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Just Good Friends	By : auntfanny Category: +1 through F > Dungeons and Dragons Views: 2198 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dungeons and Dragons, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Just Good Friends
- 2-Two
- 1
- 2
DD2 - The New Adventures
9a - JUST GOOD FRIENDS

Ah, Bonjour again, mes amis. OK, this ficlet is actually a part of the DD2 New Adventures, which can be found on www.randomscribbles.co.uk - It’s set 7 years after the original show, and the characters have gone through some changes and difficult times over the intervening years, which is why some of them may seem a little OOC. This interlude will make more sense if you’ve read the rest of the Adventures (it takes place between parts 9 and 10) or it can be read out of context as a little PWP with two lesser-used pairings.

To get you up-to-date, The kids went back to Earth, and Hank & Sheila started dating pretty much immediately. Diana became hooked on a string of short term relationships. Eric’s crush on Diana grew, but he never had the guts to ask her out. Hank, in the meantime, slowly went into a spiral of self destruction. He cheated on Sheila a few times, which she doesn’t know about. They were all then dragged back to the Realm 7 years later, where Hank and Sheila’s now strained relationship finally fell apart. Eric and Diana became an item very briefly, but they broke up again soon after. This story takes place immediately after ‘No Rest For The Wicked’ - Eric has finally broken under a lot of emotional turmoil, Sheila has created a shrine to all of their friends who have been killed so far, and after a brief Rebound Fling with a Bandit girl, Hank has found himself in a lot of peoples’ Bad Books...

Oh yes, and as I have said before, these Characters don’t belong to me, I didn’t create them, merely roughed up their edges a little. This fic, like all my fics, is for joy, as opposed to profit.

Scribbles, and her Aunt Fanny xxx

-x-

Crying. He remembered her crying. The streets were twinkling with bright Christmas lights and thrumming with false Seasonal Cheer, and there, in the middle of all that tinsel and ticky-tacky, there she was. That dark, strong pillar of solitary strength. Crying her heart out.
‘Diana?’
Maybe she heard him, maybe she didn’t. Either way, she didn’t look up. She kept her forehead pressed against the shop’s display window, sobbing.
‘Diana!’
He ran across the street to her, narrowly missing two cars. She only turned to him when he put his hand on her shoulder. God, he hated seeing her cry like that. This was only the third time he had ever seen her so bad. She looked up at him, ever so briefly, then broke down on his shoulder, the same way she had that time outside the hospital.
‘Hey...’ he wrapped his arms around her, and held her tight. It wasn’t really a Romantic gesture as such. It might have looked that way to a passer-by, but it wasn’t. They were just really good friends. ‘Hey. What happened?’
Diana didn’t answer. She just kept crying.
‘Weren’t you supposed to go to Switzerland with the Guys today?’
Mid sob, Diana released a frustrated wail into his shoulder.
He tutted, reaching a hand up to stroke her hair. ‘Sore point?’
Diana pulled away from him a little, choking on her words.
‘I was looking forward to it so much, Hank. So were they. You should have seen him, he was so disappointed.’
Hank nodded, reflectively. Eric had been planning that Christmas trip to his Mother’s holiday home with Presto and Diana since the summer. He hadn’t mentioned it, but Hank knew that Eric’s excitement hadn’t just been for seeing his Mother again, or the fortnight of skiing and snowboarding amid the beauty of the Alps. He had wanted to show his fellow holiday makers off to his Mom. He had wanted to show her the young man who was, these days, the closest to a brother he was ever going to get, and he had wanted to show her the woman that he loved. He may even had been planning on telling Diana that this was the case, or at least asking her out on a date. And Hank had a funny feeling that she’d probably have said yes.
‘So...’ attempted Hank, ‘So why didn’t you go?’
‘I had a phone call this morning...’ Diana trailed off as her face creased up with more tears.
‘Shit.’ Hank put his hands on her trembling shoulders. ‘Is it serious?’
‘That depends,’ sniffed Diana. ‘I was told not to come. I was told I wasn’t welcome.’
‘What?’
‘She said... she said she knew what I was trying to do. Said I wasn’t gonna get my hands on his inheritance, so I might as well give up on it right now.’
‘Eric’s Mom called you? Does he know?’
‘She said that the others at her Ski Club didn’t take kindly to... to My Kind.’
‘Oh...’ Hank was speechless. ‘Oh... Diana...’
‘And I know I’m not the type to back down to that sorta thing, normally, but... she’d have made it so hard for Eric if I’d have gone, and he’d have stuck up for me, and it’s taken him years to start talking to his Mom again. I didn’t wanna wreck all that for him for a couple of weeks in the snow. But... it’s... it’s just so...’
Hank pulled her to him again. ‘Diana. I’m so sorry. I mean, I know Eric always said that woman brings a whole new meaning to Bitchiness, but... I didn’t even know shit like that still went on.’
‘It does,’ sighed Diana. ‘Not much, but it still does.’ She wiped her eyes against her gloves. ‘It didn’t matter in the Realm. Why the Hell does it have to matter here?’
Hank nodded. ‘And we always thought it was that world that was the crazy one.’
‘...so I told him I had the Flu,’ concluded Diana. ‘You should have seen him, Hank. He was so pissed.’ She sighed. ‘And now he’s not even here to cheer me up.’
Hank dug his hands into his pockets and smiled at her. ‘Well, Bert and Ernie may be enjoying Switzerland with the Nazis and the GF and her brother may be away enduring their own relatives, but you still got one friend stuck at home for the Holidays.’
Diana gave him a small smile in return. ‘I’m glad.’
‘Listen, I may not have the cash or the terrible haircut, but maybe I can be your Eric for the night? Cheer you up?’
Diana laughed. ‘I’d prefer it if you were just my Hank.’
Hank nodded, and put his arm around her. ‘Deal. Now let’s go and get blind steaming drunk.’

-x-

They had had so much fun that night. They had laughed and drank as if there was no tomorrow for them. Little did they know that there really was no tomorrow for them as a pair. They would never laugh or joke together again. The midwinter sun had risen on their long, close friendship for the last time.
That was then. And this was now. And Hank was facing another morning being despised by the best two girls in his life. Nym was already gone, running after that damn group of bandits - fickle, feral stray that she was. And he was alone again. Alone, in a mouldy cave, in some armpit corner of a miserable, dying Realm. And there was crying. There was so much crying. It was like some sort of orchestrated chorus of lachrymosy, since all of the others had taken Eric’s lead in shedding several tears that morning. Hank had to remind himself that none of the others had ever seen the Cavalier in such a state of distress. It certainly came as quite a shock to the system to see the dark youth break like that. And then there were the deaths, of course.
Hank folded his arms, picked his way past the Acrobat in the doorway, without exchanging so much as a glance, as usual, and stepped out of the cave.
The bright morning sunlight had done nothing to lighten anybody’s spirits. Bobby and Uni were slumped together against the outside wall of the cave, the young Barbarian combing his thick fingers through the unicorn’ s mane fretfully, his reddened eyes shut against the suns. Presto was pacing, hugging himself and watching the ground. Hank turned, and saw the couple at the makeshift shrine, and froze, despite himself.
Eric and Sheila were practically glued together. The arms that pulled their bodies together were tense and locked. The fingers that she bunched into his short hair were white at the knuckles. They were one. They were one skinny, pale, trembling mountain of grief. A crowbar couldn’t have got them apart, which was a pity since had Hank a crowbar to hand, he’d have definitely given it a try. He wanted to march right up and rip them out of one another's’ embrace. But that wouldn’t be appropriate. Sheila wasn’t his girlfriend any more, as if that changed the way he felt. And besides, Sheila and Eric were Just Good Friends.
Right.
Where had he heard that one before?

Presto stopped pacing and glanced up at him.
‘You sleep at all?’ Presto’s facial expression and tone was flat, blank, as it so often was these days. The Wizard didn’t exactly appear calm, but... opaque. Deceptively so, like a two-way mirror. You knew you were being watched from the other side, but when you tried to look back, all you could see was your own reflection. It was dangerous.
Hank nodded curtly, trying to match Presto’s Poker Face. ‘A little.’ He thought momentarily, then added ‘has she been crying like that all night?’
‘Hmm,’ replied Presto, watching Hank watching Sheila.
‘Get some rest, Sheila.’ Presto softened his tone a little for the Thief, making it sound more like a suggestion than an order.
There was a small squeak of defiance from Sheila’s direction.
‘C’mon, Sis...’ attempted Bobby before being cut off with another wordless complaint from his tearful sister.
Hank pushed a hand through his long hair, irritably. ‘Sheila, you’re exhausted. Would you just go and get some sleep?’
Sheila looked up, for once, and eyed him angrily. ‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do, Hank Van Walwyck.’

Hank knew that mood. He sighed and turned back into the cave, tripping slightly over Diana’s legs as he did so. The Acrobat gave him a long, cold glare, and then turned her attentions back to watching Eric.

Hank slumped down in a corner of the cave, and wondered how it had all come to this. There was a time when it was he that they’d all care about so much - he that Sheila would hold tightly, he that Diana would watch with quiet, fond concern. And it would be Eric who would be left out in the cold.
From his dark corner, he watched Diana, letting his eyes trace over the familiar curves and lines of her back.
Once upon a time they’d both picked him over Eric.
Not that long ago, really. Not that long ago at all.

-x-

‘Ichy-Kichy-Ya-Ya-Mama!’
They drank so much that night that she started singing Lady Marmalade. So regularly did she sing that song when dangerously drunk that her friends had worked out some years ago that that was the sign that they’d all had enough and it was time to go home. He walked her back to her house, arm in arm, giggling drunkenly and showering her with compliments. It wasn’t a come-on. He meant it all. She was a Goddess. That it hadn’t been him who had coined that name for her didn’t matter, nor did the fact that he wasn’t planning on telling her about the reams of poetry about her that he knew existed in somebody else’s journal.
She was a fucking Goddess. And if Eric couldn’t find a way to tell her that, well, somebody was going to have to.

They stood outside her front door, smiling at one another for too long, way too long. He didn’t want to leave. They were having such a good time. Besides, she was hesitating too.
‘Nobody’s home,’ said Diana eventually, by way of explanation.
‘Uh-huh...’ Hank blew onto his cupped hands.
‘You...’ Diana faltered. ‘You could stay over... Sleep... sleepover...’
There was nothing Funny about it. They had slept in caves and around campfires together for nearly two years. They trusted each other. They were just very, very good friends.
He put his arm around her and guided her inside. ‘Sure.’

He knew he shouldn’t be there. Not alone, not drunk, not with her. A few years ago he would have put her, fully clothed, into bed, given her a jug of water and a sick bucket, tucked her in, let himself out and walked home alone. But these days there was so much that he did that he shouldn’t. He looked himself in the bathroom mirror, watching the reflection of his face swim in front of him as he listened to her crashing around in the kitchen beneath him, attempting to fix two cups of coffee. It wasn’t his face any more. He wasn’t him any more. He had become unrecognisable beneath a layer of... of what? Did losing control and responsibility make him crazy, or sane? Was it really a loss, or a learning curve?
He dug deep into a pocket and brought out a small tin, opened it and unwrapped the little cellophane bag inside.
He wasn’t the same person that had lead a ragtag bunch of children through a nightmare world, battling demons and druids and always coming out of every scrape so very perfectly, always perched so neatly on the moral highground. He was the sort of person who would put an unwitting, drunken, beautiful friend’s toilet seat down and make a neat little line of powder on it and roll up a bank note and...
... and he didn’t understand how he had become so alien to himself. He didn’t know when or how he had turned down that road, or whether it was a road of self destruction or self discovery. Which was the true version of himself? Had he created layers of falseness or stripped them away? He didn’t know. He didn’t know.
The powder was gone. He stood up, gazing his reflection in the eye as the rush took him over. He was real. He was alive, right now, and he felt so good. This was the sort of person that he was, dammit. The sort of person to be in a girl’s house when his girlfriend was out of town. He set his face, forcing Sheila from his mind. He had to live life moment by moment. That was what mattered. That was what mattered.

She met him with a glass of juice at the foot of the stairs.
‘Sorry,’ she grinned, ‘couldn’t really master the coffee machine tonight.’
He laughed, leading her into the living room. ‘Juice is fine.’
They sat down together on the floor, and touched their glasses together, clumsily.
‘To two great friends.’
‘To Eric’s Bitch Mother,’ added Hank. ‘With her uncanny knack of looking at a picture of a smart, funny, gorgeous, accomplished Olympic medalist and seeing nothing but Black skin. Wherever you are, you fucking bitch, I thank you. Because your loss is my gain.’
He noted her sad smile. ‘Hey, you wouldn’t seriously rather be skiing with him than having fun with me, would you?’
Diana shrugged, despondently. ‘Do you think... d’you think he Likes Me? I mean, in That Way?’
Hank snorted a small laugh. ‘To be honest with you, I’m not sure even he knows what he wants. He’s still pretty screwed up, y’know...’ He paused, watching her. ‘Why? Do you think if he did, you might... you two might end up...’
‘I don’t know,’ frowned Diana. ‘In the words of Henry Higgins, I’ve grown accustomed to his face.’
‘Hmm,’ replied Hank.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What?!?’
‘It’s just... don’t take this the wrong way, Diana...’ Hank licked his lips. ‘I can’t say if anything happened between the two of you that I’d approve. That’s all.’
‘Really?’ Diana ran her finger over the rim of the glass. ‘I mean, why? He’s a good guy.’
Hank shook his head. ‘He’s still Eric. He can grow up just as much as he likes, he’ll still be the whiny kid that nearly got us killed about a hundred times...’
‘And saved our lives about a hundred more...’
‘It doesn’t matter, Diana. He’s still not good enough for you.’
Diana blinked, and sat back a little. ‘Oh.’
Hank set his glass down. ‘Does it surprise you that I feel that way?’
Diana shook her head. ‘I just never imagined you’d say it out loud, that’s all...’
‘Don’t you know that I love you, Diana?’
‘You know how I feel about you, Hank. More than just liking you. You’re, um... you’re a sexy guy, OK? But you’re with my best fr...’
‘Cm’here...’
He leaned in and kissed her on the lips. It could have been seen as a platonic kiss... well... almost platonic. He felt her give in to it for the briefest moment before she pulled away.
‘Diana...’
Diana looked down at the floor. She was swaying. Or maybe that was just his vision.
‘Hank... this isn’t right... it’s bad of us to feel this way.’
He took her arm. ‘I can’t help the way I feel.’
‘But what about Sh...’
‘Ssshhhhh.’ He hushed her before she could say That Name. He didn’t want That Name that night. He didn’t want to know about sweetness or dependancy. He wanted something that his long term girlfriend couldn’t give him. Raw, destructive passion. He craved it like a drug. A life affirming, amoral roll in the hay with a beautiful woman. A raised middle finger to the old way of life that he had given up on years ago. It was bad of them. Of course it was bad of them. He loved being bad. He loved to feed the Beast that wanted to burn his house down.

They were kissing again. He wasn’t sure who’d started it, but pretty soon she was lying on top of him, taking the lead. He reached up and started tugging at her sweater, picturing all the times he’d seen her skimpily dressed - at athletics, at the beach, in the Realm - he already knew the inward curve of her spine, and the taut lines of her midriff and the swell of her breasts so well. He’d watched them grow and change as they’d gone through puberty together. He recalled one awkward moment from the old days in the Realm, turning a corner and accidentally catching her in a state of undress. He’d been so embarrassed and apologetic at seeing that young body naked. He honestly couldn’t remember what it was like to feel that way. All he remembered now was how large and dark her nipples had been, and how the tops of her thighs etched a faint Y shape, warm and brown and shining with her bathing water, and the small clutch of wet, black hair in the centre, inviting him in. He wanted to see those parts of her again, now. And he wasn’t going to turn away or apologise. He was going to do what any sane man would. He made fast work of stripping her, not even bothering to pull her jeans or underpants over her ankles.
There they were. The sacred, secret parts of Diana Jones. They were even prettier now than they had been back then.

He didn’t want to take it slow. He didn’t want to lie around, kissing or talking. He could feel that wasn’t what she wanted either. She sat up on him, her drunken hands fumbling with his belt and fly. She didn’t even bother to strip him, but pushed his pants down and his shirt up over his nipples. He noticed that her hands were sweaty and trembling. He was shaking too. He closed his eyes as she ran her lips down the centre of his torso, down to his naked, hard penis, and took it in her mouth. He felt good. Physically good and emotionally nasty, and that was always the biggest buzz. He reached a hand down to one of her breasts, rubbing his thumb over her soft nipple, then guided her around so that he could reach inbetween her legs. He slid his palm between the moist, hot folds of flesh. He found the opening within and pushed his middle finger deep into her, the ball of his palm still rubbing hard on her clitoris.
She moaned, full mouthed, for him to take her harder and deeper. But he didn’t. A blowjob and a finger fuck... that wasn’t enough for the Beast. He withdrew his hand and roughly pulled her off him. He gave her another quick, hard kiss, forcing his tongue into her mouth, letting her bite at his lips, before hurling her to the floor.
She gasped up at him, spreading her legs. ‘Wanna fuck, then?’
There was the briefest moment of clarity in the madness. A split second when he looked down at her face, so pretty, so sad, so full of self hatred, and knew it was all wrong. He couldn’t look at that face. He reached down and turned her onto her front.

She stayed there, uncomplaining, unmoving, her legs still invitingly open. She didn’t even look up at him. He imagined, had he wanted to sodomise her, she would have allowed him without question. That was the creature she had become. Those were the depths to which the after effects of the Realm had dragged her.
He lay down on top of her, and guided his penis into her vagina from behind. They both gasped at the sensation.
Every cunt was different. He knew that now. This was his fifth. And as long as he never compared the hot, tight passage he was currently enjoying to Sheila, he could get through it OK. This one was good. She bucked and reared against the carpet of the living room, and the feel of her plump, smooth buttocks against his hips was delicious. He forced one hand between woman and floor to keep rubbing and pinching at her clitoris as they screwed. His body was pure adrenaline. The coke seemed to have poured his entire being into his cock as it hammered in and out of the wet entrance, grinding her, grinding both of them, into the ground. She came first, with a loud, sharp, painful cry. He exploded moments later, grabbing her hair and screwing up his eyes and sinking his teeth into her shoulder.

It was wonderful. And it was terrible. It was life, and death, and the beginning, and the end.

They didn’t speak afterwards. She gathered up her clothes and went, silently, up to bed. He stayed in the empty living room, sitting, still as a stone on the carpet of over an hour. Then he laughed. Then he cried. Then he curled up on the couch, and spent the night watching bad late night TV.
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Just Good Friends