"Wouldn't expect any less," Bucky said with a flicker of a grin, a startling flash of humour despite the situation; even as they heard the familiar whipcrack of a bullet, the clattering of stones and shattered brick right behind them.

This entire thing was familiar: his steady and glacial heartbeat finally kicking into gear with the old thrill of action. He shouldn't like it. It should be a terrible reminder of his past, of days and nights and years as an assassin, mired in the very worst of firefights and hails of bullets and danger—

but ugly as it was, this had been his life, and this was what he knew, and knew better than grocery shopping or paying phone bills.

So Bucky harkened to it like he was coming home. He followed that press of her hand, ducked around the corner and ran full-tilt for the bike. Already jamming in the keys, kicking it off its stand, sliding into place in the seat. He waited only long enough to feel Nat's weight settle behind him, and then he was off: the bike bouncing and rumbling along cobblestoned streets, before he hauled it onto smoother roads.

Behind them, gunfire; his shoulders tightened and he bent lower over the handlebars, making for a narrower profile, a smaller target. There wasn't anything he could do from the front; he'd just have to trust Nat to have their back, and he did.

And this, he reflected, was probably the sort of trouble Steve didn't want his friend to get involved in when they were already on the run — but Natasha had needed help, and there was a certain satisfaction in knowing they were leading their pursuers away from the apartment, away from Steve, even if it meant plunging themselves into danger.

Besides. It was Natasha, and James. They could handle it.