Title/Author: Heart-Shaped Box by Reinamy

Pairing: Helga/Arnold

Rating: R/M

Warnings: Post-series, adult themes, language, mild/non-explicit sexual content, etc.

Summary: In which Helga G. Pataki gets stuck in an elevator with the last person she'd ever want to be in close quarters with. Her life, ladies and gentlemen.

Disclaimer: This is non-profitable fanwork. No copyright infringement intended. Title credit goes to the band Nirvana.

Author's Note: I always wanted to write an elevator AU. I apologize in advance for how wordy it is. Also, I don't have claustrophobia (I actually like enclosed spaces) but I tried to make the phobia as realistic as possible. Hopefully I didn't offend anyone. Happy reading, everyone!

P.S. - To those following 'Caught Off Guard, Floored by Love'—no, I have not abandoned it. I promise. The story started veering in a direction I wasn't on board with so I ended up scrapping a lot of what I'd written. Currently I'm working on finishing the rough draft and don't intend to update until I'm at least halfway into it. Unfortunately, due to limited time, a busy lifestyle, and intermittent writer's block, it's been incredibly slow going. Sorry.

P.S.S. - This took me over a year to finish. I'd write a thousand words in one day, and then put it away for a few weeks, then come back to write another thousand words, then put it away again, and so on. I don't know why—it just refused to be written in one sitting. OTL

[ Heart-Shaped Box ]

Helga G. Pataki, editorial director of Babel Publishing House, was having a bad day. No, scratch that, she was having an awful day, and the fact that it was very nearly over did little to console her. Quite the opposite, in fact, as the late hour was just another reminder that she'd have to wake up at an ungodly hour the next morning and force herself through another day at this literal hellhole.

Just the thought of having to wake up and repeat the cycle made her want to kill someone. And Helga was honest enough with herself to admit that said 'someone' was none other than Joe Barney, the publisher she was unfortunate enough to have to report to. The man, though Helga felt 'revolting swine' was a better descriptor, was the bane of her existence. Never in her twenty-six years of life had she ever met anyone so unpleasant, and that was really saying something considering who her father was.

Not only was Joe Barney a sexist, chauvinistic toe-rag, but he was also useless. Helga had a lot of practice dealing with disrespectful alpha-wannabes, a consequence of attending a male-dominant University, and while it was unbelievably frustrating, she could handle it. It was the fact that the man was a complete dimwit who lacked common sense, never mind any other kind, and fought with her at every turn that infuriated her. Bad enough she had to deal with his disgusting comments and leers, but she also had to put up with him constantly undermining her authority and sinking his arrogant fingers into matters that were normally left to the editorial director.

Helga could deal with stupidity. What she couldn't deal with was the poster-boy of nepotism sabotaging her work.

She'd lost another promising editor that day because of the senseless restrictions Barney had placed on her editorial team. The resignation letter had been a long time coming, and honestly, Helga couldn't fault the woman for leaving. Anyone with a lick of sense would have, too.

Helga didn't like to think about what that said about her.

Nothing good, she was sure.

With a wry smile she shut off her computer and started gathering her things. The clock on the wall above the doorframe read 11:22 and the confirmation of how late it was made her eyes fall shut. She couldn't remember the last time she made it home early enough to do anything else but crash. Her social life had never been bustling, but since her promotion two years ago it had come to a complete halt. Gone were the nights out with Phoebe and Patricia, and kickboxing classes with Rhonda and Nadine, and random Friday-night activities with her team. She even missed being dragged off to brunch with Olga. To say that Helga was overworked was a colossal understatement. It took everything she had just to procure Sundays off, and she tended to spend them catching up on much needed sleep more often than not.

Helga couldn't remember the last time she hung out, or went shopping, or even talked to someone on the phone about something other than work for any length of time. And if her social life was bad, her love life was even worse. She hadn't been on a date in nearly a year. A year. A year without flirting, intimate conversations, and romantic outings. A year without sex.

God, she missed sex.

If not for Ol' Betsy, Helga was absolutely sure she wouldn't have survived.

With another elaborate sigh she straightened her rumpled clothing, draped her purse over her shoulder, and left her office. She locked it, then the door to the main office, and slipped out into the hall.

The building was almost creepy when it was empty, the eerie silence broken only by the sound of her heels clacking against the tiles. She turned into another hall and proceeded down it tiredly. There were so many things she needed to do, things that should have been completed that day, but the sudden loss of another editor had set them back. On top of everything else she also have another meeting to look forward to, one where her work ethic would be criticized and her management capabilities belittled, simply because anotheremployee had upped and left. Never mind that Helga wasn't the one at fault. It wouldn't matter; it never did.

She turned another corner.

Despite the sluggish state of her thoughts she tried to compartmentalize everything and come up with a plan of action, something to get the team caught up, but she gave up when thinking proved to be too exhausting. For quite possibly the millionth time that year she contemplated quitting. It was a fantasy of hers, one she indulged in too often to be healthy, but some days it was the only thing that kept her going. She imagined herself storming into Barney's obscenely large office, shooting him in the groin with with a BB gun, and screaming "I quit!" in his face, preferably through a megaphone. Just imagining it brought a wistful smile to her face, one that stayed with her until she reached the elevators. She pressed the button, and once lit, she stepped back and closed her eyes.

She was so tired. Far too tired for her age. To say that her career was sapping the life from her wasn't much of an exaggeration. She felt forty years old standing there, and probably looked it, too. Insane hours and a never-ending supply of work responsibilities did little for her physical appearance, she knew, but most days she was too burnt-out to care. The only reason she even tried to look somewhat decent anymore was because it was one less thing Barney had to bitch at her about.

That and, well, him.

A soft ding pulled her out of her reverie and she snapped her eyes open and took a step toward the opening doors. She paused when she realized that the shaft was occupied by someone else and felt her heart jump to her throat when she realized who it was.

Helga bit back a hysterical laugh. Seriously, her fucking life.

Arnold Shortman, Babel's star graphic illustrator, who was also, incidentally, the star of Helga's more embarrassing dreams (wet and otherwise) was looking at her in surprise.

"Oh," he said.

"Articulate as ever," Helga replied dryly, instinct—because insulting Arnold had become as natural as breathing—kicking in. She stepped into the elevator before it closed and put as much distance between them as she could. It wasn't much.

"Um, hi," Arnold said, and gave an awkward wave.

Helga hated how such a little thing could make her stomach erupt with butterflies. She grunted, not trusting herself to speak, and looked resolutely at her shoes.

It was maddening that after all these years Helga could still hold a torch for the man. Hell, it defied logic. Helga was hardly the same person she'd been in elementary school. Neither of them were. That her stupid infatuation persisted throughout middle school, high school, and college, all the way to where she was now, made absolutely no sense.

It figured that Helga would be cursed to forever love someone who had never showed an iota of interest in her.

She peaked at Arnold from the corner of her eye and frowned. He was staring at the screen above the doors that displayed floor numbers with an expression that, if she had to guess, looked almost anxious.

Probably, she thought bitterly, to get away from me.

It was no secret in their department that the two of them got along about as well as cats and dogs. As far as everyone was aware Arnold had just come along one day, butted heads with Helga, and that was that. She'd certainly never told anyone that they'd known each other since pre-school and Helga doubted Arnold had, either, since no one had questioned her.

It was bizarre, when she thought about it, how often their paths seemed to cross. She hadn't thought anything of it when they attended the same middle school and high school, or when they both got jobs the summer before uni at the same place. But then they'd both been accepted to the same university, and they'd both applied to the same company for an internship at the same time, and the coincidences had become perturbing.

When Helga had bumped into Arnold in her apartment building opening his own mailbox, since he'd apparently moved in two months after Helga, she'd been completely freaked out.

When she arrived at work one day to find Barney introducing Arnold to the rest of the team as their new graphic illustrator, she'd promptly called Phoebe and told her that she was being stalked.

And yes, Helga was fully aware of the irony of her concern, thank you very much.

She should have realized that Phoebe would have told her fiancé, and that Gerald, as Arnold's best friend, would have relayed the message to him.

To say that Arnold had been displeased by the accusation was a gross understatement. In short, they'd argued, argued some more, and had barely spoken a word to each other outside of greetings, work-related comments, and jibes ever since.

Helga was both relieved and frustrated by this. A part of her—a small, miniscule part that she'd hoped had perished along with her creepy obsession with Arnold—had insisted it was fate. Because surely no two people could possibly cross paths so much if they weren't meant to be together. She's stamped down on the thought, reluctant to ever go back to her old, obsessive ways (and she could admit to herself that there was something about Arnold that always brought out the extremes in her; that always lit her up from the inside and made her want to do and say wild, crazy, self-destructive things), but sometimes, when she let down her guard, she'd imagine it was true. That one day he'd see how amazing they could be together and give her a chance to prove it.

And then she'd remember that he's had twenty-one years to get the memo, and hadn't, and she'd apprehend the thought like the criminal it was.

That she could still hope after so many years spoke volumes of how foolish she was. It was no wonder she continued to stick around this shithole; Helga, apparently, had no sense of self-preservation to speak of.

Also—and contrary to popular belief—she was, in her own way, stubbornly, stupidly, optimistic.

Helga turned away from the source of two decades worth of confusion and frustration and leaned against the elevator wall. The more things change the more they remain the same, she thought with no small amount of causticness.

A sudden jolt snapped her to awareness and she looked around in annoyance when she realized the elevator had stopped.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," she snarled, glancing up at the display screen. They were stuck on the floor directly above the lobby. Wonderful. She grumbled under her breath as she made her way towards the panel and hit the intercom button. Nothing. She pressed it again, held it down for a long moment, and released it. Again, nothing. Frowning, she flipped open the narrow lid above the panel and pressed the emergency button. Nothing happened.

"What—" she started, and gasped when the lights when out completely. Helga could do little else but stare dumbly at the ceiling as the emergency light flickered on, illuminating the shaft with a dim, eerie light.

"Hell," Helga said shakily. She took a step back, properly worried now, and turned to look at Arnold who hadn't said a word. The moment her eyes landed on him she blanched.

Arnold wasn't moving. He was so still Helga didn't think he was breathing. He was just standing there, completely rooted to the spot, with his eyes fixed on the door as if silently begging them to open. That wasn't what scared her, though. It was how pale he looked, like every ounce of color had been completely drained from his face. Helga felt herself moving towards him before she became conscious of it.

"Oi, football head," she said. When he didn't respond she poked him.

That seemed to snap him out of it, though not in the way she'd hoped. One moment he was standing there, utterly catatonic, and the next he was shaking and gasping like there wasn't enough oxygen in the compartment to breathe.

"Arnold?"

"We've got to get out of here," Arnold rasped suddenly, rushing at the doors. He placed his trembling fists against the metal and punched it so hard the sound of the impact made Helga jump.

"Arnold! What—?"

"Why isn't it opening?" Arnold stammered, undeniably panicked. He hit the doors again before slitting his fingers into the indiscernible crease and trying to pry them open. The doors didn't so much as budge. Still he kept trying, straining against them until his arms were shaking from exertion.

"Let me out!" he shouted at the doors, slamming his fists against them again. "Help! Let me out!"

Helga could do little else but stand there, stumped. She had never, ever seen Arnold so rattled. Not when that bigshot corporation tried to bulldoze their old neighborhood, not when that bully had it out for him in high school, not even when he fell down an entire flight of stairs in their college dorm (which, to that day, was fodder for plenty a nightmare).

She had no idea what had caused it, but she couldn't help but think how wrong it was. Arnold was supposed to be unflappable. Strong. For as long as she'd known him, nothing had ever rattled his composure. The sight of him so shaken left her feeling wrong-footed and unsure how to react.

For a long while she simply stared at this alien wearing Arnold's skin, trying to figure out why he was, well, going crazy, and what she could do get the old, reasonable Arnold back. Eventually she decided to go with the first impulse that came to mind, and after forcefully turning him around, slapped him.

Hard.

The sound echoed loudly, which made Helga flinch guiltily because she really hadn't meant to hit him that hard. Whoops. But hey, at least he stopped panicking.

"Arnold?" Helga asked hesitantly, waving a hand in front of his face.

The boy in question blinked rapidly. "Helga?" he croaked, as if he'd only just realized she was there.

"Obviously! What the hell happened, Arnoldo? You completely freaked."

She regretted making him aware of the situation again when he looked around and his pupils dilated. Helga thought with some hope that he was going to go back to being a plant, but her hopes were dashed when he crumpled to the floor and started hyperventilating.

"What the hell is going on?" Helga demanded, but she might as well have been talking to the ceiling for all the attention Arnold gave her. No, he was too busy killing himself to respond.

Helga was appropriately panicked now. She was an editor for heck's sake, not a doctor. This wasn't in her job description!

Most of what you do these days isn't in your job description, a snide voice in the back of her head whispered, but Helga ignored it in favor of lowering herself to her knees and putting her hands on Arnold's shoulders. He looked up at the touch and her heart gave a sudden lurch because there were honest-to-god tears in his eyes and that was not okay.

"Arnold," she said with more calm that she felt, "I am a woman of many talents, but mind-reading is unfortunately not one of them. You need to tell me what's going on so I can help, okay?"

It was quiet for so long that she nearly resigned herself to not receiving an answer, but Arnold eventually said in a voice that was sandpaper rough, "C-claustrophobic."

One word, and yet it said so much.

"Well. Shit," Helga said. Who was the inarticulate one now? But Arnold made a huffing sound that might have been a laugh, so she gave herself a mental pat on the back for that tiny success.

"I don't know what to do," she admitted after a while of simply watching Arnold try, and fail, to regulate his breathing. "I'm not a doctor, either."

Another huff, though whether it was a laugh or a sob was up in the air. "Would h-help," he broke off to wheeze, "i-i-f you'd d-distract m-me."

"Okay," she breathed, "I can do that." She made to move, but quicker than her eyes could keep up with, Arnold slapped his hands over hers and shook his head.

"P-please d-don't move. G-ground…ing."

"Okay, okay," she placated, feeling so far out of her depth she might as well have been drowning. "Okay. I'm not moving. So. Distraction. Right. I can do that. I can…I can't think of anything."

Again there was that half-sob, half-laugh huff. "J-Just tell—"

He was cut off when the shaft lurched, and for a split-second Helga thought it was about to move, but no, it stayed exactly as it was. With her luck being as crappy as it was, she didn't know why she expected anything else.

Unease coursed through her when Arnold's breathing became worse. At one point, he must have actually stopped breathing and that freaked Helga out more than words could possibly say.

"Okay!" she said quickly. It came out more loudly than was probably necessary, but she wanted to be heard over the sound of his heavy gasping and her own rapid heartbeat, both of which seemed deafening to her. "I—I, um, I slept with Phoebe once!"

…Shit, shit, shit.

Arnold stopped breathing again, but Helga thought it was due to shock more than anything. She spared a second to curse her and her big, stupid, unfiltered mouth before she grudgingly continued. It was out there already, so she might as well tell it. And quickly, before her courage deserted her and she knocked Arnold out just to save her the embarrassment. "It was in high school."

That got his attention, and he shot his head up and looked at her with wide eyes. There was still a heavy film of fear there, making his eyes look glassy, distant, but there was some awareness there, too, creeping in at the edges, which was all Helga needed to continue. "I was curious, she was curious, neither of us were seeing anyone, so we just decided to do it and see what it was like."

Slowly, some of the fog ebbed from his eyes.

"It was terribly awkward. We swore afterward that we'd never talk about it again. The end."

Arnold blinked at her, then snorted. "That…w-was the shittiest…storytelling I-I've ever h-heard," he wheezed.

"What, you wanted details or something, you pervert?" she demanded, gratified that he was blushing as much as she was.

(Relieved, too, because he'd gotten too pale, and Helga would tell embarrassing story after story if it meant he'd no longer look like a week-old cadaver.)

"N-no, of c-course not!" Arnold denied.

Helga only drawled, "Whatever."

Another long moment passed full of gasping that was growing heavier by the moment. When Arnold asked her with a voice filled with desperation to tell him another one, she did.

Of course, Helga being Helga, the first thing that tumbled off her tongue was the exact thought she never, ever wanted anyone to know. She wondered if it was the situation or the company that was coaxing these secrets from her. She had a feeling it was a combination of both.

"I hate my job," she blurted. She held her breath, waiting for the world to collapse around her for having finally admitted it aloud. It didn't happen, and a weight she hadn't realized she'd been carrying fell away when she finally breathed.

"I hate my job," she repeated, bolstered by Arnold's steady gaze on her, his quiet permission to talk. "Hate it. I once heard someone say, 'I could die and go to hell and it would take me at least a week to realize I wasn't at work anymore,' and that—that sums it up for me perfectly."

She glanced at Arnold, who nodded at her encouragingly, and looked away and continued eagerly, "It's slowly sucking the life out of me, and every day I wonder why the hell I even bother, you know? I have amazing work experience, I have a degree from an Ivy League university, I'm a damn good editor—hell, I could work at any publishing house I wanted to! And yet I keep coming back, day after hellish day, and I have no idea why.

"No, that's a lie," she said, into it now. "I'm too damn stubborn. I worked my ass off to get to where I am now and it kills me that I'd let it all go to waste because my superior's a douche nozzle who would do the world a favor if he were dead. If I resign it feels like I'm letting him win and I hate that."

She punched the floor and made a growling sound. "And of course I can't tell anyone anything because that's a weakness too, isn't it? And it's not like I don't know what they're going to say. It's the same thing I tell myself every time I step into this veritable hellhole."

By the end of her tirade, Helga was breathing just as heavily as Arnold was, to her chagrin. She was too frustrated to care about sounding like a whining child—and to Arnold, no less. Hearing the words outside the recesses of her mind made her realize just how unfair the situation was, and just how foolish she was being for thinking anything would change.

"Maybe," Arnold started tentatively, pulling her from her thoughts, "the r-reason you haven't told…told anyone anything is b-because you don't want them to…t-to tell you what you've known you should do all a-along."

Helga glared at him, suddenly furious that Arnold, golden boy of whatever establishment he stepped foot into, would dare to patronize her. As if he, who had everything going for him, had the right. With that livid thought Helga opened her mouth, tongue poised like a whip…and saw him sitting there, pale and anxious, barely able to breathe, and her words died on her tongue.

"You're right," she muttered, feeling like whatever energy laden strings had been keeping her up had been cut. "Of course you're right. I'd be more surprised, but it's you. You know everything."

Arnold snorted. "H-hardly, Helga. 'M'not…p-perfect."

With an arched brow, Helga gave him an oh, really look, which he rolled his eyes at. Sort of. Honestly, the attempt looked kind of painful.

"I'm not. I m-make…make mistakes all the time. Not p-perfect. A-ask Gerald."

"Oh, really. Then by all means, share a story to support you claim. I'm all ears."

"You'd like t-that," Arnold accused.

"Obviously," Helga said. She shifted, wanting to reposition herself but not knowing how. Her choices were limited with Arnold wanting her to keep touching him and her own slip of a skirt that was rising every time she so much as moved. "Aside from stalking, what else has golden boy Arnold done that would land him on Santa's naughty list?"

"I n-never stalked you!" Arnold insisted, flushing.

"Whatever. Now start talking."

Arnold grunted and closed his eyes, clearly trying to figure out something that was neither vanilla nor too incriminating. Eventually he spoke, "I h-hotwired a car, once. S-spent a night in j-jail. W-would have been…been longer but G-Gerald convinced the guy to drop c-charges."

Helga could feel her eyebrows climbing higher. "You…hotwired a car? And got arrested?" she said weakly. Why, oh why, was the thought of that so arousing?

Arnold ducked his head. "Y-yeah."

"You know how to hotwire a car? Scratch that, why did you hotwire a car?"

"…Teenage r-rebellion," he admitted sheepishly, glancing up at her.

"Criminy," she breathed with no small amount of awe. She was currently looking at Arnold in an entirely new light. "I've gotta admit, Arnoldo, I'm impressed."

He snorted, though Helga would swear in front of a judge that he was blushing. "Y-you would be."

Helga wasn't even insulted. "What else are you hiding behind that perfect veneer of yours? Did you join a gang? Spend time in rehab? Rob a till? Knock someone up?"

Arnold stared at her like he couldn't believe she was real. "Your imagination is f-frightening."

"I'm an editor," she said, like that explained everything. Which she personally thought it did. "And don't change the subject. I want details. Sordid details. Don't make me go through Phoebe to get them, because I will. I was a journalist for a time, you know."

Though Arnold's responding sigh was resigned, she could see a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The thought that she could make him smile despite the stressful situation made the butterflies lying dormant in her stomach come to life.

"There w-was this—" The elevator lurching again cut off whatever he'd been about do say, and Helga tensed when she felt it shake, then slowly, slowly descend.

Knowing better now, she waited for the other foot to fall, and wasn't surprised in the least when it rocked and came to a grinding halt. The overhead lights flickered, died, then blinked on with a tinny whir.

Helga looked at Arnold and exhaled deeply. They were back at square one.

"Arnold, I'm just going to check to see if the intercom is working, alright?" At his nod she lifted her aching arms away and pretended not to notice the way he leaned towards her as she rose to her feet and walked the three steps to the panel. She pressed every single button on there but nothing happened, not even a beep.

"I'm going to take a page out of your book, alright? You might want want to cover your ears." She gave him a second, then started ramming her fists against the elevator. "Help!" She shouted at the top of her lungs. Which were considerable, if you asked her. "We're stuck in the elevator! I swear I'll sue if you don't get us out of here!"

That, at least, might spur whoever might be listening into action. Unless they were a harassed, overworked, undervalued employee like she was who would love nothing more than for the company to go bankrupt, in which case they were screwed.

Hands thoroughly aching, Helga returned to her earlier position, only this time she grabbed Arnold's hands. "You alright there, football head?" she asked quietly, even though she knew he wasn't. Within a span of a minute he'd completely relapsed.

"Y-y-you k-know," he struggled to say, and Helga squeezed his hands tightly, "y-y-you…you used t-to give m-me such…such a complex about my h-head when we…we were k-kids."

Shock. That was the feeling that bolted through her when she deciphered his copious stuttering. "What?" she asked, just to make sure he said what she thought he'd said.

"I-It's t-true. I a-a-acted like I di…didn't c-care, but I did. W-was r-r-really…self-conscious…about it and calling m-me f-f-football head…didn't…didn't help. Got over i-it, though."

Helga could only stare at him speechlessly, caught between wanting to accuse him of lying and wanting to drown herself in heady guilt. She'd never considered that Arnold might have actually felt hurt by her teasing. At that stage of her life she'd been a real piece of work who'd made it her life's goal to pick on everyone. It wasn't as if she'd singled him out!

Like that's any justification, her scornful conscience spoke up as guilt climbed its way up her chest and lodged in her throat. She felt nauseated.

"Y-you look l-like I…killed your p-puppy," Arnold said, squeezing her hand like she deserved any consolation right now. "D-don't w-worry about it, H-Helga. I-it was y-years ago. I told you, I d-don't care."

Years ago? "I just called you football head not five minutes ago," she pointed out weakly, feeling for all the world like someone had pulled the rug out from beneath her and left her standing barefooted on a bed of nails.

Arnold laughed. "Y-yeah, b-but coming from you, it's…it's like a t-term of endearment. R-really, d-don't worry about it. I wouldn't have said a-anything if I knew you'd feel so guilty."

Absently, she noted that that his breathing was becoming steadier.

"I don't," she muttered, staring at their combined hands. She doubted she was the only one who picked up on the lie. Then, "I should…probably apologize, though, I guess. Or something. So...yeah. That."

Another laugh. "Y-you're e-even worse at apologizing than you a-are at storytelling."

"Yeah, well, see if I do either for you again," she groused, feeling the tiniest bit better that he at least wasn't holding some epic grudge. Helga sure as hell would have had their roles been reversed. Desperate to distract herself from the regret that was still churning in her gut, she asked the question that had been niggling at her for some time.

"By the way, foo—Arnold! I meant, by the way, Arnold," she ignored his snort, "what's up with the claustrophobia, anyway? I know for a fact you didn't have it in grade school. We got locked in a broom closet once, remember? Which, come to think of it, is probably where I developed my arachnophobia…" she trailed off, noticing how he'd frozen.

Aw, hell, Helga cursed to herself. What's happening now?

"Arnold?" she probed hesitantly, mentally scanning over everything she'd said to find whatever the hell had triggered him. "Arn—" she broke off with a quiet gasp when the tears that had been coming and going finally spilled over and Arnold—

Stopped breathing.

Scrambling to her knees, Helga gripped his shoulders and gave a single shake. "Arnold!" she snapped, wondering in the midst of her panic if she should slap him again. "Arnold, calm down!"

But he wasn't calming down—was getting worse, by the look of it. He sucked in a breath but Helga only had a handful of seconds to think oh god yes before he stopped breathing again, and she didn't know if it was because he was holding it or he actually couldn't breathe, and she was an editor, for Pete's sake, not a goddamn doctor, and she didn't know what to do, and why were they spending time talking about silly stories instead of discussing what they hell she should do if he started freaking out again and fucking stopped breathing—

Helga kissed him. Later she would try to rationalize it by telling herself she was trying to perform CPR, but in that moment she had absolutely no idea. The only thought flitting through her mind was, he's not breathing and do something, Helga!

How 'do something' translated over to 'kiss him', she didn't know. But that's what happened. She leaned forward, cupped his face in her hands, and clamped their mouths together.

In all her fantasies—and there were many of them—Helga had never imagined their first kiss would taste like salt, or that she'd feel anything other than sheer ecstasy. The thought was as quick to come as it was to leave, which she was grateful for. This wasn't a kiss—this was a bastardized version of cardiopulmonary resuscitation. This wasn't a gesture of desire—this was her clumsy attempt to save Arnold's life.

Her eyes remained opened as she breathed into his parted mouth, then inhaled, trying to coax the air from his lungs. Match my breathing, c'mon, match it, she thought desperately, tightening her grip on his face.

It took several seconds—several torturous seconds where Helga felt like she was balancing precariously over a taut wire—but Arnold eventually did. His breath stuttered, and slowly, so slowly, he eventually started to breathe, inhaling when Helga exhaled, exhaling when she inhaled, until he was breathing at a rhythm that was all his own and she felt assured enough to pull away.

"Arnold?" Helga quietly inquired, thumbs stroking the curves of his cheek. The panic was still there, slithering around her thundering heart, but she tried not to let any of it leak to her voice. "Arnold, are you alright?"

He said nothing, just continued to sit there with his eyes closed, and Helga was too damn relieved that he was finally breathing to get irritated with him for ignoring her.

Seconds ticked by, and finally Helga started to pull away. Her hands had barely parted from Arnold's clammy skin when they were stopped by hands that were considerably larger than her own.

"Arnold, what..." she faltered when his brown eyes fluttered open and he gazed at her beneath damp eyelashes with more sharpness than she expected. There was an intensity simmering in them that Helga couldn't begin to define and she opened her mouth to question it—

—only for her words to dissolve when a pair of moist lips clamped over her own.

For a long while she didn't move. Couldn't move. Her brain refused to translate the information being collected by her senses into a language she could understand. She simply sat there, statue-still, as a hand cupped her cheek, allowing hers to fall to her lap, and the pressure against her lips intensified.

I think I'm being kissed, she thought dazedly, just as the pressure eased and the face blurring her vision leaned away.

Helga's hand came up to touch her lips as she blinked rapidly, mind whirring as it struggled to keep up with the situation.

She'd been kissed. She looked at Arnold, who was staring at her unsurely, and her heartbeat went haywire as everything clicked into place. She'd been kissed by Arnold.

Arnold, whose shoulders were rising with each passing second of her abeyance. He opened his mouth, but Helga didn't give him a chance to apologize, or claim temporary insanity, or make excuses. Energy sizzling beneath her skin, she reached forward, seized the lapels of Arnold's coat, and fixed their mouths together.

She gasped. She couldn't help it. Now that she understood exactly what was going on it was as if all her nerve-endings had relocated to her mouth, and the contrast of Arnold's wet lips against her considerably dryer ones was amazing. Suddenly she was aware of everything that had gone unnoticed in her panic, and later confusion. She could taste the coffee on his breath, feel his lips tremble when she nibbled at his bottom lip, hear each hitch when her fingers wound through his hair, tugging. Echoed it when he curled his hand around the nape of her neck and tilted her head to make the angle better.

In her fantasies, Arnold had always been gentle. When she dreamed about him kissing her, it was always with a gentleness that made her ache, and a patience that made her burn, and a firmness that left her boneless. And as wonderful as that would have been…

This was so much better.

He kissed her like he wanted to mold their mouths together, like she was intoxicating and he couldn't get enough. When he slid his tongue between her lips, begging entry as he slowly nudged them apart, Helga was all too eager to comply. At first contact a shiver wracked through her, which Arnold echoed, and she moaned as he grabbed her waist and pressed her flush against him.

Haze consumed her mind as they ravished each other. Helga had no control whatsoever over her hands—they touched everywhere, desperate to feel as much of him as she could while she could, even with the unfortunate barrier of clothing between them. They tangled in his hair, stroked the skin at his nape, clutched his broad shoulders for purchase. They ran up and down his arms, smoothed over his chest, trailed the faint knolls of his spine. By far their favorite place, however, was his face, feeling his cheekbones shift beneath her palms, and his teeth nip at her fingers, and his tongue flick against the tip of her thumb.

Arnold was no more in control, hands roaming everywhere as their lips and tongues entwined. Each brush of callused skin against her face and neck and collar, and each grasp of her shoulders and hips and waist, lit a match inside of her that sought to melt her from the inside. When the pads of his fingers brushed the sides of her breasts she dropped her head back and moaned.

Which Arnold echoed as he detached his lips from hers and slotted them over the sensitive skin at her jaw to suck a bruise she could feel down to her toes.

"Arnold," she gasped when the fingers toying with the hem of her blouse slipped beneath to touch bare skin. She whimpered when he curled them around her waist and squeezed.

Their kisses grew more frantic as his hand slid up her side, teasing the insides of her arm and the curve of her breast before finally cupping it. Her chest heaved as he tightened over her, and she arched into his touch when a callused thumb stroked its center.

"God, Helga," Arnold rasped between kisses, and the way he said her name as if it were a plea and a promise at once, shot straight to her groin. Suddenly she couldn't bear to be separated by so much cloth. She leaned back, forcing herself not to respond to his discontented whine, and started to quickly unbutton her shirt. After a moment Arnold seemed to get the memo and he, too, started divulging himself of his coat, and then sweater, and then shirt.

Helga stared unabashedly as inch after inch of golden skin was revealed. Arnold wasn't as built as some of the other men she'd been with. He was more wiry, muscles as lean as they were defined, and perfectly sized for his slight stature.

She licked her lips, desperate to touch that expanse of skin, and flicked her gaze up at him in silent question. When she realized that he was too busy staring hungrily at her own body to notice anything, she smirked, even though her stomach was fluttering with nerves.

Helga knew she looked good. She didn't spend so much time on her treadmill and lifting weights for fun. Even so, there was a certain exhilaration in knowing that Arnold thought so, too. That he was as attracted to her as she was to him.

That he wanted her just as much.

Helga didn't think about the why's or how's of what was happening. If she did, she knew that she'd feel obligated to slow things down and demand a reason, a reason which she wasn't naïve enough to believe she'd actually like.

She knew what this was. Arnold had said it already, hadn't he? He needed a distraction to keep the panic at bay, and Helga was conveniently there. She didn't allow herself to think about how much the whole thing was going to suck when it was over, or how she'd have to pick up the pieces of her shattered, long-held hopes and pretend that nothing had changed when everything had. She didn't want to think about how awkward it would be between them if Arnold couldn't act like nothing had happened, or how devastated she'd be if he could. She didn't want to think about how much she wanted this to happen, and at the same time had never wanted anything less.

Helga had yearned for this since before she'd even known what yearning was. Maybe not the sex part—that had come later—but the attention? The intimacy? The desire? The knowledge that she was the focus of his attention and the object of his longing? That in this time and place, however isolated it was, she was the only thing keeping him grounded.

The only thing he'd ever need.

How could she possibly pass this opportunity up when there was the very real chance she'd never get another? The answer was simple: she couldn't. Even if it was only once, in less than ideal circumstances and an equally undesirable location, Helga would take whatever he offered if it meant getting a taste of what it would be like to be cherished by the man she'd loved since childhood.

Whatever came after, this made it worth it.

Without hesitation, she reached out and touched him, gently tracing the swell of his throat. Prompted by her initiative, Arnold leaned forward, as well. Their gaze remained locked as he stroked the underside of her breast before hooking his fingers beneath the wire and slipping them inside. She saw his eyes darken just before her eyes fluttered closed and she arched into his palm, seeking more friction. Her breath hitched when the front clasp holding the bra together clicked out of place and her breasts spilled out as the material fell away. They dropped slightly, but Arnold didn't seem to mind if his hitch of breath was any indication. He kneaded her sensitive skin, thumbs circling around the erect center, before lowering his mouth to suckle at the skin just below her collar. All the while, Helga's nails scratched lines into his back.

"You're so incredibly gorgeous," Arnold's breath ghosted against her ear, tickling. The two of them sighed when their chests came together and Helga was lowered to the floor.

It didn't matter that hundreds of other people had tread upon it with dirty shoes, or that all manner of substances had likely been spilled there. All that mattered, in that moment, was the way Arnold was gazing at her, like she a wonder, a marvel, something worth losing his breath over.

"So gorgeous," he repeated, leaning down to draw her into another searing kiss that had her seeing spots.

Helga wished she could return the sentiment, but her throat refused to cooperate. It was probably a good thing since the thoughts running through her head weren't the instinctive compliments and courtesies one would usually tell their lover in the throes of passion. They were sentiments that she'd always thought in the deepest recesses of her heart, things that would give her away more than allowing Arnold to take her ever would.

When he looked at her with warmth she wanted to say, Your eyes remind me of the tree house my father and I built when I was a little girl; it was the only thing he and I ever did together that we both enjoyed and was my safe haven away from home.

When he kissed her and she felt him smile against her lips she wanted to say, My home life was deplorable and there were days when I felt I'd never get out. But then you would smile at me and I'd suddenly feel hope; you kept me going.

When his fingers hovered above the waist of her skirt, eyes asking permission before he ventured any lower, she wanted to say, Your consideration towards others is what made me fall in love with you. Even though it's what I admire most about you, I wish I could covet it for myself.

Helga closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to fall away as his hand trailed up her thigh, torturously close to the place that ached to be touched. When his fingers teased the edges of her underwear before dropping to massage her knee, she grit her teeth and glared at him with one eye.

Arnold smirked at her, and gods if that didn't make her want him all the more. She opened her mouth, prepared to tell him exactly where he could shove his teasing, when a piercing beep shattered the silence, making her jump.

The two of them looked at each other disbelievingly before turning towards the panel where, lo and behold, the emergency light was blinking. A stream of muffled static sounded before a woman's tinny voice spoke through the speakers, "—lo? Hello? Is anyone in there? Are you alright?"

She would have laughed if the situation were in any way humorous. She glanced at Arnold, and promptly wished she hadn't because he was looking at her like it was his first time seeing her, eyes wide and skin red. She watched as he ran his gaze up her naked torso, caught her eye, then hastily looked away, not quick enough to hide the flash of emotion in them before he averted his gaze.

Regret.

Now that the heat of the moment had been interrupted, and help was on its way, and he no longer needed a distraction to keep him from the panic, he regretted what they'd done. Regretted her.

Red haze inched into the sides of her vision and Helga shoved him away. Arnold fell to the floor with a pained grunt, but Helga wasn't looking at him anymore. She rose to feet, made quick work of buttoning her blouse, then strode towards the panel box and pressed the intercom button.

Her voice, when she spoke, was unrecognizable. Dark. A shadow of sound. After the woman on the other end assured them that help was on its way, she went about retrieving her bra—which she tucked into her discarded purse—and straightening out her clothes, her hair. She only wished the turmoil of emotions moiling inside her could be as easily rectified.

When there was nothing else to do she tucked herself into a corner, spine straight and shoulders squared, and trained her eyes to the doors. Waited for help to come. She counted, wanting nothing more in that moment than for the doors to open so she could leave. Leave Arnold and his stupid regret, leave the place where she'd made such a fool of herself, leave the building with its soul-sucking, misery-inducing air. Helga just wanted to go home, to her memory-foam bed and goose-feather pillows and the pervasive silence that she usually despised, but now seemed like a welcome reprieve.

She was at 326 seconds when Arnold finally spoke.

"Helga," he started, voice barely above a murmur yet, in the small space they occupied and in the looming silence they'd created, might as well have been a shout. "Helga, I'm sor—"

"Don't," Helga snapped, resolutely not looking at him. "Just don't, Shortman."

A masochistic part of her wanted to ask, sorry for what? but she didn't dare. Already she felt like she'd been rubbed raw. That, with a bit more friction, her insides would be showing for the world to see, and prod at, and pick apart. She could have dealt with the two of them having sex and pretending it didn't happen. It would have hurt, but she could have dealt. What Helga couldn't handle was Arnold regretting it, and apologizing for it. She'd rather box her own ears than hear him say it; it would probably hurt less.

When the intercom blared to the life and the dispatcher announced that the elevator would get jostled while the technicians lowered it down, she wasn't the only one who sighed with relief.

The heartache she felt at his quiet exhale was like a punch to the gut.

XXX

The first thing Helga did when she went into work the next day was storm into Joe Barney's office and slap her resignation letter on his desk. She walked right back out, ignoring his bewildered spluttering, and apologized to her team for her abrupt departure. Then she was gathering her belongings into the suitcase she'd brought and getting the hell out of there.

When Helga stepped out of the building into the crisp, autumn air, it took everything she had not to sink to her knees and laugh hysterically. She was free—of having another's work hoisted onto her, and having to put up with Joe Barney's senseless rules and restrictions while her superior looked the other way, and having to lose so many promising editors because the higher-ups couldn't get their shit together.

No more leaving her apartment before dawn and returning to it well after dusk. No more bringing work home with her, most of which shouldn't have been hers to begin with, and staying weekends just to keep abreast of her team's projects because another impromptu resignation or transfer had set them behind again.

She was free.

Smiling broadly—to the unease of the passerby—Helga walked to the edge of the curb and stuck her arm out to hail a cab. Seconds later a yellow taxi pulled up, and she opened the door, stuffed her baggage into it, and climbed in. After rattling off her address she looked out the window, to the silver, looming building with its obnoxious glass roof that, with any luck, she'd never have to step foot into again, and discretely lifted her middle finger. Childish of her, perhaps, but so worth it for the thrill it gave her.

With the changing streetlight, the traffic ahead of them finally budged, allowing the taxi to pull ahead. They'd barely moved an inch when a flash of yellow caught her eye and she instinctively tried to determine the source.

Helga felt the entirety of her good mood leave in a single expelled breath when she realized it was Arnold, the one person she'd actually prayed she wouldn't see. She watched as he dashed out of the building, head swiveling left and right as if in search of something. It was sheer coincidence that their eyes connected at all in the scant seconds before the car pulled her away. She barely had time to make out that his lips were moving before he was gone. Heart in her throat, blood in her ears, Helga told herself not to look back.

Only when the car rounded a corner could she finally breathe.

Helga's resignation had been a long time coming, but there was a reason she'd given it so quickly when before she couldn't even bring herself to print it out. A reason that Helga didn't want to admit to herself for how pathetic it made her. Weak, when she'd always considered herself to be strong.

She didn't want to have to chance running into Arnold again—not with the same frequency they'd always managed to at work. Bad enough they lived in the same building, and ran in the same circles, and shared the same friends. Crossing paths was inevitable, but until she could get a rein on the emotions that had been fluctuating wildly inside of her since their liaison—scorching heat one moment, biting cold the next—she wanted to limit those occasions as much as possible.

Time. That was all she needed. Time to ruminate on what happened, examine it on all sides, poke holes in it and pick it apart, and then once she'd discovered all there was to know about it she could shove it to the side, like a discarded Rubik's Cube that'd been cracked so many times all value was lost. She just needed the entire situation to become a plain box that she could throw in her closet and forget about.

With time, and perhaps some distance, the incessant throb in her chest would ease, and her limbs would stop feeling like they'd been filled with lead, and everything would return to normal. Or some semblance of it.

For the duration of the ride Helga stared out the window, her forehead pressed to the chilled glass, her breath creating formless white shapes with every exhale. The world passed in a blur of bright colors, which she paid only half a mind to, the other half drawn inwards. So lost in thought, she didn't realize they'd reached their destination until the taxi driver cleared his throat and she came to with a startled blink.

Once the money had been exchanged and her bag was pulled onto the sidewalk, she walked up to her building, nodded distractedly at the doorman, and went inside. She didn't bother checking the mailbox, more inclined to catch the elevator when she noticed it was on her floor. She stepped inside, barricading herself against all thoughts of escapades in other elevators, and pushed the button to the fourth floor with more force than necessary.

When she walked into her apartment, it was so silent that the click-clack of her heels against the tiles seemed to split it apart; so still that every movement from her stirred the air; so vacant that her presence seemed to fill the room to bursting point.

Peeling off her shoes and dropping them to the floor, she pondered what she should do. A glance at the nearest clock revealed that it was ten past nine. Which was…too early to do anything, really. Her friends would be at work, it was too early to start lunch (or think about what to order in), and honestly, she wasn't in any particular mood to go out, even if her hair was in desperate need of professional care and the thought of a massage made her eyes flutter.

She looked around her living room as she shrugged off her coat and draped it over the couch to be dealt with later. Perhaps a movie, she thought, eyeing her DVD collection. A few seconds later she dismissed the idea; most of what she owned was romantic in nature. Not even the action-flicks and sci-fi films were exempt. She looked away with disgust (and made a mental note to pick up movies that were entirely without romance at the video store) and promptly decided to take a bath.

The thought became more appealing when she rummaged through her kitchen and found a pint of whole milk and a half-jar of honey. She padded into her bathroom, set her items on the sink, and went about filling the claw-tub with water just shy of scorching. Clothes were discarded and tossed over the toilet, jewelry was removed, hair came undone, and then she was pouring the milk and honey into the tub until it turned a cloudy cream color and twisting the faucet off.

Helga then set the radio on the shelf across the room to the classical music station, too lazy to unearth her iPod from the mess in her bedroom. A soft, melodic tune that sounded distinctly of Mendelssohntrickled through the speakers. Satisfied, she turned the volume up as high as it would go and turned around. She'd barely taken a step away when a loud rapping noise reached her ears, effectively obliterating the tranquil atmosphere she'd managed to create.

"Great. Just great," she groused, snatching a white robe from the shelf and slipping it on. Who the hell could possibly be at her door at nine in the morning? As far as she was aware, no one even knew she was home! It wasn't like she'd actually told anyone about quitting her job. Heck, she hadn't even known she was going to until she was in the middle of eating breakfast.

It better not to be Mrs. Jenkins, she thought, thinking of her crazy neighbor who was always asking to check Helga's apartment for her escape-artist of a cat. Helga tied the sash of her robe firmly around her waist as she crossed into the foyer, then after checking to make sure no excess skin was showing, unchained the door and pulled it open.

And promptly tried to slam it shut.

"Helga!" the man on the other side of her door exclaimed, shoving his foot into crack to prevent it from closing. Not that it stopped her from trying. "Ow! Come on, Helga, I just want to talk!"

"No!" Helga snapped, pushing at the door. She'd make him leave even if she had to break his foot to encourage him. "I don't want to talk to you, Shortman!"

"Fine!" came his strained retort. "Then you don't have to talk. You just have to listen!"

"I don't want to do that, either!"

"Please, Helga," Arnold pleaded, foot firmly in place and one hand curled around the edge of the door, not forcing his way in, but not allowing her to shut the door, either. "Just ten minutes, I swear, and then I'll leave you alone. Just ten minutes. Please."

Panting, her back planted against the door, Helga slowly, slowly, stopped putting all her weight against it. She went still, as stiff as the slab of metal between them, and swallowed heavily. It wasn't fair, she thought with no small amount of bitterness. He'd hurt her, practically ripped her heart out and tap-danced over it, and yet he could still affect her in such a way. One utter of "Please,"from him and suddenly all the carefully constructed walls surrounding her heart were blown wide open. He hadn't even needed to break them down. She practically opened the damn gates and lowered the drawbridge.

"Please, Helga," Arnold repeated softly, words barely a murmur over the galloping of her heart. Seconds ticked by, and with an aggravated sigh, Helga leaned away from the door and pulled it open.

"Ten minutes," she bit out, ignoring the widening of his eyes as he looked over her apparel and the disgusted voice in the back of her head that whispered, Pathetic, Helga. She stepped into the living room, hearing the door click shut behind her and the quiet thud of footsteps, and turned around once she was standing behind the couch. She crossed her arms, feeling vulnerable in little more than a slip of cotton and wishing she'd had the foresight to put something else on. Like a suit of armor, maybe.

"Ten minutes," she repeated when he continued to just stare at her. The unreadable intensity of his gaze was making her uncomfortable, but she refused to let him know it by shifting, or squirming, or looking away. She'd shown him enough secret parts of herself to last a lifetime.

"I don't know where to start," he said, sounding frustrated as he ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further.

"Then maybe you should come back when you've figured it out?" Helga suggested, unkindly.

She was rewarded with an irritated look for her efforts, which she sneered at before saying, "Nine minutes."

An aggrieved huff, and then Arnold was pacing; quick, sharp steps that never diverted from the invisible boundaries he seemed to limit himself to. "You're insufferable," spilled from his mouth, followed by, "and exasperating, and temperamental, and the way you get under my skin sometimes is unbelievable."

Helga's temper, already at a simmer, flared to life. "If you're just here to insult me—" she started, hotly, but was interrupted by a hand clamping suddenly over her mouth, muffling the rest of her words.

"And you never listen!" Arnold growled, arm extended.

(Helga would deny it 'til her dying day that the sound shot straight to her groin.)

"Do you know how many times I've tried telling you, only for you to completely interrupt me, or misconstrue what I'm saying, or just not get it?"

She peeled his hand away from her mouth, ignoring the way her heart pulsed at the touch. It was easy enough to sound vexed when she said, "You're not making sense!" because he truly wasn't.

"Just hold on! I'm getting to it!" And then he started to pace again.

Helga, for her part, didn't know what the hell to do. Or think, for that matter. Once again she was witnessing Arnold behave in a manner that went against everything she thought she'd known about him. The Arnold pacing in front of her now, practically wearing a hole in her expensive tiles, was as much an alien to her as the Arnold of yesterday, who'd been panicked enough that he'd actually come undone and cried, and clung to her, and kissed he—

Don't think about it, Helga told herself as she shoved the thought in a dark room in her mind. That way only lead to madness and heartache. And while she couldn't do much about the heartache—yet—the former was definitely something she wanted to curb before it reared its head. Again.

"Okay, look," Arnold's voice tugged her from her thoughts, and when she looked at him she found he was no longer pacing. Just standing there, arms crossed over his chest much in the same way hers were, his expression a curious mix between reluctance and determination. "I'm not a stalker."

What.

"I'm not," he said defensively, misinterpreting the look she was giving him. "But…our paths crossing so frequently wasn't as…coincidental as I made it seem."

Again: what.

Helga simply watched him, too confused to utter a word. She had no idea what he was talking about, or where this one-sided, nonsensical, seemingly random conversation was going. Arnold seemed to be able to read that from her, at least, because he sighed and buried his face in his palm. "Okay. Let's try this from a different angle. About yesterday—"

It was like a switch had been flicked, and the anger that had simmered to almost nothing in the wake of her befuddlement came roaring to life.

"No. We're not going to talk about that."

"Helga—"

"No," she interrupted him forcefully.

He continued anyway. "You misunderstood me—"

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

"When I tried to apologize, it wasn't because I regretted what—"

"So help me, Arnold, I swear to god I will toss you out on your ass—"

"—happened, it's because I felt—"

"Shut up, Arnold!"

"—guilty about the circumstances!"

"I'm not going to listen to this!"

"Helga, I liked what we did."

"I said I'm not going t—wait, what?" She blinked, absolutely certain she'd misheard that.

"I liked it," Arnold repeated firmly, eyes not leaving hers. "A lot."

Liked what? Helga wanted to ask, because there was no way he meant what she thought he meant. Clearly she hadn't been paying enough attention and missed an important part of the conversation, because the alternative was…

Wisps of hope rose in her chest, but she squashed it down before it could form into something solid. Something irremovable.

"When…when I apologized," Arnold continued, "it wasn't because I regretted what we did. I regretted the circumstances. I regretted putting you in a position where my intentions were unclear and you might have felt obligated to reciprocate. I don't regret kissing you, Helga." Arnold took a shuddering breath and finally averted his gaze. "Even if you only kissed me back because you felt obligated, I still wouldn't regret that."

Thunder. That was what her heartbeat felt like against her ribcage, what her blood sounded like as it rushed in her ears. She suddenly felt lightheaded in the wake of Arnold's declaration, which set a storm inside of her that, try as she might, couldn't be quelled. Helga had to place her hand against the back of the couch to keep herself steady.

"When," she said weakly when she was finally capable of speech, "have I ever done anything because of obligation?"

Of all the things she could have said in that moment, she wondered why her mouth chose to spit out that. Of the million words and phrases and questions that were currently whipping around her brain and tripping over themselves in their scramble for freedom, surely there was something else, something better, she could have said instead. Surely.

Or maybe, she thought numbly when Arnold finally lifted his gaze to her and a tentative smile started forming at the corners of his mouth, maybe what she'd said was the right thing after all.

"True," Arnold murmured after a taut moment.

The way he was looking at her made her mind go momentarily blank. It took her a while to remember what speech was, and longer still to recall how to use it.

"Just to be clear, you…you wanted to kiss me." Immediately she wished she could snatch the words out of the air and return them to the confines of her mouth. Recant them. The way she'd spoken them—hesitant and hopeful and so utterly damning—made her face burn with mortification.

Helga braced herself for spurning. For Arnold to look at her with derision—or worse, pity—and say, "No, of course not, why would you think I'd ever want to kiss you?" Her muscles and bones hurt from how stiffly she held herself, as if through will alone she could force her body to become a shield that would protect her from the inevitable rejection.

She wasn't prepared for his quiet, "Yes." Wasn't prepared for the way the word seeped through her mental armor as easily if it were made from vapor. Wasn't prepared for the way her heart gave a painful stutter before beating fast enough to ache. Wasn't prepared for the way her body went rigid, then limp, as if her hope was a weight she'd been carrying for years and she'd forgotten how to stand without it bearing down on her.

"Oh," Helga said, more breath than word. She leaned more heavily into the back of the couch, feeling weak-kneed and dizzy and tongue-tied, and found that she could do little else but stare.

I'm dreaming, she thought as Arnold gave her the softest smile she'd ever seen and started walking in her direction. This isn't real, she thought as he rounded the couch and slowly closed the distance between them. I've finally done it; I've cracked, she thought as he brought one hand up to cup her cheek and brushed the hot skin there with his thumb.

"You realize you're saying that out loud, don't you?" Arnold—who was clearly a figment of her hyperactive imagination—said with thinly veiled amusement.

Helga opened her mouth to tell the hallucination to shut it before she shut it for him, when warm lips slanted over hers, stealing her words, her breath, and any remaining denial or fight she might have had.

"You drive me absolutely crazy," Arnold murmured against her mouth when they parted for air some time later. His breath smelled like cream cheese, and his lips were shiny with their combined spit, and the grip he had over her waist was bruising. He was short enough that her neck hurt from having to keep it lowered, and his shirt smelled like he'd pulled it out from the laundry hamper for lack of anything else to wear.

He kissed with no finesse (though his enthusiasm certainly made up for it) and Helga was still angry with him—though what for was becoming increasingly hard to remember.

And yet she could hardly remember being happier in her life.

There was the very real likelihood that this—whatever this was—would end terribly for all involved. She'd harbored an unrequited crush on Arnold for decades, and there was still a part of her that wouldn't, that couldn't, believe this was actually happening. A part that thought he might be playing some cruel joke on her, after all. Which wasn't something she ever thought he'd be capable of, but Helga was quickly beginning to realize that she didn't know Arnold nearly as well as she'd once thought.

The Arnold she'd known wasn't claustrophobic and prone to panic attacks. The Arnold she'd known didn't hotwire cars and land themselves in jail. The Arnold she'd known wasn't interested in kissing Helga G. Pataki, let alone like he could spend the rest of his life doing it and never want for anything else.

Nothing made sense anymore. But then, Helga thought resentfully, when did anything involving Arnold Shortman ever? That, at least, was something Helga could count on when everything else in her life felt to be spiraling out of her control.

It was irrational how much the thought actually comforted her.

And Arnold had the gall to say that she drove him crazy. When he'd been turning her world upside-down since the moment they met, twenty-one years ago, and showed no signs of stopping.

"Consider it poetic justice," Helga snapped, before tightening her grip in his hair and pulling him down for another bruising, searing kiss.

There was still so much that needed to be considered, and reevaluated, and planned, and discussed. She still wasn't sure exactly how Arnold felt about her, or what he expected from her. What he wanted. But that can come later, she decided when Arnold whispered her name against her ear and gave a questioning tug to the sash fastened around her waist.

Helga was tired of passively waiting for happiness to come to her.

This time, she was going to seize it for herself.

"As a forewarning, I don't do casual," she said after they'd finally made it to the opposite side of the couch. It was a lie—she did casual; she just didn't do it with Arnold Shortman. Couldn't, if she was being honest with herself.

Arnold, leaning over her, suddenly paused. Beneath the ceiling lights his hair looked almost white, and his eyes were as dark as she'd ever seen them, pupils blown wide, his passion obvious. After several seconds of staring intently, his bruised, spit-slick lips curved into a grin and he slowly, carefully, brushed her bangs away from her sweat-damp forehead. He lowered his head and planted a kiss.

Helga's breath caught.

"Neither do I," he said simply. His next kiss was pressed against her mouth, and then her neck, and then her collar. His hand slunk low to catch hers and their fingers slid together, then entwined.

No more words were spoken after that.

They weren't needed.

The End.

Author's Note: Oh man, it feels so good to finally finish this. I know the ending is pretty open-ended, but that was my intention from the start. And honestly, I've been working on this for so long that I just wanted to be done with it. I hope no one is too disappointed!

Also, rest assured that this will be edited again soon. I know there's probably a bunch of typos, inconsistencies, and SPaG errors, and that the ending probably seems rushed. If anyone wants to beta-read this, just shoot me a message, k?

Thanks so much for reading, everyone! Please drop a comment on your way out! :D