[ 1961. Damn. That's the first thing that really throws her, though it takes a second to show on her face. She looks down at the hand pressed into the sheets.
Natasha hates time travel.
For a moment she thinks about pretending 1961 is normal. But no, that idea disappears with a blink. He wouldn't tell her this if he didn't think she'd find it strange.
She turns to look at him— he's about her own height, she realizes— and fumbles her next syllables. ]
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Natasha hates time travel.
For a moment she thinks about pretending 1961 is normal. But no, that idea disappears with a blink. He wouldn't tell her this if he didn't think she'd find it strange.
She turns to look at him— he's about her own height, she realizes— and fumbles her next syllables. ]
No. That— It was 2020. I was in New York.
[ God, she hates time travel. ]