entrancelogs | seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state

It is a fair assumption that Evelyn would be in the library at this time of day, a reprieve from the oppression of late afternoon heat, a sluggish lull amidst the stacks. When she is joined by company, it finds Evelyn standing in front of a dusty desk near hers, stacks of files making up crooked towers with page after page of theory, supposition, untested hypotheses. Rifling through the folders she tugs a few small sheets of paper free, figures scrawled in graphite and colored wax pastel: a child's drawings, bright and cheery.

Evelyn's hands clench at the pages upon the interruption, surprise fading quickly through recognition when a familiar faces wanders toward her between the shelves. She tucks the artwork away and smiles at him; the last time she had seen Bucky was...months ago, too long, in the room where she could still see her family.

The smile tightens briefly before she relaxes. Nice to see there are a few people left in the world with enough manners to remove their hat in the presence of a lady.

"Bucky. I...would very much like that, thank you. It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too." Despite the circumstances, he gives her a small smile in return. He hadn't missed that odd unguarded moment; he'd even caught a glance at the bright colors on the page, but he knows better than to bring it up right away. She's entitled to her privacy.

Still, it's a cause for hesitation over what he wants to say next. He didn't come to upset her, but at the same time, walking on eggshells before he even knows what's going on isn't going to help anything either. "I know you've got your own things to deal with, I just wanted to thank you for helping Sansa a few weeks ago. It's good to see her take after someone like you."

He means it genuinely. Sansa means lot to him, and she's had too difficult of a life for someone her age. It's good to see her making friends with someone she can trust. He hopes the two of them will be good for each other.

He steps a little closer and makes a quick, sharp gesture at the desk. "What's all this? Work?"

"Were I to have a daughter of my own, I should like her to be like Sansa," Evelyn supplements out of fondness, for the girl of the north who is brave in spite of all that she has seen. An appreciation for Bucky's firm dive into conversation is evident in her tone, as avoidance manoeuvres and non-confrontational behaviour irk her immensely.

"This is work," she hazards slowly, gesturing to the files, "After a fashion. This desk belonged to a very close friend of mine, who spent several years here. He's...no longer with us."

Keeping his disappearance light and vague will prevent her from over examining the similarities between her position and Mark's. Evelyn's gaze trips away from her company and her fingertips smooth over a folded stuffed with transcriptions of something or other.

"He was a studious and persistent man, had spent a great deal of time working on breaking codes and ciphers. His, ah...his daughter had been kidnapped. He was trying to find her."

James nods. He doesn't think about family very much these days, but he agrees with the sentiment. He would have been proud to have a daughter like Sansa. He's grateful that Evelyn seems to appreciate the straightforward approach.

It's not that he forgets that she's been here a long time, but sometimes he forgets what that really means. Evelyn must have seen so many people come and go over the years, while she remained here, stuck in a time and place far away from her own. She remembers, even when those who come back don't.

"Was he from your world?" He wonders if she's cleaning out the desk, or going over his work for some reason. Maybe it doesn't matter either way; maybe it's just something she's keeping busy with.

"Evelyn... Have you been out of here since you got back?"

Edited 2015-09-03 23:04 (UTC)

Evelyn would half-heartedly tell an inquirer that she had lost count of the people she has seen, people who have come and gone. People who have come and gone and come again. People who remembered her. People who didn't. She might tell the person asking the question that she forgot how many times it's all happened before, but to say that would be lying and she hasn't the energy to put forth that effort.

"He was not," she says, with some reasonable amount of confidence. That Evelyn knew of, given she and Mark were from different eras.

"And I've...been out. A bit. Sometimes."

She shifts guiltily.

So she won't even see him again if she goes home. James does't know what to tell her. He's had plenty of people drift in and out of his life like so much smoke over the years, but he can't say he was really human enough to feel the loss - or that they were people he cared about losing. Everyone he'd cared about had been gone at once, or so he thought - and maybe that had been a mercy.

Still, he didn't come over here to feel sorry for her, and he doesn't think that's going to help anyone anyway.

"It's okay, I know it's... Sometimes you just don't want to go anywhere." He twists the hat between his hands. He doesn't even know if that makes any sense. Speaking more often has gotten less difficult in a superficial way, but expressing any kind of feeling to anyone is still like pulling teeth. "I was gonna do some target practice. I thought I'd see if you'd like to come along."

Talking about Mark doesn't bother her, not anymore, particularly when it is a loss that Evelyn wants Wonderland to remember. Too many residents disappear and fade from recollection, when they have all left impressions in their own ways. Bucky's supplemental commentary does not go unnoticed, and she picks up on the implication.

Sometimes you just don't want to go anywhere, and you sit in the library poring over texts you've read hundreds of times. You think about the mistakes you've made, the people you've left behind. You think about your future, or the lack thereof, paralysed until someone shakes you free.

"You...came to see if I wanted to put bullets in something?"

Evelyn huffs a little, arms folded over her chest and a funny smile on her face. It isn't an offer that panders to fragility, it's honest and straightforward and tempting. She could use the fresh air.

"...I'd like that, actually."

He nods at the question. He knows it's a little unorthodox, but it's something to do, and he remembers what she told him all those years ago, as if it was only a matter of months. She can use a handgun, a rifle, and a sword at least. That's the kind of thing he doesn't forget about people.

Still, her expression is a little harder to decipher. He could suggest something else, swordplay with bunted weapons maybe, or calling Steve to come by and go shooting with her instead... But in the end she does agree, and it's actually kind of nice.

"I'd like it too," he says. He offers her an arm. "Do you have a gun you prefer, or is one of mine okay?"

Putting lead into a target might help her pinpoint the real source of gnawing frustration beyond what she already knows, and far be it from Evelyn to refuse an offer that literally comes hat in hand. 'Work' - the cheap substitute for distraction, the poor scholar's fallback - can wait. Leaving her papers behind she gently loops her arm in his, thankful for the familiarity of etiquette from a time so close to her own.

"You speak as though I don't carry for my own protection, and that of others," Evelyn replies wryly, leaning closer, enough that he might feel the outline of the cross-draw holster under her jumper.

"But I wouldn't mind seeing what sort of heater you pack."

He mostly manages not to tense up when she leans against him - he invited it after all, and she's partly making a point. "Well, a gentleman doesn't assume."

He's glad she's carrying, anyway. Wonderland can be a dangerous place at the most unexpected times. He walks with her out of the library and heads for the shooting range.

A part of him is more than interested in seeing how she handles a familiar gun but the funny thing is, he doesn't really know if it's the part of him that's always hungry for more tactical knowledge, or the part of him that just came up with three equally inappropriate responses to what she just said.

"I wouldn't mind watching you handle 'em," He gives her a little smile, teasing, before his expression sobers. "Listen... I didn't show up here to pry into your business or anything, but if you do wanna talk about whatever happened..."

Once outside she feels lighter, is oddly capable of appreciating a bit of wordplay with someone who is probably trying very hard not to cross any lines she might find unfavourable. It isn't until Bucky asks her a second question that she feels something in her stiffen, discomfort within a caring inquiry, reflexively wanting to bury herself in the sand out of shame. It must be obvious to people, then, that she smiles less, that her leaps are now preceded with long, slow looks.

Evelyn swallows and feels something catch in her throat, nodding slowly. The thought that another person might pity her is abhorrent, that he might treat her differently because of how cold she is, but the sensation is swiftly muzzled. Bucky should understand - his own recovery was arduous, and she cannot keep flinching every time someone offers a few words.

"I suppose Steve didn't tell you everything, then," Evelyn sighs through her nose, lifting her chin and looking off to the nearing range.

"...I can't go home. I died."

He feels the way she tenses up, but he'd been expecting it, more or less. It's not pity that prompted the question. Pity isn't something he can really appreciate either. Being seen as less capable, more damaged... It makes you feel like you're exactly those things.

He watches the way she lifts her chin a little, then looks out at the range as well.

The words hit him square in the chest. Of all the things he expected - that she missed her family maybe, or that she'd lost someone she cared about - he couldn't have predicted that. Evelyn seems too young, too brave and clever and alive. Then again, he should know better than anyone that none of those things matter.

"He said you were having a rough time, that's all," he says. He doesn't know what to say, but he's being honest with her, at least. Steve would never betray her trust, not even to him, and he doesn't want her to start thinking everyone knows by now.

He disengages from her when they reach the edge of the range, crouching to unlock his weapon cache. The words come more easily, when his hands are busy: "Do you remember when I first got here and you fished me out of the pool?"

"I dunno if I ever told you, but that fall I took - not from heaven." He glances up at her, the corner of his mouth quirking briefly. "It was from a moving train, a few thousand feet up. I spent a good few months here being pretty sure Wonderland was my last stop. I'm not saying I know exactly how you feel right now, or that's gonna make you feel better or anything. I'm just saying..."

He pulls the case open. It's neatly packed, and contains: one rifle, custom built, a compact grenade launcher, a sleek handgun, and some ammunition for each.

"Help yourself. This round's on me."

Drinks, weapons... same difference, right?

None of those things matter and good people can die at the drop of a hat from from simple things, easy things: car accidents, pneumonia, 'flu, choking on one's breakfast. Life is more fragile than Evelyn remembers considering it, and no amount of wishing will put real breath back into her lungs, instead of this cheapened excuse for it. Blood pumps and a heart beats and still

she is cold.

Evelyn nods in comprehension as he pulls away to stoop at a armoured box, undoing the clasps. A waterlogged gentleman quite literally fell into her life that day - how could she forget? But a fall from a moving train? He came back, of course, on terms of his own world's design, but for someone who had lost so much he had had such a pleasant and jovial way about him. How is she to maintain the same aplomb?

"I didn't know," she replies quietly, aware that he wouldn't have wanted to tell a stranger. Moving to his side Evelyn draws the sidearm from her holster, the spare clip, and places them in the case with the others. Her fingertips gravitate to the rifle, something familiar, and she hefts it from the box by its forestock.

"The last time I used one of these I was picking off cult zealots in the middle of a thunderstorm."

Pressing the stock to her shoulder and sighting down the barrel at the range experimentally, Evelyn lowers the gun to pose a query.

"...this isn't a standard model I've seen before, is there anything in particular I should know about it?"

He gives her a wry little smile. Almost no one knew - he hadn't wanted them to. He'd like to think he was protecting his friends back then - they'd just be upset about it if they knew - but if he's honest with himself, it was just easier to bury it as deep as he could. He hasn't really changed a lot in that department.

He admires Evelyn's courage, and the way she sticks her chin up when she talks about herself, daring him to feel sorry. He doesn't know if he could do the same.

He watches her look over the guns, selecting the rifle. It looks bigger in her hands, but she handles it like someone who's done so before.

"It's a Barrett M107A1, semi-automatic. Effective range is about 4400 yards. The recoil is a little rough, but you should be able to handle it." As someone without superhuman enhancements, is what he means. He considers telling her more, but it's ultimately not relevant to the current situation.

He pulls out a clip and offers it to her. If the gun is too different from what she's used before, he'll load it for her himself. "You're gonna have to forgive me if I swoon a little about this sharpshooting in a thunderstorm business. How'd you even get into that kind of situation?"

It is easier to bury the truth, the heart of the matter, in dark soil where it can fester. What grows of such seeds she does not yet know, too concerned with the act of sowing to be bothered with the product. She will learn eventually, she thinks, what comes of withholding reality from herself, but for the time being it is a pleasant distraction, to banter on a fair-weather day.

Evelyn almost chokes at the distance - four-thousand and four-hundred yards. Pissing blimey, as Jonathan would quip, a real dead-shift sniping rifle. Much more familiar with its smaller cousins, primarily used for hunting and sport, she hefts the thing a little more carefully.

Accepting the clip and deftly snapping it into place - not all that dissimilar - Evelyn tucks the stock under her elbow and investigates the massive bolt. It even has funny little prop legs to assist in accuracy. Folding them out, she rests the firearm on a nearby crate and flashes him a quick (only slightly-bitter) smile.

"This may come as an immense surprise to you, but I have a habit of getting into dangerous situations."

Bending, she picks some ear protection out of the box, reminded of another afternoon spent on the range with Will Graham, who had insistently lobbied for the use of muffs. Evelyn strangles the unwanted wave of nostalgia.

"We were tracking-" My son. "-someone. A...sort of rescue, as it were. Set up over a ravine before the lot of them passed through at night."

James raises a single eyebrow - as predicted, not the least bit surprised by this. He would say that Steve had a type, but Steve wouldn't be the only one who seems to attract people with a knack for getting themselves into a particular kind of trouble.

He watches her load the gun, even as heavy and unwieldy as it can be. He's got an idea of what it's like to go through weapons years ahead of your time too. He snags a second pair of muffs out of the box and loops them around his neck for now.

"Oh, it was a thunderstorm at night. That makes it a lot easier." James crouches beside the crate and inclines his head at Evelyn. "Just a regular day digging up old bones, huh?"

"Believe it or not, archaeology is usually somewhat more tame a profession," she replies, flashing a grin at him as a small laugh bubbles out.

Treasure hunters and tomb raiders are excluded, of course, but Evelyn is astonishingly one of the more scientific when it comes to investigating ancient places, particularly when they are settled underground or in places with questionable structural integrity.

"And I'm certain you know better than most that one must adjust to the conditions at hand."

Crouching next to him she 'assumes the position,' which in this express context means getting adjusted behind the stock of an unfamiliar firearm with purported explosive power. Shoulder pressing into the butt, slipping inquisitive fingers over the upper receiver and resting them firmly beneath the forestock Evelyn peers through the scope and is impressed by its magnifying power. With her free hand she wordlessly pulls the muffs over her ears, trusting that Bucky will do the same with his.

The distance is immense and the targets are exceptionally far away but the muddled sound in her ears, almost like being underwater, allows her to hear only the deafened thud of touch over the barrel, jerking the bolt into place, back to the grip. A fingertip lingers on the trigger - squeeze, don't pull - and Evelyn fires.

The kick is like a rough punch in the deltoid, so much so that is distracts from the crack of the rifle itself when she squeezes five other rounds off in quick succession, intent of divesting a faraway tree of its branches. Evelyn empties the clip and feels the thundering in her ears dissipate as she yanks the muffs clear and stares out across the field before turning to Bucky with a self-deprecating smile.

"...you weren't joking about the recoil."

Edited 2015-10-13 16:26 (UTC)

"Whatever you say Indiana," Bucky replies, grinning a little. He actually got a laugh out of her, so that's an accomplishment all on its own.

He watches her settle into position, assessing to make sure she isn't going to injure herself. He needn't have worried - she seems to know exactly what she's doing. He does his best not to stare too much when his attention starts to wander a little off the course of strictly professional. There's just something about a dame who's competent with a gun that's almost as big as she is.

He pulls on his ear muffs and watches her line up her shots. He actually feels a little sorry for the way the gun kicks back against her much smaller frame. It's too far even for a super soldier to see, but there's a rustle of movement in the branches that says she's likely hit her mark. He pulls off the ear muffs and crouches down beside her to borrow the gun, so he can look through the scope.

"You weren't joking about the shooting," He counters, raising his eyebrows. "Nice job."

He's not trying to flatter her - it is what it is. James knows a good shot when he sees it. "How's the shoulder?"

Evelyn grins - high praise from someone who is clearly a skilled rifleman, if anything can be said for the equipment he has - and accepts the commentary in stride. With more time at her disposal she's spent a good deal of it honing old skills and considering taking on new ones. The smile falters briefly as she rolls her shoulder in response, gauging the muscular upset and concluding that she'll live.

In...a manner of speaking.

"Sore," she half-grimaces at him. "It'll make a very pretty bruise, I think, but I've had worse."

More than anything it is an important reminder that she is physically here, real, and can touch and be touched by other things. These days Evelyn forgets that she is a tangible creature when she drifts into her own thoughts, a skiff on a wide ocean. A bruise would be nice, visual confirmation that she isn't entirely gone.

"What about you?" Evelyn moves to nudge his left arm with her elbow. "Are you going to take a couple of sho-"

Freezing, she looks down at his forearm and nudges it again, much more gently the second time.

"...I'm sorry, I didn't notice before, but is your arm made of marble?"

James gives her a brief apologetic look; sometimes it's hard to gauge what a normal person would consider minor, or even acceptable as far as injuries are concerned. His frame of reference is probably not the healthiest, all things considered. She doesn't seem too put out by the prospect of a bruise, at least.

And more than that, she seems to be coming back to herself.

He only reacts to her nudge the second time. He hadn't felt the first at all, but he can tell what happened from her reaction. The arm isn't a secret, but it is a weapon and, like the knives that he carries, he tends to keep it concealed.

"Well, I would take that as a compliment but..." He draws his hand out of his pocket and holds it out to her, palm-up and empty. The metal plates along the surface shift with every small movement of his fingers; like a real hand, there's no particular stillness to it. It's cold to the touch, and rough at the fingertips to allow him better grip.

"I guess it's cheating when you've got a hunk of metal in your shoulder."

While Evelyn is most certainly the sort of person to go running into a firefight, she typically tends to come out relatively unscathed. Her luck there might be attributed to the fact that her husband makes - made, she corrects herself gently - for a considerably larger, easier target. (For future reference, childbirth. Childbirth is a good gauge for every other variety of pain.)

Watching carefully with wide, inquisitive eyes as he draws what should be a normal hand from his pocket Evelyn stares with unadulterated fascination. She inhales quietly in surprise, the same subtle gasp of intrigue reserved for artefacts of a particularly rare and delicate nature, and hastily divests herself of the protective earmuffs to free up her fingers. The palm, plated and glittering, shifts ceaselessly with each twitch of what would otherwise be muscles. Familiar with a reasonable number of prosthetic limbs and parts from the Great War Evelyn is utterly baffled by whatever science-fiction has wrought and attached to Bucky's shoulder.

"It's like something out of an H. G. Wells," she states idly, to no one in particular, and gently cradles his knuckles with one hand while curiously running a fingertip over the slim lines that denote joints, not unlike the armature of a doll with exceptional articulation.

"How did this...I don't remember you having this, when we first met."

She looks up.

"Did you?"

There's a phantom sensation, fingers across his palm or his knuckles, but he knows that it's a trick of the mind and the pressure is too light for the sensors to track.

He doesn't know what to make of Evelyn's unreserved wonder. It is a little like a science fiction story. If it weren't for the weight of it, maybe he would feel the same way - sometimes he does. The rest of the time, he tries to accept that the arm doesn't impede him in the way a missing limb would have. He likes to be useful, even artificially whole.

"Be careful, it'll pinch your fingers," he murmurs. He doesn't know if it actually will; the plates don't catch on clothing or his own fingers, but a weapon shouldn't be underestimated. "I didn't have it before, no. I lost the arm sometime after falling out of that train - I don't really remember the details, I was pretty out of it. I guess I'm lucky Wonderland grabbed me before that."

He pauses, knowing that opens up more questions than answers. He doesn't know how much Steve told her. But this open curiosity is -- not terrible. He'll take it over pity or guilt or revulsion. "You gonna put me in a display case, Evelyn?"

Having had more dangerous-looking artefacts refrain from stinging her Evelyn is not reserved in her exploration of Bucky's palm, digesting the information he provides without drawing immediate conclusions, assuming his fall was bad enough to warrant the need for a prosthetic limb. It does raise more questions than it answers and she intends to point that out, but finds herself unceremoniously jerked from academic interest by his inquiry.

"Not if you keep moving about like this," she mumbles distractedly before self-consciousness is suddenly pulled over her like a woolen blanket, the heat of embarrassment reaching her cheeks and colouring them pink as she drops his hand as though burned.

"I-I'm so sorry, I've offended- I, I forget myself, scholar's habit," Evelyn explains hastily, thoroughly chagrined as she laces her fingers in front of her to keep them busy. Humiliation feels like a brand on her face, radiating warmth and crumbs, what a way to muck up an otherwise lovely outing.

"My apologies."

James almost laughs at the words, but he doesn't quite get there. He'd been the one to make the joke to begin with, but there's a part of him that wants to recoil all of a sudden. Curiosity is fine, sure, but being examined like an object and isn't exactly new.

He's honestly a little relieved when she pulls away first. He doesn't want her to get the wrong impression. He understands, without a doubt, that Evelyn isn't someone who'd think of him as anything less than human - it had been harmless scholarly fascination. It's just difficult sometimes to get what he knows to line up with what he feels, no matter how irrational.

Maybe his poker face isn't as good as he thinks, but suddenly she's stumbling over an apology and something tight in James' chest seems to unwind.

"It's okay, really." He speaks gently, smiling even if he does tuck his hand back into his pocket. "I'm the one who offered. And I mean, a cute archaeologist -" He gestures at her. "And an ancient artifact." Himself, of course.

"It's just if you were gonna study the rest of me like that, I might need to check with Steve."

Overcoming the embarrassment inherent in consciousness of self feels a bit like climbing a rock face covered in grease until he admits to its strangeness, and relief chases the flush of being flustered away. 'Cute' has a much different context for her, a compliment about cleverness and, frankly, Evelyn would agree. She is very clever.

She is, however, older than Bucky and would argue that of the pair of them - from a technical standpoint - she is in fact more artefact than he, but he bounds so quickly back into a mildly flirtatious territory that it takes her several moments too long to catch up. While she can certainly imagine that James Barnes is fit under all of those layers it would be presumptuous to say as much no matter the conversational context.

A witty retort is swallowed and superseded by mild confusion when she asks, impulsively and without thinking,

"Why would you have to ask Steve?"

Edited 2015-11-18 22:15 (UTC)

Evelyn isn't the only one a little flustered. James had been so busy trying to dig them out of the uncomfortable moment he'd gone right ahead and stepped into another.

His relationship with Steve isn't a secret, but it's still fairly private. Like any point of vulnerability, he likes to keep it guarded. He'd just figured that Steve might have said something - but this was Steve, he probably hadn't even realized there was some light flirting going on between him and Evelyn.

He rubs the back of his neck and glances away for a moment. "Sorry I uh... Figured he'd told you already."

If the situation wasn't oddly familiar to her before, it becomes more so the instant Bucky shifts uncomfortably, very much the young man found caught with his hand trapped in the biscuit tin. Evelyn, who prefers plain speech and forthright approaches, is frustrated by vagueries to no end and is suddenly, violently reminded of all the times her son broke something and feigned ignorance.

Bucky is stalling for time but time is not on his side, and Evelyn folds her arms over her chest as she fixes him with a look and a tone that suggests he oughtn't keep her waiting.

"James Buchanan Barnes, tell me what?"

The Winter Soldier has faced down interrogations with barely a twitch. He can face a petite librarian, even if she sounds alarmingly like his mother right then. He doesn't remember her face so well anymore, or even her voice, but he remembers that tone. It's funny how these things work.

"We're together," He says. He folds his arms across his chest, but his voice doesn't waver, and his expression is superficially calm. If she looks for it, she'll see the way his fingers dig into his arm, and his eyes are just a little too wide. "Romantically. I mean, it's kinda complicated right now it's... Yeah. Should we go back to shooting things?"

All it takes is the first two words to escape him, all it takes is we're together to realise that Bucky intends it in a less than platonic sense, because while the colloquialisms and intricate word usage of the future can often leave her at a loss, this does not. She blinks at him for a long moment, shoulders dropping their tension.

It is not expected news, but neither is it unusual. Relations between those of the same sex are not widely advertised, mind, but as an avid student of history Evelyn is well-informed all all manner of things having to do with diverse proclivities. Don't even get her started on the Romans.

"...is that all?"

He's shifting uncomfortably, which means this is either incredibly private information or something he never wanted to share with her, of all people. She offers him an out.

"You can take the Barrett, if you like."

seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state

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1/2 oh my god

2/2 OH MY GOD

IM CRYING

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