"Worried is not the word I'd use for it," Bucky gruffed back at her, not a serious snarl but the sort of nipping and snipping that inevitably occurred in a pack when two members were vying for dominance, to figure out which of the two of them was going to be in charge and who'd show their throat.

At the thought, his quick, pale eyes darted to Romanoff's neck, taking in the elegant lines among her red curls.

Then Dana was demanding his attention. He thought they were supposed to be in a hurry—but he put a tight, personable approximation of a smile on his face for Dana.

"Hey, Irish," he said, calling her by nickname instead of her actual last name. Casual. "Messy job. Looks like the tsarina and I have to clean up. What do you got for us?"