He doesn't hear her coming -- that's the part that intrigues him the most. He hasn't lost the habit of vigilance, even here, in what is probably the safest nation in the world, especially for someone like him. As long as the Wakandan royal family continues to shelter him (and he has no illusions about the fact that their forbearance may run out at any time) he doesn't have to look over his shoulder, at least not in the way he's used to. But he still does.
And yet, she's simply there, that slim blond-haired woman, between one glance and the next. She's sitting on a pile of fence rails, watching him pull weeds as if she's been there all day and has nowhere else to be.
"Hi," he says after a moment.
"Hi," she says. "I heard you were off ice."
He doesn't ask who told her. He's pretty sure he knows. He picks up his sickle and hooks another thick handful of weeds as the Wakandan farmers have shown him, standing on the ends of the weeds with his boot to give him leverage to cut, since he doesn't have a spare hand to do it with.
"You still don't remember me, do you?" the Black Widow asks.
"I know who you are."
"That's not the same thing."
He looks up. "I remember fighting you," he says. "Vaguely."
"Not the same thing either."
He can't help smiling a little. "There are a lot of things I don't remember. Most of them, I don't want to. Anyway, if you're here for my help, I don't fight these days if I can help it. I'm not even sure how good at it I'd be, anymore."
(That's a lie. He knows how good he is at it. That's why he doesn't want to do it.)
"I know," she says. "Believe it or not, I just wanted to ..." She hesitates. "To chat."
Bucky gives her a skeptical look. He has a feeling the Widow doesn't normally have chats without an ulterior motive attached. Or make awkward pauses unless she intended them.
She breaks into a smile. It looks genuine. He doesn't trust that either. "All right," she says. "You caught me. I wanted to feel you out. Just to try to get a feeling for who you are now. How much of it is gone, and how much is still there."
He appreciates the honesty, at least. If it even is honesty. "Why?" he asks, standing there in the overgrown field with his arm dangling at his side and the razor-sharp sickle resting against his leg. (He tries not to think of how easily he could kill a man with it. Or a woman. Tries not to wonder if he's used one that way in the past.)
"Because of Steve," the Widow says simply. "He's my friend. And because ... of things you don't remember."
Bucky just nods. Everyone remembers things about him that he doesn't. Everyone wants things from him because of that. It's nothing new.
"I can go," she says. "Unless you feel like a visitor."
He doesn't, really. But he seldom gets visitors, aside from the tall, fierce women who he knows have been set to keep a guard on him. It's because of them that he keeps tea in the house. There's just enough left of the old Bucky Barnes, the Brooklyn Bucky Barnes, that he doesn't quite feel comfortable entertaining a woman without offering her something to drink. Generally, he and whichever of the Dora Milaje has been put on today's Winter Soldier babysitting duty will sit and stare at each other over their cups of tea. Sometimes the Dora Milaje will ask politely about the weather or the crops. All that Bucky can think of to ask in reply is how are things in the city, to which he usually gets a cool stare and a one-word reply.
... so it's not exactly a social affair. But he does have tea, the local red tea that he's never had (that he remembers) before coming here. And he has cups. And he's been out in the sun for a long while, and could use something to drink.
"If you want to," he says.
She jumps down from the pile of lumber like she's been waiting for an invitation, and strolls toward his house. After a minute, Bucky stabs the sickle in a fence post so he doesn't lose it in the grass, and follows her.
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And yet, she's simply there, that slim blond-haired woman, between one glance and the next. She's sitting on a pile of fence rails, watching him pull weeds as if she's been there all day and has nowhere else to be.
"Hi," he says after a moment.
"Hi," she says. "I heard you were off ice."
He doesn't ask who told her. He's pretty sure he knows. He picks up his sickle and hooks another thick handful of weeds as the Wakandan farmers have shown him, standing on the ends of the weeds with his boot to give him leverage to cut, since he doesn't have a spare hand to do it with.
"You still don't remember me, do you?" the Black Widow asks.
"I know who you are."
"That's not the same thing."
He looks up. "I remember fighting you," he says. "Vaguely."
"Not the same thing either."
He can't help smiling a little. "There are a lot of things I don't remember. Most of them, I don't want to. Anyway, if you're here for my help, I don't fight these days if I can help it. I'm not even sure how good at it I'd be, anymore."
(That's a lie. He knows how good he is at it. That's why he doesn't want to do it.)
"I know," she says. "Believe it or not, I just wanted to ..." She hesitates. "To chat."
Bucky gives her a skeptical look. He has a feeling the Widow doesn't normally have chats without an ulterior motive attached. Or make awkward pauses unless she intended them.
She breaks into a smile. It looks genuine. He doesn't trust that either. "All right," she says. "You caught me. I wanted to feel you out. Just to try to get a feeling for who you are now. How much of it is gone, and how much is still there."
He appreciates the honesty, at least. If it even is honesty. "Why?" he asks, standing there in the overgrown field with his arm dangling at his side and the razor-sharp sickle resting against his leg. (He tries not to think of how easily he could kill a man with it. Or a woman. Tries not to wonder if he's used one that way in the past.)
"Because of Steve," the Widow says simply. "He's my friend. And because ... of things you don't remember."
Bucky just nods. Everyone remembers things about him that he doesn't. Everyone wants things from him because of that. It's nothing new.
"I can go," she says. "Unless you feel like a visitor."
He doesn't, really. But he seldom gets visitors, aside from the tall, fierce women who he knows have been set to keep a guard on him. It's because of them that he keeps tea in the house. There's just enough left of the old Bucky Barnes, the Brooklyn Bucky Barnes, that he doesn't quite feel comfortable entertaining a woman without offering her something to drink. Generally, he and whichever of the Dora Milaje has been put on today's Winter Soldier babysitting duty will sit and stare at each other over their cups of tea. Sometimes the Dora Milaje will ask politely about the weather or the crops. All that Bucky can think of to ask in reply is how are things in the city, to which he usually gets a cool stare and a one-word reply.
... so it's not exactly a social affair. But he does have tea, the local red tea that he's never had (that he remembers) before coming here. And he has cups. And he's been out in the sun for a long while, and could use something to drink.
"If you want to," he says.
She jumps down from the pile of lumber like she's been waiting for an invitation, and strolls toward his house. After a minute, Bucky stabs the sickle in a fence post so he doesn't lose it in the grass, and follows her.