PART FOUR


Before Arnold knows it, a month passes, and the city blooms with flowers to herald the arrival of May.

They aren't the only thing that's blooming.

After a month of hanging out, Arnold thinks that he can finally call the feeble relationship he and Helga have been fostering friendship. No longer does he feel like he's treading through a minefield when he's with her, and one wrong move will have the whole thing exploding in his face.

And Helga, too, seems to be more relaxed around him—no longer keeping him at arm's length and parsing his every word and gesture for knavish intentions. Arnold has no idea what she thought he was scheming (and is a little affronted that she considers him the scheming type to begin with) but he's relieved when she eventually seems to accept that he's being sincere in his desire to rekindle their friendship and starts treating him more like a friend and less like a shady salesman trying to sell her a scam.

Being friends with Helga is as nice as he remembers it.

Better, if he's being honest.

She's just so…great.

Helga's funny, and smart, and so damn snarky that he can't help but compare her to one of the grumpy neighborhood cats and find her endearing. Every time she cracks a smile at his jokes, or teases him good-naturedly, or listens intently to his ramblings, or casually touches him, he feels a bit like he's floating.

Being liked by Helga is a heady feeling, one that he doesn't think he'll ever get used to, and despite the less-than-ideal circumstances they're under, he's really glad that they're friends.


Two weeks into May, Helga manages to procure tickets to Wicked

("Wow, Helga. Weren't these expensive?" Arnold asked, staring first at the white envelope containing two tickets and then at her.

"Oh, please, I didn't buy them," she said, eyes trained on his dozing fish. Arnold wondered if his room was stuffy because her face was flushed. "Bob got them from a work buddy but he hates musicals so I took them. Don't go thinking I went out of my way to get them for you. You mentioning last week that you wanted to see it is just a coincidence, got it?"

"Sure, Helga," Arnold laughed, finding her aversion to being what anyone would construe as 'nice' rather amusing. His bed squeaked as he crossed his legs and leaned over to return the tickets to her.

"Hold onto them. We're going together, right?"

"Obviously," she grumbled, snatching the envelope out of Arnold's hand and stuffing it into her bag. She pulled out a book and buried her face in it, and getting the hint, Arnold returned to the essay he'd been working on all evening yet hadn't the length to show for it.

"Hey, Helga? Thanks," he said without looking at her, because he wasn't so oblivious as to not recognize the friendly gesture for what it was.

"Shut it, nerd.")

—and they're halfway to the theater when Helga realizes she forgot the tickets and they have to circle back to her place.

Arnold's nails dig indents into his palm as they approach the looming sky-blue building, the dull pain helping to ground him to reality as the surrealness of revisiting a place he'd once haunted sets in.

He isn't sure if what he witnessed in that house is the reason it now appears so sinister to his eyes, or if his brush with the supernatural has unlocked a sixth sense within him and he's now able to sense all the misery that's been seeping into the stones for years, but whatever the case, the hairs on the back of his neck rise as they climb the stoop.

"Wait here," Helga tells him as she unlocks the door.

"Actually, I think I'll go with you," Arnold says, though her house is the last place he wants to be. But he wants her to be alone in there even less.

It's a worthless gesture considering she lives there and after the show will be returning there again, but Arnold can't shake the sense of unease at the thought of her stepping into that house without him. So he holds at bay all the dark memories that stalk the boundaries of his mind like hungry wolves and steps behind her, so close he can feel her warmth through the thin material of his jacket.

Helga shivers, then frowns at him over her shoulder.

"Just wait outside, Arnold."

"No," he says, firmly.

Her frown deepens. "It's literally going to take me a minute. There's no need for you to come upstairs with me."

"I'm going anyway."

"Is there a reason you want to see inside my house so bad, nerd?" Helga asks, eyes flinty with suspicion. The jangle of her keychain sounds like the warning of a rattlesnake.

He thinks quickly. "I want to see what your room looks like now. It's been a long time since I was last there and I'm curious to know how much its changed since then."

Arnold hates that he's become so good at lying.

Helga considers him for a moment. "Fine," she huffs, turning her back on him. And then, so quiet he almost doesn't hear, "They aren't home yet so it should be fine."

Arnold doesn't need to be told who they are.

The door whines as it's pushed open, and Arnold digs his nails into his skin as they move through the gloomy house—passing the kitchen Helga's mom had drunkenly passed out in, and the dining room Helga's dad had shouted such terrible things, and the bathroom Helga had hid in to lick her wounds and cry where no one would hear.

Arnold had seen so much misery in the brief time he'd lingered here, and it kills him to know it's just a drop of mud in a riverbed. Kills him to think of the hundreds and thousands of insults Helga's been forced to swallow, and the years spent suffering alone.

Guilt eats at him as he reminds himself that she's still dealing with it alone, because Arnold is too much of a coward to tell her the truth.

And it is cowardice. He'd only been able to cling to the excuse of her not believing him for so long before seeing it for what it was. Arnold has more than enough damning evidence to prove his truthfulness—to force her to believe him despite any natural inclination to doubt the existence of the supernatural.

What he doesn't have is the guts.

Truth is, Arnold has tried telling her before, on multiple occasions even, but every time he comes close the confession digs talons into his throat with the desperation of a caged bird fearing freedom. The closer he and Helga become, the harder it is to even think of telling her—the truth would crush their fledgling friendship beneath its heel and Arnold knows it wouldn't survive that.

For him to tell someone as private and guarded as Helga that he'd watched her when she was at her most vulnerable—saw her secret, silent anguish when the walls she surrounded herself with crumbled into dust—and pretended not to have?

She'd never forgive him for that breach of trust, that invasion of privacy, that iniquitous violation. For lying to her face about it, after the fact.

Arnold's moral compass isn't so far gone that he's unaware of his own unjustness in withholding her right to decide whether his misdeeds are forgivable or not. For inserting himself into her life when she isn't aware of his transgressions against her, or his tangential intentions in being her friend.

Arnold can barely look at himself in the mirror sometimes, he's so unrecognizable. Yet despite knowing what he needs to do to clear his conscience—and more importantly, make things right—he persists in his silence.

He's such a dirtbag.

"—incredible how little you've changed since we were kids," Helga's voice comes an inch from his ear and he jolts halfway out of his skin.

She clicks her tongue at him. "I've never known anyone whose head is in the clouds as often as yours is. Now hurry up and take a peak so we can leave. I swear, if we're late because of you…"

"You're the one who forgot the tickets," Arnold mutters, ducking out of the way of her swipe.

"You lookin' to get a cast for that other arm?"

"Not really."

"Just go inside already, nerd. You're wasting daylight."

Arnold doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he steps through the threshold of her bedroom door and the jarringness of stepping into a place that's drastically changed from the last time you saw it knocks the air right out of him.

Of course the destruction he'd watched her wrought would have been cleared in the weeks that passed, but it doesn't make the sight of the pristine space any less disturbing. As Arnold steps further inside and roves his gaze across the perfectly normal room, he can't help but feel a sense of wrongness—like looking at a fruit basket while knowing it's been organized in such a way to hide the rot.

Arnold hates that he sees himself in this room.

"Seriously, Arnold, are you alright?" He hears Helga ask from beside him, and looks up to find her gazing at him with those magnetic eyes of hers that pull at his secrets like they're made of steel. Arnold clenches his jaw to prevent them from hurtling out.

His guilt takes another bite out of him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he says after a pause that's just a little too long, going by the way Helga's lips twist. Arnold gives her a wan smile—has to dig deep in himself for even that much—and steps out of her room.

"Now come on, you're making us late," he finds it in himself to joke.

I can't do this anymore, Arnold thinks as Helga rolls her eyes at him and shuts the door behind them. I'll tell her the truth today, after the show.

Helga deserves to know, and Arnold will just have to deal with the consequences, whatever they may be.


They reach the foyer just as a jangle of keys meets his ears, and then the door swings open and he finds himself staring into the startled eyes of Helga's dad.

"Huh? Who the hell is this?" Mr. Pataki demands of his daughter, though his narrowed eyes remain on Arnold. A head pokes out from behind him—Helga's mom.

"Oh! A guest! Helga, honey, who's this?"

"What the heck are you two doing back so soon?" Helga asks instead of answering either of them.

"Well, the Feldmans' daughter, Abigail, I think her name was? Or maybe Annabell? Well, the poor dear has a peanut allergy and she accidentally—"

"Jesus, Miriam, read the damn room!" Robert snaps, and Arnold's fist clenches at his side at the way the man talks to his wife. Miriam Pataki may be a poor excuse for a mother, but that doesn't mean she deserves to be spoken to that way.

His irritation mounts when the woman's face reddens at the public rebuke and she shrinks into herself.

Robert rounds on Helga, and Arnold hates that even more.

"So you've been inviting boys over whenever we're gone, huh?" he says through gritted teeth.

"What? No! God, he was literally here for a minute because I forgot something. Do you not see the coats we have on? What a stupid—"

"Watch your goddamn mouth! I will not be insulted in my own damn home by some—"

"I didn't call you stupid," Helga snaps, "but hey, if the shoe fucking fits."

Mrs. Pataki chokes. "Helga! Don't—"

"No, let the little shit continue!" Mr. Pataki spits, the veins on his reddening face bulging. "Go on Helga, just give me an excuse to throw you right out on your ass! I've had it up to here with that bullshit attitude of yours, as if you've got anything to complain about!"

"Robert, please—"

"No, don't 'Robert' me! I'm done, Miriam, y'hear? Done. She was already walking on thin ice with her disrespect, and now we find out she's sneaking boys in when we're not here? Should have known she'd end up a tramp—"

"Don't call her that!" Arnold erupts, anger having finally reached its boiling point.

Mr. Pataki's blazing eyes fall on him, but Arnold doesn't so much as flinch under their feeble heat.

It's a candle flame compared to the inferno that's raging through him—the sparks of long-held resentment ignited at the thought of Helga having to hear such a despicable thing from her own father.

Arnold hadn't been able to do anything the last time the man had gone for her throat—could only watch in helpless fury as he ripped a chunk of flesh out and left her to bleed.

But now? He has a voice and a body to defend her with, and he fucking will.

"Well," Mr. Pataki says, mouth stretched in a mockery of smile, "if the shoe fits."

Someone is saying something but Arnold can't hear them over the ringing in his ears.

"You're a monster," Arnold rasps, so furious he's shaking. "She's your daughter. You're supposed to protect her. You're not supposed to be the one she needs protecting from."

There's a flinch, so slight he almost doesn't catch it, and Arnold feels a flicker of vindictive satisfaction at the thought of his long-harbored words finally hitting their mark. Of them hurting him, the way he deserves.

"Oh, what the hell do you know?" Mr. Pataki scoffs, folding his arms almost defensively. "Whatever that damn brat told you—"

"She hasn't told me anything, but she doesn't need to! You have no righttreating her the way you do, or talking to her that way, and I won't let you—"

Mr. Pataki cuts him off with a snarl. "She's my kid and I can talk to her however I damn well please. Now get the hell out of my house before I make you leave."

"Helga was right about you," Arnold sneers, fists clenched. "You are a piece of shit."

"Arnold," Helga hisses as the enraged man takes a menacing step forward, and at once Arnold realizes that the pressure he felt on his arm was Helga tugging at him. "Let's just fucking go."

She doesn't give him a chance to respond—just grabs his hand and hauls him outside, shoving past her parents so roughly they stumble.

"Helga, please—"

"Let her go, Miriam," Arnold hears Mr. Pataki growl. "And good fucking riddance."

"Robert, no, no, you can't—"

"I told you, I'm done with that little—"

Whatever else he says is cut off by the door viciously slamming shut.

Arnold has to focus so he doesn't trip as he's dragged down the front steps and to the end of the block, and then another, moving so quickly that anyone standing in their path has to leap out of their way.

His fury fades in increments with each step he takes, and by the time they stop running the wildfire inside him has tempered to mere embers—still hot, but not enough to burn. The fresh air and sunlight helps to extinguish it even further, until the smoke clears from his mind and he can finally think straight and breathe without feeling like he's choking.

The sudden clarity is a regretful thing, because with it comes the realization that he just inserted himself into Helga's argument with her dad—had laid into him, even—and no wonder Helga isn't saying anything. She must be pissed.

The seconds tick on and Arnold cracks.

"Look, Helga, I'm sorry, okay? I mean, not for what I said—no offense, but your dad is a dick and he deserves to know it—but I'm sorry I stuck my nose where you probably didn't want it and—"

"How did you know?"

Arnold falters at the non sequitur. "Huh?"

Helga finally turns to look at him with eyes that should have been as bright and blue as the overhead sky but instead were murky and dark.

Troubled, he thinks. Apprehensive.

It's a look he hasn't seen from her in a while, at least not directed at him, and it causes a wisp of unease to form in the pit of his stomach.

"You…you spoke like you knewthings you shouldn't. Not suspected—knew."

The wisp turns to stone and lodges itself in his throat. He swallows once, twice, but it refuses to budge.

"And then you told my dad that I was right about him being a piece of shit, which is funny because I've never said such a thing in front of you, Arnold. Never even hinted at it. So how could you know something like that?"

"I—"

"And don't lie to me!" she shouts, earning startled looks from passerby. Arnold hardly notices them—they exist on the outskirts of his attention, mere shadows compared to the terrifyingly vivid figure standing before him.

"I know you're hiding something from me. This whole time you've been alluding to things you shouldn't know, and making these offhanded comments that were a little too on the nose, and looking at me like…like…"

She cuts herself off and takes a steadying breath. Flexes her fingers. "And I kept telling myself I was just imagining things, just being paranoid—it's all in your head, Helga ol' girl, Arnold's too much of a white hat to lie to your face with a goddamn smilebut I was right, wasn't I? Wasn't I?"

Helga takes his silence for the damning admission it is.

"A few weeks ago," she starts slowly, "when I was looking under your bed for my pen, you told me to be careful about reopening the cuts on my knees. And it was such an odd thing to say because how did you know? It's not like my knees were ever visible when you were around. It's not like I told you about them. So I figured you'd just made an accurate assumption—I mean, I had been scraped up near everywhere else—and stupidly dismissed the whole thing.

"But you knew, when you shouldn't have. Same as you knew I called my dad a piece of shit when you shouldn't have. Same as you knew where to find me on my birthday. In fact, you know a lot of things you shouldn't, don't you, Arnold?"

Her eyes are like chips of ice as she takes a step closer to him, and her stare is so glacial it burns.

Once more a blizzard in human skin, freezing everyone out.

Freezing Arnold out.

"Don't you?" she repeats icily, daring him to lie to her again.

But Arnold can't.

He's so damn tired of all the lies.

"I know it sounds impossible," he says quietly, watching her watch him, "but I was there when you were bandaging your wounds in the…the bathroom. And again when you and your dad had that argument in the dining room. And for other things, too."

The air grows colder as the silence between them constricts—pressure solidifying oxygen to ice.

"How?" she asks, voice like grinding stone.

Arnold runs his fingers through his hair and tugs at it hard enough to hurt. The pain helps to distract him from the ache of his own stomach collapsing in on itself. It keeps him focused. Grounds him.

"When I was in a coma I…look, I know this is going to sound crazy, okay? But it's true. And clearly the only feasible explanation for me knowing things that otherwise would have been impossible for me to know. I…when I was in a coma, I had this sort of…out of body experience? Like, one moment I was hurtling through the air as the car hit me, and the next I was looking down at my own body, but uh, separate from it? And I thought I'd died and become a ghost, but later realized I was actually in a coma and—"

He pauses to catch his breath. "And I was freaking out, didn't know what to do, the only thing I really knew was that I couldn't be there, notwith my broken body and my devastated parents, but I also didn't want to be alone and you…you were right there, and I needed a distraction and I guess I just…latched on. I followed you home and saw…"

He averts his gaze, unable to look her in the eye or speak her secrets out in the open air, even if it's only for the two of them to hear. "Well, you know what I saw. And I felt horrible about it, Helga. I knew it was a huge violation of your privacy. So I left and didn't intend to go back, but the next day I found myself at your place again and just stuck around…"

Arnold tugs at an unraveling thread on his cast for a moment. Swallows, and then collects the paltry scraps of courage scattered inside of him and dares a peek at her.

He may as well be looking at a wall of concrete, she's that expressionless.

"I returned to my body later that night," he continues hoarsely, forcing himself to keep her stare in some contrite requisite of penitence.

"I'm sorry, Helga. I know that an apology from me probably doesn't amount to much, and that it won't fix the harm I caused—the hurt I caused—but I am so, so sorry."

For a suspended moment, it's as if the entire city has crawled to a stop, as if it, too, is holding its breath for Helga G. Pataki's judgment.

And then "You're right, it doesn't," falls from her lips like the strike of a gavel, or perhaps the swing of a guillotine, and the world exhales and returns to its normal state of chaos and all the whelming sights and sounds that come with it.

Arnold breathes, and breathing has never hurt before but it does now.

"Damn," Helga laughs without a trace of humor. Her smile is a serrated thing that cuts him to the core. "I have to give it to you, Arnold, that's some tale."

"It's the truth," Arnold pleads.

"Oh, I believe you. You're not that creative. I'd say I know you too well to come up with such a farce, but then, I don't really know you at all, do I?"

The words are sharp and meant to hurt him, and they do.

"I have to hand it to you, you really had me fooled with your seemingly innocuous overture of friendship. It takes an accomplished liar to really get one over on me, and man, did you succeed. Had me actually believing your lines about wanting to be friends again, and not because you saw me as one of your weekly charity cases, but because you missed me."

Helga slowly claps, a grotesque caricature of humor, and the chill of her smile seeps through Arnold's skin and casts out the last remnants of warmth.

"Bravo for the convincing act."

Arnold wants to deny it but finds that his words have stuck to his tongue—frozen, like the rest of him.

Because Helga's crying.

He tracks the trajectory of her trears to the curve of her jaw, and then looks up to find her expression unchanged, as if she's not even aware of her own body betraying her. He fights a flinch as he witnesses the crack in the glacier where her pain peeks through.

Pain that he caused.

"Fuck you, Arnold Shortman," Helga says with cold finality, and before Arnold can say a single word she's gone, swallowed whole by the heaving crowds.

"You're wrong," Arnold whispers to the uncaring city when he can bring himself to talk again. His words catch on the wind and then fall to the ground, too heavy to be carried. "I wanted us to be friends because I really did miss you. Because I really do…"

Love you.

The realization, much like his words, comes too late.

Too damn late.

Fighting back tears—because he doesn't deserve even the momentary relief that would bring—Arnold tilts his face toward the sky and notices for the first time that it's become cloudy and gray.

Even the sun wants nothing to do with him.


Arnold's commitment to not cry lasts up until he trudges through the door of the boarding house and his parents take one look at him, drop the laundry they're carrying, and rush toward him in concern.

It's like a dam breaking, and everything that's been pent up inside him—all the guilt and shame and fear and loss and heartache—comes rushing out, forceful enough to drown him.

He comes clean to his parents—hiding only Helga's identity to protect her privacy, which they understand—and Arnold feels so damn guilty when his tearful confession eases some of the weight of all the lies and secrets he's been carrying for weeks.

"I know it sounds too insane to be true…"

"No, son, we believe you," his dad assures him, rubbing Arnold's back. "Your mother and I have experienced our fair share of unexplainable phenomena, too."

At that, a few more tears splatter atop the dining room table.

"I don't know what to do," he whispers with a gross sniffle.

His mom hands him a napkin and sighs. "Oh, sweetheart, I don't think there's anything you can do. At least not for the time being. You've told her the truth and made your apologies, and she needs time to process that. Maybe you can feel things out and consider approaching her in a week's time to clear up some of those misunderstandings, but Arnold, you have to brace yourself for the possibility that she won't want to hear it, and if she does, still might not accept your apology."

"But don't get your hopes up just yet," his father cuts in, optimistic as ever. "Who knows, maybe some distance will make her more receptive to an apology. Time does wonders on the temper."

"Not for her," Arnold says miserably, dropping his head onto the table. "She's like a teapot—the longer she stews, the angrier she gets. She can hold grudges for years."

"Ah…well, even so! Humans are complex, entropic, and incredibly volatile creatures so it's impossible to accurately predict their future behaviors even with existing behavioral patterns considering the extreme influence both internal and external variables has on—"

"Dear," Arnold's mom interrupts. "You've gone off track."

"And it seems I have! Sorry, kiddo. What I'm trying to get across to you is this: never give up hope. That's your superpower, Arnold, and miracles occur every day because of it."

His mom presses a kiss to his temple. "After all, we'd know."

"Thanks, guys," Arnold mumbles, warmed from the inside out by their unconditional love and support even though a part of him feels like he doesn't deserve it.

"Also, son?" His dad squeezes his shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up about this too much, alright? You made a mistake—and wonderful as you are, you're only human. You've apologized to Hel—uh, her and you're owning up to it, and there's no doubt in my mind that you'll learn from this and become better for it. So keep your chin up, yeah?"

"We're proud of you, and we love you, and that won't ever change," his mom says like she's stating a fact. The earth is round, the sun is hot, and Arnold's parents will always be in his corner, ready to catch him when he falls and help him back onto his feet.

Their encouragement shifts the tracks in his head; paves the way for the hopeful thought that maybe what Arnold did isn't so irredeemable.

That maybe…maybe to Helga it won't be unforgivable, either.

"I love you guys," Arnold says, breathing easier as a spark of optimism emerges from its hiding space between his ribs.

"And we love you," his parents chorus.

Arnold closes his eyes and allows himself a moment to bask in his parent's affection before making his way up to his bedroom on tired feet.

He has a lot to think about.

And plan.


Arnold's staring up at the cloudy night sky through his skylight, tossing a happy sack up and down from where he's sprawled on his bed, when his bedroom door bursts open with a reverberating bang.

The sack flies to the floor as he jolts, and he sits up in alarm because no one ever barges into his bedroom like that, not unless there's an emergency. He hastily looks to the door and all the breath leaves him in a rush when he sees Helga standing there, glowering at him from the doorway.

"Helga?" he asks incredulously, leaping off the bed. "What are you—"

"I'm staying here tonight," she grits out, kicking the door shut behind her with her boot, and that's when Arnold notices the backpack she has slung over her shoulder. "Bob and Miriam are being insufferable and I need a place to crash for the night, and you fucking owe me, Shortman."

"I—yeah, of course," Arnold stammers, scrambling to make sense of this crazy new development. "Of course you can stay. But, uh, won't your parents be pissed if they find out you're staying with a g-guy?"

Helga rolls her eyes as she tosses her bag onto the floor next to his couch.

"They think I'm staying with Phoebe."

Arnold's head hurts.

"Um, but isn't Phoebe…"

"Living halfway across the country? Yeah, no shit. But my parents don't pay attention to a damned thing that goes on in my life—but hey, you already know all that. Got front row seats and everything," she says bitterly.

Arnold desperately fans his little flame of optimism so Helga's ice won't put it out.

"Helga…" he starts, voice laden with guilt.

"Anyways, I'm going to sleep here," she jabs a thumb towards his couch, "and you're going to sleep there, and what you're not going to do is talk to me because so help me, Shortman, I will smother you in your sleep and bury the body so no one will find it."

She pulls off her coat, revealing what Arnold realizes must be the dress she'd been planning to wear for the theater, and his stomach swoops low with regret.

He shifts on his feet as Helga rummages through her backpack for a smaller bag, grunts out, "I'm getting changed," and stomps out of the room.

Alone, Arnold sinks down to his bed and rubs a hand over his face.

Fuck.

When Helga returns several minutes later, dressed in a large t-shirt and sweats and hair pulled into a messy bun, Arnold still hasn't figured out what to do.

Helga shoves the smaller bag into her backpack, flops onto the couch, and busies herself with her phone. Ignoring him, though she's doing a poor job of it. Even from across the room he can see how tense she is despite her obvious attempt to appear otherwise. When the sound of grinding teeth eventually meets his ears, he braces himself for the eruption he knows will come.

It doesn't take long.

"You had no fucking right!" Helga explodes, at once on her feet. Her phone clatters to the floor and she steps right over it as she stalks towards him, expression twisted in fury.

"No right to invade my privacy like that! No right to fucking lie to my face about it! No right to go against my direct fucking wishes and set me up as your newest pet project, and then put on a goddamn show about wanting to be friends just so you could—"

"It wasn't a show!" Arnold argues, standing now, though Helga's so damn tall she still towers over him. "I was serious about my reasons for wanting to be friends!"

"Pull the other one," she snaps, and Arnold aches with the knowledge that all the effort he'd put into gaining her trust was now dust—crushed by his own fists. "And even if you did genuinely want to be friends—which I don't freaking buy—do you think that changes the fact that you befriended me with the intent to, what, save me? Swoop in like the White Knight you think you are and whisk me away from all of my problems? What the hell did you think you were even going to accomplish, huh?"

"I didn't befriend you with the intention of saving you, Helga," he says tightly. "I'm not an idiot—"

"So you have a shred of self-awareness after all," she scoffs.

"—and what the hell could I do about it anyway? Your parents' abuse—"

"It's not abuse!" Helga snaps, flinching like he'd slapped her.

Arnold falters, takes in her pinched expression, and decides to shelve that issue for another day. Helga's a bomb that's about to ignite, and Arnold's trying to defuse it, not instigate its detonation.

"Okay, sorry. I mean, the way they treat you—"

She flushes in what Arnold thinks must be humiliation, which makes sense, doesn't it? Helga's always been the type to view vulnerability as a weakness, and weakness as an unforgivable character flaw. For Arnold to know that someone like her, who lauds strength and destains weakness, is powerless at home? Is defenseless against the very people who should want to protect her?

Is unloved by her own damn parents?

Of course she's humiliated.

"...fixing that is beyond my capabilities. I didn't want to save you—didn't even entertain the idea that I could. I just wanted to be around in case you ever needed help—"

Arnold realizes his mistake when her eyes narrow into dangerous slits.

"I don't need your fucking help or your pity! I never asked for it! I'm not some weak," hisses the word like it burns her just to speak it, "damsel in distress who needs protecting, and I sure as hell don't need someone like you—"

"God, Helga, it's not a weakness to need help sometimes!" Arnold shouts, feeling something inside of him snap.

His uncharacteristic display of temper is enough to startle her into silence, and Arnold takes the rare moment of catching her off guard to say his piece without interruption. "And even if it was, what's so wrong with that? We're human, we all need help sometimes, and there's nothing shameful about relying on others when we need it!"

Helga opens her mouth to argue, but Arnold barrels through.

"And stop putting words in my mouth, because I never said you were weak and I sure as heck never said I pitied you! Helga, you're the only one who thinks that way. You want to know what I actually thought when I realized your parents were mistreating you? I thought you were so damn strong for thriving despite that. For standing tall despite their efforts to make you small. For being so unapologetically you despite being treated like you had to apologize for merely existing. Anyone else would have shattered at being chipped away like that every single day, but you didn't. You persevered. Youbecame stronger.

"If anyone should be ashamed, it's your parents for being awful people. They're the weak ones—weak to their tempers and vices."

Arnold's throat is dry from having talked so much, but he doesn't dare stop—not when Helga is staring at him with wide, spellbound eyes and hanging onto his every word like they're magic.

"I think you're incredible," Arnold continues, more quietly now. "And I wish you would, too."

The room plunges into a silence so weighted it feels palpable—like being trapped underwater, only the water is tar. It clings to his skin even when Helga, after a torturously long moment, breaks it with a scoff.

"Get over yourself. I already know how amazing I am," she snaps, unpinning him from her penetrative stare when she finally looks away.

An opening. Arnold shoves his foot through the crack before it can close.

"Good, because you are. And I meant it when I said I wanted to be friends again, because I really did miss you. Missed us. And if I was available to help you in some way if you ever needed it, then that was just a bonus."

And because Helga seems like she's actually listening now, for all she won't look at him, he decides to try apologizing again.

"And I really am sorry, for everything. I won't make excuses for it—invading your privacy was wrong, and I never should have lied to you about it. I broke your trust and I understand if you don't want anything to do with me anymore. I don't expect you to accept it, or even to forgive me, but you deserve to hear it."

Arnold holds onto that little flame of hope even as the seconds tick by and Helga doesn't speak. Holds on when she finally does and it's only to snarl, "I hate you. Meeting you was the worst thing that's ever happened to me, and that's saying a fucking lot."

Arnold flinches at that, but figures it's the least of what he deserves.

She turns without another word and drops onto his couch, unfolds the blanket that he normally keeps there, and burrows under it, her back to him.

Arnold stares blankly, thrown by yet another display of her unpredictability. After a minute he sighs, turns off the light, and crawls into his own bed, head full with too many thoughts to even begin trying to find meaning in her decision to stay after making such a harsh declaration.

He'll deal with it in the morning when his head doesn't feel fit to burst.

Despite the fatigue pressing down on Arnold, he finds it hard to sleep, too distracted by the girl feigning sleep mere feet away and the myriad of thoughts her presence evokes, not to mention everything else that transpired that day.

Arnold's argument with Mr. Pataki.

Helga confronting him in the middle of the street.

The heartbreaking epiphany that bloomed in the wake of that confrontation, under that drab afternoon sky.

Arnold turns in bed, as if to distance himself from the thought, but it chases him. He tries to shove it in a box to be processed at a later time, but it resists.

Just when he's about to get up to retrieve his headphones—if the music is loud enough, maybe it can drown out his pestering thoughts—Helga's voice shoots through the darkness, startling him.

"Quit moving around, you're irritating the hell out of me."

"Sorry," Arnold apologizes, forcing himself still.

Helga huffs and falls silent. Arnold thinks that's going to be the end of it, but she surprises him by speaking again—voice pitched so low he has to strain to hear her even in the quiet space they alone seem to exist in.

"I'll kill you if you ever say a word to anyone."

Arnold sighs. "You know I won't."

"I'm serious. Don't you dare tell anyone."

"I swear. I won't break your trust again."

"Who said anything about trust," she grunts. There's a series of creaks, like she's shifting in an effort to get comfortable, and then, "You know what else really pisses me off about you, besides the obvious? The fact that you had the opportunity to observe anyone in the cityand instead you chose to follow me. What a waste of an opportunity."

I couldn't help it; I was drawn to you, Arnold thinks, but doesn't voice. He doesn't want to explain it just yet—is struggling to understand the full scope of it all himself.

He doubts Helga's ready to hear it, besides.

"Yeah, well, you're more interesting than most people," is what he imparts instead. "And I don't consider it to be a wasted opportunity, either. I mean, how could it be when it led me back to you?"

Helga makes a sort of strangled sound and hisses something that Arnold can't make out (he thinks he hears swearing but can't be sure).

Flushing, he quickly changes the subject.

"I almost went full poltergeist on your dad, you know," he blurts out.

And immediately regrets it.

"What?"

"When you guys were fighting in the dining room," he continues reluctantly, cursing his lack of brain-to-mouth filter. He's unsure if it's the protection of the dark that's making him brave, or if his body is trying to expel the last of his secrets in an effort to heal the damage caused by holding onto them for so long. Either way, he cautions himself to tread carefully. Helga's talking to him, even if she sounds pissed off about it. Maybe the dark is coaxing things from her, too, though one wrong word from him will be the end of it, he knows.

He really is right back where he started.

No, he thinks regretfully. He's even further than that.

"I considered, um, throwing things at him and maybe flipping the table a bit. In his face. Not to seriously injure him or anything!" A lie. "Just, y'know. To scare him a bit."

His heart beats forty-seven times before Helga finally speaks again.

"Another wasted opportunity. You should have. It would have been a sight to see a table flying at him."

"Maybe next time."

"Moron. Don't even joke about that."

A corner of Arnold's mouth curves into a hesitant smile, though he braces himself for it to fade at any moment.

"Whatever you say, Helga."

"Don't think I've forgiven you, Shortman, because I haven't. I'm not even close to it."

And there it goes—gone like it never existed.

"Yeah," Arnold mumbles, closing his eyes. "I know."

"You have a lot to make up for. I'm talking straight-up groveling. I won't make it easy for you and it might not even change anything in the end."

Arnold's sheets rustle as he sits up, his tiny flame of hope flaring large enough to fill his entire body with a hint of warmth.

"That's fine," he stammers, wide-eyed. His heart feels like a key in the ignition of a car that's on the verge of starting. Just a few more turns and it will sputter to life.

The energy coursing through makes him brave enough to say, "You're worth the effort to try."

Helga makes another strangled sound, but nothing else follows.

"You're really going to give me another chance?" he asks, stunned. He figured he'd have to wait weeks, if not months, to wear her down enough to listen to another apology. This is...way more than he dared to hope for. "Why?"

"'Cause I'd be a fucking hypocrite otherwise," she mutters so quietly that Arnold's sure he misheard.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Just don't…no more fucking secrets. No more lies. This is the last one, Arnold. You're lucky you're getting even that much, because it's more than I would have given anyone else."

Arnold doesn't have the bandwidth to question what makes him so special—let alone delight in it—because Helga's words crash over him like a bucket of ice water.

"I…do have a secret," he starts, cautious, as his epiphany from earlier flashes through his mind. "And I'll tell you it, but not yet. I'm not ready to."

There's a slow intake of breath. "Does it have something to do with me?"

"Yeah," Arnold whispers, knuckles tight over his quilt. "It's mostly about me, but...yeah, you're connected to it."

"And yet you don't want to tell me what it is," she says harshly. An accusation.

"Not yet."

"You're really not off to a good start here, Arnold."

His shoulders rise to his ears. "I'm sorry."

He hears a growl from across the room, and then what sounds like a fist hitting a pillow.

"Goddamit. Fine. You can keep your secret for now. But you will tell me whatever it is soon, Arnold. I'm not kidding around when I say you're walking on a tight fucking rope."

Arnold sags with relief despite the threat. "Thanks, Helga."

"Whatever. Now go to sleep—you're going to start making it up to me first thing tomorrow morning by taking me to that pancake spot in Koreatown. I hope you've been saving your allowance because I want the full set and you better not even think of complaining."

A bubbly sensation fills him and he's glad it's dark so Helga can't see the way he's grinning stupidly up at the ceiling.

Complaining is the last thing he wants to do right now.

"Yeah, okay. Good night, Helga."

She grunts, which he interprets to either mean good night or fuck off or you better sleep with one eye open. Probably a conglomerate of all three.

"Hey, Helga?" Arnold asks after a long, silent moment.

"Criminy," she groans, voice muffled like it's coming from under the blanket. "What the hell do you want now, Arnold?"

"I'll do my best not to mess this up," he swears—to himself as much as her. His promise coils tight around his throbbing heart, and he knows he'll feel its vicelike grip if he ever slips up.

"I don't want to experience what it's like to miss you again," he continues, honest and heartfelt.

He hears a swallow, and isn't sure which of them it's from.

"Don't do anything else remarkably stupid and you won't," Helga says, voice taut. "Though it's you so I won't hold my breath. Now go to freaking sleep before I smother you to death with your own damn pillow, football head."

Heartened by what she probably hadn't meant to be an assurance, Arnold closes his eyes and allows himself to be lulled to sleep by the sound of Helga's soft snoring and his own heartbeat thudding sluggishly against his overwarm chest.

That night, Arnold's dreams are just dreams, and his consciousness never once leaves the physical constraints of his body.

But then, why would it?

His lodestar is right here with him, and there is nowhere else he wants to be.


THE END


Author's Note: Thanks so very much for sticking with me 'til the end, everyone. Your support and encouragement has meant so much to me. As always, feedback is super appreciated. Until next time! ❤️


P.S. I'm posting an adult-rated Shortaki fanfic that's too explicit for FFN, so if you're interested in reading it, head over to AO3. I'm Reinamy there, as well!