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He can detail an opulent childhood in Paris and a dinner with the Queen of England without causing even the slightest disturbance of a polygraph needle and he senses that Ilsa Faust is more or less the same; he hasn’t been in intelligence long enough for it to outweigh the rest of his life experiences, summers in Midwestern farmland and heavy varsity letter jackets and raised voices in debate tournaments, but he knows without a shadow of a doubt this one detail, that liars can smell other liars. For the foreseeable future, Ilsa is his partner, his accomplice, but she’s also decidedly foreign, from her choice of drink to her most paramount allegiances. And she’s a liar, a good one, good enough for Ethan to recognize it in a heartbeat. The strand of golden hair that tickles her smooth cheek and the distance between her eyelids and the practiced, disinterested slump of her left shoulder is all for the sake of selling her lie.
So that’s how it is. He’s IMF, she’s MI6. Clear divisions, clear boundaries. But he’s glad he can mark her as a good liar now, sooner rather than later.
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(ethan and ilsa are forced to work together as young spies, and everything goes to hell from there.)