Chapter Text
The first thing I notice when I walk into the office isn’t the wood paneling or the flag tucked neatly in the corner. Or even the stack of folders piled precariously on the desk as if they’re waiting for me to file them.
It’s him.
James Buchanon Barnes. Congressman for Brooklyn. Former Winter Soldier. I know of him, but I’ve never met him. And now I’m working for him like I know more than I let on.
Even though I don’t.
He’s sitting behind the desk, jacket slung over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up, and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.
The second thing I notice is his arm. Shiny, sleek, unmistakably not human.
“Cool arm,” I blurt because my brain apparently has no filter today.
His head snaps up, blue eyes narrowing, and for a second I wonder if I’ve just committed career suicide on my very first assignment. His stare is flat, unreadable, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m worth acknowledging.
“That’s what you lead with?” His voice is low, edged with disbelief.
I shrug, shifting the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder. “Well, I mean, most people have boring arms. Yours is… vibranium. That’s objectively cool. Cooler than, say, tax law.”
The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile, but he smothers it quickly. “That’s a low bar.”
“Still a bar,” I mutter and drop my bag into the chair opposite his desk.
The room feels quiet. Too quiet. He studies me, and I can almost hear the unspoken thought rattling around in his head: Too young. Too green. Why are you here?
I get that a lot.
Although I seem to be in my early twenties, I’m much older. Twice that age if we’re going off the years I’ve spent on Attilan.
“I’m Laney,” I say, clearing my throat, and offering a hand across the desk. “Your new science and policy aide. I’ll be helping with—”
“Babysitting?” he cuts in.
I blink. “Translating,” I correct. “Think of me as subtitles for government jargon. You get the people-speak version, I do the math, so you don’t have to.”
His eyes flick to my hand, then back up to my face. For a second I think he’s going to ignore it entirely, but finally, he shakes. His grip is firm, warm, calloused. The kind of hand that’s held a weapon more often than a pen.
“Barnes,” he says simply.
“I know who you are.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I wince. “Sorry. That sounded creepy. I just… you’re not exactly a mystery man, Congressman.”
He leans back in his chair, metal fingers tapping against the wood. “Don’t call me that.”
“What, Congressman?”
“Yeah.” His mouth tightens. “It doesn’t fit.”
I tilt my head. “Then why run for office?”
His gaze hardens, and for a moment I think he won’t answer. Then, quietly, “because I owed it to them.”
There’s a weight in his voice, heavy enough to make me shut up. Whoever them is, I don’t push. Not yet at least.
I clear my throat again, pulling a folder out of my bag and sliding it across the desk. “Anyway, here’s a briefing memo for tomorrow’s hearing. Renewable energy initiatives, foreign tech imports, all that fun stuff. Pages four through six are the important parts. The rest is just posturing.”
He eyes the folder like it’s a live grenade. “Do I have to read it?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “Unless you want to get shredded by a senator who thinks solar panels are witchcraft.”
His lips twitch again, but he just flips the folder open. I let out a breath, sinking into the chair across from him.
For a few minutes, the only sound is the rustle of papers and the faint him of the fluorescent lights overhead. I try not to fidget, but my knee bounces anyway. He notices.
“Nervous?” he asks without looking up.
“Always,” I admit. “But I function well under pressure. Like a –” I snap my fingers, searching for the word. “—like a diamond. Or a poorly maintained espresso machine. You know, the ones that explode if you touch them long.”
His brows lift, and this time, he doesn’t bother hiding his smirk. “That’s… comforting.”
I grin, triumphant. Score one for me.
~~~
The day drags. Meetings, phone calls, endless stacks of paper. By the tie I stumble out of the office with my bag digging into my shoulder, the sun’s already gone. Washington nights are chilly, the air sharp with the smell of car exhaust and late-night food trucks.
The apartment building is only a few blocks away—government housing, neat and impersonal, the kind of place you forget as soon as you leave it. I’m fumbling with my keys when the door down the hall clicks open.
And out steps James Buchanon Barnes.
Of course.
Sometimes, I believe God likes to play sick jokes on me because I tend to have that kind of life.
He pauses when he sees me, brows knitting. “You live here?”
“Apparently so,” I say, giving him a sheepish smile. “Surprise, neighbor.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Figures.”
“Don’t sound so excited,” I tease, unlocking my door. “I promise I don’t throw parties. Or… ever make noise, really. Unless you count my kettle whistling. Do you drink tea? I’ve got like six kinds. Or coffee, if you’re more of a coffee guy. Though statistically, coffee drinkers are—”
“Laney,” he cuts in, deadpan.
“Yeah?”
“You talk too much.”
My face ignites, flushing like I’m a teenager who got caught doing something illicit. “Right. Sorry.”
But there’s no real bite in his tone. He lingers a second longer, like he’s trying to figure me out, then shakes his head and heads into his apartment. The door shuts with a soft thud.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the blank hallway, my heart doing an annoying little flutter.
Cool. Great. First day: survived. First impression: questionable. Neighbor status: officially awkward.
I shove the key into my lock, step inside, and let the door click shut behind me.
~~~
The next morning starts with coffee, and honestly, I regret not making it stronger.
The office is buzzing by the time I get in—phones ringing, aides rushing around, the smell of burnt toast lingering in the air like someone committed war crimes in the staff kitchen. I slip into my chair with a stack of files balanced precariously in my rms.
Barnes is already there. He doesn’t look up when I walk in, but I know he’s aware. He’s always aware.
“Morning,” I offer, setting the files down with a thud.
He grunts something that could pass as a greeting if you squint.
“You’re a ray of sunshine before nine a.m., aren’t you?”
That gets me a side glance, sharp blue eyes assessing. He doesn’t comment, just jerks his chin toward the folders. “What’s that?”
“Briefing materials for today’s committee hearing.” I pull a sheet free and slide it across the desk. “They’re going to grill you on renewable energy and foreign tech imports. Translation: a lot of shouting about money and who gets it.”
His metal fingers drum against the table, slow and rhythmic. “Do I need to say anything?”
“Yes,” I say pointedly. “You’re a congressman. Talking is literally the job description.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to argue, but instead he mutters, “could’ve fooled me.”
I roll my eyes and drop into the chair across from him. “Okay, well, if you don’t want to get flattened by a senator twice your age, I’d suggest at least pretending you read this.”
Barnes finally looks up, blue eyes glinting with dry amusement. “I’m twice his age. Difference is, I don’t act like it.”
I blink, caught off guard, then huff out a laugh. “Fair enough. Still doesn’t get you out of reading.”
He smirks faintly, then flips the folder open like it personally wronged him.
~~~
The hearing is a circus, as expected. Old men blustering, aides whispering behind clipboards, microphones squealing at the worst moments. Barnes sits stiff in his chair, looking like he’d rather be in a firefight than answering questions about solar subsidies.
When a senator sneers about “unreliable tech from unreliable countries,” I catch the flicker of irritation across Barnes’ face. He doesn’t say anything, though. He’s good at holding it in.
However, I cannot.
“With respect, Senator,” I say before I can stop myself, “the data shows foreign solar panels actually outperform our domestic models by seventeen percent on average. So, unless you’re suggesting we deliberately handicap ourselves—”
“Miss—” the senator snaps, glaring like I’m gum stuck to his shoe. “Who are you, again?”
“Laney Amaquelin,” I reply evenly. “Congressman Barnes’ aide.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then laughter ripples through the room. Not kind laughter either.
I understand that I look young. I understand that I appear to have no idea what the hell I am talking about even though Attilan schools are more thorough than the schools in this country. I understand that I appear to be a dumb blonde in a blazer with shoes that are so uncomfortable I have to place wind between my foot and the shoe to stop the aching.
But I’m not an idiot.
Barnes’ jaw tightens. He leans forward, voice calm but razor-edged. “She’s smarter than half the people in this room. You’d do well to listen.”
The laughter dies quick.
Heat creeps up my neck, but I keep my face neutral, flipping my notes closed. That’s as close to a compliment as I’m going to get.
By the time the hearing drags to an end, my head throbs. I trail Barnes back to the office, shoving stray papers into my bag.
“You didn’t have to back me up,” I say quietly once we’re inside.
He sinks into his chair with a groan. “Didn’t do it for you. They were being assholes.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Still. Thanks.”
He grunts again, which I’m starting to understand is his way of saying you’re welcome.
I settle at my desk, tapping my pen against the wood. For a few moments, it’s almost comfortable. Quiet, focused, easy.
Then, my mind drifts like it always does when I’m still too long. Back to Attilan.
Nobody here knows it exists. To them, it’s just a word buried in classified files, if that. But I know it. The city carved into mountains, the hum of power in the air, the traditions that bind and choke at the same time. A place that’s falling apart under my sister’s power.
Crystal never believed it could change. She left because to her, leaving was the only freedom. But to me? I still believe
Someday, when Black Bolt’s voice is no longer law and Medusa’s iron grip loosens, Attilan could be different. No more arranged marriages. No more lives dictated by lineage and power. A place where people get to love who they want and live how they want.
I hold onto that hope with both hands. It’s why I hide it. Why I cover the traces, bury the files, make sure no one here knows too much.
Because if the world finds Attilan before it has a chance to heal, to grow, they’ll crush it before it ever gets the chance.
That night, I find myself pacing my balcony, papers spread across the little metal table. The city hums below, neon and car horns blending into background noise.
“Working late?”
The voice makes me jump. I glance sideways. Barnes is leaning against the railing of his own balcony, a beer in hand, tie loosened, hair falling into his face. He looks more himself out here than he ever does in that office.
“Apparently,” I admit, stacking papers into a neater pile. “These memos won’t annotate themselves.”
He studies me for a moment, expression unreadable. “You’re different than the other aides. You don’t talk like them. Don’t act like them.”
I shrug, leaning on the railing. “Guess I missed the orientation video.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile.
I tilt my head, curious. “What about you? You don’t exactly scream congressman.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s because I’m not.”
“You are,” I counter. “Whether you like it or not.”
His eyes meet mine across the space between balconies. There’s something in his gaze. Something heavy, burdened and old. Older than me, even with all my decades hidden behind a young face.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he murmurs.
For a moment, silence stretches. Just the city buzzing and the two of us, neighbors in a world neither of us really belongs to.
I look down at my papers, lost in them, or at least trying to be. I look back up at him, though. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’re not half bad at it. Congressman.”
He groans, shaking his head. “Don’t start.”
I grin, hiding it behind my glass of water.
Hours later, when I finally crawl back into bed, I stare at the ceiling and let the city’s noise fade into background hum.
I think about Crystal—about the way she stormed out, furious and broken, swearing she’d never look back.
I think about Attilan—its walls, its silence, its people.
And I think about hope. Fragile, stubborn, relentless hope.
Because if there’s one thing I can give to my people, even from here, it’s the chance to someday live free.
And I’ll guard that chance with everything I have.