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ELEANOR SWIRLS HER RED WINE IN ITS GLASS, LEANING BACK IN HER CHAIR. The man across from her is watching eagerly, waiting for her to take her first sip, as if for confirmation that he's made a good choice with the aromatic red Bordeaux. His light brown hair is matted against his sweaty forehead, sitting so still that Eleanor can't tell if he's even breathing. She cocks her head to the side, puts on a thin-lipped smile and takes a long whiff of her drink.
"You know, when you invited me over for dinner..." Eleanor begins, taking a long sip of the wine. He lets out a sigh of what seems like relief, but the brunette pays no mind. A draft from the dining room's broken window gives the pair a slight chill, and one of the standing lamps has been smashed to pieces. Shards of glass litter the floor. "I thought, Wow! He must really like me!"
The man lets out a scoff in disbelief. "Really?"
"No, moron. I thought you were going to try to kill me — which you did," Eleanor says, rolling her eyes and motioning to bullet holes and bloodstains on her dress. Which sort of sucks, because it's her favorite dress. "By the way, the arsenic was a nice touch — it really brings out the hint of black currant in the wine — but it won't work on me."
The man strains against the ropes binding him to the chair, grimacing as he tries to undo the knot behind his back. Eleanor knows. She deliberately left it slightly loose. Hope is a funny thing, and she kind of likes watching him wriggle while his face contorts into a determined look, as if his freedom is some feasible thing. Eleanor finishes the glass in one lengthy drink, and the man stills beneath her sharp gaze. Behind him, fluff from a now-destroyed velvet couch rolls across the floor like a tumbleweed in the Wild West, and the television blares static. The hustle-and-bustle of Moscow's city streets drone on same as usual. Blood drips down the left side of his face from a cut at his temple, onto his neck, and pools at the shallow dip of his collarbone.
"Pretty sweet apartment you've got, Ivan — that is your real name, right? I just get so confused with this whole double agent thing," Eleanor muses. He parts his lips to speak, but she continues. "I know, I know. You didn't sell SHIELD's secrets. You have no idea what I'm talking about..."
Predictably, he growls, "I'm telling the truth."
"See, the problem is, you're the richest fugitive that I've ever had to track down," she replies, gesturing to the well-furnished apartment. "A week ago, you received a hefty wire transfer routed through the Cayman Islands. Who sent that?"
"I have no idea," Ivan lies through his teeth. Eleanor looks disappointed in him. "I'm innocent."
"Did you know that your left eye twitches when you lie?" the brunette agent asks. "It's very slight. I noticed it a while ago, but it's very telling now that you're under more pressure. I don't think you've said an honest thing yet."
