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missingverse · 6 years

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Virtue and Venom Chapter Three

Note: As I have a lot of weddings to attend and jobs to do this season, updates may slow down for a while. I hope to be back to normal by July.

…..

Helga was young when she realized they were in trouble. She was just a little older when she realized that she, specifically, was in trouble.

Her father had brought a man back to the house for dinner. Miriam had to cook, making some sort of mumbled excuse about the cook not being around, the beef was underdone and the potatoes boiled into an unpalatable mush. Nevertheless, the man ate everything he was given, and that was a clear sign he was not a man of means.

Helga could not recall his name or even much about him beyond the dirt under his nails and the wrinkles on his face. She remembered distantly a conversation about what he did for a living, and it was some mumbled words about some sort of land maintenance. What he was doing there, among the social-climbing Patakis, was a mystery.

Up until Bob asked him what he thought of Helga, and mentioned that she was healthy and strong.

Bob had always regarded her as just another mouth to feed, but it hadn't occurred to her that he saw her as a resource until then. He wouldn't consider anything less than a titled nobleman for Olga, but Helga could be pawned off on whatever random peasant he found on his way home.

Fortunately, the man seemed uninterested in taking a little girl as a wife and he left. It would only be a matter of time before Bob found someone else until he'd gotten rid of his extra child.

Helga had no real options. Getting work as a scullery maid was for older girls. Leaving home meant going straight into the workhouse, or worse. There was really only one job available for an unskilled young woman in the city, and it didn't bear thinking about.

In the end, the only way to keep the roof over her head and keep her father from selling her away was to make herself useful to the head of the household. From the age of nine, she took over the running of the house, from the most basic cleaning and cooking to using what little education she'd been given to manage their taxes and income. In between, she sold whatever she could that would not be noticed as missing and raised their small crops to stock the pantry.

She was able to breathe a little easier once the Heyerdahls moved into the hermitage. The Pataki family, as far as she knew, had not had an actual hermit living in the hermitage so it was a holdover from the previous family that owned the estate (who had lost the place due to treason about two hundred years before the first Pataki out of Russia won the property in a bet). Bob and Miriam didn't know anything about the sprawling acres they owned, and Olga didn't like to go outside for too long in case she got a much dreaded freckle.

The Heyerdahls paid a pittance for the hermitage (although it was cozy and comfortable and Helga could easily have charged more) but they made up for it by taking over the farming duties, even keeping some chickens, two sheep and a small dairy cow. Stocking the pantry was much easier with their help, and anything they produced in excess they could sell at the open market.

When the rest of the Patakis were back living the lives they were more accustomed to, Bob stopped looking at her like she was a pig to be fattened up for market, and she was able to breathe more easily.

…..

Helga managed to find an hour to lie down between lunch and dinner, but the whole time she was eating she couldn't stop yawning. Olga's droning on and on about this man she was due to be introduced to wasn't helping.

“...Josepha says that the flute is far more elegant for a bride, but the harpsichord is traditional and he's quite a traditional man, from what I've heard. His family is very old, his estate has been standing for over...”

Bob and Miriam were nodding along but they probably weren't listening either. Olga had been talking for hours. Helga allowed her mind to wander back to the boy she'd helped in the forest, the failed convent romantic. Had he made his way home safely? How angry had his parents been at the state he'd returned home in?

“...where is our harpsichord, anyway?”

Her attention was jolted back onto Olga.

“I should have some practice, I went to the study but it doesn't seem to be there anymore,” Olga said with a confused little frown. “Where is it?”

Helga could feel Bob staring at her.

“It's being repaired,” Helga said, racking her brain for a plausible excuse. “Mice got at the strings, it didn't sound right.”

“Oh,” Olga said, clearly disappointed but accepting the excuse.

The harpsichord had been sold five years before, and probably chopped up for firewood. It hadn't been a particularly good one anyway, and always sounded a bit creaky.

“Most men prefer the flute anyway,” Helga told her. “They say only widows play the harpsichord.”

“I suppose you're right,” Olga preened. “Perhaps I should practice that instead...”

Crisis over, Helga went back to daydreaming. Just two hours more and she could get a good night's sleep.

…..

“What, exactly, were you thinking?” the king asked, not angry so much as just tired.

“I wasn't, really,” Arnold admitted.

“Clearly.”

Arnold had spent the night in an inn, in the town where thankfully no-one recognized him as the crown prince, and been woken at dawn to be dragged back to the palace and face his grandfather, covered in the dirt and grime his little adventure had left him with. King Philip sighed loudly and dramatically when he saw him.

“All this for a Catholic,” Phillip grumbled. “Are you trying to start a war?”

“No, of course not,” Arnold placated. “I don't think her people would mind, it's not like I'm asking her to convert....”

“No, but they'll want us to convert,” Philip growled. “And if we don't, they'll sue for annulment or they'll start a succession war with whatever children you have. That's if you manage to have any children with that line of the family...”

Arnold winced. Princess Lila's family line were well-known for having trouble conceiving heirs to the throne. Lila herself was an only child.

“You could have ended up on a ship for ransom,” Philip groaned, leaning back and rubbing his temples under his crown.

Like your father, he didn't have to add.

As far as either of them knew, Arnold's parents were still with the corsairs that captured them after the crusades. Kidnapping the crown prince was bad enough, catching the wife who had journeyed with him to support him was disastrous. It was just a matter of luck that they'd agreed to leave their son with the wet nurse.

“How did you get away?” Philip asked, when that strained look left his face.

“A peasant girl who knew the land helped me,” Arnold explained. “She threw rocks at my pursuers.”

And then she laughed at me for trying to break into a convent.

“Thank the lord for that,” Phil muttered. “Did you compensate her?”

“Ten gold pieces,” Arnold replied.

“Should have been fifty. She saved the royal line. Throw in an estate to keep her sweet. And she didn't recognize you?”

“I don't think so. She seemed happy enough with ten.”

“Hm. Well, if you ever run into her again, compensate her properly.”

That's unlikely, Arnold thought.

…..

“Pheebs! PHEEBS!”

“I'm here,” Phoebe said, wiping a knife on her apron. “What's wrong?”

“Everything's wrong,” Helga groaned.

“Okay,” Phoebe sighed. “Come on in and tell me about it.”

She wouldn't let Helga say a word until she'd sat by the fire and taken at least two sips of tea from the kettle. Aside from stocking the pantry and bringing in a little money, Phoebe's most valuable asset was that she was always calm.

“We got a missive this morning,” Helga explained, staring into her cup as if it contained the source of her doom. “Three missed payments.”

“How?” Phoebe asked. “You've always put that money away for the taxes....”

“Bob,” Helga said. “I trusted him to make the payments in person. I didn't think he was that stupid...”

“I have about thirteen shillings...” Phoebe began, rummaging in a small tin box.

“No, no, I'm not going to take your money,” Helga said.

“But if you lose the estate, we lose the hermitage,” Phoebe reminded her.

“I know, I just....I'll think of something, okay? I can get the money, we still have some things in the house I can sell, but I'm not old enough to file the payments.”

“Olga is,” Phoebe suggested. “Could you ask her to file them?”

“No, she'd freak out and go crying to Bob,” Helga said. “Although...Pheebs, you're a genius! They don't know what Olga looks like!”

“You'll have to tie up your hair,” Phoebe told her, having grasped Helga's plan within seconds of her coming up with it.

…..

Three days, a solid marble statue from the old parlour sold for fifty shillings and a borrowed new gown and matching kirtle from Olga's wardrobe later, Helga managed to get a lift from a fruitseller's cart most of the way to Knightsbridge. She walked the remaining two miles, holding the green brocade over her knees to keep it out of the mud. Phoebe had braided her hair and tucked it under a coif, and although it looked nice it felt tight and uncomfortable on her head.

Once I get this over with I can walk home in my chemise, she thought sourly.

Knightsbridge was bustling when she arrived, including around the magistrate's building. She clocked the glances the men were giving her; a high-class girl out in public, unaccompanied. Easy prey. Her hands balled into fists even as they stepped to one side to let her pass.

The magistrate raised an eyebrow as she introduced herself as Olga Pataki.

“Why has your father not come to bring these to me himself?” he asked. “Or your husband.”

“I am unmarried,” she replied, in that haughty-but-achingly-polite way Olga affected when speaking to someone of noble birth. “And my father is too unwell to make the journey, I said I would go in his stead.”

“Three missed payments,” the magistrate hummed. “That is not usual...”

“You!”

Oh no....

It would be him. Convent-raid boy.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, oblivious to the fact that she was trying very hard not to look at him.

“The young Madame Pataki has come to pay the taxes on her family's estate,” the magistrate explained. Helga was very glad he didn't use her first name.

“And...why are you stopping her?” convert-boy asked.

“Well, it's not usual...” the magistrate hummed again.

“If she has the money, take the payment.”

The magistrate grimaced, but he took the money and put his seal on the form, and that was that.

Convent-boy insisted on escorting her out, past all the men who were hanging around the front of the building.

“Forgive me,” he said after they were on the outskirts of Knightsbridge. “I mistook you for a peasant when I met you.”

“An easy mistake to make,” she laughed uneasily. “I wouldn't exactly wear my best gown for wandering around the woods.”

“I guess not,” Arnold agreed. “Is your carriage near here?”

“Uh, no,” she said, racking her brain. “It threw a wheel...I got a lift from a neighbour, but...”

“Oh. Well, I'd offer you a lift but...”

“That's okay, I can hitch a ride,” she shrugged.

“That's not exactly safe,” Arnold said with a frown.

“It's fine,” she demurred.

“No, it's not,” he insisted. “But...listen, I owe you a lot more than ten gold pieces for what you did for me. How about I rent you a horse? And I can escort you at least part of the way...”

How could she say no? It was a long walk in a dress that didn't belong to her, it would be getting dark soon, and those men lingering around the magistrate's were watching in the distance.

“All right,” she agreed.

#hey arnold fanfiction #arnold/helga eventually #historical au

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missingverse · 6 years

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Virtue and Venom

Chapter Two

…..

Helga knew, from as young as five years old, that they were in trouble. One day they had a cook and then suddenly she was gone and the scullery maid was the one cooking for them. They'd had six horses, then within less than a week they had three. The fixtures of the house slowly became shabbier and the kitchen garden was overrun with weeds. The acres of land they owned weren't being tilled.

Through it all, her parents and her sisters acted normally. Olga still had fine brocade gowns to wear at court, Miriam had enough wine to get her through the day and Bob had enough clout to constantly move around different houses to sweet-talk barons and counts with marriageable sons. If they even realized how bad things were getting, they showed no signs.

Except...

Except during certain nights, Olga could be heard sobbing over her fine gowns, or Miriam would have just a bit too much wine and start talking about how they were going to starve, or Bob would be back a week late and well-fed enough for them to know he had been living on someone else's money for a while.

Still, Helga was a child. What could she do?

The last servant to leave was the old wet-nurse that had been hired to take care of Helga, who stayed on to raise her when she was too old to need a wet-nurse when it became clear that nobody else was going to take care of her. In the end, the house couldn't support even her tiny salary and she had to find work elsewhere.

Helga had been despondent since Nan left, and in her own childish mind she vowed to find a way to bring her back. There weren't many ways for a child to make money, but she'd have to do something.

…..

Arnold bent at the waist, gasping for breath and clutching his aching legs. The pigtailed girl stopped just in front of him, smirking a little. The long walk hadn't taken anything out of her, though Arnold felt like his legs were going to fall off.

“There's a fallen tree over there,” she said, nodding behind him. “We can take a break.”

Gratefully, Arnold sank onto the log.

“How much further is it?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“About three miles,” she shrugged.

Arnold groaned. It would be dark soon, and he had dragged this peasant girl miles from home with his half-witted romantic plan.

“There's a road half a mile that way,” she told him, pointing towards the thickest wooded area in the forest. “It's somewhat busy, there's a town nearby. Knightsbridge. A passing cart could give you a lift if you have coin.”

“I do have some coin,” he admitted, thankful that he had taken Gerald's advice and hidden some on his person that the brigands hadn't found.

She declared their break over in the next minute and guided him through the forest. Brambles and jagged tree branches tore at his clothes and scratched his skin; he was going to look awful when he got back.

“It's not too late to go the long way,” she said, pulling back a tree branch to let him pass.

“No, I've been lost for quite long enough, thanks,” he grumbled.

“What were you doing out here, anyway?” she asked.

“I was trying to pay a visit to a woman,” he answered. He did;t need to explain she was a princess.

“You risked crossing the border and getting robbed for a woman?” she said with a small laugh. “She must be the world's most beautiful woman.”

“She's very beautiful,” he agreed. “It would have been worth it if I had made it.”

“How are you going to explain what happened to you?”

“Oh, she didn't know I was coming....”

“What?”

Helga gaped at him, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” he explained, subdued.

“Surprise or not, you wrote to her guardian, right?”

“Well, she didn't exactly have one...I don't think the nuns would have let her see any letter I sent...”

“Nuns? She's in a convent?”

Helga broke off into gales of laughter. Despite himself, Arnold's cheeks burned.

“You know an awful lot about courting for a peasant,” he grumbled.

“I know enough to know that convents aren't a great source of eligible women,” she chuckled.

“It's complicated,” he retorted.

Helga was still laughing quietly to herself when they finally got out of the forest and onto a small dirt road. Thankfully, Arnold could just about see the castle in the distance. Someone in Knightsbridge would send word to the garrison and they would come to collect him. Even better, a farmer's cart was making its way there just behind them.

Helga stopped the donkey pulling the cart and negotiated with the driver for a bit.

“He says he can drop you off at the food market,” she told Arnold. “So I'm going to leave you in his hands. Think you can make it from here?”

“Yes,” he sighed, gratefully. “Thank you for your assistance, I am in your debt.”

She shrugged, and turned around to walk back the way they came. But the sun was just about to set, and she was still a good half-day's walk from where she found him.

“Miss Helga!” he shouted, after asking the cart driver to wait for a moment.

“Don't tell me you lost your money?” she groaned.

“Not at all,” he said, taking out a purse. “It's almost nightfall. Take this and get yourself a room at the inn. It's not safe to walk home in the dark.”

She laughed at him, but she took the money all the same. Arnold watched her disappear back into the forest from the back of the cart, until he couldn't see her anymore.

…..

She should have gone to an inn. There was one in Knightsbridge, and another in Hollyfort, where she'd be going anyway to take the shortcut home. But cold, hungry and tired as she was now, she had a better use for the money.

Ten gold coins. When did I last see ten gold coins?

She'd never seen that much money.

She took five of them and hid the other five under her kirtle. With any luck, she wouldn't need more than five.

Hollyfort barely counted as a town, but what it was best known for was its debtor's prison. Many a poor farmer had found himself in those cells when a bad harvest hit. It was past midnight when she got there, but the night warden was still on duty.

“I've come to pay a debt,” she announced as she walked in.

The warden looked her up and down. Her gown was stained with mud and her kirtle had little holes where branches had snagged them. She didn't look like much, she knew that.

“Whose debt?” he asked.

“Heyerdahl.”

Despite taking his wife's family name, Phoebe's father was still markedly foreign and though he had never incurred a debt in his own name, his old employer had left him to take the fall for his unpaid taxes. Phoebe and her mother hadn't a hope of raising enough to bail him out.

“Four gold coins,” the warden sneered. “You got that?”

“Yes, as it happens.”

She took out the coins and spread them on the table. The warden bit one of them; he looked suspicious.

“Where did you get these, then?” he asked.

“Does it matter?” Helga shot back.

“Suppose not. Heyerdahl! You're free to go!”

Phoebe's father didn't understand until the warden unlocked the door and pushed him in Helga's general direction. He was wretchedly pale and thin, with huge circles under his eyes, but when he saw her he was lit up from the inside. A babble of gratitude poured from his mouth, unintelligible but unmistakable.

On the way home, she whittled down a stick for him to walk with and they took frequent breaks so he could rest. Even walking was a strain for him. When Helga's home was in sight, the sun was just starting to rise.

Phoebe was already outside the hermitage, gathering dried grass to stoke the fire under the stove. Her father burst into tears when he saw her, so it was left to Helga to shout to her. When Phoebe looked up, the dried grass tumbled to the ground and her hand flew to her mouth. Her mother emerged from the cave to see what was wrong, and she too gaped as though she were seeing a ghost.

But then the weakness that had held Mr Heyerdahl back broke and he threw down his stick, ran as fast as he could on his shaky legs into the arms of his wife and daughter. They laughed, they cried, they hugged so tight it was like they were afraid to let go again.

…..

“I snuck in and put a pot on the stove,” Phoebe whispered.

Her father had fallen into a deep but comfortable sleep and she didn't want to wake him, but she made sure that distracted as she was she warned Helga about what might be waiting for her back home.

“Miriam said something about duck,” Helga mumbled. “I don't think she would have remembered...what time was it when you put it on the stove?”

“It was close to sunset,” Phoebe answered. “Nobody was waiting in the dining room.”

“Thanks, I think I'm still in for an earful,” Helga sighed.

“What happened to you?” Phoebe asked.

“Well, to make a long story short, some rich kid got himself in trouble in the woods, I helped him out and he gave me some gold to thank me.”

“Don't get me wrong, we're grateful,” Phoebe said. “But you could have used that money yourself...”

“For what? Replacing the candlesticks?” Helga laughed. “Look, once he's back to his full strength he can help me with the tilling. So it's an investment.”

“Whatever you say,” Phoebe said with a small smile.

Phoebe and her family were the closest the Pataki household had to servants, but Helga's family had no idea the Heyerdahls were living in the hermitage. Nobody respectable would rent a house to an Asian man and his Jewish wife, no matter how hard they worked, but Helga offered them the hermitage for a pittance rent and in return for keeping the kitchen stocked. She was only ten when she made that deal, and for six years it had kept the Patakis afloat without them knowing.

“This rich kid,” Phoebe mused. “Any idea who he is?”

“I dunno, some baron or something,” Helga shrugged. “He was trying to see some convent girl and got caught at the border.”

“It wasn't Helmsly and his men, was it?”

“I don't think so.”

“Helga,” Phoebe said insistently. “Did you see who was leading them?”

“No, I just saw two goons and then we lost them,” Helga assured her.

“Okay,” Phoebe sighed, relieved. “Don't give him any reason to come after you.”

“I don't intend to.”

…..

She pulled off her muddy gown as soon as she walked into the house, tossing it in the corner to wash later. Her kirtle followed, but the smock was still in good nick so she left that on. Exhaustion hit her like a rock to the head, and though she could have used some bread or even just a drink of water, she stretched out on the straw mattress across from the stove.

And then, of course, the bell calling for assistance rang.

Olga. She would be up this early.

Groaning, Helga lifted herself off the mattress and trudged upstairs to start the day.

#historical au #hey arnold fanfiction #cinderella-esque

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missingverse · 6 years

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Virtue and Venom Chapter One

Virtue and Venom

Note: I took a poll as to what I should write for the HA fandom once Missing was finished, and the votes were overwhelmingly in favour of ye olde medieval romance. That's not to say I won't end up writing the other option eventually, but for now this is my project. Although it is quite heavily inspired by Ever After, it is very much its own egg. Also, the language used will be deliberately anachronistic, because writing in old/middle english is a step too far even for me (unless you have a strong desire to see 'Helge, wilt þū mid mē sealtian?' in which case, you may write your own fanfic and I will likely read it.)

Also, I would like to mention that I now have original work freely available on my archive.

https://ptlikestea.dreamwidth.org/

…..

Dawn had already broken by the time Helga woke up, the smoke from the mostly-dead fire suddenly bringing on a cough. Blinking sleepily in the dim light of the morning, she wondered why the cockerel hadn't crowed to wake her up.

Oh yeah...

She'd sold him.

With a groan, she got up from the floor she'd inadvertently fallen asleep on. Her smock was covered in blotches from the ash of the fireplace, and the one that was hung to dry in the pantry was still slightly damp. Still, she peeled off the soiled one and tugged the damp one on, lit a new fire in the stove and put on some water to boil. It would be a good two hours before anyone else in the house woke up, but there was no harm in getting things started early.

Her kirtle and robe hung by the door and she put them on, but didn't bother with a farthingale or even stockings and shoes. The morning air was just about warm enough, and it wasn't like anyone would see her walking around barefoot. No-one important anyway.

The Pataki estate was vast, even though it was clearly in a state of decay. As Helga walked the trail down to the hermitage, she took note of all the things that needed fixing.

Four fenceposts down.

Ragwort on the tilling soil.

Rotten oak tree near the barn.

New holes in the barn roof, probably rats.

“Hi!”

The cheery greeting came from just outside the hermitage. It shouldn't have surprised Helga that Phoebe would be up early, with or without a cockerel to rouse her.

“Hey Pheebs,” she said with a bone-tired wave.

“Do you need the rent today?” Phoebe asked with a little worried frown she tried to hide.

“No, no,” Helga said, waving her off. “Just bread, if you have any.”

“Of course,” Phoebe agreed, beckoning her into the hermitage.

It was crude, but Phoebe and her mother had managed to make it look homely in their own way. The cave was divided into three separate chambers by thick curtains and their old stove sat in a hollow near the entrance so that the smoke wouldn't billow around their living space. The sleeping pallets were stacked up in a corner with their pillows and blankets, and their looms along with the fabrics they wove took up most of the space during the day.

Phoebe reached into the stove and took out two loaves of bread.

“I churned some butter, too, if you want it,” she offered.

“No, it's wasted on them,” Helga declined. “Sell it, or eat it yourself.”

“You should take a little, for yourself,” Phoebe's mother called from her spot at the loom. “You're too thin.”

“If I had some, I'd have to explain where I got it,” Helga said. “Seriously, keep it.”

They insisted she take two eggs with her, and by the time she got back to the kitchen Helga could hear her father making noises from upstairs. She dropped the eggs into the boiling water along with a shank of ham and set about fixing her hair.

…..

“Where's your coif?” Olga asked when she finally made it down to the breakfast table.

“I have no idea,” Helga retorted.

“You're sixteen, you can't go out with your hair loose like that,” her sister moaned. “What will people say?”

“I don't think anyone will care that much.”

“She's right, Olga,” her father growled over a mouthful of ham. “You have to look respectable.”

Inwardly, she seethed. Somehow they were still under the impression that their breakfast had been delivered to them by servants they no longer had, and didn't raise any objections when Helga had been the one to bring them water for washing and help them dress, but suddenly they were concerned that she wasn't covering her head.

She had worn her hair tied up in two long tails since she was a child, and saw no reason to stop. The coif was itchy, and she wasn't a married woman so there was no real reason to cover her head when nobody stopped by the estate anymore anyway.

“I'll find it after breakfast,” she said, with no intention to actually do it.

“I think we should have duck this evening,” her mother said vaguely. “Tell the cook, won't you?”

Where am I going to get a duck at this time of year?

“Sure,” Helga mumbled.

Miriam would probably forget by noon in any case. They had one scrawny chicken in the larder, and lots of vegetables to stretch it out with. As if any of them could even tell the difference between chicken and duck once it was on a plate...

“I am to be introduced a week from now,” Olga announced over a dainty sip of her water. “My old friend Jane Pomfrey...she's Lady Jane Westbourne now....her husband has a friend who is not betrothed.”

“Oh, that's wonderful dear!” Miriam exclaimed with more enthusiasm than she'd been able to muster all month.

“Who is this guy?” Bob asked. “What's his title?”

“Lord Henry Barker,” Olga proclaimed proudly. “He's the second son of Lord Edward Barker.”

“Is he rich?” Helga asked.

“Helga! What a thing to ask!” Olga scolded, as though they weren't all thinking it.

She rolled her eyes as the rest of her family gushed over this latest possible fancy marriage in a long line of fancy possible marriages Olga had talked about since her debut at court. Helga occupied herself by mentally calculating how much she'd get if she sold off the candlesticks.

…..

“It's beautiful, isn't it?”

Arnold was staring at the portrait as if it was the second coming of Venus. Gerald tilted his head and squinted; as far as he could see it was an average portrait of a pleasant-looking young girl dressed in an austere black gown. Her hair was curled and pinned out to the sides in the usual Spanish style. The rather large white crucifix she wore was the key focal point of the portrait.

“It's nice,” Gerald agreed blandly. “But...that's a really big cross. Just sayin'.”

“I know, but she probably has to wear it for portraits,” Arnold reasoned.

Gerald sighed. Arnold had an unfortunate blind spot when it came to situations like this. First that entirely unsuitable Portuguese princess and now Infanta Lila of Spain, a girl who was notorious for turning down proposals from protestants. Supposedly she was so pious she wore a hair shirt to bed every night.

“She did write back,” Arnold said. “Almost all of my letters got a response.”

Arnold's optimism tended to cloud his judgment, 'almost all' likely meant the Infanta probably wrote back twice. All the same, that same optimism let Arnold's subjects accept Gerald himself as a close friend of the prince, despite his Moorish ancestry. Very few people could deny the prince something he wanted.

He was not going to get this princess, though. That was for damn sure.

“The commandant told me we can cross the border at the eastern vale,” Arnold told him. “After that it's not far to the abbey. She's going to be there for another week at least.”

“Arnold, no,” Gerald sighed. “Just no. She's going to scream if you just turn up at her door, and then all her ladies will scream too, and if we manage to make it back over the border the Spanish will turn it into a story about how you tried to kidnap her and compromised her virtue.”

“Oh, come on,” Arnold moaned. “I'm not going to creep in the window or anything...I'll keep a respectful distance.”

“No,” Gerald said, point blank.

…..

“So remember when I said this was never going to work?” Gerald hissed over at Arnold.

“Yeah,” Arnold admitted mournfully.

They hadn't even made it past the border before bandits on the trail picked up on two young men traveling together, one of them a Moor, both of them richly attired. Now they were tramping across the countryside, hands tied behind their backs, robbed of everything but the clothes on their backs.

“Okay look,” Gerald whispered. “They're going to stop soon, and when they do I'm going to make a break for it. While they're trying to figure out who goes after me, you run the opposite way. Then once you've ditched them, find somewhere to hide. I'll bring back some men to find you.”

It was a good plan; Gerald was well-known for having the speed and endurance of a horse, the same qualities that made his father such a renowned warrior. Arnold did not have these gifts, and was grateful that Gerald had taken his shortcomings into account.

Their bandit kidnappers were clearly unused to having prisoners, luckily for them. They didn't even think to tie them to a tree or something when they did stop, and so when Gerald made a run for it they panicked. While they were arguing, Arnold broke away too and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. Behind him he could hear the shouting of the men chasing him, and in his haste he tripped and tumbled down a hill.

When he finally lurched to a halt, he was staring up at the baffled blue eyes of a young girl. He'd fallen right at her feet.

“What the...” she exclaimed, before being cut off by his pursuers bursting through the undergrowth.

“Please help me?” Arnold begged, though how exactly he expected her to help him he didn't know.

To his surprise, she nodded.

In a movement that was astonishingly graceful, she crouched to pull him to his feet while simultaneously picking up a large rock and hurling it at one of the bandits. It caught the man right in the middle of his forehead, knocking him on his back. Arnold was barely standing before another rock went hurtling towards the other man, catching him in the stomach and bringing him to his knees.

“This way,” the girl hissed at Arnold, dragging him off towards the forest.

He let himself be dragged over a seemingly random expanse of hillocks, forest, streams and marsh. The hem of the girl's gown and his own breeches were soaked and covered in mud by the time she judged it safe for them to stop and catch their breath. Arnold sank down onto a tree stump, gasping for air.

“The forest is a maze beyond the valley,” the girl told him. “They won't be able to follow us without getting lost.”

“Yes,” Arnold gasped. “Thank you...I owe you my life.”

“Yes, you do,” she replied, flipping one of her long pigtails over her shoulder. “And who are you?”

Despite himself, he grinned. He hadn't seen anyone with that hairstyle, or indeed uncovered hair, that wasn't a child. It was oddly charming.

He supposed she was a peasant girl, going by her familiarity with the land. Her gown was a faded pink, mended with patches and darns, and her kirtle peeked out over the gaps in the lacing. The skirt was shapeless, betraying that she didn't wear a farthingale underneath.

He hesitated to tell her who he was. If she knew he was the prince (and it was clear that she hadn't recognized him so she couldn't be a member of the court) she might turn up at the palace demanding repayment, and then Arnold's grandparents would find out what he'd been trying to do.

“I'm...Lord Arnold,” he said. His full title was His Royal Highness Prince Augustus Philip Joseph Arnold the Fourth, but there was no need to tell her that. “And how should I address you?”

“Helga,” she shrugged.

“All right, Lady Helga...”

“What were you doing out here?” she said, her eyes narrowed. “The borders are teeming with bandits, everyone knows that.”

Obviously not everyone.

“I was on my way to visit someone when my companion and I were taken,” Arnold explained. “He ran off in the other direction to raise the alarm. What were you doing out here, if this place is so dangerous?”

“It's common land,” she said with a scowl. “I've been walking it for years. Even the bandits know to stay out of the forest.”

“Well, Lady Helga, if you would be so kind I would ask you not to speak of this to anyone,” Arnold asked.

“Fine,” she shrugged. “It's none of my business anyway.”

He could have been insulted, but instead Arnold found himself feeling intrigued. At court the women fawned all over him and it was off-putting. It was refreshing to be around somebody who couldn't care less about who he was. Not to mention she had an excellent throwing arm.

“Well then, I'll be off. Thank you for your help, once again.”

He turned and walked in the direction he thought was north, only for her to call back to him.

“Do you know where you're going?”

Cursing under his breath, and with his back still turned, he shook his head.

“Fine, I'll lead you out,” she sighed.

#hey arnold fanfiction #historical au #slow burn romance #a much happier fic than my last one

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Awkward

A confession: the main reason I'm writing this rather random drabble is because I'm having trouble deciding what to write next for HA. I have two ideas, both fairly extensive, and I like them both equally. I need the people who previously read and enjoyed 'Missing' to give me their thoughts! They are as follows:

*Magical Girl AU: Not a typical mahou shoujo story. An alien scouting party has the entire world on edge preparing for an invasion. The only real solution is to inject girls between the ages of twelve and sixteen with a compound that gives them reality-warping powers. It doesn't take to everyone, and the risks of being killed by the compound itself or dying in battle with the invading forces are very, very high. But when Phoebe gets picked in the draft, Helga volunteers without a second thought to protect her.

*Ye Olde Medieval Romance: My favourite film is Ever After, so this fic will be very inspired by that, but it will also have my own dose of slow-burn build up. Arnold is the prince of this faux-renaissance country, desperate to marry the (ultra-pious, very catholic) princess of a neighbouring kingdom. Helga is the youngest daughter of a noble house that has fallen on hard times, meaning she's the only one sensible enough to keep the household running just long enough for her sister to find some rich man to marry, and she is still besotted with a mystery boy who came to her aid when she was a small child. Their paths cross, and although they don't exactly like each other, grudging respect turns to fond friendship turns to something else....

Anyway, I have no idea. Please pick one so I don't have to.

And now, a fic.

…..

In a way, it was surprising that it had taken nearly eight years' worth of dating Helga for someone to ask what it was like.

Gerald asked, over a crappy cafeteria lunch, and Arnold had to actually stop and think about it.

What is it like?

“Awkward,” he said finally, and turned back to his awful sandwich.

But the word 'awkward' was loaded, multifaceted.

….

The first time he really felt awkward was getting her that expensive watch for her twelfth birthday. He'd saved up his allowance nearly the entire year to get her something really special, and he knew she needed a watch, and this one was in her colour, not too girly and not to grown-up, just a simple rose gold face, roman numerals and a black velvet strap.

But when he gave it to her, she reacted like she'd been slapped.

She thanked him, but it was mumbled. She put it on, but she spent the rest of that date looking like she wanted to chew her arm off. When he walked her home, she wouldn't even let him kiss her goodnight.

He despaired a bit at home, wondering what he had done wrong. He was still despairing the next day when Phoebe approached him at his locker.

“It was a nice gesture, but you shouldn't have,” she sighed, without even a greeting.

“Why? I thought she'd like it,” he sighed too.

“She does,” Phoebe shrugged. “It's not the watch, it's that she knows you spent a lot of money on it. She can't accept expensive gifts.”

Arnold shut his locker, leaned in closer. This was the first he'd heard of this.

“Why?” he asked. “I mean, she got me those hi-tops last year...”

“Her dad gets her expensive stuff sometimes. Real top-of-the-range stuff,” Phoebe explained. “But then he always spends weeks using it to justify treating her like crap, so she can't complain. And she ends up hating that stuff.”

That...made a lot of sense, actually. At one point he remembered she'd had a really fancy smartphone, one of the newest models to come out. Within a week she was back using her old broken-screen brick phone, no explanation. That tended to happen with a lot of her things.

Arnold felt a hot spike of anger run through him. He'd spent time and money on a nice gesture and Bob Pataki had ruined it even before he'd thought about getting the watch.

“It was a steep learning curve for me too,” Phoebe told him. “I just stick to giving her the same notebook on her birthday and Christmas now. She always appreciates that.”

Arnold did learn. The next few special occasions, he got her stationary. She was always a lot happier to get something cheap but useful. And eventually, the watch started appearing on her wrist a lot more.

…..

It didn't really occur to him just how lucky he was until he was fourteen and overheard some of the older grade boys discussing girls they liked on the other side of the locker room.

“...Coley's got a nice rack, but Pataki's got a better ass.”

His spine immediately straightened when he heard her name mentioned. He crouched by his locker, hoping they wouldn't realize he was there.

“Yeah, okay, Pataki is hot. Like, ridiculously hot. But you don't have a chance, 'cos she's going out with that dweeb with the big head.”

“I never said her eyes were any good,” the boy quipped and his friends laughed.

For hours afterwards, his head spun.

Ridiculously hot.

Oh God, he's right!

When they'd started dating, Helga was an undeniably homely little girl with features too big for her face. At some point, and completely without Arnold's noticing, adolescence had blessed her with a kiss from an angel (or something equally poetic.) She got taller, she filled out, her features finally fit her face and it just happened to be in time for distinctive eyebrows to become a hot fashion trend.

Meanwhile, adolescence had hit Arnold with all the force of a freight train. His already awkwardly-shaped head looked even more out of place when he shot up like a beanstalk and couldn't put on weight for love nor money. He couldn't grow enough facial hair to look rugged but shaving gave him huge blotchy rashes. His voice cracked, even though it had always been fairly low. To top it all off, his forehead and cheeks were ground zero for pimple outbreaks. Helga's face remained insultingly clear.

What do people see when they see us together?

When they were kids, either they thought it was weird he was dating the girl who had tormented him throughout most of elementary school or they thought it was cute in a sort of aww-look-at-the-kids-they-think-they're-in-a-real-relationship kind of way. The fact that their relationship survived well into their teens let this situation creep up on him.

That night, she came over to his house to study. Lying on his bed in what suddenly looked like the world's tightest pair of jeans, idly tapping a pen on her bottom lip as she calculated the math worksheet, he wondered how this had happened to him.

“Arnold!” she yelled suddenly.

“Huh? What?” he spluttered.

“For the third time, what did you get for number 27?” she asked, frowning over at him.

“Oh, uh....” he mumbled, looking down at his own worksheet. “I haven't got that far....”

She sighed, and shut her math book, and that was how he knew he was in for it.

“What's up with you?” she asked, folding her arms (how did she manage to make that look hot, how?)

“Nothing,” he squeaked (curse his breaking voice!)

“You suck at lying.”

“Okay, just....”

He took a deep breath.

“Why are you with me?” he asked.

The anger left her face entirely, replaced by utter confusion.

“Excuse me?”

“Why are you with me?” he repeated. “I mean, it's not like you don't have other options...”

“Are you breaking up with me?” she asked, and then he felt extra bad because her eyes were full of hurt.

“No, God no,” he said, shaking his head emphatically. “I just...I dunno, I feel like you could have any guy you want, and you're stuck with me.”

“I don't want any other guy,” she said, her eyes narrowed to thin slits. “And I'm not stuck with you, thank you very much. If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be.”

Arnold breathed a sigh of relief, even though he was now so much more aware of his gangliness, his problematic skin, his strange voice. She seemed to understand now, because her posture had softened, and she reached out to him, pulled him down onto the bed with her to hold him in her arms.

“You're all I ever wanted,” she told him. “That hasn't changed. It's not going to.”

…..

Arnold mostly went shopping alone, because he always went to the same store to buy the same jeans and it didn't make a very exciting trip. Helga just happened to be there on one of the trips because they were going to the movies afterwards.

While he was picking his jeans, she was engaged in some sort of argument with someone on a forums board, typing furiously on her phone. She was still at it when he went to the check-out.

The lady at the check-out was one of those super image-conscious people that were probably hired specifically to make people question their self-esteem. The shop was part of a franchise that were obnoxious about catering only to incredibly attractive people and only filling their shop with attractive people. Arnold kept coming back because the jeans fit so well, but he always left feeling a bit inadequate. Hell, they probably only let him in the store this time because he was with Helga.

Check-out lady was so contoured it was near impossible to tell what she looked like in real life. Her face had that odd colouring-book sheen to it.

“How can I help you today?” she asked, in a tone that sounded more like what do you think you're trying to achieve shopping here?

“I want to buy these please,” Arnold answered. Just take my money and let me leave with my dignity.

“Certainly,” she replied, taking the jeans to scan. “Just to remind you, there's no return policy on sale items.” Don't come back unless you have more money.

She continued her mildly snotty spiel, only to trail off uncomfortably midway. She put her face down and scanned the labels, turning visibly red under her many layers of beige.

What?

Arnold turned slightly, and realized what happened.

Helga had apparently finished her argument, and was staring at the saleslady with a face that spoke of murder. She didn't even have to say anything as the bag with the jeans was silently passed over.

Talk to him like that again and I'll rip your face off.

…..

“I don't get it,” Arnold groaned.

“What's to get?” Helga retorted, slamming down the textbook. “I keep telling you, anti-Semitism was common back then, you have to read it keeping that in mind!”

“Yeah, I know,” he groaned again. “I just don't understand why they made him convert...”

The Merchant of Venice was proving a tough read. Along with being boring (as far as Arnold was concerned) it was confusing as to whose side it was on. Nobody in the play seemed like a good person.

Helga didn't have the same issue with the text, and he envied her. She always got straight A's when it came to literature, and he thought if anyone could help him study and understand the play she would. Unfortunately, he was either proving to be totally stupid or the text was just incomprehensible.

“Don't concentrate on how good you think they should be,” she told him. “Look, this was written for a widely Christian audience and as far as they were concerned the Christian characters already have the moral high ground.”

She sighed, leaning back against the wall.

“How many times did you read it?”

“About three times,” he said.

“You should have read through it ten times by now, and made notes,” she growled.

“I know,” he groaned again. “But it's so boring, I can't concentrate on it.”

She hummed thoughtfully for a moment.

“So...what you need is some sort of incentive? Beyond the grade, I mean.”

“I guess,” he agreed, but he was absolutely sure there was no incentive powerful enough to....

“Get an A on this assignment and I'll show you my boobs,” she said.

He nearly choked. She had only just turned sixteen, and they had never gone any further than making out. That she said it so casually made him think he'd misheard her.

“Get an A+ and I'll even let you touch one,” she added.

On the one hand, it was ridiculous to think that he could be motivated by a flighty promise of seeing some naked breasts (not just any, but his acknowledged ridiculously hot girlfriend who was still with him for some reason) but once he sat down to read the book again he found himself scrupulously taking notes.

Every time a character went into a long monologue and he was tempted to do something else, he remembered what he had to gain. Anything he didn't get, he memorized just in case. He watched the Al Pacino version to see if it helped him understand (it didn't, really) and then he downloaded the Globe Theatre version (that did help, because as Helga explained it was staged just as it would have been in Shakespeare's time.)

When he handed in the assignment, he spent the next day paranoid that for all his work he'd get a C, a B if he was lucky. He was actually very surprised when it came back with an A+.

That evening, he supposed it was very sweet that Helga believed in him enough to wear a bra that opened at the front.

…..

“Awkward?” Gerald said with a frown. “That's it?”

“That's it,” Arnold shrugged.

No more needed to be said, really.

#hey arnold fanfiction #romance #mushy stuff #slight sexual content

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Unrelated to anything else, here’s my Jaboody-saur

A post shared by Sinead Lynch (@i_was_told_there_would_be_cake) on Dec 17, 2017 at 12:33pm PST

#bulbasaur #jaboody dubs #build a bear pokemon

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Epilogue

Note: So we've finally come to the end of this fic, I think it's the fastest length of time I've ever finished up a fanwork and it's been quite a journey. I'd like to give my thanks to all the readers who have followed up to now, your reviews and support have been a boon to my self-esteem and a critical part of getting this work made. I don't intend for this to be the only fiction I have in the HA fandom, I have another longform in the works but I may need a week or two to get it underway.

.....

I've also made an archive for all of my written work recently, including my original stuff, so if you were interested you could find that here:

Link: https://ptlikestea.dreamwidth.org/

…..

Eventually, Arnold had to have that incredibly awkward conversation with Helga's one remaining parental figure who actually gave a damn about her as to what they were getting up to in private. Luckily, Ambrose wasn't the shotgun-toting type of retired cowboy and he had fond memories of his own indiscretions with boys in his youth.

“Hell, if it were any other boy I might be worried,” he had said with a casual shrug. “But it's you so....you're a good kid, Arnold. I trust you to do right by her.”

His later conversation with his Grandpa was slightly less awkward, if only because Phil was gradually chilling out with regards to Arnold's comings and goings and he was still benefiting from Ambrose's presence in the boarding house.

“She seems like a sensible girl,” he reasoned. “Maybe she can keep you on the straight and narrow...”

Phoebe's response was a deadpan look and a mumbled 'no shit, Sherlock.'

Once they've told all the most important people, and stopped sneaking around, the boarders are happy for them. Even if Helga hadn't been the oh-so-brave survivor of a serial killer, they are fond of her for her snappy wit and take-no-prisoners attitude. She watches sports with the men on weekends, the only girl brave enough to endure that heady mix of raised testosterone and beer-induced bravado, and chats with the women in the kitchen in the evenings, spiking the atmosphere with cackling laughter. When Arnold's at school she helps out with whatever chores she can manage and she studies with him every night to take her high school equivalency exam.

Her presence in the boarding house is a leavening one; she freely offers money raised for her (and there's no shortage of that) to pay for the repairs the house needs, anything Ambrose can't do himself she can afford to bring in outside help for. The result is that Phil is able to breathe easy for the first time in years, and he is more relaxed about what Arnold does with his time. She's a calming influence on Gertie, and the boarders are less likely to complain about things when they have to say it to her.

The slew of outside visitors slows to a trickle; there's still the occasional journalist, podcast presenter and human interest blogger, but overall they've moved on since Waring's conviction. With the disappearance of the press, a lot of their old friends climb out of the woodwork.

At first, it's just Gerald stopping Arnold in the street to ask how she's doing. Rhonda making an offhand comment at school about something she read online that's useful for mobility-impaired people. Eugene dropping a note through Arnold's locker to say he was thinking about her, about them, since by now the entire school knows Helga lives in Arnold's house.

“Do you think she's going to come back to school?” Sid asked after grilling Arnold for about ten minutes for the gory details he thinks he missed out on.

“I doubt it,” Arnold answered. “She's missed too much time...she's taking her high school equivalency though.”

“Oh.”

Sid seemed unexpectedly crestfallen by that answer, and he walked away in a slump.

Even Harold, as unpleasant as he had become over the last few years, seemed to grow an actual heart when it came to Helga. When one of his lackeys shouted an obscene question (something about Helga being able to do something with her bad leg) over at Arnold, Harold punched him in the eye and hissed something in his ear that Arnold couldn't hear, but was likely some sort of threat. Then he nodded in Arnold's direction, an acknowledgment more than an apology.

“I don't think I have to tell you I'll beat the crap out of you if you hurt her, right?” had been Patrick's response.

“Didn't you just tell me now?” Arnold asked.

“Good point. So remember that.”

…..

Over time, Helga becomes less dependent on the wheelchair and can walk around more, and she has no shortage of people willing to drive her anywhere she wants to go, but her favourite mode of transport (and Arnold's too) is sitting in the basket of his bike. It's worth the sore muscles he gets and the stiffness in her back and bad leg she gets.

It's during one of these bike rides that they lose their virginities to each other. It wasn't planned, but between taking a pothole too hard and needing to take a break in a nearby field, the nice weather, the fact that her sundress was very, very thin and him needing to take his shirt off to cool down from pushing the bike, it was a perfect storm of circumstances.

They started off simply making out under a tree but got carried away, and all under the watchful gaze of a nearby herd of cows. It definitely couldn't be described as mind-blowing sex, and it was awkward as hell getting dressed afterwards and cycling away. There was then the nail-biting experience of waiting to see if that one fumble had gotten her pregnant, but luckily it hadn't. They made the decision then that Arnold was going to start carrying condoms around and she was going to get on birth control as soon as it was medically safe to do so.

Nearly a year after the ghost first showed up in Arnold's house and everything that followed, a candid picture of them went viral. They were cycling down a hill, his open shirt billowing behind him like a very odd cape, her long bare legs dangling out of the basket. Her head is thrown back, caught mid-laugh, because Arnold had leaned forward and whispered some joke he couldn't even remember in her ear, and he is smiling as if he'd just won some sort of prize.

The picture is heavily discussed on social media, and although Helga rolls her eyes at the idea of reading any of the comments, Arnold can't help himself from surreptitiously combing over them when she's in bed.

Look at his face! He's like a goddamn puppy, I swear to god.

Didn't that Waring guy break her legs so she couldn't escape? You can kinda see, they bend a bit funny at the ankles.

That's a genuine laugh, you can't fake that. This is so sweet.

She's hot. Lucky bastard.

D'aww, I'm happy for them. He seems so nice.

…..

It's not perfect. Nothing ever is.

She has her bad days, and they are really bad. She has days where she can't stand to let anyone touch her, especially Arnold. She has days when she wakes up and doesn't seem to know who he is. She has days where her headaches are so severe her nose bleeds and she goes straight to bed, to hell with any plans they might have made.

The scars on her stomach, ankles and the crown of her head ache whenever there's a storm on the horizon, and the medication she takes to combat the after-effects of severe brain injury sometimes cause vomiting, loss of sensation and confusion. Every now and then she'll suddenly lose her balance and tilt off alarmingly to the side, and whoever's nearby needs to react fast before she hits the ground.

She flinches at loud noises, and will not use a knife any bigger than a steakknife even if it means trying to saw through a butternut squash for an hour. She hates the taste of meat and cannot eat anything that's mixed up, so no curries, chili or gumbo. She has to eat methodically, left to right, and her self-imposed food restrictions mean she has to take a small bucket of nutritional supplements along with her other pills. She cannot have anything press against her neck for more than a few seconds, even if that something is a winter scarf, and although she has been offered free dental surgery to fix the issues with her jaw caused by her pulled teeth, she cannot accept it because she still can't bear the thought of anything poking around in there.

She sees a therapist on a regular basis, and has inpatient check-ups at the hospital, but even with these measures she has days where she is so angry she cannot speak to anyone without snapping (even if she apologizes later, mortified and full of remorse) and days where she can't stop bursting into tears. Even worse, there are days where she goes 'dead' for a while and doesn't leave her bed, doesn't eat, doesn't talk, doesn't do anything but stare at the wall.

Arnold frets, always, but Ambrose always assures him that it will pass.

“Every day she'll get a bit better,” he says. “Just give her some space.”

He's right, of course.

…..

Arnold graduates, with his grandparents, Helga, Ambrose and half of the boarding house in attendance. The valedictorian mentions Helga in his speech, saying that it's not fair that she never got to graduate with them but that she was in all of their hearts. They go out to dinner with Phoebe and her parents afterwards, and the relief in Phoebe's parents eyes that their daughter recovered from her own despondency in time to graduate with full honours is palpable.

A week later, Helga passes her high school equivalency and graduates herself. They celebrate at home this time, and Plaskett and her ER doctor attend to give her their best wishes. There's a small write-up in the local paper about it.

Two days later, she gets a notably subdued letter of congratulations from Olga. (Who had been invited, but hadn't responded at the time.)

College is out of the question; although she could have her pick based on her exam scores, and she could afford just about any of them, there's hardly a college in the country that's set up for her complex needs. She takes a home study course in Social Work, with the idea to some day pursue a career helping kids in similar circumstances to the one she had grown up with.

Arnold defers college for a year, but he already knows he wants to run the boarding house. A year before he might have balked at the idea, but with Helga living there it feels more like somewhere he wants to be. He has changes he wants to make, maybe turn the front of the house into some sort of small home business, but ultimately what he really wants is to support Helga in whatever way he can because he knows her future is going to be very bright.

During his first year of college, Helga is approached by three ghostwriters wanting to tell her story, but she turns them down and decides to write her own story. According to Ambrose, she works on it most of the day until he interrupts her to bring her food or tell her to get some sleep, and although she stops when Arnold comes home he still hears her typing away furiously after she thinks he's asleep.

When the finished book hits the shelves, it's an instant hit. Helga has a distinct flair for words, and it's described as 'harrowing yet poetic' and 'a lyrical tale of triumph over adversity' by critics. It's only by picking up the book himself and reading it that he discovers that Helga has nursed an intense love for him since she was a kindergartner, and although he always knew there was something there the sheer force of it leaves him speechless.

Whole chapters of the book are dedicated to him, to the point that people are actively messaging him about it and he has no idea what to say. He thought his own feelings for Helga were powerful, but apparently they were just a trickle of what she felt for him.

“I feel kind of dumb,” he mumbles to her when he talks to her about it, red-faced and awkward. “That I didn't notice before. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” she shrugs. “I went out of my way to keep it from you. You couldn't have known.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he sighs. “It's just....I don't know, I feel like I should have picked up on it. The book makes it sound like you suffered with it...”

“I was already suffering,” she shrugs again. “And I needed an outlet. Falling in love kept me sane, I think.”

On the talk shows she gets invited to, the host asks about Arnold and she always ends up gushing just a little bit, despite herself. Arnold watches out of solidarity but he has to leave the room, blushing like crazy, every time his name is mentioned.

…..

During Arnold's final year of college, Gertie passes away.

Her health had been failing for a long time, but when she goes she is at home, surrounded by her family and comfortable. It's a death they should all be so lucky to have.

Phil is alternately devastated and relieved. He loved his wife with the utmost devotion since the day they married, but it was hell watching her decline. In the aftermath he is quieter, and he seems older. Ambrose takes over most of his work in the boarding house, aided by Helga. By now they don't really even need to take in boarders as Helga's book is providing a steady income and shows no signs of stopping.

Arnold finishes college with a decent degree and takes over the running from Ambrose. Despite himself he is happy to be back, and he deals with the boarders as firmly and efficiently as Phil ever did. Helga's schedule is hectic, between continuing medical appointments, surgery on her ankle to give her better stability, a proposed international book tour and publishers interested in the many volumes of poetry she has in storage (leaked by some unknown source, probably Phoebe) he's amazed she has any time for him at all.

She makes time for him, no matter what. Even if it means putting the phone down on deals that could make her very wealthy.

Just before she turns twenty-four, she testifies at her father's parole board. He had already gotten parole once but violated it by speaking to the press about his daughter (in an interview that was then removed due to a huge backlash, considering it said some awful things about the child victim of a serial killer). She tells the court bluntly that she would never have had to endure being locked in a dog cage, having her teeth pulled out and been shot in the head if her father hadn't decided to sell obscene pictures of her to save his failing business. She suggested that he would do it all over again, knowing what would happen, if he could.

Parole is denied, and that is the last time Helga ever hears from her sister.

Phil is ninety-nine years old when he dies, just a handful of days from his one hundredth birthday. He goes quietly in his sleep, with a gentle smile. Perhaps he knew he was going to where his wife was. Though he always knew this day would come, and he was always destined to lose his parental figures at a young age, Arnold takes it hard. He is lost for the best part of a month, so upset he can't find the energy to shower, eat or even sleep.

Helga and Ambrose get him through it all. Ambrose takes care of all the technicalities, and Helga deals with the mourners, screens them before she lets them get anywhere near Arnold. Oskar has resurfaced after hearing of Phil's death, and it's the first time he sees his own little daughter in person, but Helga gets rid of him early on when it becomes clear he's only there to see if he can sponge some money off of Phil's estate somehow.

In the aftermath, as he slowly recovers, Arnold decides he needs to propose. He can't imagine his life without her now.

They don't have to get married right away. They can be engaged for a few years, let her write her books and go on world tours and come home to him waiting for her. When she's ready to settle down, they can think about having children. She's cagey about that, he knows, she's not sure if she can be a good parent when she didn't have a good parent to show her, but Ambrose more than makes up for Miriam and Bob Pataki's shortcomings, and he knows it's just like her to do the opposite of what they had done just to spite them.

They can raise their children in the boarding house, with or without any boarders. If they're lucky, she supposes, they'll have Arnold's kindness and green eyes. If they're lucky, he supposes, they'll have Helga's wicked smile and pure strength.

…..

Helga's fifth book is about the ghost of a murdered girl manifesting in the house of her elementary school crush. It's a worldwide bestseller, is optioned for a movie within a year and has young Hollywood actresses clawing at each other to get the lead part.

Helga gets to accept the best screenplay award at the Oscars that year. Arnold and their three-year-old daughter watch her on TV from back home in Hillwood.

#hey arnold #hey arnold fanfiction #TW:Crime #tw: sexual stuff #happy ending?

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Twenty Nine

Note: This chapter, without going into too many spoilers, is going to have a mild R rating, you can read or not read at your own discretion. It's not considerably more graphic than anything I've written within this fic before, but I know this can be an issue for people reading work about characters that are underage (although, for my part, the age of consent in my country is 16 so I don't personally feel it's an issue for me.) This is also going to be one of the last, as I'm wrapping up this story. I may write drabbles within the same universe but I'm also thinking of going in a completely different direction. Thanks for sticking with me so far.

…..

Arnold had 25 dollars in his pocket when he left the boarding house. It was enough to get him a bus ticket to Pocaselas, a connecting ticket for Warleybridge and an undercooked burger from the bus station diner, but by the time he reached the outskirts of Warleybridge he had nothing left for a room in the motel he'd been staying in on previous visits. It was getting dark, he'd already spent most of the day traveling and visiting hours at the hospital were long over.

Knowing he'd probably get stopped at the door, he continued on foot to the hospital. On the way he mentally cursed himself for being so impulsive; he could at least have grabbed some of his stuff, or called Phoebe and asked her to put him up for a while. He'd have to go back eventually, if only to pack up his things and gather whatever money he had to find somewhere else to live.

Helga's moving in there in less than a month.

Still, he couldn't continue with things as they were. He was exhausted, the extent of his social life was visiting an invalid with whatever little free time he had, his schoolwork was suffering so badly getting into college was going to be difficult, and even if by some miracle he did get in he'd have to turn it down unless it was close enough to the boarding house to let him stay there most of the time.

Really, Phil should have expected Arnold to rebel a lot sooner.

The hospital was pretty dark when he arrived; the emergency department was well lit but nearly empty, and all the nurses were sitting either in the lounge or behind the triage desk, watching something on their smartphones. They barely looked up when Arnold walked past.

Helga was asleep when he entered her room. A set of three origami cranes sitting on the windowsill let him know that Ambrose had been there and left again. One of the fake fur blankets Rhonda had gifted her was draped over the thin hospital sheet.

“Hm?...Arnold?”

Groggy and confused, she stared at him through the dimly lit room. Arnold cursed under his breath.

“Yeah, it's me,” he whispered. “Sorry, go back to sleep, I didn't mean to wake you...”

“Go back to...what are you doing here?”

“Ssh, I'll tell you in the morning, go back to sleep. I'll go find somewhere else to go...”

Too late, now she was very much awake. She sat up and turned on the lamp beside her bed.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said, sleep making her voice husky in a not unpleasant way. “How did you get here?”

“I took the bus,” Arnold sighed, sitting in the chair beside her bed. “It got in pretty late.”

“Why didn't you get a lift with Ambrose?”

“Yeah, well...I'm surprised he didn't tell you...I had a pretty big fight with Grandpa and I sort of walked out...”

“About what?” she asked, frowning.

“About me spending so much time here,” Arnold answered. “He thinks I should be helping out more at the boarding house...I mean, it's not like we haven't had this argument before...”

Saying it out loud, it sounded petty, especially considering who he was saying it to. A teenage temper tantrum over what he was doing with his free time was nothing compared to being chained to a wall and shot in the head by a serial killer. Still, the look she gave him was sympathetic.

“You do more than he should expect,” she said. “I mean, he's lucky to have you. Any other kid would have told him where to go long before now.”

“Yeah, but I guess I can see where he's coming from,” Arnold sighed. “They don't really have anyone else...”

“That's not your problem,” Helga reminded me. “Parents shouldn't throw their kids under the bus because of adult problems.”

She was speaking from bitter experience. Arnold's problem felt even pettier.

“I'll work it out, I shouldn't be bothering you with this,” he said.

“You're not bothering me.”

“What else would you call turning up at your hospital bed at nearly midnight with a tale of woe?”

“I dunno...presumptuous?”

They shared a soft laugh, so as not to wake up anyone else in the nearby rooms or alert the nurses. Helga pulled back the covers of the bed and invited him in, and as it was getting cold he accepted.

“So how are you today?” he asked when he was settled beside her. “Still feeling dead?”

“Hm, it's hard to describe,” she answered. “It's like...intellectually, I know I'm alive. I have the charts to prove it. But it still feels wrong.”

“Wrong how?” he asked, frowning at her head pillowed on his shoulder.

“Well, it's like....” she trailed off, lacing her fingers together. “Like my body doesn't belong to me. Like it's not moving because I'm doing it, it's under someone else's control. I don't know.”

“What does your doctor say?”

“He says it'll pass, in time.”

There was nothing that could be done to help her feel more secure in herself, but Arnold pressed a kiss to the crown of her head anyway, hoping it would bring some measure of comfort.

It wasn't supposed to go any further than that.

But when she turned a little to look up at him, he found himself putting his mouth on hers. It happened organically, like he was pulled by a magnet. When she opened her mouth to allow him better access, and shifted so he was lying on top of her, it felt natural. Like it was supposed to happen.

He was holding her shoulders, but his hands trailed down along her sides to press his fingers into her firm flesh. Through her thin nightgown, he was very aware that she wasn't wearing a bra. Her chest was pressed flush against his. A pressure began to build at his groin, in anticipation.

She took a deep, shuddering breath when their mouths broke free, and his lips trailed down her jaw to fix on the pulse at her throat, alternately sucking at and licking it to savour the rhythmic beat of her heart.

“You're alive,” he whispered between kisses. “I can feel you.”

Distantly, he was afraid he was coming on too strong, even has his fingers reached the hem of her nightgown and began pushing it over her thighs. But she seemed as eager as he was, her thighs opened to let him settle between them. One word from her and he would stop, he knew. One sign of hesitation and he would tear himself away.

Instead, a satisfied moan built in her throat and she used her legs to pull him closer to her, until he was practically grinding on her. She wanted this as much as he did.

He pulled back, not really thinking about it but with a vague idea to take off his pants and her nightgown fully, but when he did all arousal was chased away.

When she was a ghost, the wound running across her stomach, along her ribcage and under her breast was fresh-looking, and unreal because he knew she was a spirit. Now, on the living, breathing, flesh-and-blood girl it was faded but an angry splash of colour on her otherwise pale skin. It swelled away from the surrounding skin, a jagged reminder that someone had hurt her so badly she was dead for five long years.

He tried to look past it, to focus on her bare breasts sitting so prettily above the scar or the small trace of wiry golden hair peeking from the edge of her panties, and in any other circumstances those would have been powerfully erotic.

Instead, his finger reached out to trace the uneven ridges of the scar. Confused, she blinked up at him but she didn't try to stop him. At least, until he started sobbing and couldn't stop.

It's not fair. She doesn't deserve this. It's not fair.

With a mildly frustrated sigh, she pulled down her nightgown, closed her legs and pulled him down to her. She readjusted their bodies until his head was resting on her chest. She let him cry there until, at some point, he fell into a drained sleep.

…..

The next morning, it took him a little while to recall where he was and why. When he remembered what exactly had happened the night before, he was mortified.

“I'm really sorry,” he apologized when Helga came back from her physiotherapy. “I don't know what came over me...”

“It's all right,” she shrugged, oddly casual about it even as his face burned.

“No, really,” he continued. “I took advantage...”

“Arnold, stop. You're going to give yourself a coronary,” she laughed gently. “If you're going to apologize, maybe apologize for implying that looking at me naked makes guys cry.”

“It's not that, you're beautiful...” he stammered.

“Thanks.”

“I just...when I saw what he did to you....”

“He didn't do that to me,” she told him. “I got that wound escaping him. So really, it's a badge of honour, kind of.”

“Oh,” Arnold muttered. Now he felt twice as bad for crying.

“More importantly,” Helga said, climbing awkwardly from her chair to bed without assistance, “why did you do it? And I don't mean the crying.”

“Isn't it obvious?” Arnold replied. “Because I'm in love with you.”

She frowned, twisted the fabric of her blanket in her hands.

“Are you sure about that? What if you just feel sorry for me?”

“I don't feel that sorry for you,” he laughed. “I think you'd be angry if I pitied you at all. You don't pity yourself.”

She hummed to herself, refused to meet his eyes.

“I admire you,” Arnold continued. “For surviving all of this, not everyone could. You're the bravest person I know. But it's not just that...when you were gone, you left a hole behind. I was a stupid kid then, but even then I knew I didn't just miss you because you were my friend.”

Now she was looking at him, and although they didn't fall he could see tears glittering faintly at the edge of her eyes.

“I spent five years trying to find out what happened to you. I don't think I could have done that if I wasn't at least a little bit in love with you.”

She sniffled, and Arnold looked down at his lap. Whatever happened next, it had the power to make his life worthwhile or ruin it entirely.

“I suppose what I want to know,” he began, fidgeting nervously, “is if you have any feelings for me. I mean, you said before when you were a ghost that it couldn't happen, but it's different now.”

“Are you kidding me?” she answered, choking back her tears. “You know. You have to know!”

All at once, the weight lifted from his soul. He did know.

Deep down, he always had.

…..

When she was finally released from hospital, Ambrose came to pick her up and Arnold went with him.

He had gone back to the boarding house after being gone for nearly two days, and talked things over with Phil. He had spent a long time discussing what he was going to say with Helga's help, and although Phil still wasn't happy they had come to an arrangement that was much more fair. Arnold was going to stay at the boarding house after graduation until he turned nineteen, and then he could go to college. It would give Phil time to find someone else to help out.

Although Helga was better able to walk unaided now, she still tired easily and required her wheelchair for long distances. Her rooms were close to the kitchen, and after school Arnold often found her there chopping vegetables or doing dishes with his grandmother, listening to her long rambling nonsensical stories with a polite nod.

She had a slew of visitors, kids from their old elementary class mostly with a few small-time journalists and well-wishers, and these well-wishers sometimes rented the spare rooms in the boarding house on a short term basis to complete their write-ups. The boarding house could finally afford to retile the roof with this extra money, a task Ambrose completed over a single weekend without breaking a sweat.

They spent time together whenever they could; engineering makeout sessions was difficult when she couldn't climb stairs and Ambrose was almost always home. Arnold took to sneaking out of the fire escape and crawling through the window, pockets full of dog biscuits to keep Della quiet.

After that first careless night, they decided against going beyond some light foreplay. Helga couldn't take birth control that interfered with the slew of medications she was taking, and Arnold didn't want to risk used condoms being found by someone. It meant they were often left frustrated and awkward, but it was better than nothing.

All the while, Arnold had the feeling Ambrose knew something was going on. He had this way of looking at Arnold that made him feel like he was under an x-ray.

Is he going to be one of those dads that gives me a speech about not hurting her or he'll shoot me?

Luckily, when Ambrose confirmed that he more or less did know what was going on, it was considerably less violent but much more embarrassing.

“I reckon you dropped something, Arnold,” he said as Arnold was leaving his flat, after supposedly 'checking the pipes.'

Arnold turned and scooped up the object Ambrose was gesturing to. He didn't look at it properly until he got upstairs.

It was Helga's bra.

#hey arnold #hey arnold fanfiction #TW: sexual stuff

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Twenty Eight

Note: Please excuse the long absence, a combination of being metaphysically hit by the fandom feels and being hit by actually physical issues with my crumbling bones interfered with my ability to write this chapter. I'm still pretty unwell but I'm going to catch up on all of my fics this month hopefully.

As always, I recommend you check out my novel on Kindle if you like my work, and there's the added bonus that if I get struck by lightning or have another embolism you will have something to read while I'm in the ICU, cursing the lack of wifi.

US link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BGSPPBY

UK link: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BGSPPBY

Also, soon to be available in paperback form!

…..

Waring's lawyer tried to argue for an insanity plea, but it was rejected. There was no doubt he was insane, but functional enough to kill so many women and keep a kidnapped child hidden for nearly half a year. He was given three consecutive life sentences, narrowly avoiding the death penalty because there was limited proof that he had killed the missing women. The prosectution was quoted as saying that without Helga's testimony he might have walked away.

That was some consolation during the week she spent in an induced coma followed by an intense surgery to relieve some of the pressure on her brain. The nosebleeds had been a herald of something that could easily have killed her, and there was still no telling what effect it would have on her long-term. When she came to after surgery, she couldn't speak and had trouble moving her arms.

It was depressing, Arnold had to admit. She had come so far he had pretty much assumed it could only get better, even though he'd been warned multiple times she could slide back like this. He was lying on his bed at home, staring at the ceiling and wallowing in his unhappiness, when his phone pinged.

It was Phoebe, of course, because she was the only person who really texted him.

Arnold, you might want to

come down to the hospital.

Why? What's up?

He had that sinking feeling it was going to be bad news.

She's talking again and

she seems okay, but she's

acting strange.

Strange in what way?

I don't know how to

explain it properly

over text.

Can you at least try?

She thinks she's dead, Arnold.

What? How?

I don't know, apparently

it's something that happens.

I don't know what to do.

Is she being treated for it?

We're waiting on the psychiatrist,

they probably won't get one until

tomorrow. I'm trying to act

normal but it's really hard.

Is there a way to act

normal in this situation?

This is why you need to

be here, Arnold. She

remembers what we did

when she was a ghost.

What?

Just get down here when

you can, okay?

…..

When he finally made it to the hospital (Ambrose was away getting some things sorted with his estate and so couldn't drive him) Phoebe had left. Helga's main doctor caught him in the corridor before he could go into Helga's room.

“Cotard delusion,” the doctor sighed, as if that explained anything. “It's not uncommon with brain injury. At least she's not self-harming or suicidal, she's taking it pretty well.”

“But...she thinks she's dead?” Arnold wondered.

“Specifically, she thinks she's a ghost,” the doctor explained. “And she's kind of upbeat about it. Most Cotard patients are manic or depressed or a combo of both. All things considered, it's not a bad result.”

Arnold wondered sourly how Helga suddenly believing she had died wasn't a bad result, but he supposed that was what separated the doctor from the normal civilian. She didn't die or become a vegetable after surgery, which technically meant it was a success.

She was scribbling something in her newest pink notebook when Arnold entered the room, but shut it hastily when she realized he was there.

“Thank God,” she muttered darkly. “Someone sensible.”

“Sensible?” Arnold laughed. “Are you sure about that?”

“Depends on what words come out of your mouth in the next few sentences,” Helga quipped. “Apparently everyone can see me now. At least here in the hospital anyway...”

“Well, yeah they can see you,” Arnold chuckled awkwardly. “You're alive.”

“God, not you too,” she groaned, flopping back against the pillow. “Phoebe already tried this, I know I'm dead. Don't try to sugarcoat it.”

“Why do you think you're dead?”

“I got shot,” she shrugged, seemingly without a care. “We found out that much. Who survives getting shot in the head?”

“You did,” he pressed. “The bullet just grazed you, the medical records prove this. Why do you think the nurses and doctors are treating you, if you're dead?”

“They don't believe in ghosts,” Helga answered. “It's easier to believe I'm just some sick kid that needs treatment. I suppose if I was going to manifest somewhere besides your house it would be the hospital I died in.”

It made a crazy sort of sense, at least from her perspective.

Maybe I should play along, at least until the psychiatrist can come to treat her.

“Okay, fine,” he shrugged, trying to put on a casual face. “You're dead. Did anyone tell you the guy who shot you got three life sentences?”

“Yes, everyone who's come to see me since I manifested,” she said. “And now you. Good. Let him rot in there.”

“So we did what we set out to do, we found out what happened to you.”

“Guess so.”

“What now? If you were a ghost, wouldn't you have moved on after we solved the case?”

“I don't know,” she moaned. “I'm not some sort of authority on ghosts.”

“Well then, it looks like you're here to stay,” Arnold said agreeably. “You're still welcome to haunt the boarding house.”

“I might just do that,” she said, smiling warmly.

An idea suddenly struck Arnold.

“I'm just going to find something,” he told her, getting up from his chair. “Oh, and I should talk to your doctor...”

“About what?”

“If I find it, I'll tell you.”

He hurried off to find the nurse's lounge. After asking a few of them, he found one with a bike she was willing to lend him and it had a basket on the handlebars (smaller than the one on his own but that didn't matter. He okayed it with the doctors, as long as he kept her warm and didn't stay out too long he was able to take her out. Rushing back to her room, he bundled her into her wheelchair and wheeled her out to the front of the hospital, where the nurse had propped up the bike waiting for them.

“Even ghosts need some fresh air,” he explained, lifting her into the basket he'd lined with pillows.

He took her out through one of the rarely-used country roads, bumpy and rough as it was the air was so clear and crisp and fragrant with the scent of blossoming fruit trees. She laughed wildly as they skittered over potholes and bumps in the road and didn't seem to mind that her bare feet were getting splattered with mud. Arnold's arms and legs ached with the strain of pushing the bike through the rocky terrain but it was worth it to see her so happy.

The bare patch of skin on her hairline where the bullet had struck her was covered by gauze since her surgery, but it brought back memories of hauling her ghost form around in his bike like this. Back then, he had come to terms, at least a little, with her death. He was more fearful now that she was living, that things could go wrong and she could be snatched away again. At least as a ghost, nobody would be able to hurt her.

Maybe that's why she believed herself to be dead; for protection.

…..

“I'll be going now,” Gertie told Arnold, kicking him out of his half-sleep.

“No, Grandma,” he groaned, rolling over in bed. “You don't have anywhere to be.”

She was wearing her coat but no shoes. Keeping shoes on her was the hardest task, even if she didn't leave the boarding house she seemed to lose her shoes within minutes of putting them on. Arnold brought her downstairs, took her coat and put some slippers on her feet. Phil was already at the breakfast table, frowning at some bills.

“Everything all right, Pookie?” he asked when Gertie sat down.

She didn't say anything but mumbled to herself a little. She was irritable these days, the new medication made her groggy and confused.

“I'll get started on breakfast,” Arnold offered.

Phil grunted in response and went back to scanning his bills.

A spike of resentment fired up in Arnold as he took out the ingredients to feed everyone in the boarding house. It was the weekend, and he should have had less work to do since Ambrose had started more or less renovating the building, but he'd found himself taking over his grandmother's old jobs instead. He appreciated Phil's money worries, but would it kill him to say thank you?

Other teenagers had the luxury of rebellion. Arnold didn't even have enough time to himself to get an ill-advised tattoo.

“Hey Arnold,” Ambrose said, leading Della into the kitchen. He was a naturally early riser. “On breakfast duty today?”

“Guess so,” Arnold shrugged.

“I'm going down to the hospital later. You wanna hop in?”

“Sure,” Arnold agreed. “Any news from the doctors?”

“They say another month and she should be good to come home,” Ambrose told him. “She has to be monitored by a home visitor but that's no big thing...and I almost got the ramp finished.”

Finally. They'd be living under the same roof. Helga remembered the things they did when she was a ghost, and at some point the Cotard delusion would fade.

She kissed me back. I know she did. It's not just me.

Once the scrambled eggs he cooked were ready, he piled them onto a platter, buttered enough toast to feed an army and brought both into the dining room.

“Ambrose is giving me a lift to the hospital,” he told Phil. “I should be back around ten or...”

“What?” Phil snapped, dropping his bills for probably the first time all morning. “No, I need you here.”

“I don't have any homework,” Arnold shrugged, that little resentful spike pricking him deep. “And the boiler's fixed, Ambrose finished up last night...”

“There's a pile of laundry higher than the kitchen door,” Phil retorted. “None of the floors have been vacuumed in a week and there's weeds all over the garden. Now I've been patient with this hospital business as long as you kept up with your chores...”

“Chores?” Arnold snorted. “Chores are cleaning your room and taking turns with the dishes, not doing laundry for an entire apartment building of adults!”

“Watch it,” Phil growled. “This is your home, you're as responsible for it as I am.”

“No, I'm not,” Arnold growled back. “I didn't choose to live here and I sure as hell never agreed to work here. You've had me doing what should be your job since I was six, you pay me next to nothing for the work I do, you ruined my social life and you're killing my future!”

Arnold hadn't realized but his voice had been climbing in volume, and now there was a line of awkward lodgers standing in the hall, not wanting to come in for breakfast. Phil looked shocked, the bills crumpled in his hands, two bright mortified spots on his cheeks. Even Ambrose and Della back in the kitchen had gone silent.

“Well,” Phil said at last. “If that's how you feel....you know where the door is.”

That just made Arnold even angrier. Over the years Arnold had been such a good kid, never given either of his grandparents any trouble, never even been caught smoking or taking a few dollars from a wallet or ditching school. And this was what he got for a lifetime of good behavior.

“Yes, I do,” he said as he stomped past the lodgers to the front door.

#hey arnold #hey arnold fanfiction #missing #tw: crime

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Twenty Seven

Note: This chapter is coming in a little later than I would have liked. Unfortunately my health is quite poor at the moment so I'm on extended bed rest for a while, which gives me limited time for updating fics.

As per usual, I'm going to spam the links to my novel so even if I do go silent for a while you can have something new to read until I come back.

US link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BGSPPBY

UK link: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BGSPPBY

…..

The gauntlet of reporters that Arnold and Ambrose had had to go through at the start of the trial dwindled as the trial itself progressed. Journalists had cottoned on that, childhood friend and potential adoptive father though they were, they were pretty boring and didn't have anything to say.

Not to mention, if they wanted a real story, that tended to happen at the courthouse itself.

Helga had been excused from testimony for a week after having a very dramatic nosebleed while on the stand. She had been explaining to Waring's lawyer for what must have been the tenth time at least what she was doing in the mountains, and the lawyer's repeated prodding brought him under fire for jeopardizing her health. A journo managed to catch a picture as she was being escorted out of the courthouse, clutching her forehead and a bloodstained handkerchief.

But the week was up, and one of the most crucial days evidence-wise was on the horizon. It was the day they'd reveal what had been found in the bunker, and Helga would be questioned about all the exhibits that related to her captivity. Arnold had no doubt that regardless of his reprimand, Waring's lawyer was going to rake her over the coals as much as he could.

I can't protect her from this. Nobody can.

He knew Ambrose was worried, as were Helga's doctors at the hospital. Even Plaskett, gung-ho as he was to get Waring sent down, was rambling nervously right up until they went inside the courtroom.

“The judge will stop it if it gets too much,” he assured them. “He's on the lookout for 'stunts' right now, he'll stop it before it gets out of hand. Don't forget to let him know if you need a break.”

Helga shrugged and smiled. She seemed confident enough, but as always it was hard to tell what she was really thinking. Her hands gripped the arms of her wheelchair hard enough to make the metal creak.

…..

“Could you explain what this thing is supposed to be?”

The lawyer held up a clear plastic bag delicately between his fingers, as though he didn't want to touch it even indirectly. The metal ring inside winked under the harsh lighting of the courtroom.

“That would be my collar.”

A few quiet gasps sounded from the stands and the jury. Waring smiled, as though he was thinking on a pleasant memory.

“A collar?” the lawyer scoffed. “Forgive me, it doesn't look quite big enough to be a collar, Ms. Pataki.”

“It was made with my measurements, I was a lot smaller then.”

“I see. And what was this collar used for, exactly?”

“It attached to a chain on the wall. It was to stop me from trying to escape or wander out of sight,” she explained.

Helga's hand was fiddling with her hair as she spoke, but if you looked close enough you could see her trace the scar the collar had left on her neck.

“Let me go back to some of your previous testimony....as I recall, you said my client had you locked in a dog crate, is that right?”

“That's right.”

“So why would he feel the need to fit you with a collar and chain? Seems a little bit like overkill, wouldn't you agree?”

“As I explained then,” Helga said with the iciest of tones, “the crate was only used at night. He didn't like me wandering around the bunker while he was sleeping, that's why he locked me up. The collar and chain was for the daytime so I could stretch my legs and do chores.”

“Ah, please pardon my forgetfulness,” the lawyer said flippantly. “I assume you were locked up in this contraption the day you claimed to escape?”

“Yes.”

“So how did you get out of this thing? Because I can hardly believe even back when you were a child you'd manage to slip this over your head....”

“I dug an old nail out of the floorboard and used it to unscrew the hinge,” she told him. “I always put it back on before he came back.”

“Once you had it off, why didn't you make a run for it then?”

“I was too big to fit through the hole in the roof. I had to buy time to make it wider.”

“Forgive me for thinking that sounds quite fantastical, Ms. Pataki. Am I to believe a starving child, as you have described, had enough strength to widen a hole in metal using a single nail?”

“The roof was already rusting badly. It didn't take much. And my weight at the time is in my medical files, I was getting smaller as the hole was getting bigger.”

“Sounds plausible,” the lawyer agreed with an air of sarcasm.

He was clearly playing one of two goals; either he was trying to rapid-fire his questions to confuse Helga and make her contradict herself, or he was trying to spur her on to have another medical issue so he could claim she wasn't fit to give evidence. The prosecutor had warned them about this.

Why can't the judge see what he's doing?

“Moving on to Exhibit D,” the lawyer began, dropping the collar and picking up another plastic bag. “Do you recognize this?”

“Yes,” she answered, and from the stand Arnold could see her waver a little.

“This would be a standard set of pliers,” the lawyer continued. “Tell us what Mr Waring used these for.”

“Mostly fixing things, but he also used them to pull out two of my teeth,” Helga answered.

Arnold heard the journalists scribbling furiously in their notepads. The jury exchanged shocked looks. Apparently they hadn't heard of this before now.

“Do you mean to tell me Mr Waring performed some sort of field orthodontia on you?”

“He said they were crowded, and they were permanent teeth so he thought they needed to go.”

The lawyer looked back at Waring. Two spots of red were blooming on his cheeks, by now it was a clear sign that he was frustrated that his client had kept things from him.

“That's in my medical file too,” Helga said smoothly.

…..

One of the back rooms in the courthouse was set aside for vulnerable people there to give evidence, and although Helga snorted when she heard the word 'vulnerable' she was clearly glad to be as far from Waring as possible when they adjourned.

Arnold braved the reporter gauntlet to pick up some sandwiches from a diner across the street. When he returned, she was tapping awkwardly on the phone she had yet to figure out (having gone missing before smartphones became an everyday thing).

“Phoebe's asking how it's going,” she explained as he placed her sandwich (turkey and swiss cheese, wholemeal) in front of her.

“I'd say it's going pretty well,” Arnold suggested. “What do you think?”

“I don't know,” she sighed. “It feels like I'm just answering the same question over and over and we're getting nowhere.”

“Yeah, that lawyer's like a dog with a bone. Maybe it's because he knows he can't win so he's trying to drag it out.”

“You're probably right.”

She sank a little in her wheelchair, unwrapped her sandwich but made no move to eat it. She looked exhausted.

“How are you feeling?” Arnold asked cautiously, knowing she hated to show any sign of weakness. “Remember, they said don't push yourself...”

“Everything counts as pushing myself right now,” she snapped. “I can't remember any of this without effort, especially the stuff that'll get him sent down.”

The silence dragged after her outburst. Ambrose had been called away, it was just the two of them. Arnold wanted to help her somehow, but there was absolutely no way to do it. He'd just have to watch her suffer through this endless questioning.

“Sorry,” she muttered at last. “I'm kinda crabby...my head hurts a bit.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he shrugged. “I think if you weren't crabby in these circumstances, you wouldn't be human.”

That got a wan chuckle out of her, at least.

…..

“He used that on deer carcasses.”

She was sounding bored, and the jury seemed to be just as bored. The lawyer insisted that she recognize every single knife and tool they had removed from the bunker, and Waring had a vast collection.

“Just deer?” the lawyer probed.

“He may have used it for other carcasses, I'm not sure. I mostly saw him butcher deer with it.”

The lawyer dropped the knife, and turned back towards the evidence table. There were only a few more items on it, soon the day's questioning would be over....

“This notebook, do you recognize it?”

Arnold saw Helga stiffen dramatically. The jury, and the reporters at the back, took notice and started paying attention again.”

“Yes,” she said, swallowing hard.

“On inspection, it seems to be a list of numbers. Can you tell the court what these numbers indicate?”

She took a deep, shaky breath.

“The numbers are my measurements. Were, I mean. He measured me every day,” she explained.

“To what end were these measurements taken?”

“He wanted me to grow a certain way,” she continued. “He put me on diets and gave me exercises to do while he was gone so I'd fit what he wanted. He said that's why he took a kid, he wanted to shape me into his perfect woman.”

“Perfect?”

“That's how he said it.”

“So he measured height, weight, waist, and so on? There are over fifty different number categories here.”

“He measured everything. Inside and out.”

“Do you mean to say that my client sexually molested you in the process of taking these measurements?”

“Yes, he did.”

Several members of the jury had gone noticeably pale. If Helga kept this up, it would be a slam dunk verdict. The nausea that Arnold felt listening to this was a small price to pay for taking Waring out of society and behind bars.

Even the lawyer was looking a little shaken as he dropped the notebook and unwrapped a long object from its dustcloth. It was a shotgun, covered in plastic wrap.

“Do you recognize this, Ms Pataki?” he asked.

Helga looked up at the judge, but she might as well have been looking at a statue for all the response she got from him.

“It's his shotgun,” she said.

“Do you know what type of gun this is?”

“No, I don't really know anything about guns.”

“Then how can you say without a doubt that this belongs to my client?”

“It's his deer gun,” Helga explained. “It has a smear of blue paint on the barrel and a crack in the base. The bullets come in a red and white box.”

“Did you handle this gun at any point yourself?”

“Sometimes he got me to polish it,” she said. “And sometimes he pointed it at me.”

“Any particular reason, do you think?”

“When I wasn't doing things fast enough for him, or if my measurements were wrong. He fired it at me twice, the first time he was aiming near my feet. The second time he got me.”

“This would be the alleged bullet wound on your head, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“The one that put you in a coma, am I right?”

“Coma isn't the right word. The doctors say it was a persistent vegetative state. But yes, that's the one.”

There was an air of finality when she confirmed the head wound, Arnold was sure she couldn't answer another question without collapsing. She was white as a sheet now and visibly trembling. But her job had been done, there was no way they wouldn't convict Waring.

Even if Waring hadn't opened his mouth again and shouted across the courtroom, ignoring everybody else, as if he and Helga were the only two people there.

“It worked, didn't it? You have to admit it worked!”

An apelike chattering laugh bubbled in his throat, he stretched his arms out towards her and suddenly lurched across the bench before he could be stopped.

“You're perfect now,” he bellowed. “If I'd known that was all it took, I'd have shot you sooner!”

Arnold was on his feet rushing to the stand as the bailiff tackled Waring to the ground, but it was far too late. Blood was gushing out of Helga's nose and she tried in vain to staunch the flow with her hands wrapped around her face. Just as Arnold reached her, her eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out.

#missing #hey arnold fanfiction #hey arnold

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Twenty Six

So by now the fic has moved quite far from the original idea and is moving closer to the issues surrounding the rest of Arnold and Helga's lives. I'm wondering if I should make this and the next chapter the last two and start another fic about the aftermath? What do the readers think?

Note: Obligatory suggestion to check out my novel on Kindle if you like my work: The Hothouse Princesses by S.A. Hemstock.

…..

Three months on:

Arnold knew his grandfather wasn't happy about letting Ambrose and Helga move into the boarding house, but financially he wasn't really in a position to refuse a paying customer. It looked like the adoption process was going through with no problems, and thanks to Helga's many donated funds she was able to get a ramp installed in the back of the house, as well as repairs done on the ground floor. Even Phil had to admit that it was a relief getting some of the old fixtures replaced.

Curtis Waring's trial was coming up, and although Helga was able to walk with a cane now she couldn't walk for long and would have a permanent limp thanks to a shattered ankle she sustained during her catatonia. It was decided for her own safety that she would stay in the hospital for the duration of the trial, to prevent any backsliding in her condition.

Ambrose moved into the two room apartment without her, and set about making it habitable for a man and a young girl. It hadn't been touched since the last person who lived there moved out seven years before, and had been neglected by both Phil and Arnold since they had all the other rooms to service. Ambrose stripped the dingy wallpaper, tossed the old moth-eaten furniture and gave the whole place a new coat of paint. By the end it barely looked like it belonged in the boarding house.

“Is Helga's trust fund covering all this?” Arnold asked when he stopped by to bring Ambrose a glass of iced tea.

“I didn't touch none of her money,” Ambrose told him from the ladder he was using to paint the wall sconces. “I have plenty of my own.”

He drove back to his old apartment to collect his furniture and his dog, an old bloodhound named Della. Arnold helped him carry the stuff in, and he was struck by how many classic antique pieces Ambrose owned. Ambrose caught him staring at a particularly fancy chair, and laughed.

“Ed picked out most of this stuff,” he explained. “I didn't care so long as I could sit on the porch of an evenin'. But I figured Helga would like that chair.”

A set of pictures went up on the walls, most of them Ambrose's deceased partner or the two of them together with Della lying in front of them. Arnold liked the look of Ed; a chubby middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a quirky grin. It really was a shame that they'd never been able to adopt together, but he knew Ambrose felt like Ed had sent Helga to him so in some way she was their daughter.

“Ed would've loved her,” Ambrose said once. “He always wanted a little girl, especially a little spitfire.”

Ambrose was as good with Arnold's grandmother as he was with Helga. He was patient with her nonsense rambling, which had just gotten worse since the stroke, and he often helped her out with cooking in the evenings. Phil had been quiet, cautious around him at first, but even he came around eventually when Ambrose offered to take a look at any of the broken fixtures in the house.

“I'll take it out of your rent,” Phil offered. “Since you're saving me a repairman's bill...”

“Nah, keep it,” Ambrose shrugged. “I like to keep busy. Let Della warm herself in the kitchen and we'll call it even.”

But what was best about Ambrose moving in was that now Arnold had a lift every time he visited the hospital, instead of having to make the long journey by bus and staying in that crappy motel overnight. Phoebe hopped in with them sometimes, and even Patrick tagged along though he had a car of his own and was busy with college.

Helga was doing well. She had a good, safe place to live when she got out of the hospital, someone to take care of her the way she deserved and her friends nearby. She would have everything she needed. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Nothing.

…..

On the first day of the trial, reporters showed up on Arnold's doorstep and peppered him with questions as he and Ambrose were trying to leave. He heard at least one ask about him finding the murder scene and a few mentions of the words 'crime forums.'

“No comment,” he managed to remember to say as he barreled through them to Ambroses' truck.

They were worse at the hospital, and were wise to the trick of sneaking Helga out the back. Officer Plaskett covered her with his coat as Ambrose pushed her chair, and by the time they got her into the truck she seemed a little freaked out.

“They had cameras,” she murmured. “I thought they weren't allowed take pictures of me?”

“The gag order is up because you waived anonymity,” Plaskett explained. “Unfortunately, that's what it's going to be like for a while. I'll keep you under wraps as much as I can but realistically a few pictures are going to be released. This case is very high profile.”

Arnold saw her swallow, hard.

“Don't be too nervous,” Plaskett continued. “The defense has been warned to stick to certain topics and not to grill you. The judge will interfere if they get goady, and if you feel like you need a break you just ask for it. Don't push yourself too hard.”

The court was mobbed with reporters, onlookers and a handful of people holding up signs of support or condemnation. There was a pretty shocking amount of people that thought Helga was lying about Waring, and that his other victims were just human garbage that the world didn't miss. The court police cleared a path but they had to carry her up the steps, and Arnold had a feeling that that was an image that would show up on the news that night: Ambrose carrying her bridal-style up the stairs while Plaskett and Arnold lugged her wheelchair behind them.

They were allowed into the courtroom early, to make sure Helga was comfortable and ready. The judge even came in plain clothes to talk to her privately. He looked nice, a grandfatherly type of man, but Plaskett had warned that he was a hard man with a poker face you could never interpret. Waring's lawyer, wearing another painfully expensive suit, came in early too to discuss with the judge.

The jury trickled in, a distinct mix of young and old, men and women from all walks of life. Two black, three vaguely Hispanic, one Asian, four white. According to Plaskett that was a good mix. Spectators and support filled the benches, court reporters took their seats, the prosecuting lawyer arrived too late to talk to Helga but at least looked smart.

Finally, Waring was brought in. In a suit, not even handcuffed, groomed and trimmed to look as normal and nonthreatening as possible.

Even so, Arnold heard Helga draw in a ragged breath and saw her hands clench under the desk.

…..

For three straight hours, Waring's lawyer built up an image of a man who had been accused of nothing more than a misdemeanor. He painted a picture of a shy and quiet man whose desire to keep to himself and live a back-to-nature life in the woods lead to him being accused of murdering prostitutes. He made it sound like the girls who had gone missing from Pocaselas had brought it upon themselves by entering the notoriously risky job of streetwalking.

The prosecution brought up his dishonourable discharge from the military, but even this was dismissed as a petty act by a vengeful ex. By the time Helga was called to the stand, Waring was being painted as a saint with some spiteful enemies.

But even Helga's presence in the court dimmed the lawyer's hard work. The jury looked on sympathetically as she wheeled herself to the bench and was sworn in.

“Could you state your full name for the court, please?” the lawyer began.

“Helga Geraldine Pataki.”

“And, how old are you, Helga?”

“Sixteen.”

“How old were you when you claim to have been involved with my client?”

“I was eleven when he caught me.”

“Caught you? Am I to believe there was a struggle?”

“Yes, he threw something over my head and knocked me to the ground. Then he jabbed me with something.”

“That's a little vague...could you elaborate?”

“A needle. He jabbed me with a needle. Whatever was in it knocked me out.”

“I see....could you tell us where he caught you?”

“In the woods, the hills just outside Hillwood.”

“And what were you doing out there? According to your statement, this was just after dawn, am I right?”

“It was about 8am, I was trying to get downtown early. I spent the night up there.”

“You spent the night in the woods?”

“I had a hideout there, I slept up there sometimes.”

“I see, and what did your parents think of you sleeping in a cave in the woods?”

“They didn't know.”

Helga was impressively stoic on the stand, but Arnold's irritation with the lawyer was building. His rapid-fire questioning was clearly designed to knock her off balance.

“Is it safe to call you a runaway, in that case? Because you had gone hiding somewhere without your parent's knowledge?” he continued.

“I suppose so,” Helga shrugged.

“That's a risky thing for a little girl to do.”

“No riskier than staying at home, I thought.”

“Were you aware that there were other people in the woods at that time of day?”

“No. I'd been staying up there a long time, I hardly ever saw anyone else. It was rough terrain.”

“But the area was open to the public, so indeed anyone could have stumbled across you.”

“I suppose, but they would have had to try very hard. They would have had to been watching me for a while.”

The jury murmured, and the lawyer just about suppressed a frown.

“Let's go back; you were staying overnight in a public area without your parent's knowledge. That's a fact you have in common with a lot of these missing women.”

“I suppose so.”

“Would you have said you were a difficult child, Ms Pataki?”

“Depends on what you mean by difficult.”

“Well, I have some reports here....they use words like hostile, uncommunicative, defiant, rude....I could go on. Would you agree with those statements?”

“To that person, then yes. Maybe.”

“You had a habit of hanging around older boys, am I right?”

Arnold heard Patrick, just behind him, suck in a breath.

“What do you mean by 'hanging around?'” Helga asked.

“You were often seen in the company of older boys.”

“I was on the baseball team with a lot of older boys, so yes, I guess.”

“But outside of baseball, you saw some of these boys socially.”

“Mostly just one, the others I saw in passing if we were all doing the same thing. I was the only girl on the team so they looked out for me.”

“Forgive me, but it's a rare kind of boy that wants to be in the company of a younger girl without getting something in return, would you agree?”

“Then I was lucky, because the ones I knew treated me like a younger sister. Maybe the boys you knew were different.”

A wave of soft laughter echoed in the courtroom. Red spots of annoyance popped up on the lawyer's cheeks.

“Still, running away and hanging out with older boys, that's not a usual thing for an eleven year old girl, is it Ms Pataki?” he prodded. “That combined with these reports suggests you were pretty troublesome back then. Is that fair to say?”

“I didn't realize having crappy parents was such a crime,” Helga quipped.

Now, the courtroom didn't attempt to suppress their amusement; they laughed openly. But when the laughter died down, one person was still loudly chuckling. All eyes in the room turned to him.

Curtis Waring.

He had been blank-faced throughout most of the proceedings, but now tears of laughter ran down his face. When the judge banged the gavel and commanded him to be quiet, he calmed down, wiped his eyes. And then he looked directly at Helga and mouthed three words to her.

That's my girl.

#missing #hey arnold #hey arnold fanfiction #tw: abuse #tw: crime #courtroom drama

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Twenty Five

This is a note to say that updates may be a touch sporadic from this month onwards, I'm in the process of moving and this is a busy time of year for me even without the added stress of getting two houses ready for new inhabitants. I will try to update on a weekly basis at the very least.

Note: Here is my by-now obligatory request to check out my book on Amazon: The Hothouse Princesses by S.A. Hemstock. If you haven't got it by now you may consider getting it so I shut up about it. There was some formatting issues I wasn't aware of but have now fixed.

…..

When Olga was given the opportunity to sign away her parental rights, she did it with a speed that Arnold found profoundly hurtful, even though he wasn't on the receiving end. Helga seemed to shrug it off, but it was hard to know what she was thinking most of the time. She was attending mandatory counseling sessions at the hospital but she had told both Arnold and Phoebe that the therapist was insincere and pretty useless.

She was now officially a ward of the state, and Ambrose was applying to adopt her, but because she wasn't well enough to leave the hospital yet it looked like she wouldn't have to spend any time in foster care.

“Most foster families don't like taking special needs kids,” Phoebe finished her long-winded explanation over lunch. “Unless they're a family that only takes special needs kids, and there's only a few of those and they live mostly in Wisconsin and Nebraska...”

“Helga's not really special needs though,” Arnold interjected. “She has a temporary condition, she's going to get better.”

Phoebe sighed, and put down the forkful of salad she'd been ignoring to talk about the adoption process.

“She had a really severe brain injury, Arnold,” she explained, as if to a small child. “And she's only been conscious for a short time compared to how long she was out of it. There's no real way of telling what it's going to be like for her in the future. Getting better is the best case scenario, and it's a real long shot.”

“She doesn't seem that bad,” Arnold countered, although now he was a little worried. It hadn't really occurred to him that Helga's recovery would backslide.

“Her cognitive functions are good, and her motor skills are mostly good too,” Phoebe said. “But she hasn't really had to do anything outside the hospital besides identifying Curtis Waring, so she could struggle with stuff you or I find easy. You ever hear of executive dysfunction?”

“Kind of, like online I think?”

“It's what happens when an injured brain can't work through a task properly. Reacting to things differently than expected, or not being able to focus. Erratic behavior.”

Arnold thought of his grandmother. She'd been like that for years, and they had always put it down to dementia. Had she maybe had some head trauma they didn't know about?

“How do you know all this, anyway?” Arnold asked her. “They're hardly letting you read her medical files?”

“Officer Plaskett told me,” she answered. “He thought it would be helpful for us to know since we spend so much time with her.”

“He hasn't told me anything...”

“That's because you don't call him. You call him, he'll tell you anything you want to know,” Phoebe said, and finally shoved the forkful of salad into her mouth.

“How much do you call him, to know all this stuff?”

“Not that much anymore,” she admitted. “But back when she was first found I called him at least once a day.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” she shrugged. “I don't get to visit her that often. It made me feel better. And he's never acted like it annoyed him or anything, so I kept doing it.”

“That's pretty nice of him,” Arnold said.

“Well, he's real invested in the case,” Phoebe told him. “He needs Helga to be in good shape for Waring's trial, she's his only living victim. So it suits him to keep you and me informed in case anything happens.”

“Didn't you just say Helga had that executive-disjunction? How are they going to get her to testify in court if she's that bad?”

“She's not that bad,” Phoebe said, leaning back and folding her arms. “Right now. That could change. So we need to be careful. No stress, especially after that Olga debacle. We keep her as happy as we can.”

…..

The nurse sent Arnold to the physiotherapy hall when he arrived for his visit, but when he got there he was sorely tempted to run to the safety of the cafeteria and wait there until the coast was clear.

It was really irritating how good Patrick looked when he wasn't even trying.

He was standing just behind Helga on the support bars, gently encouraging her to make it to the end where her wheelchair was waiting. Arnold couldn't hear what he was saying to her, but he did just about make out the words 'baseball' 'practice' and 'season.'

More baseball bonding memories. Great.

It was silly to be so jealous that a good-looking guy was paying attention to someone Arnold wasn't even dating, but he knew that baseball had been a very important bright spot in the otherwise hard childhood Helga had been dragged through. Patrick came with his own special set of memories while all Arnold had was a story about a ghost that may not have even happened.

Helga made it to the end of the bars and Patrick helped her lower herself into the chair. She was looking better now, she'd put on a little weight and could walk short distances with the aid of a walker. Or maybe she was glowing because of the attention Patrick was showering on her.

“Arnold!”

Her calling him jolted him out of his simmering, and he realized he'd been standing in the doorway sulking for who knows how long.

“Hey,” he said, feeling the blush rise on his neck as he made his way to her. “You're doing good, getting back on your feet?”

“Yeah, I'm just about ready for the Boston marathon,” she quipped. Patrick laughed as though it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

Her wit is still there, the brain injury didn't do anything to it. Phoebe's worried about nothing.

“Paralympics are coming up,” Patrick said, pushing her chair towards the door. “Keep it up, you could win the gold.”

“I think you're overestimating,” she responded. “I don't even push the chair most of the time.”

“But when you do, you're pretty damn fast,” Patrick shot back.

Helga rolled her eyes and slumped a little in her chair. By the time they got back to her room she was half-asleep.

“I need to shower,” she mumbled as Patrick lifted her into the bed.

“Call the nurse when you wake up,” Patrick said. “Me and Arnold can wait in the cafeteria.”

Great. Now Arnold was stuck hanging out with the guy. Still, he said nothing as they walked out of Helga's room to the cafeteria, nothing as he bought that strangely gritty coffee he was now very familiar with, nothing until Patrick came to the table with his own gritty coffee and he supposed he should try to make some sort of conversation.

“So, uh, she seems to be...”

“Level with me, Arnold,” Patrick cut across him, sounding a lot less pleasant away from Helga. “When you came to see me that time....did you know she was alive?”

“What? No, I had no idea...” Arnold spluttered, caught off guard.

“Right,” Patrick scoffed. “You turn up at my place of work to gouge me about a girl that's been missing for five years and two months later she's found alive in some backwoods hospital?”

“I know, it looks weird,” Arnold agreed.

“Weird is an understatement.”

“Honestly, I didn't know. I was working under the assumption she was dead, and I was looking for who killed her. Her being alive was a very lucky coincidence.”

“So you want me to believe you found evidence that trained police missed by some fluke?” Patrick said. His voice was quiet but full of carefully controlled anger.

“If I told you, you wouldn't believe me,” Arnold sighed, gripping his coffee cup so hard it burned his hands.

“Try me. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you knew something about where she was the whole time. I'd like to think differently.”

“Fine,” Arnold said, taking a deep breath. “Helga's ghost appeared in my house.”

Patrick didn't start laughing, nor did he angrily demand that Arnold quit bullshitting. A raised eyebrow was the only reaction he gave.

“It seemed like she needed help to move on, so I said I'd try to help her. I already had some theories, I've been following the case online since I was twelve, and she helped me put the pieces together. She lead me to you, to that hideout she used to go to, even to the place Waring kept her captive and shot her.”

Arnold took a large gulp of his coffee before he continued.

“Then once the police got involved and found out her body wasn't there, and her ghost hadn't moved on, she lead me to Warleybridge. The ghost finally did move on once I found her here and she woke up.”

He had a vague sense that telling his truth in such a matter-of-fact way was going to get him chewed out by Patrick at best, beaten up at worst. He stared into his coffee, waiting for the inevitable.

“Huh.”

The little noise was as much as he got. He looked up, astonished.

“Who else knows about this?” Patrick asked. He didn't look angry anymore.

“Um, Phoebe does. She was there for most of it. I mean, she only saw Helga's ghost once and the rest of the time only I could see her but...”

He trailed off. It sounded completely insane when spoken aloud.

“And if I go grilling Phoebe, she'll tell me the same thing?”

“Y-yeah, she would...”

“Right. Interesting.”

“Wait....so, you actually believe me?”

Patrick shrugged and smiled that movie-star smile Arnold had come to know (and loathe.)

“It sounds so out there that the only reason you'd tell me such a pack of nonsense is if it was true,” he mused. “Stranger things have happened.”

Arnold couldn't believe it. The first time he'd talked about the ghost with someone who wasn't Phoebe and they took it seriously.

“Have you told Helga about any of this?” Patrick asked.

“No,” Arnold snorted, still incredulous. “She'd think I was crazy...and I don't want to stress her out.”

“So she doesn't remember being a ghost?”

“I dunno, the nurses said she had lucid moments when she talked about things she'd done when she was haunting my house,” Arnold told him. “She hasn't brought it up, and her memory is mixed up anyway...”

“Best to keep it between us then,” Patrick said. “Like you said, no stress. This trial is going to be tough on her, she needs as much support as she can get.”

“Is that why you brought me out here for an interrogation?”

“Maybe,” Patrick agreed. “Or maybe I'm doing what good big brothers do, keeping sketchy guys away.”

Big brother?

“Sketchy?” Arnold quipped.

“Well, what would you call a guy who goes around asking random people about murder victims they knew?” Patrick half-laughed. “Plus obviously I failed the first time...I got a second chance, I'm going to try and do right by her this time.”

That 'big brother' lingered in the air between them. Arnold wanted to ask about it, wanted to ask about his intentions without letting Patrick know how badly Arnold was pining after her. But luckily Patrick seemed to pick up on it without Arnold having to say a word.

“Between college and my boyfriend I don't get to spend as much time with her as I'd like to,” he tossed out flippantly. “Think you can keep other sketchy guys away for me?”

Boyfriend?

Patrick laughed, and Arnold blushed. He didn't realize he'd said that out loud.

“Yes, boyfriend. Two years now,” he explained.

“I thought you were....”

“I was,” he shrugged. “I had counseling when she went missing and I made my peace with it, in a way. Angelo's my best friend as well as my boyfriend, he supported me through it all. Plus even if I had known she was alive, the age difference looks a bit weird now. I can be her big brother, that's good enough for me.”

All this time Arnold had spent stewing over the threat that Patrick presented had blinded him to what a good, good guy he was. A cold trickle of shame ran through him.

“I assume she doesn't know you're head over heels for her, am I right?”

That came out of nowhere. Arnold choked on his coffee.

“What....” he sputtered. “I'm not...I mean, it's....

“That's okay,” Patrick consoled, flashing that irresistible (and infuriatingly smug) smile at him. “Your secret's safe with me.”

…..

Helga woke up just in time for Patrick to say goodbye before he left to get back to college. That left Arnold alone with her for at least another hour before he had to catch his bus back to Pocaselas. To his dismay, his face was still red.

“Are you okay?” she asked, frowning. “You look like you have a fever.”

“Coffee was way too hot,” Arnold explained, hoping she'd buy that. “Why is it that hospital food is always so terrible?”

“I know,” she groaned. “You'd think if they wanted me to gain weight they'd get better cooks.”

They chatted back and forth casually. Phoebe had given Helga a new cellphone the week before, and though there were smartphones around before she went missing she had never had one and barely knew how to use it. Arnold was taking her through most of the social media apps when he happened to look up and noticed something alarming.

“Uh,” he stammered, unsure of how serious it was. “Should....should I call a nurse?”

Helga raised her hand to her face and touched the stream of almost-black blood running from her nose. She rolled her eyes, as though it was a minor inconvenience.

“Don't bother,” she said, grabbing a box of tissues from the chest by the bed. “It usually only happens in the mornings.”

She dabbed at the blood casually. Arnold's horror didn't abate even a little.

Mornings? Usually?

“So, this happens often?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I have a lot of scar tissue near my brain,” she explained. “Didn't make much of a difference when I was unconscious but because it's shifting around now I get these nosebleeds. There's probably more to it than that but that's how the doctor explained it.”

“Okay,” Arnold said, although it came out more high-pitched and panicky than he intended.

“I'm going for an MRI next week, if it makes you feel better.”

It didn't make him feel better. He associated MRI scans, like most people who watched TV, with sick and injured people near death. She might as well have said she was going to be defibrillated next week.

This is why they want no stress. If this gets worse she probably can't testify against Waring.

Arnold felt a little stab of anger that Plaskett wanted to prevent her stress not for her own well-being but so that he could get Waring convicted.

“By the way,” she said, dabbing as much of the blood away as she could. “We have a trial date. July 7th.”

Summer. Three months away. At the very least now he knew he'd be able to stay by her side throughout the trial. He hoped it would help.

#hey arnold fanfiction #hey arnold #cw: medical #cw: crime

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Twenty Four

Here is the standard request to check out my novel on Amazon if you enjoy my work: The Hothouse Princesses, under the name S.A. Hemstock. And please keep the reviews coming, they are very powerful motivational tools.

Also a note on the last chapter; a few people expressed surprise that Olga would side with Bob rather than Helga. Unfortunately, in cases of family-based sexual abuse it is very common for relatives to believe the abuser over the abused, mostly because it's easier to believe that the abused is lying than it is to believe someone they love would be capable of doing something evil. I felt this would be the dynamic when Helga was so clearly on the outside of her family and Olga so prone to avoiding anything uncomfortable. I hope that clears up any confusion ye may have had.

…..

According to the nurse that pulled Arnold to one side on his most recent visit, Helga had spiraled downwards in the aftermath of her sister's visit. She'd eaten the equivalent of maybe two pieces of toast in three days, slept for nearly a full twenty-four hours and wasn't speaking much.

“We may have to put the nasal tube back in if she doesn't improve,” the nurse sighed. “But it'll have to wait until she gets back.”

“Back from where?” Arnold asked, sneaking worried glances in the direction of Helga's room.

“The detective is taking her out. Didn't he tell you?”

“No, he didn't.”

“Oh, well,” she muttered. “She needs to identify her abductor in a line-up. Apparently his lawyer demanded it.”

“Can he do that?” Arnold asked, incredulously.

“I chose to work in healthcare, not law,” the nurse shrugged. “I think they're trying to prove she's not fit to give evidence. And she won't be unless she starts eating properly.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

When he got to Helga's room, she was poking at a slice of dry-looking cake with a spoon, a look of distaste set in her face.

“I can get you better cake, if you want,” he said by way of a greeting.

She jumped a little; clearly she hadn't been expecting him.

“That's okay,” she laughed softly. “It all kind of tastes like ash anyway.”

He swallowed hard. Had the brain injury affected her sense of taste, or was it psychological? For the first time since she'd woken up Arnold realized there was no telling how much damage had been done, and how much she'd have to live with for the rest of her life. He'd sort of assumed that once she put on weight and started walking again, she'd live a relatively normal life.

Eating was pretty much the most normal thing a person could do, and if she was struggling with that then what hope was there for her?

“The nurse is worried,” he said gingerly.

“I know. They're all worried,” Helga sighed. “I'll get past this, just....not right now.”

“I'm sure they won't mind if we bring in some better stuff....”

“It's not the taste, Arnold,” she cut him off.

She seemed to struggle with her words, opening and closing her mouth and fidgeting up against her pillow.

“Look, you know most of what happened with Bob,” she said at last.

“You don't have to tell me anything...” Arnold started to say.

“I know, but I'm going to,” she said sharply. “Bob used to cook these big meals for me and Miriam. It was always, like, messy stuff. You know, casseroles, stews and stuff like that. A big pile of random ingredients. I didn't know it at the time, but that was how he was drugging me whenever I was home. Probably Miriam too, now that I think about it.”

She was so matter-of-fact about it that it made Arnold want to cry on her behalf. As it was, he was sick with the horror of it.

“That was bad enough,” Helga continued, staring down at her desiccated cake slice. “Then that guy....he hardly ever told me what he was giving me to eat. It was always some big slab of barely-cooked meat. Most of it still had blood dripping out of it. And if I didn't choke it down...”

She shoved the plate away from herself, folded her arms.

“Well, let's just say he had ways of making me do things I didn't want to do.”

“I'm so sorry,” Arnold said.

“Why? You didn't do anything.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I guess....I have been putting some pressure on you to eat. Like, it's understandable you wouldn't want to after all that.”

They sat in somewhat uncomfortable silence, neither knowing what to say. The air was heavy, tense. How could anyone make small talk after a conversation like that?

Luckily, they were saved by the arrival of Ambrose Palmer, who was carrying a paper bag of something fragrant.

“Hey there, princess,” he said as Helga rolled her eyes and laughed. “Hi....I want to say Arthur?”

“Arnold,” Arnold corrected.

“Right, Arnold,” Ambrose nodded. “Sorry, the old grey matter's a bit squeaky these days. Want a brownie?”

He opened the bag and handed Arnold a slab of rich chocolate topped with a creamy white and pink glaze. Arnold didn't miss the way Helga squinted at it, and he was sure Ambrose didn't either.

“These look fancy,” Arnold said through his first bite. “They taste fancy too.”

“Old family recipe,” Ambrose shrugged, taking one out for himself and nonchalantly placing one in front of Helga. “Raspberry cheesecake topping, one of Ed's favourites. Figured you kids might like 'em too.”

“Did you make these just for today's visit?” Helga asked after taking a (very) delicate bite.

“We're gonna be in the truck for a while, I been thinking we need the sugar.”

Helga just about finished the brownie before they packed her into her wheelchair to drive her to Pocaselas. Ambrose had managed to make more progress with her in five minutes than the hospital staff had in weeks.

…..

They had to smuggle Helga out of the back entrance of the hospital; there were still a few press agents lingering, waiting for a sign that she was going to be moved. Ambrose had offered to drive her, and Arnold offered to tag along for moral support, both of which Officer Plaskett had agreed to eagerly. He had become a tad manic in these last few days, the excitement of nailing Curtis Waring to the wall put a spring in his step.

At least, if Helga could identify him.

The police officers in the building had formed a little huddle at the entrance, trying to act as though they weren't staring at Helga as she was wheeled in. Arnold saw more than one of them wince at how thin she still was.

“Take your time,” Plaskett was advising her, flipping through sheets on a clipboard. “Look at all of them carefully, look for distinguishing marks rather than facial features. It helps if you don't make eye contact, they can't see you but they can act like they do. Understand?”

Helga swallowed and nodded.

“Good,” Plaskett said, and he brought them to a door, knocking gently.

The door swung open and they were ushered in; Arnold had been told it was rare to allow strangers who weren't participating in the identifying into the room, but special exceptions were made for those that needed some extra support. The man in the smart suit and expensive-looking glasses was clearly not happy about Arnold and Ambrose being there.

“One person is what we agreed,” he said stiffly, rising from his chair to confront Plaskett. “I hardly think Miss Pataki needs two men in here with her?”

“Miss Pataki has little enough real support as it is,” Plaskett shot back. “Plus you insisted we drag her all the way down here instead of using the photofit...”

“I shouldn't have to explain procedure to you,” the suited man cut across him. “One man. The other waits outside.”

“I'll stay out,” Ambrose agreed with a casual shrug. “Give 'em hell, princess.”

Arnold caught her rolling her eyes at the nickname but all the same she seemed pleased. Not a bad thing considering she was going to confront, however indirectly, the man who shot her in the head.

He wheeled her in to the viewing room, watching the set of her hands on her lap for any sign of distress. She seemed okay, confident even. The room was barely lit by a single dim bulb, and sparsely furnished with a small table and stool that the lawyer took a seat at. Plaskett flicked a light switch, and the mirrored glass stretching across the far end of the room became a window.

“Ready?” Plaskett asked, finger poised on the intercom.

Helga took a deep breath, and nodded.

“Send them in,” Plaskett hissed into the intercom.

Into the room beyond the mirror, five men ambled without purpose, slouched up against the wall to denote their heights, stared sullenly into the glass in the general direction of who they presumed were watching. Arnold peered at them carefully; which one was it?

He'd imagined he could pick Waring out of a crowd, that someone who could have killed all those women and kept a little girl chained up like a dog would have the evil in him painted across his face. Even if he'd managed to look normal for all those years, surely he would have some quality that set him apart from the others?

But these men looked like completely normal men. He couldn't have pegged one of them as Waring if he'd had to choose. They must have worked to find four men who looked enough like Waring to cause confusion.

“Just relax, take as much time as....” Plaskett began to advise.

“It's number four,” Helga interrupted.

“You sound certain,” the lawyer piped up from over by the wall.

“I am certain,” she replied. “It's number four. Definitely.”

Arnold searched the man's face. His nose looked like it had been broken at least once, and he had a lot of broken blood vessels across his cheeks, but otherwise looked like an average middle-aged man. He could have been someone's uncle, football coach, next-door neighbour.

There had to be some sign, right? What did Helga see when she looked at this man?

“Could you explain why you picked number four?” the lawyer asked. Clearly he'd been thinking along the same lines as Arnold.

“One of his nostrils is bigger than the other,” Helga explained. “He snores because of it. And he's missing the tip of his left ring finger because he cut it off with the cleaver.”

The finger couldn't be seen from where they were, but they knew now Helga could provide a long list of ways to pick Waring out.

“There you have it,” Plaskett said snidely to the lawyer. “We'll see you in court. Can I take this girl back to her hospital bed now?”

The lawyer said nothing, just waved them away.

…..

“Colour me surprised that guy could afford a decent lawyer,” Ambrose said once they were back in the truck. “Wasn't he one of them doomsday prepper guys?”

“He had an inheritance he never touched,” Helga told them. “The underground stuff was just a hobby, more or less.”

She looked fine, a little white but otherwise no worse for wear. If the outing had been a strain on her, she was very good at hiding it. After a few miles, Ambrose veered the truck off of the highway into the underbrush.

“Milady here could use some fresh air,” he explained when asked, to Helga rolling her eyes again. “I got the doctor's permission, no problem. Long as we're back before nine.”

They ended up at a small boathouse and jetty overlooking a moderately-sized lake. Ambrose handed Arnold a lifejacket and tied Helga's on her himself before carefully putting her into the small fishing boat sitting in the water. He wrapped a blanket securely around her legs before he handed Arnold the other oar.

They rowed out quite a ways before Ambrose instructed him to pull the oar in so they could float freely.

“It's around the right time,” he said, popping open a pocketwatch. “Keep your eyes at the clearing over yonder.”

“What are we looking for?” Helga asked.

“You'll see soon enough.”

After a few moments of waiting, there was a crackling in the underbrush at the clearing and a young doe stepped out onto the riverbank. She waded up to her chest before she began to drink, and in another moment a fawn stepped out with her, wading out to its neck. They stayed there, shooting cautious glances at the boat, as more deer emerged from the forest into the water.

Stags now, old ones with crowded antlers and youthful ones still bearing some of their dapples, pushed their way past the lingering does and fawns, circled around the bank to swim to another clearing. The water was calm, smooth as glass but for their disruption. A few derisive snorts in the direction of the boat was all the notice they paid to the people watching them.

“Ain't that a sight,” Ambrose whispered.

Arnold could only nod in agreement; Helga was utterly still, transfixed. If she even heard him, she gave no sign.

…..

She was asleep by the time they got her back to the hospital, and Ambrose offered to drive Arnold home despite his protests that it was too far.

“Shoot, I got nothing better to do,” Ambrose shrugged in that carefree way that Arnold was getting so familiar with.

Along the way, he managed to get some more details about Ambrose out of him. He learned about the ranch he had now retired from, how he'd traveled all over America doing odd jobs before settling down with his partner, how he'd been at a loose end since his partner died. Arnold even managed to get him talking about finding Helga, though he'd seemed reluctant to talk about it.

“Nearly ran her over,” Ambrose mumbled. “Didn't see her 'til the last minute and even then I though she was a wandering deer.”

“She was lucky you came that way,” Arnold said.

“Not luck, I don't think. If she was lucky she wouldn't have been there in the first place,” Ambrose replied. “I do think it was meant to happen, though....happened the same day I went to pick up Ed's things, some coincidence huh?”

“Yeah,” Arnold agreed. “Almost like she was sent to you.”

“I guess.”

They sat in silence. Arnold wanted to ask, but it was such a long shot that he was afraid to let the idea out for how bad he'd feel if it went nowhere. But....

“You know her sister came to see her the other day?” he began.

“I heard. She wouldn't talk about it but I heard it went south.”

“Yeah...I'm not that surprised, Olga was known to be a bit flaky. But this means she's probably going to be a ward of the state.”

Ambrose sighed.

“I know what you're gonna ask,” he said. “That Plaskett guy beat you to it. You want me to take her in, am I right?”

“Well, yeah,” Arnold mumbled. “I mean, you've been looking after her since you found her. You don't want to?”

“I would in a heartbeat,” Ambrose admitted. “But that's for the courts to decide. Me and Ed tried to adopt years ago, but we got denied a whole bunch of times and gave up in the end. That was when there were two of us, with a permanent home and at least one steady job and we were much younger. Now I'm in my late fifties, no partner, rented apartment....what do I have to offer?”

“She loves you,” Arnold said. “And you love her. She's sixteen, that counts for a lot in court, and she's famous whether we like it or not. Public pressure has to count for something.”

“I'd have to move,” Ambrose mused, and Arnold's heart skipped because it sounded like he was giving it real thought. “She needs to be near a hospital, at least. And I wouldn't like to take her away from her friends...”

“Would you do that?”

“'Course,” Ambrose shrugged. “I got no ties to Warleybridge. Ed's ashes come with me. There anywhere to rent in Hillwood?”

Arnold could feel the blood climbing to his face as his heart beat wildly.

“Hillwood's never been great property-wise,” he admitted. “But my grandparents run a boarding house. It's not great, it's kind of run down these days, but....”

“That's no problem,” Ambrose shrugged. “Long as the rent is low enough I can fix whatever.”

By the time they reached Hillwood, it was too late to invite Ambrose in to see it for himself, but he gave a tacit approval before he let Arnold out of the truck.

“We might have to get a ramp put in round back,” he said, as casual as always. “I can do that, no problem, if'n your folks are okay with it.”

“It should be fine,” Arnold nodded furiously.

“We should probably discuss this with Helga though,” he laughed. “Making all these plans without her seems a bit off.”

“She'll be fine with it,” Arnold swore. “I'm sure she will.”

He couldn't sleep a wink that night. His mind was full of plans, hopes.

Helga could move in with Ambrose to one of the ground floor rooms, two if they needed the space. She could eventually come back to school, gradually live a normal life. And she would be with Arnold day in, day out.

Eventually, she might even remember that she had been there before.

#hey arnold fanfiction #hey arnold #tw: crime #tw: abuse

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Twenty Three

Regular readers are going to have to get used to me spamming the link to my novel with every update, I'm afraid. Just knowing it's finally up there is a kick to my creative drive and despite my schedule being as busy as ever I'm writing a lot more and more often.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BGSPPBY

The UK link: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BGSPPBY

…..

Arnold stayed away from the hospital for longer than he really wanted to, in the aftermath of Patrick's visit. He'd felt on edge the entire time the two of them were in the room together with Helga, Patrick's easy charm and graceful composure made him feel a hundred times more awkward and clumsy in comparison.

It was bordering on two weeks since his last visit (after visiting pretty much three times a week, if not more, since she woke up) when Phoebe called him.

“She's wondering what's happened to you. Where have you been?” she scolded.

“She's getting a lot more visitors now, I figured she wouldn't want me hovering around all the time,” he explained.

Phoebe sighed heavily into the mouthpiece.

“This is because Patrick's been stopping by, isn't it? God, you idiot...”

“I resent that,” Arnold huffed. “I'm perfectly capable of being an idiot without anyone else causing it.”

“Listen, she needs you,” Phoebe insisted. “You were the first one there when she woke up, she feels safe around you. You can't just drop her for a month because of some other guy...”

“It's been two weeks, Phoebe.”

“Whatever, it's still too long. Get Plaskett to drive you over, he's coming down tomorrow. I need to get back to school soon.”

“Why is Plaskett going down again?”

“Weren't you told?” she said, before mumbling something quietly to herself. “He finally tracked down Olga. She's coming to the hospital.”

A little shred of panic ran through Arnold. Olga coming to the hospital likely meant Helga leaving the hospital with her sister to who knows where.

“Okay, I'll be down tomorrow morning.”

…..

Helga clearly wasn't expecting him, because she was thoroughly engrossed in one of those pink notebooks he'd picked up from her house. A small stack of similar notebooks sat on her bedside locker. She jumped when he said hello, and slammed the book shut.

“Arnold?” she stammered. Her cheeks were bright red. “You're back?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, laughing sheepishly. “Sorry I've been away so long....I needed to do a whole bunch of repairs at the boarding house. Did Phoebe give you those?”

“Yes,” she answered, lying back on the pillows. “She figured they'd fill in some of the gaps in my memory.”

“And did they?”

“Yep, sure did,” she said, and her blushing intensified. She seemed reluctant to talk about it in more detail.

“I can't imagine having to read stuff I wrote when I was a kid,” he offered. “I had some weird ideas.”

“Yeah, it's kind of an eye-opener,” she giggled faintly, visibly relaxing.

“I heard your sister's coming down here,” he said.

“Yes, they finally tracked her down,” said Helga, twisting the edge of the blanket (he was starting to notice it was a nervous gesture she'd developed). “I know I probably shouldn't be, but I'm worried.”

“About what?”

“I don't even know,” she shrugged, sinking deeper into the mattress. “My memories of her are pretty jumbled, but what I do remember is a lot of crying.”

“Yeah, from what I recall she wasn't the most....” he struggled to find the right word, “...stable of people.”

“That's what I'm worried about,” she sighed. “If she freaks out on me, what am I supposed to do?”

“Get the nurse,” Arnold advised. “They've dealt with freaking out family members before, I guess.”

“Would you mind staying?” she asked, sitting up suddenly. “If she does freak out, I'd feel better if someone I know is nearby.”

“Well, sure, I don't mind....” he agreed. “But are you sure? You could end up discussing some deep family stuff...”

“Yes, I'm sure. You don't even have to be in the room, just near enough so I can call you if I need help.”

The ward nurse bustled in a few moments later with a lunch tray, and as they chatted about less serious subjects Arnold couldn't help but notice it took her nearly three hours to eat half of the plate. Since her nasogastric tube had been removed, she hadn't been gaining any weight.

“You know they started selling churros at the coffee place,” he offered. “I could bring you in a few if you want, they're pretty good...”

“Is this your in-no-way-subtle way of telling me I'm too thin?” she cut him off. “Phoebe beat you to it. Cited the same coffee place, even.”

“Sorry,” he groaned. “I know it's none of my business, I just worry, that's all.”

“Doctor Enshaw says people who have been unconscious for a long time sometimes have to relearn how to eat,” she explained, demolishing a cube of jello but bringing none of it even close to her mouth. “Along with walking, reading, writing, all the basics. I'm a little behind with the eating.”

“Can't they just put the tube back in until you get the hang of it?”

“Ew, no,” she grimaced. “That's even worse than the food here.”

The nurse came back to take away the tray, and frowned.

“Three quarters, we said,” she scolded. “You agreed.”

“I know,” Helga mumbled. “Does it have to be mush, though?”

“Until you can show us you can keep it down, yes,” the nurse said, and swept out of the room. “By the way, your sister is at the front desk now. She's talking to Dr Enshaw. Should we send her in?”

Helga gulped, but she nodded.

“I'll just be outside in the hall,” Arnold promised, leaving the room with the nurse. “Call me if you need anything.”

…..

As expected, Olga devolved into a blubbering, incoherent mess within seconds of entering the room. From the brief glimpse Arnold had gotten of her, she didn't look much different to how he remembered, except for her smart purple suit and 'I-want-to-speak-to-the-manager' haircut. When she had finished her bout of hysterics, she fawned over Helga in the most sickeningly-sweet way possible.

She talked a lot about her home, her partner who she was marrying next year, her job managing a local grocery store, her friends and her pastimes and her 'simply divine' trips to Europe. In with all of this, she just about slipped in her new name; Diana Baker, soon to be Mrs Diana Baker-Woods.

“We'll have to talk to the board about your new name,” she gushed. “Obviously you can take Baker as a surname but not Baker-Woods, even if legally you're a dependent....”

“I don't want to change my name,” Helga cut in.

Olga hemmed and hawwed a little, clearly not used to being interrupted midway through a gush.

“Oh, honey,” she fawned. “I think it would be best, your old name has all this unpleasantness attached to it, and people would wonder why your name is so different to mine...I mean, I suppose I could introduce you as a distant cousin but this kind of thing, it follows people around...”

“I'm going to need my name to bear witness against the guy who kidnapped me,” Helga insisted. “They can build a stronger case against him if I go public, and I'm his only living victim.”

She said this with such cool nonchalance that Arnold's admiration for her grew even more, if possible. He heard Olga laugh with clear nervousness.

“I suppose, if that's what you want, we'll figure something out,” she said. “You could always change it afterwards. Oh, but I suppose it would come in handy for Daddy's parole hearing...”

What?

“What?” he heard Helga say sharply.

“Oh, Daddy's up for parole next year,” Olga explained with that infuriating tinkly quality in her voice, as though she was discussing something cute her dog had done. “That's why I moved to New Mexico, Daddy's just an hour away on a good day. He'd love to see you, once you're up and walking I mean...”

“Hold on,” Helga cut across her. “Did you forget why he's in jail? What he did to me?”

“Oh honey,” Olga cooed. “Of course I didn't forget, he made a very big mistake and he's done his time for it.”

“Mistake?” Arnold could hear Helga gritting her teeth from outside. “It wasn't a fucking mistake, Olga. He planned it. He put drugs in my food and sold pictures of me to perverts. He did it for months!”

“Please keep your voice down,” Olga hissed, a hard edge introduced to her voice. “I know, okay? He was in a bad place and he made some really stupid decisions. I understand you're angry, I do, but...”

She broke off, Arnold could hear her sniffling into a handkerchief.

“He's all I had left, Helga,” she implored. “It was so awful once you were gone, and then Mommy died...I had no-one!”

“Well then,” Helga retorted, clearly unmoved by Olga's tears. “You got a little taste of what it was like to be me for all those years. Sucks, doesn't it?”

“He's sorry, Helga,” Olga begged. “He lives with that regret every day, I know he'd take it back if he could. He's our Daddy...”

“He's your Daddy,” Helga growled. “As far as I'm concerned he's the guy who sold me out to the monster that locked me in a dog crate and shot me in the head. And that bullshit about regret....if he could do it all over again without getting caught, he would.”

“Okay, you're getting upset, I'm sorry,” Olga said, closing her purse with an audible click. “Maybe I should come back later when you've gotten some rest.”

“I rested for five years, I don't need any more,” Helga said. “But you should leave. Don't bother coming back. You can sign over your rights to the state and I can be someone else's problem.”

Olga said nothing more, but turned and walked out of the room. Although there were mascara-streaked tears running down her face, Arnold could detect something else in her expression, in the shape of her shoulders and the loose grip on her purse.

She looked relieved.

…..

He left her that night, after being by her side to comfort her as she cried for almost a solid hour then sheepishly apologizing for messing up his shirt. He felt drained himself; it was true that you only saw how good a person was when disaster struck. He'd thought Olga to be a better person than that.

The next day, he was back at school, sulking his way through homeroom when Gerald approached him again.

“Wassup?” he shrugged, by way of a greeting.

“Is this about Phoebe, again?” Arnold groaned. “I told you, we're not...”

“No, it's not,” Gerald said irritably. He slunk into the seat next to Arnold. “It's about Helga, actually. How's she doing?”

“She's doing okay,” Arnold said, noncommittally. “I mean, she can't walk yet but she's making progress. Why do you want to know?”

“Couldn't help but notice she hasn't got one of those crowdfunding deals set up,” Gerald explained. “I mean, there's a few fakes but they got flagged real quick before anyone lost their money.”

“What's your point?”

“My point is, me and my boys want to contribute,” Gerald said, lowering his voice to a whisper and taking an envelope out of his bag. “I figure you can get it to her direct.”

The envelope was thick, almost bulging, as Gerald pressed it into his hand. Arnold was so gobsmacked he couldn't think of a word to say.

“That's about eight grand, give or take. I didn't count it,” Gerald told him. “Should help towards them hospital bills, right?”

“Yeah....” Arnold gulped. “Gerald, this is...”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Gerald said, getting up. “Just make sure it gets to the right people, okay?”

And with that, he was gone.

As much of a surprise as Gerald was, Rhonda shocked him even more. She caught him at his locker once again and handed him a bag.

“Tried to give this to Phoebe but she ran off before I could,” she deadpanned, slapping the bag in his general direction. “Give it to Helga.”

“What is it?” Arnold asked.

“Just a few things,” Rhonda shrugged elegantly. “Being stuck in bed sucks, might as well be comfortable.”

Arnold took a brief look in the bag. Everything inside was brand-new, plastic wrapped. A sleeping mask, plush robe, slippers....all high-grade luxury brands, and not chosen at random. Rhonda had picked these out herself.

“If anything's the wrong size, get back to me,” she said, examining her nails instead of looking Arnold in the eyes. “I saw the pictures and guessed. She looks like a thinspo pic.”

“I don't know what to say,” Arnold choked. “Except thanks. Thank you so much.”

Rhonda's nose wrinkled with distaste.

“Whatev,” she said with a wave, and then she was gone.

#hey arnold fanfiction #missing #tw: crime

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Twenty-Two

Author's note: I'm going to be a cheeky wee git and spam the link to my novel here, for a limited time you can get it for free on Kindle. I only ask that if you do, you leave an honest review afterwards. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BGSPPBY

And now, back to the angst wagon!

…..

The first Arnold knew of the story finally breaking was scrolling through clickbait websites absently while downing his breakfast, when the words SHOT IN THE HEAD AS SHE TRIED TO ESCAPE screamed across the screen of his phone. He nearly dropped it in his oatmeal.

Wasn't Plaskett supposed to warn me about this?

As soon as he recovered (somewhat), he rang Phoebe.

“I know, I saw it an hour ago,” she told him.

“Why didn't you call me?” Arnold growled, rooting around for his shoes.

“It was six am, I didn't think your grandparents would appreciate me waking up the entire house.”

“A text, then. I had to read it on fucking Pebbledash, of all places!”

“All right, I'm sorry,” she admitted. “I'm on my way to the hospital now, hopefully there won't be too many journos there yet. Can you field any questions at school?”

“You think I'm going to school?” Arnold scoffed, finding his missing shoes and stuffing his feet into them as fast as possible. “I'm getting the next bus out.”

“No, don't,” she said. “Call Plaskett, he'll give you a lift. He hasn't left yet but he said he was going in the next hour.”

“You called him but not me?”

“He called me. Stop sulking.”

…..

“There was a leak,” Plaskett admitted, grumbling into his coffee as he drove. “Some orderly at the hospital overheard the doctors talking, the press were on it like flies on shit.”

“How bad is it?” Arnold asked, bracing himself.

“Well, if she was still catatonic it would be a disaster,” Plaskett mused. “And if she hadn't made so much progress....she might even be up for a press conference. What do you think?”

“Why are you asking me? Isn't this your specialty?”

“You know her better than I do,” Plaskett shrugged. “She seems to have most of her memory back, she's in decent physical health, and her doctors haven't reported any anomalies. It's hard to know unless someone who knows her well can say she's pretty much back to normal.”

What is normal, exactly?

“I can't really say,” Arnold said, after thinking it over. “I think the only person who knows if she can get through a press conference is Helga herself. I mean, she seems fine but she was always keeping things bottled up...”

“That's what I was worried about,” Plaskett sighed. “Well, we'll just have to see....Christ, it's even worse than I thought. Bunch of vultures...”

They pulled into the hospital parking area with great difficulty, because the hospital grounds were swarming with people. Photographers, newscasters speaking to the camera with the hospital in the background, news vans with equipment shifted from space to space.

“Keep your head down and don't say anything to them,” Plaskett warned as they prepared to get out of the car. “Do you have I.D?”

“Uh, I have my student card,” Arnold answered.

“That'll do. If this place is smart, they'll have gotten in extra security.”

…..

Helga was in physiotherapy, and the nurse brought Arnold down there while Plaskett discussed the swarming press agents with the doctors.

She was wearing one of the tank tops he'd brought for her, and hospital-issue trousers. It was painful to see just how thin she was, how what little muscle she had strained as she pulled herself up on the bars to a standing position. Her jaw was clenched but she didn't make a sound.

“Don't push it,” the therapist warned. “Your body knows what it can do. Relax and breathe.”

With effort, Helga lowered herself back down into the wheelchair. She massaged her temple, just under the spot the bullet had caught.

“We'll call it a day here,” the therapist said, wheeling the chair out of the bars. “Your friend is here, he can take you back to your room.”

Helga looked up sharply, noticing Arnold for the first time.

“You caught me at a bad time,” she quipped, smoothing down her hair.

“Looked like you were doing pretty good to me,” Arnold shrugged.

Helga snorted, fidgeted in her chair.

“I'm all sweaty,” she said. “All this for two measly steps. Can you believe I used to play baseball?”

He took the handles of the wheelchair and wheeled her through the corridors, watching at the windows for any sign of a camera shutter.

“Considering you couldn't move at all for five years, I'd say two steps is good progress,” he said. “I don't think anyone would blame you if you stayed in bed forever after what you've been through.”

“No thank you,” she shuddered. “The sooner I can walk the sooner I can walk out of here.”

An icy dread trickled through Arnold's being, hearing her say that. Walk out of there to go...where exactly? Her mother was dead, her father was in jail, her sister was who knows where, and she was only sixteen. There were only so many options. At least while she was in the hospital, Arnold was sure she would be safe.

Her room was, thankfully, in the quiet wing of the hospital, away from the bubble of people near the entrance. He lifted her out of the chair and into her bed, just as Plaskett and Phoebe came in.

“Right, I've talked with both of your friends,” Plaskett began, sitting in the chair nearest the bed, looking Helga square in the eye. “They seem to think you're holding up okay, mentally at least. How do you feel?”

“Okay, I guess,” Helga shrugged.

“We can arrange a press conference for two hour's time,” he continued. “It'll give the vultures what they want, for now anyway, and they might get lost. But we'll only go forward if you want to, and we can bring the whole thing to a halt if you feel uncomfortable.”

Helga swallowed hard, clearly nervous, but she nodded.

“We can't talk in detail about what happened to you,” Plaskett warned. “No names...”

“I never knew his name anyway,” she said.

“That's a good thing, I guess. You can talk about your injuries, but no talking about who inflicted them. Say 'I was shot with a 12-gauge' rather than 'he shot me with a 12-gauge.”

“I don't know what kind of gun it was,” she said.

“Great,” Plaskett nodded. “Keep it vague. If any of the journos gets out of line, I'll shut them down. Got it?”

“I think so.”

“All right, I'll go make the arrangements. You got something to wear that's not scrubs?”

“Yes, Arnold brought me some clothes.”

“Good. Find something kind of goody-two-shoes to wear, if you can. That always plays well in the papers.”

With that, he was gone. Phoebe and Arnold exchanged worried glances; Helga sounded like she was on board, but she was visibly nervous, white and gently trembling.

“You don't have to do this,” Phoebe said. “You don't owe anyone answers.”

“No, I'd be better off getting it over with,” Helga sighed. “I need a shower. Could you call the nurse?”

…..

Helga Pataki was all anyone could talk about, in the aftermath.

She'd worn that pink blouse with the little cat heads on it with a mint-green skirt and flat ballet pumps. Phoebe had braided her hair to hang over one shoulder. It all had the effect of making her look like a strong gust of wind would blow her away.

All the same, she answered the difficult questions without flinching. She described how she had lived on raw meat, been chained to the wall and kept in a dog crate for weeks. When asked what she'd been doing in the mountains when she was taken, she answered plainly that she had a turbulent home life and the mountains was where she hid out sometimes.

She was eloquent, and spoke with clear intelligence, and the reporters lapped it up. They couldn't have asked for a more perfect victim.

At school, suddenly everyone wanted to talk to Arnold and Phoebe. Phoebe responded by skipping school; she was bright enough to miss a few days. Arnold had to put up with it all alone. It was bad enough when it was total strangers wanting to probe him for information, but most of his old friends remembered that he existed for just long enough to grill him a little extra.

“This is what you and Phoebe have been sitting on?” Rhonda said, shoving her phone in his face. “She's been alive this whole time?”

“We haven't been sitting on it,” Arnold grumbled, closing his locker and trying to walk away from her.

Her sandals clacked loudly on the linoleum; she was following him.

“Bullshit you haven't,” she snarled, right in his ear. “What are the odds I hear you and four-eyes talking about Helga and ...boom!....suddenly she's alive?”

“I know you probably won't believe this, Rhonda, but it was a huge coincidence,” Arnold sighed.

“You're right, I don't believe you,” she replied. “Four-eyes owes me an apology.”

“Well, if Phoebe owes you an apology then you owe Helga an even bigger one,” he said, turning to face her. “I can give you the hospital address, you can visit her yourself.”

Rhonda's mouth opened and closed, until she folded her arms protectively around herself, staring at the floor.

“Right, didn't think so,” Arnold quipped, pushing past her.

At home, his inbox was blowing up. People he had gotten to know on true crime forums, people who knew his connection to the case, were messaging him at a rate of three per minute. He had emails from multiple press agents. Missed calls from people who hadn't spoken to him since middle school.

He let the battery on his phone go dead and unplugged his computer. They could wait.

Olga is bound to see the news, even if the police can't track her down.

What then? Olga won't want to stay in Hillwood.

It was horribly selfish of him, but Arnold couldn't help hoping that Helga wouldn't be able to walk for a long time. Once she turned eighteen, she was free to do whatever she wanted.

…..

He didn't get a chance to visit Helga for nearly a week after the press conference, and as hoped the press at the hospital had diminished by about a quarter. The nurses greeted him as he walked around the corridors; they knew him well by now.

As he approached Helga's room, he could hear her talking with someone. Someone male: it didn't sound like one of her regular doctors, and it wasn't low and gravelly like Ambrose's voice. It wasn't Plaskett, he was in Pocaselas conferring with the police there on the Waring case load.

“...must have hit about three home runs, but poor kid couldn't run to save his life....”

It was a young man, with the easygoing relaxed tone of someone who was used to being listened to, always, no matter what he said. Someone who charmed girls effortlessly, without even knowing. Arnold opened the door and saw for himself.

Patrick Castle, movie-star-handsome in tight jeans and a loose button down shirt, was showing Helga something on his phone. She was smiling in a way Arnold had not yet seen. He felt as though he'd swallowed a large rock.

“Arnold, hi!” she called, noticing him in the doorway. Patrick looked over at him...

Was that a frown?

...and put away his phone abruptly, leaning back in his seat.

“I didn't know you were visiting today,” she said as he took the other seat in the room.

At least someone's happy to see me.

“Hey, Arnold,” Patrick said with a lazy wave and an equally lazy smile. “I was just updating Hellebelle on the goings on down at the diamond.”

The casual nickname brought out beads of cold sweat on Arnold's skin.

#hey arnold fanfiction #hey arnold #tw: crime

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Twenty-One

…..

A note on last week's update: The deed has been done, my novel should be on Amazon within the next day or two. If you have enjoyed Missing, you may enjoy my original work and I hope that if you do find yourself buying it that you like it just as much if not more.

The name is The Hothouse Princesses, under the name S.A. Hemstock. Thanking you in advance, and thanking you for your support and attention so far!

And now, on with the show.

…..

Arnold juggled his boarding house duties and spending time at the hospital like he had never juggled before. His grades were slipping again, but his Grandpa was mollified for the moment. The boarders got their meals, the fixtures were repaired or at least repaired enough to keep them ticking until they inevitably broke down again.

Gertie was home now, and it was clear she wasn't able for her regular tasks anymore. She had picked up an infection during her stay at the hospital and she was noticeably frail, and although she could still clean and cook to an extent she tired so easily that someone else had to take over whatever she had started. She seemed slower mentally too, and she slept a lot.

They were lucky that most of the boarders had been there long enough that they had a good relationship with Phil and Gertie, but even they were getting to the end of their patience with how slow everything had become. They sometimes murmured about paying lower rent, and Phil refused to discuss the matter with them because lowering the rent would mean the entire boarding house going under.

Still, the boarding house was hardly a concern for Arnold; he was reading up about catatonia, brain injury and memory loss. Medical journals were incomprehensible but he had found some decent sources in layman's terms that described the recovery period for people who had experienced these things.

What he learned, mostly, is that brain-injured patients were unpredictable. Helga's doctor had mentioned that she had developed traumatic encephalopathy as a result of being shot in the head and that it would take a long time to figure out exactly how much damage had been done, but he told Arnold to watch out for signs of aggression, loss of focus and sudden clumsiness.

So far, she had been doing well. She was attending physiotherapy to get her walking again, she was always happy to see visitors and she was doing everything she was supposed to. Her memory was coming back in little trickles. She seemed perfectly okay, really. The only symptom of note was that she had some extreme food aversions; she wouldn't eat any kind of meat, or food that was mixed up. Every ingredient had to be separate and eaten slowly, one by one. When you asked her, she couldn't say why, but putting a pork chop or a bowl of curry in front of her induced wincing at the very least and vomiting at most.

It was only a matter of time. Both Arnold and Phoebe were dreading the day she'd remember what her father had done to her, and what had followed.

…..

Arnold, I just got in and she's not here.

The doctor said she remembered

something but wouldn't talk about it.

I don't know what to do.

Hang tight, I'll be

there soon. I'm on the bus.

Jesus Christ, just when I thought

it was all going well! What are we

going to do?

Don't panic, she can't

have gone far. She

can't walk.

I'm serious, Arnold! Goddammit, I

thought the nurses were keeping

an eye on her.

When he arrived, he exchanged two words with Phoebe before she was rushing to the nurse's station. She was white as a sheet, trembling. Whatever had happened, it was pretty bad. He figured it was best to go to Helga's room, maybe it would give an indication of where she had gone.

And when he got there, he spotted what Phoebe had clearly missed in her panic; Helga's IV pole was still there, just dragged over to one side.

“Helga? Are you in here?” he asked.

There was a quiet answering cough from under the bed.

He crouched down low on the floor. He couldn't see her at first, the hospital bed's crank and gears blocked his vision, but when he looked a little closer he could just about spot her foot at the far side, near the wall.

“What are you doing down there? How did you get down there?”

“With a lot of effort, duh,” she said wearily.

He smiled, despite himself. That snippy wit of hers was making its way back, slowly and steadily.

“Phoebe texted me in a panic,” he told her.

“Well, I tried to tell her I was down here but she ran off before I could. She knows I can't walk, right?”

“That's what I said.”

The IV pole clattered off the side of the bed as Helga turned towards him, just enough so he could see her face.

“Do you want to tell me what happened, or would you rather not?”

She sighed, fidgeted, curled in on herself tighter.

“I remembered some stuff. It was pretty bad,” she said, and he got the sense that was all she wanted to say about it.

“Are you hiding from it?”

“I don't know, going under the bed just seemed like a good idea.”

It was risky to bring it up, it could just have easily been her experience at the hands of Waring that she remembered, but....

“Didn't the officer tell you that your Dad is in jail? He can't hurt you. Even if he gets out, he won't be able to get to you.”

She stiffened, and in the dark her eyes were wide, horrified.

“You know?”

Arnold's stomach dropped. In his eagerness to reassure her, he'd just let her know that someone she knew had seen those pictures.

“Yeah, I....I gave the evidence to the police...” he stammered, mentally kicking himself for being so stupid. “I didn't really look, I just saw enough to know what he was doing....”

“Who else has seen them?” Helga said, her voice thick with unshed tears.

“Just me and Officer Plaskett. Phoebe knows but she hasn't seen anything.”

He gulped; there was no point in keeping all the details from her now.

“Rhonda saw one, it was apparently one of the more normal ones. She just thought it was a regular picture.”

“Rhonda Wellington-something? Holy shit,” she laughed, half-crying. “Of all people....”

“She can't say anything though,” Arnold tried to reassure her. “She sent some pictures out herself apparently.... and she doesn't really talk to anyone these days anyway.....”

She said nothing, but he could hear her sniffling. Her back was turned to him, she was pressed up against the wall as close as she could get.

This was exactly what the doctor had wanted to avoid. If she was ever in danger of slipping back into catatonia, it was now.

“I'm sorry,” he said, helplessly, on the verge of panicking. “I'm....he's a monster. But he'll never be able to hurt you again.”

That's not true. He's up for parole next year.

“Listen...” he kept going, knowing he was probably just making things worse, but what else could he do? “Most people would have just given up if they'd been through what you've been through. You never gave up, you kept going even when it nearly killed you.”

She was still silent, but her sniffles had died down a little.

“They convicted him after you went missing, with whatever evidence they had, but they never got to hear your story. You can change that now. You can put him away for longer.”

“I can't even get out of this bed without help,” she said. She sounded worn out, already on the verge of sleep.

“Well, yeah,” he nodded. “But you have help. You have me, and Phoebe...and that Ambrose guy, I think he'd do anything for you. You have Officer Plaskett....hell, that's just now, wait until people in Hillwood find out you're alive!”

The D-notice at the hospital was being upheld until the doctors thought Helga was strong enough to face media attention. What little had been told to the press was that a patient had woken up from a long sleep, and it was going relatively unnoticed.

“Your father ruined your life,” he said. “We're going to give it back to you, one way or the other. People will be falling over themselves to give you back your life.”

The silence stretched between them. Had she gone back to sleep? Arnold didn't think he could bear it if she had.

“Arnold?”

He was so relieved to hear her speak he nearly burst into tears himself.

“I'm kind of stuck here,” she said. “Could you help me out?”

He half-laughed, half-sobbed. He hurriedly wiped his eyes and got up.

“Sure.”

He pulled her out as gently as he could by her ankles, picked her up and put her back in bed. She was far too easy to carry, her spirit had had more weight in her. Even so, she didn't look as gaunt as she had when he first saw her in the hospital.

“Oh, I forgot,” he said, grabbing the bag he had brought with him. “I have something for you.”

Her face had lost that stricken look, he was endlessly thankful for that. She even managed to smile when she opened the bag.

“Clothes? How do you know if they'll fit?”

They were the clothes he'd bought for her ghost, and they had fit her reasonably well, but they'd probably be too big on Helga right now.

“The saleslady said they're mostly stretch to fit,” he told her with a shrug. “I figured you'd be sick of wearing hospital clothes by now.”

“You're a good guy,” she sighed, looking on the verge of tears again. “I'm not sure I deserve you.”

“Of course you do,” he replied. “You deserve as much as I can give you.”

She really did cry then, but she hid it by clapping her hands over her eyes, even though they were still holding one of the sweaters he'd brought for her.

“What did you do?”

Phoebe was standing in the doorway, shooting an accusatory glare at Arnold. He could only shrug in response.

…..

“Do you think she'll remember what happened when she was living in my house?”

Phoebe glanced up at him and dropped her sandwich.

“Why would she?” she replied.

“If she remembers everything else....her doctor says there's not many significant gaps except some dates, place names and people,” Arnold said. “She didn't react to the clothes much, but maybe it needs a different trigger.”

She could remember what happened at the pier.

He was hoping against hope that she would remember that. She had kissed him back, he knew that for certain. She had pushed him away so he wouldn't love a ghost, but she wasn't a ghost anymore. Nothing was standing in their way now....

“I've been thinking about that, actually,” Phoebe began, pushing her smoothie around on her lunch tray. “Do you know what a folie á deux is?”

“Sounds familiar but no, not really,” Arnold answered.

“It means the madness of two,” she continued. “It's what they call it when two people share a delusion or a psychosis. I think maybe that's what we had.”

“What? Phoebe, we're not insane....”

“It happens to sane people, Arnold,” she said, shaking her head. “Sometimes it's due to stress....I mean, we were both finding it hard to let go of her, and when I first 'saw' her I was in the middle of a freakin' breakdown...”

“Phoebe, she wrote you notes,” Arnold insisted. “She used the shower. She lead us right to the guy that took her for fuck's sake!”

“Says who?” Phoebe shrugged, her eyes lowered down at the table. “Maybe all that was just our perception. Weirder things have happened. But both you and I know that there's no such thing as ghosts, and even if there was why would we see the ghost of someone who was alive the whole time?”

He sat back, gobsmacked. It did make sense, but....

“Either way, we shouldn't bring it up with her,” Phoebe said, picking up her tray with her half-eaten lunch on it. “She's got enough crap to deal with as it is.”

Lunch period wasn't over yet, but evidently Phoebe was done talking. Arnold lingered at the empty table, watched her leave. People were trickling back in the direction of their next classes. Arnold picked up his milk and took a big gulp, and nearly spat it out again when someone took up Phoebe's seat across from him.

“Hey Arnold!” Gerald said.

Arnold swallowed with difficulty. He and Gerald hadn't exchanged so much as a greeting in years.

“What do you want?” he said, and it came out a little harsher than he meant it to.

“Nothing, I just wanted to see what's going on with you,” Gerald shrugged and smiled his achingly familiar carefree smile.

“Gerald, you haven't spoken to me since middle school. What do you really want?”

The smile dropped, Gerald leaned back and crossed his arms.

“Fine,” he snarled. “I want to know what's going on with you and Phoebe.”

“What?” Arnold snorted. “Why do you care?”

“I have my reasons,” Gerald replied. “She's looking better these days, you got anything to do with that?”

“God, you are such an asshole,” Arnold laughed in his face. “You gave her the cold shoulder when her best friend went missing and now that she's finally doing better you're suddenly interested?”

“Look, I know I'm an asshole, okay? I don't need you to tell me that,” Gerald snarled. “I was a dumb fucking kid and I didn't know what to do, sue me. If you were in my shoes you wouldn't have done much better....”

“Yes, I would have.”

“Fine, you would have done better. Because you're so fucking perfect, you can solve everyone's problems. I didn't come over here to convince you I'm a good guy, okay?”

“Why did you come over here then?”

All of Gerald's anger seemed to drain out of him then, and he was slouching, awkward. He rubbed the back of his neck and met Arnold's eyes with difficulty.

“I want to know that she's happy,” he said. “Is she happy?”

“Uh...yeah, I guess,” Arnold said, puzzled.

“You guess?”

“She's happy as anyone could be, in these circumstances.”

“Right. Well, that's all I wanted to know,” said Gerald, rising to his feet. “This is going to sound weird coming from me, but....you make sure you treat her right, okay? Don't do what I did.”

He didn't even wait for a reply, just strode off back to his group of friends. Arnold, baffled, went back to drinking his milk.

He only realized Gerald though he and Phoebe were dating hours later.

#hey arnold fanfiction #TW:Crime

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Twenty

Readers of this fic to this point, I have some exciting news. I'm on the verge of publishing my first original work, I'm going the self-publish route via Amazon because waiting around on responses from agents is a drain on time and energy. I would like to ask that if you enjoy my work, you'd consider supporting my original fiction. I don't intend to stop making fanfiction and the better I do with my published work the more time it will free up for me to devote to writing anything and everything. I will hopefully be linking it in the next chapter.

…..

The hospital let him stay there, even after his ten minutes with Helga was up. They found an unused cot for him in the break room and after calling his Grandpa to explain where he was and why, he settled down to an uneasy sleep.

The spirit Helga being gone left a hole, as he feared it would. He was overjoyed that the real one had turned out to be alive, but there was a lot of uncertainty there and he had gotten so used to the spirit it was hard to imagine what he was going to do without her. Unconsciously, he'd been planning his life around her presence.

Phoebe's parents were driving her down the next day, and Officer Plaskett was on his way too. The next morning the head doctor brought Arnold into his office.

“We've pretty much confirmed that she is who you say she is,” he began flippantly, nudging a cup of coffee in Arnold's general direction. “She gave us her name, it's the first time she's been able to tell us anything useful. She's more lucid in general, actually.”

“That's good, right?” Arnold asked, sipping the offered coffee.

“It's unexpected,” the doctor told him. “Catatonia is still a bit of a medical mystery. The brain is a complex organ, it can recover from some horrendous trauma but it throws out curve balls. The only person she's ever reacted to is Mr Palmer....”

“Who?”

“Ambrose Palmer,” the doctor shrugged, rifling through his notes. “The man who found her? We figured she must have known him, although he said he'd never met her before.”

“I don't remember any Palmer,” Arnold said.

“Good man. He's been paying her hospital bills,” the doctor explained. “And he visits once a week. That may cause complications with the family, though...”

Arnold winced, and the doctor caught it.

“Something wrong, son?”

“I.....I think you need to discuss the family with Officer Plaskett,” he stammered. The thought of bringing Bob Pataki back into Helga's life made his stomach churn.

“The plot thickens,” the doctor said, leaning back in his chair. “All right. You can see her for an hour. Keep the talking to simple subjects. Nothing intense. We don't want to overload her. If she seems tired or distressed, get the nurse. And this friend of hers....”

“Phoebe.”

“Right, Phoebe. She needs to do the same. No big shows of emotion. Catatonia works both ways, she could easily slide back in if we don't proceed with caution. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

…..

Her eyes were frosty, glazed. Whether it was medication or just confusion, Arnold couldn't tell.

“What did you say your name was?” she asked. Her voice was husky from disuse, and she slurred her words a little.

“I didn't,” he said. “It's Arnold. Arnold Shortman.”

“Why did I call you Football Head?”

“It's what you used to call me back in elementary school,” he told her with a soft laugh. “I sort of grew out of it since.”

“That's kind of mean,” she said, frowning.

“No, it was kind of affectionate when you did it,” he said. “If you were really mad at me you'd use my actual name so I'd know I was in trouble.”

She sighed a bit, stifled a yawn. The nasogastric tube was plainly irritating her, she tugged at it a little every now and then.

“Everything's fuzzy,” she said with a hint of irritation. “I know I know you, I just can't really remember how.”

“That's okay,” he assured her. “The doctor said it'll come back slowly. Hey, you know this happened before.”

“It did?”

“Yeah, back in the 4th grade, kind of,” he explained. “I accidentally hit you in the head with a baseball, you lost your memory for two full days.”

“Seriously?” she asked, though she was smiling now, at least.

“Yeah, seriously. I had to look after you for a little while, 'cos it was my fault. You must have called me every name beginning with A except Arnold.”

She laughed, a little hoarsely.

“What grade are we in now?” she asked when she had finished laughing, and his stomach dropped.

How much can I tell her?

“Uh, well, I'm in the 10th grade.”

“But I'm not?”

He looked away, frantically trying to think of something but not coming up with anything. But she sighed again and tugged on her tube.

“It's okay, I know you're not supposed to tell me anything serious,” she said. “Doctors want to keep me in the dark, it's probably a good thing.”

Even drugged up and woken from a five-year-slumber, she was as sharp as ever. It made Arnold feel a little better since losing the spirit Helga.

“Phoebe should be here soon, she can fill you in on some of the things you missed out on,” he said.

“Who's Phoebe?”

“Your best friend.”

“I have a best friend?” she asked, delighted.

“Yeah, you guys did pretty much everything together,” Arnold laughed, delighted for her. “Her parents are driving her down, they should be here soon. Oh, and the police officer from our home town is probably going to want to talk to you.”

“Okay, so you're here and Phoebe and this police guy are coming down,” she began, tapping at the tube in her nose again. “Where are my family though? Or is that something you're not supposed to talk about?”

He bit his lip nervously, and she sighed heavily.

“Right, long story. Never mind then.”

“I just don't know that much about it,” he offered. “As far as I know, they live really far away. They might have been hard to get in touch with. I know your sister will probably be on her way as soon as she can....”

“Sister? What's her name?”

“Olga.”

“Hm. Doesn't ring any bells.”

Just then, Phoebe finally arrived. Although Arnold knew she'd been given the same 'keep it simple, no big show of emotion' pep talk he'd been given, she welled up as soon as she saw Helga sitting up in bed, alive and mostly well.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, and immediately started sobbing. Arnold looked to Helga with alarm. If this sent her backsliding....

“Hey Pheebs!” she said instead, beckoning her in for a hug.

…..

Officer Plaskett arrived within an hour, and as he had his own talk with Helga Arnold went to the hospital cafeteria to eat a tasteless sandwich and call his Grandpa again.

“I know you've been worried about me lately,” he told him, although he would much rather be having this talk in person, but he heard the strain in Phil's voice over the phone. “But it's all going to be fine now. We can go back to normal.”

“Normal?” Phil's voice cracked on the word. “There's no normal, Arnold. Your Grandma's turned a corner but she's not going to be able to work the same way she used to. I need as much help as I can get back here and if what you're telling me about that Pataki girl is true....”

“It's true, she's right here!”

“...it's only going to get more complicated. The gutter press are going to be crawling all over Hillwood until the next big story happens, and if you're over there all the time how am I supposed to take care of the boarders by myself?”

“I don't know,” Arnold said helplessly, because he really didn't. “We'll figure something out, I'll be home soon....but this is something I need to be a part of, okay? I've never asked you for much, but I'm asking you to let me have this. Please.”

Phil muttered something and hung up. Arnold felt a stab of anger towards him. True, Phil had always done his best raising him along with Gertie, but Arnold had always known he'd been forced to grow up a lot faster than most of his peers, and he'd sacrificed a good chunk of his life to the boarding house. He'd never complained about it, even when his friends all moved on with their lives without him. Why couldn't he have just this one thing?

He was tearing what was left of his sandwich into little pieces when Officer Plaskett threw himself down on the seat across from him.

“So that psychic's got a real gift, huh?” he began.

“She sure does,” Arnold agreed.

“It's powerful. Especially since when I talked to her she had no idea who you or Phoebe were.”

“It comes and goes, I guess,” Arnold retorted.

“I don't care anymore,” Plaskett shrugged. “Keep your secrets. Helga is the best chance for securing a conviction against Curtis Waring, once she gets her memory back. And she can probably tell me how you found her.”

“I doubt it.”

“This is going to blow up big time, Arnold,” Plaskett warned, dumping three sugar packets into his coffee at once. “Once the media gets a hold of it.....you're going to be grilled by those vultures, and you need to be ready. People are going to see that you found both the crime scene and the missing girl and wonder if you didn't have something to do with it.”

“I can only tell the truth,” Arnold shrugged.

“The truth is subjective,” Plaskett responded, swigging his coffee with a grimace. “People will believe what they want.”

“I'd worry more what they're going to say when some of the other details of the case get out,” Arnold sighed, exhausted. “Like what her Dad was doing.”

“We don't have to release that information, Bob Pataki is serving a custodial sentence in New Mexico. He's up for parole next year, but that's next year's problem.”

“What about Helga's Mom? She might leak something....”

“Miriam Pataki's been dead for two years. Liver failure.”

He should really have seen that one coming.

“We're trying to get in touch with Olga Pataki,” Plaskett said. “She's changed her name so it's taking longer than it should. Problem then is that Helga's technically a ward of the state, if her sister isn't willing to take responsibility for her.”

Arnold recalled the very few times spirit Helga mentioned Olga, how she thought of her as mentally fragile and minutes from a nervous breakdown at all times. It was very unlikely that Olga would even be capable of looking after someone other than herself.

“What happens if she's a ward of the state?” he asked, feeling the blood drain from his face.

“Best case scenario, someone adopts her and gets her through rehabilitation, physio and the legal mess this is going to be,” Plaskett explained with a tired shrug. “Worst case is she gets the bare minimum help from the state, group home until she's eighteen and then she's on her own. Worst case probably won't happen, she's already got one stranger paying her hospital bills and people tend to donate when these things break. She'll be able to afford decent care.”

Arnold's mind was already ticking in that direction. She could move into one of the spare boarding rooms, one on the ground floor. The donations would cover her rent and Arnold could look after her. She'd be somewhere familiar and close to anything that she needed....

But even as he worked out the details, he knew it wouldn't happen. Phil would never agree to it. There was no way to get a wheelchair over the stoop and it would be a long time before Helga would be strong enough to bear weight on her legs, let alone climb stairs. The boarding house was loud and dilapidated, cold in winter and overheated in summer and no place for a convalescent.

“Don't worry, son,” Plaskett said with a wry smile. “We'll make sure she's well taken care of, one way or the other.”

It didn't make him feel better.

…..

Officer Plaskett had offered to drive him home, and was waiting in the lobby for Arnold to say goodbye to Helga. But as they'd been talking, Ambrose Palmer had arrived. He hadn't been due for a visit for another three days, but the hospital had called him to let him know Helga was awake and lucid.

Arnold lingered in the hall, peering through the crack in the door and listening in.

Ambrose could have fit the dictionary definition of a retired cowboy. Blue jeans, leather jacket, unironic stetson and impressive moustache along with the kind of body language and demeanor one would associate with a person who was good with animals. And apparently, injured young girls.

“I don't know how I'm going to pay you back,” Helga was saying, Arnold saw her twisting her blanket nervously. “The officer said people usually donate money for this kind of thing but if that doesn't happen....”

“Don't worry about paying me back,” Ambrose told her with a chuckle. “I got into this thinking you'd be Sleeping Beauty forever. 'sides, that money wasn't going nowhere special.”

“Are you sure?” she said with a frown, pushing at her nasogastric tube. “It seems like a lot....”

“You got one job, and that's getting better,” he told her mock-sternly. “You let us adults worry about the rest. If you really want, you can make me one of them fancy paper birds. I want a matching set.”

“I don't even remember doing that,” she laughed softly. “You really bought me fancy paper?”

“Super fancy. Had to get it online and everything,” he said, tipping his hat ever so slightly. “Amazon dot com. Ed been trying to get me on Amazon for years, and I never went near it.”

“I'm honored. I'll make you a whole flock, if Phoebe can show me how again.”

“That'd be swell.”

“Uh, hey,” Arnold finally felt comfortable interrupting. “I have to head back now, I just came to say goodbye.”

Helga smiled, but Arnold could detect a little panic in her eyes.

“Will you be coming back?” she asked.

“Of course,” Arnold promised. “As soon as I can. And as often.”

He hugged her, and by the way she was clinging on he could tell she was just as reluctant to let him go as he was to leave.

“See you later then, Football Head,” she said when she let go.

“That's a bit mean,” Ambrose gently admonished.

“Apparently that's our thing,” Helga shrugged.

“Yeah, it really is,” Arnold laughed.

#hey arnold #hey arnold fanfiction #tw: crime

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missingverse · 6 years

Text

Missing Chapter Nineteen

Once again I need to apologize for a long delay. I'm in the process of moving house and it's adding stress to my already busy schedule, but thankfully because the entire country is on red alert for a storm I get to take a break for a little while.

Also, a note: don't worry that this might be close to the end, I still have quite a lot of story to get through.

…..

The hell of it, according to Ambrose Palmer's internal thoughts, was that he wasn't even supposed to be in Warleybridge that day.

The police station had called him a month before to ask if he would mind coming down to pick up some of the belongings Ed had left behind after thirty-four years being their deputy clerk. He had assured them he would, but he put it off for as long as he could. It was a long drive, the weather was bad, he had to arrange for someone to look after his dog while he took the trip....

(mostly because he had just about finished clearing all of Ed's other stuff and life was getting back to normal again)

...but eventually he manned up and tackled the drive. There wasn't even that much to pick up, just his coffee mug, a small cactus, a framed picture of the two of them from that trip to Kansas City two years before Ed died, three notebooks and a whole bunch of pens. Barely worth the trip, but Ambrose was glad he took it.

On his way back, it was getting dark and he was zoning out, there were no other cars on the road. When the lights picked up on something he managed to swerve just in time to avoid hitting it.

At first, he thought it was a deer, a fawn maybe. A moose calf even. But as he focused, he realized it was a person. Not just a person, but a child. A child in very bad shape. If it wasn't walking on the road, he would have thought it was dead.

He got out of his car and called.

“Hey....you okay?”

It was a stupid question, because the child was decidedly not okay, but what else was he supposed to do? It was moot either way because the child apparently didn't hear him. Leaving his car, mumbling uncomfortably to himself, he ran after it.

Her.

“Oh Christ....hey kid, can you hear me?”

She stopped in the road and stared at him, unblinking. She was skeletal, her face was covered in blood and the rest of her was covered in mud, insect bites and long thin scratches.

“Okay....okay....” Ambrose muttered, reaching gingerly for her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “We need to get you to a hospital.....you're gonna be okay, all right? Everything's going to be fine.”

It was the same kind of panicked babbling that Ed made fun of him for as he was nearing the end, but it was better than nothing. The girl seemed to agree, because the next moment her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell into a dead faint. Ambrose caught her just before she hit the asphalt.

“Shit,” he muttered, lifting her into his arms and rushing back to the car. “Oh lord....just hang on, sweetie, we'll getcha to the hospital, they'll fix you up good as new....”

He wrapped her up in an old blanket sitting in the boot of the car and drove with her stretched out on his lap, so he could make sure she was still breathing. Warleybridge had a small hospital-slash-respite home, he'd been there a lot with Ed.

He talked all the way back to Warleybridge, a non-stop outpouring of reassurances, promises and whatever the hell else popped into his head. If she heard any of it she gave no sign.

…..

She was checked against the Jane Doe registry, because of course she was. It was standard procedure.

The fact that she wasn't immediately identified as relatively-well-known-missing-child Helga Pataki was down to a perfect storm of circumstances that might not have happened had she ended up somewhere else.

*Firstly, the most recent pictures of Helga Pataki weren't really that recent. The one used on the national database was taken when she was eight, the other few that showed her between ten and eleven were deemed too blurry or too distracting to be useful.

*She had lost a lot of weight in captivity, and due to emaciation didn't look anything like her picture. Some of her hair had fallen out and her eye sockets were too bruised to take a good comparison photo. The doctors that treated her put her age at between seven and nine.

*The teeth that had been removed caused swelling in her jaw, knocking the entire lower half of her face out of kilter.

*Warleybridge was a rural area, and though they had internet it was slow and spotty. Loading pictures even in the sheriff's office or the hospital took longer than average, and after searching through pictures of little blonde girls all day with no clues people got fed up and left it.

*DNA taken from the girl didn't match anything in the system, and she could not be identified via dental records or any other medical procedures. As far as could be told, she hadn't had any medical care of any kind in her life.

*A backlog of work had been building up at the sheriff's office since the death of their clerk and they were having trouble finding a replacement. Therefore, they had been cutting corners on a lot of things, including calling around other sheriff's offices in nearby states.

*There were 'hillbilly' families in the area who lived off-grid and mostly under the radar of any kind of social services. Occasionally they popped up when someone was very ill but it was rare. Farming accidents were common with these people, as were hunting accidents, and it was thought likely that the girl had been left for dead after something like this.

So, for five years, even as reports and stories and podcasts and TV programs and forums and blogs all wondered what had become of her, Helga Pataki was lying in a hospital bed in Warleybridge, anonymous and mostly ignored.

…..

The name 'Serenity Doe' was a quip courtousy of a local who thought she was in a coma. Coma was not quite the right diagnosis, nor was she in a persistent vegetative state. What she had was closer to catatonia, she had moments of waking and even lucidity.

One month after she'd been brought in, she woke up but seemed to be incapable of speech and frustrated that she couldn't make herself understood. Paper and pens were given to her but when she tried to write it was an incomprehensible scribble. She was holding the pen correctly, though, so they knew she was educated at least a little. She was back sleeping within twelve hours.

The next time she woke, it was the middle of the night, and she tried to get out of bed but only succeeded in spraining her weakened ankles. Tube-feeding was helping her gain weight but it was slow, and she had mild atrophy from being in bed for so long.

Ambrose Palmer visited once a week, and when she woke for the third time she seemed to recognize him. She still couldn't write recognizably, but she managed to fold a piece of paper into an origami crane to give to him. The following week, he brought a guitar. She was back sleeping again, but he played for her and she could be observed smiling in her slumber.

Fourth and fifth times she woke, she managed to drag herself to the hospital kitchen, made herself a sandwich, ate it and then vomited because she couldn't handle solid food yet. A year had passed and she had ceased to be an interesting story to the town, but was still a patient the hospital staff were very protective of.

In her second year, she woke just three times. Once was just as Ambrose was arriving for his weekly visit, and it was thought that hearing him talk to the nurse in the hallway jolted her awake.

She woke more the third year, but for shorter lengths of time. Instead of twelve to twenty-four hours, she would have spells of lucidity for three hours or less. She did speak some recognizable words, mostly 'home' 'baseball' 'bridge' 'notebook', names of objects but never anything descriptive.

In year four she managed fragmented sentences, out of context and garbled. Talking about baseball games she had played when asked what she wanted to eat, complaining about the cold during a heat wave, telling Ambrose over and over (as he nodded along patiently) about some history report she had gotten a B- on. At the very least these 'conversations' ruled out the possibility that she was an off-grid hillbilly kid; she was educated and had a mild inner-city accent.

Year five was the most dramatic. She spent more time asleep than she had since the first year, but she could speak coherently and clearly when she was awake. She still couldn't explain who she was, where she had come from or what had happened to her, but she could answer simple questions, tell the doctors when something was hurting and hold a full back-and-forth exchange with Ambrose on his visits.

She seemed to be under the impression that she had only recently arrived at the hospital, and was convinced that she had just been somewhere else with someone whose name she couldn't quite recall. She had done his homework for him, apparently, and went on bike rides sitting in his basket. The nurses giggled, not unkindly, that she had an imaginary boyfriend.

By now she had gained much of the weight she had lost, though she was still thin and pale from living indoors and in bed for five years, and if they had checked they might have seen a resemblance to Helga Pataki. But by now all thoughts of trying to identify her had been put out of their mind, and they preferred to take care of the person they had now with the hopes that she would some day be able to live a normal life.

St Jude's Hospital and Convalescent home ticked along nice and quiet right up until a boy turned up claiming he knew the girl who had been sleeping for five years.

…..

In the motel, he squirmed and paced. Arnold wanted to get to Warleybridge as fast as possible. If there was even a small chance that Helga's body was there, dead or alive, he needed to see for himself. But just his luck that he would find this out just as Helga had gone into one of her long sleep cycles.

Should he message Phoebe? He wanted to. But if he turned up at this place and it turned out to be a false lead.....

But again, she had asked him not to keep things from her. He had to respect that.

Phoebe, I need to tell you something.

What's up? Did you find her?

Yeah, I did. We're at a motel in Tappenack.

But I found something else out here.

What is it?

A missing girl was found on this

highway five years ago. She's been

in a coma in the local hospital ever since.

Are you serious? Arnold,

if this is some sort of joke,

it's not funny.

I wouldn't joke about something like this,

Phoebe. I'm going to check it out as

soon as Helga wakes up.

Call me as soon as you get there.

The next bus to Warleybridge was due in two hours. It was a half-hour walk down the road. He had already gathered his stuff, and there was nothing left to do but pace and wait.

He felt sick. He felt elated. He felt weak and energetic and exhausted all at once. He resisted the urge to try and shake Helga awake, trying to wake her up had never worked before.

Thankfully, just as he was starting to really panic, she did wake up. She was rubbing her eyes as he marched over and pulled her out of bed.

“What the hell...?” she grumbled drowsily.

“We need to leave now,” he told her sharply. “I'll explain on the way.”

…..

When he did get to the hospital, he must have looked a state; unshaven, sweaty, bouncing on his heels. The nurse at the front desk eyed him warily.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a frosty tone.

“You have a patient here,” he babbled at her. “She's in a coma....Serenity Doe?”

“Mm,” the nurse said, lowering her eyes. “We have a strict D-notice on press here, even school newspapers. Your teacher should have told you that.”

“What? Oh, I'm not press,” he stuttered.

“No bloggers either,” the nurse said sweetly.

“No, no, that's not why I'm here....”

“Then you're a ghoul. We got a big D-notice on those two. You can take your 'fascination' somewhere else, kid. Maybe the asylum will let you in for a gawk.”

“No, you don't understand,” he growled, taking out his phone and dragging up an internet image of Helga. “I think I know who she is. She went missing five years ago, she hasn't been seen since.”

He pushed the phone in front of the nurses' face. She looked to it, then back at him.

“And who are you to this girl?” she asked.

“A friend,” he told her. “We grew up together....there was a bunch of new evidence found, she was taken by a serial killer who was holding her near Tappenack, but her body wasn't there. It's been all over the news, and the timelines match up. If it's her, I can identify her.”

The nurse stared hard at the photo. And then she stood up.

“I need to talk to the resident on call,” she told him. “Stay here. Don't talk to anyone.”

Helga had hung back behind him, and she stepped lightly to his side once the nurse was gone.

“What if it's not me in there?” she asked. She had been subdued on the bus, in contrast to how jumpy Arnold was.

“Then we look somewhere else. We won't stop,” he told her.

The nurse arrived back with a jovial-looking man who towered over Arnold.

“So you say you know our Serenity Doe, eh?” he said with an airy tone, though his eyes glittered with something hard, angry. “And what makes you different from the other nuts who turn up here with the same story?”

“Same story?”

“Yeah, you're not the first,” the doctor laughed, a little cruelly. “We get all kinds.”

“Uh, well, I'm not a nut,” Arnold tried to explain. “I came across a news article, the timelines match and so do the locations. I could identify her if I saw her.”

“Uh-huh,” the doctor sniffed. “And what makes you think that you could identify her when five years' worth of trained professionals couldn't?”

“Because I know her,” Arnold told him, a hard edge creeping into his own voice. “I'd know her anywhere.”

“Fine, fine,” the doctor shrugged. “Tell you what, if you can give me some information about your friend that matches what we have on file, I'll let you in to see her. Something nobody else would know.”

“Okay....” he agreed as the doctor opened his file. “Um, she fractured her eye socket when she was eleven. She said it was a baseball injury but really it was because she fell into a door.”

The doctor hummed noncommittally, wrote something down. Arnold wanted to tell him about her missing teeth, but that had happened after she was taken. The scars on her head and torso, too. What else was there?

“She's had no dental work done,” he told them. “That's why she has no dental records. She had the measles too, she was never vaccinated.”

The nurse pursed her lips and looked to the doctor, whose expression didn't change. Arnold wracked his brains for more.

“She has really distinctive eyebrows,” he said. “They were really big when she was a kid, not so much now I'd say. Her hands are callused because she was the batter in Little League. She took her bat everywhere.”

“This is all pretty basic stuff,” the doctor said. “Anything else?”

That panicky feeling was rising in him again. He had grown up with Helga for eleven years, mourned her for five, sheltered her for months....how could he know so little?

Just then, Helga whispered in his ear, and he repeated it.

“She has a burn mark on her knee shaped like the letter L, from when her dad threw a lit cigarette at her,” he recited. “A whole bunch of freckles on the back of her neck....if you join them up, it makes a really wonky-looking puppy....her left arm was broken three different times, first time was when she was four....oh, and a sickle-shaped scar on her back. She fell out of a window. There's a mole just beside it.”

By now, the nurse was ashen-faced, twisting her cardigan in her hands. The doctor's anger had left him, and now he was smiling wryly.

“Sounds like she was a rough-and-tumble kind of girl,” he said, scribbling on his notes.

“The roughest,” Arnold sighed with relief. “Half the kids at school were afraid of her.”

“All right, I'll let you in. You have ten minutes.”

…..

It was her.

She was smaller and paler and thinner than she had any right to be, and she was peacefully sleeping as lights blinked and tubes dripped and little monitors beeped and booped and did their jobs around her. The ghost of her looked more alive than she did, except for the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she took in air the ghost didn't need.

There was the star-shaped scar, but it had faded into white scar tissue and a tiny spot where hair would no longer grow. It was proof she was alive, and healing.

Arnold was rooted to the spot, afraid if he stepped forward something would change. Maybe this was a dream and he would wake up to find none of this had happened at all. But once again, the ghost Helga jolted him out of his stupor.

Her face was stoic as she drew up beside her living body, looking down on it as though she was observing from a great height. To Arnold's dismay, she was beginning to fade.

“This is why I came back,” she said. Her voice had an odd echo to it. “This is why I came to you. So you could find me.”

Arnold shook his head, not knowing how to react.

“I knew you wouldn't give up, and you didn't,” she said, her voice wavering and distorted in the air. “I was supposed to lead you here.”

He was beyond elated that he had found Helga, alive and well, and beyond horrified that the shade he had sheltered in his home, the spirit he had laughed with and comforted and talked long into the night with and loved had fulfilled her purpose and now had no reason to be by his side anymore.

“Thank you,” she said as the first spectral tears started coursing down her rapidly fading face. “Thank you so much....”

“You don't have to go,” he said with a strangled gasp, and upon opening his mouth he tasted his own bitter tears. “We can go home, the doctors will take care of your body here. She might never wake up.”

“I do have to go,” she said, smiling as she held her body's hand. “We were separated from each other, I needed your help to bring us back together. Everything's going to be fine.”

He crossed the room in three steps, and just about managed to gather her into his arms and kiss her where the star cut through her hair before she faded away entirely and, he knew, for good.

He was properly sobbing when he sat in the chair across from Helga's body; it felt like something had been torn out of him. He took her hand, the one the ghost had been holding before she faded, and brought it to his cheek.

“I'm sorry,” he gasped. “I'm so sorry I took so long to find you.”

The body's eyes fluttered open and the head turned to look at him. She frowned a little at him, and he gave her a watery smile back.

“Hey,” he managed to say with a graceless croak. “Welcome back.”

Her mouth opened, just a little, but no sound came out. She was trying to say something. He came in closer to hear, but nothing. He watched her mouth the words before he could understand what she was trying to say.

Football Head.

#missing #hey arnold fanfiction #hey arnold

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