(no subject)

[jink]

Morning, ladies, gentlemen, those who aren't.

[In slacks and a plain shirt, Samantha is Ms. Wilson today, having foregone the goggles and wings that characterize her alter-ego, the Falcon, which is a name nobody besides herself (and occasionally Rogers, to humor her) (Romanoff also, for a different take on humor) actually makes use of. She props her elbows on the podium and flashes a smile.]

This question's partly professional. I work at the VA counseling center, so booze and weird spycraft is off-limits.

What makes self-disclosure easier for you? Of personal problems, especially?

Comments

[hydraated]

[All of this is funny Sam. The thought that you'd think people would disclose anything truthful. At least in Ward's mind.]

No. Not in the long run.

[Just sad on your part]

[jink]

It's a li-ittle bit tempting to make psychoanalytical observations about the size of your junk and proportionate attitude right now, [Sam says, dryly.] But the reality probably has something to do with a bad home life. And there's ethics.

But don't tell me there's nobody you want to talk to.

[hydraated]

[The only person who really mattered is dead so] Skye.

[jink]

[A beat's pause. He caught her by surprise, that he'd actually answer. Even if she doesn't, will probably never have access to personnel files the likes of those.]

What do you want to say to her, if not the truth about yourself?

[hydraated]

[That is a loaded question. A really really loaded question, so he'll just settle back to glare for a good ten, fifteen minutes. Then.]

...It's relative.