It isn't that Cosima doesn't understand her. Her French is very rusty, true, ten years after high school, but she had done the IB at the time. That grasp of it comes back to her in fits and starts as she spends more and more time with Delphine, who has an unfortunate habit of muttering to herself in French. She assumes Cosima doesn't understand. Cosima doesn't correct her.
The words are rarely important, just little curses or comments on whatever they're doing. J'ai faim. Merde. Vraiment?
But then there are thoughts about Cosima, ones that make her ears prick so she has to hide she's listening even as she strains to hear her. Little mutters, not intended for their audience to appreciate. Tellement belle. Voulez-vous je vous baise? Vous êtes ivre.
Always formal. Always distant. When Delphine kisses her, she isn't distant, nor when they tumble into bed together. Je t'aime, je t'aime, mon coeur. But after the fight, she slides back into the discomfort and formality. Even as they start to mend, sleeping curled up in bed together and building their shared lab, Delphine's language keeps her apart. It's gone on too long for Cosima to question it; she would have to admit to listening, knowing, and she treasures the little promises Delphine has whispered into her skin and her life.
Cure is a long way off yet, but treatment is now, after months of work. Delphine is good with a needle, it turns out, starting the IV line with the sort of ease Cosima thinks is probably unfair to struggling student nurses everywhere. She spikes the drip to push experimental drugs down into Cosima's veins, then sits in the chair and takes her free hand. "Je sais que tu as...été à l'écoute de moi, Cosima. Si tu comprends...je pense que tu comprends. Veux-tu je tu embrace?"
She considers, watching Delphine for a long, slow moment, and then smiles a little. "Je voudrais qu'il." Delphine's answering smile could brighten the night sky, her fingers curling tight.
"Je t'aime."
"I know." And she does.