barnes '27 campaign manager

she/her | 20s | procrastinating grad school by writing | unelectable masterlist

[satelitte-angel]

Even as a child I hated Tony Stark because I knew he was my class enemy

[foreverfearlessred]

Sam Wilson you still look SO GOOD as Captain America

[satelitte-angel]

two seconds of bucky in the trailer and he’s getting framemogged by joaquin, my goat washed 💔💔💔

[satelitte-angel]

unelectable ch. 11

Summary: After the untimely death of Brooklyn's congressional representative, the Democratic Headquarters tasked you with finding someone, literally anyone not in Wilson Fisk's pocket to run for office. The good news: you found a candidate. The bad news: it's Bucky Barnes.

Tags/warnings: bucky barnes x reader, no use of y/n, Candidate! Bucky Barnes, fully developed pre-frontal cortex! reader, swearing, republicans & fisk supporters dni

ao3 link

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Chapter 11: Town hall

Summary: Bucky Barnes sheds some much needed light over voting rights issues.

Word count: 3k

“Can we get Bucky to the stage for a sound check?” Ganke asked, projecting his voice. Bucky, who had been sitting with you backstage, grimaced at you as he got up. It had been a smooth morning in the office as far as logistics went, but Bucky had been quiet and noticeably anxious. It didn’t take a mind-reader to see that he wasn’t thrilled about the town hall.

“Eileen, give us a thumbs down if you can’t hear Bucky or Marie,” Ganke shouted to Eileen, who was at the back of the auditorium.

“Good morning, I’m Marie-Valese Louissaint, Today I’m feeling blessed to be in the same auditorium where local kook, Curtis Sliwa, may have once stood,” Marie said into the mic, the feedback piercing at first before it evened out. 

“And I’m Bucky Barnes, thrilled to be here.” Bucky deadpanned, but Ganke prompted him to keep going. “I love Brooklyn, and I want to be your congressman. Uh, please vote for me.”

Eileen gave a thumbs up from the back row, which wasn’t very far away at all. The auditorium was small, with old wooden chairs bolted to the ground and dangling lights. You had already mentally reframed the auditorium’s small size as a good thing since it would disguise a low turnout. On Facebook, only 19 people had RSVP’d ‘yes’ to attending, and five of those ‘yeses’ included Eileen, some of the interns, and you.

“We’re good?” Bucky asked, looking at you. You stepped onto the stage, only slightly wincing at the bright lights.

“For now. You can chill backstage. Vijay and Ganke, you guys are going to be in charge of welcoming people. The pamphlets should be in a bag by the door. Hopefully people will want to sign up to volunteer too, so have the clipboard with signups ready just in case.” 

“Yes boss,” Vijay said, saluting you before jumping down the steps two at a time. 

“Georgia, you’ve got our list of questions to ask in case we need to keep things moving?” 

“Yeah, and I invited some friends too. Only one is definitely coming, the rest are hard maybes.”

“Perfect. Marie, you can sit wherever you’d like the audience so we can keep the questions topical. Everyone, keep your phones on you, just in case we need to improvise. We want at least an hour of discussion, and are hoping for an hour and a half, but depending on turnout we can adjust. Everyone clear?”

“Crystal,” Marie said into the mic. 

You ducked behind the curtain to find Bucky sitting on a fold out chair texting. 

“You here to babysit me?” He asked, looking up from his phone. 

“No,” you lied. “I just wanted to read through my introduction a few more times in some quiet. The interns scurrying around were stressing me out.”

Bucky looked at you like he knew you were full of shit, but went back to texting nonetheless. You put your earbuds in and read the speech you had written, once, twice, but stopped halfway through the third time before you decided you hated it. A text came through the staff group chat from Vijay.

You got up and found the black duffel bag you had covered in plush key chains and ‘Fighting for Tomorrow’ pins. Beneath some binders on campaign finance law, you found a stack of pamphlets and took the side exit to the auditorium. Inside the auditorium, there were about fifty people already seated and at least fifteen or more lingering by the entrance. Trying to mask your shock, you smiled and handed a stack of pamphlets to Vijay and Ganke, and began passing out flyers, shaking hands, and thanking people for coming. 

When it was time to go backstage and prepare to start the event, your feet outpaced your brain as you thought of something to say to Bucky. How do you tell someone you accidentally underprepared them for an event they were already stressed about?

“Okay so good news, bad news.” You knew the smile on your face did not reach your eyes, but you hoped the dread that was creeping in wasn’t that noticeable. “Good news, a journalist came and is going to be filming! Bad news: There's like, at least 70 people here.” Bucky raised his eyebrows. 

“It’s definitely not just practice now.”

“Nope,” you said, trying not to fidget. “We’re in the big leagues now. How’re you feeling?” You looked him over for a sign of nerves. He was tense, his jaw clenched, and he had been quiet, but that was pretty par for the course for Bucky. 

“I feel like I’m going to a funeral.” He said, looking down at his suit.

“Hopefully not your own?” You raised your eyebrows, trying to alleviate the tension. Bucky huffed out a half-laugh.. You passed him his flag pin and looked away politely as he fumbled to put it on. “You’ve practiced. You know the material. As long as you don’t go off-script, what’s the worst that can happen?”

You took a deep breath and walked out onto the stage, finding your mark in the center. Scanning the crowd, you looked for familiar faces. You saw a few party members you recognized from past campaigns and meetings, but a lot of the crowd was new to you.

“Good evening, everyone. I’m so thrilled that you were able to take time out of your busy schedules to attend this town hall.” You took a deep breath before introducing yourself to the crowd. “We started this campaign because too many politicians only care about themselves. Today is all about you—we want to hear about your concerns, what gives you hope, your vision for a better New York. Our candidate, Bucky Barnes, is someone who knows what it means to serve, to rebuild, and to show up when it matters. He’s here tonight because he believes that public service is about people, not politics. Please join me in welcoming someone who’s ready to work for Brooklyn—Bucky Barnes.”

Some nervous energy prompted you to linger backstage for a bit. Bucky got through his opening statement smoothly enough. Even without a teleprompter, he managed to look up from his notes often and make eye contact with different sides of the room. When it was time to turn the floor over to questions, Marie was first in line at the microphone in the center of the auditorium, and asked a softball question about Bucky’s qualifications for office. 

“Look, when I wake up in the morning, I see the same thing that you guys are looking at right now. I know I’m not a “traditional candidate,” whatever that means. But my whole life, at least the parts of it where I’ve been in control, I’ve tried to help others. I left school early to support my family during the Depression. I joined the Army to defend my country. And since I was given a second chance a few years ago, I’ve been trying to do some good. For the past two years, I’ve been working at a local food bank, helping with deliveries and connecting with people in the community. I’ve seen firsthand where the system isn’t working, from high costs of living to struggles that are easy to overlook.

It’s one thing to say that New Yorkers are facing unprecedented challenges. It’s another thing entirely to do something about it. I’ve been working to help Brooklynites, and I want to keep helping Brooklynites, here in this city and in DC.”

The room rewarded Bucky with a smattering of applause.

You craned your neck to see the next speaker, who was an older gentleman, still bundled up in a bright orange winter coat, which wasn’t totally unusual given the weather. 

“My questions for Sergeant Barnes is, have you been in contact with Steve Rogers since he took up his post on the Moon?”

You were so caught off guard you almost laughed at the question.

“What?” Bucky sounded equally confused.

“Have you been in contact with Steve Rogers since he moved to the Moon?”

Bucky glanced around. “Uh, I think we should try and keep questions related to the campaign?” He did not sound confident. 

“Answer the question!” Someone shouted from the audience. Phone in hand, you exited the backstage area down the hallway to get a better view of the audience. The man at the microphone had unzipped his coat to reveal a neon yellow, home-made shirt that said “Moon Truther” in big letters along with a photo of Steve Rogers’ face. 

“Look, I haven’t been in contact with Steve Rogers since he retired 3 years ago. I can’t speculate on where he is or isn’t. If anyone has earned the right to retire in peace, it’s Steve. I understand why people still have questions. He mattered to a lot of us. But the truth is, Steve always believed in stepping up, in public service, and that’s exactly why I’m here today. So let’s use this time to talk about the future we can build together.”

After some jeering, the man took his seat. When the next question came from a volunteer you recognized about affordability, you made your way to sit next to Eileen, who was in the very last row, a good distance away from the rest of the audience. 

“We should’ve made Bingo cards for this,” Eileen whispered in your ear, causing you to crack a smile. 

“You can always count on the public to be memorable,” you said in a low voice as you pulled out your laptop and opened the campaign website and donation tracker. You fell into your work as Bucky answered a few more questions about his platform, until another strange comment pulled you out of your inbox. 

“You asked to keep questions related to the campaign, so I want to know, if Steve Rogers was previously a resident of this district, can he absentee vote in this election from the moon?”

You looked up, horrified to see a woman in another neon yellow shirt at the microphone. A quick sweep of the room confirmed your fears: at least thirty neon yellow t-shirts had sprouted in the audience while you were sending emails. 

“Fuck,” you breathed. Bucky, on stage, was tense and wide-eyed. “This is so bad.”

“I count thirty-three visible t-shirts,” Eileen’s voice was tense. “Thirty-three moon truthers. How did we not catch this?”

“The coats, and a bit of naivety,” you replied. “Cut the mic?”

“Yeah, let’s wait for it to get rowdy and then cause some feedback.” You wrote a quick message to the team’s groupchat, letting Ganke and the other interns in on the plan. 

On stage, Bucky loudly cleared his throat, clearly trying to buy himself some time. “Uh, voting eligibility is determined by residency and state law. And, um, just to be clear, Steve Rogers is not a resident of this district.”

“So where is he a resident?” The woman at the mic shot back. “Cause the last I checked, the moon doesn’t have a representative.”

“Maybe it’s like Guam and Puerto Rico,” another voice shouted from the audience, and the room descended into chaos. Cries of “Let Steve Rogers Vote!” “Moon Representation Matters!” kept the audience occupied as you moved to meet Ganke in the soundbooth. Right on schedule, an ear-piercing feedback noise played, and the woman who had been asking the questions had a cut mic. Ganke went and pretended to look over the microphone, before turning back to you in the soundbooth and doing a huge, fake shrug. You held up the backup mic and tapped it gingerly. 

“Test, test,” The mic was working. “Hi, sorry folks,” your voice was overly-sweet. “It looks like we’re having some tech problems, so we’re going to have to switch things up. How about everyone takes a seat, and I’ll bring the microphone to you?”

There was some mild grumbling as everyone took their seats, but everyone complied. You recognized a man with a full head of silver hair as Michel, the Democrat’s volunteer photographer in the crowd and brought the mic over to him. 

“Hello,” he said in his light French accent. “I immigrated to New York forty-five years ago. I’ve worked as a public school teacher for 35 years and moonlight as a photographer to make ends meet. I have no criminal record, and yet, in the years after the Blip, I’ve been questioned about my legal status more times than I care to count. What are you going to do to protect immigrants?”

“Thank you for the question,” Bucky’s brow furrowed perfectly: he looked pensive, yet serious. It would photograph wonderfully. “The world has changed a lot since the Blip. I hear pundits and podcasters saying we need to take drastic measures to “protect Americans.”” He made the gesture for air quotes with his fingers. “Now, I’m not pretending immigration is simple. It isn’t. But I don’t believe the only way to protect Americans is by pretending our neighbors are the problem. Oftentimes, crisis doesn’t take choice away, it just shows what you value. How we treat people at their lowest, how we decide to rebuild, that’s something we always have a choice in. As your congressman, I will fight for the dignity of all peoples. And I’ll start by supporting any legislation that aims to defund rogue government agencies that harass our neighbors.” 

The room applauded, and you felt your heart swell with pride, not only because Bucky had used a line you had given him earlier in the week. The questions continued as you ferried the microphone throughout the rows. Eventually, the Moon Truthers wisened up to the fact that you were skipping them, which caused them to put their coats back on, making everything a lot more confusing for you. While chauffeuring the mic around you couldn’t check your phone, but Bucky was making good time getting through the questions. The two additional times you accidentally let a Moon Truther ask a question, he handled it well. Okay—well might be generous. He handled it without swearing or physically leaving the stage, which felt like a win. 

You glanced over at Eileen, who held up three fingers: three more questions. You nodded, then made your way back toward the front rows and handed the microphone to an elderly woman pushing ninety in a bright pink sweater covered in embroidered animals, who looked like she had absolutely no intention of asking anything remotely related to the Moon.

“Hi Mr. Barnes,” she had the creaky voice of age that made you think of your own grandmother. “I really like everything you’ve said here today. I guess I just want to ask you why you decided to run for office, and why now?” 

“Thank you for the question…” Bucky began, waiting for the speaker to fill him in on her name. 

“Barbara, Barbara Ralph.” 

“Thank you, Barbara.” Bucky took the mic off of its stand and crossed the stage to stand closer to Barbara. “Look, if you told me three years ago that I’d be running for office, I wouldn’t have believed you. But like I said earlier, the world is changing fast. I don’t love the way politics are headed in this city. I think we need more people willing to look out for the little guy—”

You felt it before you heard it—the deep thrum of the building shuddering through the soles of your shoes, the snap of metal overhead. Before your brain caught up, Bucky was already moving; off the stage, over Barbara, his metal arm bolting up just in time to deflect a falling object. The giant light fixture that had been above Barbara hit the floor with a violent crash, glass shattering outward and the metal frame skidding to a stop a few feet in front of you.

“Is anyone hurt?” Bucky shouted above the noise. No one answered in any words you could make out. You extricated yourself from your spot pressed against the wall, careful to avoid the shards of glass all around you. Bucky hadn’t moved. He was still crouched in front of Barbara, speaking to her in a low voice that you couldn’t hear, one hand still curled above her like a shield, the other resting gently on her shoulder like it was anchoring them both to the ground. 

Your phone began buzzing in your clenched fist. You didn’t know if it was Eileen, or the group chat, or news alerts saying that for the first time ever superhero activity was spotted south of Williamsburg. You didn’t care. Your eyes remained fixed of Bucky as he was comforting the shaken up old woman in front of him, even as the room shouted his name. He didn’t look for reassurance. He didn’t yell at his staff. He didn’t ask what he should do next. You had worked for people who would do all that, or worse. 

As your breathing evened, you felt a strange sense of calm wash over you. It was time to admit to yourself what you had known for weeks now. There was no stunt that you could plan that was better than this. No version of sincerity that you could manufacture to appeal to the masses that was more palatable than what Bucky Barnes already was. Because Bucky Barnes was the real deal, a true, capital-H Hero. And you were going to do everything in your power to get him elected. 

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Yay!! The first act of the fic is complete! Which means more shenanigans will be ramping up!!! Guys I'm so excited like the nonsense I have planned for Act 2 is crazy like u have no idea

Thanks for reading, as always!

taglist (let me know if you want to be included/removed): @apenny4thots @bonkzzzs @mediocrejokes @erina00 @spidderboy

[satelitte-angel]

jin guangyao was right about everything, but his biggest problem was that he didn’t have a reliable henchperson on his staff saying “what if we got revenge efficiently and sneakily instead of poetically” and that’s how he got caught

[marz-genesis]

looking for me?

[satelitte-angel]

unelectable ch. 10

Summary: After the untimely death of Brooklyn's congressional representative, the Democratic Headquarters tasked you with finding someone, literally anyone not in Wilson Fisk's pocket to run for office. The good news: you found a candidate. The bad news: it's Bucky Barnes.

Tags/warnings: bucky barnes x reader, no use of y/n, Candidate! Bucky Barnes, fully developed pre-frontal cortex! reader, swearing, republicans & fisk supporters dni

ao3 link

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Chapter 10: Patch

Summary: It’s time to patch things up. 

Word Count: 4.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Have you eaten yet?”

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

“What’s good here?”

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

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

“Hit me.”

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

“No warm-up questions?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I did.” 

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

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

“What’s up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought this was hypothetical!”

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

“Wow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You walking home?” Bucky asked. 

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

“DUMBO? I thought you lived in Gravesend.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you mention it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“How—You know about the food bank?”

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, God. 

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

“How much of your story was true?”

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

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

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

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

“Violence begets violence.” 

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

“Me too.” 

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

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

You could respect that. Work with that, even. 

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

“It's nothing.”

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

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

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unelectable ch. 10

Summary: After the untimely death of Brooklyn's congressional representative, the Democratic Headquarters tasked you with finding someone, literally anyone not in Wilson Fisk's pocket to run for office. The good news: you found a candidate. The bad news: it's Bucky Barnes.

Tags/warnings: bucky barnes x reader, no use of y/n, Candidate! Bucky Barnes, fully developed pre-frontal cortex! reader, swearing, republicans & fisk supporters dni

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Chapter 10: Patch

Summary: It’s time to patch things up. 

Word Count: 4.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Have you eaten yet?”

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

“What’s good here?”

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

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

“Hit me.”

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

“No warm-up questions?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I did.” 

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

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

“What’s up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought this was hypothetical!”

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

“Wow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You walking home?” Bucky asked. 

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

“DUMBO? I thought you lived in Gravesend.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you mention it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“How—You know about the food bank?”

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, God. 

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

“How much of your story was true?”

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

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

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

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

“Violence begets violence.” 

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

“Me too.” 

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

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

You could respect that. Work with that, even. 

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

“It's nothing.”

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

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

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

Thanks for reading, as always!

taglist (let me know if you want to be included/removed): @apenny4thots @bonkzzzs @mediocrejokes @erina00 @spidderboy

[satelitte-angel]

scenes from the campaign trail

Summary: Deleted scenes from "unelectable", where you find yourself as the poor soul in charge of getting former assassin/Avenger Bucky Barnes elected to Congress.

Tags/warnings: bucky barnes x reader, no use of y/n, Candidate! Bucky Barnes, fully developed pre-frontal cortex! reader, swearing, republicans & fisk supporters dni

ao3 link

| unelectable masterlist |

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t even believe that yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Voters hate nuance.”

“They do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Think he’s looking for a manager?”

companion unelectable chapter

[satelitte-angel]

Karen Page wearing Frank’s dead wife’s hoodie

Which could mean nothing

[satelitte-angel]

Vague post

[satelitte-angel]

Vague post

[adhdo5]

one vodka cran

Two vodka cran

[satelitte-angel]

Am I uniquely and profoundly evil

[satelitte-angel]

unelectable ch. 9

Summary: After the untimely death of Brooklyn's congressional representative, the Democratic Headquarters tasked you with finding someone, literally anyone not in Wilson Fisk's pocket to run for office. The good news: you found a candidate. The bad news: it's Bucky Barnes.

Tags/warnings: bucky barnes x reader, no use of y/n, Candidate! Bucky Barnes, fully developed pre-frontal cortex! reader, swearing, republicans & fisk supporters dni

ao3 link

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Chapter 9: Call and response

Summary: Bucky Barnes DESTROYS your hopes of an easy campaign

Word count: 2.7k

The conference room was buzzing with nervous energy as the entire campaign staff waited for a phone call from Bucky’s Republican opponent, Robert Musgrave. Earlier that morning, Governor McCaffrey had finally set the election date: Tuesday, April 27th. With the end point clearly in sight now, it was time for everyone to kick it into gear, including scheduling a debate.

“When’s that phone call coming again?” you asked no one in particular.

“Josh said he’d call at 10:00.” Eileen looked at her watch and scoffed. It was 10:02. “I think it’s really great that Musgrave has managed to employ the world’s largest single-celled organism for so long.”

“Josh has run Musgrave’s last four campaigns,” you said to the interns. “Musgrave has yet to win, or improve his polling much.”

“I mean, that kind of sounds ideal, right?” Marie said, looking up from her laptop. “Every two years, stable employment, no expectation to win so you can kinda phone it in?” Laughter rippled around the conference table until Bucky’s phone rang, silencing the room.  

“This is Bucky Barnes.” You strained to listen to the other side of the call until Eileen gestured for him to put the phone on speaker.

“—and I’m looking forward to our debate.” You heard Robert Musgrave say debate singular. That was good. Based on the public speaking practice you did last week, you were rooting for one debate, early in the election cycle. Unless Bucky improved a lot (fingers crossed), you thought it was best to keep him to prepared remarks. 

“Yeah, me too. My team sent you some potential dates, right?”

“Yeah, let’s see here…. How about the week of February 7th? That way we can just get it out of the way.” You felt a sigh of relief as you listened to Musgrave’s gravelly voice. Robert Musgrave was an idiot, but he had a weird charisma about him and his classic New York accent lent him more authority than it ought to in the minds of voters. Bucky was looking at you to confirm, and you nodded.

“Yeah that works, how about… Thursday, the 11th?” Bucky said after taking the sticky note you had passed him. 

“OK. My team will be in contact with yours to settle the details. It was great talking, Sergeant Barnes. I look forward to meeting you.”

“Yeah me too.” He did not look like he meant it, even a little. 

“Why was that a phone call?” Bucky asked once the interns lost interest and went back to their screens. “Could have been an email.”

Biting back a smile, you answered, “Tradition, mostly. You’re supposed to be civil and stuff.”

“So if we’re debating on the 11th, and the town hall is on the 2nd, we’ll need to find a good time for a mock-debate.” Eileen was standing with her back towards the table, looking at the campaign flowchart. “Maybe that Sunday or Monday?”

“We’ll need to check the availability of everyone. Do we know any journalists?” You mused as you scrolled through your phone contacts.

“Why do we need a journalist at a mock debate?” Bucky asked. “I don’t think practice will be news-worthy.”

“Journalists and teachers are usually good moderators,” you answered, thinking of Hamer's mock debate last year moderated by Thembi Wallace. “Or they can take notes on things you did well, or not so good on. We’ll want someone else’s opinion on your ability to communicate the message.”

“Oh, got it. Off the record?”

“Off the record.” 

“Holy shit,” Eileen said, startling you. She was staring at her phone, eyes wide. “Georgia, turn on NY1.” The interns jumped to life to get the projector on—Vijay closed the blinds and Ganke turned the speaker volume on, so it only took a few moments for you to understand why Eileen was so freaked out. 

A third party candidate was announcing their candidacy. 

“As someone who’s covered politics in this city, this country, I know things are in dire need of fixing. But we need leadership we can trust.” The young woman speaking perfectly had groomed curls and intense eye makeup. You thought you had seen her before, but you couldn’t quite place her.

“Who’s Daniela Donato?” you asked, reading her name from the news ticker. “That name sounds vaguely familiar. 

“She’s a podcaster,” Eileen said, already pulling up her Wikipedia page. “Runs in the same circles as Joe Rogan and the other libertarian-y, anti-establishment types do.” You took her phone and scrolled down her biography. 33 years old, native New Yorker, Brown educated. Worked on Capitol Hill with a relative before starting her show. An estimated 200k monthly listeners… over one million monthly downloads in October 2026… two million Twitter followers…

“The political system is broken. It needs a massive overhaul so it can truly reflect the needs of the people. I’m as grateful as the next person for Bucky Barnes' service, but Brooklynites deserve better than choosing between a washed-up broker and the Winter Soldier, which is why I’m running for Congress.” 

Your eyes widened and you covered your mouth with your hand. “What the actual fuck.”

When NY1 cut back to the analysts, you motioned for Ganke to mute the coverage and gathered your thoughts in the subsequent silence.

“Okay, so obviously this is big news,” you said, pressing a hand to your temple. “Our message is the same, but we’re going to have to pivot.” You looked over at the interns, who were staring at you and Bucky with wide eyes. “Could you guys please give us the room, and start working on making a profile on Donato.” They nodded, beginning to pack up  “Does anyone know how to do opposition research?”

Marie half-raised her hand. 

“Okay, I’d like you to start working on that please.”

Once the door closed behind Ganke, you looked around the room, trying to take stock. Eileen was typing furiously on her laptop while Bucky stared out the conference room window, hands folded in his lap. 

After a moment, he broke the silence. “You all seem really freaked out by this.” 

You tried and failed to come up with something not so pessimistic. “Well, it’s not great.” 

“You said she was a podcaster. Does that translate to votes?”

“Maybe,” Eileen said through gritted teeth, showing Donato’s profile, which had already been reset and was now full of glossy portraits and campaign slogans. “Their campaign socials already have more followers than we do.” Bucky looked between you and Eileen through a furrowed brow. 

“That matters?”

“Honestly, the data is still kinda undecided on that. It’s an important tool for getting your message out there, but it's not like having more followers guarantees winning the election,” you said, leaning back in your chair and running a hand through your hair. 

“Eileen?” 

“Right now, I’m concerned about how professional everything looks. Independents rarely win, but if they can outspend us it makes them a threat.”

“So what now?”

“We need to know more. How about we break for a bit, Eileen and I will research Donato’s spending power, the interns are making an introduction to her issues… it’d probably be best if you either studied up on Donato’s platform or your own.” 

As the three of you left the conference room to split off into your own offices, your phone pinged with a text from Adam Weiss.

Adam Weiss: Just sent you an email about Fisk’s comments re:Bucky’s nomination being undemocratic, and how he’s “looking forward to a lively debate”. We need to put out a statement about nominating Barnes ASAP. Need to iron out language. 

Next to you, Eileen had pulled up social media on her phone and began to read aloud, just loud enough for you to hear, “‘My election sent a clear message: New Yorkers are tired of vigilantes. To nominate the Winter Soldier without any discussion with Brooklynites is not only unreflective of what voters want, but undemocratic…’ God-fucking-damn it, they’re screwing us!”

“When you put on a mask and decide to carry out justice yourself, that’s not heroism, that’s narcissism. These so-called heroes are just a bunch of whiny babies who run around our city creating chaos, making messes, and running away when it’s time to clean up.”

“So yeah, we watched a bunch of her podcast episodes, and as you can tell, she basically talks about every vigilante like they’re the Punisher,” Ganke said, swiping through some screenshots on the iPad he was holding. “Daniela Donato DESTROYS Spider-Man,” “Daniela Donato calls out masked MENACE Ms. Marvel,” “Hell’s Kitchen EXORCISM: Celebrating one year of a Daredevil-free city,” all of her video thumbnails used the Youtube clickbait font and had a weird, uncanny, AI quality to them, as if she were generating photos of herself. 

“She also hates the poor,” Georgia said as Ganke passed her the iPad. She pulled up a video of Donato from two months ago, she was wearing a very nice pink blazer and her hair had been freshly blown out. She may have horrible views, but she kept her stylist employed, you noted.

“I don’t think my tax dollars should pay for people getting ice cream and cupcakes. If you’re spending money on junk food, you don’t need the government’s help! Actions have consequences. Personal responsibility isn’t oppression—it’s adulthood”

“Yeah, just kind of a really myopic way to look at the world. She doesn’t think the government should help people, she doesn’t really like immigrants.” Georgia continued.

“Shocker,” Eileen murmured beside you.

The screen then changed to an article she had written for the Wall Street Journal in 2024 in support of the Patch Act, which would have deported all the migrants who came to the US during the Blip. The sub-heading read: “The Blip was a tragedy, but Americans shouldn’t have to sacrifice safety in the name of compassion. America can’t house the world’s problems, she needs to focus on our people first.” No longer able to restrain yourself, you sighed in utter contempt.

When you had Returned three years ago in Taiwan, you had woken up with literally nothing. All of your belongings were gone: no wallet, no phone, no passport. Even if you had the money to fly home (you didn’t, your bank account had been closed), without any documents, you were unable to enter the US. The government took months to verify your identity and reactivate your citizenship. During the first two weeks after the Snap, Eileen and you had to stay in a refugee camp until Eileen managed to get into contact with an uncle of hers. Eileen and you shared a twin-sized bed in his apartment for months until both of you were approved to return to the US. 

And you were one of the lucky ones. You had somewhere to sleep every night and could speak the local language, so finding work was easier. Uncle Kevin worked in shipping, so he was able to make sure the house had dinner every day, even if it was sweet potato congee. When you weren’t working, you would try to go to the resettlement camps to help out—there were plenty of people who were travelling during the Blip and foreign migrants who came for work opportunities after the Snap who didn’t speak Mandarin, so the camps always needed translators. Illness was rampant. Medical supplies were scarce. Countries became isolationist and trade dried up. Supply chains were fucked because four billion people suddenly reappeared, and there wasn’t enough food for everyone. 

Next to you, Eileen had tensed, jaw set. The aftermath of the Blip was still a sore spot for both of you—you both were still banned from a few downtown bars for getting into rowdy, expletive-filled arguments with other patrons about the Patch Act. Across the table, Bucky was watching the presentation with an intense focus, sometimes leaning forward to jot some notes on a sheet of paper. It occurred to you, not for the first time, that Bucky had been involved with the Patch Act. Sort of. He stopped the people who wanted to stop the ratification of the Patch Act. Eventually, Captain America had gotten the Global Repatriation Council to change their minds on the issue, but it was all kind of nebulous. You filed the thought away alongside all of the other burning questions you had about Bucky’s life before you had met. 

“This country used to reward hard work. Now we reward victimhood. And I’m just asking:  when did earning your place become too much to ask for?”

“Yeah, that’s about it,” Vijay said, taking back the iPad and pulling up her campaign website. Even the website looked expensive, with sleek typography, a responsive design, and professional-grade branding. “Her website doesn’t have a ton about her platform yet, so we had to watch her show. And also, we didn’t know where else to mention it, but she doesn’t even live in Brooklyn! She owns an apartment in Tribeca.”

“Is that allowed?” Bucky asked, looking over at you and Eileen. “I thought you had to live in your district.” 

“No, just the state you represent. But we can use this—since you do live in NY-8, maybe we can convince the voters you are more relatable,” EIleen said. “Speaking of relatability, we are going to need to lean into that hard.”

‘How? I don’t think I’m particularly relatable,” Bucky said, looking towards his left arm. 

“We will have to figure it out. We’re already outspent. The Donato campaign is registered with the FEC and has raised more money than we have. She’s also working with podcaster money and generational wealth.”

“It’s a matter of honing our original strategy, using the funds we do have to get out the vote for our likely supporters. Spending all our money on advertising. Public appearances when we can’t afford advertising.” You said, looking back at the screen as Vijay was clicking through the Donato campaign’s photos. Donato at a speaking engagement, Donato with Peter Thiel, Donato with Mayor Fisk—

“Wait a second, Vijay,” you said abruptly, as soon as you thought you saw someone you recognized. In the back of the photo, off to the side from where Donato and Fisk were shaking hands, you saw the face that had haunted your work-related nightmares for the past few months: a tall blonde woman with a tan and bright red lipstick who had a propensity for shouting at her staff. It was Kate Stewart, the woman who thanklessly ran Francesca Hamer’s last campaign. 

Eileen caught it at the same time you did. “Oh my god, she got Stewart!”

“Looks like she finally got the promotion she wanted,” you mused. “I just can’t believe she quit the party to go work for Daniela Donato.”

“I always thought she was just normal evil,” Eileen said with a wry smile. “Not libertarian evil.”

“You guys used to work for her?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah, she’s kinda—” You said ‘terrifying’ at the same time as Eileen said ‘awesome.’

“She’s very talented and likes to win, so she wouldn’t have taken a job with Donato if she thought the odds were impossible,” Eileen said. 

Eileen was right, of course. And Stewart likely had all the resources and insider knowledge she would need to do it. Hell, she probably still had access to the canvassing maps you had made and volunteer lists.

“So this is the real opponent,” Bucky said, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Daniela Donato and her team. Sounds like we better get our shit together.”

“Yes, boss!” Ganke said from the other end of the table.  

“Good energy, Ganke,” you said, closing your laptop to stand. “Let’s start with what we got. Marie, please keep working on the oppo research, Vijay, Ganke, I need you guys to reach out to our volunteer network and get people to commit to canvassing. Georgia, reach out to Michel and see if you can coordinate a time for some more professional pictures to be taken. And Eileen—”

“Call advertising.”

“You got it,” you said, clapping her on the shoulder. “The Donato campaign will be moving fast. We need to be faster.” You turned to Bucky, who was stretching his shoulder, metal fingers catching the light. When he became aware of your eyes on him, he dropped his arms.

“Guess I should start trying to be relatable.”

“Good instinct. Do you know how to do that?”

“Not a clue.” 

“We’ll work on it."

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Now things are finally getting interesting!! Bonus points to whoever can guess which political figures I am (barely) satirizing lmao

Thanks for reading, as always!

taglist (let me know if you want to be included/removed): @apenny4thots @bonkzzzs @mediocrejokes @erina00 @spidderboy

[rystiel]

rip my boy daniel i hope he haunts buck like a murdered lover

[imposterogers]

and while I’m here — civil war should have been an avengers movie if they were going to suck tony’s dick the whole time anyways. but it shouldn’t have mattered bc team cap was RIGHT. the sovokia accords stripped enhanced individuals of their rights and turned them into government weapons, but bc the film was too focused on tony’s wittle 50 year old man child feelings that clearly didn’t get thru to the audience

[imposterogers]

“oh but superhero’s caused so much damage” right right right but the government had also been infiltrated and ran by HYDRA for decades, sent nukes to blow up New York City, and almost activated a giant helicarrier to enact a surveillance state.

and steve didn’t say superheroes shouldn’t be regulated. he said he couldn’t agree with the terms in front of him bc they took ppls autonomy away and then they sent a KILL squad after his best friend who had been a prisoner of war for 70 years

but oh no poor tony! once he stopped profiteering off of war the normal way he made even worse weapons that caused mass destruction and he feels guilty! so obviously steve was the problem here

[imposterogers]

OH AND BTW the original cap 3 was supposed to be about steve and sam hunting bucky down, those relationships, and a new terrorist organization they had to combat. but as soon as batman v superman was announced feige made them scrap the idea