Fuck it. There wasn't time to worry about what he'd gotten himself into, especially not now there were guns involved. In some ways it was actually almost a relief to let himself sink into the familar feeling of a really good fight, even if the sheer lunacy of his companion was apparently unnerving a few of the patrons more than the prospect of getting punched in the face might. He didn't entirely blame them, even as it gave him a real good opportunity to punch a guy in the face while he apparently was busy having second thoughts about whether he really wanted to get involved or not. Very Captain America of him.
He didn't want to be Captain America. Right now, or maybe at all, he wasn't sure, hadn't had a chance to really think about it, largely because he had a sneaking suspicion that if he did he'd realise that he did want to quit... and the only thing worse than the number of people who hated him with the shield was the number of people he'd be failing if he let it go. Misty had been more than clear enough about that.
This, at least, was uncomplicated. Even if the people here probably didn't actually deserve it, and he was probably going to be mad at himself later, it was easy to coordinate with Redwing and take advantage of the distraction caused by having a bird with a nearly-four-foot wingspan flying at one's face to twist a guy's arm up behind his back and push him towards Harley and her bat. (He'd spent enough time as the third wheel to either Steve and Sharon or Bucky and Natasha to underestimate a woman in a fight. Especially when armed.)