The first sign something was off? Bucky was smiling. Not that polite, forced corner smile he gives when someone says “thank you for your service” in a grocery store, this was a real one. Eyebrows slightly raised, looking dangerously close to being… relaxed. You froze mid sip, narrowing your eyes. “How many drinks have you had?”

Bucky blinked at you, considering. He looked down at the empty glasses in front of him. There were three. No. Four. One was sideways. That seemed like a clue.

“A few,” he answered.

You leaned forward, squinting. “Wait. Are you drunk?”

He scoffed. “No.”

You sat back and tried not to laugh, because this? This was rare. This was sacred. This was something that could be referenced for years.

His vibranium hand was resting on the bar like it was the most patient drinking buddy in the world, while his flesh hand kept gesturing too widely, like he was very sure he was making excellent points. To no one. Because he’d started talking to the jukebox a few minutes ago.

“Back in my day,” he slurred, “we respected machines. Radios had soul.”

He leans back, slouching dangerously in the booth, blinking up at the dim lights like he’s waiting for stars to form. You had never thought you’d see the day Bucky gets drunk. He’s a quiet drunk. Eventually, you got him a glass of water and bribed the bartender to stop pouring him shots. He grumbled about betrayal but drank the water anyway.