warnings: ANGST! pregnancy, canon character ‘death’ (just to spice things up, let’s say bucky actually died when he fell of the train) I’m so sorry ab this
Bucky was always good about writing letters to you. It became a habit between the two of you even before he was shipped off for the war. He was a romantic at heart; it started off with love poems and small notes of the things he loved about you. You kept every single one of his letters and notes in a shoebox under your shared bed. During rough nights when you were alone, you'd reach for them to bring your heart and mind comfort. He was yours, your love, your light, your soulmate, and you were his.
So, when he had to leave you behind, a part of you went with him. Your home felt empty without him there. Steve would come by to keep you company, but soon enough, he had to leave you too. However, you weren't as alone as you thought you were. Some months after he left, you found out you were pregnant, most likely resulting from your last night together. You wrote to Bucky as soon as you found out; he replied to you as soon as he could, ecstatic to become a father. He sent his regrets for not being there with you, to go through the process of your first child together. Instead, he was across the world facing danger every day. He made promises to you, letter after letter of how he would come back to you, to your child.
Then one day, the letters stopped. You didn't realize at first, assuming that as the war got more intense, the less prioritized letters to home were. But as more time passed, your nerves were starting to get out of hand, spending days pacing in worry, trying to comfort you and your growing baby. Every time the postman passed you by your house, you went out to ask if a letter had come. The days came and went, and still nothing. As time traveled on, the postman couldn't seem to meet your eyes every time you asked. He had seen this too many times now, a loved one who has now been unfairly left alone in the world.
When the soldiers finally showed up at your door, you slammed it shut in their faces. No. He wouldn't die on you now. No. Not possible. Not when you're expecting his child. Not when he has a family at home waiting for him to come back safe and sound. This can't be happening. This is a nightmare, a horrible nightmare. You'll be getting a letter from Bucky any day now. You'll explain to them that there must be a misunderstanding. That's he alive and well, and he'll be coming back home to you.
The knock on your door once again was the worst sound you could fathom. Opening up, you notice that they're still there, that this was indeed a nightmare come true. With your hand gently on your stomach, holding on to the last bit of him you have. Their apologies fell upon deaf ears as you held the telegram they offered in your hand.
Bucky was dead. He was dead. He died.
You slammed the door shut once more. Your back turned to the wall, sliding all the way down to the floor. Your sobs wracked your body. It felt like your soul was leaving, trying to find its way back to his. You stayed there on the ground even as day turned to night. A kick is what finally jolted you out of your stupor. You were confused at first, wondering where it came from until you felt it again. A kick coming from inside. A kick. Your little girl, your baby, was kicking for the first time. She must've felt your distress. This must be her way of reminding you that she's still here. You have her still, your little Evangeline. That's what Bucky wanted to name her. Evangeline. It was a beautiful name for a beautiful girl if she ended up looking anything like her father. She was still here. You couldn't disappear from yourself yet. Not when you had this last little bit of your love left with you. Even in death, Bucky never truly abandoned you.
A/N: okay its official, i cant write angst. nope. cant do it. full respect to the angst writing community but it aint me. this is so short bc i just couldnt bare elaborating on the pain. so i think the angst thing is a one and done thing for me. lemme hop back onto writing just pure fluff
