A/N- Very experimental/possibly controversial idea I've been working on. Just wanted to write it out as a one-shot before I committed to a full story. I'd love to know what you guys think.
Honestly, Arnold never liked cigarettes. Never liked the smell, never liked how bad they were for you, and definitely never liked how addicting they were. Arnold blew out a steady stream of smoke and sighed. But he did like how mellow they made him feel. Another drag brought the smoke deep into his lungs. He held it for a moment before breathing it out again. He reserves smoking for evening time, after hectic days. Which has been every day this week. Hectic days aren't that unusual though when you're an EMT. It had practically been in the job description.
Arnold took another drag, shifting his position to stretch out his legs. He was sitting on the steps of his apartment building, enjoying the cool night air. His rear was aching, calling for the comfort of his couch, but he wanted to enjoy the night for just a little while longer. Exhaling, Arnold watched the white smoke cloud in front of him before dissipating into the air. Watching it made him reminisce. He had originally planned on being a doctor, but that felt like lifetime ago. Grandpa's heart attack, the boarding house nearly closing down, and a failed marriage had taken its toll. Now nearing thirty, Arnold hadn't seen the point in going back to medical school so he became an EMT instead. He didn't have any regrets though. His job allowed him to save lives, just as much as being a doctor would have. More than that, it kept him active, alive, something he had been in desperate need of after the last few years he had.
Arnold was brought back to the present as a figure began approaching from down the street. He stubbed out the rest of his cigarette and went into his pocket for a piece of gum. Even from this distance, he knew who it was. His neighbor, Helga G. Pataki. They first met nearly a year ago, on these very steps.
It had been a particularly rough day, a brutal bike accident that they had arrived too late to be of any help, and Arnold was on his second cigarette, a rarity for him. And as he sat on the steps brooding, a figure had walked up the street. He almost didn't see her until she was nearly on top of him, and when he saw her, his jaw had fallen open in shock. He wasn't staring at her waterfall of gold hair, or at her long legs, striding with determination and purpose. Rather he was staring at her busted and still bleeding lower lip.
He had jumped up alarmed, "Ma'am, do you need help?"
The girl had turned a steely blue glare towards him and rose an eyebrow, "What the hell? Were you waiting for me? Who called you?"
Arnold had been confused until he looked down and realized he was still wearing his uniform. And still had his medical bag with him.
"I just got off of a shift," He dismissed quickly, "Now, do you need a ride to the hospital? Should I call the police?"
The girl scowled and pushed past him, "Do you always take work home with you? I'm fine, so leave it alone."
But Arnold hadn't let it go. She was a teenager, she couldn't have been any older than sixteen or seventeen years old. A minor shouldn't be walking home with a split lip and no one says anything. So, he followed her, insisting that either he help her or call the police. She begrudgingly relented, mumbling a few choice words, and allowed him to drag her back outside to tend to her busted lip. A week later, he was sitting on the steps again when she had walked up with a bruise on her face. Arnold had demanded to know if her parents were hurting her. She had laughed in his face and told him her parents weren't around enough to hurt her. Further prying and she revealed that she had been emancipated since she was sixteen. Another week of prying, Arnold learned her name. Two weeks, and he learned she was seventeen and perfectly capable of taking care of herself so stop bugging her already! It wasn't until week seven of their accidentally meeting that they formed a semblance of friendship. After five months it had become something more.
As Helga came closer, Arnold could see that she was limping. He sighed and stood up. "What happened?"
Helga rose an eyebrow, her blue eyes twinkling, "I don't know what you mean."
Arnold folded his arms, staring down at her. She mimicked his pose, staring up at him. She was wearing make-up. Not a lot but enough to make her look slightly older than her eighteen years. She only wore make-up when she went to work. Too young to bartend, she worked the late shift as a waitress at a bar and grill.
They stared at each other until Helga's composure broke and she shifted with a wince, favoring her good leg.
"I got into a fight," she finally admitted, "but they look worse."
"They?" Arnold felt his fists clench, "There was more than one?"
Helga laughed and placed her hand on his arm. His muscles tensed at her touched and he prayed she wouldn't notice.
"No need to get all worried about me," She smirked, "I can handle myself."
There was nothing in the statement. There was something in her eyes. Arnold chose the safe route, took a deep breath, and stepped back. But she couldn't very well walk up the stairs with a bad ankle by herself.
"Come on," he reluctantly stepped forward again to wrap his arm around her waist, allowing her to lean her weight on him, "Let's get you fixed up."
She allowed him to help her but didn't put more weight on him than necessary. Far less, in fact, than she knew she could. That was one of the things that had gotten Arnold in so deep with her. No matter how much you tried to help her, no matter how much she needed help, she'd always stubbornly held on to her pride and got by on this fierce inner strength she had. And yet, if you did somehow manage to get her to accept help (an Olympic feat in itself), her eyes would light on you, stare through straight into your soul, as if to see if you were really the saint you claimed to be. Or just faking it like everyone else.
Arnold eased them into the elevator, made sure that Helga was supported by the wall, and took a step back. She rolled her eyes, "Paranoid much?"
"Clingy much?" Arnold shot back, smiling, "Did you want me to carry you in my strong arms too?"
"Oh, be still my beating heart," Her eyes sparkled at him though as if she were hoping he'd do exactly that. The temptation is strong, but Arnold restrained himself. In fact, he didn't touch her again until the elevators opened on their floor and he helped her limp into his apartment. It wasn't until the door was firmly shut behind them that Arnold felt safe enough to pull her tighter against him in a hug.
"How was work?" She asked, finally allowing him to bear the brunt of her weight.
"Same as usual," Arnold moved suddenly and scooped her up bridal style, earning a squeal and a punch in the arm. He carried her to the couch, setting her down carefully before going to the closet for a splint and bandages for her ankle. "We had two senior citizens collapsing, one unexpected water break in the middle of traffic, and a kid up a tree."
Helga laughed, "Seriously?"
"Seriously," Arnold grinned, coming back to her with the supplies, "he was asthmatic so the fire department called us just to be safe." His smile faded though when he bent down in front of her to examine her ankle, "Now, tell me how you did this."
Helga made a small sound as he gently took her injured foot in his hands and examined it. Thankfully it wasn't a sprain or a fracture like he originally feared. Just a pretty nasty looking bruise and some swelling. Easing her shoe off with one hand, he caressed the bruise gently, prompting her to answer.
"Some seniors were harassing a poor freshman kid, so I embarrassed them in the cafeteria," Helga smiled ruefully, "they didn't take too kindly to it so I guess they were waiting after work to scare me to get back at me. One thing led to another, insults were exchanged, and then fists were exchanged." Her smile grew, "I won. In case you were wondering."
Arnold looked down, focusing on the task of bandaging her ankle. He didn't want her to see the pride in his eyes. Defending someone, then defending herself on the same day. Helga was all spitfire and bravery and fierce loyalty. But she was also hot-tempered, brash, and stubborn. Hell, the reason why they met was because of a fight she got into. She couldn't keep doing this though. One day, the person she picks a fight with might not just resort to using their fists. Once he had his personal feelings in check, Arnold looked up at her.
"Helga," he said making his voice stern, "how many times do I have to tell you? You can't keep doing this."
Whenever he asked her to stop fighting, Arnold got one of two responses. Either Helga laughed it off and changed the subject, or she got defensive and angry and shut him down. This time though, her smile became flirty, and she leaned down until her lips brushed his. "How else can I get you to touch me?"
Arnold's mouth twitched, the sudden urge to close the distance between them strong. With a pained groan, he chose to lean away instead.
"Helga," he groaned, still tasting the cherry of her lip gloss, "please don't do that."
"What's the big deal?" Her voice was still soft, but carried an edge of impatience, "I'm eighteen. We're aren't breaking any laws. We're aren't even going to bed together."
"Helga, I'm nearly a decade older than you."
"And?" Helga reached out and he allowed her to cup his face, leaning into her warm palm, "does that change the way you feel about me?"
It should. Arnold knew that it should. When he was her age, he was engaged and she was in elementary school. Now, she was a senior in high school with everything to look forward to in life; he was a college drop out with student loans at his heels. It didn't matter that legally, they wouldn't be doing anything wrong. It was still very much frowned upon. Arnold was too afraid to even tell his best friend about being friends with her, let alone that he might be falling in love with her. Love. Not lust. Helga had brought life and fire and happiness into his life that Arnold thought he lost years ago. And he knew deep down that he brought compassion and stability to her life that she probably never had. Maybe the age gap had something to do with it. She made him smile, she made him laugh, she made this fire burn inside of him that made him want to live his life to the fullest every day. And Arnold made her slow down, he took care of her. When her earlier life forced her to believe that it was every man for himself, he showed her differently. So, Arnold knew what they had was real, but that didn't change the fact that there was a gap between them.
"Helga," he sighed and reluctantly removed his face from her hand, "you know it's more complicated than that."
"Don't talk to me like a child, Arnold," Helga's face hardened, "I'm not an idiot. I know that it's complicated."
"I'm not talking to you like a child, but I know that sometimes you-"
"That I what?" Helga was now scowling, her arms folded across her chest. It made her look very much like a child, but Arnold valued his life too much to say so.
"I know that you sometimes jump into this with your whole heart," Arnold finished, smiling patiently at her, "You're passionate, something that I-"
"That you what?" Helga leaned forward again, her gaze intense, "love about me?"
"Admire about you," Arnold forced himself to lie, he couldn't admit to loving her. That would just complicate things so much more. But as soon as the words were out, Helga's expression closed down and she abruptly stood up.
"Thank you for helping me, Mr. Shortman," She ground out, her voice low and deadly, "I'm sorry to bother you. I'll let myself out."
She moved to the door and Arnold had a vision of her leaving through the door and out of his life for good. Before he could stop himself or think about what he was doing, Arnold shot up as well and grabbed her wrist, yanking her back to him. Fire began to burn through him. He buried his fingers in her tangled ponytail and forced her head back to look him in the eyes. They glared at each other, breathing heavily, and Arnold didn't doubt Helga felt every degree of his body heat just like he felt every degree of hers.
"Don't," he breathed, pleading and demanding, "don't call me Mr. Shortman. Don't you ever call me Mr. Shortman."
"You can't have it both ways," Helga hissed, "You can't claim that I'm too young to be your friend and then get butthurt when I speak to you like an adult. Mr. Shor-"
Arnold didn't even allow her to finish speaking before descending down, fitting their lips together. Helga responded just as heatedly for just a moment before pushing him away just enough to break the kiss.
"Don't," it was her turn to plead, looking at him with both anger and vulnerability, "Not unless you mean it. I won't be played with."
Arnold wanted to promise her he wouldn't. That this wasn't an old man's lust for him just as much as this wasn't a young girl's rebellion for her. But would anyone see it that way? He would never hurt her, but he didn't know if he could protect them either.
Helga's face changed and the light went out of her eyes, "Okay then."
This time when she pulled away from his embrace, Arnold let her go. He stood, feeling unmoored without her, cold without her, as she grabbed her bag and opened his door. She looked at him one more time, looking very much young and vulnerable. And he looked back at her, feeling very much old and alone. And then Helga was gone, and Arnold felt his heart go with her.
A/N- just to clarify to international readers, in the US age of consent is between 16 and 18 legally. But socially, it's considered a taboo for a man to date a girl younger than himself if the age gap is big enough.
