Archive of Our Own

Ding.

The bell above the door always makes Mark's stomach flip. You'd think he'd get used to it by now, but it hasn't happened - yet. Just another one of life's oddities.

"Come in," Ms. Cobel calls impatiently. Mark shakes off the residual stomach-drop sensation and follows her voice. "Back here, Mark."

She's around the corner by one of their seasonal displays, a rotating shelf of various gift bundles. (Mark spent the week prior ensuring each one was tied together with appropriately rustic knots of twine.)

"Which do you prefer?" She gestures, and he follows the motion with his eyes.

…Dresses. Three, hanging from a mobile rack she's wheeled over.

Interesting. They've never had articles of clothing larger than a scarf or a bag. And Ms. Cobel has certainly never asked his input on the selection for either.

He looks at her, brain whirring.

"I'm sorry, I don't -"

"We have a customer coming in today," she says, slowly, kindly, “who requires our help assembling an outfit and accessories for an event they plan to attend."

He wracks his brain for any past indication this was a part of their services.

Surely not. He would remember, wouldn't he? This seems rather out of place amidst the meandering aisles of essential oil sprays and lavender bath salts.

Cobel often speaks of the changing times, that they must follow their customer base - but this mostly manifests as managing swaths of online orders. The occasional phone call. Never anything even approaching in-person dress consultation.

He can't remember the last time a customer came through, honestly.

"Mark." Cobel sighs. (She’s perpetually on the last leg of her patience with him.) "Rest assured, I will not be expecting you to make the end-all be-all decision on the dress. I was merely picking your brain on the candidates.”

She shakes her head ruefully, wandering into the back portion of the shop.

"You've always been such a helpful assistant," she calls, tinkering with the lights in the back until various salt lamps come alight, bathing the floor in a warmer tone. "Think of this as…well, just a bit of a different wheelhouse."

He nods. Privately, though, he thinks dresses are a bit more complicated than answering an email from a customer deciding between the nail polish shades of ‘Distinguished Founder’ and ‘Nature's Wrath.’

Finished with the lights, Ms. Cobel is fixing him with an expectant look. Oh. He scrambles to think of adjectives.

"I think this, uh, maroon could be…nice, depending." Nice. Depending. Good lord. It’s like he’s never worked in retail. Or spoken aloud, for that matter.

"Oh, she does look striking in jewel tones." Cobel twists the fabric between her fingers thoughtfully, but her eyes stay on him all the while.

”You’ve - met with the client before?”

”Yes.” She doesn’t offer more than that. "Imagine the shine of that under the light..."

"What kind of…event is this for?"

"Excellent question. A useful distinction, for sure." Ms. Cobel glances at a sticky note on her calendar. "Looks like a…gala."

Fancy. Mark reaches for the first dress, pulls it aside slightly to get a better look.

He's not well-versed in dresses, but he can tell it would be expensive. Black with a gold sheen to it. Kind of scarce on coverage, from what he can tell, but what material is there feels high-quality.

And the feel…the texture of it is velvety, so different from anything they've had in the shop - woven knits, cottony fair-trade tote bags.

"We're not the first place I'd expect someone to shop for…gala attire," he tries. "Isn't that a little strange?"

"Oh, quite. But every once in a while we have the odd socialite come through the shop, believe it or not."

Hm. He’ll have to take her word for it.

"They're all the proper size - we're just selecting based on style now." She nods to the analog clock in the corner. "She should be here any minute to try them on."

"Oh."

What a day it was turning out to be. A visitor.

"Now, you should keep in mind this is an important client - big name in the area." Cobel interrupts his thoughts. "We need to take very good care of her, Mark."

"Of course." Privately, he's almost hurt she feels the need to make this explicit. He’d do the same for any customer. It’s part of his job.

Feeling a bit out of his depth, Mark flits through the three options on the rack and selects his favorite, mostly based on color - a rich green. The maroon is a close second.

All the while, Cobel is rummaging through one of the overflow cosmetics bins, muttering to herself.

"Do you need help?" he asks automatically.

"Sweet of you, dear, but - ah! There." She waves a small circular tin at him. Mark squints, tracking the jubilant motion. One of their lip balms (organic, vegan, fair-trade, local, the works).

Cobel unscrews the lid. "One moment." She steps behind the glass display counter to halt right in front of him, swirling the tip of her finger inside the tin. "It's this dreadful winter chill, I'm afraid. Leeches the moisture right out of you if you aren't vigilant..."

He's formulating a reply when she steadies his chin with one hand, brings the other to his lips. He sees her fingertips shining with the moisture of the lip balm.

"Hold still," she says impatiently.

He does.

Ms. Cobel is often like this with him - very pushy, with her adjustments and fretting, hovering closer than needed to pick lint off his jacket, or straighten his collar. It's become natural enough. Part of the physical dance of existing in the shop.

Her finger passes over his lips, once, twice, smearing on the balm. 

There's a vaguely citrus scent, he thinks, and then while he's thinking about it, a quiet voice in the back of his mind wonders - is it the balm, or is it something uniquely hers, and if he could just taste it, he might figure it out -

"What's her name?" He blurts out the first question he can think of, desperate to focus on the work.

(He's. At work.)

(Work - the dress, for work. Focus.)

So - her name? A good question, he thinks; a normal one.

He struggles to picture the type of woman who would wear these dresses, though - so he doesn't get very far on the question.

And come to think of it, he struggles to picture any woman, besides the obvious example of his boss.

Yes, he can fish up a blur of approximated characteristics, but the instant he tries to isolate and examine any one individual trait, his amalgamation of impressions poofs clean into dust.

It's starting to bother him.

"Helena," says Ms. Cobel evenly.

Huh. Helena.

Ding.

The bell of the door chimes once more. Cobel withdraws her hand as they both turn.

He notices two things at once.

The burnt copper of her hair.

Then her eyes - dark, wide - swallowing the room. Swallowing him.

It suddenly feels immensely unimportant whether or not he's had another customer before.

She's the only one who matters.

"There you are,” says Cobel warmly, sweeping through the shop floor to meet her halfway. “Let me get a good look at you."

He watches, frozen behind the register, as Cobel guides the other woman's chin with two firm fingers, adjusts her posture. "There you are," she repeats, and steps back.

The touch has a clear effect on her - the lines of her shoulders, her expression, all softening.

And the light is a warmer tone than usual, he realizes, courtesy of the salt lamps and soft lampshades tucked into corners.

There's something murmured he doesn't quite catch, then Cobel sweeps her arm - an invitation. "Shall we?" They move deeper into the shop, but Mark can't summon the courage to follow just yet.

Good lord - he may as well be a mannequin.

"What a nice sofa," the customer - Helena - says lightly, moving delicately through the store as if slightly afraid to touch anything.

Ms. Cobel smiles. "I've set out the dress most suited to your needs there. A recommendation."

"Presumptuous of you," Helena says, though her tone indicates she doesn't mind all that much.

"Presumptuous of us." Ms. Cobel nods, indicating Mark's shared culpability.

Those eyes fix on him again. "Ah."

"This is Mark."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mark." She doesn't extend a hand. Lucky, too, because he's rather occupied walking himself through the process of breathing. Inhale, you idiot.

After a moment's delay, he opens his mouth to return the greeting. Still can't seem to find the words, though he dips his head in what he hopes registers as respectful acknowledgement.

Mercifully, Helena moves through the silence, examining the row of dresses displayed before her.

The customer service orientation did not prepare Mark for this.

Usually, days blend one into the next - pleasant and unremarkable in equal measure.

Privately, he considers it a manifestation of job satisfaction - a side effect of the flow state he enters here. He harbors a small pride knowing he must be right where he belongs.

Though at times, the edges of his recollection sit…uncomfortably. A pebble in his shoe.

If a candle isn't lit, coffee not freshly brewed - it was impossible to ignore the… "new car" scent permeating everything. Like a freshly unwrapped plastic appliance. Uncanny in its purity.

The room - and everything in it - often feels like it sprang into existence the moment before he walked in.

It’s a silly thought, of course. There’s a reasonable explanation, even if it escapes him.

He focuses on the pressing issue: the real, live customer who needs his attention.

Helena takes Mark's second pick - the maroon dress - off the rack. She drapes it across her shoulder, sending the material tumbling over the cream of the simple dress she's currently wearing. "Not a fan of this one, then?" (This with a look of faux accusation.)

"No, I mean - they're all very nice dresses, obviously." He blinks. Something about the way she's looking at him keeps him tripping through the words. "It's just…the green is like a work of art."

She quirks an eyebrow at him. He feels a thrill of excitement.

Helena lets the dress slip from her shoulder, watching it slide carelessly along the side of her body. It forms a shimmering puddle on the floor.

She looks at him with a hint of challenge in her eyes. "Really."

Mark stares at the discarded dress. "Yeah, I mean - " He resists the urge to shove his hands into his pockets like a teenager and lifts his eyes.

He starts again: "It's of course your choice, ultimately, but - well, if you take a look -" (and here he points frantically) "- you'll see our top pick has wonderful…lines to it."

"I never took you for a fashion man, Mark," says Ms. Cobel in mock-awe from behind him.

All his energy is devoted to maintaining a politely interested expression. He's distracted, flustered, and the words come tumbling out: "I don't need to be - I mean, just imagine her -"

Shit. He closes his mouth around the statement entirely too late. Deadly certain his enthusiasm has crossed a line.

Curiously, he sees something like delight bloom on the customer's face. Huh.

He wonders if he'd see it in Cobel's eyes too.

He feels very warm.

"The beauty of it, Mark, is we don't have to imagine." Ms. Cobel steps past him, carefully avoiding the maroon dress abandoned on the ground. "Put that somewhere we won't slip on it, would you, dear?"

He finds the hanger and returns the dress to the rack, relieved to be of use.

When he turns back, the women are standing closer together, watching intently. Watching him.

Mark points to the dress unnecessarily. "Uh. Got it." He barely suppresses the urge to give a thumbs up following the statement.

It's getting bad - forgetting everything he knows about the store, his job. Forgetting anything but the two of them.

"This is the winner?" Helena indicates the green dress, laid over the back of the couch. "Your top pick for me?"

"That's the one."

Her hands trace the neckline absently. "You don't want to see it on me first?"

Mark almost sways where he stands. God, her voice. Low and smooth. He wants her to keep talking, just so he can hear more of it.

"What made you think that?" he manages.

"Well, for one - you haven't helped me try it on yet."

Mark sees himself - as if from outside his body - reach and scoop up the dress. All with a calm he doesn't feel.

"Well…" The material pools as a silky weight in his palm.

She does look striking in jewel tones.

It's plain to see that Helena wants more from him than standard customer service. And Ms. Cobel had said they needed to take very good care of her, after all.

So really, it's just as well that he wants to. Badly.

Which means it's time to give her more.

Yes, it's a risk, but it's one he needs to take.

After his next inhale, he adopts a more casual tone, reflecting her faux-innocent expression back at her. "What kind of help do you need? You're a grown woman."

I can play, too.

Helena smirks, and he knows he made the right call. "So kind of you to notice." She pivots on her heels slowly to reorient, facing away from him. Perfect posture.

Her arms fold behind her back to indicate a zipper, just out of her reach above her shoulder blades.

Mark swallows thickly. 

"You know, Ms. Cobel could help you with this," he says. He gets the sense that she doesn't want him to give in right away. "You don't need me at all."

"She helps me often enough," counters Helena. "It's only fair you get a turn." She angles her head slightly so that even standing behind her, he can see the rise of her cheekbone, the flush dancing there.

An expression he can’t quite parse - expectant?

Hopeful?

Or is he just projecting?

"Mark, sweetheart…" Ms. Cobel draws closer, only worsening the jump of his pulse. "Surely you recall how to work a zipper?"

Keep it moving. He manages not to choke, fumbling with the zipper briefly before pulling it down.

At the midway point, the back panel of Helena's dress curls, pulled open slightly by its own weight. This happens to uncover the thin black lace of her bra, which Mark is not in the slightest prepared for.

He sucks in a breath and looks at the ceiling. "You're all set."

Ms. Cobel seems to take pity on him.

"I suppose I can handle the rest if you're feeling shy." She pats him on the arm as she steps into position behind Helena.

Mark takes a generous step backwards and looks determinedly at a display of beeswax wraps on the opposite wall. Of course, it's a small shop. He can still hear the swishing of fabric, as well as every word the women exchange.

"Your bra will show with the straps on this dress," Ms. Cobel notes suddenly.

"We can't have that," says Helena.

A moment later the lace is tossed merrily to the sofa.

Mark manages not to react. He's memorized the variety of patterns on the beeswax wraps by now.

Then - finally - the sound of the latest dress being zipped. He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding and glances to Cobel first. Just to be safe.

She's still making idle adjustments to how the dress falls, pinching at creases, smoothing down the fabric where it cinches slightly at Helena's waist.

Critically, everyone is properly clothed, and if he ignores the bra strewn across the sofa, he can actually think straight. More or less.

"Well. Look at that." Cobel steps back, and Mark finally allows himself to shift his gaze.

The green, better than he could have imagined. The jewel tones and artsy lines exceed expectations. To say the least.

She was pretty before, in the rather plain work dress she arrived in. But now she's radiant.

"What do you think of it?" Helena asks carefully. She casts her gaze somewhere mid-ceiling, avoiding the mirror.

Cobel speaks first. "I must say I agree with Mark's earlier assessment. It's a work of art."

Helena turns to examine her reflection, mouth beginning to tighten at one corner. She looks…unsure, almost? If someone who looked like that could be insecure…

Well, it boggles the mind, frankly, because Mark's pretty sure she's fit to be a muse for some prolific 18th century painter. Something of the like.

"That will do quite nicely." Cobel glances over pointedly. "Don't you think, Mark?"

He's been hovering on the edge, torn. Eager to be useful, praying to remain courteous.

It's becoming more and more difficult to be both.

"It's perfect," he says - perhaps too sincerely. The balance is tricky.

Helena's lips twitch.

Cobel clasps her hands together decisively. "Mark: your instincts on the dress seem to have paid off. Why don't you help me choose a lipstick for her, too?"

Oh, this is more within a normal day’s range of tasks. Mark feels a flood of relief. Solid ground beneath his feet once more.

Cosmetics are the second-most popular category on their website, just behind the extensive salve selection.

"Take a moment to peruse." Cobel presents a tray with a range of their best sellers.

Mark scans the options, and finds one just a bit darker than the maroon dress. It would go nicely with the green as well. Yes. He suddenly needs to see it on her lips.

Or on her lips on him.

Immediately he scolds himself - Christ, she's a customer.

He banishes any further untoward thoughts and hurries to read the label on the lipstick.

"Uh, this one - 'Wiles.'"

"An excellent choice." Cobel waves him closer. "Help hold her face still for me. We don't want to make a mess."

He tries very desperately to understand this instruction. He's still deliberating when she puts her hand over his, halting his thoughts.

Again, it's not uncommon for Ms. Cobel to move him like he's an extension of herself - or even, something foreign but still moderately useful; a handy tool. But this is different - bringing his fingers to Helena's jaw, the line of her chin.

"Here." Cobel's fingers flex insistently over his. "You have to squeeze."

Hesitantly, he squeezes.

Cobel's hand drops away.

Mark checks Helena's expression - her eyes burn into him. Hazel, he can see now, now that they're close, face-to-face like this. She seems to be waiting. Should he -

"Harder," Cobel insists. Mark jumps and obeys a little too suddenly, startled, and Helena makes a small sound.

Oh no. Mark recoils, dropping his hands and searching her eyes for signs of pain.

"I'm so sorry. Is-"

"Something the matter?" Ms. Cobel asks politely.

Mark laughs uncomfortably, eyes darting between the women. "Well-" He looks at Helena, addresses her: "I…I don't want to hurt you."

Holding his gaze, she wraps both her hands around his and guides him back to her jaw. Oh.

She squeezes until he's applied the pressure once more. Harder than before, even. He thinks he's going to leave a bruise.

She doesn't seem worried in the slightest.

"There," she says, letting him take over.

It suddenly feels very foolish to ask if she's alright.

"Nervous you'll do something wrong?" Cobel drawls from beside him.

He looks at his fingers digging into Helena's jaw. "Well…yeah."

"How sweet," Cobel coos. "It's just as well you aren't the one making the decisions then." She pats his shoulder encouragingly. "No need to fret - as long as you listen."

She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Well, what does he know? Is it?

"You're good people, Mark." Cobel rolls the lipstick up a twist and defines Helena's lips in bold curves against pale skin. Careful and slow.

It's the way she's been touching Helena this whole time.

"Blend," Cobel says, and Helena presses her lips together obediently; Mark feels her jaw shift slightly under his fingers.

"Such smooth application, isn't it?" Cobel uses the side of her finger to clean up a spot by the corner of Helena's mouth. "Done."

Mark lowers his hands, retreats half a step. He's unsure if he's dismissed.

He hopes so. Simply observing is already overwhelming enough.

"Helena," says Cobel thoughtfully, "Why don't we try the second pick - in the interest of being thorough?"

She purses her lips. "Only if Mark doesn't run at the first sign of a zipper."

"Hey." Mark holds up his hands defensively. "I'll have you know I'm feeling very brave at the moment."

"Sure." The challenge is clear - he has to prove it.

So. Next…the maroon. Mark takes it off the rack and hands it to Cobel, then turns slightly to revisit his earlier study of the beeswax wraps.

He might happen to glance over a moment earlier than they finish.

"Oh my God," he says.

"What?" Helena looks almost worried. Again, the absurd uncertainty. Doesn't she know?

"Can I change my answer? I think this is the one." And he's being honest, painfully so. He can't even place all the reasons why, only that the color of it seems to have been invented solely for her. (Or she for it.)

"Does it have even nicer lines than the first?" she quips.

He looks at her with wide eyes. "It just might." Helena laughs at this, and he shakes his head: "No, I'm being serious."

"You haven't seen the rest," she points out, but she looks pleased.

"It does pair quite nicely with the undertones in the lipstick," muses Cobel.

"And the flavoring you might detect in that lipstick? Made with real honey," Mark chimes in, pulling product information from somewhere deep in his mind.

He's proud of his brain for managing it despite the blood-flow being directed elsewhere.

"Is that so…" Helena considers her reflection. "Does it smudge easily?"

"Oh, is that a concern of yours?"

"Perhaps."

Mark makes a valiant effort to recall the customer testimonies from their online orders. "You know, I can pull up our aggregate rankings based on durability…"

"No need," says Ms. Cobel. She's looking at Helena in a way that makes Mark's chest tight. "We can see for ourselves, can't we?"

Mark really isn't sure what she means, even as she reaches to cup Helena's face.

He's confused all the way up until the point that Helena angles her head to accept her kiss, still half-smirking. A second later the smug expression falls away, and Mark watches her give over her focus completely.

Cobel pulls back, eyes moving lazily over Helena's face. "Not an excessive amount of color bleed…but I'm not quite sure. I hope you don't mind us testing again, Mark?"

He imagines what Helena is feeling now, working the knot loose in Cobel's wraparound cardigan. The catch and slide of fabric under her fingertips as her hands move up along the other woman's side.

He's briefly, unexpectedly jealous. Then he swallows it.

It's almost like Ms. Cobel senses it. "We can't forget our dear assistant Mark."

"I could never," Helena insists. "I just wanted to show you off a little." She looks to Mark, as if to say, do you see?

And he does. The contact rearranged something molecular in Cobel - there's a kind of elemental-level effect they have on each other.

Mark looks at her, where Helena's kissed the dark red into her lips, brought the blood high in her cheeks. Her eyes have never been so piercing.

"'Wiles' ended up being a good shade for you, too, Harmony." Helena looks to Mark. "Don't you think?"

He gapes at them.

Cobel speaks before he can gather his thoughts. "There's another dress, isn't there, Helena?"

"There certainly is." They both look to Mark.

He manages to nod politely, and even cobbles together a sentence - "Would you like help with that?"

As it turns out, they do.

Helena assumes the position, faced away, and Mark is the one to help her undress this time. He finds the zipper, fingers surer this time.

"You can touch me, you know," she tells him. He pauses a moment, heart pounding, processing to be sure he hasn't misheard.

"Assist the customer, Mark," Cobel instructs.

So he does.

This time, when the fabric falls open under his hands to reveal the lines of her shoulder blades, he doesn't shy away from contact.

He smooths his palm down her shoulders once, straight down between the blades. She's so soft.

Mark presses into the warmth of her, marveling at the contact - any touch is still a shock, isolated as his job is, and she is new and warm and close.

Then, acting on an intrusive thought, he hooks his finger under one strap of the dress, pulls taut, and lets it snap back into place.

Helena huffs a sigh. "…Really?"

"Well, you said-"

"I said you could touch me," she says, turning to face him. "Not that you could snap my dress strap like a teenage boy."

"Well…" He shrugs. "Maybe next time you should be more specific."

Helena raises her eyebrows. "Next time?" Mark can almost feel the vibration of her words from this distance. She seems to be addressing his lips now; her eyes stay fixed resolutely on his mouth. "You're referring to the next time I tell you to touch me, then?"

"Right," he says.

Helena is already swallowing up his field of vision, so when Mark feels her lips brush against his, he's hardly surprised. It all seems so inevitable, now - just another of his senses falling under her control.

He closes his eyes.

"Mark," she says softly, and he blinks back into that closeness. Her eyes and nothing else. "Would you like there to be a next time?"

God.

His hands come to her face, urgent and uncoordinated. This time, he is the one to kiss her.

She responds instantly, mouth falling open against his. He feels her tug his button-up out of his belt; shortly after that, she's slipping hands under his shirt.

It all happens so quickly, one sensation cascading over the next.

He catches her lips in his teeth - half on accident, really, but she makes a new kind of noise in response, which Mark takes as a sign to continue.

"Mark," says Ms. Cobel softly from beside them, "I think this is getting in the way, no?" And before she's done speaking, her fingers are unbuttoning his shirt.

A natural enough extension of all the times she's straightened his collar, fixed his jacket, but now the touch descends, brushing against his skin.

"Focus, Mark." Helena's breath tickles his ear and he shivers. Her perfume is all around him.

He wants to drop his face to the hollow of her neck and never breathe anything else ever again.

"Focus?" he repeats. This is not very helpful instruction, and they don't seem particularly interested in making it easier on him.

He looks between them helplessly.

Helena takes advantage of the now-vulnerable curve of his neck with her lips, then her teeth, and he lets out a real, honest-to-God gasp.

Fucking embarrassing.

In his defense, her hand has also detached from his waist to palm along the outside of his pants.

"Hey," he says, startled. It's the first thing he can think of. Not his best work.

"Hey yourself." Her fingers press more insistently. "Did you really like the dress that much?"

It takes everything not to rock into her hand.

He throws a look to Ms. Cobel, unsure of what he's even really hoping for. More? Less?

"You're here to help me, remember?" Helena shifts, thumb curling behind the leather of his belt like a restraint. Then she's pulling him flush with the line of her hip, bringing her voice close: "Don't go getting distracted."

"I'd wager Mark is sweet enough to make both of us feel good," Cobel murmurs, brushing her thumb encouragingly over his cheek. "Aren't you?"

He opens his eyes and finds himself nodding dumbly, locked in her gaze.

Her thumb slips into his mouth and yes, he's certain: he'll do anything they want.

Ms. Cobel withdraws her thumb after only a moment. Before Mark can process the pang of disappointment, she brings her fingers to his bottom lip, just like she did to apply the balm earlier that afternoon.

It's a feather-light weight with a hint of more, if he only leans in.

So he does, drawing her fingertips into his mouth with slow suction.

Cobel freezes.

It's hardly anything, barely a reaction, but to see her waver at all is like a drug to him.

"You look so good with her fingers in your mouth," Helena tells him, hand sliding sweetly along his waist.

Encouraged, he sucks harder, bringing the pads of Cobel's fingers deeper so he can sweep his tongue along the underside of them in teasing strokes.

He needs to see her - pulls back to look, and the separation leaves a string of spit briefly bridging her finger and his lips.

But Cobel's already smoothed her expression over. She turns it back on him: "All out of sorts, aren't you?"

With that, she wipes her fingers on his shoulder. Precise, impersonal movements. He can feel the slight tremble in her hand just the same.

"You're quite the mess as well," Cobel says to Helena, clearing her throat. "You didn't even get into the third dress."

It's true - the top half of Dress #2 remains partially unzipped, slouching off her shoulders asymmetrically. But Helena seems unbothered.

She shrugs. "Next time."

"The lipstick was a fine choice, Mark," Cobel adds, examining his neck. He turns his head to catch his reflection: a mix of pink flush on pale skin and the dark smears of 'Wiles.'

Helena looks as well. "I have to agree, Harmony." She looks at Mark. "Shall we continue testing the longevity?"

Oh, fuck. His turn.

He's drunkenly moving to kiss her when she laughs and shakes her head, stops him with a hand on his chest.

"Stay," she says. And that's it.

Helena sinks to her knees, trailing hands down his chest as she goes. Wraps a hand firmly around the back of each of his thighs and tilts her head back to look at him.

God.

Helena quickly gets to work on his belt, then his zipper. She pauses and smiles up at him. "I can work a zipper too," she says.

"You - don't have to do this," he says, unsure of what "this" really is; sure that he wants it anyways.

"But I'd like to."

It's hard to argue with.

Besides, he doesn't have half a chance to form a response before his clothes are in a puddle around his feet on the floor.

Helena sighs appreciatively. "Much better."

She plants an open-mouth kiss to his thigh and he thinks he might pass out. In the next moment, she takes him fully into her mouth.

Fuck.

It's shock of feeling he'd never known was possible, the foreign heat of her mouth suddenly intimately familiar to him.

His hand flies to her hair, stilling her. He thinks of how he used his tongue under Cobel's fingers. 

"Helena, Jesus."

She sits back on her knees, looking up to consider him. "Are you alright?"

He can't handle looking down at her, kneeling sweetly between his feet, hair coming out of her styled ponytail and lipstick-tinted saliva beginning to smear across her face.

He looks anyway, and even a heartbeat of the sight is too perfect to bear.

"Just….wait," he says, raggedly.

"Need a break?" She rises, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. "I might have gotten carried away."

He brushes his finger over a smudge of lipstick on her chin. "Guess I'm not the only one who looks good with something in my mouth."

She rewards him with a smile. "You're funny when you're not too busy being neurotic."

"You seemed to find me pretty funny mid-neuroticism, actually."

"He's got you there, Helena." Cobel is close, smoothing Helena's hair, leaning forward, and Mark gets another wave of a scent he'd noticed before.

"Your perfume," he says suddenly to Ms. Cobel. “It's one of ours, isn't it?"

"It is."

He knew it was familiar - knows it for sure, even as he scrambles to conjure up the name. As he's read many times in their catalogue, the scent reacts slightly differently with every individual wearer's skin.

It takes a warmer note on Cobel.

"You recognize it?" Helena bends slightly to sweep silver hair off of Cobel's shoulders. Gathers it just tightly enough that she has to tilt her head back.

Cobel addresses him, voice low: "Why don't you check, Mark?"

He leans helplessly and suddenly the perfume that has been the backdrop of his world is all around him. Pulling him in. A soft place to land. She lifts her chin higher, proud, and he brings himself within an inch of her pulse. Pauses, heart thudding.

"Imogene," he says, finally. He knows he's right.

He also knows Ms. Cobel can feel the words tickle her neck.

Even after everything, he's afraid to overstep.

"Please," he says quietly. "Can I-" He lifts a hand to her skin, trailing the back of his knuckles under her jaw as lightly as he can manage. "Please."

Helena's hands work Cobel's cardigan loosely off her shoulders, peel it off completely. "Listen to how sweetly he's asking, Harmony."

"Go on," she says softly to him. He presses his face into her neck and breathes deeply.

Helena has freckles sporadically, far flung constellations. Cobel has small, faint smatterings of them, most concentrated in the clusters on her shoulders. Her nose, now that he looks very carefully. Probably other places, too.

He turns his face inward, toward her skin, and brushes his lips there - not quite a kiss. He's still terrified he'll find himself doing something horribly wrong. Misreading it. But he can't think to worry much anymore, blind with how much he wants.

She shivers when he lets his tongue dart out, a tentative taste. It's hardly anything, but he strains with the effort of keeping himself still. Quiet. Obedient.

Instead of sating him, it only makes the need worse.

"Please," he says again. It worked before, didn't it? But she lifts his chin with two fingers - the way she did upon inspecting Helena at the door - and he makes a soft noise of disappointment at the distance put between them.

"We're helping the customer right now, Mark," she says, but her fingers don't leave his chin.

"The customer requires a demonstration," Helena argues.

Mark raises his eyebrows. "The customer is always right."

"It sounds like you're outnumbered, Harmony."

Without waiting for a response, Helena walks over to the couch and sits.

After a pause, Cobel follows, Mark trailing after her.

"You know, Mark," Helena says, pulling on Cobel's hand until she relents and sits with her. "I have a sofa just like this in my art studio. Though this appears to be a much more…spacious version."

"Your studio." He wishes he could see it. "We have some natural-ingredient art supplies somewhere here…"

"You'll show me next time?"

"Of course."

"Ms. Cobel here sat for me once," Helena continues. "We didn't quite finish the sketch, but she makes for a lovely subject."

He wants to say: I'm sure. He wants to kiss her, the way Helena kissed him. He wants to remember what the rules are, instead of all this guessing.

"Please," he says, and when Cobel looks at him this time, her expression has softened enough that he feels the courage to try.

She allows it, still and quiet, but when his hand comes to her hair, she responds.

In his time in the shop, there are sounds he's heard when she rolls her neck from side-to-side, awaits his reaction to a new cookie recipe - the hitch and gasp of delight.

She sounds like that now, but a hundred times better. And she sounds like it against his mouth.

"Harmony," says Helena, amused, "how long have you been wanting to do this?"

"Hush."

The color in her cheeks has spread, flushing down her neck. Mark wants to trace it, chase it wherever it leads.

Helena tugs a pillow from the edge of the sofa and tosses it by Cobel's feet, shifts smoothly to settle there on the floor, playing with the abstract patterns of the material.

Before long, she reaches higher.

Mark's view is obscured by the layers of the skirt, but by Cobel's reaction he can tell the sensations are only getting more intense.

He's about to try to kiss her again when she twists and presses her face against his chest - sudden and unexpected contact. Oh.

Her breath lands hot against his skin, and he’s grateful she peeled off his shirt minutes before. It's closeness in a form he didn't know he was allowed to have.

Mark brings a hand up to keep her head there against his chest, selfish, protective. He runs his palm over the silver of her hair - such a particular shade. So suited to her.

He wants to tell her these thoughts, but the truth of it isn't so simple. He doesn't know what this is, or where it ends, even - so he buries it. For now.

She exhales sharply and they both look down together to where Helena's arm has disappeared up her skirt.

"You've been enjoying this quite a bit," says the younger woman.

Cobel groans, half-warning and half-plea.

"Sounds like she's ready," Helena tells Mark. "Unfortunately, we have to get past this absurd quilt of a skirt."

"There's no need to be rude," Cobel grumbles.

Helena rolls back the fabric methodically, running her hand along the pale skin that she exposes. "Mark, you'll need to let her lay back a bit more and come over here by me, okay?"

He shifts so Cobel can lean away from his chest, creating distance and reclining against the couch.

He suddenly feels extremely exposed. Helena half in her gala dress, Cobel having only lost her cardigan, skirt peeled back…

But they're looking at him like this is the most natural thing, the way it's simply to be - this universal truth, that he moves at their command.

Assuming he'll simply listen, as they murmur to each other and Helena's hands ease Cobel's legs apart and he feels himself drawn to her in the most basic animal gravity.

He'd thought Helena was the doll, when they dotingly removed and replaced one gorgeous dress after the other, when Cobel ran the lipstick over her lips as the finishing touch.

But he's beginning to feel as though he's the one being played with.

Though. Would that be so bad?

It's perhaps a question for another time.

Now is the touch and closeness and newness, over and over in a rollercoaster he can't see the end of. At this point Helena is guiding him, and Cobel's legs are on either side of him, firmly, and he doesn't even know what he doesn't know.

"I'll help you," Helena says beside him, as if hearing his thoughts.

Like before, he feels like he's watching from somewhere else, even as she says it, even as she's lining him up and pressing her hand to the small of his back -

He sits back, tense. "I really can't remember much of - I don't know how to do this."

It was one thing to squeeze Helena's jaw a little. He doesn't want to hurt Ms. Cobel - not like this, when she's unguarded and waiting for him, wanting him -

"Helena. Give him a moment, hm?"

Even reclining, Cobel still has her chin lifted in that proud line. Impossible to ignore. Mark bends to kiss right along her pulse, where he found the scent of Imogene strongest before.

She says his name against the crown of his head.

"You'll help me?" he says, without moving from her neck.

"Come here."

And they're shifting again, sweetly, slow (for his benefit, not for hers) and the only thing to do is put his weight into the motion and push inside her.

She instantly moves to meet him, hips rising slightly on a slow exhale. "There you go, Mark." He pauses, and she reaches to cup his face. "Sweetheart. You need to trust that I can handle it."

Helena translates: "Enough to make you worried you'll hurt her, and then make it harder than that."

"That's a rather off-putting description, Helena," Cobel mutters.

"It's true."

And this point meets no argument, so Mark does his best, tentatively increasing the weight he puts behind each movement until the contented hums start becoming sharper sounds.

"Mark, that's-" She drops her hands to his hips and urges him deeper. “That’s…very nice." Then she seems done with speaking for the time being, turning her face against the couch cushion.

Mark looks to Helena, worried. "Is-"

"She's going to come soon," she tells him. "But you aren't allowed to yet, understood?" Her eyes lock on him fervently. "You're to save it for me."

He nods, as if the instructions alone don't threaten to unravel him.

"Mark. Can you do that for me?"

Cobel laughs, half-muffled against the couch - "Look at him. He'll do anything for you."

He flushes, but it's rather late in the game to deny it.

"I will," he says, to both of them, and says it again to Cobel, digs his fingers into the softness of her hips, making sure she understands - "I will. I'll take care of her."

"I know," she breathes, and it seems the assurance has dissolved some final restraint in her. "You're good enough to take care of both of us, you're -" They both shudder as he moves more earnestly, proving her right. "You just want to be good for us - don't you?"

He can only look at her, desperate, and hope she understands.

"Show me," she growls.

He wants to - badly. With the next stroke he feels her pulse around him, and she turns her face into the couch more firmly.

The sounds she muffles become sharper, rougher - surprise followed by relief, and she taps at his shoulder, dazed. "You did, y-" She breathes, with little hiccuped interruptions, and starts again. "You showed me. You did." He hears her distantly - "Mark, you can stop."

He slows and pulls out. Most of all he wants to see her face, how it's changed.

Her fingers loosen around his arms, finally relaxing.

"Sorry," he says. "Buffering time is a little. Off." He moves to sit beside her legs instead of between them, privately wishing she'd lean her head against his chest again.

"No, it's…" She waves a limp hand. "No. Good."

Helena leans forward. "Thank you for the demonstration, you two."

Mark watches her working her fingers between Cobel's, interlacing them. Watches as the older woman lets her head tip back to rest against the cushion again, looking more human than he's ever seen her.

She pulls Helena's hand to her lips and leaves it there while her breathing slows.

Once she’s calmer, she fixes her with a half-power version of her stern look. "You really must have a comment for everything, hm?"

The complaint is colored with fondness all the way through.

Mark can see it as Cobel turns to press her lips to Helena's shoulder. "Give me a moment to catch my breath, hm?"

"That good?" Helena teases.

"Oh, I'll let you decide for yourself." Cobel trails her fingers absently down Helena's bare arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. "God, you’re going to be a sight to see together."

"Oh?" Helena laughs. "It sounds like you're already back in the director's chair."

Cobel shakes her head. "Why don't you go on with it. I'll catch up to you." Then, nearly pitying: "You don't much look like you can wait."

Mark's chest tightens at the cloud of hunger that passes over Helena's face.

It seems Ms. Cobel sees it too. "You'd better hurry, Mark," she warns. "Seems like she's rather worked up already." She smiles lazily. "Sensitive thing."

Helena moves, urgent and a little clumsy, to swing her legs over Mark and straddle him.

"Shit," he says. There she is, pressing herself against him, onto him, and where he'd feverishly half-imagined lace to match her bra, she's evidently elected to wear nothing under the dress.

He isn't ready for the slip of her against him, her heat.

"Fuck," she says, half a second before he thinks the same thing.

"Shit, Helena -" He closes his hands around her waist harder than he needs to, harder than he means to.

This has the unintended side effect of Helena producing a delightful sound. 

He halts her progress, the barest amount away from truly being inside her.

"Don't tease," she says desperately.

"I'm not, I just-" he digs his fingers in, bunching the fabric. "Hold still, my God." Then he looks at her properly and realizes. "Wait, the dress."

"You…don't want to fuck me in the dress?" Helena asks incredulously.

"No, it's just…it's a really nice dress." Mark's already laughing at himself before the sentence is fully out.

After a second of visible confusion, she joins him.

"Let me guess - the lines?"

"That's exactly right." He reaches around to help her finish unzipping.

"Oh, take your time, sweet girl," admonishes Cobel from beside them, smoothing her hand along Helena's back once she's shimmied out of the dress completely. "Good things come to those who wait, hm?"

Helena shifts to straddle above him again, with admittedly a little more restraint this time.

She settles, leaning to bring her face right above his.

"Thank you," he says, stupidly, mesmerized by the strands of hair that fall forward to curtain her face.

In response, Helena tips her forehead into the crook of his neck, little breaths heating his skin.

He can feel exactly how badly she needs him. But despite all this, she waits. It makes him dizzy, knowing someone this perfect could exist.

"You're so good," he says.

She needs to know. He needs to be sure she knows.

She groans. "You're certainly not making it very easy."

He laughs, pushes his mouth against hers without finesse, the both of them half-surprised at his initiative, but doubly ready -

"Alright," he says, when he reluctantly breaks the kiss. "…Listen, alright. I won't stop you this time."

"Yeah?" Her huge dark eyes search his, dangerously eager.

"Yeah."

She licks her teeth, considering, and grinds her hips down. Taking him.

And true to his word, he doesn't stop her this time.

"Pretty girl," Cobel says beside them. She's recovered enough to prop herself up on her arms, observing. "Oh - look at how much you needed him.” She lifts shining fingers to show them both.

Mark's hands fly to Helena's hips and hold her still once more.

"Holy shit," he says urgently. "Don't-" A golden line of tension flexes along his legs. Okay. "Okay."

"Feeling alright there, Mark?"

"Before - it's just - it's been a while," he says gruffly, though he has no way of verifying this.

For him, at least, today's the first time.

Focus. His hands slide to her waist and bring her down on him harder.

She falls forward to brace her hands on his chest.

"It seems like you haven't forgotten much," she says. "Lucky me."

"Like riding a bike," he says, and instantly hates himself for it.

Helena luckily seems far too gone to register his lameness. She brings herself nearly all the way off of him, then sinks down again. Mark lifts his hips to meet her, and the build begins again in earnest.

"No, come back," he says, when she moves to sit upright. "I want to kiss you again."

She smiles and drops her face over his, and when he kisses her he can feel the whole of her body relax against his.

He can feel Cobel shift beside them. "Look at how she responds to you, Mark."

And he does. He feels it, too.

He puts weight into his feet at the end of the couch and pushes harder into her.

She makes a sound that he immediately needs to hear again, so he repeats the motion, earning it.

"Please -" Helena moves against him with increasing urgency.

Mark can tell she can't get a handle on the pace or pressure through all the overwhelm.

He’s very eager to be helpful.

Mark works the angle until she has all of him, and for the first time she sounds truly helpless.

Good.

He flexes his fingers in the vice grip on her waist and pushes deeper up into her. The only thing that matters is chasing the helpless whines spilling out of her mouth on every sharp exhale.

Helena leans forward again, the weight of her head falling into the curve of Mark's neck.

He welcomes her back, wrapping an arm around her, keeping her close. With another shift of his leg positioning he manages to keep the same pace.

Helena makes a strained sound into Mark's neck.

He wants to hear it forever.

"Show Mark how good you can be.” Ms. Cobel strokes her back as she shakes. "I bet you're squeezing around him so perfectly right now."

”She is - you are, fuck.” Mark half-laughs, delirious with the sensation. “Oh my God.” 

“Yeah?” Helena seems to like the sound of that.

”You’re taking me so well,” he says, dizzy.

Helena startles at the words, head rearing back, and Mark almost thinks he said something wrong, made a horrible mistake.

But then he can feel her, unmistakably and violently falling apart around him, feels her jaw working uselessly where her face presses beside his, like she's had the breath clean knocked out of her - just from the praise, so sweet -

He surges up, brings his lips right behind her ear. "Pretty girl," he breathes, straining with the effort it takes not to fall over the edge with her.

He's not sure how long he can manage, with the choked sounds she's making into his neck, but he makes a valiant effort, now that he knows how powerfully the words affect her. "Keep coming for me."

She does. Wild and barely holding on, clutching at him with feverish intensity, blunt nails imprinting half crescent insults into his shoulders. He'll wear any marks with pride.

Cobel is making comforting noises beside them. "You're doing so well," she tells her. "Just a little more - don't you want to feel him fill you up, sweetheart?"

He shatters like that, with her all around him. Both of them all around him.

The world has been flung miles away, but he can hear Helena's broken little gasps perfectly. Follows them, sets his breathing to match hers as she slows.

In bits and pieces, his body comes back under his control. Disjointed parts of a very confused whole.

He has to work to draw in the oxygen, keeping his eyes open, keeping them full of Helena.

Even as his pulse settles to a resting pace, his mind circles the same thought in useless awe: There's no way this is real life.

Harmony feels a hazy contentment, lingers in the hum of it.

"Clean her up," she says, once Helena has finally begun to breathe normally again.

Mark stares dumbly for a moment longer - adorable - before falling back to his hands and knees, scooting back on all fours to lower between her thighs.

"Good boy," she says appreciatively, reaching to stroke his hair. She knew he'd figure it out.

He makes a strangled sound at this, muffled where he's pressed against Helena.

They both still tremble from the intensity of before.

But Mark proves determined, dogged; quickly it's apparent Helena will get no reprieve.

He keeps the electric drag of contact, again and again, holding her against an impossible line of sensation.

Feeling it all so deeply, as she usually does.

Such a sweet thing, both.

Harmony waited a long time to find the exact right pet for Helena…pliable, lovable, and the chip in his brain certainly helped.

But she'd been truly sure of her choice the moment Mark saw her for the first time.

She could see it in his eyes, the most peculiar disorientation. Like the world had been tipped off its axis. Helena had that effect.

Poor lost thing.

He's already re-oriented himself to look to her as a new Due North. Harmony can't blame him. It's a star she's followed before, after all.

She takes it in: Helena in the clouds and him between her legs - an eager thing, with the enthusiasm of a much younger man trying to impress his lover.

Harmony had debated if the age difference would prove problematic - lackluster performance, disconnected cultural spheres - but in the end she thinks Helena likes it that way. Someone older to take care of her.

She could have guessed as much.

Now she inspects the fruits of her labor: his hands gripping Helena's thighs, anchoring fingerprint into skin.

Moving together so perfectly, attuned to the other's actions and reactions as though it's been this way forever.

"You look good together," Harmony tells them.

Helena huffs a laugh that cuts off in a sharp exhale. Then a wordless, helpless cry as Mark finds a particularly sensitive spot.

Soon after, Helena shivers and pushes herself up onto her elbows, and Harmony sees it plainly in her face, manifestations of deeply entrenched fears - losing control, being found excessive or lacking. All potentially devastating.

Harmony wants to reach for her, but she makes herself wait. Even as she decides as much, Mark is soothing back over Helena with a gentler tongue, thumb circling reassurances where he touches her hip, warm pressure saying: I won't let you get swallowed in it forever. I'll be here.

It stirs a feeling in Harmony that she doesn't care to name - something warm with painful edges.

She watches a moment, then lets her eyes drift closed to focus on touch alone, an anchoring hand resting on Helena's shoulder.

⊹

Later, at the end of Mark’s ‘shift,’ they clean Mark up and usher him to the door, where he fumbles through a sheepish goodbye to Helena, ducking his head.

Harmony - who has managed to make herself look more or less work-appropriate once more - reaches behind the register for a tiny portable radio she'd concealed earlier.

"Goldfish," she says evenly into the receiver. A beat later, she watches Mark's eyes go blank.

"This way, please." She brings him into the hall, where he is immediately led back to the elevator as though heading up for a normal end-of-day.

Nurse Cecily passes them in on her way to Gemma Scout's evening check-in; she glances at them with her usual sour expression but says nothing.

Officially, the "shop" is written off as partnership with O&D for human testing of salves and the like - an objectively important step preceding approval of mass production.

And yes, Harmony has enough sway to take some creative license with the set-up, so she's led him to believe he's in a Severed department of one. Two, counting her. And now…a visitor.

Unofficially, she figures she's more than earned a little fun in the span of decades of service to the company.

It feels more than worth it, looking at Helena now.

Harmony raises her eyebrows. "Well?"

Helena has sprawled herself like a cat on the sofa. She seems to already be quite comfortable, following Mark's warm welcome.

"You want to hear me say it," she guesses.

Harmony comes to sit beside her. "Of course I do, you dolt."

Helena gives in easily. "He was perfect."

Harmony kisses the corner of her jaw, following the messy path of remnant lipstick smudges. "Oh, I'm certainly glad to hear it."

"And you enjoyed yourself as well."

"Motivated purely by generosity."

"Now why do I find that hard to believe?" Helena leans into her.

"Like I said," Harmony says, a touch breathier this time - "Pure generosity."

"Hm."

There's a soft near-silence as Helena's hand wanders.

Then:

"If I make you come really hard, will you let me sleep at yours this time?"

Her voice is a shade too earnest. Easy to see through as always.

Harmony furrows her eyebrows. "You certainly aren't asking for the rusty twin bed at Baird Creek?"

"Is it actually a twin?" Helena looks faintly scandalized. "I thought that was a joke." She shakes her head. "I'm upgrading you." 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to use the company card again."

Helena pretends to consider it. "Hmm…would that convince you?"

Harmony levels her with a reproachful look. "You know you shouldn't stay."

She does her due diligence, saying the words. They both know it's futile.

Helena throws her arms around her neck, sensing victory nearing. "There are many things you shouldn't do," she says archly, "and I find you often do them all the same."

Harmony slowly turns her face to brush her lips over the girl's neck, in the tantalizingly slow touches she knows she likes. "When you put it like that…"

"Yes?"

"Yes." With her face buried in Helena's hair, Harmony allows herself a small smile. "But you better keep your end of the bargain."

Helena sighs in triumph as Harmony's arms wind around her. "When have I not?"