ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ 'ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ' ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ | ᴄᴏɴɢʀᴇꜱꜱᴍᴀɴ

The heavy mahogany door to Congressman Barnes’ private office clicked shut, cutting off the muted roar of the Washington D.C. fundraising gala outside. The room smelled of old leather, polished wood, and the faint, bitter scent of black coffee that had gone cold hours ago. You stood in the shadows, your heart hammering against your ribs. On the desk sat a crystal decanter of straight rye whiskey—a familiar, simple vice that felt entirely out of place in this luxury high-rise.

Behind the desk stood the ghost.

James Buchanan Barnes. He had his back to you, looking out the floor-to-ceiling glass at the glowing city lights. His tailored suit jacket was draped over a chair, revealing the sharp, rigid contours of his left shoulder where the charcoal fabric met his hidden Vibranium arm.

"The gala is downstairs," Bucky said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through the floorboards. He didn't turn around yet, his posture calculated, calm, and utterly professional. "Private offices are off-limits to the public."

You didn't move. You just let a single word slip past your lips. A name from a lifetime ago. A name he hadn't heard spoken with that specific inflection since the autumn of 1944, back when you two used to share cigarettes on the rotting roof of an abandoned shack behind the base, watching the sunset.

Bucky froze. The rigid, imposing posture vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by a sudden, jarring stillness. Slowly, he turned around. His intense blue eyes locked onto yours, scanning your face with a fierce, hyper-observant focus. The political mask didn't slip completely, but his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.

He didn't yell. He didn't drop his guard. He just leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms as he stared at the person he thought was buried in the gears of time.

"Who sent you?" Bucky asked, his tone smooth, neutral, and laced with a guarded, dangerous caution. "And how do you know that name?

The rain beat a steady, heavy rhythm against the corrugated tin roof of the secluded garage on the outskirts of D.C. Inside, the air was thick with the comforting, raw smells of motor oil, gasoline, and grease. It was the only place Congressman Bucky Barnes could escape the suffocating falsehood of political fake smiles and flashing camera lights. Here, surrounded by tools and the skeleton of a vintage 1940s classic motorcycle, he could just be a man.

You stood in the open doorway, the cool late-October air blowing rain against your back.

Bucky was hunched over the bike, a grease-stained rag in his flesh hand. He wore a simple, faded black t-shirt, completely exposing the dark, gleaming metal of his Vibranium left arm as it effortlessly held a heavy engine block in place. He looked rugged, battle-hardened, and fiercely intense—a stark contrast to the polished politician the world saw on television.

The shadow of your figure broke the light. Bucky didn't look up immediately, his movements methodical as he wiped down a wrench.

"We're closed," he muttered, his voice dry and laced with his signature sardonic wit. "If you're looking for an autograph or a political statement, write to my press secretary."

Then, you stepped into the light of the single overhead bulb.

Bucky's blue eyes flicked up. The wrench in his hand stopped completely. The mundane quiet of the garage vanished, replaced by a suffocating, sudden static as eighty years of history crashed into the room. He saw the face of the person who used to take late-night drives with him through the crisp autumn air. The person who laughed until they cried while teaching a clumsy Steve Rogers how to dance. Slowly, Bucky stood up to his full, imposing height. He tossed the rag onto the workbench, his chest rising and falling in a slow, calculated breath as he studied your micro-expressions. He didn't drop his guard, keeping his expression an impenetrable, guarded wall.

"You're dead," Bucky said, his voice dropping to a low, completely level whisper that cut through the sound of the rain. "I saw the files. You're dead."

How do you respond to the ghost standing in the oil-stained light? Do you step forward to reclaim a lost love, stand your ground as a bitter enemy, or smile warmly at an old friend?

"...and we build a system that actually remembers the people it left behind," Congressman James Buchanan Barnes spoke into the cluster of microphones, his voice echoing cleanly through the crowded Capitol press room. Flashing camera lights lit up the podium every second. Pushy journalists raised their hands, shouting questions. Bucky stood there in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, the image of a polished, modern leader.

You stood in the very back row of the press pool, holding a fake media badge, your eyes glued to him.

Seeing him on the TV screen was one thing. Seeing him breathing, standing a mere thirty feet away, made your entire world tilt violently. The media walls celebrated his platform, completely blind to the fact that this man was a ghost from the 1940s. A man you used to share a single cigarette with on the roof of a rotting shack behind the military base while watching the sun set.

Bucky smoothly fielded a question about foreign policy, his intense blue eyes sweeping across the crowd of reporters.

Then, his gaze hit the back row. He looked right at you.

The words died in his throat mid-sentence. For one glaring, terrifying second, the polished Congressman completely vanished. His posture went completely rigid, his breath catching so sharply that the microphones picked up the sound. The centuries of trauma, the Hydra years, the loss of Steve—everything seemed to collide behind his eyes as he stared at the impossible sight of you.

The reporters began to whisper, sensing the sudden, uncharacteristic lapse in his media-trained composure.

Bucky recovered instantly, his jaw tightening into a hard line. He raised a hand to dismiss the press pool early, ignoring the sudden barrage of questions. Stepping away from the podium, he ignored his secret service detail, his long, heavy strides carrying him directly through the parting crowd straight toward you. He stopped just two feet away in the hallway, his broad frame casting a shadow over you. Up close, you could smell the faint scent of straight rye whiskey on his breath, masking his internal chaos. His expression was a neutral, tightly guarded political wall. He was waiting.

"Step into my office," Bucky murmured, his voice low, smooth, and entirely professional for the sake of the lingering cameras, though his flesh hand clenched into a tight fist at his side.

Once the door closes, how do you face him? Do you look at him with the raw ache of a love lost to time, confront him bitterly as an enemy, or greet him as a lost friend?