Bucky’s fingers traced over the yellowish, ink-stained wording, following the curves of the neat handwriting. ’Dearest James’, that was how the letter started. He could still recall theday he had received it, during his time in the Easter Front. The way it had been able to warm him up, against the unforgiving snow of the mountains.

His eyes turned to the side, unbelievably carefully so. Next to it, a couple of black-and-white pictures; some with Steven, some others with his sister, but mostly, pictures with you.

You, in your pretty dresses, your hair perfectly curled, and your lips strikingly red. And him, in his crispy uniform, looking at you with his steel-blue eyes, and wearing that inconceivably charming smirk.

James smiled at the memory. All those nights, spinning you around, winning prices for you at Coney Island, and taking bites out of the chocolates he bought just for you. The way you would playfully push his cap down whenever he got too teasing, or the way he had promised both you and himself he would make an actual, official move the moment war was over.

That day did—however—never arrive. World War Two might have been long over the moment he began to escape from HYDRA’S grip, but the fighting had not yet ended. He was still yet to face his own guilt, and the phantom of the Winter Soldier. Mercifully, he did now have to do it alone. Steven was there, doing his utmost effort to convince the Revengers—and the world—that he was no threat.

But most importantly, you were there. Bucky didn’t know if he was to be happy to have his best girl by his side once more, or horrified at the thought that someone like you had to endure being in HYDRA’S ice-cold Siberian facility to serve as an unwilling medic.

The moment he heard the faintest bit of clothing’s ruffle, his head shot back, in the direction of the faint footsteps. The old Winter Soldier instincts kicking in, his gloved hands covering the old possessions he had found in an old SHIELDS facility; which had apparently been kept in a box since the day of his supposed death.

“Did you know they kept these?” he questioned, bringing out the photographs and holding them up for you to see.