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There's an easiness to him now that it finds confusing.
For all of its intentions to stay away, to ignore the gnawing discomfort of the inherent wrongness of the confusion of being Helen, when the Archivist comes back from his temporary grave, Helen can't help but watch him.
There's still a solid current of fear pouring out of them that the Eye laps on like the lazy thing that it is, but it's smaller than usual- then it used to be. The Archivist seems comfortable, content, no, resigned maybe?
It comes to him, to tell him that something's gone wrong, because now it's needy and bogged down with Human Helen's need for praise and affirmation, and the Archivist apologizes.
It's grateful its face is neutral.
“Caught up in saving the world.” He says like it's a given that it's the Archivist's job to stop ascensions and Distortion is forced to stamp down Helen's swooning. It's pretty sure it fails because when Helen shrugs and leaves the door in the center of itself rattles with an intensity Distortion hasn't seen since it's own failed almost godhood.
There's an indifference about him as well. The Archivist used to worry about so many literally things, but now, there's no barely hidden irritation, no sweaty shaking hands. Just cool indifference. And that's kind of- it's doing a lot. For them. For both of them.
Helen supplies Distortion with the word crush and Distortion supplies Helen with the word fixation.
It isn't like that.
It's not.
Really.
…
The Archivist stands over a body that his Hunter dragged to the Institute with a look of confusion and mild irritation.
The awful lonely man who brought Michael to it stands next to him, so Helen keeps its distance.
The man picks up the body, and the Archivist gives a long sigh it can hear all the way across the street, picking up the legs.
Distortion watches in mild horror, yes, that's the right word, as Helen pushes a door against the wall the Archivist is closest too, and they step out of it, cool and indifferent.
“Need a door?” It offers like it's not a big deal and like the awful man isn't right there. “It's so bright out, Archivist. Who knows what's watching.”
“That's-” The Archivist drops the body unceremoniously, and the awful man gives an irritated noise they couldn't physically care less about. “That's lovely actually, thank you.”
Thank you.
Helen gives a small smile, and their door rattles with a wind that might as well be from a tornado.
It's very nice to be thanked by the Archivist.
It's not swooning.
“Anytime, Archivist.”
It steps onto a ship and dumps the body in the middle of the ocean and screams where no one can hear it.
…
The Web creeps on the institute like a slow-growing miasma and Helen can feel genuine real fear roll off of thei- the Archivist in waves.
“Not a fan of spiders, Archivist?” It sits on his desk, leans really, fingers splayed carefully so as not to catch any of his statements.
“This is just like the Prentiss debacle, but Peter cares even less then Elias did. Somehow. How that's even possible is beyond me.”
His little heart beats so quickly they're worried it might rush right out of his chest.
“If you need a door just ask. I'll be there.”
“That's- very nice of you. Thank you.”
Watching the tremors in his hands ebb away is a reward they didn't know they wanted but are beyond ecstatic to have. The Web don't deserve his fear. No one deserves his fear but him himself.
They want to press their hands into his chest and feel his heart beat against their skin.
“You've had a brush against the Web before haven't you?”
“Ah-” There's a flush to his face and Distortion worries that their door will fly off its hinges. “I- I've had dreams where you- where Michael rescued me from them before, I don't know why I assumed you wouldn't know.”
He-
He really-
Oh.
“I simply meant.” It talks slowly, carefully, worried beyond measure that the creaking would come spilling from their throat. “Your assistant.”
The thought of him dreaming of them, even of an old form, dreaming of it makes it want to curl into a ball and do the crying thing Helen liked to do after watching something sad.
“My- Martin, yes. He's. He'll get over it, I'm sure. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” The word spills out of its mouth. “Just fine. Worried, Archivist?”
“Your chest is-” Helen looks down and watches the entire upper half of its body undulate under the clothing.
“Must be so many spiders. I mean, their webs must have found my door- I mean- I should go look.”
And before The Archivist can say anything, it's gone, with its door and its hinges. It steps out in some cold place and falls face first on to the snow.
The Archivist actually dreams of it?
Wow.
…
“Helen- Helen, please- ”
It's there in an instant, and as soon as its door opens, it's almost knocked back by a wave of heat.
Desolation must be. It doesn't recognize where they are, but at least the Archives are not on fire. He can only imagine how much pain the Archivist would be in if that were the case.
“Need a door, Archivist?”
And he nods, nods desperately, a torrent of fear rushing off of him. Fantastic as their- the Archivist is, his flesh is weak towards fire.
The Distortion thinks it's very endearing.
Helen steps inside and holds the door open for him, and with how tight the corridors are, he has to brush against Distortion to get inside.
He's so warm, just as warm as the inferno outside. And his small heart hammering in his chest. His chest, pressed against Distortion's carapace of skin, it thinks it might start swooning.
If it isn't already.
“Is- is your door alright?”
Oh- oh no- oh-
This is the nightmare scenario.
He was never meant to find out about all of the noise it made whenever he was near it. And now, he could probably even find it. Even find it and- and- and-
and become them.
It's body almost droops over him before Distortion can stop itself.
“Helen?!”
It goes completely slack, and the Archivist moves aside to let it's liquid soft body slide to the floor.
Oh and he's worried about it too-
There's liquid welling where its eyes would be if it had them and the sensation is so disgustingly uncomfortable.
“I'm- I'm alright.” It manages, and the quiver in its voice echoes through all of its halls. “Must be the heat. Warps the metal and the like.”
“You're not made out of metal. Though.”
“I”m made out of all sorts of things. That you. That you wouldn't begin to understand.”
“Right. Of course. Do you need help? Getting up?”
And he's helpful, and he's concerned, and it thinks it might just die like this.
“I'll cut you to ribbons Archivist.”
And what pretty ribbons they would be.
…
The spiders do come upon the archives, and Helen is there with a door as promised.
It had meant it only for the Archivist through.
Not for all of these...
“Is this alright?” He rubs his arm nervously and Distortion caves immediately.
“Of course it is.”
Pray the Web doesn't find out that it's become this weak, this flexible.
It leads them through and ignores there stupid noises of confusion and whimpers of fear because whenever it abruptly stops, the Archivist bumps into its back and that's enough to transcend it to its ascension right there.
His skin is so soft, warm, damp. Its corridors will smell like his fear for at least a few days, and that's a lovely thought beyond all lovely thoughts.
It lets all of them out, but the Archivist hangs back to thank it personally, and it is so beyond grateful the Spiral did not grant this form a face when its door starts swinging again.
“Pleasure as always.” It says, and the Archivist gives it a smile.
It would end the world a million times over for that smile.