It was a chaotic landing on the rooftop, and Bucky threw himself to the side as he went rolling, in an effort to not land on Natasha or inadvertently slam into her with the weight of his vibranium arm, which was such a solid obstacle that it could break bone. The sliding impact tore at the fabric of his clothes but they held up; one of his hands was scraped raw by the cement, but he was durable enough that that small flash of pain didn’t even make him flinch. Still lying on his back, he exhaled, staring up at the sky.

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when you showed up, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “You liven up my days, Romanoff.”

With a grunt, he levered himself up to sitting. If he were a regular human, he’d probably be aching tomorrow, but that superhuman durability meant he’d be able to shrug this one off. Climbing back to his feet, Bucky peered over the edge of the building: the car was a tangled mess of burning metal, thrown end-over-end into an alleyway — but knowing their luck, it wouldn’t be enough to stop the Taskmaster entirely. Just buy them some time.

He readjusted his backpack, making sure he still had his equipment, and then he loped back to Nat’s side. The whole situation was insane and ridiculous, but— god, it made him feel alive, too.

“How do we get to the plane?”