Yeah, they did. In the war. She was older than I realized.
[There's a comfort to it, honestly. The way he refutes the idea that parents even matter, shoots down the idea that she was only ever important because of some genetic connection to Natasha. She could argue it, of course, but she doesn't really want to. Because there's a layer to it, the idea that none of it seemed to really matter to him, and that was better, that mattered. She doesn't remember much of her mother. She knew that she'd loved her in that way only children can, that even now she couldn't entirely help it, even if she knew that her mother had been involved in her suffering. But then, it was hard to hate the dead.
She wasn't that little girl anymore. She knew- maybe not all the truth, but enough, had been able to string her life into a more-or-less cohesive narrative, and that was enough. She knew who she was, and even if she worked for people who weren't good people, that didn't mean that she couldn't be a good person, help people. Or so she told herself, anyway.
It's nice, being able to leave Ivan at that, dead and buried. Ava nods quietly as he brings up Kilgrave being in stasis. The name doesn't ring any bells, but she takes the warning at face value. Then he offers her a sour look, and it just makes her smirk, almost grinning as he calls her on being sassy.] Yeah, he wasn't you, but he wasn't one of the bad ones. [Not to her anyway. And in the end, that was how she judged people. There's a lull of quiet, and she nibbles on her chocolate, licking at her fingertips as it gets a little melty from her skin and the fire. She looks at him sideways, and while she doesn't judge him for the scars, eventually she can't resist the temptation to ask.]
Can I ask you about the scars? You don't have to tell me. [Part concern, part curiosity, and part a strange sort of fascination. She can't help wondering what had happened, because they looked like burns more than anything.]
no subject
[There's a comfort to it, honestly. The way he refutes the idea that parents even matter, shoots down the idea that she was only ever important because of some genetic connection to Natasha. She could argue it, of course, but she doesn't really want to. Because there's a layer to it, the idea that none of it seemed to really matter to him, and that was better, that mattered. She doesn't remember much of her mother. She knew that she'd loved her in that way only children can, that even now she couldn't entirely help it, even if she knew that her mother had been involved in her suffering. But then, it was hard to hate the dead.
She wasn't that little girl anymore. She knew- maybe not all the truth, but enough, had been able to string her life into a more-or-less cohesive narrative, and that was enough. She knew who she was, and even if she worked for people who weren't good people, that didn't mean that she couldn't be a good person, help people. Or so she told herself, anyway.
It's nice, being able to leave Ivan at that, dead and buried. Ava nods quietly as he brings up Kilgrave being in stasis. The name doesn't ring any bells, but she takes the warning at face value. Then he offers her a sour look, and it just makes her smirk, almost grinning as he calls her on being sassy.] Yeah, he wasn't you, but he wasn't one of the bad ones. [Not to her anyway. And in the end, that was how she judged people. There's a lull of quiet, and she nibbles on her chocolate, licking at her fingertips as it gets a little melty from her skin and the fire. She looks at him sideways, and while she doesn't judge him for the scars, eventually she can't resist the temptation to ask.]
Can I ask you about the scars? You don't have to tell me. [Part concern, part curiosity, and part a strange sort of fascination. She can't help wondering what had happened, because they looked like burns more than anything.]