#unelectablefic

Chapter 1: Funeral

Chapter 2: Light cyber-stalking

Chapter 3: Details, details

Chapter 4: Gloves off

Chapter 5: Soft-launch

Chapter 6: The office

Chapter 7: Over the line

Chapter 8: Boot camp

Chapter 9: Call and response

Chapter 10: Patch

Chapter 11: Town hall

thirty three main chapters are planned!

Archive of Our Own Link: I learned how to code footnotes to add even more jokes to the narration so feel free to check it out :)

I wrote this fic with the idea of keeping it accessible to folks who don't know the ins and outs of the American political system and haven't been keeping up with the MCU's eight million new projects since endgame. But, if you want, you can read more about the important background info in this post

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

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.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bingo. 

He was wearing gloves, like the photo online. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When I can stomach it.”

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

“Why me?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” Eileen said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We know this is a big ask—” 

Bucky cut you off. “You think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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As always, thank you for reading and commenting :)

“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.”

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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 :)

“We’re fucked!” Eileen didn’t bother to greet you. It was the first time you had heard her voice in almost a week—living together meant nothing when setting up the campaign before the end of the year had you both scrambling through Brooklyn in opposite directions. “We’re fucked before we’ve even begun.”

“Slow down,” you said, fingers itching for a pen so you could take notes if the need arose. “What’s wrong now?”

“It’s bad enough that he’s got his… reputation. And he looks a little spooky. But the survey—"

"Wait, you sent out a survey? When did you have time to send out a survey?"

"Tuesday. While you were building the website and he was... actually, what was he doing Tuesday?"

"No idea." Bucky, you’d learned, was not exactly the world’s most communicative texter. 

“Ugh. Whatever. The problem is: most respondents couldn’t connect his face to his name.”

“Really? But he’s famous?”

“It’s so bad. Seriously. What’s the point of having an Avenger as your candidate if no one knows what he looks like?” 

“Well hold on, how much of ‘most respondents’ is ‘most’.” You asked, trying to get a rein back on the conversation. 

“Sixty seven percent. But the real kicker is, almost three-quarters were able to identify the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes when shown an older picture when he still had long hair.” 

This sort of made sense to you. You reflected on how you had trouble identifying him in the restaurant, and that was after spending a considerable amount of time looking at photos of him.

“Ok, so we'll just get him to grow out his hair, it's not the end of the world. There’s still months until election day.” Your incredibly reasonable suggestion earned a loud groan through the phone. “What?”

“Men are so particular about their hair,” she complained. “If you try to tell them to change it they just don’t listen. And do you really think we can tell him to stop wearing leather jackets and change his hair?”

“So we don’t tell him.” As you pieced the scheme together in your mind’s eye, it sounded a little ridiculous. But it could work.

“I’m not following.”

“We won’t tell him. Not directly at least. We take him canvassing, and let him take the lead at first.”

“It’s way too early to canvas,” Eileen protested. 

“We’re not actually trying to canvas. We don’t even have the election date set yet. But Bucky doesn’t need to know that. I’m thinking we go to a neighborhood with super low turnout and let Bucky take the lead. He won’t know what to do, so it’ll be awkward. Old people will probably accuse him of trying to burglarize their home, and he’ll realize something needs to change. Then we take charge, wearing our branded merch, and show him how easy canvassing could be with good branding. Then he’ll realize something needs to change on his own!”

“Okay, then what? We take him to a department store and buy him a bunch of light blue button-downs and slacks, dress him up like Obama?”

“Well I mean, if it ain’t broke.”

“It could work,” Eileen relented. “But we probably need to broach the hair issue more directly."

“Sure.”

“But I’m absolutely not doing that,” she said. “I’ll send you some of the data though. There’s even a photoshopped picture of Robert Musgrave with long hair in there.”

“Seriously?” You needed to see this. “Did anyone think that was Bucky?”

“A shocking thirty nine percent of respondents thought this old-ass man with long hair was our guy.”

“This is gonna be an uphill battle.” 

New York winter had begun in full force, Marine Park was empty except for two kids playing basketball who were loudly making fun of each other when the other one missed. Before arriving to the meeting point, you had briefly considered ducking into one of the nearby coffee shops and loitering there until either Bucky or Eileen let you know they'd arrived at the meetup point via text, but the thought of being late summoned your father’s chiding voice into your head, so you shouldered the cold, pulling your blue scarf around your neck so you could bury your face into it. 

You didn’t have to wait long for Bucky to arrive. You stood up as he approached and gave a quick wave. He was wearing black leather gloves and a thick black wool coat with the collar popped. Bucky was dressed for the weather—which contrasted heavily with your outfit of choice, a blue sweatshirt with the Brooklyn Democratic Party logo on the front, layered over your warmest turtleneck, but your outfit choice was meant for easy identification, not combatting the wind. He regarded you briefly after greeting you. “You’re not cold?”

“I’ve got hand warmers,” you said, flashing the packets hidden in your palms. And hopefully keeping a good pace will take care of everything else.” 

Bucky wasn’t exactly a chatty guy, and an awkward silence soon provoked you to pull out your phone to check your emails, even if that meant freezing your fingers. To soothe your nerves, you reread the top-secret nomination committee agreeing to support Bucky’s run. 

Even if you didn’t really believe in Bucky as a candidate, the committee did, and frankly, what other choice was there.  

Luckily, it wasn’t long before Eileen showed up, wearing an identical sweatshirt to yours, paired with a white beanie that had ‘Vote Blue’ embroidered on it. 

“All right party people,” Eileen’s tone was warm and cheery. “Let’s get canvassing! Does everyone remember the script?” 

“Hi, I’m Bucky Barnes, and I’m running for Congress?” 

“And if they say they just voted?” Eileen pressed.

“Gently mention Representative Hamer’s passing and that next spring there’ll be an election to fill her seat?” Bucky rubbed the back of his neck with a gloved hand. Normally, nerves on a candidate would be a bad thing, but since you were kind of banking on a controlled crash of a day, you tried to keep the energy up.

“And hand them a flyer,” you said, attempting to mirror Eileen’s tone while taking a chunk of the flyers from Eileen and putting some in your bag before handing the rest to Bucky. “You could also start by asking if they’re registered to vote, and then mention the election before handing them a flyer. 

Eileen and you fell into step behind Bucky as you let him take the lead for a bit, until you realized it seemed like he was going to walk you guys out of the neighborhood. 

“Whatcha waiting for?” You asked, trying to sound nonplussed and nonjudgemental. 

“Huh? Nothing. Just the right house.”

“Oh, are you nervous?” Eileen asked, which was what you were getting at, she was just more blunt. 

“I’m not nervous,” Bucky said, sounding offended. “Here, watch.” He turned sharply to walk up to a small brick house with a covered porch. Without waiting to be prompted, he rapped on the door with his knuckles. A few moments later, an older gentleman (Italian, by the look of his chain necklace) opened the door just wide enough to stare at your motley crew. 

“Jesus,” he said, giving Bucky a once-over. “What are you, cops?” 

“No.” Bucky was too curt. You could already tell this wasn’t going to go well. 

“Well, what are you?” The gentleman had somehow managed to not open the door at all while continuing to ask questions. 

“I’m Bucky Barnes, and I’m running for Congress.” Bucky managed a smile at the end, but it stopped short of his eyes and made him look a little shark-like.

The ornery old man laughed a perfectly aspirated “ha!” before shutting the door. Bucky had begun to stick his hand out to stop the door, but Eileen was on it in a flash, putting her hand in front of Bucky’s to stop him. He looked at her, eyebrows furrowed and jaw set.

“Good work,” Eileen’s voice had no hint of sarcasm in her voice. “They can’t all be winners. I’m glad we got the first bad one out of the way.”

That wouldn’t be the last bad interaction. Over the next hour, the three of you went to dozens of homes, and received a cold welcome—if any—at all of them. Most assumed you were solicitors and didn’t answer the door. Others were confused about the election. Only a handful had taken your flyer directly. 

The last house before lunch had a doorbell camera, which was common in fancy neighborhoods like this, but the mechanical voice announcing it was filming always put you on edge. Just as soon as Bucky had finished knocking on the door (his knock had grown softer and less cop-like), a tinny voice crackled over the speaker. 

“What do you want?”

Bucky’s eyebrow furrowed, but he didn’t hesitate, instead leaning forward to say, “My name is Bucky Barnes, and I’m running for Congress. Would—”

“You casing my apartment, punk?” The voice demanded. “Don’t think I don’t see you skulking around here. You’re on video, you know!”

“I know,” Bucky said, his voice thin. “If you just give me a second—”

With perfect comedic timing, a dog inside of the apartment started to lose its mind, barking and scratching at the door. 

“Get out, before I call the cops!” The three of you retreated at speed, dignity barely intact.

At lunch, Bucky was actively demolishing his sandwich with a ferocity you had only observed in sixteen year old boys, so there wasn’t much room for conversation. Which was fine, your brain still needed time to warm up. You were holding a steaming cup of black coffee with both hands and contemplating your life choices. You looked over at Eileen, who had finished her coffee and made good progress on her sandwich while typing on her phone. 

"I didn't know people in Marine Park would be so possessive over their cars," you mused, breaking the silence. 

Eileen looked up from her phone. "Sorry, I was taking care of soft-launch stuff for next week. Anyways, I didn't think he looked like a repo man."

"Huh?"

You were also lost.“Yeah, huh?” 

"That guy who thought we were here for his car?" Eileen said it as if it were obvious. “Was that not what you were talking about?”

"Oh. Yeah. I didn't even have a tow truck. That didn't make sense. The casing one made more sense."

"Do you often get accused of casing people's houses?" You asked while taking a sip of your coffee.

"Not often. I do early morning deliveries with the food bank, but usually not a lot of people are up."

"Right, but see, that's my point," you said, gesturing vaguely at him. "It's the whole… aesthetic. The all-black, the gloves. It screams 'I'm here to case the joint,' not 'I'm here with your grocery delivery.'"

Bucky glanced down at his leather-clad hands as if seeing them for the first time. "They're just gloves."

"I know, I know," you said quickly. "And they're practical! But perception is reality. Which brings me to my next point: you need a uniform."

"Oh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in that way that made you feel like you were about to suggest he wear a blue leotard and red tights.

“Yeah, you need a uniform. Something to separate Candidate Bucky from regular Bucky. Just some business casual slacks, button downs, and like, one suit. Maybe a tuxedo if you feel like getting fancy.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” 

“Nothing! They’re just, maybe not the best thing to wear while campaigning.” You felt your cheeks getting warm. Why was this so difficult? “In a more funded campaign, we would hire a person called a “groomer” to take you shopping, curate your image-“

“Groomer… like a horse?”

“Well, you are running a race.” Bucky smiled at your joke. 

“The job exists because the candidate's clothes need to match the message.  And since everything is filmed all the time now, congressional campaigns usually spend lots of money to make sure their candidate looks clean, put-together, and professional. With Sam in town next week, it might be a good idea to ask him to go shopping with you.”

Bucky didn’t say anything as he clicked through the example images you had attached to the image packet. 

“If you don’t want to go with Sam, I could call up a DJ friend of mine who works at Bloomingdale’s,” you continued.

“I’ll go with Sam.” 

“Perfect! Ask him to take pictures of what you decide on. And keep the receipts. We probably won’t be able to reimburse you for a while—” You looked over at Eileen, who was shaking her head at you. Firmly. “We probably won’t be able to reimburse you, but fingers crossed.” 

Bucky wiped his fingers with a napkin before picking up his cup of water. “So I’m buying my own uniform?”

“Think of it like an investment,” Eileen chimed in. “We’re not making you buy an American flag tie, so everything on this list is rewearable. Conferences, dates, weddings, funerals, the possibilities are endless!”

After lunch, you took the lead on canvassing and were considerably more successful. As it turns out, putting Eileen and you in front with your easily identifiable sweatshirts put people at ease, even if they did think you were going to pester them. By the time your flyers had dwindled to a thin stack, you felt as if the three of you had finally hit a rhythm. At your last stop of the day, an older woman with expertly styled powder white hair introduced herself as Nora O’Daniel shared with you:

“Oh, you guys are here about the election! Oh good. I was getting worried since things have been so quiet since the Congresswoman’s passing.”

“It’s good that you’re so engaged! Are there any issues that are important to you that you’d like us to pass on to the candidate?”

“Well, I’m a life-long Democrat,” she said, propping open her door which allowed warm air to reach your face. “I voted for Mondale and Gore, Obama and Clinton, hell, I even voted for Ritson, even though he turned out to be crazy. But this past election. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t vote for Fisk. And now he’s doing all that stuff down at Red Hook? That used to be a real community.”

“I understand. Yeah, it’s incredibly frustrating.” Eileen chimed in. “My cousin and his kids were forced out of that neighborhood a year ago. And things are just getting worse.”

“This new mayor, he just doesn’t care about the little guy. He only cares about himself. We have enough of those types in New York politics.” She tutted.

“So you’d like the Democrats to run someone with integrity.” You supplied. 

“Yes,” Mrs. O’Daniel smiled up at you. “Someone who cares about the little guy. Someone like you.” 

You let out a short laugh. “Oh I’m not running. Actually, he is.” You tipped your head towards Bucky, who gave a small nod. 

“And here I thought he was you girls’s body guard,” Mrs. O’Daniel laughed, winking at you and Eileen. “What’s your name, young man?” 

“Uh, Bucky Barnes, ma’am,” he said, hesitating for a split-second before stepping forward to shake her hand. 

“Nice to meet you Mr. Barnes. If your platform is as strong as your handshake, you’ve got my vote for sure.”

As the three of you circled back to your starting point in Marine Park, you felt a growing pit in your stomach. Today’s contrived plan had gone pretty well, all things considered. Bucky had agreed to get new clothes, a few residents knew about the election, and no one recognized Bucky, so you had all the data you needed to drive your point home. There was only one thing left to do. 

“How do you think today went, Bucky?” You asked.

He looked like a deer in headlights. “Fine?”

“Did you notice that folks had an issue… sort of connecting you, the person, to you, the candidate?”

“Oh. People don’t usually recognize me nowadays. Time has passed, people forget,  have their own lives…”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you tried to keep your tone gentle. “People remember what you did in Wakanda and New York.”

With perfect timing as always, Eileen cut in. “She’s not being obsequious. We have data.” She handed Bucky her phone, to look at the survey results. 

You took a deep breath before you started. “People are most likely to recognize you when they see your long hair. Which, even though it doesn’t feel like it, it’s not about you, personally. It’s about how the voter’s brains work. And the public’s short attention span. Recognition makes people feel comfortable. If people aren’t sure that they recognize you, it’ll kill any momentum we get.”

Saying it aloud felt really mean. The guilt curled in your chest and thumped at your ribs. This man has essentially sacrificed the next four months of his life (at least!) to stymie the growing influence of the most dangerous man in politics, and here you were asking him to grow out his hair to more closely resemble the alter-ego he had spent years trying to shed. 

“I know the long hair might bring up… other things. And that’s not fair to you, that you have to carry what other people project onto you. We’re not asking you to become someone else. We’re asking you to help people see you—so that when you talk about integrity, community, and service, they know exactly who’s speaking. We just need to remind them. Sorry, I’m rambling. But, I mean, you have the data.” Bucky’s eyes were glued to Eileen’s phone. If he felt any sort of way, his face did not betray the emotion. “You know it would help.”

“You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” you said, after a moment. “We do have other options. But we wouldn’t suggest this if it weren’t the easiest way to give the voters a short-cut to recognizing you now.”

“I should’ve known better than to think that politics would be substance over style,” he said finally, handing the phone back to Eileen. 

“So you’re on board?” Eileen asked.

“I’ll only commit to not getting a haircut for a few months, for now,” Bucky said, quirking a small smile. “Lincoln grew a beard for votes. I guess I’m not above that.” 

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I am about to engage with the source material so hard. In a way that no one else has likely cared enough to do. In a way that may make you think I am more interested in running a winning political campaign than writing a mcu romance fic. Because you don’t just become a Congressman by accident, you have to run for office. Something happened in between Bucky’s last appearance in The Falcon and the Winter Soldier and when we see him again in Captain America: Brave New World and Thunderbolts* that made him Like That. The main goal of this fic is to answer three questions:

Why did Bucky grow out his hair to run for office?

How the hell did Bucky get elected?

Once elected, why is Bucky bad at his job?

I am going to boldly go where no fic has cared to go before. I am going to ask the questions that surface when you think about the real-world applications of the source material for more than two minutes, like: Why is Bucky running in the first place? Who thought this was a good idea? What is Bucky’s stance on social security? 

And finally, some housekeeping to remind you of what’s going on in the Marvel Cinematic Universe at the time: 

2023: Half of the world’s population comes back from the Blip.

2024: Sam Wilson and Bucky deal with the ramifications of the Blip and the chaos that ensued following the displacements of large swaths of disadvantaged people.

2025: President Ritson says on national television that Skrulls have infiltrated the government and encourages civilians to kill anyone who they suspect is a Skrull. 

November 2026: Ritson is not reelected. Instead, Thaddeus Ross (yes, the guy who destroyed Harlem) (yes, the guy who broke up the Avengers) is elected into office. 

November 2026: That same election cycle, Wilson Fisk is elected mayor of New York City on an anti-vigilante platform.

April 2027: During a non-election year, Bucky is running for office. This implies that someone has either died or resigned, and while either is on the cards in this world given the absolutely chaotic nature of politics in this world, I’ve gone with ‘died’.