A sharp, barked laugh erupts from Andyr, and he understands, somewhere, that the man won't get why that question strikes him as funny. Or, sad, perhaps, is the more appropriate word, for a sundry of reasons, none of which he wants his mind to linger on at the moment. Moving along with it quickly, Andyr shakes his head, a small, sardonic quirk to his lips.

"No, no kids." And thank fuck for that. Christ, most days he forgets he's actually twenty-four now, like time stopped once he was taken into Hapsburg, and he never moved past seventeen, still with the knee jerk response on the tip of his tongue about 'hell no, I'm too young anyway'. Not so much, anymore. Beyond the youth still clinging to him, there's more details that ought to separate him from the other person he shares a face with - for one, he's both shorter and leaner than Barnes. More compact. Hair has a reddish tint to it, eyes a bit off. A shade of New Orleanian accent to his words. Mostly details that take closer looks. Certainly hasn't kept several people from calling him 'Bucky' yet.

Another quiet moment passes, which may have been awkward in a typical conversation, but Andyr doesn't seem concerned, as he's openly observing the other man. Inspecting, perhaps.

"How old are they? Your grandkids."