust?”

“I know that trust isn’t something I can ask for—it’s something I have to earn. I know what it’s like to look at someone and only see the worst thing they’ve done. But I also know what it’s like to be given another chance. So I don’t take that lightly. I plan to earn trust the only way I can — by showing people that the man I am now is someone who keeps his word.”

“Do you think maybe we should tweak the ‘I know what it’s like to look at someone and only see the worst thing they’ve done’ bit?”

Bucky and you fell into a routine of asking questions, listening to the answers, fixing the phrasing, and trying again. By the time you checked your watch it was somehow already 10:00pm. The north-bound bus would be coming soon, and you needed to catch it to make your way to DUMBO. Maya and her partner had broken up earlier that day and she had asked you to come over to spend the night. As an older sibling, you were so thrilled that Maya wanted you to be there for her. You didn’t even let yourself feel inconvenienced by the idea of the hour-long commute from DUMBO to Gravesend the next morning. 

You stacked your trash into a neat pile and grabbed your dance bag. “I think this is a good stopping point, unless you have any other questions?” you asked. Bucky shook his head. “Great. You really have improved.”

Bucky looked away, but you caught the faintest flicker of pride on his face. Outside the restaurant, you lingered for a moment. 

“You walking home?” Bucky asked. 

“No, I’m headed up to DUMBO. The D68’ll be here in a minute.”

“DUMBO? I thought you lived in Gravesend.” 

“I do. I’m staying with my sister tonight. Her relationship just ended, so we are going to make margaritas and watch 10 Things I Hate About You tonight.”

“Serious stuff,” Bucky nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know, I could give you a ride.”

“Thanks, but I can’t ask you to do that. Besides, the bus’ll be here in… four minutes,” you said, checking your phone. 

“You're not asking, I’m offering. I live less than 15 minutes away, so we can walk to my place and I can get you to the movie before 11:00.” You watched Bucky as he spoke, looking for a trace of irony and finding none. 

“Okay,” you shrugged, shouldering your dance bag. “Thanks in advance.” 

As you walked, the two of you fell into a comfortable silence. At one point, Bucky looked down at your bag and then back at you. “You dance?”

You followed his gaze to see your ballet shoes peeking out of the open duffle bag. So much for keeping that private. “Oh, yeah. I volunteer at the community center teaching a kid’s dance class on Mondays, I have since I moved to the city. That’s why I leave early on Mondays.”

“Why didn’t you mention it?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Do you know how silly it feels to say ‘Sorry I have to leave early, I need to go dance with kindergartners’ to your boss? It doesn’t exactly command authority or respect in the workplace. I would always just say I had a personal commitment”

“I guess I can understand why you’d keep that to yourself.”

“Not that I’m embarrassed about it,” you said quickly. “I think it’s important to do things that keep you grounded and connected to other people. To give back and all that. It just feels small compared to being an EMT or helping out legal clients pro-bono.”

“I wouldn’t call it small,” Bucky’s tone was light but firm, broaching no argument. 

“Speaking of volunteering, are you still working at the food bank?”

“How—You know about the food bank?”

“I just work early mornings now. Delivering packages to seniors and shut ins.”

“That’s so noble. You gotta let us photograph you doing that sometime.” Bucky gave you a look, so you grinned back at him. “What, it is!”

“No.”

“If I was running for Congress, there'd be a bunch of pictures of me at dance class at the community or at the Brooklyn Bodega Books drives plastered over the campaign socials,” you said with a mischievous smile. “It’s just good marketing.”

Bucky shook his head gently and you thought you saw him smile, but it was too dark to tell. You were in a nicer area now, with brownstone walkups and trees lining the street. The area looked sort of familiar, but you weren’t able to quite place it. 

“This is me,” Bucky said, nodding to his right towards one of the nice brownstones. You hoped the shock you felt stayed firmly off of your face. While you knew someone had to live in these houses, it had always been more of an abstract concept, like a billion dollars or a rational voter. 

You followed him around to his truck. His truck was old—the kind that still needed a key to unlock. He opened your door first, and you remembered just in time to lean over and pop the lock on his side, like in an old movie.

As he pulled out of his driveway, you glanced out the window and caught sight of a Mets pennant and a faded ‘In This House We Believe' sign in a neighbor’s planter. You have been here before. January. It had just snowed, and most of the canvassing route was super icy, except for this neighborhood. You remembered Mr. Guzmán on the porch, telling you and Eileen about his good-hearted neighbor ‘Jim’ who had shoveled all the snow.

Oh, God. 

Of course Bucky was the kind of neighbor who got up early to shovel snow. Which was unfortunate, really—it was much easier to resent a brusque, uncooperative candidate with a staring problem than a kind one who was trying his best. 

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky broke the silence, glancing over at you at a stoplight. 

“Sure.”

“When you were asking about the Patch Act, was that actually a hypothetical, or were you asking?”

You took a deep breath, suddenly very worried about talking politics with the politician. “A bit of both, I guess. You should be prepared just in case someone asks you about it. But I was also curious.”

“How much of your story was true?”

“Technically? All of it. I simplified things.”

Bucky hazarded a glance at you, his expression almost sad. “I didn’t have a good answer.” 

“Not everyone feels as strongly as I do. Did.” You corrected yourself quickly. “It’s smart to strike a balance.”

“When we were in Latvia, Sam and I went to a funeral of a woman who died of Tuberculosis. Tuberculosis. In 2024, when its cure is readily available. It made me think of Steve, and his mom, Sarah.” He shook his head, both hands tightening on the wheel. “When we found out the GRC was hoarding supplies, the whole thing made sense. No wonder the Flag Smashers were fighting like they were at war.”

“Violence begets violence.” 

“The GRC couldn’t see it like that—how their actions were the violence creating the Flag Smashers. I’m glad Sam could make them see.”

“Me too.” 

You spent the rest of the drive teasing stories out of him about growing up in Brooklyn. As you drove past Red Hook, he told you that he used to work at the docks before the war. You asked him what it was like, listened as he told you about the noise, his friends on the crew, and trying to save enough money to provide for his family and take girls out on dates. Knowing it wasn’t the same thing at all, you told him you were briefly a fishmonger after the Blip in between embarrassed laughs. You both laughed at the way the smell of the ocean could cling to your hair and clothes. 

By the time you had navigated Bucky to your sister’s apartment, you realized you had misjudged him. What you had misread earlier as laziness or aloofness was really just a reluctance to make a mistake. Perhaps he was woefully unqualified for the endeavor he was undertaking, but he listened to you and Eileen, was considerate, and good with technology. (Really, it was unfair. When Eileen had shown him the online donation system he figured it out in less than twenty minutes, when it had taken you and Eileen almost two hours.) Maybe your time in politics had made you too cynical, too quick to assume the worst. Maybe Bucky Barnes really was just a good man doing his best to move forward. 

You could respect that. Work with that, even. 

“Thank you so much for the ride,” you said as you gathered your things into your lap and opened the truck door.

“It's nothing.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Get home safe, and see you tomorrow.” 

He nodded. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then the moment passed, and you opened the door and stepped out into the cold.

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

never back down, never give up!! updates are coming!!

Thanks for reading, as always!

Chapter 1: Funeral

Word Count: 3.6k

Chapter summary: Congresswoman Hamer was as dead as a doornail. This would very soon be a you problem.

Author’s Note: The organization DCCC should be read as "D-Triple-C"

December 1, 2026

“I think the Congresswoman would’ve approved,” Eileen leaned close to you, gesturing around the cathedral sanctuary, which was packed with mourners. “The governor’s here. Both senators. And I’ve counted at least ten representatives.”

“The pews were definitely packed,” you said as the crowd began to rise and circulate. 

Congresswoman Francesca Hamer’s funeral had drawn nearly every name in New York City politics. You recognized many of the faces—elected officials, community organizers, nonprofit heads, even NY-8’s perennial Republican candidate, Robert Musgrave. But the most familiar were your former coworkers who had spent the past year helping to re-elect the Congresswoman. 

“Should we go say hi?” You asked Eileen, nodding to two of your former colleagues, Priya, who worked with you in the field department as the campaign scheduler, and Mark from finance, who had the desk next to Eileen’s.

“Priya!” you kept your voice low and offered her the half-hug that was appropriate for funerals. “It’s been too long. How’ve you been? Besides the obvious.” 

Priya sighed over your shoulder. "It's been a rough month," she squeezed your hand as you both pulled away from the hug. "But I was just telling everyone about how Congresswoman remembered my mom's name and made a point to ask after her whenever we spoke." 

"Your mom came to the fundraiser last year, right? She was so sweet." Eileen asked.

“The very one. I can’t believe you remembered too,” Priya nudged Eileen with her shoulder.

"“I put the handwritten thank-you note Hamer gave me last month on my fridge." Mark said as he pulled on his thick wool coat. "My younger brother also volunteered, and she called to thank him personally in November."

“I miss it. My new boss isn’t anywhere near as nice,” Priya grumbled before turning to Mark with a brighter expression. “By the way, what is everyone up to now?”

“I got a job at the comptroller’s office. It’s temporary, nothing fancy, but it’s nice to be out of politics.” 

“I’ve sent out all my applications, so now I’m just waiting for results. I should start getting results in March or April at the latest,” Eileen recited, in the crisp, measured cadence of someone who had talked about applying to law school a thousand times already. “I’ve been picking up some work with my uncle’s accounting firm in the meantime. What about you, Priya?”

“Actually, Hamer helped me get a job out in D.C. at a think tank." Priya stood up straighter. "You’re looking at a brand new foreign affairs analyst.” After a brief chorus of congratulations, you found three pairs of eyes blinking back at you. You didn’t have anything great to say, but for every millisecond you hesitated, your answer would be more depressing. Eileen nodded at you, encouragingly, ever so slightly.

“Oh, I’m kind of in-between things right now.” The sympathetic noises came right on cue.

“The market’s super tough right now,” Mark said, not unkindly. “I’m sure something’ll open up for you.”

“Is Stewart coming over here?” Eileen gestured with her chin at the tall blonde figure that was cutting her way through a sea of mourners.

“Oh god, I hope not,” Priya groaned. “Talking to old bosses is so awkward. I heard she’s already angling for a job in the special election.” 

“Probably wants a promotion,” whispered Eileen. “She basically ran the last campaign on her own, Derek Eve got all the credit as the “campaign manager”  then retired to Florida. It’s bullshit.”

“It is,” you agreed. “But I need a break from elections. And Kate Stewart. I’ll see you outside?” You asked Eileen, who nodded at you. “It was great to see you all.” 

The cold hit the moment you opened the cathedral doors. The Congresswoman wasn’t even in the ground yet and already people were talking about who would replace her. You probably should’ve been inside networking with Eileen; it was rare that so many names in New York politics were in one place. Francesca Hamer’s death created a vacuum—the City’s swarms of consultants, clout-chasers, and lobbyists were already rushing to fill it.

Not you, though. You couldn’t stomach it today, not when your own unemployment was looming so heavily on your thoughts. 

Outside of the cathedral, you opened your inbox and clicked on the “sent mail” tab to look at the state of your job search. The oldest emails, from three weeks ago, were addressed to think tanks, congressional staff offices, law firms. The most recent email, which you had sent earlier this morning, was to the manager at a bar you frequented asking if they had any openings for a bartender. 

The depressing nature of your situation began to set in as you closed your inbox and swiped aimlessly on your phone. You almost opened social media, before you remembered that you had put parental controls on the apps so you wouldn’t be assaulted by smiling photos of former classmates and exes celebrating milestones that seemed so far away from where you were right now. You were a professional, you reminded yourself, and would not break down in public, no matter how tempting it was. 

A cosmic irony in the form of a notification arrives from your bank just then, notifying you your rent was automatically withdrawn from your account, leaving you with only a few hundred dollars in your savings. Not enough to make it to next month.

More and more mourners exited the church. Not wanting to be in the way, you quickly gathered yourself and walked closer to the corner of Jay and Cathedral Street to wait for Eileen. When you spotted your best friend in her effortlessly chic black wool trench coat and her tailored trousers, you smiled, slipping your phone into your coat pocket. You noticed that Eileen’s eyes were bright, but not with tears.

“How’d it go?” You asked, as the two of you started towards the nearest train station to catch the F train home. 

Eileen produced a business card from her coat pocket and handed it to you. It belonged to Julian Mota, which was a name that sounded vaguely familiar but you couldn’t quite place. You turned the card over in your hands and saw “Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee,” with a New York phone number under it. 

You stopped walking. “No fucking way,” you breathed.

“The DCCC wants to meet!” Eileen said in a hushed tone that did nothing to mask her excitement. She looped her arm through yours and kept you both moving.

Securing a job with the national campaign arm for House Democrats would be a major step up from her last job as a fundraising coordinator. And it would mean that she could quit her temporary gigs as a secretary-slash-dog walker for the rich pricks of Bushwick. 

“Dude, a job at the DCCC would be so sick!” You nudged her with your shoulder. “When’s the interview?”

“It’s not a job,” Eileen said. “They want to meet with us. Me and you.”

“What? Why?” That was way less exciting than employment. Knowing your luck, the DCCC probably wanted you both to volunteer to work for free again right after you had finally advanced to paid campaign work this past cycle. 

“It’s about the special election.” The two of you entered the subway station and paid your fare, descending to the platform to wait for the southbound train. That was not what you had been expecting to hear. It was a little macabre to talk about the upcoming election when the Hamer’s body wasn’t even in the ground, but each day politics disappointed you more, so you didn’t hold onto your surprise for very long. 

You thought about asking her, “I thought we weren’t going to mess with the upcoming election, and try to find something more stable?” But when you met her eyes and saw that she was more excited than you had seen her in weeks, you switched tactics and asked the native New Yorker, “New York’s rules are weird, right? Isn’t it a no-primary state?”

“Yup, and an accelerated timeline. Which means everyone will be scrambling.” The train began to pull into the station, wind blowing against your face. You watched as Eileen’s neatly trimmed bob flew up wildly, but her bangs stayed perfectly flat against her forehead. She raised her volume as she tried to speak over the screeching of the train as it slowed to a stop. “Given that they want to talk to us,” Eileen’s fingers flicked between you and her, “I think it’s gonna be about our campaign structure proposal.” 

“What?” Now you were just confused. “First of all, I didn’t know you actually sent that to anyone. Second, that’s not a proposal for a place like Brooklyn.”

“I know, I know, we developed it to help Dems in places like Hicksville, Indiana, win elections with no funds,” Eileen said breezily as you both boarded the train and beelined for two unoccupied seats. “But I think it could be adapted for NY-8. And I think the DCCC is interested because they just spent a ton of money this past election cycle, and lost more than they won.”

You began to put some dots together, “And with donor fatigue, the usual fundraising pools are going to dry up fast. I know I wouldn’t want to give more money to a new candidate if the last one who took my money died before the first session of Congress.”

“It could work,” Eileen smiled at you. “And besides, I need something to keep me occupied before I start law school next year. 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” you returned her smile. Eileen could talk you into anything. “But I get why we have a meeting now.”

Two days later, you found yourself across from Julian Mota, an older man with gray streaks in his cropped, black hair. He wore a thick cable-knit sweater with a collared shirt peeking out. He adjusted the cuffs of the undershirt while he talked, which you deemed a nervous tick, given that he was explaining just how dire the situation in front of you and Eileen was. 

"Things have gotten incredibly complicated in New York politics this year,” his voice was low and a little raspy. “The recent election has changed a lot. On the one hand, you have president-elect Ross,” he spat out the name like it was a swear, “and on the other, you have Wilson Fisk and his ilk, changing what it means to be a Democrat in the city. Whoever runs for office will have an incredibly difficult time trying to thread this needle.”

“And likely won’t have the funds of previous candidates,” you supplied. 

Julian fidgeted with his sleeve cuffs. “I wish we had more to give, but given that Representative Hamer passed so soon after her election, there’s not much we can do.”

“Which is why you wanted to meet with us,” Eileen finished, leaning forward in her seat. 

“I read your proposal,” Julian took out a blue folder and flipped through the pages. “Two full-time members of staff splitting the bulk of managerial work, and an army of unpaid interns or volunteers. It’s well thought out, but it’s crazy.”

“It’s meant for districts where they don’t have a choice.” You had worked on plenty of losing campaigns in your home state. Although an increased budget would be the most beneficial panacea for Democrats at home, but when money was tight, the best possible strategy was to concentrate what little you had where it could still make a difference.

“I know,” Julian smiled sadly. “And I’m increasingly feeling like that’s where we are here in Brooklyn.” After a beat, he leaned forward in his chair. “I know Francesca didn’t like Fisk.” 

“He’s a criminal.” You let the words hang.

“He’s changed everything,” Julian said. “No one has put their name up for consideration for the Democratic nomination. Everyone’s waiting to see what he’ll do.”

“And you?” You asked, a pit in your stomach starting to form. 

“Francesca—Representative Hamer was my friend,” His voice cracked on the word “friend.” Julian cleared his throat before continuing.“I’d like to honor her wishes and not nominate a Fisk puppet. But the DCCC doesn’t have the resources to run a full campaign in a non-competitive district. If you two can find a candidate who understands all of this, and the risk, I’ll help them secure the nomination.”

“And we would do what? Run a campaign model like in our proposal?” You were glad Eileen was here at this moment, asking questions you were a little too scared to ask. 

“It would ultimately be up to the candidate,” Julian readjusted his cuffs again. “But I would recommend this plan to any Brooklyn hopeful. And so would my like-minded peers here at the DCCC.” 

The implication hung in the air. If you found a candidate to run, the campaign was as good as yours. You turned to look at Eileen who was already looking at you. You nodded. 

“We can start looking today,” Eileen said. 

“Any lists of potential candidates would be helpful,” you added. “Polling data too. Actually, just any candidate data would be great.”

Julian nodded, rising to his feet. “I can do that. Just remember, be discreet, and ideally, quick. I’d like to announce the nomination before Fisk is sworn in, and before he can do anything about it.”

“You got it,” Eileen rose from her seat, picking up her bag from the back of the chair and slinging it over her shoulder. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks again for the opportunity,” you said, beaming at Julian as you got up to leave. “You won’t regret it.”

“I hope that’s true, for all of our sakes.”

You were stupid to think this would be easy. True to his word, Julian had given you a list of a dozen names of community leaders: doctors, business people, city government members, community organizers, and so on and so forth. 

You had cold-called all of them that afternoon, and of the half-dozen that had picked up and spoken to you, all of them turned you down. At first, this surprised you, given the city’s reputation for being full of social climbers, but with every “no” you got, a common theme emerged: people were scared of Wilson Fisk. They were scared of being perceived as “against” him, they were scared what he may do to their organizations without them, they were scared who he might appoint to their position after them. 

Presently, you were dutifully taking notes of your conversation with Ben Nakamori, a city councilmember who made sure you knew exactly why he was turning you down. As he droned on, you looked across your kitchen table at Eileen pretending to strangle herself, which was beginning to seem more pleasant than listening to minute fifteen of Mr. Nakamori’s monologue about how the city council simply couldn’t do anything to stand up to Fisk.

When you finally hung up, you slumped in your chair and wished you could melt into the floor. 

“Why did we think this would be easy?” Eileen’s voice sounded as tired as you felt.

“Because if you or I had a modicum of notoriety we would run for office,” you suggested, your voice muffled by your head in your arms. “And we can’t understand why these jabronis won’t run in one of the friendliest districts you could ask for.”

“I hate politicians," Eileen mumbled. “They’re always worried about their careers.”

“I’d almost take a celebrity,” you half-heartedly sat up in your chair. “Playing a politician has got to be pretty close to the real thing. Larry David’s from Brooklyn, you think he’d be up to it?”

“We just buried an octogenarian, I don’t want to do it again, thank you,” EIleen said, opening her computer, “but this does give me an idea.” She slid her chair over towards you, so you could look at her computer screen. It was the Wikipedia page, “List of people from Brooklyn.” You sighed. Was this really what it had come to?

A few clicks and Eileen had figured out a way to sort the famous Brooklynites by birth year. You scanned the names. Half of these people were actors who lived and worked elsewhere, some were scientists, writers or other recluses, and none particularly jumped out at you as good candidates. You jotted down some names of community organizers you weren’t familiar with, but when Eileen searched for more information about them, most had moved out of the city after the Blip. 

You and Eileen were about to give up hope, having scrolled all the way down to the 1950’s where David Berkowitz and Tony Danza were the standouts, when a name at the bottom of the screen caught your eye. Under the 1910’s, the only entry without a death date: James Buchanan Barnes. 

Without meaning to, you let out a small gasp. 

“It’s perfect!” 

Eileen tutted her teeth, clicking over to the voter registration list Julian had given you access to in order to aid your search.

“Don’t get excited just yet,” she warned, as the page loaded in. 

But it was perfect. James Buchanan Barnes was a registered Democrat, had voted in the election last November, and even lived in one of the NY-8 neighborhoods. 

“Huh.” was Eileen’s only reply.

“World War II vet, friend and ally to two Captain America’s, helped defeat Thanos,” you counted off the “pluses” in James Barnes’ favor on your fingers. “I bet that will poll well across all sorts of demographics.” 

“You're forgetting the Winter Soldier of it all,” Eileen turned in her chair to face you. “That makes him basically unelectable.”

Oh. She was right, in your desperation and delirium you had forgotten the other half of James Barnes’ public persona. You remember when it came out (what, fifteen years ago?) that the man responsible for dozens of assassinations over the course of the past seventy years was actually Captain America’s best friend-turned Hydra super soldier. Of course, at the time, you were more concerned with how the damage in Washington DC would impact your ability to get an internship there next semester. 

“He was mind-controlled, and technically pardoned for all that, I thought,” you tried. Eileen had already pulled up Barnes’ Wikipedia and was reading the details of his pardon. Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she scanned the details of his pardon: the article chronicled each crime he was pardoned for. It was a long list. 

“You’re right, but there’s always the court of public opinion.”

A scoff escaped your mouth before you could choke it back. “The public elect criminals all the time,” you felt some of your momentum come back. “Ten years ago, Trump, today, Fisk. And none of them were even reformed! Why can’t we run a good one?”

“Okay, for starters, to the public, “assassin” is very different from "shitbag" and "racketeer.” Eileen started, closing out the Wikipedia tab and reopening the voter database the DCCC had given you. “And I’m not too keen on betting the fate of New York’s Eighth on a hundred year old killer with PTSD. If we wanted a superhero to run, I’d rather get, like, anyone else. Even Spider-Man would be better.” 

“He’s not old enough,” you said automatically, drawing on your pool of Spider-Man fun facts you had learned from your younger sister, Maya.

“You freak!” Eileen side-eyed you, laughing. “The point still stands. Most heroes have a better reputation than Barnes, except maybe Frank Castle. And even then, we know for a fact that New Yorkers are hostile to heroes right now.” 

That was fair, you conceded. Fisk’s election was a pretty clear condemnation of the increase in enhanced human activity and violence in the city. New Yorkers were fed up, and you couldn’t really blame them. 

“Does the database have polling data for Barnes?” It was a long shot, but worth asking about. Eileen gave you a weird look in response. 

“That would be a huge waste of money, if the DCCC had probe polls for every superhero,” Eileen mused. Probe polls were only supposed to be for potential candidates, but the Democrats were constantly scouting for new blood, especially since a not insignificant number of party members turned out to be Skrulls a few years ago. 

“Just check,” you were almost pleading, “I want to do our due-diligence before we give up this lead.” 

Eileen entered ‘James Buchanan Barnes’ into the polling data base and found two polls: one from April 2024 and one from April 2026. Barnes was viewed more favorably in 2024 than he was this year, but the data was clear. By a tiny margin, Brooklynites had a “slightly favorable” view of James Buchanan Barnes. 

It was your turn to be surprised. Despite pressing the matter, you had kinda assumed any polling wouldn’t be favorable, given the Winter Soldier of it all, and the thing with the Flag Smashers still in recent memory.  You turned to look at Eileen, who looked just as surprised as you felt

“I would call this data a massive waste of money in any other circumstance,” you said, wondering who at the DCCC ordered this poll, and just how many other public figures were in this database. “But you have to admit this is promising.”

“I still don’t love it,” Eileen grudged. “But I’ll put him on the list. The bottom of our list. How would you get in contact with a superhero, anyways?”

series masterlist | next chapter

December 21, 2026

December 22, 2026

December 26, 2026

It was the Sunday after Christmas—you had gotten back earlier that day and had already unpacked your suitcase. Sort of. Sweaters were scattered across your bed, only halfway hung up on the clothes rack in the corner of your room. You tried to muster the strength to finish the task at hand, but your hands were itching for your phone. You slumped down on the half of your bed not covered by sweaters and began to swipe through social media. 

This was a categorically bad idea. You had barely even been distracted for one minute before you saw a photo posted by your ex-fiance’s wife. A strangled noise must have escaped you, because before too long Eileen was at your side, peering down at you. 

“You good?” She asked, nodding to your phone. “I didn’t think the precinct analysis was that bad, actually.” 

You turned the phone screen to show Eileen: It was your ex-fiance, Andrew, and his wife Isabela at a beautiful lakefront scene with their 3 year old daughter and Isabela visibly pregnant, announcing their new baby. Eileen sighed and sat down on the bed next to you and gently smoothed your hair with her fingers. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, taking your phone and turning it off. You propped yourself up on your arms, aware of how ridiculous you were being. 

“I know it's been three years,” you began, gathering your thoughts. “But it’s hard not to think about it. If things had been different.”

Eileen took your hand in hers and squeezed it gently. “It’s okay to feel weird about it. There’s no timeline on grief. Three years ago you woke up and found out not only had five years slipped by, but that Andrew had married someone else and had a kid. It wasn’t fair.”

“The Blip wasn’t fair to anyone. It feels stupid to be upset about this.”

“You can be upset about multiple things,” Eileen said, nudging your shoulder gently. “And besides, do you really think you would have been happy if you married him?” Eileen’s deep brown eyes had a glint of mischief in them.

“Of course I don’t.” But it still stings to see someone living the life you thought you’d have. 

“Because you were a child bride! 

“I don’t think I counted as a child bride-”

“A child bride! Yet to explore the world!”

You giggled softly and laid your head on her shoulder. 

“I know what will cheer you up,” she said, waggling her eyebrows at you. “Want to go check out our new office?”

The walk from your apartment to your office was about twenty minutes, you and Eileen took turns pulling the wagon filled to the brim with office supplies and passed the time by discussing platform issues. By the time you had gotten to the building, you had narrowed down the campaign’s platform to a short list to present to Bucky. The office building was a tall brick building with four outward branching wings. Eileen checked her phone then guided you around the corner of the building to the correct wing, where a lone pickup truck was parked outside. 

“This is us,” Eileen said, jingling a key before unlocking the door and pushing it open.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of dust and paint. The elevator in the middle of the hallway wheezed to life when Eileen hit the button. The fluorescent light flickered overhead while you held your breath, praying the elevator wouldn’t get stuck on your way up. Once you were safely out of the elevator you found the office with no issue. 

The office was impressive given the budget—there were wood paneled floors instead of the smooth concrete that some of the corporate offices you had worked in had. The room itself was wide open, with two small offices directly across from the entry and two more on the right hand side. In the back corner of the office, there were some closets, a kitchenette, and what appeared to be a restroom. Three mismatched couches had been placed in the middle of the room, where Bucky sat in the middle of them, assembling a small shelf, or he had been, before your intrusion had caused him to stop his work. 

“Oh,” you blinked, caught off-guard, “look who’s here.” 

“So much for being early.” Eileen muttered, stepping around you to pull the wagon through the door. She then added, louder, “We thought we’d get a head start on setting up the office. Looks like you had the same idea.” 

“Yeah, looks like that.” You could never get a read on Bucky’s emotions.   

“Was that your truck outside?” You asked, trying to fill the silence as you helped Eileen push the wagon to the center of the room.

“Yeah.”

“Do you need help with any of the furniture? We mostly just have some stuff for our offices.” 

Bucky looked at you blankly. “I got it.” Oh. Duh. Superpowers. You felt your cheeks get hot. Luckily, Eileen saved you.  

“Suit yourself, we’ll get started with our offices. Where are the boxes for the desks I ordered?”

“Oh, I already got started.” Bucky said, gesturing with a screwdriver in hand. “I put a desk in each office. I didn’t know who would want which office.” 

“Thank you, Bucky.” You smiled at him as Eileen and you walked over to examine the offices. They were arranged in an “L” shape. The one in the left corner was the largest, so that would obviously be Bucky’s, which left the other two up for grabs.  You looked over at Eileen, who was suppressing a smile. 

“How d’you want to do this?” you asked, already grinning. 

“Rock paper scissors, shoot!” You got your hands up by the time Eileen said ‘shoot’, throwing up ‘scissors’ when Eileen threw up ‘rock’.

“My first office,” Eileen crooned. “I want the corner one, so I can get a clear eyeline to the TV,” she said as she waltzed over to her new space. Left with the middle office behind the couches, you opened the door to your first personal office. The window overlooked a patch of winter trees and a few anonymous buildings—not glamorous, but yours. It was certainly a step up from your previous shared cubicle, here, no one would steal your pens. True to his word, Bucky had put a desk in the middle of the small office. You decided to leave it where it was, and spent the next few minutes filling the built-in shelves with some of your office supplies. Satisfied with the progress you made, you went to find Eileen and the supply wagon. 

Eileen had pushed her desk against a wall and propped a cork board on it, and was in the middle of pinning sticky notes to the board. 

“Looking good,” you said, appraising her work. “I’m done for now, so I think I’m going to start on the flowchart.”

“Okay, I’ll join you in a bit,” she murmured, already grabbing another sticky note.

The conference room had a large table in it, thank God, that was one less thing to worry about. There was a pull-down projector screen and white board, which left a long, windowless wall open for your flowchart. You unrolled the butcher paper across the floor, cut a strip the length of the wall, and taped it up with some effort. Now for the fun part: you began to fill it with color-coordinated sticky notes, outlining a loose timeline for campaign activities. 

At some point, the light outside had gone dark. Eileen had appeared a few times, logging the different tasks into the digital copy of the master calendar. Before your first meeting, you had both decided that everything that could be digital was going to be, and that if something couldn’t be digital, it would be stored in binders or on sticky notes (It’s simply common courtesy to avoid notebooks when working with the former Winter Soldier). Together, you had developed a very comprehensive system for organizing all of the campaign administrative business on sticky notes. When Eileen reappeared in the doorway later, you had the schedule for media, fundraising, canvassing, and appearances mapped out in loose rows on the wall.

“Looks like you’ve been busy.” Eileen was leaning casually in the doorway, holding a bottle of beer in each hand. “You at a stopping point?” 

“Sure,” you said, taking a beer. Eileen turned her head and called out over her shoulder, “Barnes! Do you want a beer?”

“Sure. What’s the occasion?” Bucky asked.

“First day in the office,” Eileen passed Bucky a beer. “I think there’s an opener in the kitchen, or I can—” Eileen was interrupted by Bucky popping off the lid with his thumb. 

“That’s a neat party trick, and here I thought I was so cool. May I?” You passed Eileen back your bottle and watched for the umpteenth time as she used her beer bottle to open yours, before passing her bottle to Bucky so he could open it.

“Impressive,” Bucky said, raising his eyebrows. Turning to you, he asked, “Do you have any tricks like that?”

“In college I used to open bottles with my teeth, but luckily for my dentist, we don’t have any more bottles to open. Cheers!” You offered your bottle out to both of them. Everyone gently clinked the bottles, and you pretended the beer didn’t taste as cheap as it did. 

“Does it feel real yet?” You looked up at Bucky, who was slowly sipping the cheap beer. You didn’t think supersoldiers could get drunk. You wondered why he was subjecting himself to drinking this swill if there was no buzz. 

“The campaign?” Bucky’s eyes drifted around the office, landing on the conference room. “Yeah. It’s starting to.”

“Good,” Eileen said. “We actually need to talk shop. Shall we?” She nodded towards the couches that were now surrounding a large but definitely second-(or maybe even third or fourth)-hand TV. You ducked into your office to grab your backpack before joining the other two on the couches. 

“Is it platform time?” You asked Eileen.

“It is,” she confirmed. “Journalists are getting back to me about attending the launch party so we need to have the platform details ironed out by the end of the week.” 

“Am I supposed to come up with the platform?” Bucky asked, looking between you and Eileen. 

“Sort of. Usually, we look at what issues are important to you, we look at what the party’s platform is, and we see what tells a compelling story. While substance is important, branding and messaging is even more important. We pick a few key issues, we narrow down our messaging, it's whatever.”

“Its a little more complicated than that,” Eileen said after taking a sip of beer. “But since she’s from a Red State, she’s just excited to not have to dance around the issues.”

“So I need to have a stance on everything?”

You said ‘No’ at the same time as Eileen said ‘Yes’.

“Your platform is going to be three to five issues that you and the voters are passionate about,” you continued. “But you do need to have prepared comments on just about every issue.”

“Those more niche things can come from the official party platform. Things like data protection, environmental management, the US Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, we can defer to the party… unless you have strong opinions?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Gotcha.” You opened your laptop, ready to take notes. “So what are you passionate about?”

“I don’t know. I want to help people.” Bucky was twisting the bottle in his hands, and for a moment, you were worried that you were losing him. “I hate watching people get left behind. Especially if they’ve been helping their community their whole life. Veterans, working folks. These people shouldn’t be priced out of their homes. I think the government should help people get on their feet, which feels impossible these days.” You could work with that.

“Okay, so I’m hearing ‘Economic recovery, cost of living crisis, maybe even housing reform?” You said, looking up from your notes.

“You got all that from that?” Bucky asked.

“That’s why she’s the strategist.” Eileen said.

“Given your biography, I think we should lean into transparency and anti-corruption.”

“That’s an important issue—topical.” Eileen said. 

“But?” You prompted. 

“Needs to be more specific. Transparency could mean the whole alien imbroglio from last year or accountability in government spending.” You looked at Bucky for his thoughts. 

“From what I gather, people don’t really trust the government. With all the Hydra stuff before the Blip and aliens and hell, regular corruption, they don’t have a reason to.”

“Well, that sounds like a start,” you said, clicking through your notes. “Are we missing anything?”

Eileen clicked her tongue softly, “I mean, if we got the keynote issues for the campaign… Reproductive freedoms, environmental justice, social security, we can just take the party position for those.”

“I do have opinions on issues,” Bucky said, looking somewhat offended. “I follow the news.”

“Oh great, let’s ask the 110-year-old what he thinks of abortion,” Eileen said, narrowing her eyes. Never one to shy away from a bit, you crossed your arms and attempted to replicate Eileen’s withering look. Bucky had the grace to look mildly embarrassed.

“I think that’s a deeply personal decision that should be between a woman and her doctor.” 

You turned to Eileen, mildly impressed. “That’s not a half-bad answer.”

“Don’t go throwing any parties yet,” Eileen replied, turning to Bucky. “We’ll all work on an issue packet together. It’ll be something you need to memorize, so if anyone asks you about your stance on a given issue, you can at least say something.”

Bucky nods. “I’ll try not to embarrass myself or you two in front of the media.” If you didn’t know any better, you thought you saw a small smile twinge across his lips.

“Much appreciated,” you smiled. For the first time, the silence between you three wasn’t uneasy. 

“Oh!” You said, sitting up on the couch somewhat suddenly. “Before I forget, I have gifts.”

“You too?” Eileen looked over at you with genuine delight and the kind of smile you can only share with someone who knows you so well as to anticipate your actions.“Your’s and his are in my office. We really must be soulmates.”

“No one told me we were doing gifts.” Bucky seemed half-offended to be caught unawares.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. “We didn’t plan it. Eileen and I just had the same idea, that’s all.” You rummaged around in your backpack, pulling out two packages wrapped carefully in brown paper. You handed the smaller one to Bucky, and traded Eileen the larger package for a small envelope when she got back. 

You had gifted her a sweater that you had spent many hours laboring over, (although you did enlist your mother to help you on some of the more complicated parts) a deep green Helian sweater. "This is gorgeous," Eileen ran a finger along the stitching. "Your first handmade sweater and it's already better than anything I own. Thank you." She pulled it over her head immediately, smoothing it down. "Okay, your turn."

You pulled a card out of the envelope, inside was a membership card for the Wildlife Conservation Society. It entitled you to free entry to the New York Aquarium, as well as a few other attractions.

“Since we’re so close to the aquarium now, oh, this is perfect.” 

“It’s for two adults, in case you want to take a plus one,” Eileen said, framing her face with her hands and waggling her fingers. 

“Thank you, Eileen. This is so thoughtful. You next, boss,” you said, nodding your head to Bucky. He carefully unwrapped the package you had given him, revealing a blue hand-knit scarf and a small postcard. 

“Thank you. Did you make this too?” he said while turning over the scarf in his hands. 

“Yeah. I hope the color is okay.”

“This is very nice. Thanks.” After he put the scarf into his work bag, Eileen hoisted her bulky present up and passed it to Bucky. You watched as Bucky unwrapped exactly what you had guessed Eileen got him, a framed mockup of the campaign poster. It was beautifully designed, a purple and blue background with “Fighting For Tomorrow” written in big bold letters. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said to Eileen, running a hand over the frame. “You both didn’t have to do this. Seriously.” 

“We know,” you chirped. “We just wanted to thank you for taking a chance on us.”

“And besides, you gave us the greatest gift of all: employment.” 

The four faces blinking back at you when you had asked if there were any questions were a little discouraging, to be honest. After showing the interns around the office, you had hoped they’d be a bit more forthcoming and a little less on edge, but the nervous energy they were radiating was palpable. 

One of the college students, a girl with long braids and glasses, half-raised her hand and asked, “What is the first campaign event we’ll be working on?”

“Excellent question, Marie,” you said, eyes darting to her name tag to double-check before you said anything. “Our campaign kickoff is this Friday. It’ll be here. We are really hoping to have a good turn out, so you guys are welcome to invite anyone you know that’d be interested in coming.”

“Really?” One of the highschoolers asked. Ganke was still wearing his school uniform jacket. “Even if they can’t vote?”

“Yeah, although ideally they’d be interested in volunteering,” you said. “Volunteers are the heart of our campaign. We won’t be able to succeed without them, and that includes you guys too.”

Eileen emerged from her office holding her empty thermos and making for the kitchenette coffee machine. When she noticed you standing on the other side of the office with the interns, her eyes lit up and she crossed the room, greeting the students. 

“Eileen, may I introduce to you Ganke, Vijay, Georgia, and Marie,” you said, going down the line of students.

“It’s great to meet you guys. We were really impressed by your applications, so welcome to the team.” She gestured expansively behind her to the kitchenette. “I think we have beer in the fridge to celebrate your first day.”

The interns exchanged glances. Ganke's eyebrows went up. Georgia hid a smile behind her hand. Eileen furrowed her brow, clearly confused. “What?”

“Eileen. They’re our student interns.”

“Oh.” Eileen looked at the interns clearly just now registering Ganke and Vijay’s matching blue blazers with a high school logo emblazoned on it. “Right. Students. Of course. Soda. I'll—yes. Soda. Tomorrow. Multiple flavors. In case anyone doesn't like—I'll get options.”

A knock at the door pulled your attention away from Eileen’s rambling. Eileen, apparently very grateful for the interruption, walked with you to answer the door. On the other side stood a deliveryman in a bright pink jumpsuit, holding two large bouquets of expensive looking flowers.

“Delivery for Unit 801, Chen and—” By the time the deliveryman had said your last name your mind was already racing. Who ordered flowers? Maybe Jackson got some for Eileen to get back in her good graces but you too? “Uh, can I come in to drop these off, miss?” He asked. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” you said, feeling your face get hot. “Just put them on a table.” The man produced a paper and pen and offered it to you. You signed for the delivery and the man left before you could even offer him a tip. 

“Did you order these?” you asked Eileen, who had come over to examine the flowers. There were two similar, but not identical bouquets, and arrangement of white lilies, red roses, and greenery that even included a few berries, giving the bouquet a festive feel.

“I can’t afford this,” Eileen said quietly, touching a petal of a rose between two fingers. “What does the card say?”

“Card?” A moment of searching revealed a small card attached to the glass vase. It had your name on it, so you opened it. 

Thanks for taking a chance on me too.

Happy Holidays,

Bucky

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

As always, thank you for reading and commenting :)

Author's Note: This chapter is the densest it will get, exposition wise. Next chapter we will be back to regularly scheduled shenanigans :) If you don't know anything about American electoral politics, don't worry! Everything super important is explained. If you know a lot about American electoral politics, I'm sorry...

Sergeant Barnes didn’t call that day. Or the next. Which was fine. You and Eileen understood. Running for Congress was a decision that upended one’s life, and shouldn’t be pursued on a whim. 

By Friday, Eileen and you were sitting in your apartment’s communal space, phones on the table, pretending to be engrossed in other things. You were knitting while the TV was playing commercials on mute, and Eileen was at the table reading a thick law tome. When the morning news came back on, you unmuted the TV. NY1 was finishing up a mildly interesting story about the new rat czar before switching gears to talk about the rise of landlords illegally raising rents and not heating buildings properly—a story that was more familiar than either of you'd like to admit. 

Sighing softly to yourself, you put down your knitting and picked up your laptop. You opened your inbox: no new emails. Disappointing, but not surprising. As the TV droned on and on about the cost of living crisis, you pulled up a job searching website and skimmed through the most recent postings. You started clicking ‘easy apply’ to any and all that are in south Brooklyn. Within 20 minutes, you had applied to be a barista, a florist, a hotdog slinger, and a cleaner. 

Before you were able to seriously ponder whether you had the prerequisite skills to be a nanny, one of the phones buzzed on the table, nearly giving you a heart attack. It was Eileen's, and she looked up at you apologetically, flashing her phone screen to show it was just an alarm. 

“Shit. I’ve got to get going.” Eileen stood up from her seat at the table but didn’t tear her eyes away from  the book.

“It’ll be here when you get back,” you said. “The pampered pets of Bushwick need you.” 

On the table, Eileen’s phone rang—you had both turned on your ringers for the first time in ten years in anticipation of this call— and you both lunged for the table. In her rush, Eileen tripped over her own feet and hopped to the table.

“It’s a New York number,” you felt hope build up in your chest before you remembered to beat it back. 

“You really think?” Eileen’s shy expression on her face softened all the grit she wore daily.

“Go on, answer it!” 

Eileen grabbed the phone on its fourth ring, and you watched as her posture straightened and mask of confidence washed over her face. 

“Eileen Chen speaking.” 

“Uh. Hi. This is Bucky—James Barnes.” 

“Hi Sergeant Barnes. I have my partner here, I’m going to put you on speaker phone, okay?”

“Hello,” you chimed in. “How can we help you?”

“I thought about what you said.” Beat. “I’ve got some follow-up questions. You free?” 

“Of course,” Eileen said, her voice sounded cooler than her expression, which had broken into the widest grin you had seen in a while. Her grip on your arm tightens in excitement. “We have pretty open availability. When’s best for you?” 

“I’m free after 2.” 

“Okay, and what’s a good neighborhood to meet in?”

He didn’t say anything, so you filled in the silence. “It’ll be best to meet in a library, what’s a good neighborhood?” 

“Uh, I’ll come to you.”

Eileen muted the phone and asked, “Can we do Bushwick please. I’ll finish by 3. Plus he’ll think we have our shit together enough to afford Bushwick. Please.” You rolled your eyes but nodded your assent. 

“The DeKalb branch, at 3pm.”

“Got it.” The phone line went dead. You grabbed Eileen’s hand, squeezing, while letting out a high-pitched giggle. 

“Oh my god!”

Eileen began laughing with you, pumping your joined hands up and down. Then, she cut the celebration short by saying, “You know, this isn’t a job offer. Technically.”

“Boo,” you took your hand back. “I hate your technicalities. This is a step. A good step.”

“A step,” she agreed. “Speaking of—do you think you can handle ‘Meeting Zero’ prep on your own?”

“Can I make us professionals in three hours? Yeah. Totally.” You took a deep breath, your shoulders almost reaching your ears. “I just need to reserve the room, print the FEC forms, look into opening a bank account for the campaign, and maybe get some NDAs ready to go.”

“Smart. You should be able to use the ones we signed for Hamer and just change the names.”

“Wouldn’t want someone as paranoid as him to think we have any motivation to sell his secrets,” you went into the kitchen, grabbing your keys off the hook. 

“God, the parodies aren’t that far off, superheroes really do have a flair for the dramatic. Eileen pitched her voice low and mimed hanging up the phone. “‘Got it.’” For added measure, she tossed her hair around, making you giggle.  ”Do you think he’s going to be so,” she waved her hand, searching for the word, “huffy the whole campaign?”

“I’d take ‘huffy’ over ‘corrupt' anyday,” you said, while walking to your room to grab your work bag and some essentials. 

“You’re too hasty. You know, I heard that every member of the Fisk campaign’s comms team got taken out to eat at Rao’s to celebrate his election.”

“You’d really sell out for Italian food?” you asked Eileen as she handed you your laptop.

“At this point, I’d sell out for benefits: a 401k, insurance, PTO… the Italian food is just a bonus.”

“So go apply at the mayor’s office,” you narrowed your eyes at Eileen, daring her to double down on her bit.

“You got me,” Eileen sighed. “I’m a good girl. I couldn’t do it, no matter how good the pasta at Rao’s is said to be,” Eileen crossed her heart with her pointer finger. 

With your bag packed and ready to go, you and Eileen left the apartment, locked the door and descended the steps. The staircase was narrow and steep, and probably hadn't been renovated since Jimmy Carter was president, so you held your breath carefully each time you took a step lest you end up on a stretcher in an ambulance you couldn't afford to call.

On the walk to the subway station, you reviewed the numbers the DCCC had given you. The Democratic establishment did not want to waste a ton of money winning a race they'd just won in one of the safest blue districts in the country. This meant they were only giving your candidate ten thousand dollars total for the campaign. Upfront, that would be enough money to hire Eileen and you (for two weeks), do some preliminary polling, build a website, and maybe, if there was enough left over, commission some graphics. 

The conversation carried onto the subway, where Eileen and you debated whether or not Sergeant Barnes was secretly, fabulously wealthy—wealthy enough to fund the campaign himself.

“Tony Stark set up a fund for everyone who fought Thanos in New York, I’m telling you,” said Eileen.

“After he died? I doubt it.”

Eileen raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

“Because when I met Spider-Man—” 

“Oh lord, here you go again with Spider-Man,” you didn’t need to look over at Eileen to know she was rolling her eyes. 

“Because one time when I met Spider-Man,” you continued, louder this time. “I was with Maya, and he stopped a car from crashing into the outdoor seats at the cafe we were at. So I bought him a box of donuts.”

“You’ve told this story before.”

“Shut it,” you nudged her with your elbow. “Anyways, the point is, he joked about not being able to afford a box of donuts from there otherwise. And the box was like, maybe fifteen dollars.” When Eileen had no response, you decided to shift gears. “Whatever. We’re off track.”

By the time the train pulled into Bushwick, the two of you had talked yourself into and out of several ridiculous campaign slogans and six adverts. 

DeKalb Library looked like a bank, all brick and bulk. But inside, the coldness faded fast. Warm toned oak made up the bookshelves, desks, and chairs. Crafts made of construction paper and glue hung in the children’s section, where the sound of kids running around rang out on the tile floor. The library wasn’t busy, but Brooklynites were using every space of the library—folks were on computers, browsing the shelves, and curled up on couches with books. 

After reserving a room for later that afternoon, you sat down at an empty table and got to work. In the ether of your Hamer ‘26 work folder you found your old NDA, made a copy and edited the names so it would suit this would-be client. All of this was definitely getting ahead of yourself; Sergeant Barnes technically hadn’t said yes yet, but it was better to be over-prepared than scrambling. 

Once you had gotten sufficiently set-up for this meeting, you decided to familiarize yourself with the candidate a bit more. You remembered bits and pieces about Sergeant Barnes’ life from history class, the news, and some of the docuseries your sister liked to watch when she was in middle school, but a lot of the details were fuzzy. The library didn’t have any biographies on The Winter Soldier or James Buchanan Barnes specifically, but they did have a Captain America biography that would have to suffice. You flipped to the post-ice section of the thick book and made considerable progress as the afternoon slipped by. Eleven minutes before the meeting was supposed to start, you got a text from Eileen letting you know she had arrived, and had brought you lunch. You shot off a quick reply and hurried to go meet her. 

Outside, Eileen still had two dogs, one of those tiny white crusty dogs and a terrier, both leashed. She was leaning against a lightpost as the dogs sniffed around at a bush. 

“How’d it go?” Eileen asked at the same time you said:

“Why do you still have a dog?”

“You first,” you said, taking the still-warm sub sandwich Eileen had pulled out of her purse for you and unwrapping it. “I’m starving.”

“The owner texted me saying he needed a late pickup as if I don't have things to do. So I told the owner to meet me here.”

“Makes sense,” you said, mouth still kinda full of food. "As long as it’s gone before Barnes is here. "You swallowed the rest of your bite before continuing. “Anyways. All the forms we need for now are printed. Here’s the NDA,” you dusted the crumbs from your fingers and pulled out the form and a pen from your leather tote. Eileen signed it with a flourish before handing it back to you. 

“I was thinking about our pitch. We should emphasize name recognition. Saving the world is excellent free advertising, and we won’t have to work as hard to get people to know who he is.”

“And we could tell him, tell your story on your own terms, ‘blah blah blah’” You added.

“Please don’t actually say blah blah blah.” 

As you finished your sandwich, Eileen’s phone rang again and she walked off, rounding the corner of the block with the dogs in tow. Papers placed back in your bag, you checked your watch again, but by the time you were looking up you saw a tall man about 40 yards away in a thick winter coat walking towards you. You squinted, trying to confirm that this was indeed Barnes and not some random white guy, but as he got closer the blue eyes and stubble were unmistakeable, so you waved a gloved hand at him. Eileen was still gone, so you shot up a prayer to whoever was listening that she would be back soon. Luckily, Eileen materialized at your side just as Sergeant Barnes strode up to you.

Sergeant Barnes said your name in a greeting first then greeted Eileen, smiling in a way that seemed much more relaxed than at the restaurant. A wave of guilt washed over you for intruding on this nice man’s life, but before you could linger on that thought any longer, Eileen was walking the group inside the library, and the onus was on you to guide the group to your meeting room.

The room wasn’t glamorous, but it was bigger than the kitchen in your apartment and had a door that shut, so you weren’t complaining. Eileen and you sat on one side of the table and Sergeant Barnes on the other, in a way that kind of resembled an interview. It might as well be an interview, you figured, for all the questions you were about to ask him. You set up your laptop, pulled out the folder and some pens, as well as a stack of sticky notes in a range of different colors for taking notes. 

“Alright Sergeant Barnes, before we get going—” you started, but he cut you off, not impolitely.

“Just Bucky is okay.”

“Bucky?” Your eyebrows quirked up, surprised.

“Since we’re going to be working together. Bucky’s fine.”

“Alright Bucky. As you know, the DCCC contacted us to find a candidate for NY-8. Since New York is a no-primary state on an accelerated timeline, a committee will decide who the Democratic nominee is.” You handed him a one-pager you had prepared, outlining the process and the important dates he needed to know.

“If you agree, we will submit your information to the committee and by New Year’s you would officially be our nominee for Congress.” Bucky was staring pretty intensely with what you assumed was his active listening face. It was a little unnerving but you continued.

“This meeting is to answer your questions, but we are on a pretty tight deadline. We need to know if you’re in by tonight at the latest, so we have time to pivot if you’re not. So ask any of your burning questions, and then we can explore different aspects of the realities of campaigning and address more questions as they pop up. Okay?”

“Okay. I guess my first question is: did you find anyone else?” Your mouth pressed into a flat line, but before you could answer, Bucky said, “No, don’t answer that. I know the answer.”

“Look, if there was someone better, they’d be in that chair right now.” Eileen's tone was flat and clinical. You glanced at Bucky for a reaction; there was none. “We don’t have the luxury of buying the most electable, screen-tested candidate.That costs money we don’t have.”

Barnes blinked, then huffed out a quiet, hollow laugh. “Right. Money.” He leaned back in his chair. “Walk me through the money. Where does it come from?” 

“It comes from fundraising. But the good news is, compared to a normal election year, this campaign will likely be pretty cheap.”

“What’s normal?”

"It depends. A competitive race? Two million dollars, minimum." you said, suddenly glad you had double checked campaign financial information earlier that afternoon. 

Bucky let out a low whistle. 

“But in most normal races, candidates have two years to network, fundraise, and make a name for themselves otherwise. We won’t have as long to fundraise—”

“But an opponent wouldn’t either,” Bucky finished for you. You nodded. 

“The bad news is that Representative Hamer’s passing was at, like, the worst time possible. Which sounds horrible to say, but it’s true. Our base just donated a bunch of money to her campaign, and it won’t even’ve been a month before we would need to start asking for more money. Donor fatigue is real.”

“On the bright side,” Eileen chimed in, “if you ran, we’d spend a lot less money trying to get people to know who you are. You’ve already done that for us, for free, in Wakanda and New York.” 

Bucky smiled ruefully. “Good to know all of that had some use.”

“We were asked to get involved by the DCCC because of a campaign model we had developed,” you handed Bucky your campaign structure proposal folder. “It drastically reduces personnel expenses in order to spend more on messaging and advertising. The plan was meant for campaigns in long-shot districts, where messaging and clarifying your candidate’s stance is most important. But given the fundraising challenges we’re facing here…” Your voice tapered off.

“I see.” 

“This would be a great time to tell us if you’re secretly independently wealthy.”

Bucky shook his head. Damn. 

“Would I have to use this model?”

“Of course not. You can hire whoever you want. But talent in New York costs. And professional campaign managers have staff support requirements. This model is optimized to spend campaign funds on outcomes, not staff.” 

“And reduces the likelihood that a candidate would need to take out personal loans,” Eileen added.

Bucky looked very overwhelmed. “How much of campaigning is fundraising?” 

“A disappointingly large amount,” Eileen continued. “But again, you wouldn’t be starting from scratch. We’ll inherit email lists from Hamer, and we build out from your existing base.” 

“I don’t have a base.” 

“You may not think of yourself as a celebrity, but let’s be real, you’re a known quantity.” Eileen nodded to the sheet that had his favorability stats listed.

“I think you’re overselling me.” 

“It’s a gamble we’re going to have to take. I know elected service might make you uncomfortable, but Brooklyn is better off with a reluctant representative like you than a Fisk crony who knows exactly how he’s going to enrich his wealthy friends.” 

You jumped in to drive the point home. “Besides, an honest congressman knows exactly who he’s working for: the public. Sure, you'll have to work with politicians and compromise but you will also know that you are working to make life better for your neighbors everyday. It’s not as glamorous as saving the world—it’s slow and grinding work—but it’s a job that needs honest folks to do it.” 

“I don’t like any of this.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, like his body was remembering a gesture from when it was much longer. When his eyes rose to meet your gaze again, he didn’t look tired, but resolved. “But if I say no, someone worse says yes. I’ll do it.”  

A wide, genuine smile broke across your face. “That’s great.” 

“And here I was thinking I was too old for Congress.” 

“We don’t want to overwhelm you, but we’re at the paperwork stage.” You handed him a file folder of the forms you had printed. “You’ll need to sign these so we can submit your candidacy to the committee. And I’ll need you to fill out this form as well.” The second form was a thick packet, which was organized more like a diary than a political dossier. You watched as Bucky read the first page, which asked about employment history, previous addresses, foreign bank accounts etc. 

“This is… thorough. What is this?”

“It’s a screening form. It covers just about anything that could cause a campaign headache. Just wait until you get to the page about children, secret or otherwise,” Eileen chimed in. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. 

“Page four.” You had hoped that the “diary” wouldn’t cause too many problems—surely someone born over a century ago would be too old-fashioned to whore and debauch around the city. “You know the saying, ‘every regulation is written in blood?’ It applies here too. A former colleague told us about how on one job, her boss had to withdraw from his race in October because it came out he had three children with three different women out of state, and had paid exactly zero dollars in child support between them.” 

Bucky continued leafing through the packet, “Is there a page for international crimes?” 

“Yes, but we’re mostly concerned for anything legally dicey that occurred after your pardon.” You hoped you were projecting enough confidence for three people, but you doubted the tone of your voice could withstand it. You knew how ridiculous this was, and so did Eileen. If Bucky knew, he might have been past caring—he looked incredibly exhausted. Unfortunately for him, you had one more form. 

“We can negotiate an employment contract later,” you continued. “But because that last form I gave you needs to be completed A.S.A.P., we’ve both already signed an NDA.” 

Eileen handed Bucky a pen and a highlighter and said,“It’s industry-standard. Our guy looked it over, but if there’s anything you want to renegotiate, please let us know. Can’t put a price on peace of mind.” 

“Right.” 

“Well, we all have our homework assignments. Bucky has the forms, I’m taking this to committee, and Eileen-“ 

At a miraculous speed, Eileen was already on her phone again, typing furiously. “Already on it. I’m emailing about NY-VAN right now.”

“What do we need a van for?” A small smile flicked across Eileen’s face before she answered.

“It’s New York’s Voter-Activation-Network. It's how we’ll get voter registration lists, addresses, and polling history.” Eileen grabbed her phone with one hand and bag with the other. “I’ve been haggling with them all week. I need to take this call.” 

And then it was just you and Bucky. 

He was silent, reading the forms. You tried to not let the silence disquiet you, tried to not let him disquiet you. You checked your phone. Then looked out the window. Then fidgeted with your pen, until you finally asked:

“So what do you think?” 

“Do you have digital copies for these?” 

You don’t know what you had expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. 

“Um, yeah,” you didn’t let surprise change your expression. “I can email them to you right now. That’s actually more convenient, so we won’t have to chase you down for the completed forms.” Bucky gave you his email address: [email protected], and you sent him an email with all the files and the contact information of everyone involved. “Sorry. It sounds stupid to say out loud, but we assumed you might be more comfortable with hard copies.”

“Can’t fault you for that. I am a hundred years old.” Bucky said. “So if my past isn’t disqualifying, what does disqualify someone?”

“Hmm, well the biggest threat to any campaign is being caught in a provable lie. So most of this is about knowing what to not lie about.”

“Like the secret kids.”

“Right! Other than that, there’s not a lot of things that disqualify you. Active-duty military does, and you have to actually live in your state. Not that you are a criminal, but given recent events we know that previous criminal behavior does not necessarily preclude someone from higher office.” 

Bucky ran a gloved finger over the corner of the packet. “You’ll have it tonight.” 

“Okay, cool,” it was your turn to stand and start packing up your things. “Thanks again, for doing this. Just think, if everything goes well, by this time next week we’ll get to start the hard part.”

“We’ll start the hard part?” 

“Getting you elected, of course.” 

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

You awoke to the smell of fresh bread, which made you briefly consider that you were having a stroke. You weren’t, but you were immediately disoriented—you weren’t in your bedroom, but on a couch in the campaign office with letters at your feet and on your lap from last night’s letter writing event as sunlight streamed in. You looked around wildly, checking to see if anyone else was in the office. To your dismay, there was a light on in Bucky’s office and a paper bag from Rocco’s bagel shop on the coffee table. 

Not only had you fallen asleep at the office, but your boss had seen you. Fuck. You stood up, half-frantic, collecting the letters and placing them on the coffee table. Bucky must have heard you stirring, because the door to his office opened and his head poked out. 

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, hi, sorry, this is so unprofessional,” the words just vomited out. 

“It happens. I brought bagels.” 

“That’s nice. Just on a whim, or?” You picked up your coat off the floor, your brain still buzzing. You thought back to what had happened last night: after Michel left you had wanted to keep working. When did you fall asleep?

“Well actually, I got here twenty minutes ago, saw no one else was here but you, then went to get bagels. Figured you were having a worse morning than me.” You knew you were forgetting something major, but your mind raced too fast for you to hold onto a single thought. 

“What time is it?” you wondered aloud, checking your watch out of habit. 8:43. “Fuck,” you breathed. You were supposed to call the venue the campaign wanted to book for the townhall when it opened for bookings at eight. You felt your eyes get hot with tears.

“You good?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You turned away, fanning your face slightly. “Thanks for the bagels. Um, That was really, really nice. Everyone’ll love it. I need to make a call, excuse me.”

You darted into your office, closing the door slightly harder than you meant to. Your phone was dead, which explained why your alarm didn’t wake you. You cursed yourself silently as you spun idly in your office chair, waiting an agonizing minute for your phone to turn on. It took a minute for the call to go through, but once you were finally able to talk to a real person, the representative told you that the venue had been booked for the day you wanted already, and it wouldn’t be available for another month. Apparently they’re doing weddings now. 

You slouched down at your desk, watching the sunlight filter in through your window and hit the leaves of the lilies, turning them a shade of golden green. The self-pity and shame clogged your throat, and you just felt so stupid. Who falls asleep at work? Why didn’t you charge your phone while you were staying late at the office? Why did you miss your alarm? What kind of venue fills up for the month in forty-five minutes?

You closed your eyes, trying to regroup. While the original venue was definitely a better choice, Brooklyn had tons of places that could serve for a town hall. Schools, community centers, churches. You tried to remember any specific auditorium you had visited while subbing, but nothing came to mind. Eventually, you just looked at a map, found the most centrally located high school, and after verifying that it had an auditorium, called them up. 

It was 8:49 when you emerged from your office, but it felt like much, much more time had passed. Bucky was sitting at the intern’s work tables, eating a bagel. You walked over to him, hoping that your sheepish energy wasn’t as palpable as it felt. 

“Hi. Good morning. Sorry for freaking out earlier.”

“S’okay.”

“There’s good news and bad news.” Bucky raised an eyebrow, so you took that as a prompting to go on.

“The good news, you do have a venue for the town hall in three weeks.”

“The bad news?”

“The bad news is that it is not our first choice, and we’ll be at Canarsie High School instead.” You held your breath, waiting for criticism, for something. 

Bucky looked at you quizzically. “That’s it?”

“I know, I should’ve been on it this morning, but I fell asleep here for some reason, my phone died, Eileen stayed out last night—it was a perfect storm. And so unprofessional. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

Bucky blinked at you, like he couldn’t quite figure out why you were upset. “We have a venue?”

“Yes.”

“And no one’s hurt?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Then we’re good.” He nodded to the chair across from him. “Sit down. You should eat.”

You grabbed a bagel and napkin from the bag and ate in silence. 

“Did you say you lived with Eileen?” 

Your eyes widened mid-bite. Shit. You just had to keep digging yourself into this hole. You slowly chewed the rest of the bite, summoning every bit of nonchalance you had left in your body to play this off. “Uh, yeah. Have I not mentioned that?” 

Bucky shook his head gently. “No, but it does kinda make sense now.”

“What does?”

“To me, it looks like you two can read each other's minds. You're both always on it and so good at this stuff.”

You looked away, biting back a smile. “Whatever.”

“To be honest, this makes me feel a bit better.”

“Me totally embarrassing myself makes you feel better?”

“No, not that, I just, I’m clearly not a politician. And you guys are so good at your job, it can kinda make me feel like an outsider.”

You smiled. “Well, I’m glad my mistake is doing wonders for your confidence.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’s not not what you're saying.”

“What are you saying?”

Now it was your turn to laugh. For the first time since waking up, you didn’t feel like the floor was about to swallow you up. Bucky smiled back at you as he balled up his napkin and tossed it between one hand and the other. 

The tension in your shoulders eased, replaced by something lighter, almost easy. “Are you ready for public speaking bootcamp today?” 

“Well, I felt okay about it, but last night Eileen texted me a video of someone throwing a shoe at one of the Bushes.”

“Hopefully you won’t need to dodge anything. You should be fine for today as long as you studied the issue packet.” 

“Right.” Bucky looked away, suddenly very interested in the table.

“You did study the packet, right?” Before he could answer, you heard the door open and Eileen enter, taking off her thick puffer jacket at the door. 

“Good morning,” she said, shaking flurries of snow out of her hair. “We got a venue?”

“Yup, Canarsie High School.”

“That’s… not a horrible second choice.”

“It was free!’ You added.

“That makes it much better.”

“Although Bucky did agree to take a tour of the school and meet and talk to some of the students.”

“I did?” Bucky asked, looking at you through furrowed brows. “You didn’t mention that detail.” 

You shrugged at him as Eileen sidled up to the table and dug around in the bag for a bagel. “That’s not too bad. Rocco’s?”

Bucky looked pleased. “Got ‘em fresh out of the oven.” 

“Thanks.” She turned to you before she took a bite of her asiago bagel. “Remember when you used to work there?”

“Yeah, and you almost got me fired for giving you my employee discount,” you couldn’t help but be annoyed at Eileen bringing up past survival jobs. “Anything else we need to dredge up?”

“Hardasses. But you turned out okay.” She winked at you, and you rolled your eyes dismissively at her. “Are you going to head home and get changed?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I was just leaving,” you said, picking up your crumbled napkins and standing up. “I can be back before we start.” 

“How did the letter writing event go last night?” Eileen asked, nodding towards the stacks of letters by the couches. 

“It was a total party with me and the Brighton Beach Bingo Club. We got to about three-quarters of our goal, so I decided to stay late and power through to the end.” You felt your cheeks get hot and looked away as if that would make you less aware of both Eileen and Bucky’s eyes on you. “You all know how that went.”

“So you sleep like the dead,” Eileen said, nudging you with her elbow. “Happens. Sorry I didn’t check in on you.”

“Sorry I couldn’t make it.” Bucky added, like he wasn’t your boss. “I promised my neighbor last month I would go to his granddaughter’s violin recital."

“I’m fine guys, don’t worry about me. It’s nothing a shower and some fresh clothes can’t fix. What you should be worried about,” you waggled your eyebrows at Bucky, “is the bootcamp Eileen is about to put you through.”

You stifled a giggle, which must have caught Bucky’s attention even though Eileen and you were sitting in the back corner of the conference room (you still didn’t know how well his enhanced hearing worked) because he stopped talking about social security mid-sentence. 

“What?” His voice had an edge to it. “Why are you laughing?”

“Don’t pay attention to us,” you said, putting your phone away. “There will be lots of distractions in the auditorium. A baby might start crying. Someone in the front row might start vaping. You gotta power through.”

Bucky stared at you, clearly annoyed, but he must not have had a retort because he went back to stumbling his way through the argument for benefit expansion. 

Once he finished, Marie, the most politically savvy intern in the office, stood up and asked, “Sergeant Barnes, do you condemn Mayor Fisk’s past criminal activities? Does having a criminal record mean someone is not fit for public service?”

Bucky leaned on the podium, looking more tired than he ought to for someone who had been at this for twenty minutes. “Are people really going to ask questions this pointed?”

“Maybe, maybe not. It’s a good question,” You said to Marie, who looked like she wanted to shrink into her Brooklyn College sweatshirt after Bucky’s comment. “And it's definitely better to be prepared than to have to think of an answer to those kinds of questions on the spot.” 

“I don’t know how to begin to answer that question. Is she asking about Fisk or is she asking about me?”

“Fisk, but you’re implicated. It’s a tricky question. While nominally similar, your’s and Fisk’s case are very different,” Eileen said leaning back in her chair. “So you want to distinguish yourself while not alienating the voters who supported him. It’s like public speaking 101.” 

“I didn’t go to college.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, ‘cause of the Great Depression.” You exchanged a look with Eileen that read "We don’t have time to unpack all of that right now.” 

“Well, why don’t we try. Marie, can you ask your question again?”

To her credit, Marie did ask the question again, which was more than you would’ve been able to do at her age. Bucky stared at the podium while she was talking, paused for a moment, and then said, “I don’t condone violence or corruption?”

You glanced over at Marie, who had pulled up a nearly ten years old news article covering Fisk’s second trial. Racketeering, bribery, obstruction of justice, witness tampering, conspiracy to commit murder… all of which got overturned in a  re-trial because of “police corruption.”

 “I’m also someone who believes in accountability, taking responsibility for your own actions. But I know what it’s like to have people question whether or not you deserve a second chance.” There was a pause, and his brow furrowed, as if the next part was painful to say. “If someone is genuinely trying to help the city, that’s something we should encourage, not punish.”

After a moment, Marie spoke up. “So just because he’s sorry, we should forget about everything and let him be mayor? That’s messed up.”

Bucky looked at you. “I didn’t think I could say, ‘Fisk is a monster and the city is worse off for electing him.’”

“Try ‘Mayor Fisk and I disagree on a lot, including what it means to serve this city. In uncertain times, it is easy to look to powerful men who say they have all the answers. But I think what someone does once they have power says more about them than anything else. And I think New Yorkers know the difference.’”

“So you’re saying his past is different than Fisk’s because Bucky didn’t have a choice?” Marie asked. 

“Yeah, kinda.” 

You looked back at Bucky, who was staring out the window at the January gray. “Does that work for you?”

“I don’t like getting into technicalities,” he said in a low voice. 

“It’ll work for now,” Eileen’s voice had an almost imperceptible edge to it that you recognized from listening to her answer the same tedious questions about law school over and over. “Let’s move on.”

You turned to Vijay to switch topics to more charted territory, hoping for an easy win. But when he asked a question about universal childcare, it became clear that Bucky was not as familiar with the issues as you hoped—he was reading the points from the packet, not really making eye contact or selling the issue. This wouldn’t work at a town hall. Speaking directly to the public was about connecting with them, not reciting points from your campaign website. You briefly entertained the idea of taking a short break, but the student staff had worked hard preparing for this practice, so you waited until each student had asked five questions before calling it. By the time the exercise was done, Bucky had stumbled his way through every issue from the Affordable Care Act to Wakandan relations. 

 Once the last intern had left the conference room, you motioned for Bucky to take a seat at the table. “How do you think that went?” you asked. 

Bucky stared at you for a moment before answering, “Not great.” You looked over at Eileen, who tilted her head to the side and made a ‘fair enough’ gesture with her hands. 

“I would say… not a bad start, maybe? I think you know more than you think you do. And it seems like you're relying on the packet too much.” You jutted your chin towards his notes for emphasis. “Why don’t you take some time to read up on it some more, and then once we reconvene you try it without your notes.” 

He looked at Eileen. “Anything else?” 

“What she said, and more eye contact. You are getting better though.”

“Sure.” He didn’t sound too convinced. 

“I mean, if you really want, we could reach out to Carlos Riviera and see if he can help. Wasn’t he a public speaker in some capacity before he was head of Hamer’s comms team?”

“He was, but I don’t know if we should reach out to him. Did I tell you that Stewart and a bunch of Hamer’s top leadership left the party?”

“What? You didn’t mention this. A bunch?”

“Okay, like three people that I know of. I emailed Stewart—our old boss on Hamer’s campaign—” she said in an aside to Bucky while pulling up her inbox on her phone. “I emailed Stewart asking about getting the precinct analysis and some more data right before Christmas and she emailed me back saying she was no longer affiliated with the party. I had to email the DNC directly.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” she insisted. “It’s so weird.”

You looked over at Bucky, who was clearly lost listening to this inside baseball talk. “It doesn’t matter,” you said, patting the table as you stood up. “You’re going to practice, you’re going to get better, it’ll be great!”

“If you say so.” Bucky held the door open as the three of you filed out of the conference room.

“I do say so.” Bucky rolled his eyes at your reply, but didn’t argue, which you decided to count as progress.

By the time you were packing up your things to leave, Bucky was out in the common area with the interns, assembling lawn signs. You tried not to stare through your office’s window, but seeing him being friendly with the interns made you feel a flash of hope for the next few months. If Bucky could talk to teenagers, he could talk to anyone. 

You grabbed your work bag and shut the door to your office, waving to Eileen through the open door of her office as you left.

“That time already?” Eileen asked, looking at her watch.

“It’s Monday.” You left fifteen minutes early on Mondays to make it to the dance class you taught at the community center, where you had been volunteering for years. 

“Ah, your hot date,” Eileen teased, wiggling her eyebrows at you.

“You know me,” you deadpanned. You brushed off whatever witty retort Eileen had ready for you and made your way to the exit. 

As you walked to the community center, you noticed for the first time how many Fisk signs were still hanging up: on light poles, in windows, zip-tied to chain link fences. Even more concerning, you passed three graffiti tags that said something along the lines of "Vigilantes Out!” A particularly creative one had a pesticide spray bottle with big bright letters spelling “BUG OFF!”

Fisk had won this district. Fisk had ran on an anti-vigilante platform. While Bucky wasn’t technically a vigilante, if you got stuck litigating that during the campaign you’d be dead on arrival. An old ass Republican man would be sworn in instead and you’d be known forever as the idiot who lost one of the safest blue seats in the country because you decided to run the Winter Soldier.

Taking this job had made you soften on superheroes, but you couldn’t exactly make every voter meet Kate Bishop (who was an excellent guest at the soft-launch party and had left a sizable donation) or engineer dangerous situations to be saved from. You were going to have to win hearts and minds one uncomfortable town hall at a time. 

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

Sorry for the delay-- I am busy with final exams and this chapter needed more proofing than usual :0

As always, thanks for commenting and sharing <3

Bucky’s office was sparsely decorated. He had hung the poster Eileen had given him and filled his shelves with books from his personal collection, mostly biographies of historical figures from the past century. Otherwise, the office was bare, which meant you had to keep your eyes on him as he flubbed the speech, again.

 “What’s the line?” His voice was tight with frustration. 

“But the one thing I’ve learned from going from one fight to another is that survival isn’t the same thing as living,” you said, looking down at your computer to read it outloud. Not that you needed to. You had written the speech and practically memorized it in between workshopping it with Eileen and running it with Bucky. 

“Right. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay. Why don’t you just take it from the top?”

Bucky took a deep breath, placing his fingertips on his desk as if he was steadying himself. “I’ve been fighting my whole life. I fought for my family, my country, and to defeat those who want to destroy the things we hold most dear. Every fight I’ve been in has been about survival—but the one thing you learn going to one battle after another is that survival isn’t the same thing as living. And right now, too many New Yorkers are just surviving.”

It was the best you had heard him do so far. If he could manage to replicate that again in two hours, things would be fine. 

“I think I need more time to run this, alone,” he said, shuffling his note cards in his hands. 

You frowned. “Is there a problem with the content? Would changing the wording help?”

“No, no. The speech is fine. I’m just… not used to this.”

 “Public speaking is a skill, like anything else,” you spoke slowly, trying to piece together your thoughts in an encouraging way. “You’ll get better with practice. And tonight, you’ll be speaking to a room of people who are rooting for you.”

“No one’s going to heckle me?” He gave a short dry laugh. “I’ll take great comfort in that.”

You exhaled a laugh and stood, folding your laptop to your chest. “I’ll leave you to it. Holler if you need me.” 

Outside of Bucky’s office, the interns had been hard at work. Vijay and Ganke were putting up the tables and chairs that the campaign had borrowed from the county party office, while Georgia was setting up the food table, and Marie was adjusting the posters and graphics that were placed around the common area. Time slipped away as you worked with the students to finish setting up.

“It looks great, guys,” you said, grabbing the podium that had been shoved in the back closet area and moving it to the middle of the seating area. “Does anyone have any questions about the order of operations for tonight?”

Vijay, one of the high schoolers, who was wearing a red sweater and khakis raised his hand. 

“You don’t need to raise your hand, Vijay. What’s up?”

“Do we have to clap after everything Bucky says?” He asked, putting his hand down awkwardly. “Or is that weird since we’re kinda his employees?” Ganke, Marie, and Georgia all turned their heads to stare at him. 

“Great question,” you noted, hoping that if you kept it moving Vijay wouldn’t feel embarrassed. “You should clap once Eileen is done introducing him and then at the end of his speech. After that, whenever you want.” Vijay nodded enthusiastically, and you heard Ganke begin to bicker with him in whisper tones as Eileen called you from across the room. She was standing in the doorway of the office. 

“Is it time?” you asked as you passed her in the doorway. Eileen nodded.

“What is this?” Bucky asked once the door was closed. You perched on the edge of his couch 

“Your first event,” Eileen said. “Any last-minute questions?” 

Bucky rubbed a nervous hand against the nape of his neck. “I’m sure I’ll think of them when you guys are far away and busy.” Eileen looked at you with a smile. 

You stepped back, appraising his politician get-up. “We’re almost there. There’s just one thing all politicians have that you’re missing.”

“What, self-confidence?” Bucky’s voice was flat and dry.

“We meant more literally, but more confidence wouldn’t hurt,” Eileen said, producing a small box from her pocket and handing it to Bucky. Inside was a small lapel pin in the shape of an American flag. 

Bucky gave a small smile and moved to pin it on his blazer. “Now the campaign does feel real.”

The room was already fuller than you anticipated, although maybe Facebook engagement wasn’t the best measure when the crowd seemed to trend a bit young. Ganke and Vijay went to the same high school, and it seemed like they had invited a bunch of classmates to come. Not that you minded, of course. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to surround your World War 2 vet with students in press materials. A familiar face caught your eye across the room—a shorter woman wearing a bright orange cardigan with a teacher’s lanyard still around her neck who was shaking the snow out of her hair.

“Is that Maymay Mahinay?” You beamed, walking over to greet your friend. You had met Maymay two years ago when you were still new to the city and subbing until you could find a better job. She was one of the only teachers who bothered to speak to you, so you became fast friends. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

“Me too,” Maymay hung her scarf by the door. “I would’ve texted but my phone’s dead.”

“We’ve got chargers around here, somewhere,” you gestured over your shoulder vaguely. “How’s school?”

“The kids are so sweet,” Maymay leaned in and lowered her voice, “But these kids can’t read. At all.”

“That’s why I never subbed in the elementary bloc” you joked. “I can’t have a child not understanding phonics because of me.”

“That’s my battle,” she said, looking wistfully past you. “But I’m so happy for you! A job in your field, and you swore this day would never come.” Maymay batted at you with her hand playfully. “Look at you all grown up. But you definitely have your work cut out for you. All this political stuff? I’ll take rambunctious kids anyday.”

You laughed. “Yeah, yeah, don’t rub it in. I have to greet some more guests, but let’s talk soon, okay?”

With Ganke at the donation table and Georgia manning the volunteer sign up sheet, you felt confident enough to circulate throughout the room, talking to the guests. You greeted colleagues from the Brooklyn Democrats office, chatted with the teenagers, and made sure your friends from the community center had full plates. Before the end of hospitality hour, you noticed your sister trying to sneak in unnoticed. 

“Maya,” you exclaimed, throwing your arms around your sister and giving her a hug. “I’m so glad you could make it. Are these your work friends?” Accompanying Maya was a group of EMTs, all in the fitted navy shirts and black pants they wore to work, which would be great in the pictures. You made a mental note to make sure the photographer got a pick of them with Bucky.

“Yeah, this is Cooper, Juarez, and Perfetti.” Each EMT nodded or waved when Maya introduced them. 

“Thank you all for coming,” you smiled congenially, “Please, eat, and enjoy the party.” Maya grabbed your arm and peeled you off from the conversation, which was turning to Mayor Fisk’s inauguration, and his latest rant against vigilantes.  

“I want to see your office,” Maya leaned into you as she said it, as if you were sharing a secret. “And—Eileen!” Eileen’s appearance cut her off, and you watched as your younger sister embraced your best friend. 

“It’s good to see you,” Eileen smiled, holding Maya at an arm’s length, looking at her face as if she’s searching for something. “It’s been too long. Have you gotten taller?” Maya wiggled free from Eileen’s grasp and laughed. 

“I don’t think the six weeks in between Friendsgiving and now is enough time for my growth spurt to really kick into gear.”

“Fingers crossed, though,” you added. “We were about to tour my office.”

“I’ll tag along.”

After a week of work, your office had finally come together. While you didn’t have as many books to fill your shelves as Bucky, you had put binders full of campaign materials, laws, and resources from the DCCC and Brooklyn Democrats, as well as a house plant on your floor-to-ceiling shelf. 

“Wow, this is nice,” Maya drawled, flopping on the couch that was pushed up against the wall as soon as the door had closed behind Eileen. She ran her hands over the plush, ribbed fabric, “1970s chic?”

“Who among us hasn’t taken furniture off the street?” Eileen said, leaning against your window. 

“I’m not criticizing," Maya put her hands up in defense. “It’s a nice couch. You could totally take a nap on it.”

“I’m sure I will, before the campaign is over,” You smiled and shook your head softly.

Maya got up suddenly and took two short steps to your desk. She skipped over the framed photo of you carrying both of your siblings on your back and picked up the only book on your desk.

“Is this a book on how to be a campaign manager?” It was. She turned it over and read the blurb aloud. “This clear and concise handbook gives political novices and veterans alike a detailed, soup-to-nuts—”

“I’ve never done this before!” You made a move to take back the book, but Maya pulled it out of reach and opened to a random page.

“The Ten Commandments of Campaigning. Number one, ‘Honor thy base.’ Number two, ‘Stay on message.’ Number three, ‘Money is thy savior.’ Number four, ‘Never tell a lie.’ Number—” 

“Ok, we get it,” you snatched the book back successfully this time, placing it back on your desk next to the small framed photo of your family. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Oh look, she has it on the cork board too,” Eileen pointed to the sheet of notebook paper pinned below your collection of sticky note contacts. “The Cardinal Sins of Campaigning: Being caught in a provable lie, committing a crime, having a relationship with a member of your staff, declaring bankruptcy—”

“God forbid a girl wants to run a scandal free campaign,” you huffed. 

“No, no, it’s a good reminder. Although I don’t know why you put them on the board next to contact information?”

“Mostly to fill up the blank space. I have Julian Mota up there, Victoire Desslaines, and not much else. More’ll come,” you added quickly, when concern flashed over Maya’s face. Something else must have caught her eye, because she walked behind you to the filing cabinet next to your shelf.

“I don’t know what’s crazier, that Mom actually mailed you your record player,” Maya said, appraising your old turntable, “or that you took her up on the offer.”

“I was worried she’d throw it out if I didn’t take it. And I have some more space now.”

“Fair enough.” Maya bristled slightly, and you knew to change the topic away from your mother.

“I don’t have files yet, so the albums are in the drawers,” you opened the top drawer to reveal a portion of your record collection. You had been gifted much of your father’s record collection and had been slowly adding to it over the years. 

Maya pulled one out at random, “It’s good to know that the future of politics is in the hands of… Phoebe Bridgers listeners? Really?”

“And Megan Thee Stallion,” Eileen was handling another album while giving you a look with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t get me wrong, Megan: Act 2 is a masterpiece, but—”

“It’s for morale. We’ll need it.” As you interrupted, Eileen put back the album and sighed. 

“What’s that mean?” Maya asked you, eyes darting between you and Maya.

“Nothing… Just that this is not a traditional campaign.” Maya was looking at you expectantly, clearly waiting for more. “Bucky is really nice, seriously, not as pompous as he comes off. Got me those flowers,” you jutted your chin towards the bouquet of flowers sitting on the little end table next to your couch. “But he’s not a politician, and has his own baggage.” 

“When you told me about this job, I was thinking, like, with peace and love, Bucky Barnes is not exactly qualified for office.” Maya said.

“Exactly! And he’s trying, which is good, and this is a campaign about preventing the spread of corruption, which is important—”

“And Bucky’s best feature is that he’s not corrupt,” Eileen chimed in. 

“But this whole situation,” you said, waving your hands around for emphasis. “We’re just pushing the okayest candidate over the line. It makes me feel really icky about politics. And democracy.” The office was silent for a moment, the only sound audible was the talking and laughter in the next room.

“You know,” Maya said, putting the albums back and closing the drawer. “One time I was out hiking and some drunken fratbro sprained his ankle doing something stupid when we were pretty far out from the trailhead. No one else was around. So I took off my puffer jacket and got some sticks, and made a splint for him. It was far from ideal—and I still miss that coat, but he walked away, ya know? You work with what you got.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you sighed. “It’ll be fine. Democrats have won this district every election for a hundred years.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Maya rolled her eyes. “Should we be getting back?” 

“Oh, definitely, if we’re gone for too long Bucky might accidentally speak to a journalist.” Eileen said, headed for the door. 

Eileen and you switched off chaperoning Bucky around to talk to the different guests. Bucky surprised you more and more at each event—he wasn’t as surly and standoffish as you judged him at your first meeting. He was charming and polite, even gracious with your sister as she asked him about what it was like living in Wakanda and meeting the royal family. Bucky hadn’t talked about his life in Wakanda very much at all in the month you had known him, but he was more than willing to share with Maya, telling her a story of Princess Shuri coming to visit him in the rural village he stayed in while he was recovering and being so amused by his goats that she sent him goat-themed postcards and fridge magnets for the next three years. 

You were so nervous for Bucky’s announcement speech that your brain didn’t process most of Eileen’s introduction. When you jolted back into your body, you were clapping along with the room as Bucky took his spot at the podium. The room was too small to necessitate a microphone, so a handful of journalists had put digital audio recorders on the podium. Bucky’s practicing had paid off, he got through the introduction with ease and moved onto the content portion of the speech, causing your anxiety to spike so high you had to remind yourself you weren’t being hunted for sport. 

“Everyday, life is getting harder for working families to get by. Rent gets higher, healthcare covers less, and our income stays the same. It's clear that these changes haven’t been for us—the rich and powerful are the ones who stand to benefit.” 

“This is a race about people vs. power. I know what side I’m on, and that’s why I am running for Congress. New Yorkers deserve a representative who will stand up and fight even when the odds are against us. We deserve a leader who doesn’t answer to corporations, lobbyists, or corrupt politicians, but to the people who live and work here.” 

You looked around—the audience was listening, rapt. Eileen was filming, and so was Maya, for some reason. Bucky paused for a moment too long, looked down at his cards, then made eye contact with you. You nodded, trying to be encouraging. He continued.

“This is a campaign about courage. The courage to fight for what's right, despite all obstacles. To fight for affordable housing, medicare for all, and to reform a corrupted system that has been working against New Yorkers for too long.  It’s time to fight—not with fear or hate, but with hope and solidarity. It’s time to fight for each other. It’s time to fight for a New York that works for the many, not the few.”

His speech ended to boisterous applause, not only from the students sitting in the front row. After the noise died down, he thanked the guests for coming, encouraged those interested to visit the volunteer sign up table, and told everyone to continue enjoying the food. With that, the room stirred to life—you watched as guests came up to Bucky, shook his hand, and congratulated him on his speech and campaign.  You took this moment to wander to the volunteer sign up table to chat with Georgia.

“How’s it going,” you asked, putting a fresh water bottle down next to her empty one. 

“We’ve got twenty seven names and numbers,” Georgia said, brushing a strand of her strawberry blonde behind her ear. “I don’t know if that’s good or not though.”

“It’s better than four. Eileen and I were aiming for fifteen at least, which is just enough so we can split up canvassing neighborhoods.”

Across the room, Eileen and Bucky were speaking to the EMTs, and you were pleased to note that the Brooklyn Democrat’s photographer, Michel, was nearby and appeared to be snapping photos. While you were watching, Bucky made eye contact with you and nodded, which you returned. 

“This is so exciting,” Georgia said, smiling up at you. “It’s starting to feel like we can win this!” You searched within yourself, trying to feel proud, but you just felt tired. 

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

We are officially in 2027! Mayor Fisk is officially sworn in now :0

Thanks for reading and commenting <3

“So. Congress.” Bucky was impressed that Sam waited until they were actually inside the department store, looking at a rack of nearly-identical dress shirts to bring it up. “It’s a big swing, for a guy who spent the last few years trying to be invisible.”

“I thought you might say that.”

“I'm not saying ‘don't do it.’ I'm just… asking if you're sure.”

Bucky set down the shirt he was holding, a blue-black button-up that was very soft to the touch. “You think I'm not.”

“I think you’ve done a lot of things because someone asked you to. Because it needed doing. Because it was for the greater good.” Sam’s voice was careful, measured. “I just want to make sure this is yours. Not just another mission.”

Bucky looked down at the shirts in front of him and noticed just how expensive they were for the first time. Eighty dollars for one shirt? He pretended to seriously consider the button-ups in front of him before answering.

“I read up on Wilson Fisk. He’s a real piece of work. Knows how to work the system. Nothing sticks to him.” Bucky looked over at Sam, who had stopped pretending to look at sports coats and was now watching Bucky.

“When those consultants came to talk to me, I did some digging. Called a few of the people they’d approached before me.” He shrugged. “They were city assemblymen, non-profit organizers, you know, the kind of people you’d want to vote for.”

“And?”

“They were scared, Sam. All way more qualified than me, and terrified to be exposed to Fisk. He’s not just a corrupt politician. There’s rumors he’s killed journalists, DAs, even civilians who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“And you wanna get mixed up in that?”

“I know what I’m dealing with. I know I can deal with it.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I can help.” Bucky’s voice was steady. “I know what to look for. I can do something good.”

A silence fell between the two men. A Christmas song that Bucky had never heard before played over the speakers. Something modern, with synthetic piano and strangely mournful bells. It sounded nothing like the carols he would sing with Rebecca growing up.

“It’d be nice to be known for something other than the Winter Soldier. For something other than my powers. To just be myself.” Bucky could feel Sam watching him, so he busied his hands with refolding a mussed up shirt in front of him.

“Come on, man, you don’t have to run for Congress to do that. You could come work with me.”

“That part of my life’s behind me, Sam.” Sam turned his head slightly, as if he wanted to push back. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then closed it. Finally, Sam’s gaze dropped to the sports coat he was holding and his nose wrinkled.

“Not that one.”

Bucky blinked. “What’s wrong with this one?”

“Too purple.” Sam took the wine-dark sports-coat from Bucky and handed him a black one instead. Bucky took it. Didn’t try it on.

“Hey, I’m here for you. No matter what you decide to do. You know that, right?”

“I know. Now try on the damn coat so we can get out of here.”

The sports coat fit. Bucky tugged at the sleeves, which were the perfect length. He caught his reflection in the mirror and tried to imagine himself in it—at a debate, under bright lights, people waiting for him to speak. He saw himself open his mouth. Nothing came out.

If he thought about it too long, he felt queasy.

“You know, if this works, you’re going to be on TV a lot.”

“I know.” Bucky glanced around at the department store they were in.

“Posters. Billboards. Maybe a bus bench.”

“You have a point?”

“Yeah,” Sam grinned, easy and charming. “I can’t be in any of it.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you—”

“Yeah, cause I’d make you look bad by comparison.” Sam held up a shirt and frowned at it before hanging it back up. “Voters would take one look at you and think ‘Can we vote for the other guy?’ instead. I’d mess up your whole operation.”

“I’ll make sure to tell the team. I’m sure they’ll understand, it’s for the good of the campaign.”

Outside the department store, the mall opened into a cavernous atrium. Bucky took in all the small details he had been too on edge to notice on the way in– instead of focusing on the throngs of people doing last-minute Christmas shopping, now he noticed the large, decorative ornaments dangling from the ceiling and sparkling garlands wrapped around every pillar. Dads holding shopping bags and moms corralling rowdy children. The air smelled of sickly sweet cinnamon, artificial pine and pumpkin, and plastic shoes. It was starting to give Bucky a headache.

“For what it’s worth, Buck, I think it's good if you want something, just for yourself."

“Thanks, Sam.” Sam clapped Bucky’s shoulder and squeezed just once.

“I did mean it about the ads though. My team’ll sue you!”

Frankie’s was the nicest restaurant you had been in all year: bottles of wine older than you lined the wall, warm sconces created a romantic mood, and the thick white table cloths had no blemish. You didn’t realize how nice of a venue it would be, and now your DIY donation box seemed more appropriate for a middle school bake sale. Oh well. You straightened a name placard in front of a white plate while Eileen worked on the finishing touches of the donation setup.

Eileen straightened the donation envelopes. “Can you remind me which of our beloved non-VIP guests RSVP’d?”

You adjusted a roll of silverware just so. “Yeah, but it’s not exactly a country club roster so don’t get your hopes up. Mrs. Rodionova will be here, and I think she’s bringing a dish because I could smell her cooking something sweet before I left to pick up the name cards this morning.”

“God, I hope it’s medovik.”

“Girl, me too. Anyway, Maya can’t come—work—but she told me to save her some cannoli."

Finally satisfied with the donation box, Eileen sat it down on the table by the entryway, then smirked. “And what if Spider-Man shows up? Your sister’s going to be crushed if she misses that.”

“It didn’t even cross my mind. He wasn’t on the list… maybe there’s still bad blood from that one time they fought in an airport? Besides, right now she’s just pissed about missing Captain America.”

“Honestly? Understandable.” Eileen gave you a mischievous glance over the centerpiece. “You think if I said it was for the campaign, I could get his number?”

“Please don’t harass our new boss’s bestie,” you deadpanned, making your way around the table while placing name cards. “But it might not be the worst idea to have a way to reach Cap, just in case.”

You racked your brain to remember the rest of the guest list. “Julian Mota is a yes, and he’s bringing two other committee members to sign off on the paperwork.” Eileen leaned across the table to grab the card you just set down, reading the name.

“Gregory’s coming? I thought he said he had work.” She rolled her eyes when you shook your head. “Did you tell him he can’t bother Captain America?”

“Yes, we went over it. I also made sure to put him in the place of honor, see? Right next to your Uncle Victor.”

Eileen regarded you as you finished placing the last of the place cards. “What did my uncle do to you? Gregory’s going to talk his ear off.”

“Oh, I’m sure. But Uncle Victor will also talk his ear off. Besides, were you planning on sitting next to either of them?” Eileen didn’t answer and instead walked off to the staff room. You took a step back to admire your work—everything was in place with ten minutes to spare.

“Whoo, Buck, this is nice! How are you gonna afford buying everyone dinner in a swanky place like this?” You heard Captain America before you saw him. Sam Wilson wasn’t as tall as Bucky, but he had a commanding presence that took up the room and a mega-watt smile. “Don’t tell me you’ve already sold out. Let me guess, Big Scowl sent you some funds for tirelessly representing them over the years.”

Bucky laughed at Sam’s joke. Had Bucky laughed in front of you before? He had a nice laugh, you realized as he took off his coat. He was wearing a black button down and slacks, suggesting that he had in fact gotten some more campaign-appropriate clothes. You walked over to the two men and extended a hand to Sam Wilson.

“Mr. Wilson, Captain, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” your brain was reeling from comprehending Captain America saying your name. Was this what it was like to be star-struck? “Please, call me Sam. I was looking forward to meeting the people that talked this fossil into running for Congress.” Sam nudged Bucky gently with his arm.

“I’ve always said the biggest issue with Congress is a lack of experience. It’ll be nice to finally get someone older in there for a change.”

Sam laughed at your joke, and even Bucky smiled, which made you feel less nervous about making a good first impression on an Avenger.

“You know, it's a shame they go by seniority and not age, otherwise I could be Dean of the House,” Bucky quipped, and the group of you laughed again. The laughing must have caught Eileen’s attention, who swooped in to introduce herself and show Sam where he would be sitting, which was across the table from Bucky.

“I should warn you, the benefactor who paid for tonight’s dinner is a big Captain America fan. We told him to be on his best behavior, but…” Eileen adjusted the name placard on the table, even though it was already straight.

“Got it,” Sam said with an easy smile.

Bucky, who was still standing next to you, leaned closer, voice low. “Is there anything I should know about this ‘benefactor’?” His tone made it sound like he was expecting some kind of dubiously wealthy tech juggernaut and not the mildly obnoxious marathoner you were all too familiar with.

“Oh, Gregory Torrence?” You stopped to think for a moment about how to phrase it politely. “Nice guy. Works in finance. Chatty.”

“And how did he hear about the campaign? We haven’t even launched our website yet.”

“Eileen didn’t mention it?”

Bucky shook his head.

“He’s an old friend of Eileen’s. She called him up, told him about the campaign, and he asked how he could contribute. She mentioned this dinner, and he came through.” You looked over at Bucky, who had raised his eyebrows at you.

“You guys have some good friends.”

He didn’t seem to get it, so you lowered your voice. “He’s an ex-boyfriend. But they broke up over a year ago and are still friendly.”

Bucky was making a weird face.

“What?” You asked a little pointedly.

He shook his head gently. “Nothing. It just makes me feel better about getting roped into this—if you guys are already wringing donations out of ex-boyfriends, we might actually stand a chance.”

The room started to fill as more and more guests arrived. You watched as Bucky and Sam greeted Clint Barton and his plus one, a girl who looked to be about Maya’s age. A bit later, a man in monk robes arrived, and you surmised from watching him interact with Clint and Sam that Bucky and you had diverging definitions of a “monk friend” and whether inviting the Sorcerer Supreme to a party warranted a special heads-up. Before you had gathered the courage to introduce yourself to Wong, Eileen caught your eye while intercepting Julian Mota at the door and walked his group over to where you were standing off to the side.

“It’s nice to see you again,” Julian said, shaking your hand. “Congrats on your new job. Campaign manager, I’d like to introduce you to the Brooklyn Democratic Party Chair, Victoire Dessalines, and our Vice-Chair, Adam Weiss.”

You shook hands with the committee members.

“It’s always nice to meet the people you’ve been corresponding with in real life,” you grinned.

“Agreed,” said Victoire, an older Haitian woman with a slight lilt in her accent. “I want to thank you for finding someone who was willing to run despite everything going on right now.”

“Well, I certainly had my work cut out for me. I’m the first to admit that Bucky Barnes isn’t a traditional candidate, but he has a good heart, and wants to do right by Brooklyn.”

“Important qualities,” said Adam Weiss, who was looking past you at Bucky. “Speaking of, I have the official paperwork, so whenever we get a chance…”

“Of course.” You looked up as Mrs. Rodionova entered with a cake stand. Even from across the room, you recognized the layered caramel sheen of her medovik.

“Sorry, please excuse me,” you said, already walking away from the conversation.

With the last of the guests' arrival, dinner service began. Waiters ferried out antipastos as the party settled into the evening, the conversation turned to holiday plans. Victoire talked about taking her grandkids to see the Christmas lights in Dyker Heights, Mrs. Rodionova excitedly talked about her son’s upcoming visit, while Sam shared some of his holiday traditions from Louisiana. You observed as Bucky engaged the guests, noting that he is much more sociable and less awkward in more intimate environments like this.

A loud groan pulled you out of your thoughts, and you caught the tail end of Sam asking Bucky if he was going to be getting any guns to prepare for this holiday season.

“Guns? Why would you be getting more guns?” Eileen asked. Sam began to laugh, and Bucky started shaking his head.

“Do you want to tell ‘em or should I?” Sam said, leaning forward in his chair to look at Bucky. When Bucky didn’t say anything in response, Sam said. “Last Christmas a blue alien lady stole his metal arm.”

The table erupted into murmurs and stifled giggles. You heard Gregory ask, “Why did an alien want your arm, specifically?”

Bucky sighed and said in a tired voice, “To give to a raccoon, for Christmas.” The table laughed a bit louder.

“So what’d you do?” Eileen asked.

“Well I couldn’t fly to space to chase Nebula down, so I had to fly to Birnin Zana, again.” Bucky said, shaking his head. If you didn’t know any better, you would say his ears were turning a little pink. “Not that I ever get tired of going to Wakanda, but it wasn’t exactly fun, telling Shuri I lost her very expensive technology.”

Sam grinned. “You really should get a punch card: Nine vibranium arms and your tenth one is free!”

After dessert had been served, you strategically moved to get Uncle Victor, Adam Weiss, and Bucky towards one end of the table.

“Victor, may I introduce to you Bucky Barnes,” you said while making sure to stand on his good side so he could hear you clearly. Bucky extended his hand and shook Uncle Victor’s.

“It’s good to finally put a face to the name. Thanks for agreeing to be my treasurer—I know that’s not a small ask.”

Victor gave him a half-smile. “After forty-five years of doing taxes for other people, I was worried I’d go soft in retirement. You’re giving me something to get out of the house for.”

“Still, from what my campaign managers tell me, campaign finance isn’t exactly a walk in the park, so I appreciate it.”

“Please,” Uncle Victor tilted his head back to peer at Bucky. “You ever try sorting through the receipts of a Staten Island plumber who thinks reporting cash earnings is worse than pulling teeth? Trust me, kid, you’re easy.”

“It’s good that our treasurer and candidate are on the same page,” Adam said, producing a thin manila folder. “Now, let’s make it official.”

Uncle Victor signed first then passed the pen to Bucky. Bucky glanced at you for a moment before taking the pen, and for a second, you were worried that he was getting cold feet—but then he exhaled, taking the pen and signed the forms without a second look.

It was official: Bucky Barnes is running for Congress.

With the paperwork done, Sam found his way over and clapped Bucky on the shoulder, congratulating him.

“So, I know how Bucky got involved with politics, but what about you? You seem like an upstanding citizen, I would’ve never pegged you as a politician.” Sam said with a grin.

“I believe the preferred term for my job is community organizer,” you made air quotes with your fingers to emphasize your job. “Politicians get paid much better—which is part of the problem,” you added hastily. “No, I’d always been interested in politics, even growing up. I got a degree in political science before the world went totally crazy, and since then I’ve just been doing whatever I can, whatever helps people, I guess.”

“We need more people like that in the world. I’m glad Bucky here has a good team.”

“Yeah, Eileen’s great, and Victor too, great family,” you looked over searching for either of them, but Victor had gone to get more dessert and Eileen was nowhere to be found.

“How did you guys meet?” Bucky asked, his fingers drumming lightly on a beer bottle. “On the last campaign?”

“I’ve known Eileen for ages. Actually, we met on a Fulbright program in Taiwan years ago and stayed in touch since we both work in the same industry. We developed our campaign model during the last campaign.” This was technically not a lie. The true story of your and Eileen’s meeting was more complicated, to say the least. You had met on an advanced degree Fulbright program in Taiwan, you were roommates at the same university during the 2017-2018 academic year and became fast friends. One day, towards the end of your program, both Eileen and you had woken up in an empty dorm room, confused, only to find that five years had gone by overnight. In order to survive the world post-Blip, you and Eileen had to stick together, and hadn’t really unstuck yet, even three years later. But that was a can of worms you weren’t about to open in front of an Avenger.

“Taiwan?” Sam arched an eyebrow, a playful gleam in his eye. “你會説國語嗎?”

“當然會，住過臺北。你的國語不錯啊~”

“He just likes to show off,” Bucky said, putting a hand in front of Sam. “I already heard him speaking Russian to—how do you know Mrs. Rodionova?”

“She’s a neighbor.” Was it unprofessional to be roommates with your business partner? Likely. No need to mention whose neighbor she was. “And great at parties, per the obvious,” you nodded to Uncle Victor, who was eating another slice of medovik. Sam chuckled, and Bucky shook his head slightly, and for a moment you relaxed into the evening, into the small win of getting the paperwork signed.

As the party was winding down, the remaining guests were milling around the room, exchanging seats and drinking the room’s complimentary wine. Uncle Victor had finally gotten free of the benefactor and was happily chatting with Wong about HBO’s Chernobyl. Eileen was still missing and therefore you had gotten roped into dealing with Gregory, who had slid into the chair next to you like it had been reserved for him.

“So,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks, “how’s the new role treating you? Exciting, right? I remember when I first made VP, I barely slept. But honestly, sleep’s overrated. You know what really keeps you sharp? Marathon training.” You didn’t really have anything to contribute on the topic so you nodded politely, which apparently was a mistake because Gregory continued on about running shoe technology.

“I keep telling Eileen she should come to check out my run club. We’ve got all kinds of pace groups, so even if you don’t run a six minute mile you can still have a good time. We meet at Prospect Park at 6 am on Saturdays.” Gregory stopped to take a sip of wine, so you took your chance to hard-change the topic.

“Did you get a chance to meet Cap?”

And with that, Gregory was now Sam’s issue for the time being, taking selfies and asking questions about Sam’s workout routine. Sam looked gracious enough, so you figured you would give them a minute before swooping in to save him. Just before you moved to redirect Gregory, Eileen rematerialized by your side, smelling of cigarette smoke.

“Aren’t you a few wine glasses away from earning a drunk cig?” You asked her.

“It wasn’t like that. I was in the bathroom and there was this gorgeous blonde Russian girl at the sink and we got to chatting. She invited me out for a smoke.”

“And you just… talked about life?”

“Yeah. And she asked if I had heard that there are superheroes in the restaurant.” Eileen put her hand up to her mouth to fake a whisper. “I had. She asked if she should be worried about an Avenger’s level threat in the City again, since there were apparently three and a half Avengers here tonight—”

“Three and a half?” You paused to work out the math. “Well, what did you tell her?”

“Relax, I didn’t say anything. I just mentioned that there was a fundraiser going on.”

“Did she give you any money?” Eileen handed you a twenty dollar bill, which you took and placed in the donation box. “Not bad at all. If only you could channel your charms into your dating life.”

Eileen narrowed her eyes at you playfully before something off her periphery caught her attention.

“How long has Gregory been talking to Sam?”

You were sitting among stacks of empty plates and a to-go box of cannoli, counting the cash that was in the donation box while Eileen was checking the online donation system. You were both working on the campaign’s brand new donation software, making sure to log the contributions correctly. When all the guests had gone, Sam and Bucky asked if Eileen and you needed help, but Eileen sent them away so you could mess with the software in peace.

“Hey, why did we invite Wong, again?” Eileen asked, looking up from her laptop and taking a drink of wine.

“Because he was on the list of people Bucky gave us?”

“Why would we invite a monk to a fundraising dinner? They pretty famously commit to living in poverty.” Your face dropped. That was on you. When you had been emailing with Bucky to nail down the guest list, it had initially been pretty scant, so you asked him to send you a list of everyone he knew in the city and just blindly invited those people. “It’s fine though,” Eileen continued quickly. “We made up for it pretty easily. It looks like me and you will get paid through New Years at least and have enough money to start office hunting.” You leaned over and high-fived Eileen, sharing a smile.

“So maybe the super-hero trust fund is real after all?” you joked.

“Well actually, most of it was from Gregory. He maxed out his legal contribution."

“Oh shit,” you looked at Eileen, startled. “He must have really enjoyed meeting Captain America… Unless you’re getting back with him?”

“God no,” Eileen said before you were able to finish your sentence. “And bear his six children? Absolutely not.”

“Really?” You asked, batting your eyelashes at her. “You wouldn’t love to have a little Tony and Stevie and—” Eileen’s glare cut you off before you could list all six original Avengers. “I think it finally feels real,” you said after a moment.

“I agree. James ‘Bucky’ Barnes: Congressional Candidate. Feels weird to say.”

“Well, he may be the candidate, but we’re the campaign. Winning this thing is up to us.”

Eileen lifted her glass towards you, with one sip of wine left, to toast. “God help us all.”

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

Author's note: The math on the three and a half Avengers is: Sam and Clint are each one (1) Avenger. Wong, Bucky, and Kate Bishop each count for one-half of an Avenger. All together 3.5 Avengers. As always, thank you for reading and commenting :)

“On a scale from one to ten, how fucked do you think we are?” 

“Girl.” Eileen shot you a look that could freeze the East river. “You cannot be so pessimistic when we are canvassing in shin-high snow. I need you to be your normal, cheerful self.”

“My normal, cheerful self doesn’t go outside in thirteen-degree weather spreading the Good Word about the least popular Avenger.”

“You really should stop calling him that.” Eileen walked up a porch and knocked on the door, to no avail. Shaking her head softly, she walked back down the steps slowly, trying not to slip on the icy steps. 

Once she was back on the snow, you nudged her with your elbow. “Why shouldn’t I say he’s the least popular? It’s funny, and true.” 

“You don’t even believe that yourself.”

“Not everyone sees the blood on a weapons manufacturer's hands for what it is,” you shrugged. 

“And Iron Man has a PR team to clean up his image.” Eileen’s cheerful affect put you on edge. “So, we’re Bucky’s PR team. We’re curating his image.”

“I genuinely admire your optimism for thinking that with a few well-placed photoshoots and public appearances we can change his image from ‘assassin’ to ‘public servant’.” 

“Say we had no budget. What would you do?”

You laughed, which almost caused you to lose your footing on a patch of the footpath that had frozen over the snow. “Public speaking lessons. More coffee chats and small group meetings before building up to a town hall. Then public appearances based on what the concerns people raise are. Volunteering at an animal shelter, meeting with veterans, meeting veterans in his old-timey uniform, hanging out with EMTs and first responders. As we get closer to the E-Day, podcast and radio appearances. I’d put him in a suit or business casual the entire time. No black. No grimacing in public.”

Eileen wasn’t really listening to you as she took in your surroundings. You were in a nicer neighborhood, one with standalone houses and nice cars parked in the driveway, albeit covered in snow. You cleared your throat, prompting her to speak. “Some of those are doable.” 

“That was my doable list. My list of impossible things includes: “time machine so he is married or has kids, time machine so the Winter Soldier was treated as legally distinct by the justice system, time machine so none of the bad stuff happened—” 

“Your turn.” The two of you had stopped in front of a large brick house with an icy porch. “Good luck,” Eileen said, nudging you with her arm.

After summiting the porch, you waited for a few moments before the door opened to a young mother who barely cracked the door open. “Can I help you?”

“Hi,” you said, introducing yourself and Eileen, who was a few steps behind you. “We’re with the King’s County Democrats canvassing for Bucky Barnes. Do you know about the upcoming election this spring?”

“Carisa Rossi,” the woman nodded at you in lieu of shaking your hand. “Sorry, did you say you were campaigning for Bucky Barnes? The assassin?”

“Obviously, you’re entitled to your own opinions about the situation, but Bucky Barnes was pardoned for everything that happened while he was imprisoned by HYDRA.” You hoped it sounded better than it did in your head.

“Oh, sorry, that came out wrong. I know he was an Avenger and helped save the world and stuff. But like, is it even safe for him to be in Congress if all that mind control stuff is in his brain?”

“He’s been cleared by the best doctors in the world,” you said, not sure if that was technically true. “And he’s looking to give back to his community that’s been here for him as he adjusted to normal life.” You handed Carisa a pamphlet, which she took. 

“Well, if you’re out here in this weather on his behalf, I'll look into it. Thank you.” Carisa closed the door before you had finished your goodbyes.

“Good job, sport,” Eileen said after you made it back to the snowy sidewalk. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

“Literally what am I supposed to even say to that? Correcting her to ‘Bucky Barnes, the Avenger’ feels wrong.”

“I think you did alright,” Eileen said. “Acknowledge the difference of opinion, acknowledge that the situation is nuanced.”

“Voters hate nuance.”

“They do.”

“It genuinely might be easier to convince people if he was here too. Should we text him? How long can the VA take?” you pulled out your phone, drafting a text to Bucky before deciding that it was too whiny to tell him to hurry up negotiating with the VA on his benefits, part of which paid your salary.

You had come upon a new neighborhood, where someone clearly had hired folks to handle the snow. The entire block on both sides had clear paths on the sidewalks and the driveways had been dug out as well. 

“Charming,” you said, testing the path for ice and instead feeling salt under your boots. “I wish our neighborhood was this nice.” 

“Brick houses, tasteful lights, salted sidewalks, nice, but not obnoxious cars,” Eileen was looking around for something. “I haven’t seen a husky yet but I’m sure there’s one nearby.”

“A corgi, perhaps? Even a Dalmatian? Rich people dogs. Maybe Bucky should get one,” you suggested. “People love animals.” 

“After the campaign, you could always get a job as a social media famous dog’s manager. Way less politically fraught."

People were much more receptive on this block—maybe there was something about not having to dig out your car later that put people into a good mood—before long you were on your last few pamphlets and finishing the block. You had a good feeling as you approached the next lot, which two houses shared. The one on the left had a rainbow sign saying “In this house we believe” and a Mets pennant, so you knew your people would be found within. 

A jolly-looking old man answered the door. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so, sir,” you said with an easy smile. “We’re volunteers with the Brooklyn Democrats. Did you know there’s going to be a special election this spring?”

“I heard about that. So sad. Hamer had been my representative since my kids were little.”

“We actually worked for her, last election cycle,” Eileen said, her voice perfectly both solemn and empathetic. “And we’re hoping to preserve her legacy by making sure a candidate who shares her values is elected to replace her. Can I ask, are you registered to vote?”

“I am.”

“Great! I’m going to give you this pamphlet, it has some information about our candidate Bucky Barnes, the upcoming election, and ways to get involved, if that’s your thing.”

“I’ll check it out, especially once it gets warmer. Speaking of, can I get you girls anything warm to drink? It’s too cold outside.”

“Thank you so much,” you said, pushing your balled-up hands into your coat pocket. “But we’re okay. We’ve got to keep moving—that’ll keep us warm.”

“Suit yourself. But hey! Speaking of, my neighbor would be a great guy to talk to,” he gestured his head to the next door. “Jim’s into politics.” Before you could say anything, Mr. Guzmán had crossed the porch and was knocking on the door next to Eileen. “He’s a great guy. Every time it snows, he shovels not just our porch and sidewalk, but the sidewalk for the whole block.”

“Wow,” Eileen said, raising her eyebrows. “And here I thought we won the lottery with neighbors who give us discounted ham for Christmas.” 

You went to the house next door, but much to Mr. Guzmán’s disappointment, no one answered. You gave Mr. Guzmán an extra pamphlet and some pins while he promised to be in touch once spring rolled around. 

As you trudged along, you glanced back at the darkened windows of Mr. Guzmán’s neighbor. ”It's a tragedy. That guy shovels entire blocks for free. We could've run him on a platform of ‘Clear Sidewalks, Full Hearts, Can’t Lose’ and won in a landslide. Instead, we're out here selling…” You looked down at the pamphlets in your hand, Bucky’s unblinking blue eyes looking back at you.

You both stopped in your tracks as a woman emerged from a house across the street leading a massive, blue-eyed husky onto the salted path. The dog stopped dead, gave you both a look of pure, aristocratic disdain, and sneezed. It took only a moment of a shared look with Eileen for the two of you to burst into laughter, forgetting all about the cold and the crisis at hand. 

“Think he’s looking for a manager?”