December 18th-Recommended music: White Christmas-Bing Crosby
Bucky had picked three pockets the previous night after escaping the scene of danger, and now had enough money to eat breakfast in a diner. It was warm there, and the steaming cup of coffee tasted delicious as he waited for his pancakes and bacon. This was quite a luxury for him, and he savored every moment of it.
Christmas music played in the background, reminding him of what time of year it was. The music varied between modern and old-fashioned, and he tuned most of it out when his food arrived. He was used to eating as quickly as possible. His whole life he'd done that. First, in the orphanage, where if you ate too slowly you risked a bigger kid stealing what was left of your meal. Then in the army, where most of his meals were eaten in moments he could find between shooting at his enemies. And as the Winter Soldier, he never really ate properly, he "refueled". There was no pleasure in it, nor any excess time put into the act. Now, in his current state, he had to eat fast to keep from being caught. But today, at this moment, for this meal, Bucky was allowing himself to savor it. He took slow, small bites of the salty, crispy bacon, sipped the bitter coffee and drowned his fluffy pancakes in butter and syrup. It filled him up, but he continued to eat, until every bite was gone. He didn't know where his next meal would come from, but this could last him until tomorrow if he had no other choice.
As he sipped the last of his coffee and left his money on the table to pay the bill, a song came on the radio that caught his attention. White Christmas, by Bing Crosby. It was now considered a standard, a classic, but he remembered when it was brand new. He'd heard it at home first, before joining up, and had found it terribly saccharine. He hadn't given it a second thought. The next time he'd heard it, though, he'd been on the front lines in France, while fighting for his life. The Armed Forces radio played it at Christmas and the sadness of being away from home during the holidays, and the terror of the war had overwhelmed him. He'd wept in his tent the first night that song had played over there.
It had been a white Christmas that year in France, or rather, a red Christmas. It had snowed, but the beautiful, peaceful white mantle had quickly turned to red slush as more and more bodies had fallen into it. Nobody had a snowball fight or built a snow man that year.
As the song took Bucky back in time, he could hear the sound of shells exploding overhead and shaking the ground beneath him. He could also hear the screams of the wounded and terrified and feel the gun in his own hands, hot from use. His heart pounded so hard it threatened to explode inside his chest. He shook his head, trying to wrench himself out of the memory, but he was too deeply entwined to escape it.
Bucky stood rooted to the spot until the song ended. When the next song began, his heart began to calm down and he could breathe again. After looking around, he made it to the restroom just in time to be sick. Tears streamed down his face as he tried to get his breathing under control again.
He staggered out of the diner a few minutes later, with an empty stomach, but no desire to eat again, anytime soon.