[ Natasha doesn't see the lie. His accent, and his practice, and the sheer unreality of the current situation, conspire to keep the small untruth hidden. His other struggle is more plain. America is not always a friendly place, to a Russian. Natasha has felt the daggers in fellow agent's eyes as she left her debriefing rooms; she knows the things they say about her. But they are right to call her a liar, because she does not discard her shield to offer sympathy.
Instead, she just stares, no longer at him, but on some fixed point behind. There is nothing sharp in her gaze, only shock, or a facsimile thereof. When she speaks, there's a tremor in her voice. ]
no subject
Instead, she just stares, no longer at him, but on some fixed point behind. There is nothing sharp in her gaze, only shock, or a facsimile thereof. When she speaks, there's a tremor in her voice. ]
How long have you been here?
[ Months? A year? ]