Elsa's recovery neared completion but she had not crossed that all-important threshold just yet.

Namely, because as soon as Elsa returned home, she would want to return to work; something Steve had tried to advise her against. However, once the gravity of what happened hit home, it became clear to Elsa that a number of vets had also disappeared. Many animals too, but those remaining still needed care. Captain Rogers suspected something more though, that even in the depths of physical delicacy, she would hurl herself, headfirst, into work in a bid to cope with losing her husband. She remained remarkably stubborn.

The farm had become a sanctuary during those days of helplessness when he managed to pry himself from Elsa's hospital room. It provided structure, routine, somewhere to put his energy, focus on something that wasn't Thanos related, and if he tended to the animals and their needs, screaming reality took a backseat for a while. Not to mention, the burning shitstorm of people demanding answers, how the Avengers had let this happen. And they were there, on every Goddamn station, in every Goddamn country, speaking every Goddamn language.

Amid the daily ambience of the farm, however, Steve's finely tuned ears managed to pick apart something else over the sloshing of yet another bucket of water into the double-level trough (of Bucky's own ingenious design); the one the goats and donkeys shared. Or used to, at least.

What the hell is that…? It sounds like… Bucket laid aside, the blonde skirted William (who still searched aimlessly for his mother) and angled for a height that gave him a better view of the road. Handsome face scrunched; the view answered a question but pressed another.

It's a jeep alright but… Elsa's jeep is here. More than curiosity, the sound of a noisy jeep carrying across the plains roused concern. Said concern seemed to gradually increase as the sound did; trundling towards the farm and bringing foreboding with it. It ruffled Steve, you see, because no other vehicle in the area made an entrance like Elsa's did; Elsa's trusty jeep being Nigerian in origin, where clean Wakandan power did not exist. It meant an outsider had, for whatever reason, broached the close Wakandan community for… Steve did not yet know. However, he would not be kept waiting long. Emerging, wiping his hands on an old rag, curiosity began to morph into cautious guarding.

"Good afternoon!" Oh Christ. Worse than a stray trophy hunter. The accented call planted the apprehensive seed, and, upon nearing, facial similarities watered it in the anxious Captain Rogers. A man in his mid-forties (who bore all the hallmarks of a typical "game enthusiast": a spoiled, wealthy toff), had pulled into the yard where Elsa's jeep usually sat, killed the talkative engine and had already begun his clamber from the driving seat. Despite his heart hammering in his chest, he fought to stay stoic. After all, if this newcomer was who Steve suspected he was, he was going to need to summon every ounce of conviction.

The swagger of this importance-inflated visitor was not of Wakandan inspiration but something in his carriage and posture seemed… familiar. With a brief, swiping flare of offended nostrils at the eau de farm and unavoidable settle of dirt on astronomically priced shoes (not the steel toecaps someone in the know would wear), the jeep's driver door did not require the same forceful bang as Elsa's did but he gave it anyway.

"I think I must be in the right place. I'm looking for an Elizabeth Kincaid." Taking one look at the pasty, sweating Steve Rogers, an (almost-correct) assumption had been made by the unease-sparking blow-in. Upon subtle, closer inspection of the jeep, its age and condition far surpassed that of Elsa's older, battered model (that being out back and out of sight); therefore suggesting a rental with a heftier price tag that could also easily have been a trophy rental.

Yup. Back straightened, Steve shook his sandy head and let the name drift over him like water off a duck's back (despite his initial moment of confusion being absolutely authentic); the very picture of indifference and to purposely be as unhelpful as humanely possible. You're exactly who I think you are.

"No Kincaid here, pal." Not exactly a lie. Elsa was no longer a Kincaid (rescued from the self-imposed stigma of her name by marriage) and, technically, she was not "here"; preferring a hospital bed just then. There was also the small matter that he had never heard the little vet being referred to as "Elizabeth" in all the time he'd known her;so much so, the name presented itself as a new discovery. "And who're you?" The inquiry was, apparently, not taken kindly to; the friendly facade denting faintly to flash an undercoat of lurking impatience. This man, Steve surmised, was not used to being questioned. However, when the questioner is bigger and broader with an axe lodged in a nearby tree stump, perhaps smarts won out.

"My name is Doctor Jonathan Kincaid." The blonde had been around enough villains to know when someone is not as they appear; serving at Brock Rumlow's side for years before discovering him as a Hydra agent had been a lesson hard but well learned. "My father sent me here to find my sister and bring her home. I was told she frequented this area and this plot in particular."

Shit, someone's been talkin'… Better give him something.

"Wait. Kincaid? Doctor Kincaid? Like… the vet? Wasn't she Snapped?"

"Ah, yes, they allow vets to call themselves doctors now, don't they? It wasn't always the case, mind you. Should have been kept that way." If the interaction so far did not inspire sheer dislike in the usually placid American already, the coy almost-smirk and incline of a peppered head drove it on swiftly. "So, you do know her?" But Steve held firm, giving him nothing. Oh my God, Bucky would have you for breakfast, you piece'a crap.

"Not really. She comes, checks the animals, goes off again unless there's something I need to know. Barely talked to her, haven't seen her in… God, I dunno. Like I said, heard she'd been Snapped."

"This is the Barnes plot, is it not?"

"Yeah. I'm James Barnes." Now, for anyone who watches the news (and not just stocks and shares like Steve suspected this asshole took a keen interest in), particularly post-Sokovia Accords, would know Captain Steve Rogers and some, would know James Buchanan Barnes. Judging by the sceptical simper that irked said Captain and got in under the basest layer of his skin, Jonathan Kincaid was one of them.

"I see…" The beat of corrosive scepticism almost whittled Steve. "Well, I was told by some locals that she spends a great deal of time here."

Eyes hardened accidentally and thin, furious line that had once been Steve's lips (albeit hidden under that impressive beard) seemed to further tickle the already tickled visitor; the lack of a response to the "trump card" when his opponent blanked stroked the ego. Because if there was one thing (among many) that strummed at the Captain's indignance, it was someone flashing the cash to take advantage of someone else.

Yet… He kept his cool; how, he still did not know. Even with the overwhelming urge to plant his dirty fist directly into the centre of Jonathan Kincaid's shit-eating face, Steve Rogers just kept playing dumb. No doubt what a superiority complex-riddled elitist would expect from a farmer.

"I bet you paid good money for that tip, but uhh… 'round here, there's a lotta poor people who'll do and say pretty much anything for a buck. I think you might've gotten Tourist-Had there, champ." Maybe not entirely true: Wakanda sat on riches the rest of the world could only dream of. But, like everywhere else, poverty was not unheard of and it seemed this cretin knew exactly where to poke his nose to find desperation and exploit it. Despite the relentless jabbing for a sharp reaction, Steve refused to part with it; all the while waiting for another dent in this persistently unpleasant person that had not yet appeared. Locked into a battle of wills, so to speak.

"But you seem to be fitting in here quite well, don't you? Not unlike a fugitive blending in?" Caught? Clearly, it had been too much to hope for that his runagate pictures had not been on every newspaper, news site and television station; among others. The triumphant goading, another assumed ace, almost snapped something within the demure blonde but thankfully, Steve, like everyone else on the farm, was not immune to the Barnes' plot matriarch and her ability to keep all around her in line. No, not Elsa. Someone smaller but just as tough: Bonnie.

As if in reminder to keep his nerve, or to break the mental hold that this torturous newcomer dragged him deeper into, the white queen with the brown spots plodded from nowhere and dug her nose into one of the many treat pockets. The movement, the heat, and the gentle butting of Bonnie's head against Steve's thigh as she fought through the folds of dense fabric to get to the goods roused the temporary caretaker and plonked him firmly back in reality. To that end, he fixed Jonathan Kincaid with his most intense stare and with more nonchalance intended to infuriate, let his words do the smacking for him.

"Thing is… I don't think I'm the only one who's not supposed to be here. I'm part'a the scenery by now but I could probably bet if I was to tell some other locals who you were, I don't think you'd get the same reception as when you flashed the cash. They don't like trophy hunters 'round here either and that jeep practically has blood on the hood." Steve had never felt a bite of satisfaction like it; like when Kincaid's smugness crumpled, slid from those sickening features, and attached itself to the blonde instead. That vexed silence was not of a man accustomed to not getting his own way, but before he could muddle through the blind rage of sheer disobedience, the stand-in got there first.

"Well… I uhh… I got stuff to do but… sorry I can't be of more help." Like Hell I am. Blows delivered and his friend's brother suitably subdued (if only for a moment out of stunned stupefaction at the veiled threat), Captain Rogers had no qualms in simply returning to his work; terminating the "conversation" as if he had merely lost interest, as if the great Doctor Jonathan Kincaid held no more awe or excitement for him. So he just… excused himself and began to turn away to farm work far more engaging; nay, enjoyable."I hope you find your sister, but it'll be hard to see her go. She's such a great vet. Nigeria's back the way you came." Now scram before I let Bonnie butt you down to size.

But he kept a hold on her collar, just to be safe.