whirlybirbs:

bucky writes.

his backpack is weighed down with journals marred with chicken scratch and inked memories that help him piece together a lived & scattered life — smells that remind him of his mother, names that call unknown faces to mind, songs that bring back the first steps of a jitterbug.

bucky is scared he’s going to forget again.

he’s scared he’s going to forget you.

so, his journals become flooded with your name and your own writing — he lets you doodle in the pages when he eats breakfast some mornings. you write him notes about his how hair looks particularly nice today, about how you’re excited to eat pad thai tonight.

you write lovesick notes to one another. you write him how much you wish you could kiss him every moment of every day; he writes about the softness of your skin and how your laugh make his knees go soft.

he saves these pages.

some days, he draws you. he’s not good, and it doesn’t really look like you, and he get frustrated because he can’t capture how your smile makes him feel inside.

and one day it happens.

his brain flips at the sound of those command words and he comes up from the void half-aware of himself and panicked and he feels like he’s drowning and he dumps out his backpack and he thumbs through the pages of the journals like a mad-man and you’re trying to calm him down and he can’t, because he doesn’t know who he is… and it’s horrible.

he re-learns your smile and the way it makes him feel through the chicken scratch and inked memories.

and that’s why bucky writes.