2010/Oh My God, It Is You After All.

Oh My God, It Is You After All.
Date of Scene:	08 June 2020
Location:	New York City.
Synopsis:	James really is who he says he is and it results in a phone conversation to Patsy's great surprise.
Cast of Characters:	Patsy Walker, James Barnes

---

Patsy Walker has posed:
So, Patsy's heard a few tall tales in her life. Hell, she's been in a few herself and been written into a few by her mother's line of comic books. This business about James Barnes being over a hundred years old? That stretches her belief, even as a published author and privy to the world of superheroes if by stance of vigilante rather than as a member of a team. Standing behind Captain America in photos? No way...ish.

As such, with a gel pen held length-wise in her teeth, and in pajama pants and an oversized hoodie, Patsy with her hair pulled up into a messy bun hunts the Internet for this fabled picture. It's not difficult to find, taking no more than about six minutes at most to find a collection of historical pictures of Captain America back in the War. She squints those cornflower-blues at every picture.

Not that one.

Nope, don't see anybody she knows there.

Nope, not -- wait. She leans in closer to her laptop's screen. And closer.

And the gel pen rattles on the keyboard. Fingers rise to her mouth as "What the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh -- " slips out of it.

Needless to say, after a minute or ten of moving through the stages of surprise, shock, glee, shock, more glee, and nerves, there's a message left on a burner phone, its number having been given to her.:

Beeeeeeeep. "Sooooooooo...heeeeey, it's...Hellcat, yes, hi. I, um, wow -- you're totally there in that picture behind Captain American and I mean, like, HOLY SHIT -- I mean, holy crap, sorry, language -- or do you even care about that? Eh-hee, sorry, I'm rambling, just...wow, James, that's...that's really frickin' amazing and like...I'm reeeally sorry that I didn't believe you right off the bat, it just sounded crazy -- not that I'm calling you crazy, I'm not, but I've heard some things in my life and...that's a new one, y'know? ANYWAYS. I....just wanted to call and let you know that your secret's totally safe with me! Safe as Fort Knox...wait, that's not a good example. Safe as...um..." The speaker drops into a mumble. "C'mon, think of something smart, what the hell." Back to conversational volume. "ANYWAYS! I'm going to hang up now because I told you what I wanted to tell you and this is my number andyoucancallmebackifyouwantBYE."

Click.

James Barnes has posed:
He must've had that phone to hand, because the phone rings not long after she leaves that message.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy pauses in pouring water over a satchet of ginger-peach tea and stares at her phone on the countertop. Thankfully, she's not so surprised that she either over-pours or spills boiling water from the insta-hot kettle, but it is fumbled back onto its mount as she bites at her bottom lip. Clearing her throat, she then picks up the phone with a big, centering inhale and slides the green icon to the right.

"Hi, may I ask who's calling?"

Oh-ho, playing dumb, she is...just in case she's misremembering the number she just dialed not too long ago. It's plausible. She's still full of jitters and now has her thumbnail between her teeth, brows quirked.

James Barnes has posed:
Which is when he realizes this is the first time since 1945 he's called a girl just because. There's a moment of owl-eyed pause that makes Lili look up from her toybox and regard him with concern.

Then James recovers, "Uh, this is James," he says, in that gruff voice. " I got your message." .....and somehow the smile is slowly becoming audible. "I see you found one'a the pictures. Easier'n ever to find 'em these days...."

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy puts fingers to her lips and squints up at the ceiling as he speaks, feeling her cheeks pink and being very grateful that no one except her house plants can see this.

"Yeah, the joys of the Webbernet continue. The Internet," she clarifies, now ticking her fingernails along the countertop as she stands in front of it, eyes downcast and a scrunched half-smile on her face. "Yeah, you look...well, your hair was shorter then. Not much else about you seems to have changed. I don't take back what I said before."

Because bold of her to note him still looking damn good.

James Barnes has posed:
She's not able to see his own blush, thankfully. For it is there. Bucky sitting on his couch in his little apartment in the Triskelion, one booted foot on a footrest (because only animals rest combat boots on a coffee table, even a cheap IKEA particle board coffee table). "Yeah, it was," he says, quietly. "I keep thinking about getting it cut short again, but, uh.....haven't managed to make it into a barbershop lately, let's just say." He can't quite bring himself to admit that he can't bear to have his head touched by anyone with a piece of metal in their hand....and Steve doesn't do haircuts.

Patsy Walker has posed:
"I mean, no big. Nobody's telling you to get a haircut," Patsy notes as she side-steps to pick up the insta-kettle again. Water finishes out its volume in her mug and the redolent rise of steam is something she inhales to exhale again appreciatively for the smell. The sound of it settling back onto its base can be heard.

"I could stand to take a few inches off myself, but eh...I've been too busy for it. It's nice to let it grow out. It's long enough to braid too, which is nice. Sometimes I feel like being fancy, y'know?" A faint laugh and roll of her eyes at herself before shaking her head. Geez, Patsy. "Anyways. I haven't heard from our friend. I'm hoping he's safe somewhere." She means the veteran soldier from the alleyway, Travis.

James Barnes has posed:
"Yeah, me neither," he says, after a beat or two. Just sufficiently in time with things to keep this from being enormously awkward. "Y'know, it's funny, no one tries to tell me that," he adds, in his slow way. "Even though technically it's not in regs for my job. I guess I kinna got grandfathered in." Or Fury indulges him, well aware of that trauma. The Director's seen some of the footage of what they did to him, after all. Lili comes ambling over with her brush in hand. Time for grooming.

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Well, hey, lucky you then, getting grandfathered in." Patsy then pauses, mug in hand on her return to the sofa, and scrunches her lips. She then squints at the ceiling as she adds, "If that was an old person pun, well-played, Mister Barnes."

Rustling can be heard as she then sets her mug down on a wooden surface and pushes aside her laptop to curl up on the couch. A blanket is pulled up over her tucked-up legs as she shoulders her spine into a corner of it. "If it wasn't a pun, then now it is," she notes before very faintly laughing.

James Barnes has posed:
A moment of blank silence....and then the sound of his laughter, rusty as a graveyard gate. "I didn't mean it that way. But I guess I was making a joke without realizing it," Buck says, as Lili lays her head on his knee, looks up beseechingly. He takes the brush, starts between her ears, gently. "Ya caught me."

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy nibbles at the corner of her lip again, her eyes focused on nothing off to one side. Of course she's smiling: she got a laugh out of him.

"Those are the best kind of puns, the ones nobody notices they make. It makes them funnier when they're realized, y'know. My dad was the worst about them. I mean, I know dads like to say they invented Dad Jokes, but...look, hands down, mine was the absolute worst. I mean, he used to say, with me in the room: guys, look, I make Dad Jokes all of the time and I don't have kids. This must make me a faux pa."

And she's laughing behind a hand now, half-mortified for having shared the tidbit as it stands -- and fighting against melancholy for a lost parent, but this a quieter kernel easily pushed off to one side.

James Barnes has posed:
He snickers at that....then laughs that low, soft laugh. Not the usual soundless wheeze, though. "Took me a second to get that one," James confesses. Working gently on the Shepherd's neck, after having taken off her collar in a jingle of tags. "I wonder if that's a universal thing. Like, if dads around the world do that to their kids...."

Patsy Walker has posed:
A sip of tea helps stave off the sensation of dry mouth; that, and the pinking of her cheeks lingering. Patsy grins, this heard in her words.

"I'm pretty sure dads live to make their kids groan. Let's be honest here. It's practically their job in life." A little sigh and she looks off to one side, towards one of those house plants in question. "Oh." A bright blip of sound. "Soooooo...did you end up doing your own research?"

Of course it's asked extra-nonchalantly.

James Barnes has posed:
"Yeah. Didn't get very far, though," James admits. "Too many authors out there," His tone is still lazy, though. Entirely at ease, considering. "Might have to give me another clue," he suggests, a faintly hopeful lilt to his tone.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy rolls her eyes most dramatically given no one can judge her for it but her ferns. Still, she smirks when Barnes asks after another clue.

"Oh, c'mon, James, there aren't //that// many of us. But alright, another clue, since I'm a nice person." Silence falls as she thinks. Nails find a loose thread in the blanket spread across her nap and pull lightly at it: boing, boing, boing, it going taut and loose and taut.

"My last book was pretty recent and it was a finalist for an NBCC Award. A National Book Critic Circle Award," she clarifies. "That was pretty big news." Her grin can be heard.

James Barnes has posed:
Lili has assumed the squinty expression of canin bliss, as Buck works down over her shoulders with the brush. It's just another means of bonding, of letting them both relax at the end of the day. "Now that's helpful," he says. "Thanks." There is not, however, the pause of him pulling out his actual phone and searching. Too busy concentrating on the conversation at hand. "I'll remember that."

Patsy Walker has posed:
"I think it's a pretty good clue." Patsy sips at her tea again and sighs. There's a few seconds of silence before she speaks up again, apparently not content to let it stand. "So...what're you doing right now? Just a quiet evening at your place?"

Her toes twiddle in the confines of plush socks as she asks.

James Barnes has posed:
"Honestly, I'm brushing my dog. It's kind of a thing I do every day, whether she really needs it or not. It's good for both of us. Pretty soothing," he admits. And indeed, James's voice does sound calm, without that flat deadpan of misery. "What about you? What're you up to?" How often does he really talk to someone from this era without it being in the context of work?

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy's smile is gentle now. She remembers the German Shepherd and the good Lili had done not only to calm her handler, but to calm Travis as well.

"Spoiled girl," she notes teasingly. A sigh. "I have my feet up. This tea is pretty good, it's a peach-ginger blend. I was...working on my next manuscript." There's a touch of hesitance, but it's overcome by the fact that James did share what he was doing. "It's a work in progress, really just the first draft. It's nothing good //yet//."

James Barnes has posed:
"Why d'you write?" he wonders, quietly. "I dunno that I've ever known writers. Well, that's not true. I used'a know journalists, back in the War. They loved Steve, so they'd follow us like sea gulls behind a garbage scow. A lot of 'em were hacks, but some were great. My favorite was a guy named Ernie Pyle. I was sad when I found out later that he didn't survive the war. I'd've liked to've read what he wrote about life in America after. His stuff about Steve is the best writing there is from the war. He really understood who and what Steve was trying to be and became." A veritable flood of words, as he works the brush bristles through the golden fur of Lili's rough. She's melting into a puddle of Shepherd.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Seagulls behind a garbage scow. What a twist of words, somehow quaint and antiquated and charming. Patsy grins again, keeping her titter as silent as she can manage as she listens. Her head leans against the couch's back cushioning now, lids half-shadowing her eyes.

"That's...wonderful, actually -- a writer who writes the truth in a time like that. Ernie Pyle," she echoes with a note of respect. "I'll look him up. But what do I write?" A thoughtful and musical hum follows. "...I guess I write about life and the way I see it. It sounds a little self-centered, but...that was how my first book hit the big times. This next one, it's a work in progress and all. I've got more life to live first."

A slant admission she's more than just a standard civilian and writer if that's the topic of her writing.

James Barnes has posed:
He doesn't use the slang he knew - it's out of date enough to be incomprehensible. But it slips out, now and again. The nearly extinct accent, too. "How d'you know you've lived enough life to write?" he wonders. "War there's plenty to write about. But civilian life after....though on the other hand, just observing life and doing it well is enough to make a great book. There's a book I love like that, still in print - A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. You ever read it?"

Patsy Walker has posed:
"I think I did...? It's been a while if so, maybe back in school," admits the writer before sipping at her tea again. "It sounds really familiar. I'll look it up too if you recommend it. You've been around long enough, I bet you have good taste." Another tease volleyed over the phone with the defense of distance inspiring bravery.

"But don't poke too much fun at little old me! There's..." Her voice fades out before she finds it again, her smile now more melancholy. "There's been a lot of life happened to me in what time I've spent on earth."

James Barnes has posed:
"It's worth it," he says. "But yeah, when I grew up...we just had books. Radio, later, and what music we couldmake ourselves. But it was mostly books, 'cause we could go to the library for free. I read a lot, and I'm sorry to see that people don't so much now." James's tone is meditative, a little distant. "I mean, there was plenty of crummy stuff when I was young. But the stuff from that era that has survived is mostly the good stuff. Like Raymond Chandler."

"Yeah?" he wonders, after a beat of pause. No skepticism. "It's not the amount of time. It's what you've done and where you've been, I guess."

Patsy Walker has posed:
"It's definitely what you've done and where you've been." The blanket is pulled up higher around her waist and the sleeves of her hoodie plucked until they cover all but her fingertips. Patsy even pulls the hood up over her hair until she's barely a face in its shadowing and within the fall of her loose red hair.

"I know Raymond Chandler though, yeah, all of those stories about his private eye. Some of the movies aren't half-bad either." One can hear the smile in this statement. "Are you a fan of Bogart then?"

James Barnes has posed:
"Of course," James says, and there's real warmth in his voice. "*Casablanca* is just about one of my favorite movies. *The Big Sleep* is up there, too. They really don't make 'em like that, not anymore. What about you? You a fan?"

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Oooooooooooh, Casablanca! I'd say I was surprise to hear you like it, but I am and I'm not, if that makes sense," laughs the redhead. "There are some good lines, yeah, I mean...'Play it, Sam', I've heard that one enough times, but the music! The music is so...timeless. 'Thinking of You', y'know? I mean, Sinatra did it justice and no arguing with me: he's got the best voice for it. Listening to it, I can just imagine dancing around in that gin joint."

Patsy catches herself growing dreamy by tone and then laughs. "It's a good one," she adds almost in self-defense.

James Barnes has posed:
"Right?" Buck's laughing. "Yeah, who doesn't wanna pay a visit to Rick's? I mean, maybe it seems obvious. But....I do like it. It's nice to be able to watch what I want when I want, now. Just....call it up whenever. That and music. I still can't get over being able to carry all that around in my pocket."

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Isn't that the best? It's amazing, it really is. I mean, I've seen records and all -- they're making a come-back because they can be combined with modern technology to make ever //cooler// music, but yeah. I can go jogging and listen to anything from Sinatra to Nightwish to Michael Jackson to Shanaya Twain...some of my Spotify playlists have no real theme except I like all of the music on them. Or in the kitchen, if I'm cooking, I can have some atmospheric music on, like...French cafe or...Celtic folk songs. It's epic."

Patsy takes another deep swig of her tea. "I know, crazy question, but instead of a favorite artist, how about a favorite genre? Favorite artists are hard to pick."

James Barnes has posed:
"Wait, are you asking me what kind of music I like? I ......well, I'm biased. I like swing, 'cause that's what was big when I was a young man. I like some of the modern version of it, too, even if it sounds strange to me, sometimes," The sound of him moving around, finally moving sleepy Lili from his feet to go get a glass of water. "I like classical, too. I'm not real knowledgeable there."

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy nods, even if the motion can't be seen, as she listens. Another grin. "Classical's okay, I guess. Maybe I haven't heard the good stuff. I like the electroswing stuff though, yeah, even if I don't know a lot of it. It's got a great beat to it. I bet you know how to dance to it...?"

Of course there's a curious, cheeky note to the question. He had appeared so droll and composed but for the rare smile thus far to the Hellcat.

James Barnes has posed:
There's a pause of a few beats, like he has to check with himself to be sure that's a serious question. "Yeah," he says. "'course. I'm pretty good." Understatement, thy name is Barnes. "I mean, I'm outta practice." Lying. Youtube's good for so many things.

Patsy Walker has posed:
A faint chuckle on the far end of the phone. Now Patsy's got a lock of hair she's twirling about her finger, pert nose twisted just a touch as she notes, "I have very little idea of how to swing dance, so even if you also had no idea, I wouldn't have judged you anyways. I know some of the ballroom stuff, like the waltz and foxtrot, but it was mostly for evening parties."

Also lies from Miss Walker, she of the great skill at modern dance from a young age and in necessity for modeling.

James Barnes has posed:
He's drinking cider. Soft cider, hard cider has no point for him, not these days. But he drinks from a cup, he's not a total barbarian. "Yeah, it's sad. People don't seem to go dancing the same way anymore. Ballroom's pretty neat. I used'a know that stuff okay. It just wasn't as fun."

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Ohhhh, c'monnnnnn." The consonant is held out with a clear grin in mind. "Ballroom is totally fun. It's got poise in it, grace, the whole nine yard with sweeping around in a beautiful dress and let's not forget the tango, yeah? That's totally lumped into the grouping and I'll tell you: a good lead who knows how to show off his girl is a good man in my book."

A pause and a breath in-held: Barnes probably can tell she's prepping for something. "How about...you do your homework and I'll...think about taking up swing dancing?"

James Barnes has posed:
She can hear the smile, again, somehow. "Sure," he says. "You do that....and I sure will. I should get to bed, though. I gotta get up for work tomorrow. "

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Workaholic, James, yikes -- but yeah, you're not wrong, it's getting late." The writer glances over at the nearest clock, on the laptop, and muses to herself. "Well, for you, maybe. I write best between 11pm and 3am, weirdly enough. My tea's going to give me a little kick to keep going." A lift of her mug in invisible salute to him.

"But...yeah, you have a good night, James. I hope work isn't too hard on you. Pet Lili for me." Once he's hung up, she hangs up too, and sets the phone aside as well as the tea. Her hood is pulled down more over her face and she groan-laughs.

"Patsy, ohmeegaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhd..."

A pause as she lies there, a lump under blanket and in sweatshirt.

"...it could've gone worse."