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A Seat at the Table Part 2 | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Journalism was supposed to be about the truth. Politics was supposed to be about power. Somehow, you’ve ended up as Bucky Barnes’s unofficial campaign speechwriter—arguably against your better judgment—and Valentina has you exactly where she wants you.

Parts: Part 1

MCU Timeline Placement: Mid Captain America: Brave New World

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: Brief injuries, almost getting run over by a car, talk of traumatic events (rats, small spaces, lack of food/water, some more stuff but not super specific), adult language

Word Count: 10.8k (oops)

Author’s Note: the very much requested part 2 is finally here and if there’s one thing i know how to do, it’s a slowburn, baby. so YES, there’s going to be a part 3 because apparently i have no self-control and this got so much bigger than i planned. hopefully this all eventually leads into thunderbolts but honestly?? who knows. we’re just along for the ride at this point.

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The office was quiet, save for the hum of the overhead fluorescents and the distant sound of a siren wailing somewhere beyond the city skyline. A half-dead ficus stood in the corner, wilting under the weight of too many late nights and too few people bothering to water it. The long conference table was scattered with notes, empty coffee cups, and a stack of draft speeches that had been edited into oblivion, whole paragraphs slashed through with thick, impatient strokes of red ink.

You sat at the far end of the table, boot propped against the chair beside you, fingers idly tapping a pen against your legal pad. The scrawl of your own handwriting stared back at you—half a speech, unfinished, an argument waiting to be shaped into something sharper, something that might actually land.

Across from you, Bucky Barnes leaned against the desk, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he read over the latest draft you’d handed him. His suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, tie loosened, sleeves of his button-down shoved up to his elbows, one cuff folding slightly over the black plates of his arm. His hair—longer than it had been a few months ago—was pushed back in a way that looked more like an afterthought than effort, just neat enough to keep it out of his face, just messy enough to betray the habit of running his fingers through it.

The TV in the corner was on mute, flickering images of a campaign event from earlier in the week looping on the screen. A still of Sam Wilson shaking hands with some senator filled the lower half, the shield strapped to his back catching the glow of the camera flashes.

The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: “CAPTAIN AMERICA SPEAKS AT FUNDRAISER FOR BARNES’S FINAL CAMPAIGN PUSH”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up, catching the screen before he exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

“You think he actually likes doing this political shit?” he muttered.

You smirked, flipping your pen between your fingers. “Who? Sam?”

Bucky nodded, the ghost of something like amusement tugging at his mouth. “Man can talk circles around anyone in that room, and he makes it look easy.” He glanced down at the draft again, turning the page over between his fingers before adding, “Meanwhile, I can’t get through three sentences without wanting to set something on fire.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well. Captain America had to learn how to play the game eventually. You, on the other hand? You still act like every speech is a hostage negotiation.”

Bucky huffed, tossing the pages onto the desk. “Still that bad?”

“Not bad,” you said, stretching your legs out under the table. “Just—you know—gritted teeth and thinly veiled contempt. Plays well with the disillusioned voters, though.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Then maybe I should start charging you for this. I do enough of your job as it is.”

Your brows lifted. “My job?”

“You think I don’t see you stealing half my speech notes for your op-eds?” He cocked a brow, arms still folded across his chest. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were softening on me.”

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself, Barnes,” you said, picking up your pen again. “You still make my life a nightmare.”

“Mutual, then.”

Silence stretched between you. You both knew what this was, what it wasn’t. You weren’t officially his speechwriter. You weren’t officially part of his team. You weren’t even supposed to be in this office. But somehow, over the past few months, you kept ending up here—handing him drafts, scraping the bullshit out of his speeches, making sure the words on the page actually sounded like him instead of whatever polished nonsense his campaign manager kept feeding him.

And yet, despite all of it—despite the way Valentina’s presence loomed over this campaign like a specter, despite the way you both knew she was pulling levers behind closed doors—Bucky kept showing up. Kept asking you to strip the excess from his speeches, to make them sharper, truer, less of what they wanted and more of what he could actually stand behind. There was manipulation at play, undeniable, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t choosing this, too. That was the thing about people like Valentina—she didn’t waste time bending men who weren’t already leaning in the direction she wanted them to fall.

Bucky rolled his shoulders, the tension in his frame barely shifting. His eyes flicked to the legal pad in front of you, the unfinished speech staring back at both of you like a dare.

Finally, he sighed. “Alright.” He nudged his chin toward the page. “Let’s try this again.”

You smirked, flipping to a fresh sheet.

“Yeah,” you muttered, clicking your pen. “Let’s.”

The pen hovered over the blank page, waiting. Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before shifting in his chair, sliding lower like the weight of this whole damn thing was finally catching up to him.

You leaned back slightly, waiting.

He didn’t start talking right away. That was just how this went—him stewing over it, running things over in his head before saying them out loud, like he needed to make sure the words weren’t weapons before he handed them to you.

You’d gotten used to it.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers once against the edge of the table. "They want me to focus on national security. They want that to be the last one before the vote. The final pitch."

You hummed, flipping through one of the drafted speeches, skimming over the kind of pre-packaged language his campaign manager loved to shove down his throat. The phrases practically glowed in sanitized, consultant-approved jargon: "Restoring trust through strength." "A new era of security for a changing world." "Protecting America from unseen threats—at home and abroad."

All meaningless. All safe. The kind of words designed to lull people into nodding along without actually saying a damn thing.

You snorted, shaking your head. “Security. Right. Because nothing screams ‘electable’ like the ex-assassin telling people he knows what’s best for their safety.”

Bucky gave you a look, deadpan. “You’re really bad at pep talks, you know that?”

You smirked. “Not what you keep me around for.”

He shook his head, rubbing at the tension in his temple. “They want me to talk about the country needing to ‘protect itself from future threats.’” His mouth twisted slightly, like he was already disgusted with the words before they even left his lips. “Which is a great way of saying ‘we should keep putting more weapons into the hands of people who already have too many.’”

“And let me guess,” you muttered, scanning the pages again, “meanwhile Kendrick’s out there talking about ‘restoring law and order’ like a bad cop drama?”

Bucky let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Yeah. Except instead of a cop, he’s a guy who’s been selling his soul to defense contractors for decades.”

You set your pen down, watching the way his jaw tensed as he said it.

You knew the type. The ones who could sit in a press conference and talk about security while their hands were buried deep in the pockets of weapons manufacturers and intelligence firms. Kendrick wasn’t just Bucky’s competition—he was the last name on the ballot standing between him and a seat in Congress. A seasoned politician, old-school and untouchable, the kind of man who knew how to smile for the cameras while cutting deals in rooms the public never got to see. The kind with just enough charisma to make people believe in him, just enough insulation to make sure no scandal ever stuck for long.

Bucky’s fingers drummed against the table, restless. “He gets to stand up there and talk about making people feel safe, while I’m supposed to convince them they actually are—like the truth isn’t just gonna piss them off.”

You tapped your pen against the pad, considering. “So, what do you want to say?”

Bucky sighed, dragging his thumb along the edge of the table, pensive. “I don’t want to keep talking about what this country should be afraid of. I want to talk about what we’re supposed to be fighting for,” he muttered. “Too bad it doesn’t mean anything if people don’t believe it.”

You glanced up, watching the way his shoulders carried the weight of every speech, every question, every headline dissecting his place in this campaign. The exhaustion was there—bone-deep and settling—but there was something else, too. Something sharper.

You arched a brow, flipping the page. “Sure it does. Means they want you to stand up there and tell people that the world’s on fire, and you’re the only one with a bucket.”

His mouth twitched slightly, but his eyes remained sharp. “And what do you want me to say?”

You tapped the pen against the paper. “Doesn’t matter what I want, Barnes. You’re the candidate.”

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “It’s not just about policy,” he muttered. “Not really. People don’t trust the government. Hell, they barely trust each other. And now they’re supposed to trust me?”

“They’re supposed to trust what you stand for,” you corrected. “Not just you.”

He tilted his head, considering. “And what exactly do I stand for?”

“You tell me.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head. But he didn’t deflect. He didn’t roll his eyes or change the subject. He sat with the question, turning it over in his head before finally answering.

“I stand for the people who don’t get a seat at the table.” His voice was steady, low, but unwavering. “I stand for the people who don’t get a say in the choices that rip their lives apart. Who wake up every day wondering which law or policy or backroom deal is going to make it harder for them to get by.”

You jotted down a few notes, nodding. “Good. Keep going.”

He exhaled through his nose, running a hand along his jaw. “I want to talk about representation. Not just the kind that looks good on a ballot, but the kind that actually changes the way this country is run.” He met your gaze, something sharp in his expression. “People are tired of leaders who only serve themselves. Of government treating them like problems to manage instead of people to protect.”

Your grip on the pen tightened, writing faster.

Bucky shook his head slightly, shifting in his chair. “The only way this speech works is if people believe that I’m not just another body filling a seat.” He gestured vaguely at the notes between you. “I don’t want to stand up there and spit out some well-rehearsed, consultant-approved line about how I ‘believe in the American people.’ I want them to believe in themselves again.”

You studied him carefully. “That’s a fine idea, Barnes, but you’re still gonna need more than ideas.”

Bucky exhaled sharply. “Right. Policy. That’s what you’re about to tell me.”

You smirked. “Glad you’re catching on.”

He leaned forward, elbows braced against the table. “Then let’s make it simple. We talk about accountability. About making sure this country doesn’t just fix things when the damage is already done, but actually prevents them from happening in the first place.”

You nodded slowly. “So, proactive governance, not reactive.”

“Exactly,” Bucky muttered. “Every crisis we’ve had in the last decade, the government acts like it came out of nowhere. But it didn’t. The signs were there. The warnings were there. And instead of fixing the cracks, they wait for everything to collapse and then try to clean it up.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “And then they’re surprised when people stop trusting them.”

You scribbled a few more notes, your thoughts moving almost as fast as his words. “So, your message is simple—preventing disaster is just as important as responding to it. And the government has a responsibility to act before it’s too late.”

Bucky nodded. “We make it about priorities. What matters more? Corporate interests or actual lives? Short-term gains or long-term solutions?” His fingers tapped against the table. “And we make it clear that if people want to see real change, they have to fight for it, too. I can get in the room, but they have to keep the pressure on.”

Your lips twitched. “Not exactly a hopeful closing statement, Barnes.”

He shrugged. “Not trying to sell them a fairytale.”

You let out a slow breath, tapping your pen against the pad before setting it down. “You know,” you mused, stretching your arms above your head, “the one thing you've had over every other person in this race is that you don’t lie to people.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s a fact,” you said, cocking your head at him. “The others promise the world, tell people what they want to hear. You tell them what they need to hear.” You leaned forward, voice dropping slightly. “That’s why they believe you, Barnes. Because you don’t pretend. You don’t polish it up or try to make it pretty. You tell them the truth, even when it’s ugly. Especially when it’s ugly.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, studying you for a moment before looking back at the half-finished notes sprawled between you.

“That why you keep coming back?” he asked, voice low. “You believe me?”

You held his gaze, unwavering. “Yeah,” you said finally. “I do.”

Silence stretched. His jaw twitched slightly, like he was chewing over something. You could feel the shift between you, the air pulling taut, something neither of you had put a name to yet.

“So, what’s the last line?” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the legal pad. “The one that wraps it up. The thing that’ll stick.”

You smirked, picking up your pen. “Simple,” you said, scrawling the words across the page, each stroke deliberate, final. You turned the pad toward him, watching as his eyes flicked over the line, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

"A government that only acts when the damage is already done is a government that has already failed its people."

He didn’t speak right away.

Then, finally—

“That’ll work,” he murmured.

You smirked. “Damn right, it will.”

Bucky hesitated. You could see it—the way his fingers twitched slightly against the table, the subtle shift in his posture, like he was trying to decide if this was a mistake before he even made it.

“Dinner,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded toward the notepad, voice still even, casual. “We can finish it over dinner.”

The words were simple. They shouldn’t have made your chest feel tight. Shouldn’t have made the room feel smaller, the air thinner. Shouldn’t have sent something sharp down your spine.

Your breath hitched, mouth opened, but before you could respond, your phone buzzed.

The sharp vibration against the table shattered the moment before it could settle, before you could even decide what you would have done with it.

You swallowed, glancing at the screen. A message from your editor. A name. A location. Another story. Another deadline.

You exhaled, dragging a hand through your hair before shaking your head. “Sorry. I can’t.”

Bucky hadn’t moved, but the shift was already there. That fragile, invisible thing between you—the thing that was there one second and gone the next, like the second you looked away, it had slipped through your fingers.

“Right,” he muttered. A slow nod. “Of course.””

The words were even, measured, but you could hear it. That subtle undercurrent of something being pulled away too fast to be caught.

You hesitated.

Then you pushed back your chair, grabbed your bag, and walked out before you could make a mistake.

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The fluorescent lights of the office flickered, buzzing against the quiet thrum of the city beyond the glass doors. Your steps echoed down the hall, each one more determined than the last, phone still clutched in your palm.

It wasn’t until you reached the lobby that you saw her.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was perched on the edge of a bench near the elevators, ankles crossed, gloved hands resting neatly on her lap. She always had the uncanny ability to appear exactly when she wanted to. No sooner. No later. Like a predator stepping out of the brush the second its prey let its guard down.

Right when you stepped past her, she rose effortlessly, falling into step beside you.

"Well," she mused, voice like silk wrapped around something sharp. "I was wondering why his speeches were suddenly resonating."

Your fingers curled around your bag strap.

"Excuse me?" you muttered, keeping your pace steady.

Valentina didn’t look at you. Just smiled, like a cat toying with a mouse.

"James has never been much for words," she continued smoothly. "Always more of an action man. But lately?" She hummed. "Lately, he’s been convincing." Her head tilted slightly, dark eyes flicking to you. “And then I realized why.”

You didn’t react. Didn’t give her the satisfaction.

You reached the elevator, pressing the call button with a little more force than necessary. The light flickered, too slow, and you could already feel her presence settling beside you, unhurried, unrushed. Like she had all the time in the world to pick at the edges of whatever fraying patience you had left.

“I did my homework,” Valentina murmured. “You’re quite the investigative journalist, aren’t you? The Post’s golden child. Always digging. Always poking holes in carefully constructed narratives.” She clicked her tongue. “You broke that pharmaceutical corruption case three years ago. The one that tanked a senator’s career.”

The elevator doors slid open. You stepped inside, shifting toward the far wall, but Valentina followed without hesitation, moving with that same effortless grace, like she belonged in every room she entered.

"Then there was that piece on the covert weapons contracts," she continued. "That one ruffled a few feathers. Nearly got you sued, if I recall correctly. And, of course—" She smirked as the doors slid shut. "My personal favorite—the exposé on intelligence leaks in national security agencies." She tapped her chin, faux-thoughtful. "Remind me, how many anonymous sources disappeared after that one?"

Your jaw tightened.

Valentina smiled.

"But here you are," she mused. "Writing speeches for a congressional candidate instead of taking him apart in a front-page investigation." She shook her head, mock-disappointed. "I have to wonder—what changed?"

You exhaled sharply, jabbing the button for the ground floor. "I don’t have time for this."

Valentina laughed. Light. Amused.

"Oh," she purred, stepping just a little closer. "I’m not here to waste your time."

The elevator hummed as it descended, the numbers ticking down too slowly.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice steady. “This is the part where you tell me to back off. That I should stay in my lane. Maybe you throw in a vague threat, something just subtle enough that I can’t do anything about.”

Valentina hummed, the sound low, indulgent, like she was savoring the taste of your words. “Oh, please. You wound me.” Her gloved fingers smoothed over the lapel of her coat. “I don’t waste threats on people who already know how the game is played.”

Your grip on your bag strap tightened. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

She sighed, tilting her head as though disappointed. “It’s supposed to be a recognition of talent. I do so appreciate talent.” A glance, a quick flick of her dark eyes over you, dissecting, appraising. “And you, darling, have always known where to put your knives.”

The elevator dinged as it reached the ground floor.

You stepped out without hesitation, but Valentina followed, matching your pace effortlessly.

“What do you want?” you asked.

Valentina exhaled, all mock patience. “For once? Nothing. At least, nothing you haven’t already given me.”

You frowned, but she pressed on before you could respond.

“James needs to win,” she said smoothly, as if the words weren’t weighted, as if they didn’t carry implications that twisted sharp in your ribs. “And lucky for me, you’ve been doing a rather admirable job of ensuring he does.”

Your stomach turned.

“His numbers have been rising, you know,” she continued. “Polling higher than expected. Voter sentiment shifting. It’s quite the thing to watch.” She flashed a smile. “Of course, Kendrick’s still ahead. But not by much. You have quite the talent. Turning a man of war into a man of the people.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line.

She leaned in just slightly. “But the thing about words? They have a nasty habit of controlling the people who wield them. And you—” She let her gaze flick up and down, slow, precise. “You have a tendency to use them like weapons.”

Your heart thumped, but your face remained unreadable.

“You should be thanking me,” she went on, tilting her head. “I could have had you pulled from the inside a long time ago. Could have cut you off before you ever set foot in that office. But I didn’t. Because unlike you, I know how to recognize usefulness when I see it.”

“You think I’m useful?”

Valentina smiled. “I think you’re predictable.”

The words slid under your ribs, sharp, quick. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails pressing crescents into your palms. “You don’t trust me.”

Her amusement deepened. “Of course not, dear. You’re a journalist.”

Your breath came slow, controlled. “Then why are you talking to me?”

Valentina’s eyes glinted, something calculated sparking there. “Because trust is irrelevant when interests align. James is going to win. That much, I’m sure of. What I don’t know—what I can’t quite decide yet—is whether or not you are going to be a problem.”

Your spine stiffened.

“And don’t mistake me, darling,” she said, voice lowering just slightly. “I am very good at dealing with problems.”

Your pulse ticked at your throat.

A long silence stretched between you.

Finally—she stepped back, adjusting her gloves, sighing as though the whole conversation had been a mild inconvenience rather than a scalpel dragged between the ribs.

“I do hope you make the right choice,” she murmured. “It would be such a shame to see talent like yours wasted.”

She turned, but just before she stepped away, she paused—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough to let the silence stretch. Then, with a ghost of a smirk, she added, “And do be careful. Wouldn’t want to leave your editor hanging on that tip.”

Your blood ran cold.

Then, just like that, she turned.

She walked away, each step measured, unhurried, as if she had never questioned whether she owned the outcome of this exchange.

You stood there for a second too long, fingers curled tight around the strap of your bag. The office lobby around you hummed with its usual late-night rhythm—security guards chatting near the front desk, the distant ding of an elevator, the soft rustle of a janitor wheeling a cart down the hall.

Normal. Mundane.

Except none of it felt that way.

She wasn’t supposed to know about the tip. The one your editor had just texted you about mere minutes ago.

The information had come through the paper, through channels Valentina shouldn’t have access to. Unless—

You exhaled slowly, shaking the thought loose before it could root too deep.

Coincidence. Maybe she’d been tipped off, just like you had. Maybe she was keeping tabs in ways you hadn’t considered. Maybe this was just another power move, another way to remind you that she saw every step you took, even before you made it.

But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe she’d been the one pulling the thread before you ever reached for it.

You swallowed, ignoring the tight coil of unease in your chest as you pushed through the glass doors.

The night air was crisp, biting against your skin, but it didn’t ground you the way you needed it to. A cab rolled past. A man leaned against a lamppost, cigarette ember flaring, his gaze flicking up briefly before losing interest.

Your phone buzzed again.

You swallowed.

Valentina was right about one thing. What you and Bucky were doing wasn’t just another story.

It hadn’t been for a while.

You had ink-stained fingers and a number in your pocket that didn’t belong to a source, but to a man who was never supposed to mean anything. A man whose name had been a headline long before it had been something you said out loud.

You needed to go. You needed to get in a cab, chase the lead, do your job.

The job. The thing that had pulled you away from the campaign office, from Bucky’s unfinished speech, from the lingering hesitation in his voice when he asked you to stay.

You inhaled once, slow and steady, before stepping off the curb, into the street, back toward the job that was supposed to be your real life.

But the weight in your chest didn’t lift.

Not even a little.

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The city at night had its own kind of rhythm—one that thrived in alleyway murmurs and the slick shine of wet pavement, in the glow of neon signs flickering against empty storefronts and the low hum of a world still moving even as most of its people slept. It was a rhythm you knew well. Had lived in. Had worked in. Had followed through a hundred different stories, chasing down leads that unraveled into something bigger, something uglier, something that always made you wonder if you had enough ink in your pen to write it all down.

But tonight felt different.

Maybe it was the weight of Valentina’s words, coiling tight in your ribs like a warning you hadn’t quite figured out how to heed. Maybe it was the way Bucky had looked at you before you walked away—the flicker of something that made your stomach twist in ways you weren’t prepared to examine.

Or maybe it was the phone call with your editor an hour ago, still echoing in your head.

"Tip came in earlier today," he’d said. "Anonymous. Said it’s big. Said it’s about Kendrick. It came through the encrypted line. No trace back. Just a message: Where the city keeps its pockets full and counts what it cannot afford to lose. Level three, space forty-two. Midnight."

That had settled deep in your chest, sharp and cold.

This wasn’t just a lead—it was a thread someone wanted pulled.

And you had a damn good idea who that someone was.

Valentina’s voice from earlier slipped back in, curling around your thoughts like smoke. She’d known. She’d known before you’d even gotten the call.

Of course she had.

Other journalists at The Post had been circling Kendrick for months, along with every other journalist in the city, but nothing ever stuck. Whispers of backdoor deals, of promises made in quiet rooms to the kind of people who made careers disappear when it suited them. But no one had ever gone on record. No one had ever had the proof.

Until now.

The contact had been cryptic, but the meeting spot wasn’t. It hadn’t taken you long to put it together that the puzzle was referencing a parking garage. And where the city keeps its pockets full meant the Financial District. There were plenty, but only one sat beneath the old Federal Reserve annex—the place where government assets, seized funds, and high-stakes financial transactions passed through before they became numbers on a ledger. A building where money never really stopped moving, even when the offices shut down for the night.

Now, you were here, perched in the shadows of a half-constructed scaffolding rig along the garage, crouched low between stacks of materials covered in dust. The exposed steel framework rattled slightly under the weight of the wind, a loose tarp fluttering against the railings, but it was the best vantage point you were going to get.

Below you, Kendrick stood under the pale fluorescence of a flickering overhead light, his figure a rigid silhouette against the damp concrete. His back was to you, but you could see the tension in his posture, the way his shoulders stayed squared like he was bracing for something. The man standing with him was taller, broader, dressed in the kind of expensive, understated suit that blended into every high-powered political circle—except this one wasn’t just any donor, any strategist. This man carried himself with the kind of deliberate stillness that didn’t just suggest power but commanded it.

And Kendrick, a man who never played the underdog, looked like he was trying very hard not to fidget.

You shifted carefully, adjusting your camera, fingers steady against the cool weight of the lens.

The only reason you weren’t snapping photos yet was because of what Valentina had said earlier that night.

"You have quite the talent. Turning a man of war into a man of the people.”

Your fingers flexed against your camera. Focus. You needed to focus.

Your pulse kicked up as you adjusted your position, careful to keep to the shadows, lens focused, framing the shot.

Click.

The garage was mostly empty this late at night. A handful of cars scattered along the rows, a few dark corners untouched by the buzzing fluorescent glow. The air smelled like damp pavement and oil, and every small sound—footsteps, voices, the occasional rev of an engine from the street below—echoed off the walls.

Kendrick spoke, his voice low, clipped. You couldn’t make out all of it, but the frustration was clear in the sharp movements of his hands, the way his jaw tensed as the other man stood there, unfazed. Then, without ceremony, the man reached into his coat and handed Kendrick a folder.

Slim. Black.

The kind of thing that usually came with non-disclosure agreements and a paper trail so thin it could vanish overnight.

Kendrick hesitated before taking it, looking around like he could feel eyes on him.

He was right to.

Click.

From here, it was impossible to see what was inside, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was happening. A transaction. An exchange that wasn’t meant to be documented.

And you were documenting it.

You’d spent years chasing men like Kendrick—men who spoke about "accountability" while stuffing their pockets under the table. Men who pretended to serve, but only when it served them. You knew this playbook. Knew the patterns. Knew when someone was about to make a deal they didn’t want written down.

And yet, your mind wasn’t entirely here.

It was back in that office. In that moment just before your phone had buzzed.

"Dinner," Bucky had said.

Like it was simple. Like it was nothing.

Like you didn’t already know that it wasn’t.

You leaned forward, straining to get the shot. Another click.

Your foot slipped.

The scaffolding beneath you shuddered as your boot knocked against a loose piece of rebar, sending it clattering down the steel framework. The noise was sharp, unnatural in the stillness of the garage, and before you could react—

The man’s head snapped up.

Your stomach plummeted.

For half a second, you stayed frozen, gripping the edge of the scaffolding, willing yourself into the dark, into stillness, into anything that wasn’t seen.

But then—your weight shifted, your knee pressing against a stack of unbalanced plywood. It wobbled, tilting.

You tried to steady it.

That made it worse.

The entire pile tipped, crashing down in a split-second avalanche of wood and rusted metal.

A second of stillness.

Then—movement.

Kendrick pivoted, already turning toward the car.

The other man didn’t wait. A quick, sharp gesture—an order you couldn’t hear, but you didn’t need to. The reaction was instant. Kendrick yanked open the door and all but threw himself inside.

The car roared to life.

Shit.

You moved, grabbing for the scaffolding ladder, swinging yourself over the edge, boots finding purchase on cold steel. You climbed down fast, breath quick and sharp, hands barely registering the bite of metal against your skin.

By the time you hit the pavement, the black sedan was already peeling toward the ramp.

For one sickening second, as the black sedan lurched forward, you couldn’t tell if it was peeling away in retreat—or coming for you.

You slipped into the shadows of a bus stop, the camera tucked against your chest just as the sedan braked hard, tires grinding against concrete, a single, deliberate motion that sent a ripple of dread clawing up your spine. Not a panicked escape. Not a rushed departure.

A pause. A breath.

Fuck.

Through the windshield, through the tinted glass, you could feel them scanning—heads tilting, figures shifting just slightly as they peered out into the dim sprawl of the city. The garage cast long, distorted reflections against the car’s sleek surface, stretching under the amber glow of the streetlights. But you knew better. Knew they weren’t looking at the lights.

You pressed yourself against the cold steel of the bus stop frame, breath locked tight behind your ribs, camera clutched against your chest. A moment stretched, thick and suffocating, before the back door of the sedan cracked open just enough to catch.

A figure leaned forward.

A glimpse of Kendrick’s silhouette in the dark interior. The shadow of a profile, sharp and watchful. And then, just behind him, a sliver of the other man—a turn of his head, a flicker of movement as his gaze swept the street, methodical. Calculated.

You weren’t sure which was worse: Kendrick, visibly rattled, or the man beside him, so eerily composed.

Your heartbeat thudded, a slow, dull drum against your ribs. You were trapped. One wrong move. One shift in the wrong pocket of light, and—

The engine revved.

You bolted.

Your bag slammed against your hip as you cut left, weaving through late-night foot traffic, past a group of office workers nursing coffee outside a 24-hour bodega. You didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. You heard the tires peel

You took a sharp left down an alley, breath measured, footfalls light. You’d done this before. You knew the exits. The escape routes. The places to disappear.

You barely had time to react before headlights cut through the alley, flooding the narrow corridor with a blinding glare.

Shit.

The driver gunned it.

You sprinted toward the opening at the other end of the alley, your breath sharp, legs burning. The car was gaining. Too fast. No time to think, no time to plan.

The bumper clipped you.

Pain exploded across your side as you hit the pavement, rolling with the momentum, barely keeping yourself from slamming straight into the brick wall beside you. The impact stole the breath from your lungs, sent fire screaming through your ribs. Gravel scraped against your skin.

For a split second, the world blurred.

The car didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Just kept going, disappearing into the street beyond like it had never been there at all.

You gasped, forcing yourself up, ignoring the sharp sting where your cheek had scraped against the ground. Blood. Not much, but enough to sting. Your camera lay a few feet away, battered but intact. Your hands shook as you reached for it, breath still coming too fast, too sharp.

Footsteps.

You tensed.

A figure stepped forward, just enough for the light to catch the sharp cut of her cheekbones, the cool amusement settled into the corners of her mouth. Her coat was buttoned to the throat, gloves still pristine, like she hadn’t just stepped onto a street where someone tried to run you down. Like this was just another night.

Valentina.

Of course.

“Well,” she mused, voice lilting over the cool night air. “That looked unpleasant.”

You wiped the blood from your cheek, forcing yourself to right yourself. “Gonna tell me this was a coincidence?” your voice came sharp, even through the ache in your ribs.

Valentina sighed, tilting her head, faux-thoughtful. “You always assume the worst in people.”

You huffed a bitter laugh. “You make it easy.”

Your pulse pounded at your throat, but you held her gaze, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you rattled. Because that was the game, wasn’t it? Control the board. Control the narrative. Decide who knew what and when.

She glanced at your camera and smirked.

“Well,” she mused, her tone all idle curiosity, “I do hope you got the shot.”

“Didn’t know I was supposed to be getting one for you.”

She exhaled, feigning patience. “Let’s not pretend. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t already halfway to the truth.”

You steadied your breath, still aching from the hit. “And you just happened to be here, what—checking in? Making sure I did my job for you?”

She laughed, quiet, indulgent. “I had faith in your instincts.” A pause, calculated. “Though, I will say, I didn’t expect Kendrick’s people to be so… theatrical.” Her eyes flickered over the street, like she was barely interested in the mess left behind.

Your jaw clenched. “What exactly am I supposed to find here, Valentina?”

She tilted her head slightly, watching you like a cat with a wounded mouse. “Something useful. Something that ensures our mutual friend’s opponent has a very sudden scheduling conflict on election day.”

Your stomach turned. “So, this wasn’t just a lucky break.”

She smiled, slow and sharp. “You think this job runs on luck?” Her gaze dropped to the scrape on your cheek, then back to your eyes, something amused glinting there. “You’re walking away from this in one piece. I’d call that luck.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying you with that same unsettling amusement, as if she was enjoying a private joke. “You always manage to land on your feet. Well, most of the time.” A pause, just long enough for her meaning to sink in. “Though I have to wonder… was it the fall that hurt more, or the fact that no one came looking?”

Your stomach turned to stone.

You kept your face neutral, but she caught the flicker in your eyes anyway.

She smiled, slow and knowing. “Funny thing about being the fearless truth-seeker, isn’t it? Sometimes, people get so used to you being in the thick of it, they stop wondering if you’ll make it out.” Her head tilted slightly. “And when you don’t?” She clicked her tongue. “Well, what’s one more missing journalist in the grand scheme of things?”

The words pressed against your ribs, sharp and deliberate. You knew exactly what she was referring to. The months spent buried in a warzone where the wrong people had noticed you asking the wrong questions. The long stretch of time where your byline had disappeared because you’d been too busy clawing your way back to solid ground.

“You think I scare that easy?”

“Oh, darling,” she sighed, stepping closer just enough to lower her voice. “I don’t need you scared. I need you focused.”

Your pulse ticked, but you held your ground.

She nodded toward the camera. “You have what you need. Now use it.” A pause. “It would be such a waste if Kendrick’s… misstep went unnoticed.”

The meaning was clear.

The dirt was real. The scandal was real. And she wanted you to be the one to put the final nail in Kendrick’s campaign.

She adjusted her gloves, casting one last glance at you before stepping back, as if the conversation was already over. “But I’d hurry, if I were you. Some stories have a way of… rewriting themselves before they make it to print.”

You exhaled slowly, watching as she slipped away into the night, her heels clicking against the pavement.

───────────────────────────────

The morning air was sharp, biting at the edges of your already worn-thin patience as you stepped into the campaign office, two coffees in hand and a headache hammering somewhere behind your temples. You weren’t sure how you were still upright—adrenaline, maybe. Sheer force of will.

By the time the sun crawled over the city skyline, you’d spent the night piecing together whatever fragments you could find—phone records, flight manifests, old financial disclosures that hadn’t been scrutinized nearly enough. The man with Kendrick wasn’t a staffer, wasn’t a donor, wasn’t someone meant to be seen. A former defense contractor, now conveniently off the radar, his name buried under shell corporations and private security firms with too many government contracts to count. The kind of man who made problems disappear before they reached headlines.

You didn’t know what was in the folder. That was the problem. That was always the problem. You could guess, of course—blackmail, classified intel, something damning enough to make a seasoned politician stop and think before tucking it under his arm like a live grenade—but guessing wasn’t proof.

Though, financial records were vague but telling—a series of wire transfers linked to a consulting firm with no real employees, a few curious adjustments to Kendrick’s campaign filings that no one had bothered to question. It wasn’t enough. Not yet. But it was the beginning of a thread, and if there was one thing you knew how to do, it was pull until the whole damn thing unraveled.

Your head pounded. The coffee in your right hand was your lifeline, the only thing keeping you from dropping where you stood. The one in your left? For Bucky. Because if you were going to suffer through the morning, he was damn sure going to suffer with you.

The office was already awake. Phones ringing, staffers moving in and out, their voices bouncing off the walls in clipped, urgent tones. This was the final stretch. The last week before the vote. Everything was moving at double speed. You wove through the chaos, ignoring the stiffness in your ribs, ignoring the soreness that radiated from your hip down to your thigh, where the SUV had clipped you. A shower and a handful of painkillers had done little to shake the lingering ache. And the scrape along your cheek—well. That’s what the sunglasses were for.

Bucky’s office door was closed. Not unusual. But as you approached, you caught voices. Low, tight. His campaign manager, probably. Whoever it was, they weren’t happy.

You hesitated for half a second, then knocked gently. The voices stopped. A moment later, the door cracked open and his campaign manager slipped out, still mid-sentence.

“I’m just saying, we need to get ahead of—” They cut off when they saw you. A brief flicker of surprise crossed their face before they exhaled sharply. “Barnes, we’ll finish this later.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just stood in the doorway, watching as the campaign manager pushed past you, already muttering into their phone. The door swung open wider, and Bucky’s gaze flicked to you, then to the coffee in your hands, then back to your face.

His brow furrowed.

“Nice sunglasses,” he said.

“Headache,” you muttered, stepping inside and handing him one of the coffees.

Bucky took it, but didn’t move, didn’t stop watching you. His gaze lingered a beat too long, like he was cataloging something, and you resisted the urge to shift under it. Instead, you reached into your bag, pulled out the neatly printed speech you’d finalized at an ungodly hour that morning, and set it on his desk.

“Final draft,” you said. “Shouldn’t need any more edits.”

His eyes didn’t leave you. “You planning on sticking around, or was this just a delivery?”

You exhaled, fingers tightening around the cup in your hands. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Sit down.”

It wasn’t a request.

Your jaw twitched, but you sighed, sinking into one of the more comfortable chairs across from his desk. The leather was soft, familiar, and you hated the way it felt like relief. You were exhausted, more than you wanted to admit. The adrenaline from last night had long since burned off, leaving only the bone-deep weariness of too many hours spent chasing shadows.

Bucky leaned back against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, coffee held loosely in one hand. His eyes were still fixed on you, unreadable.

“You look like hell,” he said.

“Yeah, well. I didn’t get much beauty sleep.” You took a slow sip of coffee, letting the heat burn down your throat. “Not all of us can wake up looking like we belong in a propaganda poster.”

His mouth twitched slightly, but he didn’t bite. Just studied you for another moment before finally speaking.

“Something happen?”

You hesitated.

The smart move would be to brush him off. You didn’t owe him an explanation. You weren’t his staffer. You weren’t even supposed to be here. But something about the weight of his gaze made lying feel like a waste of energy.

“I’ve got dirt on Kendrick,” you said. “Came in as a tip yesterday from my editor.”

Silence.

His fingers tapped once against the edge of the desk. “What kind of dirt?”

“The kind that gets him booted off the ballot,” you said. “Maybe the kind that lands him in a courtroom.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, nodding once like he’d expected as much. Like he already knew the walls were closing in on Kendrick, that something had been brewing under the surface. His thumb skimmed over the side of his coffee cup, pensive. “And let me guess—Valentina’s got her fingerprints all over this.”

Your throat tightened. “It was too convenient,” you admitted. “Anonymous tip, the timing, the way everything fell into place just when it needed to. It was a setup.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything, but you could see the muscle twitch in his temple. He knew. Knew exactly what that meant. Knew exactly what kind of game Valentina was playing.

“And yet,” he murmured, voice low, steady, “you’re still going to run with it.”

Your grip tightened around your coffee cup. “Wouldn’t you?”

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp.

You didn’t look away.

You exhaled, fingers curling against the paper sleeve of your cup. “Isn’t this exactly what we talked about? Holding the government accountable before the damage is already done?” The words came low, even, but there was something simmering beneath them. “Or does that only apply when it’s convenient?”

Without warning, he moved—stepping forward, reaching out, and before you could stop him, his fingers slipped under the arm of your sunglasses and slid them off.

You stiffened.

His expression didn’t change, but you saw it. The flicker of something dark, something sharp when his gaze landed on the scrape along your cheek. The bruising that had already begun to bloom around the scrape.

His fingers twitched against the sunglasses in his grip.

“Headache, huh?” His voice was quiet. Dangerous.

You swallowed, forcing your shoulders back. “Didn’t think you’d take it so literally.”

His gaze dragged over your face, taking in every detail, every mark, and something shifted in his stance—just slightly, but enough. His grip tightened around the sunglasses. You had the distinct feeling that if they weren’t made of plastic, they would’ve shattered in his hand.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low.

You shook your head. “Not important.”

He took a slow breath through his nose. “Try again.”

You hesitated. But then, finally—

“They tried to run me down.”

Bucky stilled.

“Kendrick’s people?” His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

“Yeah,” you said, shrugging, even though the ache in your ribs protested the movement. “Weren't too happy with me taking pictures of whatever the hell exchange happened last night.”

His eyes burned into you, something unreadable coiled tight in his expression. His grip on the sunglasses didn’t loosen. If anything, it only tightened.

“You should have called me.”

You let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “Right. Because that’s my first instinct when I’m about to get hit by a car—call Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky’s grip on the sunglasses was so tight you heard the plastic frame creak. His knuckles had gone white, his jaw locked, his entire frame wound tight as a wire, like one wrong move would snap it.

“That supposed to be funny?”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “No,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “It’s supposed to be reality.”

Bucky set the sunglasses down with slow, deliberate movements, like he had to force himself not to crush them in his grip. His fingers pressed into the desk for a long beat before he finally straightened, taking a step closer. Not crowding you. Not yet. But there was something different about the way he moved—something heavier, something simmering just beneath the surface.

"You nearly got killed," he said, each word deliberate, measured, like he was trying to keep them from turning into something sharper.

“Yeah,” you said, because what else was there? “Comes with the job.”

Bucky’s expression flickered—something dark, something incredulous. “The job,” he repeated, voice flat.

You sighed. “Yeah, Barnes. The job. My job."

His gaze flicked down to your hands, the way your fingers curled against your thighs, knuckles pressing white. His expression shifted, and you hated that he was seeing this—seeing you. For all the conversations you’d had, all the times you’d debated and picked apart each other’s reasoning like a game of chess, he’d never looked at you like this. Never like you were something fragile. Never like you could break.

But now?

Now, you weren’t so sure.

"You’re not a soldier," Bucky said, voice low, controlled. "You're not an agent, not some fed trained for this shit. You're a journalist. You’re just—"

His jaw flexed. Just a civilian. He didn’t say it. But you heard it anyway.

That was what got him, wasn’t it? That was what burrowed under his skin and dug in deep. You weren’t supposed to be in this. You weren’t built for this world.

You huffed out a sharp breath. “You’d be surprised what I’m built for.”

He gave you a look, unimpressed. “Yeah? Enlighten me.”

Your fingers tightened. “You want to talk about reality, Barnes? Fine.”

His jaw ticked, waiting, watching, but you could already see it—the way he’d made up his mind about this, about you, about what he thought you were capable of. Like you didn’t know exactly what kind of world you’d been navigating long before his name ever landed on your desk.

You huffed a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You think this is the first time someone’s tried to put me in the ground?" Bucky’s expression barely flickered, but you saw it—the shift in his stance, the weight pressing heavier into his shoulders. You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over your face. “This line of work doesn’t come with a safety net. I've been shot at twice, had my apartment ransacked more times than I can count, had a tracker put in my car without me noticing. I've had men follow me home, ones that made me memorize every exit in a building before I step inside. I've been locked in a goddamn shipping container for thirty-two hours, wondering if the next time someone opened that door, it’d be to drag me out or bury me at sea because some asshole didn’t like the questions I was asking.”

Your voice stayed even, detached, like you were reciting facts instead of recalling things that had nearly killed you. “You ever try to figure out the best way to conserve body heat in a metal box? ‘Cause I have. You ever hear rats scratching in the walls and wonder if you’re dying slow enough that they’ll have time to start eating you before someone finds the body?” You huffed a sharp breath. “The job’s not safe. It never was. But I'm still here.”

His expression didn’t change—not really. But something flickered, something dark, something cold. It was the kind of stillness that didn’t belong to Bucky Barnes, congressional candidate, but to the ghost of a man who had spent decades in the shadows, hands soaked in blood. The kind of stillness that said if you’d been anywhere near him when any of that happened, someone would have died for it.

Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face before leveling you with a look that could have cut stone. “Jesus Christ, you make my past look stable.”

You smirked, though it lacked any real humor. “Careful. Almost sounds like you care.”

His eyes flashed. “You think I don’t?”

You hesitated.

That was a mistake.

Bucky took another step closer, gaze never leaving yours. “You think I’m just standing here, pissed off because what—because it’s inconvenient for my campaign?” His voice was rougher now, lower. “You think I give a damn about optics when I just found out someone tried to run you off the road?”

Your throat tightened. “Bucky—”

“No,” he cut in. “You don’t get to brush this off like it’s nothing.”

Your pulse kicked against your ribs. “You don’t get to decide how I handle my job.”

He huffed out a bitter breath, shaking his head. “Yeah? Well, I don’t see you handling it.” He gestured vaguely at your face, at the bruising creeping along your jaw, at the scrape on your cheekbone. “I see you walking in here like nothing happened, hiding behind those cheap sunglasses, running yourself into the ground like this is just another day at the office.”

“It is,” you said, voice steady.

He stared at you. A muscle twitched in his jaw. His eyes were burning, unreadable. “That’s the problem.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the coffee cup, tension knotting at the base of your skull. You hadn’t walked in here for a lecture, for concern wrapped in sharp edges, for Bucky fucking Barnes looking at you like he could see every crack in your armor and wasn’t afraid to press on them.

You exhaled heavily, standing up from the leather chair. “This isn’t what I came here for,” you muttered.

Bucky’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his posture hardened. “No?”

“No.” You exhaled sharply, leveling him with a look, trying to shake off the way his voice was still lingering in your bones. “I came here to give you the speech. The one you’re going to be reading in three days. The one I’m not making any more edits on, or sitting through another round of your notes for, or sticking around to fix when you inevitably decide to ignore half of what we talked about.”

His gaze flicked to the desk, to the crisp stack of paper you’d dropped there minutes ago. Untouched. Unread.

He didn’t look at it.

He looked at you.

"You’re just gonna walk out."

"Yeah," you said, voice clipped.

You turned, crossing the room in three steps, but before you could reach the door, his voice cut through the space between you, sharp and low.

“So that’s it?”

You stopped.

Your grip on the handle tightened, but you didn’t turn around.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, a sound more frustration than breath. "You almost got killed last night, and you’re just—what? Gonna pretend like none of this touches you?"

Your jaw clenched. "It's not pretending," you muttered. "It’s surviving."

Silence stretched. Long. Heavy.

Then, softer, but not any less intense—"You don’t have to do that here."

Something lurched in your chest. Your throat went tight.

You pushed open the door, stepping through before the words could reach too deep, before you could let yourself believe there was anything to be found in them.

The door slammed shut behind you.

───────────────────────────────

The Post newsroom was alive with its usual chaos—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, reporters talking over each other, the hum of a city’s heartbeat compressed into four walls of bad coffee and worse lighting. Your desk was a disaster. Notes scattered, a half-eaten granola bar shoved under a pile of printouts, an empty coffee cup balanced precariously on top of your monitor. You hadn’t even noticed the time until the sunlight started slanting through the blinds at an angle that told you another day was slipping through your fingers.

The ache in your ribs was duller now, but not gone. The bruise along your cheekbone had deepened overnight, turning a shade that even your best concealer couldn’t quite fix.

Your fingers flew across your keyboard, pulling threads together, tracing financial records, cross-checking timestamps, trying to connect the dots before Kendrick or Valentina or whoever the hell else was involved in this mess got the chance to erase them. You were close. You could feel it. That same electric charge in the air you always got when a story was on the verge of breaking wide open.

A shadow passed over your desk.

You didn’t have to look up to know who it was. The air in the room had shifted. People didn’t stop and look when most people walked into a newsroom.

But they looked at congressional candidate James Buchanan Barnes.

You exhaled through your nose, fingers still moving over your keyboard. "Tell me you’re here because you finally decided to drop out of the race and leave me in peace."

Bucky huffed, amused. "Sorry to disappoint."

He leaned against the edge of your desk, expression unreadable, before setting something down.

You frowned, glancing at the small paper bag between you. It was folded neatly, like someone had taken actual care with it. You pulled it toward you, giving him a look before prying it open.

Inside, nestled in stamped, familiar wax paper, was a handful of dark chocolate sea salt caramels.

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

"Where the hell did you find these?" you asked, because these weren’t just the kind of thing you grabbed at a corner store. These were from a tiny shop in Brooklyn, one that had been around since before you were born, the one you’d bitched about last month when they’d closed for renovations. The one you’d mentioned once. In passing.

Bucky shrugged like it was nothing, but there was something in his expression—not smug, exactly. But something quieter.

"You don’t eat enough," he said simply.

You scoffed, shaking your head. "I eat."

"Coffee isn’t food," he countered.

"Thanks for the wisdom, Mom," you muttered, but you still popped one of the caramels into your mouth, because who the hell were you to waste a peace offering? The salt hit first, then the caramel, then the dark chocolate, and goddamn it, it was good. Annoyingly good.

"Why are you actually here?" you asked, voice still a little clipped, because you weren’t just going to let him stroll in here and buy his way back into your good graces with gourmet candy.

Bucky exhaled sharply, then—he slid something else onto your desk. A manila folder.

You straightened slightly. Your fingers hesitated before reaching for it.

"What is this?"

Bucky’s gaze flicked to the folder, then back to you. "Something Kendrick’s people don't want you to find."

Your pulse kicked.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the folder as you opened it.

The first page was a document, scanned and printed, the header stamped with the Department of Defense. Not something public. Not something easily accessed. The kind of paper trail that shouldn’t exist, because people like Kendrick don’t leave trails unless they’re sloppy.

Your eyes scanned the document, fingers gripping the edges, skimming the classified lines buried in jargon and bureaucracy, but the meaning was clear.

A contract. A deal made seven months ago between a private defense firm and a federal oversight committee. The kind of firm that didn’t advertise their services, didn’t have a public website, didn’t get talked about in polite circles. The kind of firm that got hired to handle things off the books.

And Kendrick?

He signed off on it.

You flipped to the next page—more documents. Wire transfers. Discrepancies in Kendrick’s financial disclosures that never made it to the public record. Money funneled through intermediaries, overseas accounts, shell companies that all lead back to one photo of a man.

The man you saw him with in that parking garage.

Your throat tightened. "How did you—"

"You’re not the only one who knows how to ask the right questions," Bucky said, tone unreadable.

You swallowed, eyes flicking up to his. "And what exactly do you want in return?"

A muscle flickered in his jaw. "Nothing."

You exhaled slowly, the tension between you simmering, not boiling over, but not dissipating either. The previous morning still hung in the air. The way you’d left. The way he’d let you.

"You don’t owe me, Barnes," you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t flinch.

"Never said I did."

The silence between you stretched, the weight of it pressing against your ribs, settling in the spaces that had already been frayed raw from the last two days. Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, watching you like he was waiting for something you weren’t ready to give.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the folder, knuckles tight. “I need to finish this,” you muttered, like that was enough to break whatever the hell this was.

Bucky didn’t budge. “Yeah,” he said, voice even. “Figured.”

You exhaled, rubbing a hand over your temple. The caffeine had worn off hours ago, and the exhaustion was creeping in like a tide, slow but inescapable. “It needs to be ready for publish tomorrow,” you continued, more to yourself than him.

Bucky nodded once, but his eyes stayed on you, sharp and assessing. “You gonna sleep before then?”

You huffed a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t have time for that.”

“That what you told yourself last night?” His voice was quieter now. Measured.

Your throat tightened. You didn’t answer.

Bucky shifted slightly, leaning against the desk, arms still crossed. “You ever let yourself slow down?” His tone wasn’t judgmental. Just… curious. Like he was studying you. Picking apart the edges of something you didn’t even know you’d been wearing thin.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You ever stop pretending you’re not in over your head?”

Bucky smirked, just a flicker of something dry. “Every damn day.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Sure.”

He shrugged. “I mean it. I wake up and ask myself what the hell I’m doing, and somehow, people still expect me to have all the answers.”

“Maybe it’s the arm,” you muttered.

Bucky blinked. “The arm.”

You gestured vaguely toward it, not even looking up. “Yeah. The bionic thing. Makes you look competent.”

Bucky let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Great. So, I’m just a walking political gimmick.”

“Didn’t say that,” you said, flipping open the folder. “But it does help distract people from the fact that you clearly hate half the events you have to be at.”

His smirk lingered, but something in his gaze sharpened. “You think I hate them?”

You snorted. “Barnes, I watched you give a press conference last week like you were being held hostage.”

“That’s not fair,” he countered, tilting his head slightly. “I was just being strongly encouraged.”

You shot him a flat look. “You looked two seconds away from throwing a chair.”

Bucky’s smirk deepened, something almost amused glinting in his eyes. “Only because I didn’t see a window big enough.”

A laugh nearly slipped out, but you bit it back, shaking your head. “Jesus.”

Bucky just exhaled, shifting again like he was debating whether to say what he was about to say next. And then—he glanced at his watch.

You watched the motion, brow furrowing slightly. “Don’t you have… congressman things to be doing?”

Bucky hummed like he was thinking about it. “Well,” he said, tapping his fingers once against the desk, “the event I was supposed to be at is wrapping up in about an hour.”

You frowned. “Supposed to be?”

Bucky shrugged, like it was nothing. “It was stuffy. I left early.”

You blinked at him. “Barnes.”

“What?” He met your stare, completely unaffected.

“You—” You shook your head, pointing at him with a pen. “You left early.”

“Yep.”

“From a campaign event.”

“Correct.”

You exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over your face. “Jesus Christ. What excuse did you give?”

“Didn’t.” Bucky smirked, watching your expression shift. “I just walked out.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re polling in the single digits with older voters. And you just—what? Left a room full of donors and press to—” You gestured between the two of you. “To come here?”

Bucky shrugged, unbothered. “Figured you’d make better conversation.”

Your jaw locked, something twisting in your chest, something dangerously close to unspoken.

You swallowed hard, pushing past it. “You’re gonna regret that when your campaign manager finds out.”

Bucky just huffed a quiet laugh. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You inhaled, slow, steady, not letting whatever the hell this was settle too deep. Instead, you just shook your head, glancing back at your screen. “Well, you’re welcome to stay.”

Bucky checked his watch again, entirely too casual. “Like I said,” he muttered, glancing up, watching you in that way that felt too knowing, too deliberate. “I’m free in about an hour.”

You swallowed.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached for another caramel.

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