postscript. [bucky barnes x reader]

November 22, 1943 - December 25, 1943

22 November 1943

Dear Bucky,

You're in luck regarding my little Halloween party. Enclosed are as many pictures as I could take with the film that I had on hand. Don't you dare go thanking me for these, now. I'm sure you'll get better use out of them than I will.

In regards to farming, I haven't thought much about it until recently. All the same, I've started to imagine it with stark clarity. (It helps that my cousin lives out on a farm in Oneida, but I digress). I like the idea of getting out from under the smog and noise of the city and going somewhere where it's quiet and peaceful. That's the goal, I think: privacy and alone-ness. Not loneliness, mind. There's a difference between loneliness and alone-ness, and I wouldn't do it if I thought I was going to be lonely. My ration book is enough to live on for the time being.

No, I don't mind you reading my letters aloud, within reason. After all, me and Steve share little pieces from your letters with each other in order to feel like you're right here with us and making up the final piece of the Three Stooges, a little band we're likely to become once you finally get yourself home. I'll just have to be cautious not to invoke the name of Fr*nk S*natra anymore since he's a sore point among the men.

I am also every bit as happy to have things that are just between you and me. Here's something for your eyes only:

The promise you're asking for is difficult to give, but I'll give it to you all the same. It's my sincere hope to not only have the title of your best friend but to be deserving of it, too. So, no, I won't hide from you, and I certainly don't want to. However, I will endeavor to make these letters a joy to read as much as they are a joy to write, laced as they are with honesty and hardship. It is, after all, the Thankful time of year, and I intend to live up to the spirit of the holiday. End confidential statement.

Speaking of, I hope you and the boys will enjoy a feast even so far from home. I understand that for many of the boys, this is their first time out of the country, but I assure you it feels strange to us back in the States, too. What do you think about good ol' Franklin Delano Roosevelt changing Thanksgiving Day to the last Thursday of the month? My mother is calling it Franksgiving only because she goes about all month long getting ready for her grand family dinner, and this year she's upset at having less time to prepare. I tell her not to worry so much since we should try not to consume as much food this year anyway. This only upsets her more.

Still, she remains a real gem of a patron saint, if I do say so myself. Last week, she was put in charge of desserts for the church's bond-sale potluck, and created a beautiful sheet cake of red, white, and blue over which she pasted the words "Prayer for Our Boys is Sweet to God." God may have been the only person that cake was sweet to, I'm afraid. Amidst all the chaos of organizing the thing, she had substituted sugar for salt. My father has told me I am not allowed to joke about it with her until months after Franksgiving is over, and to understand that, even then, the most I may get out of her is a frustrated sigh. It is on you and the boys that I must rely to find the humor in it. Eugene may be right. There might be some benefit to living on a sugar farm.

Yours,

Moe (if you'll be Larry and Steve will be Curly)

P.S. Hello to the men of Easy Company who I understand will be hearing this letter. You're all bang-up fellas!

P.P.S. Hello to Babe especially. The tea was better this time.

-... -...

1 December 1943

Heya Moe,

Boy, oh boy. I don't know WHAT you wrote to Eisenhower, but he must be a sucker for a pretty dame. I didn't want to write you about this just so as not to get our collective hopes up, but now that it's finally over and done with I'm happy to share. "Share what?" I'm sure you're asking at this point. Heck, I'm sure you're on the edge of your seat. Well, hold your horses and sit down, missy, and I'll tell you all about it.