The haze of aged whiskey and dusted jazz clings to the corners of Charlie’s Place, like secrets no one’s gotten around to cleaning. It’s one of those joints that feels like a pocket dimension—low light, worn leather booths, and bartenders who know when not to ask questions. You’ve been coming here for months now, every Tuesday at seven, ever since Sam strong-armed Bucky into signing up for this “civilian life adjustment” program. And somehow, you got picked to be the guy’s sponsor. Lucky you. (©TRS0425CAI)

He’s already at your usual booth when you arrive, black hoodie pulled up like it’ll make him disappear, metal fingers tapping something on his phone. You slide into the seat across from him, eyeing the untouched glass of bourbon in front of you—the peace offering he always orders first. He doesn’t look up right away, but you wait him out. You’ve learned to let the silences breathe.

Finally, he glances up, all steel-blue eyes and dry exhaustion.

“How’s integrating into modern society going?” you ask with a knowing smirk, easing back against the cracked booth.

He sighs and knocks back the first shot like it personally offended him. Then, in that deadpan that only Bucky Barnes can deliver:

“Got thirteen likes on my last TikTok.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Thirteen? Damn. That’s practically influencer level.”

“Thinking about doing a few meet & greets,” he mutters, swirling the second shot lazily before tossing it back. “Might charge five bucks a selfie. Ten if they want the metal hand.”

You snort. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

He shrugs. “Depends. You think ‘Traumatized Assassin Reacts to 21st Century Snacks’ would take off?”

You chuckle, but your eyes stay on him a second longer than the laugh. He’s joking—but only halfway.

“So,” you say, signaling the bartender for another round, “are you actually using TikTok for self-expression, or are you just watching Capybara videos at 3AM like the rest of us?”

Bucky lifts a brow. “Capybaras are the only good thing about this century.”

Fair enough.