Author's note: First of all, thanks for reading!

Over two decades ago, I posted Hey Arnold Fanfiction under this name, originally Cosmic_Dreamer, which I eventually changed to paleMistress (because I was speed running finding the cringiest screen name in my early teens, I guess). It's been many years since then, and many things have happened, but I have returned, because writing like this is comforting and cathartic for me, and I love these characters dearly.

I am currently working on two large-scale Hey Arnold stories, but I want to start posting things again just to get back in practice, and also because I'd appreciate feedback from fellow fans of the series.

This is not necessarily a one-shot. This is a flashback from one of the two large-scale story projects, so you can think of it as more of a teaser. I think it stands well on it's own.

Also, I'm keeping this name. It's just so bad, how can I do anything but keep it? And if you're curious, you can go back and read all the horribly embarrassing stuff I wrote when I was but a tiny teen! What a treat!

The Red Shoe Flashback

It was October 6th, the day before his 11th birthday. A couple of months had passed since their glorious return from San Lorenzo with his parents in tow. His Mom and Dad had only stopped following him to and from school every day like little lambs a week ago, at his gentle, constant urging throughout the previous month.

He had already told Helga that he wasn't available tomorrow. This was going to be his first birthday with his parents since he was a toddler, and understandably, they had requested he spend the day with them, making up for lost time. He had been more than happy to acquiesce to their request. And Helga understood because she always did, for things like that. Better than Gerald sometimes, even.

Not with everything else, though. In the couple of months they had been back, Helga had fought any and all feelings he had been developing for her every step of the way. She was abrasive, ornery, and cruel in front of their classmates, same as ever. With every kindness he tried to show her when they were in public, she would double down in rebuffing it.

And he didn't understand why. Wasn't this what she wanted, after all? Didn't she love him, and hadn't she for years, by her own admission? So why fight? He had been honest with her after San Lorenzo; he wasn't in love with her. But in his defense, he was a kid! He didn't even really understand how Helga loved him in the all-consuming way that she did. So he had told her the truth; he did think she was loyal and brave, and while they were hanging moments from death on that broken rope bridge there had been a moment where he had realized how much she meant to him, and that he didn't ever want to lose her. And she had saved his parents, not to mention already saving the neighbourhood through the guise of Deep Voice before that. And it had all been for him, apparently. How could he not have feelings for a girl like that? So he had settled on an unresolved like-like, and they had begun this extremely hesitant relationship that felt more like a battle of wills, at times. And to top it all off, it was all still relatively secret.

Her brash public exterior was all the more frustrating because when they were alone, she would transform into an intelligent, sonnet-spouting wit; a bewitching conversationalist with a sinfully sarcastic bite. Worse still, she seemed to be able to switch back and forth between the two conflicting personalities with relative ease, which only vexed him the more. So when they had been bickering in the park a few days ago about that very thing, he had blurted out, "I can't even talk to you right now, I don't know which Helga I'm talking to!"

And they had sat there in silence for the longest time, until Helga finally huffed, "Fine, so what if I show you who you're talking to, Footballhead? In fact–tell you what–I'll even solve a mystery for you, too. Whadda'ya say? It'll be your birthday gift."

She always knew just how to hook him, and this was no exception, as his brows raised to the top of his forehead, eyes wide as dinner plates. What mystery could Helga solve for him? What did she know? This was another one of her secrets obviously; but really, how many more could there be?

Although he had given the answer immediately, his agreement still felt somewhat tentative.

She told him that she would be at the Sunset Arms at five that evening, and when Arnold heard his parents welcome her downstairs from his bedroom, his clock read 4:53PM.

He had tried to act nonchalant, pretending to be reading on his bed when she barged through his door, burdened with her backpack, a duffle bag full to bursting, and a large insulated cooler.

"Hey, Helga." He had said to her, jovially.

"I need an hour, get out." She grunted at him by way of a greeting.

"What?" Arnold had blanched at her, confused, "Why?"

"To set up, Arnoldo, criminey, would'ya kick rocks already?" She was dropping her bags carefully, not even bothering to look at him.

Even more perplexed, he could only intone, "Huh?"

She threw open the door and extended her arm towards it, "Leave. Bring your oddly-shaped skull back in sixty minutes. Is that clear enough for you, bucko?"

And he had been upset, thrown his hands up and left his own bedroom exasperated. The "Whatever you say, Helga." that he voiced sounded more like a curse than it ever had. And then he had spent an excruciatingly long hour sitting downstairs with his parents, sulking. Regretting that he had even said yes to this in the first place despite all his parents good-natured attempts to rally his spirits.

He already had his hand on the knob of his door at fifty-nine minutes, counting down the seconds. Once Helga's hour was up he turned the handle and entered…

…Only to find that she had been waiting for him, coming up from behind and putting her hands over his eyes before he could see her.

"Helga!"

"Not yet, Footballhead. Keep your eyes shut." She whispered in his ear and it sent a shiver down his spine.

He kept his eyes shut. He felt something narrow and silken snake across them.

"You're blindfolding me?" Arnold asked irritably as he became aware of her tying it in a loose knot at the back of his head.

Helga scoffed, "Just for a minute. What, are ya scared of the dark?"

"Helga…" he trailed off tiredly. Too tired to fight.

"C'mon," Helga prodded with a cloying sort of mischief, "we just gotta get you to the roof, then you can take it off when I say."

"The roof?" Arnold shouted.

"You've lived here all your life, you're telling me you can'tget to the roof blindfolded from your bedroom?"

"No."

"It's a short ladder and it's only a few feet away."

Behind the blindfold, he rolled his eyes, "I've never had to try." he said to her dryly.

She actually harrumphed at him, "Some good you'll be when society devolves into a dystopian nightmare." she remarked before saying, "Let's go, Arnoldo, I'll help you."

And she did. She took both of his hands in hers gingerly and guided him to the ladder by the foot of his bed. He felt her moving around him, climbing up first to open the skylight for him, climbing down and situating his hands on the wooden slat rungs, then climbing up again ahead of him and helping him step onto the roof with the utmost of care. It never ceased to amaze him that she could put up such a brash front, yet handle things so gently.

"See? Piece of cake, hair-boy." She said the words airily but was tittering nervously. His hands were back in hers as she continued to lead him forward, but now he noticed that hers were trembling.

"Are you–okay?" He ventured to ask when she had reached a point on the roof where she had stopped. Her breathing was heavier now, anxious.

"Me? Yeah, yeah of course! Why wouldn't I be okay? Totally okay! Just dandy in fact–uh–yeah…" she babbled, ending with more nervous giggling.

He'd been apprehensive as to what he was walking into before, but now he was concerned.

"Uh, can I–take off the blindfold now?" He asked her, uneasy.

"One sec," Helga said, and let go of his hands. As he dropped his arms back to his sides, he heard her step away from him, but couldn't be certain how far she had gone.

He heard her take one more deep, quivering breath, "Okay," she said, "go ahead."

His right hand flew up, hooking his thumb under the blindfold, tossing it off his eyes and to the ground.

He gasped, and the vast expanse of space between his ears emptied of rational thought.

She was there.

After nearly two years, she was here. Standing right in front of him.

She kept her gaze steady, head held high with a sort of poised humility that Arnold once thought he would never see in Helga. Except he already had, he just hadn't known it was her at the time. She had recreated the hair perfectly, blonde curls cascading over her shoulders and down her back, long bangs draped over one eye.

"Cecile." He whispered breathlessly.

She was even wearing the same clothes as the night he last saw her; the pink tunic with red horizontal stripes and square neckline, and the pink skirt. Both were more fitted on her now, the skirt a couple inches higher due to growth spurts over the past two years. If anything, it only improved the overall look.

"Bon anniversaire, Arnold, ravi de vous voir," she said shakily with a fragile expression that looked as though she could break at any moment, "comment ça va?"

She had practiced. Arnold recalled that the few words of French she had used two years ago sounded clunky and discordant, but now they floated like music.

In the first couple months after his mysterious Valentine's date, he took on the hobby of learning conversational French. Which didn't make sense, now that he thought of it. He had witnessed first hand that she could barely speak a word of French. He had seen the real Cecile before Gerald played wingman of the year and took her out for a hamburger. Why did he assume that his Cecile would come back speaking French?

And stranger still, why was he right?

However, the French habit was quickly lost when he started chasing Lila, so while he was fairly sure he knew everything she had just said to him, rusty cogwheels were still trying to get back to turning in his mind, so he could cobble together a response.

He grinned in a daze and managed, "Bien, Cecile, et toi?"

Tension broken, she smiled enchantingly, "Je suis merveilleux, parce que je suis avec toi."

That was a very good thing she just said, he was almost nearly certain of it.

They hadn't moved, either of them. He was still trying to get comfortable in the new reality he existed in where Cecile was Helga, and Helga was Cecile. But then again, that had always been the reality, hadn't it? Why had he imagined Cecile's face so differently all this time? When he thought of Cecile, he thought of that sweet, dreamy look of a girl from an unshatterable reverie. The tousled golden locks, the spellbinding eyes that reflected like clear water, the beautifully long lashes, the way she appeared so delicate and timid and gazed at him with hopefulness–

–He realized that he wasn't actually thinking about Cecile from two years ago anymore, instead appraising her as she stood in front of him now. He had to get closer to her.

He took an exploratory step in her direction and she jumped, "Je n'étais pas sûr que tu me croirais, alors j'ai apporté la chaussure!"

He was lost.

"I–I didn't get any of that." Arnold admitted sheepishly, his hand landing on the back of his neck and rubbing it distractedly in a self-soothing maneuver.

She flushed, eyes darting everywhere but to his own and speaking fast, "Sorry," she said, "I've been listening to these French lessons, falling asleep to them, waking up to them–you know? I swear I've been thinking in French for the past twenty-four hours–or, vingt-quatre heures, I guess. Or maybe un jour is better? Anyway, Bob was about to call an exorcist, he thought I was speaking in tongues or something—"

He nodded, drawing nearer by another pace while she wasn't looking. He knew well enough by now that she prattled on when she got nervous. Just words thrown out as fast as possible to fill up the silence. However, her normal filter was usually weakened during times like this, for ease of flow. Arnold had discovered a lot about Helga in the past couple months from just listening to the breakneck chattering she did while trying to deflect from her own anxiety. So he kept quiet, waiting for a new piece of Helga to dislodge itself from her head and fall into his lap.

"—last time, well, I think I only listened to a tape for a couple hours, can you believe I thought that would be enough? Boy, was I wrong! But I had to alter this outfit back then, so it was a time crunch. Well, I had to alter it this time too, but it didn't take as much sewing. More letting out."

And there it was, a heretofore unknown fact about her. Since when did she know how to sew and alter clothes? For at least two years, that much was evident. He'd ask her about it later.

"Uh-huh." He intoned the affirmative while taking another sly step towards her. Nearly there.

A gulp of air, and then, "Did you know that in France they use military time? Like, the 24-hour clock instead of–"

"–Yes," Arnold cut her off, lowering his voice and taking a final step to clear the distance between them, "I know."

She hadn't been paying attention to the fact that he was getting closer, and startled herself again when she looked into his eyes and saw that he was less than a foot away. Arnold had only just reached the point where he could admit this to himself, but he enjoyed it; the fact that he could honest-to-goodness startle the Helga G. Pataki, because she loved him. It was cute, and he couldn't help the devilish smile that crept across his face as he watched her lips–freshly-glossed and pink like the rest of her–part in surprise. She was cute.

She was also Cecile.

Arnold had been having a lot of conflicting feelings lately while weathering Helga's split-personality, but the real problem was that at times like these there just wasn'ta whole lot of conflict anymore. Somehow, that was even more frightening. If he thought about it too long he got dizzy, just like at the top of FTi when Helga first confessed.

" I said, I–I wasn't sure if you would believe me–" Helga said timidly, turning and walking back a few steps to the—table?

It was now that he became aware of the changes to his normally familiar rooftop surroundings. Somehow, she had set up a small bistro table and two chairs. He would never find out how she got them up there. The table was covered in a crisp white linen tablecloth and set for two, with twin plates covered in matching metal cloches. To one side as decoration, two taper candles in clear glass holders of differing heights, and a thin glass vase that held a single red rose. In the background, soft lyricless jazz music was playing, but he was too blown away to take note of the song.

And tealights everywhere, twinkling like stars.

She reached for something behind the chair furthest from him, and he saw a flash of red. She turned back to him, this time easily drawing as near as she was before, finding confidence in the proof that she held in her hands, no doubt.

"–so, I brought the shoe." She finished, cradling the one strappy high heel she had left with that night as though it were a precious artifact.

Arnold hadn't needed the additional proof, but he had dreamt about this day and couldn't believe his good fortune; that she had given him the opportunity to do this.

He looked up from the shoe into her eyes, stricken by just how uncannily blue they could be at times, and placed both his hands on her arms.

"Wait here, okay?" He said to her softly, unable to wipe the bemused grin off his face.

For a moment, worry creased into the corners of her eyes. Right, she needed reassurance. Another thing Arnold had caught onto was that Helga needed near-constant positive feedback in moments when she felt vulnerable, or else she would assume the absolute worst. Sometimes, she would fall off the deep end of absolute worse and dive straight into doom.

"I'm really happy you did this, it's–it's amazing." The words came out easily and he meant them with all his heart. The relief on her face was evident, and she nodded gratefully. He thought he saw the shine of tears in her eyes, but they were gone as fast as they came.

"I'll be back, alright?"

"Yeah." Helga giggled breathily.

"Don't go anywhere, promise?" He added, holding her arms a little tighter and pulling her in a little closer, just to be sure she understood. He couldn't lose her now.

She was blushing, flustered in a good way, and her eyelashes fluttered prettily, "Promise." She squeaked in a tiny voice.

Running to the skylight, barely using the ladder, opting instead to jump directly onto his bed from the top rungs, Arnold rushed to his closet and tore open the door, closing it behind him while turning on the closet light.

It didn't seem right to Arnold that she had gone to all this trouble, dressed up, and he was standing there in his everyday clothes. His tux from fourth grade didn't fit him anymore, but his new one was nearly identical, save for a black cummerbund and bowtie instead of red, but it was close enough. He never really understood where his Grandma got the tuxedos from, or why she insisted he always have one at the ready, but right now he was grateful for it. Ripping the pieces off of their hangers, he set a new personal best time for getting into it. Then, venturing into the back of his closet, he pulled his winter clothes to the side to reveal a box of keepsakes. He yanked open the cardboard flaps and saw it right where he had left it, rested reverently atop all the other contents.

He picked it up, smiling dreamily, senses whirring, and ran a hand through his hair in an effort to tame any undue unruliness that had occurred while he changed. Then, he opened the door, walked across the room and stepped up on his bed, ascending the ladder once more, not keeping her waiting a moment longer than necessary. He felt almost miraculously light on his feet as he strode up to her, like at any moment he could lose his sense of gravity and fall into the fathomless sky. Now it was Helga's turn to look at him in awe, as he approached her dressed to the nines, red shoe in hand.

"You kept it…" she sighed lovingly, trailing off.

He could only beam at her wordlessly, standing closer to her than ever. With the matching red shoe in his right hand, he carefully took its long-lost partner with his left, put them together with the toes facing him, and stared down at them in wonder.

Reunited, at last.

Mystery solved, as promised.

"They don't–fit me, anymore," She noted, disappointment tinging the edges of her voice, "my feet grew."

"That's okay, I don't care." He chuckled, shaking his head dismissively while still regarding the newly rejoined pair. Things still didn't quite feel real.

When he did look up, he found her gaze much like the sky from a moment ago, too easy to fall into. And that dizzying sensation, it was back again. The vertigo that occurred from her presence was becoming chronic. He reminded himself to take some time to consider whether or not he should be worried about that, later.

"Thank you, Cecil–" He began, tone hushed, and quickly amended, "–Helga."

Kind eyes blue as winter twilight took him in, but there was something else behind them, "You can still call me Cecile, if you want." she offered shyly, shrugging, "If it helps you remember who you're talking to."

Right, that's what this had been about. He'd completely forgotten.

He didn't want to do that with her. He didn't want to give her an out. He didn't want to call her Cecile so when they were back in school on Monday she could just tell him that it didn't count because she had the pink bow on again.

But wait—Cecile wore a pink bow, too. It was smaller, but unmistakable. She always had, with her blonde hair and her blue eyes and her tall, slender frame dressed all in pink, just like Helga. How had this not been completely obvious to him before? Why hadn't Cecile's identity been this conspicuously transparent back at Chez Paris when he was nine? Why hadn't he connected the glaring similarities at the time? With the pink bow, she might as well have worn a nametag.But here she was nearly two years later, spelling it out for him. En français.

Helga was right, he thought to himself wryly, he really was dense.

"No," He told her with quiet finality, "even as Cecile you were still you, Helga."

Another sigh from her, this one of deep relief, "Exactly." she said.

Realization dawned, "That's the point, isn't it?"

She nodded, a coy smirk pressed into her lips, "You know you're pretty smart, Footballhead. You got it quicker than I thought." she said, and winked at him.

He was still holding the red shoes, and laughing, he tossed them to the ground beside them, their marvel from moments ago all but lost to him now. The girl in front of him was so much more interesting. She tilted her head down shily, smile widening as she reached a hand up to tuck her side-swept bangs behind her ear. Seizing the opportunity he stood at full height, tilting his head upwards and placing a slow, sweet kiss to her lips. She tasted like vanilla frosting.

"Thanks, Helga." He whispered to her, correcting himself once and for all, touching his forehead to hers affectionately, "This is the best birthday present you could've given me."

He had been expecting the swoon, and snaked an arm around her waist deftly to keep her up. She blinked at him giddily with her large doe-eyes glittering, cheeks flush. Yes, no matter what else could be said, he absolutely enjoyed having this effect on her. Relished every second of it, in fact.

Loved it, even.

"Oh Arnold, je t'aime…"

And that, he understood perfectly.

Closing Notes:

Hope you enjoyed this little taste. Please review, and thanks again for reading.