2244/What Are the Odds

What Are the Odds
Date of Scene:	27 June 2020
Location:	Some Starbucks, New York City
Synopsis:	Of all the coffee joints in the world...there are tons of them, but somehow, Patsy and Bucky end up at this one.
Cast of Characters:	James Barnes, Patsy Walker

---

James Barnes has posed:
Of all the coffee joints in all the world....well, let's be honest, there are thousands like it. From Skagway, Alaska down to the very tip of Florida, there are myriad. Dozens in NYC alone. But this one has an outdoor seating area....and in that outdoor seating are two friends enjoying cold summer treats. Bucky has some awful white mocha concoction, piled high with whipped cream. Just begun, for he hasn't made much of a dent in it....and under his table, Lili is enjoying a puppacino, with a ridiculous snurfle-snurfle-snurfle as she tries to wedge her tongue into the tiny cup.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Prim clip-clips of heels on the sidewalk are on approach. It's Patsy, entirely out of her vigilante cat-suit and instead wearing a forest-green summer dress with a scooped neck; its length hits her ankles and flows down her body in a modestly-tight fit. No cleavage for this one, just the polite insinuations of curves. Cleavage is for the clubs, not for an author having just spoken with her editor about the latest manuscript. Her red hair is pulled up into something akin to a messy bun against the latent heat of the day. At her shoulder, a cream-colored purse to match her heels.

She, like many New Yorkers, is on her phone as she's walking, though with the practice of glancing up regularly as to not shoulder into anyone. It brings her on approach to the outside seating and she glances up to see the German Shepherd.

And then the man.

And her steps slow for just a second or two. Then, with the barest hint of dimples at the corners of her lips, as she passes by, she notes to the Soldier, "What a cute dog. It looks like she's really enjoying that." It's deliberate on her part. Is she as anonymous as she thinks she is?

James Barnes has posed:
Lili's got her vest on. Blue mesh for summer, with the appropriate warning patches on it. A matching wrap on the leash that's fastened to Buck's belt. He, for his part, is not messing with his phone. He has a book before him - 'Here Is Your War' - propped open against the napkin dispenser.

Buck glances up at her greeting, and there's no smile of welcome, even if he does have a known weakness for a pretty redhead. She gets an intent look, brow knitting, before he says, almost reluctantly, "Yeah, she's a sucker for whipped cream. They call it a 'puppacino', 'cause even dogs get fancy drinks now."

Patsy Walker has posed:
The depth with which he engages brings Patsy to a halt about ten feet down the low-built metal barring put up to keep the public from stumbling into chairs. It seems rude to continue on now for his words and she turns, slipping her phone away into her purse as cover for mild fluster.

"It's a great name for the thing too, puppacino. Pretty catchy as a whole." Now her cornflower-blue eyes lift to his face, lined by dark lashes and no kohl. "If I had a pup, I'd be sure to get her one on a day like this." One hand's already got fingers wrapped around her purse strap; the other moves to hold lightly as well where it sits low against her hip.

James Barnes has posed:
The pale eyes are wary....but there's that odd blankness behind them. Like he know memory isn't being reliable, at the moment.....but something there's still ticklng. A smile from James, a ghost of the old high-wattage lady-killer, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah," he says, slowly. He's in t-shirt, jeans, work shirt, a gray compression sleeve. His phone's by his book, but it hasn't been used. Still searching her face, like he wants that unease to resolve. Lili, however, looks up with whipped cream on her nose, and starts to wag her tail, slowly.

Patsy Walker has posed:
It's easy enough to see the unease in his body and there's definitely a part of the Hellcat which squiggles around guiltily about it. However, the harder-nosed half of her personality decides to stand its ground. If he hasn't done his research, then he hasn't. She still returns that smile, as if she can't tell how she's still an unknown to him.

"I just have plants though, since those are easy-keepers, you know? If you forget to water them, it's really all your fault." Lili's wagging tail catches her eye and she looks down at the dog. "Hey pretty girl. I know you're on duty so you don't get pets, but I can tell you you're adorable. That counts, right?" she asks of the dog.

James Barnes has posed:
Lili knows very well that this is a friend - she's smiling, even as she tries to lick the last little gob of whipped cream from her muzzle. Her tail still fanning the air....and hitting Buck's leg. He looks down and says, "Man, she really likes y-"

She can see him tense. The change in posture is subtle, but in that heartbeat he's gone from another young man lounging away a summer afternoon to that conscienceless killer. Swift as the click of a shutter. "I know you." It isn't a question.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy's eyes flick up from watching the Shepherd's tail wiggle about to catch the sudden lack of emotion in the man's face. It brings her smile to fade a noticeable amount in what appears to be shock on her part -- so cold, the set of his features -- but she rallies. The corners of her lips twitch up again as if this alone would smooth over the absolutely radioactive awkward levels which just registered.

"You do," she confirms with a breath of tension in her voice. "I'm harmless though, I promise. Just...I thought the research would be easier, but maybe the Internet's too big of a place, huh?"

This offered as an olive branch, in a way, with a shift of her weight in place.

James Barnes has posed:
He doesn't look like that, in the old pictures. Even in the images where the Commandos are all clearly battle-worn and exhausted, all he managed then was a kind of sulleness. Here, he's almost frigid, jaw set.

Lili registers this shift in mood and turns to look up at him with concern. His hand goes to her head, and she smears her tongue over his fingers. Then James glances down, and sighs. "Yeah," he says. "Harmless, huh?"

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Yeah," she breathes before her smile fades a little more. "Harmless. Well...mostly harmless, but harmless to you...James... Um."

She has to momentarily step closer to the metal bars to allow a group of tourists to travel past like a well-mannered gaggle of geese and it gives her a moment to compose herself. Her eyes return to him. "It's...well, hi. Um. I'm...Patsy," she says more quietly now.

James Barnes has posed:
Now, at last, there's a flicker of what can only be humor. "You might as well come and sit and have a drink," Buck invites her, tipping his head at the empty sea opposite. "Lili's not the jealous type, she'll make room." At the sound of her name, the Shepherd looks up, tongue lolling. He looks down at her and coos, "Yes, you're the prettiest girl, yes, you are!" She all but wriggles in delight.

Patsy Walker has posed:
The Shepherd's reaction to being addressed in something akin to baby-talk has the Hellcat pursing her lips in a mostly-failed attempt not to smile. She snorts quietly to herself and then nods.

"Sure, gimme a second, I have to go get something to drink first. One cup of coffee in the morning isn't going to do it for today," she explains, then walking around the end of the metal rail and into the coffee place.

It doesn't take overly long for her to return with what appears to be a grande something-something with an extra shot and caramel swirled through it and a mounding of whipped cream mostly cloaking a green straw a shade lighter than her dress. Patsy's certain to make her approach obvious as would benefit a known veteran and then pulls up a chair. A few jostling scoots into the table and she then sighs, looking at Bucky. "So. You...just didn't want to do research, huh?" There's a small smirk at him.

James Barnes has posed:
James fixes her with an amused look. "I did it. I'm just bad at it. Google's my nemesis," he explains, without hesitation. He lifts the book with his gloved hand. "I'm an analogue kinna guy....and really grateful that vinyl records are fashionable again."

He settles back on the chair, sends it scraping an inch or two back on the concrete. Then he picks up his drink, takes a sip.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Sipping at her drink with teeth flattening the straw in order to preserve the lip gloss, the Hellcat still laughs despite her closed lips. There is, admittedly, a little eyeroll at the explanation.

"Google's not that scary, come on... I heard there was something called Netscape and you'd better be happy that thing's not around still. That was back when computers were only made by Apple," she informs the Soldier. "Things are much more smooth-running now." There's a moment where a flicker of coy amusement goes through her face and she looks to one side before informing very lightly, "I have been taking those dance lessons I said I would."

James Barnes has posed:
Is that pleasure in his face? "Yeah?" he asks, softly. "How you likin' em? I'm glad to know that style of dance has had some revivals since my day. Hell, I've seen some of the kids now doing what they call neoswing. It's wild, but a lot of 'em are really good. It's pretty impressive. Glad to know it's not lost. I know seventy years isn't all that much in terms of real history, but in terms of popular culture, yeah...."

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Pop culture's a weird and ever-changing thing," the red-head agrees with a tilt of her straw-set drink towards Bucky. "But yeah, they're a lot of fun. It's...actually pretty easy, the basic stuff. The instructor asked me if I wanted to move to the intermediate level after a few lessons. I've taken dance before." The revelation is included with a little shrug of her shoulders. "The one dance, the..."

Patsy pauses to think. "The...Jitterbug? Charleston? The one where you're close to the lead and your feet are moving a million miles an hour -- that one's tough. It takes some serious calf muscles," she laughs.

James Barnes has posed:
That's when his face goes weird, for a second. It's not the frozen shuttering of Winter or his training asserting itself. It's vague, lost - like something one might expect to see on a dementia patient. An old memory bobbing up out of the frozen sea within, bright and vivid and enough to steal his breath for a moment. Nights when he'd come home tired and sore from just that, wearing himself out with that particular pleasure. Pale lips parting, and Lili gets up to put her head on his knee.

"Yeah," he says, with a little laughter. "It sure does. Fun, though, isn't it? What kinna dance did you say you'd done before?"

Patsy Walker has posed:
If the author notices this moment of disconnect, she doesn't point it out. It doesn't seem necessary, not with how Lili is quick enough to rise to her feet and enact her caring presence at his leg. Instead, Patsy continues on as if nothing happened.

"Modern dancing. So, like, jazz-tap, things like that. I did a little ballroom too, but that's so...I don't know, is it not fair of me to say 'stuff'?" Her grin softens a little. "The swing dancing's more energetic. It's got that jive to it, you know?" A little funning snap of her fingers off to one side in a bouncy beat for a few moments.

James Barnes has posed:
It turns out that he can sing, and so he does, in his rusty voice, surprisingly tuneful, "It don't mean a thing if ain't got that swing." A moment of surprise after, like that he's shocked himself with that reaction.....then James grins at her, bashfully. "It does," he agrees, running his human hand over Lili's silky ears.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy's grin is bright in response to that little sung ditty -- she recognizes that one from classes, after all.

"It don't mean a thing, all you gotta do is sing," she echoes in a soft mezzo-soprano in return. "Doo-whop doo-whop doo-whop -- " Her snapping continues even if her voice falls into a snort-laugh. "I'm nothing like Ella Fitzgerald and I'm not going to try. But yeah, I'm liking it a lot. Thanks for suggesting it, James, I really appreciate it." The next smile reaches her eyes, brightening them to something nearing grey.

James Barnes has posed:
Now he's back to himself. Well, this version of himself, even with a memory like Swiss cheese and plenty of confusion and PTSD. "That's okay. i'm no Duke Ellington. I'm glad you gave it a try. I'm glad it's fun. What....what do you do for fun, generally?"

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Well, I swing dance." Patsy gestures off to one side with her drink as she notes the obvious in amusement. "When I'm not writing? I...keep track of my plants. Some of them are fussy, you'd be surprised. I go clubbing with my ladies when I can. I like my jogs, those are nice; they help me figure out ideas in my head. Sometimes I come up with them as I'm running. I...like my evening shift too," she adds, insinuating about the Hellcat suit, no doubt. "Oh, tennis, I play tennis at my club now and then. Have you played tennis? Like doubles or anything like that?"

Even as she asks, there's a little hiccup to her expression, as if realizing how forward and invitational this sounded.

James Barnes has posed:
There's a funny little hitch to his expression at that - humor and delight, without mockery. ".....did you just ask me to play tennis? You know what, I've never played. Not a moment in my life. I grew up poor, and tennis was for the upper crust. Only sports I ever did as a kid were handball and sandlot baseball. Man, next thing I know, you're gonna invite me to squire you to the Derby." Yes, he's teasing. He's so teasing.

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Well..."

The murmur falls silent as James continues. Another deep slork of her drink follows and her eyebrows lift. Her fingertips then press to her lips as if she had risk of laughing hard enough to lose some of the whipped coffee beverage behind them.

"Eh-//heh//." Cough-laugh, just a little one. "I mean, if you //wanted// to go to the Derby, I'd be squiring you, buddy. I bet you've never been in your life. It's pretty fancy. You'd need your nice duds," she continues, smirking.

James Barnes has posed:
"Never been one for horse-racing. I'm not into....making animals do what they don' wanna do. I mean, I know, that's what a racehorse is for, but...." Buck does a funny little lift of his fingers from the table, not even a shrug. "And I've never enjoyed gambling. Never seen the point. I've wagered my life often enough, after that, any other stakes are penny-ante, y'know?" James makes a moue. Even his expressions, his gestures are old-fashioned, body language shaped by a bygone era.

Patsy Walker has posed:
"I understand what you mean." The author speaks with brief solemnity, respecting indeed the vastly unequal odds of horse racing verses out-running a mounted machine gun's strafing fire.

"I actually haven't been to the Derby either. I just like the hats. Though...at the same time, the //hats//," Patsy emphasizes with a flip of her hand. "I get hats, I have a few of them myself and they make outfits what they are, but I guess...I have a thing against wearing a stuffed peacock on my head, you know?"

James Barnes has posed:
"I miss hats. There's something about a good hat. I still own a few. I don't get this crap about wearin' em ironically. It's clothing. How the - how d'you wear anything ironically? Wear a hat because your head is cold or it's hot or it looks good." Buck gives her an outraged look. Apparently Patsy will be made to answer for the crimes of all Millennials by the Grumpy Old Man Inquisition. Nevermind that this is a guy that she's seen wearing a man bun at least once.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Unfortunately, the Grumpy Old Man Inquisition is subject to what must be the most polite tittering Patsy can manage. It's the genuine indignity on display about a thing like a hat which has her fingers pressed to her lips again. She closes her eyes and tucks her chin, lips rolled for a second, before looking up almost through her lashes.

"I have no idea how you'd wear anything ironically. I feel like you'd have to try a little bit unless it was, like...a white tie to a black tie gala, but that's being an asshole, so." A shrug and sip of her drink.

James Barnes has posed:
There's a blink for that. He does forget that in this day and age anyone can and does swear like a sailor. But then he's grinning back at her, lopsidedly. "Right? There's being overdressed to prove something. Man, I've never been to anything white tie. What is even white tie now? A few grand balls, maybe?"

Patsy Walker has posed:
"A few grand balls, yeah, it's not really common these days. Black tie affairs are very serious business," she intones with a lofty manner to the last three words, almost Jeeves-ish. "I've been to one or two over the years, but not as anybody special, more like on the fringes of them. They were fun though, in a way. I haven't had a chance to get dolled up like that in a while now."

Patsy sighs as she again sips at her drink, careful not to smudge her lip gloss. "These days, it's more about writing and...extra-curricular activities." A beat. "In the evenings." This is not sounding any better. "The vigilante stuff," she mutters, having briefly put a hand to her own temple, eyes closed.

"Anyways!" Said brightly. "I mean, if you want to play tennis, I'll call you about it later this week. It's a plan? It's a plan," the Hellcat decides. "Now. Tell me more about these ironic hats."

She must be joking. Or is she?