It was the night before Christmas Eve. New York always shined during the holiday season, even in the 30s and 40s. Bucky enjoyed the walk. The brisk air stung his cheeks and nose. He kept his gloved hands stuffed in his pockets for warmth.

He meandered along the streets, taking in the festive lights and decorations. He knew some of the streets by their names, recognized a few old buildings as ones that had been new when he and Steve were adventurous teenagers running around the neighborhood, getting into scrapes and finding trouble.

As the day faded, he grabbed takeout Chinese and headed back to his apartment. Inside, it was dark and warm. The heater had made the place stuffy, so he grabbed a beer and took his beef and rice outside on the small balcony. He dropped into the plastic chair in the corner, set his food and beer on the tiny table, and gazed at the string lights on the surrounding buildings as he listened to the hum and crunch of traffic.

Christmas music filtered from the apartment upstairs.

This was the first Christmas since he'd gotten his mind back. December had come and gone in Wakanda, but it was a celebration of the solstice. Some celebrated Kwanzaa. Wakandans didn't officially celebrate Christmas, and time had stretched into such a blur during his recovery, he barely took note of the months.

Now, Christmas was all around him—lights, decorations, snow flurries, and music. The air smelled of cinnamon, gingerbread, and vanilla.

He took a sip of his beer and dug into his food. A soft, familiar melody drifted in the evening air.

"I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love."

"Even more than I usually do."

I'll be Home for Christmas. It wasn't Bing Crosby's voice, but the current singer had a rich, smooth voice.

It had been recorded to honor soldiers who longed to be home for Christmas.

Bucky had first heard it Christmas in 1943, then again in 1944 shortly before his mission to capture Zola. It had made him both sad and hopeful. He longed for Brooklyn and missed his family but had faith he'd make it home and have many more holidays with them.

His mother always had the house smelling amazing on Christmas eve—with a generous batch of sugar cookies and hot chocolate made from scratch on the stovetop.

He never made it home, and now home was gone, and the song was like a knife through his heart.

"I'll be home for Christmas."

"If only in my dreams."

Dreams were all he'd ever have of home or family, but nightmares of Hydra and the Winter Soldier filled his sleep more nights than not. Steve was his last connection to home, and now Steve was gone, too, and Bucky was painfully alone….

He was a man out of time, out of place, who didn't fit into the world.

The ache in Bucky's chest grew, stealing his breath. He closed his eyes as the last few seconds of the melody faded into the evening, then leaned forward and rested his forehead against the cool metal railing.

Christmas was another thing Hydra stole from him…he could fake smiles and wish strangers Merry Christmas, but he couldn't feel happy. He'd tried to will himself out of the dark pit that enveloped him, but it was stronger than him.

Would every Christmas feel like this? He squeezed his eyelids as hot tears spilled onto his cheeks, then took a deep, shuddering breath.

He pictured their faces. His mother, father, sisters, and Steve…thought of them around a Christmas tree, their families growing throughout the years, without him.

I miss you all. I'm sorry I screwed up, and this is my life now.

He had the things he'd wanted most during those dark decades with Hydra—whenever enough fragmented pieces of his memories returned—his mind and freedom.

Yet every day was agony, and he felt like a failure for not figuring it out like Steve had. He hoped if he got out of bed each day and went through the motions, eventually the ache might fade, and he could find a way to live in this world.