⮕ 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐓 ❘ [𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖛𝖊𝖑 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘]

▬▬▬▬ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔

TIMELINE｡˚ ⁀➷ Post Black Panther: Wakanda Forever, Mentions of Post Infinity War

WARNING｡˚ ⁀➷ Hurt/comfort, Fluff, Angst, Mentions of depression and drinking

PAIRING｡˚ ⁀➷ Bucky Barnes x SageWitch!reader

SUMMARY｡˚ ⁀➷ While searching for you in the magically warded library of your house, Bucky finds an old compass with his 1940s army photo inside— undoubtedly something that you held onto during the Blip.

꧁꧂

The enchanted library hummed softly with ancient magic. Candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows over shelves heavy with worn spellbooks—some bound in cracked leather, others etched with strange runes. The faint scent of sandalwood and burning herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the dampness carried by the rain tapping quietly against the windowpane.

"Doll, you here?" Bucky moved barefoot across the polished wooden floor, dressed casually in a dark henley and sweatpants. His eyes scanned through the shelves for you, brows furrowed.

He paused at a carved desk cluttered with parchment, half-closed tomes, and scattered crystals. 

Next to it lay a stack of yellowed papers—military records, dog-eared and faded. Injury reports, discharge forms, and official evaluations signed under the name Barnes, James Buchanan. Grainy black-and-white photographs showed him and Steve in uniform, one with Dum Dum and the Howling Commandos.

And another softer one with you— in Wakanda during Bucky's deprogramming sessions. Your mouth was open in a bright, joyful smile as you captured the moment. Bucky had tried to look annoyed, but the fond grin on his face and the way his eyes were locked on you revealed the deep affection between you.

He stared, swallowing the flood of memories.

Bucky's fingers brushed past a loose sheet buried between old parchment scraps and ink-stained rune scrolls. The paper was yellowed, the edges crinkled and soft like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times. He almost overlooked it—until he saw his name.

"Dear Bucky," it began.

He paused.

The handwriting was unmistakably yours—curved, slightly hurried in places, with faint smudges where the ink had bled into tear-soaked fibers of the sheet.

He unfolded the letter slowly.

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Dear Bucky,

Remember how you used to say that after the Sokovia Accords mess, we'd buy out a liquor store and we'd try out all the alcohol that was there in the market?