"Motorcycle," he said, as he climbed out after her and carefully eased the curtain and then window back into place behind them. A bike was more maneuverable, cheaper and easier to obtain and wrangle through those narrow streets, and not quite as noticeable as a car. Plus: he was kind of attached to them, with those sepia-toned memories of buzzing around Europe on his motorcycle with the Howling Commandos. "Next street over. Hope you don't mind sitting behind me."
Considering the way Nat was gingerly carrying herself, it would've been nice if they could've stopped in the apartment and let her rest for a little while, just for the evening — but that could come later. Maybe on that plane to Russia, depending on who was flying, or maybe they could trade off at the controls: swapping shifts where each of them could sit with arms crossed and head tipped back, catching some scant rest. They were both accustomed to having to catch whichever scraps of sleep they could get, even in a desperate situation. Lots of hurry up and wait during the war, or when watching a target for long dull days, waiting for the right opportunity to slip in for the kill.
Bucky waited until she was safely on the ground, to stop the fire escape from screeching beneath their combined weight, and then he slid down after her. Almost like he'd done this before. (He'd definitely done this before.) He was already fishing in the pocket of the duffel for the motorcycle keys as he led the way down the street, moving at a brisk walk. It was a late enough hour that hopefully people wouldn't notice them.
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Considering the way Nat was gingerly carrying herself, it would've been nice if they could've stopped in the apartment and let her rest for a little while, just for the evening — but that could come later. Maybe on that plane to Russia, depending on who was flying, or maybe they could trade off at the controls: swapping shifts where each of them could sit with arms crossed and head tipped back, catching some scant rest. They were both accustomed to having to catch whichever scraps of sleep they could get, even in a desperate situation. Lots of hurry up and wait during the war, or when watching a target for long dull days, waiting for the right opportunity to slip in for the kill.
Bucky waited until she was safely on the ground, to stop the fire escape from screeching beneath their combined weight, and then he slid down after her. Almost like he'd done this before. (He'd definitely done this before.) He was already fishing in the pocket of the duffel for the motorcycle keys as he led the way down the street, moving at a brisk walk. It was a late enough hour that hopefully people wouldn't notice them.