"Вы, дамы, слишком добры ко мне." Bucky grins as the little babushka presses another small container of cloudberries into his hand. When her back is turned, he slips an extra twenty dollars into her till before moving on his way. The old Russian ladies love that he flirts with them, and he has a taste for the sweet tang of the berries after a mission in Kursk in the 80s.
He likes the farmers market. The people are all so busy among their stalls and wares that no one looks at him twice. Sure, he's the famed failed congressman for Brooklyn, and the infamous Winter Soldier, but out here, with a leather glove covering his metal hand and a flannel over his shoulders, he's just another guy doing his grocery shopping. Some days, that guy might be a little more confused than others, and might forget how to speak anything but Russian, but he's still forgettable enough on those days.
Seeing a familiar face among the stalls, he raises his flesh hand in greeting. "Yo, Alex!" Then he cringes at himself and moves through the throng of bodies to approach the other man. "Sorry I said 'yo,' I was trying something new. Bad idea."