It was the first December that Bucky had felt something other than the weight of his past hanging over him. The cold air of the city felt different this year, less bitter, more refreshing. The usual rush of December didn’t seem to bother him as it once had. Instead, it was the small things that caught his attention: the twinkling lights on the trees, the scent of pine and cinnamon drifting from nearby storefronts, the soft hum of holiday music that followed him down the street. As he walked through the snowy streets, his mind wandered. Christmas had never meant much to him; it was a time spent in the shadows, a time of loss and loneliness. But now, things were different. Sam had dragged him to a Christmas party the five years before, and Steve had insisted on decorating the compound this year. The warmth of their laughter, the feel of a family Bucky never thought he’d experience it again. But a five years later, Steve was dead. The avengers weren’t the same and now he was walking down the snowy street by himself. The soft crunch of snow beneath his boots was the only sound as Bucky stood for a moment, taking it all in. December had always been a month of survival for him.