He hadn’t meant the bike at all, but he does nothing to correct the boy, realizing that it would likely imply some sort of inference that he must have hurt himself due to his age. That wouldn’t do; it’s not like adults aren’t just as prone to accidents either.

Dusting off the seat with a pensive hum, he kicks the bicycle stand open and gives it a moment to settle. There’s no wobble; always a good sign.

“James,” he starts before turning to offer the kid an easy smile. “Name’s James. Or Bucky if you’d prefer.” It's the first time he’s offered the nickname to anyone here; James is too impersonal. “Nice ride, by the way. I used to want one like this when I was little.” Bikes weren’t the most practical thing to own in New York City at the time though, easy to steal and no racks around. “How’s she ride?”