Chapter Text
Bucky had always found it amusing that despite his hatred of wearing a suit, Steve became a lawyer and a politician.
Sarah Rogers had been so proud of him, beaming even in her frailest moments, trembling hands fussing at his tie and cufflinks, tears in her blue eyes, and every time Steve’s grumblings would fade into bashful, proud smiles for his mother to see. Proudest woman on earth, Bucky would say, second to his own mother who he was still trying to keep from telling every cashier in Brooklyn about her war hero son, my baby, he’s in politics now and I think my heart might burst from it all-
He’d never really be able to stop her, nor did he want to. It was by luck and determination that she wasn’t telling those cashiers about her dead soldier son, killed in action, without even a body to bury. Bucky could remember stepping off the cargo plane, his left side too-light, the way her knees buckled under her as she ran to him, pushing anyone who would have stood in her way to the side to fall into him, clinging to him, sobbing. She could tell those cashiers whatever she wanted, really, if it would keep her from ever mourning him again.
“You ready to follow Presidental Candidate Rogers into the jaws of death?” Steve had asked him in the mirror over Peggy’s pristine marble sink, adjusting his tie, “There’s still time to call out sick.”
“Hell no,” Bucky had snorted, shaking his head, “That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight, I’m following him.”
That had been two months ago, the night Steve announced his running in the primaries to an overwhelmingly positive response and propelled Bucky’s job from the background to something far more public.
It wasn’t exactly something he was thrilled about, but it was for Steve. Steve who had let him sleep on his living room floor when Bucky got back stateside because his bed was too soft and he didn’t want his mom or sisters to hear him wake up from nightmares. Steve who had done a thousand and one things for him despite all his own challenges and so Bucky could do this, could put his degree and twenty-odd years of Steve Wrangling to work and run as effective a campaign as was possible for his best friend.
Which was why he was once again in a crowded event hall, sweating under his suit, champagne in one clammy hand as he counted the security lining the halls. The newer ones were easy to pick out in their untailored suits, the sides of their black jackets not quite falling right over the holsters on their belts, looking as out of place as he felt.
Steve looked in his element, of course, with Peggy on one side in her red dress and Sam on the other in his navy suit. There’d been dozens of prospective VP picks, carefully placed in yellow folders and labeled and stacked by Bucky, older politicians with experience and influence, who had wealthy donors behind them that would make them look less like they were in the Starks’ pocket for funding.
Which, to be fair, Bucky wasn’t exactly sure that they weren’t-
But anyways, in true Steve form he’d taken one look at the pile, raised his eyebrows, and said nothing but:
“I want Sam."
And Bucky hadn't said a thing, he'd just taken all those other files and ran them through the paper shredder one at a time, staring at Steve the entire time.
It wasn't that he disliked Sam, he actually thought he was an accomplished politician and a good man and honestly he would be an incredible vice president if all things worked out. There was just the little problem of him and Bucky getting on each others nerves just about any time they were in same room together. Sam had never let go of the time Bucky had accidentally broken his steering wheel and Bucky had never forgotten every ride in the car where he was stuck in the backseat folded like a taco. Sam's seat chronically stayed as far back as physically possible as if he could protect the new wheel by putting his entire body between it and Bucky.
And with Sam, came Sharon and incessant whispers of nepotism that Bucky would have to manage. It wasn't every day that the VP pick was married to the cousin of the potential First Lady.
Not to mention Sharon herself, who was conspicuously missing from Sam's side. Which meant that at any moment she'd probably appear next to him-
"You'll never guess who Ross hired to run his campaign.”
Speak of the devil and she shall appear in silver satin and diamonds, apparently.
"Which one?”
Because of course, the unrelated Everett and Thaddeus Ross would decide to run in the same election cycle, though thankfully in different parties. Bucky couldn’t help but picture a selection of harried newscasters watching the polls and praying that they wouldn’t have to read full names for the entirety of the main election. It’d been quite the buzz when Everett had joined the race a few days, going against none other than his ex-wife in the same party.
Bucky pitied the ones who had to run those campaigns. Steve’s was tricky enough.
“Everett.” Sharon grinned like a shark in the water as Bucky handed his empty flute to a passing waiter, swirling her own drink in her glass. “and it’s Coulson’s assistant from back in the day, Daisy Ward, or well, formerly Ward. She's married to Daniel Sousa now.”
He blinked. The name was way too familiar.
"Peggy's ex?”
Sharon nodded, "The one and only.”
Bucky needed a drink. Immediately.
“We’ve got to get out of Washington, our world is getting uncomfortably small.”
"Tell me about it.” She shook her head with a laugh, gesturing with her drink to a cluster of people across the room, “Ten o’clock, black dress. You know her?”
“Of course I do, it’s De Fontaine.”
How could he not? Valentina De Fontaine. CIA director turned politician turned presidential candidate running against her own ex-husband. The only real competition for Steve in the polls so far and therefore the thorn in Bucky’s side. The one good thing about her was the novel’s worth of controversy and questionable legislation to pull negative material from.
“No,” Sharon grabbed him by the arm and pulled him closer, turning him slightly even as he tried to shake off her grip, “Behind her. Other black dress. Mel Gold. I hear she’s an incredible speechwriter, too bad she's on De Fontaine's payroll.”
There was a change in Sharon’s tone that told him that she wasn’t just making casual conversation. She wanted something and that something definitely had to do with Miss Gold. Or maybe just using Miss Gold to ruin De Fontaine’s day.
“We have incredible speechwriters," he said as the group broke away, Valentina walking off to speak with a Senator and leaving Mel alone.
Sharon finished off her drink, passing it off to a waiter and patting Bucky on the arm.
“Always good to have another set of eyes, Barnes.” She leaned in closer to whisper, “Go on now and bat your eyelashes at her, win her over to the dark side. Put that pretty face to good use.”
He rolled his eyes, ”Why don't you? It’s your grand idea.”
“I don’t think I’m her type. Now, off you go, for America.”
“Sharon-"
She darted away, slipping between two groups of people and reaching Sam’s side with a speed that should have not looked as elegant and put together as it was, and then she glanced over her shoulder with a smirk that said you won’t.
He made a mental note to buy Riley the most obnoxious, loud, most repetitve toy that he could find for Christmas, and then he set off to do his job.
“Mel, right?” He said as he approached, stretching out a hand, which she shook as she gave him a polite smile, “Bucky Barnes.”
“Oh I know.” Mel grinned, “You’ve been quite the busy man lately.”
“No more busy than you, I’m sure. Miss De Fontaine seems like the kind of woman to keep eggs in more baskets than anyone can count.”
“Ah, there is it. Here to do a bit of egg hunting?”
She swept her hair back over her bare shoulder, framed by her black off-the-shoulder dress, and unconciously his eyes followed the movement. Put that pretty face to good use, Sharon’s voice rang in his ears, show us old Bucky again-
Maybe he could do it, maybe he could do it-
“Just a bit,” He ducked his head, smiling, “And I also wanted to say hello to the most beautiful woman in the room tonight.”
Take that, Sharon. He still had it.
Mel laughed, but it was light, “Still not going to tell you, Barnes, even if I do appreciate a compliment.”
“Too much?”
“A bit, but it was an admirable attempt.”
Okay so maybe he didn’t still have it. But she'd called it an admirable attempt and hadn't run away screaming. Baby steps. Old Bucky Baby Steps.
“Well, then, shall we start over?”
She raised an eyebrow, “So you can try again?”
“So I can say, hello, my name is Bucky Barnes and I do think we have some of the worst jobs in this town.”
The laugh that pulled from her was much brighter, nodding fiercely, “We really do, don’t we? But also the best. We’re making things happen.”
“That we are. Makes you wonder the things we could make happen on the same side of a fight.”
Mel shook her head with amusement, “That was a good one, much smoother than the first line.”
“Good to hear, especially since I meant it.”
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and held out a business card, the glossy print of it shining in the golden ballroom light.
“What’s this, your trash?” She asked, plucking it from his fingers and examining it.
“Ha,” He snorted, “Very funny. If these last few years in DC have taught me anything, it’s that things can change on a dime for anyone with the right connections.”
“That they can.” She glanced back up at him through her lashes, “Are you implying that I should be expecting to need a new job soon?”
He shrugged, “Just letting you know that you have leverage, if you wanted to see what your options were out there. Or dinner, maybe. If you’re free.”
Mel hummed under her breath, lifting up the clutch in her spare hand and dropping the business card in.
“Business or pleasure?” She asked, snapping the clutch shut.
“Maybe a bit of both.”
Mel watched him for a long moment, studying his face, and he felt a blush creeping up the back of his neck in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He could only hope Sharon wasn’t looking. If she was, he was never going to hear the end of it.
“Maybe I’ll take you up on that one of these days. For now, though, a toast. May the best man win.”
Mel plucked two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, offering him one. He took it and the glasses clinked together.
“May the best man win.”