Title: Like a Box of Chocolates
Author: Reinamy
Pairing: Helga/Arnold
Rating: Teen (for mild languauge)
Summary: Helga's date stands her up. Surprisingly, she's not mad about it.
Author's Note: In this universe, Arnold and gory horror movies do not mix. I'm brandishing my artistic license card for this one. If you're a stickler for canon, you might wanna skip this because the characters are slightly ooc. To everyone else—I hope you enjoy!
like a box of chocolates
It's 6:13 PM and Helga G. Pataki is contemplating murder.
"C'mon, pick up," Helga growls, phone pressed to her ear as she paces in front of the movie theater. She stops abruptly when the ringback tone ends and static erupts on the other line. Someone bumps into her, and she shoots them a glare before snarling into the phone, "Benny? Where the hell are you? The movie's starting in—"
"Helga, I'm so sorry but I don't think I'm going to make it," her date cuts her off in a rush. "It's just—my boss asked me to work overtime and I couldn't get out of it and—"
"And you couldn't have called to tell me this half an hour ago? Or hell, even sent a goddamn text?" She's gripping her phone so tightly it gives an ominous creak. "Are you kidding me?"
Helga can hear the cringe in his voice as he stammers out another apology. "T-there wasn't time. I tried, but my boss—"
"Screw your boss, and screw you," she interrupts harshly. "Don't bother calling again." There's an intake of breath, but she hangs up before he can say anything else. She doesn't want to hear it.
Within the next minute the name Benny Miller has been deleted from her contact list and blocked for good measure. She feels a moment of vindictive pleasure at the thought of him trying to reach her only to find that he can't, but it's short lived, snuffed out by her mounting humiliation.
Anger is quick to follow, and Helga isn't sure who it's directed at more—Benny, for standing her up twice now, or herself, for giving him a second opportunity to do so.
"I'm such an idiot," she says aloud, ignoring the startled looks bypassers shoot her. She crosses her arms—a feeble attempt to fend off some of the mid-autumn chill—and deliberates what her next course of action should be.
She can go home—change into something comfy, curl up on her couch, and catch up on all the episodes of Criminal Minds she's been too busy studying to watch. Maybe finish up all of the red-bean ice cream that Phoebe thinks she doesn't know is hiding at the back of the freezer, behind a bag of peas.
Helga closes her eyes to imagine it, and scoffs at the pathetic picture that manifests in her mind.
Like hell is she going to go home and wallow over a loser who wouldn't know a good thing if it punched him in the face. It's a Friday night, and Helga sure as heck doesn't need a guy on her arm to enjoy it. She paid to see a movie, dammit, and that's exactly what she's going to do.
Hillwood Cinemas is crowded, but she lucks out when she gets to the concession stand and finds it mostly empty. She orders a large soda and a bucket of popcorn so buttery she feels her arteries clog just looking at it. Tosses her ticket at the booth guy, and dashes up the escalator to the second floor.
When she enters the correct theater, the lights have already dimmed and the production logo is fading from the big screen. She sighs with relief and searches for an unoccupied seat.
Moments later she's still looking, pointedly ignoring the two empty seats in the front row—she hates sitting so close to the screen. After a full minute she's beginning to resign herself to her fate, and that's when her eyes land on a vacant seat towards the back that she could have sworn hadn't been empty a moment ago. And it's an aisle seat, too. She makes a beeline for it, ignoring the disgruntled huffs of the people whose views she blocks.
"Is that seat taken?" she asks the guy seated next to it.
He looks up at her, down at the empty seat, and up at her again. This one? his eyes ask.
"Obviously," Helga says with an impatient tap of her foot.
The guy blinks and slowly shakes his head.
Hallelujah. She waits for him to remove his jacket, then drops into the seat.
The guy who'd given her the go-ahead tucks in his sprawled legs to give her more room. He even pulls the armrest down, which Helga appreciates considering her lack of free hands.
"Thanks," she says, placing her cup into the holder.
"No problem," the guy whispers, and the soft tenor of his voice makes Helga pause. She glances at him from the corner of her eye just in time to catch him quickly averting his gaze. Her mouth twitches in amusement, and she studies his side profile just long enough to determine that he's rather cute before a piercing scream splits the air and her attention is drawn to the screen.
Soon, she pretty much forgets he's there at all.
Hush turns out to be every bit as suspenseful as the Rotten Tomatoes reviews say it is, and not before long Helga finds herself sitting on the edge of her seat, wide eyes glued to the screen as the chilling story unfolds.
"Oh no," the guy beside her whispers just as the heroine and the killer race to reach an unlocked door, and Helga has to purse her lips to keep from grinning.
Here's the thing: the movie is great. Really great. Helga can't even remember the last time a thriller has made her heart race this much. But the guy next to her? He's a riot, and Helga doesn't know when she stopped following the film to watch him instead. Somewhere down the line, she becomes more interested in his reactions to the film than the film itself.
The object of her fascination becomes more wound up as the movie progresses. Helga watches him succumb to his mounting horror as discreetly as she can, biting her lip to keep from laughing at the poor guy. Not only would that make him clam up, which is the last thing she wants, but she doesn't want to embarrass him or anything. She owes him for the unexpected entertainment, for one thing, but also? It's cute. He's cute. She doesn't think she could look away from him even if she wanted to.
By the time she empties her popcorn tub, the guy's so far gone he doesn't even realize he's jostling the chair of the man in front of him with his bouncing knee. Fed up, the man turns around to no doubt complain, but Helga levels him with a glare so harsh that his head snaps forward again. She settles into her seat with a derisive snort.
As the movie hurtles towards its climax, Helga's humor gives way to slight concern. The guy is practically hyperventilating, and his body's coiled so tight that her muscles are aching in sympathy.
When the masked killer finally enters the house and the guy next to her seems to stop breathing altogether, Helga chucks a white flag at her common sense and reaches out to grasp the guy's trembling fist. He emits a low, strangled noise and freezes.
What the hell am I doing? She thinks wildly, and starts to pull away, but his fist loosens and turns under her, and before she knows what's happening, their palms are pressed together and they're holding hands.
Helga's heart is pounding. She watches as the guy's throat bobs before he slowly leans into her, close enough that the sides of their arms brush. Not a moment later sinister music floods the theater, and on its tail an ear-splitting scream that prompts widespread gasps. Quicker than Helga can blink, the guy's forehead is digging into her shoulder and he's crushing her hand. Helga doesn't waste time contemplating how weird this entire situation is. She just tightens her grip on him and presses herself more firmly into his side.
And if she takes a second to enjoy the way he smells—like vanilla and a hint of sweat—well, no one has to know how creepy she's being but her.
Finally, the movie ends. The theater grows bright as the credits begin rolling down the dark screen. A few people clap, but for the most part everyone is just eager to stretch out their legs and leave. A scattering remains seated, probably waiting on a post-credit scene.
When a minute passes and her neighbor doesn't budge from where he's pressed into her shoulder, Helga resigns herself to waiting, too.
"You alright?" she asks, opting to just embrace the weird.
It takes a while, but he eventually says, "Yeah."
"Are you planning on letting me go any time soon?"
Silence, and then, "Not really."
Helga's brows draw up. "Say that again?"
"I'm too mortified," he admits. "Sorry."
Helga stifles a grin. "Will it help if I said you've got nothing to feel embarrassed about?"
"Maybe if I weren't able to literally hear the amusement in your voice."
Laughter bubbles in her throat, but she's not quick enough to swallow it down before he hears it. It's probably a moot point anyway, considering the shoulder he's burrowed himself into is shaking.
She swears she can feel his blush through the fabric of her sleeve.
"Yeah, you're really not helping."
"My bad. I mean, sorry."
"That was really convincing, thanks."
She doesn't bother to hold back her laugh this time.
"So not that I'm in any rush to leave or anything, but how long are you planning on staying like this?"
"Until we get kicked out?" he asks, like he's requesting her input, and it takes everything in her not to embarrass him even further by ruffling his hair.
(Or embarrass herself by doing something even crazier, like touching the tip of his ear to see if it's as warm as it looks.)
"Here's another option," she says, steering her thoughts away from behaviors that'll end with a restraining order against her. "You budge up enough so that we can actually move, and we use our newfound mobility to sneak into another show and watch something a little less heart-attack inducing."
The silence that follows feels thoughtful.
"Are you asking me out on a date?"
To Helga's relief, he doesn't sound opposed.
"Why not?" she says with feigned nonchalance. She hopes he can't hear her heart racing. "I mean, we've already surpassed the hand-holding, awkward embracing, and crying-into-each-other's-arms stage of the relationship…or, well, you have anyway—"
"Oh my gosh, please stop talking," he interrupts with a choked laugh. He sighs against her, and then finally lifts his head and leans back, giving Helga a perfect view of his extremely red face.
Criminy, his eyes are pretty.
"Hi," she breathes, and then wants to smack herself for being so sappy.
"Hi," the guy responds, ducking his head. The way he looks up at her through his unfairly long lashes is too endearing for words. Helga is so damn charmed by this stranger she's known for all of two hours, it's insane.
"I'm Arnold."
"Helga."
"Helga," he repeats. The smile he gives her is a touch shy. "Thanks for, uh, helping me out and not being too much of a jerk about it. And also sorry for, y'know. Holding your body hostage and everything."
"You're welcome," she says, squeezing his hand. "And about that last thing…well, I can't say I minded very much."
She winks, and is rewarded for her uncharacteristic boldness with another charming blush.
"So…you mentioned something about seeing another movie?"
With a nod, Helga pushes herself to his feet. Arnold follows suit.
"Any preferences?" She asks.
"Not really."
"Oh? Well, there's this horror movie that I've been meaning to check out—"
The scowl he aims her way has her words tripping into a laugh, which Arnold huffs at with a roll of his (very pretty) eyes. Even so, he doesn't pull away.
They bicker over genres and directors as they leave the room and step out into a brightly lit hall. Arnold ends up picking the film after a cutthroat game of rock-paper-scissors, and then they buy tickets at the counter because Arnold is apparently too much of a goody-two-shoes to sneak into another theater without paying.
She huffs and rolls her eyes at him as he forks over the cash. Tries to look put-out, but then he's slipping his hand into hers again and looking up at her with a crooked smile, and yeah, she isn't fooling anyone.
They're lucky enough to find twin seats in a middle row and rush to claim them, grinning at each other when they're shushed at for not being quiet enough. They settle in just as the screen goes black.
Sometime later, Helga loses the battle with herself and turns away from the screen to look at Arnold.
She catches him staring back.
They smile stupidly at each other.
Another movie gone to waste, Helga thinks when Arnold runs his thumb over her knuckles (they've been holding hands this entire time, neither of them particularly inclined to let go, and oh, does that little detail stir the butterflies in her stomach) and her heart gives a shivery flutter.
At least this time it isn't just me who's distracted.
Her cheeks ache from the strength of her smile.
First thing tomorrow, Helga's going to send Benny a 'thank you' card for standing her up.
And heck, maybe a fruit basket, too.
fin.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading! *hides*