"Yes," she answered softly, a shrug of her shoulders. "I know some pieces, but it's all things I've read in reports and none of it--" It didn't feel real, didn't feel like hers. It was confusing, painful at times. "I know what I was supposed to be. But I want to be something else," she admitted with just a touch of defiance, or maybe even desperation to it. Holding onto the optimistic belief that she still got a choice in it.
Her bed was probably not what most people would consider comfortable, but between the safehouse in DC, living in the basement of a YMCA in Brooklyn, and other stolen bolt holes over the past few years, Ava had never really indulged in creature comforts. She murmurs thoughtfully as he talks about training her. "You were different than the others. You were- something she almost understood, I think." She looks distracted for a moment, her focus not as unflinchingly on him as it has been since he stepped into her little refuge.
"There was a mission in Paris. One of her first. The click of her heels in the rain, meeting the target, you took the shot. She smiled at you, like it was a game." She says it without thinking, then shifts a little awkwardly, fidgets with her fingers. It's hard to explain what it feels like. A movie in her head, except it's not her own, and the picture isn't always in focus. She shakes her head, trying to clear it, blinking him back into focus.
"Sorry," she murmurs, not quite sure what else to say, ducking her head. She has pieces of his answers. Things she can offer if he asks the right questions, strange as it is. Those awkward pieces of memory that outweigh her own, that she knows Natasha hates that she still has, even if they'd sort of made their peace over it. It was a violation for the both of them, in the end.
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Her bed was probably not what most people would consider comfortable, but between the safehouse in DC, living in the basement of a YMCA in Brooklyn, and other stolen bolt holes over the past few years, Ava had never really indulged in creature comforts. She murmurs thoughtfully as he talks about training her. "You were different than the others. You were- something she almost understood, I think." She looks distracted for a moment, her focus not as unflinchingly on him as it has been since he stepped into her little refuge.
"There was a mission in Paris. One of her first. The click of her heels in the rain, meeting the target, you took the shot. She smiled at you, like it was a game." She says it without thinking, then shifts a little awkwardly, fidgets with her fingers. It's hard to explain what it feels like. A movie in her head, except it's not her own, and the picture isn't always in focus. She shakes her head, trying to clear it, blinking him back into focus.
"Sorry," she murmurs, not quite sure what else to say, ducking her head. She has pieces of his answers. Things she can offer if he asks the right questions, strange as it is. Those awkward pieces of memory that outweigh her own, that she knows Natasha hates that she still has, even if they'd sort of made their peace over it. It was a violation for the both of them, in the end.