Steve listens respectfully, keeping his eyes on her when he feels his attention is needed, dropping them when she needs her space. There's a lot he can identify with, which won't take a super spy to unravel; he smiles when she smiles, looks pensive when she's serious, shows the regret and sympathy clearly for her loss.
He's careful when he reaches for the photograph, taking it like he's just been handed an emblem in church. It's the first time he's seen Natasha like this, evidence that what she's told him is true. Young, couldn't be more than twenty with that face, and the groom beside her barely more than a kid himself. Like so many who fought in that war.
His brows knit together.
"You were married," he begins with the obvious, but there's so much more behind the words. It's understanding, at last. The things she's lost go beyond her service to the Russian government, to the Red Room. "I'm sorry, Nat."
He hands the photo back to her. "How long after was it, before -- ?" He hesitates, and when Natasha looks puzzled he clarifies in the gentlest way possible. "What year were you brought into the Red Room?"
no subject
He's careful when he reaches for the photograph, taking it like he's just been handed an emblem in church. It's the first time he's seen Natasha like this, evidence that what she's told him is true. Young, couldn't be more than twenty with that face, and the groom beside her barely more than a kid himself. Like so many who fought in that war.
His brows knit together.
"You were married," he begins with the obvious, but there's so much more behind the words. It's understanding, at last. The things she's lost go beyond her service to the Russian government, to the Red Room. "I'm sorry, Nat."
He hands the photo back to her. "How long after was it, before -- ?" He hesitates, and when Natasha looks puzzled he clarifies in the gentlest way possible. "What year were you brought into the Red Room?"