Her smile is small, amused, and her tone is warm, like a friend: "You can't help but put your fingers in pies, can you?"

It doesn't matter to her if that's not the saying. She doesn't need to be perfectly American in front of him. Perhaps it's a blessing, given that she can drop her guard slightly. (Is that what she can do with him? All she can feel is hers growing thicker. This truce-like thing that exists between them will only last for so long.)

Wanda looks away from him. "You could've sent someone else, you know." Her Slavic and American accents waver, shifting together, like they're fighting for dominance. "I wouldn't have been offended when I found out you wished to avoid me. A little hurt, maybe," she confides with a shrug, "but I would have understood."

She's dangerous. She tried to kill him. But what he admits to her is something she isn't quite certain how to handle.

They don’t know yet that I know you from before.

Smacking her lips softly, she stares at the shelves in front of her. From her periphrals, she watches him. "Are you going to tell them?"