Chapter 4: Trixie

Trixie arrived at the coffee shop with a nervous excitement. She took a few deep breaths from her car and brought herself back to reality. He's just being nice. This won't go anywhere. Don't get your hopes up. One coffee date is not something to hang your hat on.

She walked in the shop at 10:04, not too late to be insulting and not too early to be needy. Just because she knew it wouldn't turn into anything didn't mean she couldn't put her best foot forward and try. Trixie glanced around the shop, her eyes falling to each of the empty tables and the barista behind the counter, alone. She was the only soul in the shop. Trixie sighed, grateful that she thought to bring a book, and walked to the counter to order a latte and a scone. No reason to come to Joe and Sco' and not order their trademark pastry.

Trixie sat at a table catty corner to the counter in a chair that faced the door. The barista brought her her drink and she opened to the next chapter of The End of Everything.

After what felt like an eternity, but was really only a minute or two after getting her latte and reading the same sentence three times, Trixie heard the door open and looked up to see James walk in. Same brown leather jacket, same black leather gloves. His eyes scanned the restaurant and met hers. He gave a small wave and walked over.

"I'm sorry," he started, "Apparently I've been living an hour behind for a month now. I never sprung my watch forward."

"Your phone keeps the time for you," Trixie quipped, not fully believing his story. It was only 10:15, but Trixie was already doubting herself enough. She didn't need someone she didn't know to add to it.

"I guess," James shrugged, settling into his seat, "but I use my watch for time, and my phone for calls. I'm a bit compartmentalized." Trixie closed her book and he glanced at the title. "More science," he grinned.

"You're not very good at the undercover part of your undercover nerdhood," Trixie teased. "But yes, more science."

The barista came over to take James's order and then the two of them awkwardly stared at each other, and then around the room, not knowing what to say or where to begin. Finally James piped up, "Where are you from?"

"I'm originally from New Hampshire. I went to college here, found a job, and never left. You?"

"Brooklyn, originally. Though I spent many years overseas. With the military."

"What do you do now?" Trixie asked.

"I... I guess I'm retired," James shrugged.

"You don't look a day over 40. How can you be retired already?"

"I left the military after a really bad injury," he carefully chose his words, "and I tried independent security for a few...organizations. One of them ended up being nefarious, and when I got out of that, my best friend brought me into his team. We did some good work together. He saved my life." James took a long pause. "He died not too long ago. The team moved on, but I just, couldn't? It wasn't the same without him, so I left. I haven't done anything since."

"I'm so sorry," Trixie said, feeling she put her foot in her mouth.

"It's ok, I guess. He lived a good life."

Trixie looked at him confused, doubting his best friend could be much older than the man sitting before her, but James didn't elaborate.

"James," called the barista. No one moved. "James," she called again, looking straight at him. Trixie coughed and pointed at the counter. "James," the barista sighed, again repeating the only customer without a drink's name.

"Oh, right," James said, walking to the counter. "Thanks." He returned to his seat feeling awkward and unsure of everything.

"So, your name's not James, is it?" Trixie asked. "Who are you, really?"

"No, my name is James," he responded a little too quickly. "My name is James but I haven't been called James in..." he hesitated, afraid to slip up and give the real answer. In over 60 years. Because I'm a 103 year old assassin left in the shell of a human. "...since I was 12," he finished.

"What did your mom call you," Trixie countered.

"James," he responded.

"I accept your answer as honest, because you didn't hesitate when it relates to your mom. People don't lie about their mothers." There was another long pause. "Your friend, who just passed," Trixie said slowly, carefully choosing her words, "What did he call you?"

"The same thing he called me when we were 12," he answered curtly. "What about you? Why Trixie?"

"I'm named after Grandma Bea. Beatrice."

"That name was very popular in the 20s and 30s," James responded. "You don't find many Beatrices now." He smiled warmly at her.

"Grandma Bea was born in the 30s," Trixie mused, "So, yes."

Trixie tried to turn the conversation to sports, but James didn't follow any teams closely. He enjoyed baseball, but still referred to the Dodgers as Brooklyn, not LA. James tried literature, but Trixie was more of a non-fiction fan. Trixie tried movies, but James wasn't a big movie fan.

"You said you were in the military," Trixie said, "Have you met any of the military-affiliated Avengers?" James looked at her like a deer in headlights. "I'm sorry," she stammered, "I shouldn't have brought up your service."

"Military was very hard, yes," he said, careful not to reveal his time of service, "but I'm working through the issues it left me with. I'm more... You mentioned The Avengers and it caught me off guard."

"We can talk about something else," she said from behind her coffee cup. "I hear my coworkers talking about them in the break room, and I thought they counted as polite conversation."

There was another long pause. Both Trixie and James internally berating themselves over their respective questions and answers.

"Why are you a teacher?" James asked bluntly.

"I'm sorry?" Trixie asked, caught off guard.

"You are a teacher, obviously, and quite a good one, from what I've seen. Why did you choose to be a teacher? Instead of, say, an engineer or a researcher?"

"I wanted my work to feel more meaningful," she responded wistfully. "I still get to do research and lab work with my students, but I am guiding the inquiry skills of future engineers, doctors, writers, poets, artists."

"Before the war," James started, "Before I gave up on going to college, I had dreams of working at Stark Enterprises. In the chemistry sector." He understood now that meant chemical weapons, but kept that to himself.

"Why not make that your next chapter?" James looked at her baffled. "If you pardon my phrasing," she continued, "it's never too late until you're dead. You can start at the community college level, get your bearings, and then get to be a chemist at Stark Enterprises. I hear Ms. Potts wants to expand the chemistry sector in the next few years. It would be bio-chem heavy with focus on medicine, but it's still chemistry."

"Is this common knowledge for all 8th grade science teachers?" James quipped.

"My mom sends me press releases and job fairs for "real scientists"."

James pulled his lips into a tight line and tried not to audibly clench his jaw. Some instincts were harder to move past than others. He thought back to her comment about how one never lies about their mothers. Anyone not having faith in their kids was something he couldn't bear. Trixie became very interested in the way her napkin was folded and didn't seem to notice James barely holding his composure together.

"What are your hobbies?" James asked after several long breaths. He hoped the anger in his voice wasn't as palpable as it felt.

"Reading, drawing," she began ticking off on her fingers, "yoga and meditation, and I'm learning Russian."

"Исподволь и ольху согнёшь," James smiled.

"You speak Russian?" Trixie gasped. "I'm still learning slowly. I caught...bend a tree?"

"You can bend an alder-tree if you do it slowly," he explained, "It's an idiom that means no task is impossible given enough time. I'd be happy to converse with you. I'm not exactly fluent anymore, but it would be nice to put that skill towards something good for a change."

There was more silence, but for the first time it wasn't awkward. Trixie finished her latte, James finished his scone. The door opened and three families in their Sunday best walked in. "That's my signal to go," Trixie said sheepishly, "I don't like being around the church-going crowd when I'm not church-going myself."

James stood and waited as she put her book away. They walked together to the door, and he pushed it open for her, allowing her to exit, before following.

"Can I give you my number?" Trixie asked.

"Sure," James said with a big smile. "And I'll give you mine."

Trixie stifled a laugh as James pulled out a flip phone, the likes of which she hadn't seen since the early 2000s. "What a relic," she teased, "though I now understand why you don't rely on your phone for the time."

After putting contact information into respective devices, James switched his ball cap for his motorcycle helmet.

"Why do you always have your head covered?" she asked.

"It gives me a sense of privacy," James answered. "Things were rough for a few years. With the nefarious crew. I guess I'm still hiding from them."

Trixie nodded, "I forgot to mention I really like puzzles. I'm looking forward to solving the enigma that is...what was your full name again?"

"Barnes. James Barnes."

"Like half the bookstore!"

James smiled. That was the last connection he would expect anyone to make. No Winter Soldier, no Steve's sidekick, no Avengers reference. Just half a bookstore moniker.

"I'd like to make you dinner sometime," James said before he realized what he was saying, "I used to be a good cook- though I am woefully out of practice."

"Dinner sounds lovely. Does Friday work?"

"Friday is perfect," James said. He watched as Trixie walked to her car, weaving past another Sunday family. They didn't seem to notice her, but her trepidation around their presence was obvious to him. After she closed her door, he started his bike and headed back home.