Chapter Text
You push yourself away from your desk, sighing and scratching your face. You stand and stretch, dazed from a solid stint of refining — your vision blotchy, drifting, distorted. You turn and walk toward the kitchenette, and as you approach, you see Helly seated at the small table, taking her lunch break. She’s writing... or maybe drawing, kicking her feet absently and neglecting the contents of the small pink box on the table in front of her. You slow as you watch her, deep in concentration — her face serious and tense, but calm all the same. She suddenly reaches back to touch the crown of her head, running her fingers over a small portion of her scalp. You do the same, and find the thin, smooth strip of skin where your hair no longer grows — faint, but present. The scar you share.
“Hey, creep.”
You look back up at Helly, piercing you with a faux coldness that melts your tense mouth to a gentle smile. You pretend you were only tucking a lock of hair behind your ear as you saunter forward to lean against the doorframe.
“Hey.” You nod to the table, to the drawing (definitely a drawing) that you can’t quite make out from this angle. “What are you… workin' on?”
Helly raises her eyebrows, quickly covering the paper and sitting straight. She keeps her eyes glued to yours in a futile but noble effort to arrest your attention.
“Oh… y’know.” She shrugs innocently, shaking her head.
You crane your neck to see, then begin to walk forward. You shake your head right back, and mumble, “Nah, I don’t, actually.”
Helly pulls the pad closer to her, leaning forward over the table as you approach.
“It’s nothing...” She tries to sound casual, but her innate intensity bleeds through. She looks away, thinking, then quickly back up at you, eyes bright as she begins suddenly, “Oh, by the way, Dylan overheard Milchick saying-”
“Nice try.” You interrupt her attempted diversion, and she freezes in innocent shock. You hold her gaze, standing just a step away. You try for sincerity with a sprinkle of authority, pitching your voice into friendly-boss-mode.
“Why won’t you… what are you… ?” You indicate toward the drawing again, and she pulls herself a little further away. You keep forgetting that friendly-boss-mode never works on Helly (or, if you're being honest with yourself, anyone). You drop it and act like yourself, instead.
“What, is it… me with devil horns in a compromising pose or something?”
She relaxes slightly. “Pretty close. They’re goat horns, actually.”
“Seems like a very important distinction…”
“It is.”
You both smile as you sit down next to her, adjusting your tie and tilting your chin to the pad of paper again.
“But really, can I see?”
“What, is it a rule that I have to show you or something?”
“No, I’m just-”
“Then, no.”
You eye each other, a challenge forming in the silence between you. You reach for the pad of paper and she yanks it away with a force to rival the day you first met, fighting over the orientation binder. You remember being surprised at how strong she was… and ever since, you have had the unshakable urge to arm wrestle her. All the time. Something in you is desperate to know who would win.
You had this same feeling with Petey. And, like Petey, you and Helly can’t seem to help but bicker and bicker back. You can't help but push when she pulls. In your corporate corporeality, these constructed power plays are one of the only ways you know how to get close to someone. And, just like Petey, you have an urge to get close to Helly.
With Petey, following that urge had yielded a closeness you couldn't imagine before — maybe too close, you think, a dull ache blooming in your chest. He really was your best friend... but with Helly, you’ve only scratched the surface. You might not even call each other friends. You definitely haven't gotten anywhere close to doing what you and Petey had done… but you don't think she's interested in that.
Besides, you're the boss, this time. And while you know the title is mostly set dressing, it still feels... wrong to initiate something like that with your employee. Although, it doesn't feel wrong inherently... It hadn't stopped Petey giving you hungry, private glances over the barriers of your cubicle. Hadn't stopped him brushing his lips against your knuckles, holding your hand gently against the side of his face in the quiet of the storeroom. But you're not Petey. And neither is Helly... and you wish that reality didn't devastate you.
You smile placatingly at Helly's warning, defensive look.
“It's ok. No worries.” You try to sound light, unwounded in the face of this minor rejection... but with Petey on your mind, your words come short and defensive — and you both wince at the vulnerability your tone betrays. She gives you a tight but sympathetic smile and looks down.
“It’s just…” she keeps her voice low, then pauses. She closes her eyes, then shakes her head slightly, blinking, “…my… outlet, I guess.” It sounds painful for her to admit, and the pained look she gives you confirms it.
You smile slightly, patiently, and she widens her eyes at you before rolling them and looking away.
“Your… outlet.”
“Yuuup.” She taps her pen impatiently against the table.
“Outlet... for what?”
“For the agony of being stuck with you every waking minute of my miserable existence. What else?” It’s cutting, sure, but there’s no malice to be felt as it lilts out of her mouth — almost syrupy, it coats every inch of you. You swallow and your lip quirks involuntarily. She catches it, her eyes immediately flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes with a slight smile.
“Sounds tough,” you manage to loft, cool, disaffected.
“It’s pretty awful.”
You share a quiet moment of grinning eye contact before she breaks away, quickly shoving the pad of paper under her and sitting on it. You chuckle quietly as she pointedly crosses her legs and begins to eat her raisins. You watch her, mouth drying slightly as she pretends to roll her eyes in ecstasy at the delicacy of the small brown pellets.
“That good?”
She nods three big, highly exaggerated nods, giving you an emphatic thumbs up. You laugh and she drops the gesture, laughing too, as she grabs another. The soft giggles fade to silence again, and you look down at the table, tapping your fingers against it noiselessly.
“You know,” you look back up at her, “if you’re feeling low we could always take another walk.” Walks were for Helly’s mental health and wellbeing. But, the sense of ease you were starting to feel with her... the comfort that hit you when you woke up in the elevator to the subtle remnants of her outie's chosen perfume… meant these walks were becoming as much for your own benefit as they were for hers.
“Hmm…” she chews thoughtfully, “And remind me how spending more time with you… is supposed to make me feel better about the fact that I’m stuck with you forever?” You feel yourself bowled over with the wave of that word, ‘forever’ — usually a small horror to try and forget about. The eternal 'forever' of severed life... the final 'forever' of retirement. But from Helly’s lips, ‘forever’ lands in a familiar chamber of your chest, settling you down with warmth. As you relish the feeling, you are reminded of Petey, again. And you wonder how it is you know this comfort - of partnership and of commitment - so easily and simply. So innately.
You shrug slightly, ignoring the deeply confusing, painful feeling that accompanies the warmth you are now filled with. “Dunno,” you say, a bit absent.
Helly nods matter-of-factly, not noticing your slight withdrawal. “Well, there you go.”
You begin slowly, “You could always… I don’t know, pretend I’m somebody else… ?” You say it with the intention of refreshing the conversation, starting a new bit... but instead of lighting back up, Helly’s fake exasperation fades. She shoots you a sideways glance, her eyebrows furrowing slightly as she chews, then swallows.
“What, like, pretend you’re Irving or Dylan or someone?”
You shrug and nod. “Or someone,” you glance behind you at the small cubicle and turn back, whispering, “Not who I’d pick, but-”
“Cobel?” You shoot a breathy chuckle through your nose and she smiles, brushing her fingers against her thumb to rub the slight stickiness off. She sits back, crossing her arms and shifting her shoulders — she fidgets often, always filled with some itch she can’t scratch; but this line of conversation has her absolutely restless.
“Or, y’know. Anyone."
She snaps her head to look at you, stilling. Her neutral expression gains a little fire.
“Well, who else is there?” She asks the question in her trademark disaffected monotone… but there is something lurking beneath the put-on nonchalance. She’s curious — and you know a curious Helly is a dangerous one. You think about your work that you should definitely be getting back to and try to discourage her, chuckling halfheartedly and shrugging at her question.
You try to look away from her bright, piercing stare, but she’s locking you in. You feel paralyzed, physically unable to look anywhere else but back at her. She’s almost tilting her head, looking into your eyes like she's searching for something specific — like she's refining you. You look back with as open and calm an expression as you can manage under her scrutiny. You hope she finds whatever she’s looking for quickly... if only so you can stop feeling so bare. She slowly begins to nod.
“Okay, Mark.”
What? Did you say something? Your brain is scrambled — and not just in the literal sense.
“'Okay' what?”
“'Okay,' let’s go.” Helly stands, and you manage to catch a glimpse of the pad of paper on the empty chair in the millisecond before she swipes it up again. She shoots you a warning glance and you hold your hands up.
“I didn’t see anything.” You aren't lying — you still don't know what it depicts. Indistinct blocks of value were all you were able to sus out.
She squints slightly, holding the pad tighter against her before walking past you, out of the kitchenette. You stay seated, staring into the empty space where she once was. The air there is bright and vibrating, the tail of her energy sticking around and spinning out like… well, like something that spins wildly and endlessly — something larger than life and very, very far away. Something that glows, even at night.
“Chop chop,” her voice is clear and sharp, and she’s right behind you again. You start, turning to look at her as she continues urgently, “My mental health is hangin' in the balance here, boss.”
"Okay, yeah, I'll be right there."
She’s already gone again as you stand and grab her empty raisin box, tossing it in the recycling bin as you walk back out into the main area of the office.
“Try not to get lost again.” says Irving.
“It's okay, Irving, we weren’t actually lost.” It was only what Milchick called it when he found you both last time — returning you to MDR with a passive warning, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “No comment, Dylan?”
“Don’t pigeonhole me, Mark. You can’t expect genius to just spring forth whenever you deign to call.”
“Riiight… guess I should've known better than to deign...” You draw your words out, casually glancing at Helly’s work station.
"Fuckin' right."
You see the pad of paper she was using in the kitchenette — now blank, torn to a fresh page. She must have removed whatever she had been drawing. She must have it with her, right now.
“Alright. Be back soon, guys.”
“Uh-huh.” Dylan is glued to his screen, moving the tracker ball and clicking quickly, and Irving lifts a hand toward you in an absentminded send-off.
You walk into the hall, and Helly is no where to be found. Someone unseen grabs you from behind, and your heartrate skyrockets. You turn to find Helly standing just behind you, grinning triumphantly and waggling her eyebrows at you.
"Feelin' froggy?" She drops her hands from your waist and begins to mental-health-walk away from you.
"Feeling what?" She looks back at you over her shoulder, then turns suddenly, throwing her hands up at you as if to say 'boo!'. You jump backward slightly, proving her theory that, yes, you probably are 'feeling froggy.' She turns back around, satisfied as she walks down the endless hallway, and you can't help but grin as you follow after her, quickly, into the stark white maze.