There's only boring staples on those shelves. He needn't bother looking for anything nice. The bottom shelves are reserved for dog food. The food fit for human consumption includes half a bag of rolled oats, the last stash of rice, some herbs that look like dried lawn trimmings, scattered small boxes of dried goods like different coloured beans, and several emergency cans he hasn't touched. Tomatoes, tuna, little bit of fruit. But if Zemo accused Bucky of eating only plain rice the last two weeks he wouldn't have denied it. If he's expecting something better than prison food he's only setting himself up for disappointment.

"No one else would take them in." He thinks he isn't good with them. Needs a gentler touch. More research. But most experts are farmers, and rescues or whatever old age/palliative operation he's found himself running are fewer and further between.

He couldn't have done it when he was younger, if he'd come back from the war. He would have wanted his old city life, with all its conveniences, surrounded by people. Now he's finding he doesn't like people very much. Especially not this one nosying around in his kitchen.

"What're you looking for?" he tries to change the subject.