⮕ 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐓 ❘ [𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖛𝖊𝖑 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘]

▬▬▬▬ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑨𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏'𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔

TIMELINE｡˚ ⁀➷ Post Doctor Strange: Multiverse of Madness

WARNING｡˚ ⁀➷ Hurt/comfort, Fluff, Mentions of insecurity

PAIRING｡˚ ⁀➷ Bucky Barnes x SageWitch!reader

SUMMARY｡˚ ⁀➷ You discover Aaron's hidden letters filled with quiet pain and self-doubt, a heart-wrenching moment becomes a healing one. And you and Aaron build the bridge between belonging and being seen.

꧁꧂

Aaron's room was quiet.

Not just ordinary quiet—the kind of quiet that feels thick, like the air is holding something in. The light from the window fell softly across the bed, highlighting the small, familiar messes: worn books, a half-folded cloak, a sketchpad left open to a half-finished rune diagram.

You weren't searching for anything specific. Just a charger, something simple. Natalie had misplaced yours somewhere and you were in no mood to go scouring for it.

But life had a way of hiding earthquakes in the smallest moments.

You opened the drawer near his bed—and paused.

Letters. Dozens of them.

Folded and refolded, some worn so thin they looked like they'd been opened and closed a hundred times. A few torn at the edges. Some smudged, faint stains hinting at tears that had dried in silence.

A breath caught in your chest as you picked one up.

The handwriting was unmistakable. Aaron's.

You unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear the paper, though you already felt like something inside you was tearing open.

"I don't really know where I fit.
Mom and Dad love me—I know that.
But sometimes it feels like I was added after the picture was already finished.
Like they had everything they needed... and then there was me.
They make space for me. But what if I was never meant to be in the frame?"

Your throat tightened instantly.

You reached for the next one, hand trembling, heart pacing toward panic but held in place by aching restraint.

"Mara's powers are like sunshine. Natalie is chaotic and powerful.
Me? I'm the weird one who doesn't look like anyone.
One who survived a bomb that killed my real parents.
When people ask who I look like, Mom just says 'you look like you.'
W̶h̶i̶c̶h̶ ̶s̶o̶u̶n̶d̶s̶ ̶s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ ̶u̶n̶t̶i̶l̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶i̶z̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶m̶e̶a̶n̶s̶ ̶'̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶e̶'"

A sharp ache bloomed in your chest. The kind that comes from recognizing something your child never voiced out loud—something that had quietly grown roots while you were busy making breakfast or tucking them in at night.