𝗗𝗜𝗚𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗟 𝗦𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘

Starving

TW: google translate russian

Isabell lies with her legs draped over the back of the sofa, head hanging off the edge, and watches the steady bounce of James' knee.

He's warm beside her, heat radiating in waves, and dressed in fresh clothes from Sharon's collection. He watches Isabell whenever she looks away.

The room is tense. James feels rejected, that she can tell, Sam is guilty, Zemo is Zemo and Sharon is angry about something. Currently, it lies below the surface, but Isabell can feel it rising in a great, bubbling pool.

There are things Sharon knows, people that Isabell has left behind, and those are her people. People with questions left unanswered. Sharon is their spokesperson, and Isabell supposes that is fair, what with everything that has happened.

Doesn't make her any keener on talking to her, though.

She closes her eyes.

So much talking, and yet nobody is saying anything important. Isabell learnt eight years ago that talking is the least effective way of communicating, and that the right sort of people tend to pay more attention if you say nothing at all. An anomaly, a problem they cannot solve. It puzzles the intellectuals but knocks off the idiots, who get bored easily and move on.

She exhales very slowly. She misses when she didn't talk, sometimes. During The Blip, months could go by without a single coherent leaving her mouth, and somehow she felt louder than she had ever had before.

Screaming does not equal heard.

If it did, then somebody would've saved her back in HYDRA. God would've answered.

Isabell lets the words around her fade out slightly. Even these days, she still has to mentally translate English, and it requires far more effort than she has inside of her right now.

After a while, she is vaguely aware of somebody talking to her. They are saying something – she thinks it's her name – but it doesn't quite sound like it. Her nose crinkles.

B-e-l-l-a. No, no, I'm Iz.

But the voice in her head dies as quickly as it is born, and Isabell twitches slightly, turning her head away from the noise. It is all nothing, too much noise and not enough meaning, and she is so sick of listening to–

"Изабель?" (Isabell?)

Isabell opens her eyes.

They are all looking at her, various degrees of concern across their faces, but James seems strangely calm. He looks down at her, smiling slightly at her confused expression.

"Вы не хотите английский?" (You don't want English?)

"Нет." (No.)

James nods. He pauses for a moment, probably trying to summon the fluency of his old Russian, then slowly but carefully explains the plan to her.

Sharon has agreed to help them find William Nagel if Sam agrees to clear her name, so they are heading to one of her parties to find guests with connections. They have also, frustratingly, been ordered to stay out of trouble, which Isabell knows for a fact is not one of her talents.

How cruel.

"... и Шэрон хочет поговорить с тобой." (And Sharon wants to talk to you) James finishes, drumming his fingers against his thighs.

Isabell stiffens.

"Нет."

"Yes, actually." Sharon's voice cuts cold and hard through the warm haze of Isabell's native language, clearly frustrated, and Isabell watches as the woman wanders into her line of vision.