[She catches that patient look, and it might not be about treating her like a child- there's a certain level of condescension that isn't there- but there is something to it, like she doesn't know what she's saying. It's not anger that sparks in her eyes, but something sad, something darker, something not quite so clean.]
I've known other people. Sana is good in a way I can barely comprehend. I lived on the streets of New York City for three years, I met people, I'm not so sheltered anymore that I think the Red Room or SHIELD are okay.
[She steps in a little bit closer, uses the strength in her hand and her grip against his shoulder to push him a little more firmly against the wall of the cave. It's only a little rough, not aggressive, not a threat. It's more to get his attention, it's because she's tactile, and as the conversation shifts she can't help being a little rough, knows he can take it. Her other hand still lingers against his scars, still that light touch as if in direct contrast.]
And I didn't say you were a good man, I said you were good to me. I said you weren't a bad person, and I meant it. I might not know all of your missions, but I know that you were one of the best at what you did, I know you tended to take the most dangerous missions and cut your way through them no matter what that meant. [Information she knows because of Natasha, too above Rumlow, too focused on the Avengers to pay him much attention, but even she still knew of his reputation.]
And if you want to talk dirty I was seven years old the first time I killed someone. She was a little girl, just like me, with gold blonde hair, and I strangled her on the floor because I was told to. And when we went to disrupt the program that my mother had created, there were over a hundred kidnapped orphan teenagers they were controlling. Natasha said I was supposed to leave anything with a pulse to her, but I couldn't do that and provide cover fire. So I chose between her life and the safety of the world against children that didn't deserve to die.
[She's not angry, she's frustrated. That edge to his voice like he didn't think she understood dirty, what it was to be someone with a skewed morality and blood on your hands. Like she didn't have the life experience to judge him as not something awful and have it mean anything. Looking at her like she had been pulled from the Red Room and handed over to SHIELD without being mired in it. She had been Ivan's favorite. Even as he handcuffed her to the pipes so the other girls could hear her scream.] And I have to own every terrible thing Natasha's ever done, because it's not just memory, it's visceral, my body remembers it too. The knife in my hand, or the way the blood splattered on my bare skin, the heat from the hospital fire.
[Her fingers against his scars finally slides down, and her knuckles brush against the stubble of his jaw. And after saying so much, stripping herself down to truth and bone to make a point, she quiets, looks up into his eyes, still balanced on tip-toe, and a little uncertain if maybe she'd pushed too far. But it all leads back to one simple question, her voice soft:]
cw: mention of child murder and torture
I've known other people. Sana is good in a way I can barely comprehend. I lived on the streets of New York City for three years, I met people, I'm not so sheltered anymore that I think the Red Room or SHIELD are okay.
[She steps in a little bit closer, uses the strength in her hand and her grip against his shoulder to push him a little more firmly against the wall of the cave. It's only a little rough, not aggressive, not a threat. It's more to get his attention, it's because she's tactile, and as the conversation shifts she can't help being a little rough, knows he can take it. Her other hand still lingers against his scars, still that light touch as if in direct contrast.]
And I didn't say you were a good man, I said you were good to me. I said you weren't a bad person, and I meant it. I might not know all of your missions, but I know that you were one of the best at what you did, I know you tended to take the most dangerous missions and cut your way through them no matter what that meant. [Information she knows because of Natasha, too above Rumlow, too focused on the Avengers to pay him much attention, but even she still knew of his reputation.]
And if you want to talk dirty I was seven years old the first time I killed someone. She was a little girl, just like me, with gold blonde hair, and I strangled her on the floor because I was told to. And when we went to disrupt the program that my mother had created, there were over a hundred kidnapped orphan teenagers they were controlling. Natasha said I was supposed to leave anything with a pulse to her, but I couldn't do that and provide cover fire. So I chose between her life and the safety of the world against children that didn't deserve to die.
[She's not angry, she's frustrated. That edge to his voice like he didn't think she understood dirty, what it was to be someone with a skewed morality and blood on your hands. Like she didn't have the life experience to judge him as not something awful and have it mean anything. Looking at her like she had been pulled from the Red Room and handed over to SHIELD without being mired in it. She had been Ivan's favorite. Even as he handcuffed her to the pipes so the other girls could hear her scream.] And I have to own every terrible thing Natasha's ever done, because it's not just memory, it's visceral, my body remembers it too. The knife in my hand, or the way the blood splattered on my bare skin, the heat from the hospital fire.
[Her fingers against his scars finally slides down, and her knuckles brush against the stubble of his jaw. And after saying so much, stripping herself down to truth and bone to make a point, she quiets, looks up into his eyes, still balanced on tip-toe, and a little uncertain if maybe she'd pushed too far. But it all leads back to one simple question, her voice soft:]
So tell me, am I ugly too?