Yeah, she hadn't meant surly teens, or young adults who didn't know what they were signing up for. Actual children, too young to fight back, and with no one to come looking for them. At the time, when it happened, she'd thought that the Red Room would be her salvation, that surely the government would take care of her far better than the unscrupulous man who had walked her away from that fire, his voice cruel in her ear, reminding her that she had no one now but him. She had thought, naïve and hopeful, that the government would take care of her, that her country was supposed to care.
She doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to talk about it. So she nods her head, taps the back of her nail against the watch face. "You've taken very good care of it." Assuming he's from the sixties. That would be her guess. The way he talks about things, and the things he omits, little glimpses of his view of the Cold War as it stands. She'd guess mid sixties. She doesn't mention anything else about his parents, though. When the urge to continue to speak about the man who caught her in the snow returns, the violent life she'd led before Red Room, the violent life she'd led after, she stomps it down. He must be feeling something similar. So she needs the truth, and a truth she'd rather not share seems to works best. She wonders if it needs to be a truth she doesn't want to share with him specifically.
"I love chili cheese fries." That horrible junk food that Clint insists is a deeply important part of being American, and she can't stand most of it, but-- "They're horrible for you - salty, greasy, heavy, sit in your stomach like lead, but I love them." It does sort of work, this thing she doesn't want someone else to know. Plus, with her own history pressing heavily on her chest right now, it's all she can think of that's safe.
Her eyes say that she knows this is stupid, but still, it works. They can share little things that don't matter, and as long as they don't stop, it might be enough.
no subject
She doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to talk about it. So she nods her head, taps the back of her nail against the watch face. "You've taken very good care of it." Assuming he's from the sixties. That would be her guess. The way he talks about things, and the things he omits, little glimpses of his view of the Cold War as it stands. She'd guess mid sixties. She doesn't mention anything else about his parents, though. When the urge to continue to speak about the man who caught her in the snow returns, the violent life she'd led before Red Room, the violent life she'd led after, she stomps it down. He must be feeling something similar. So she needs the truth, and a truth she'd rather not share seems to works best. She wonders if it needs to be a truth she doesn't want to share with him specifically.
"I love chili cheese fries." That horrible junk food that Clint insists is a deeply important part of being American, and she can't stand most of it, but-- "They're horrible for you - salty, greasy, heavy, sit in your stomach like lead, but I love them." It does sort of work, this thing she doesn't want someone else to know. Plus, with her own history pressing heavily on her chest right now, it's all she can think of that's safe.
Her eyes say that she knows this is stupid, but still, it works. They can share little things that don't matter, and as long as they don't stop, it might be enough.