Bucky isn't really sure about millennials, either, but he looks young enough that he can't reasonably pretend not to be one unless he wants to reveal more about himself than he'd like to spill to a stranger, so he just shakes his head at that, like he thinks it's a rhetorical question he's supposed to agree with. He figures being in the military is an alright excuse for being a little out of touch. He was off on long missions when he could have been keeping up with social media and whatever pop culture things people like these days.

As for his injuries, he's got sleeve on, but he's not exactly hiding the metal hand. Maybe it just looks like a glove from over there. Even without hiding it, he's not interested in drawing attention to it, either. It brings questions he doesn't want to answer, like how he lost his arm and where such an advanced prosthetic came from.

That thing about injuries that aren't visible, though? Oh, that gets his attention. The arm is nothing compared to what he's been through.

"Trust me, I know. I was a POW."

Twice, he doesn't say. The first time had been much shorter, but it had stuck with him during the rest of the war, unrelenting like the metal table he'd been strapped to in Azzano.