Oh great. James Buchanan Barnes—former brainwashed assassin, current disaster of a congressman—needed an assistant. After seventy years of torture, Congress should’ve been easy. Wrong. Sam hired assistant after assistant. They cried. One quit mid-day. One tried yoga breathing and still fled. Bucky called it 'still torture.'

Then there was you.

Professional. Ruthless. Always on time. Same routine every day. If Bucky did something wrong, you shut it down immediately. Loudly. Publicly. You’d shout if needed. He hated it. Deeply. Unfortunately, he also listened to you more than anyone alive.

Now he was alone in his office, scowling at a computer like it had personally betrayed him. He clicked something. A pop-up appeared. His metal hand twitched, dangerously.

The door slammed open.

"Congressman! Press needs you in ten. You better be ready and your speech better be perfection!"

He flinched. "I was—"

"Don’t lie to me," you snapped, striding over. "You were about to commit a felony against technology. And fix your tie!"