unelectable ch.1
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 1: Funeral
Word Count: 3.6k
Chapter summary: Congresswoman Hamer was as dead as a doornail. This would very soon be a you problem.
Author’s Note: The organization DCCC should be read as "D-Triple-C"
December 1, 2026
“I think the Congresswoman would’ve approved,” Eileen leaned close to you, gesturing around the cathedral sanctuary, which was packed with mourners. “The governor’s here. Both senators. And I’ve counted at least ten representatives.”
“The pews were definitely packed,” you said as the crowd began to rise and circulate.
Congresswoman Francesca Hamer’s funeral had drawn nearly every name in New York City politics. You recognized many of the faces—elected officials, community organizers, nonprofit heads, even NY-8’s perennial Republican candidate, Robert Musgrave. But the most familiar were your former coworkers who had spent the past year helping to re-elect the Congresswoman.
“Should we go say hi?” You asked Eileen, nodding to two of your former colleagues, Priya, who worked with you in the field department as the campaign scheduler, and Mark from finance, who had the desk next to Eileen’s.
“Priya!” you kept your voice low and offered her the half-hug that was appropriate for funerals. “It’s been too long. How’ve you been? Besides the obvious.”
Priya sighed over your shoulder. "It's been a rough month," she squeezed your hand as you both pulled away from the hug. "But I was just telling everyone about how Congresswoman remembered my mom's name and made a point to ask after her whenever we spoke."
"Your mom came to the fundraiser last year, right? She was so sweet." Eileen asked.
“The very one. I can’t believe you remembered too,” Priya nudged Eileen with her shoulder.
"“I put the handwritten thank-you note Hamer gave me last month on my fridge." Mark said as he pulled on his thick wool coat. "My younger brother also volunteered, and she called to thank him personally in November."
“I miss it. My new boss isn’t anywhere near as nice,” Priya grumbled before turning to Mark with a brighter expression. “By the way, what is everyone up to now?”
“I got a job at the comptroller’s office. It’s temporary, nothing fancy, but it’s nice to be out of politics.”
“I’ve sent out all my applications, so now I’m just waiting for results. I should start getting results in March or April at the latest,” Eileen recited, in the crisp, measured cadence of someone who had talked about applying to law school a thousand times already. “I’ve been picking up some work with my uncle’s accounting firm in the meantime. What about you, Priya?”
“Actually, Hamer helped me get a job out in D.C. at a think tank." Priya stood up straighter. "You’re looking at a brand new foreign affairs analyst.” After a brief chorus of congratulations, you found three pairs of eyes blinking back at you. You didn’t have anything great to say, but for every millisecond you hesitated, your answer would be more depressing. Eileen nodded at you, encouragingly, ever so slightly.
“Oh, I’m kind of in-between things right now.” The sympathetic noises came right on cue.
“The market’s super tough right now,” Mark said, not unkindly. “I’m sure something’ll open up for you.”
“Is Stewart coming over here?” Eileen gestured with her chin at the tall blonde figure that was cutting her way through a sea of mourners.
“Oh god, I hope not,” Priya groaned. “Talking to old bosses is so awkward. I heard she’s already angling for a job in the special election.”
“Probably wants a promotion,” whispered Eileen. “She basically ran the last campaign on her own, Derek Eve got all the credit as the “campaign manager” then retired to Florida. It’s bullshit.”
“It is,” you agreed. “But I need a break from elections. And Kate Stewart. I’ll see you outside?” You asked Eileen, who nodded at you. “It was great to see you all.”
The cold hit the moment you opened the cathedral doors. The Congresswoman wasn’t even in the ground yet and already people were talking about who would replace her. You probably should’ve been inside networking with Eileen; it was rare that so many names in New York politics were in one place. Francesca Hamer’s death created a vacuum—the City’s swarms of consultants, clout-chasers, and lobbyists were already rushing to fill it.
Not you, though. You couldn’t stomach it today, not when your own unemployment was looming so heavily on your thoughts.
Outside of the cathedral, you opened your inbox and clicked on the “sent mail” tab to look at the state of your job search. The oldest emails, from three weeks ago, were addressed to think tanks, congressional staff offices, law firms. The most recent email, which you had sent earlier this morning, was to the manager at a bar you frequented asking if they had any openings for a bartender.
The depressing nature of your situation began to set in as you closed your inbox and swiped aimlessly on your phone. You almost opened social media, before you remembered that you had put parental controls on the apps so you wouldn’t be assaulted by smiling photos of former classmates and exes celebrating milestones that seemed so far away from where you were right now. You were a professional, you reminded yourself, and would not break down in public, no matter how tempting it was.
A cosmic irony in the form of a notification arrives from your bank just then, notifying you your rent was automatically withdrawn from your account, leaving you with only a few hundred dollars in your savings. Not enough to make it to next month.
More and more mourners exited the church. Not wanting to be in the way, you quickly gathered yourself and walked closer to the corner of Jay and Cathedral Street to wait for Eileen. When you spotted your best friend in her effortlessly chic black wool trench coat and her tailored trousers, you smiled, slipping your phone into your coat pocket. You noticed that Eileen’s eyes were bright, but not with tears.
“How’d it go?” You asked, as the two of you started towards the nearest train station to catch the F train home.
Eileen produced a business card from her coat pocket and handed it to you. It belonged to Julian Mota, which was a name that sounded vaguely familiar but you couldn’t quite place. You turned the card over in your hands and saw “Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee,” with a New York phone number under it.
You stopped walking. “No fucking way,” you breathed.
“The DCCC wants to meet!” Eileen said in a hushed tone that did nothing to mask her excitement. She looped her arm through yours and kept you both moving.
Securing a job with the national campaign arm for House Democrats would be a major step up from her last job as a fundraising coordinator. And it would mean that she could quit her temporary gigs as a secretary-slash-dog walker for the rich pricks of Bushwick.
“Dude, a job at the DCCC would be so sick!” You nudged her with your shoulder. “When’s the interview?”
“It’s not a job,” Eileen said. “They want to meet with us. Me and you.”
“What? Why?” That was way less exciting than employment. Knowing your luck, the DCCC probably wanted you both to volunteer to work for free again right after you had finally advanced to paid campaign work this past cycle.
“It’s about the special election.” The two of you entered the subway station and paid your fare, descending to the platform to wait for the southbound train. That was not what you had been expecting to hear. It was a little macabre to talk about the upcoming election when the Hamer’s body wasn’t even in the ground, but each day politics disappointed you more, so you didn’t hold onto your surprise for very long.
You thought about asking her, “I thought we weren’t going to mess with the upcoming election, and try to find something more stable?” But when you met her eyes and saw that she was more excited than you had seen her in weeks, you switched tactics and asked the native New Yorker, “New York’s rules are weird, right? Isn’t it a no-primary state?”
“Yup, and an accelerated timeline. Which means everyone will be scrambling.” The train began to pull into the station, wind blowing against your face. You watched as Eileen’s neatly trimmed bob flew up wildly, but her bangs stayed perfectly flat against her forehead. She raised her volume as she tried to speak over the screeching of the train as it slowed to a stop. “Given that they want to talk to us,” Eileen’s fingers flicked between you and her, “I think it’s gonna be about our campaign structure proposal.”
“What?” Now you were just confused. “First of all, I didn’t know you actually sent that to anyone. Second, that’s not a proposal for a place like Brooklyn.”
“I know, I know, we developed it to help Dems in places like Hicksville, Indiana, win elections with no funds,” Eileen said breezily as you both boarded the train and beelined for two unoccupied seats. “But I think it could be adapted for NY-8. And I think the DCCC is interested because they just spent a ton of money this past election cycle, and lost more than they won.”
You began to put some dots together, “And with donor fatigue, the usual fundraising pools are going to dry up fast. I know I wouldn’t want to give more money to a new candidate if the last one who took my money died before the first session of Congress.”
“It could work,” Eileen smiled at you. “And besides, I need something to keep me occupied before I start law school next year.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” you returned her smile. Eileen could talk you into anything. “But I get why we have a meeting now.”
Two days later, you found yourself across from Julian Mota, an older man with gray streaks in his cropped, black hair. He wore a thick cable-knit sweater with a collared shirt peeking out. He adjusted the cuffs of the undershirt while he talked, which you deemed a nervous tick, given that he was explaining just how dire the situation in front of you and Eileen was.
"Things have gotten incredibly complicated in New York politics this year,” his voice was low and a little raspy. “The recent election has changed a lot. On the one hand, you have president-elect Ross,” he spat out the name like it was a swear, “and on the other, you have Wilson Fisk and his ilk, changing what it means to be a Democrat in the city. Whoever runs for office will have an incredibly difficult time trying to thread this needle.”
“And likely won’t have the funds of previous candidates,” you supplied.
Julian fidgeted with his sleeve cuffs. “I wish we had more to give, but given that Representative Hamer passed so soon after her election, there’s not much we can do.”
“Which is why you wanted to meet with us,” Eileen finished, leaning forward in her seat.
“I read your proposal,” Julian took out a blue folder and flipped through the pages. “Two full-time members of staff splitting the bulk of managerial work, and an army of unpaid interns or volunteers. It’s well thought out, but it’s crazy.”
“It’s meant for districts where they don’t have a choice.” You had worked on plenty of losing campaigns in your home state. Although an increased budget would be the most beneficial panacea for Democrats at home, but when money was tight, the best possible strategy was to concentrate what little you had where it could still make a difference.
“I know,” Julian smiled sadly. “And I’m increasingly feeling like that’s where we are here in Brooklyn.” After a beat, he leaned forward in his chair. “I know Francesca didn’t like Fisk.”
“He’s a criminal.” You let the words hang.
“He’s changed everything,” Julian said. “No one has put their name up for consideration for the Democratic nomination. Everyone’s waiting to see what he’ll do.”
“And you?” You asked, a pit in your stomach starting to form.
“Francesca—Representative Hamer was my friend,” His voice cracked on the word “friend.” Julian cleared his throat before continuing.“I’d like to honor her wishes and not nominate a Fisk puppet. But the DCCC doesn’t have the resources to run a full campaign in a non-competitive district. If you two can find a candidate who understands all of this, and the risk, I’ll help them secure the nomination.”
“And we would do what? Run a campaign model like in our proposal?” You were glad Eileen was here at this moment, asking questions you were a little too scared to ask.
“It would ultimately be up to the candidate,” Julian readjusted his cuffs again. “But I would recommend this plan to any Brooklyn hopeful. And so would my like-minded peers here at the DCCC.”
The implication hung in the air. If you found a candidate to run, the campaign was as good as yours. You turned to look at Eileen who was already looking at you. You nodded.
“We can start looking today,” Eileen said.
“Any lists of potential candidates would be helpful,” you added. “Polling data too. Actually, just any candidate data would be great.”
Julian nodded, rising to his feet. “I can do that. Just remember, be discreet, and ideally, quick. I’d like to announce the nomination before Fisk is sworn in, and before he can do anything about it.”
“You got it,” Eileen rose from her seat, picking up her bag from the back of the chair and slinging it over her shoulder. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks again for the opportunity,” you said, beaming at Julian as you got up to leave. “You won’t regret it.”
“I hope that’s true, for all of our sakes.”
You were stupid to think this would be easy. True to his word, Julian had given you a list of a dozen names of community leaders: doctors, business people, city government members, community organizers, and so on and so forth.
You had cold-called all of them that afternoon, and of the half-dozen that had picked up and spoken to you, all of them turned you down. At first, this surprised you, given the city’s reputation for being full of social climbers, but with every “no” you got, a common theme emerged: people were scared of Wilson Fisk. They were scared of being perceived as “against” him, they were scared what he may do to their organizations without them, they were scared who he might appoint to their position after them.
Presently, you were dutifully taking notes of your conversation with Ben Nakamori, a city councilmember who made sure you knew exactly why he was turning you down. As he droned on, you looked across your kitchen table at Eileen pretending to strangle herself, which was beginning to seem more pleasant than listening to minute fifteen of Mr. Nakamori’s monologue about how the city council simply couldn’t do anything to stand up to Fisk.
When you finally hung up, you slumped in your chair and wished you could melt into the floor.
“Why did we think this would be easy?” Eileen’s voice sounded as tired as you felt.
“Because if you or I had a modicum of notoriety we would run for office,” you suggested, your voice muffled by your head in your arms. “And we can’t understand why these jabronis won’t run in one of the friendliest districts you could ask for.”
“I hate politicians," Eileen mumbled. “They’re always worried about their careers.”
“I’d almost take a celebrity,” you half-heartedly sat up in your chair. “Playing a politician has got to be pretty close to the real thing. Larry David’s from Brooklyn, you think he’d be up to it?”
“We just buried an octogenarian, I don’t want to do it again, thank you,” EIleen said, opening her computer, “but this does give me an idea.” She slid her chair over towards you, so you could look at her computer screen. It was the Wikipedia page, “List of people from Brooklyn.” You sighed. Was this really what it had come to?
A few clicks and Eileen had figured out a way to sort the famous Brooklynites by birth year. You scanned the names. Half of these people were actors who lived and worked elsewhere, some were scientists, writers or other recluses, and none particularly jumped out at you as good candidates. You jotted down some names of community organizers you weren’t familiar with, but when Eileen searched for more information about them, most had moved out of the city after the Blip.
You and Eileen were about to give up hope, having scrolled all the way down to the 1950’s where David Berkowitz and Tony Danza were the standouts, when a name at the bottom of the screen caught your eye. Under the 1910’s, the only entry without a death date: James Buchanan Barnes.
Without meaning to, you let out a small gasp.
“It’s perfect!”
Eileen tutted her teeth, clicking over to the voter registration list Julian had given you access to in order to aid your search.
“Don’t get excited just yet,” she warned, as the page loaded in.
But it was perfect. James Buchanan Barnes was a registered Democrat, had voted in the election last November, and even lived in one of the NY-8 neighborhoods.
“Huh.” was Eileen’s only reply.
“World War II vet, friend and ally to two Captain America’s, helped defeat Thanos,” you counted off the “pluses” in James Barnes’ favor on your fingers. “I bet that will poll well across all sorts of demographics.”
“You're forgetting the Winter Soldier of it all,” Eileen turned in her chair to face you. “That makes him basically unelectable.”
Oh. She was right, in your desperation and delirium you had forgotten the other half of James Barnes’ public persona. You remember when it came out (what, fifteen years ago?) that the man responsible for dozens of assassinations over the course of the past seventy years was actually Captain America’s best friend-turned Hydra super soldier. Of course, at the time, you were more concerned with how the damage in Washington DC would impact your ability to get an internship there next semester.
“He was mind-controlled, and technically pardoned for all that, I thought,” you tried. Eileen had already pulled up Barnes’ Wikipedia and was reading the details of his pardon. Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she scanned the details of his pardon: the article chronicled each crime he was pardoned for. It was a long list.
“You’re right, but there’s always the court of public opinion.”
A scoff escaped your mouth before you could choke it back. “The public elect criminals all the time,” you felt some of your momentum come back. “Ten years ago, Trump, today, Fisk. And none of them were even reformed! Why can’t we run a good one?”
“Okay, for starters, to the public, “assassin” is very different from "shitbag" and "racketeer.” Eileen started, closing out the Wikipedia tab and reopening the voter database the DCCC had given you. “And I’m not too keen on betting the fate of New York’s Eighth on a hundred year old killer with PTSD. If we wanted a superhero to run, I’d rather get, like, anyone else. Even Spider-Man would be better.”
“He’s not old enough,” you said automatically, drawing on your pool of Spider-Man fun facts you had learned from your younger sister, Maya.
“You freak!” Eileen side-eyed you, laughing. “The point still stands. Most heroes have a better reputation than Barnes, except maybe Frank Castle. And even then, we know for a fact that New Yorkers are hostile to heroes right now.”
That was fair, you conceded. Fisk’s election was a pretty clear condemnation of the increase in enhanced human activity and violence in the city. New Yorkers were fed up, and you couldn’t really blame them.
“Does the database have polling data for Barnes?” It was a long shot, but worth asking about. Eileen gave you a weird look in response.
“That would be a huge waste of money, if the DCCC had probe polls for every superhero,” Eileen mused. Probe polls were only supposed to be for potential candidates, but the Democrats were constantly scouting for new blood, especially since a not insignificant number of party members turned out to be Skrulls a few years ago.
“Just check,” you were almost pleading, “I want to do our due-diligence before we give up this lead.”
Eileen entered ‘James Buchanan Barnes’ into the polling data base and found two polls: one from April 2024 and one from April 2026. Barnes was viewed more favorably in 2024 than he was this year, but the data was clear. By a tiny margin, Brooklynites had a “slightly favorable” view of James Buchanan Barnes.
It was your turn to be surprised. Despite pressing the matter, you had kinda assumed any polling wouldn’t be favorable, given the Winter Soldier of it all, and the thing with the Flag Smashers still in recent memory. You turned to look at Eileen, who looked just as surprised as you felt
“I would call this data a massive waste of money in any other circumstance,” you said, wondering who at the DCCC ordered this poll, and just how many other public figures were in this database. “But you have to admit this is promising.”
“I still don’t love it,” Eileen grudged. “But I’ll put him on the list. The bottom of our list. How would you get in contact with a superhero, anyways?”
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Author’s Note: Thank you for checking out my fic! I have 33 main chapters planned, and am so excited to go on this journey with y’all :) If you want, you can check out my page, which has a note about the direction this fic will go in and also explains the pertinent background knowledge, since I’m trying to be as canon compliant as possible for the world building.