Chapter Text
Trusting the thing that calls itself Helen is a bad idea, of course. But Melanie doesn’t trust her; she’s not stupid. She just needs… someone there.
It starts with Melanie just asking for help on a statement or two. Yes, she gets back to work like nothing’s happened: there’s not much else for her to do, and after just a few days of apathetic sitting around she begins to feel sick and restless. She’s not sure if it’s the Eye or her own mind desperate for a distraction, but it doesn’t make much of a difference.
Anyway, doing her archival work is… definitely harder without anyone else working with her, even just to bounce ideas off of or to ease the monotony. Basira and Martin both spend all their time moping around in their respective corners, Basira locked in Jon’s office near constantly and Martin all but fading into the walls like he’s entirely lost the will to be present in this world.
(It used to be funny, before everything got fucked, seeing Martin get all sad and emotional, clearly pining for Jon for some godforsaken reason. One time, Melanie had forgotten something in the building and had to return late at night, and she had seen him straight-up lying on the Archive kitchen floor crying to what she’s pretty sure was Taylor Swift, like something right out of a cheesy coming-of-age flick. But he doesn’t do that classic Blackwood dramatic nonsense anymore. No more weepy music at 12 am, no more tragic sighs and glaringly-obvious lovesick stares, probably no more of his cheesy poetry. He just… god, he just stands around. Listless. Blank. Sometimes he holds a mug of tea, but Melanie hasn’t seen him actually take a sip . Not since… not since… yeah.)
So sure, one day she half-unthinkingly asks Helen for her expert thoughts on whether a statement is a legitimate manifestation of the Spiral or just some nut making stuff up. And eventually that turns into a moment of hesitation before entering Helen’s hallways because Melanie needs to get across the country for some followup research and she’s not spending the time and money on this and besides, Helen offered . Gradually the hesitation goes away, too, and using her door becomes as almost as natural as any other door. It’s not like Helen has any reason to… to eat Melanie, anyway, right? And if she changes her mind… Well, that’ll happen, then.
Turns out that’s not the kind of eating Helen has in mind for Melanie, though.
So here they are now, pressed against each other on the Archives’ shitty break room sofa. That’s where they usually go, just out of the way but close enough to the Archive to feel almost like revenge for failing her.
Helen is sharp, Melanie thinks, those knifelike hands tangled in her hair, the bitter taste of citrus and battery acid in her mouth. Not sharp in the same way that Melanie craves -- not sharp in the same way that Melanie is -- but all of her is sharp angles and terrible fractals and wrongness and it’s almost good enough.
Just almost , but it is fun. Like, seriously, maybe this is fucked up of her, but despite the whole literal-manifestation-of-one-of-the-world’s-strongest-fears thing, the avatar thing is kinda hot. Or maybe that’s just something about the Spiral. Melanie’s not sure any of the other things she’s met are anything like this. The Desolation, maybe, or the Hunt -- Daisy was never her type, but sure, she could see it. On the other hand, she can’t at all imagine anyone being sexually attracted to… to Jon , or, god forbid, Elias. Fucking incomprehensible.
Maybe it’s not the Distortion at all that’s so compelling . Maybe it’s whatever part of the original Helen is still in there. Maybe what’s left of her just knows exactly how to use all of that twisting unreality to its -- oh, fuck, to its absolute greatest advantage.
“You’re distracted,” Helen says, pushing away from Melanie. She’s got that infuriatingly amused smile that she always does, stretching just a little too wide to fit on her face. She always looks like she knows something that Melanie doesn’t. Melanie can’t stand it. Too much like Beholding. “What could possibly be on your mind right now, Melanie dear?”
“Fuck you,” Melanie growls and tries to lunge forward for another kiss. Helen holds her at arm’s length, though, keeping tantalizingly out of reach.
“Oh, switching things up today, are we? No, I think you’re still the one that’ll be getting--”
“ Helen ,” Melanie threatens, and the Distortion settles her with a deep, long kiss. The knife-sharp of Helen’s hand runs up and down the back of Melanie’s neck, just lightly enough not to draw blood. She almost wants to press back.
Helen is unreadable. Helen is always unreadable. It’s a damn relief . There's always that awful feeling of being seen by her, like she’s looking at Melanie and seeing her secrets instead of her skin, and Melanie hates it to the very core of her being. She doesn’t think she’ll ever stop despising the sensation of being looked at. Even since before joining the Institute, she’s hated it. But with Helen, at least it’s only one way . At least Melanie can’t see her in return, not past the shifting deception of a face that Helen presents to the world. Can focus instead only on the heat, the sweat, the dance, the drumming heartbeats, the pushing and pinning of body against body.
Melanie’s breaths and thoughts catch as Helen’s teeth graze the skin of her throat, as her hands continue to travel, dangerously casual and light.
She’s not sure if she’s still kissing Helen right now, where that Cheshire cat smile is really pressed against her skin, if any part of Helen’s body is really anywhere. That’s one of those things . There’s a whole lot of sensation with the Distortion. Most of it doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t matter; feels a lot better when you ignore that impossibility.
Fuck , what was she-- what was she thinking about? It’s hard to focus on anything but the feeling of Helen everywhere, all at once.
They don’t talk much during these occasions aside from the rare and just as knife-sharp flirt or compliment. Afterwards and before, they will, of course. They talk for hours, sometimes. Helen draws out every ired comment or complaint Melanie has burning inside her, until she’s itching to do something, to fight about it. Melanie knows why it’s there, of course. She can feel it coursing through her veins, the iron and steel pumping violent and angry in her blood. She’s not sure why, exactly, Helen is so interested in playing with that part of her. Maybe she just thinks it’s funny. Or perhaps she thinks it’s as hot as Melanie finds Helen’s twisting deceit.
But in those moments, there’s no need to encourage anything in Melanie. Their bodies just… dance. And Melanie can almost -- almost, but not quite -- forget where she’s trapped.
It helps that those fucking tape recorders have stopped showing up, whether they were Jon or Elias. If she would see one -- god. If anyone is watching them, if anyone is somehow looking at this other than Helen or Melanie themselves, she would hate them more than she’s hated anyone before. She’d probably fucking kill them on the spot.
Good thing nobody’s watching.
She forces down the ever-present bitter rage and focuses back on Helen, Helen, Helen. Just Helen. For now, just Helen.