Chapter Text
It was about six-thirty in the afternoon when the dark, dripping figure that was Isabel Thatch stumbled into the dark foyer of her humble Glasgow apartment, cursing and grumbling as she removed her trench coat and boots, and left her umbrella on the cold brown tiles. Her soaked-through skirt followed, dropped unceremoniously onto the backrest of a chair, and then the pins on her hair.
Her shoulders were slumped and her hair was frizzy from a long day of rain and lectures and, above all, an hour-long department meeting. A meeting which had seemed, to her, to have fraying her nerves and giving her a debilitating headache as its only goals. All she wanted to do now was to drag herself to the couch and lay there until the hunger forced her into the kitchen.
That's why, perhaps, she didn't think much of the strange, almost unfamiliar, and almost imperceptible perfume that floated in the room. Or maybe it was the fact that it was too light a scent; whatever the reason, the fact is that she sank into the plush cushions of the sofa about as unaware as a newborn infant, and that she had a terrible scare when the voice came.
“Had a long day, Ms Thatch?” It said, in a slow, teasing tone; a low drawl that made something in her shiver even as it made her jolt in her seat. Lightning fast, she turned on the reading light and grabbed for the first thing she could find to defend herself, not thinking or caring about her state of undress. With great reflexes, then, she flung what turned out to be a pillow at the intruder.
Only after the projectile had left her hand did she have time to look at the person standing at the far end of her living room; tall, imposing, unbothered. Isabel realized that she knew her just as she saw her distractedly smacking the projectile away, and the realization made her stumble. It was not a thief; she had no reason to be scared. Still, a new, uneasy agitation shook her, and tensed her tired muscles into alertness. She stood straight, now; smoothed her shirt, set her face into a semblance of respectability and tilted her chin up. She swallowed, tried to dispel the cold panic in her chest, and remembered giving in class presentations as a teenager. Small, foolish thing trying to be respected.
“... Sinclair, wasn't it?” She asked, voice nice and even, and held back a grimace at her own stupid joke. They both knew she knew her name well enough.
“Yes,” Helga said soon enough, in a lazy, amused tone. Her eyes were glinting, and Isabel took it as a good sign. “That would be me.”
She hadn't seen Helga for almost three years, and the woman seemed to have changed little. It seemed so long ago now; she, herself, had changed plenty since that time. Since finding the journal. Since after, when she had heard the news, and Helga had been sent to fetch her from the little hole in Jersey in which she had buried herself. She remembered that time only vaguely; there was only the despair, the shame, and the emptiness, and the stretching road ahead on the drive back home. Vaguely, she remembered trying to die; Helga's cold hands holding her back, keeping her caged in the land of the living.
She had hoped then she would never see her again.
Now the lamp cast soft shadows over her sharp features and between the waves of her hair, and on the table and wall behind her, and Isabel chose to focus on that instead of the soft looking lips, or the teasing look on her face, or the way the strap of her dress had fallen off her right shoulder. She felt a sudden onrush of gratitude for the woman, despite the scare Sinclair had just given her. Still, looking at her, she felt somewhat as if on the edge of a precipice into which she couldn’t afford to fall. She felt something violent and wild staring at her from the depths.
She had to choose her next move carefully, and so she said; “Why the hell are you in my house?”
Because what she had really wanted to know first of all had been how the hell are you in my house?, but that, she thought, was the trap. It was exactly what Helga wanted. And Isabel was liable to do many different things, but relinquishing the illusion of control was not one of them. Better then to just get to the point, and find out later.
Better to skip all the preamble and get over with it, anyway.
“Aw, darling, whenever did you get so boring and straight to the point?” Helga pouted, playing with a pen she'd found– Isabel's pen–, twirling and rolling it between her slender fingers until she snatched it away.
“When did you get such a darnedly American accent, sweetheart?” Isabel retorted. She remembered a light, lilting German accent in her voice from a few years back. It had been pretty, and the fact that it had been so thoroughly smoothed out did not help with the nerves slowly eating away at her composure. “Quit your theatrics and answer my question.”
Helga sighed, and made her way around her. Isabel watched as she got to the spot where she'd been sitting and plopped down, crossing her legs, slow and teasing.
She swallowed thickly, and Helga's eyes raked over her with an amused smile.
“You're cute when you're intimidated,” she said, and Isabel let her misunderstand.
“Just answer me already.” said Isabel, tiredly. She noticed Helga's shoes were still on, and she glared with consternation. Could the woman not give her a single shred of peace?
“Preston Whitmore sent me, if you must know. With two one way tickets back to the Americas– I guess I need not say more.”
There it was: the Explanation. The News. The bomb. It was all said in a monotone voice, despite the spark of excitement in her smirk. Communicating the news to her was, to Helga, nothing but a boring, routine explanation. A mere formality before she swept her away into a trip of unknown proportions. Before she swept her towards— towards that silly dream, or that curse, or obsession that had cost her grandfather (that had cost her) so dearly. She felt the dread settle like ice over her bones.
“I'm not going.” She said, finally, after a beat.
Myth or not, Atlantis had done nothing but cost her and her family's reputation dearly— chasing a myth in vain for a lifetime is bound to make people see you as a loony, no matter your other accomplishments. All the time spent, and the money, got flushed away and left nothing but a stain, and little to show for it. Isabel was not willing to continue that madness. Atlantis was not worth more than what had already been paid for it.
Isabel would not go.
“The little Thatch boy is going.” Helga added, then, plainly, as if reading from a script. “And if you don't go, and we do find it, you'll regret it.”
Milo was going. Of course. The idea made her sick.
And, of course, she was right about the regret. But Isabel was too tired to accept the facts, or the mission; instead, she turned around, went into the kitchen, and filled the kettle for some tea. Her headache had only worsened, and she was hungry and, as she thought about the idea of going into that expedition, her hands began to shake.
She had to go, of course. If they thought they had found something, there was sure to be something, and she knew Milo didn't have the power of the self confidence to keep the capitalists that were sure to lead that trip from pillaging and destroying centuries of archeological evidence. The discovery – or destruction – of the mythical Troy had become an inspiration to some, and a cautionary tale to others.
And then, she didn't trust Milo to keep himself safe out there, wherever they might be going.
She wanted to see what was out there, too. Helga was right, and it all made her head hurt immensely.
A floorboard creaked lightly just as she was reaching for a tea bag and she turned to see Helga leaning on the doorframe. She was looking at her with something that, as far as she could tell, might have been impersonal impatience or curiosity–- waiting. The hostess instinct at that sight was too strong for Isabel to resist, so she lowered the entire box, asking her whether she wanted a cup.
There was an amused noise behind her, and she could almost picture the smirk that must've appeared on Helga's face. “My, the English have fully corrupted you, haven't they?”
She reached up again, and grabbed another box, setting it on the counter as well before turning around with a plastered-on smile. “They may have a great deal of faults, but tea and biscuits was one of those rare good ideas of theirs. So?”
Helga strolled over and took a single biscuit from the box. Isabel watched the movement of those thin, perfectly manicured fingers, and idly thought they didn't look like they could pack much of a punch. “This will do,” Helga said. “And I'm leaving.”
And Isabel relaxed, shoulders slumping, dreaming of tea, a shower and bed at last before she remembered the storm. The raindrops, as she listened were beating furiously against the windows, forbidding exit from the building to anyone with any common sense. Her conscience stabbed into her with treachery, and she turned around a touch too fast.
“You can't go out there.” She said, though it pained her, resigned to withstanding Sinclair's company for a while longer. However, as she looked into the foyer she saw Helga was already putting on her coat, and she didn't seem to have a care in the world about the weather, or her host's opinion on what she could and could not do. Helga just shrugged, calm as ever, and told her that she had a car parked near the door, and that the rain would probably subside before she made down the stairs, anyway. Isabel nodded, and took a biscuit for herself, and bit into it, too tired to argue as she should.
“Goodbye.” She said, seeing Helga off at the apartment door.
“Goodbye,” Helga said, “Your ticket's on the table. Whitmore will be sending his chauffeur for you.”
After this, she opened the door, and turned to give Isabel one last sweeping look. “And darling?”
“Yes?”
“Do try not to get a cold.”
Helga looked at her and then down at her bare thighs with a raised eyebrow, and there was a moment where they both stood there, looking at each other, while Isabel's face tried to settle itself into the correct expression. And then there came a blush, and a splutter, and the blonde was unceremoniously shoved out the door with a “have a nice trip back home!”, and the door was slamming shut.
The rain didn't let off for another hour, but that was none of Isabel's business.