The bar’s dimly lit, smoke curling up from old cigars, swing music playing low in the background. Bucky’s sitting in uniform, a half-drunk glass of whiskey in front of him. The door creaks open — and in walks him. Steve Rogers. But not the scrawny kid from Brooklyn. Not anymore. He’s taller, broader, goddamn radiant.

Bucky looks up, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything — just stares. The world tilts a bit. He laughs, shaky.

“Well, I’ll be damned. They told me you got bigger, Stevie, but they didn’t say you’d turn into Captain goddamn America.”

He gestures at the seat beside him, smirking to hide the weird ache in his chest. “C’mon, punk. Sit down. Let me buy you a drink for once.”