Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

Acknowledgement: This story takes place in a universe conceived by The J.A.M. a.k.a. Numbuh i. The writer remains grateful for the latitude granted to him in his interpretation of the established universe.

ICYMI: Helga recalls an event with Arnold from another universe. Helga wishes to go back to those times. Helga is becoming impatient.

2. Slippery When Wet

The steam was heavenly. It always was after a particularly difficult day, which this had been. The day had comprised a glut of unpleasant school activities bookended by two bizarre events – bizarre even by P.S. 118 standards. In the morning, it was a life-or-death matter of rushing an anaphylactic Eugene to Nurse Shelley. Chocolate-coated peanuts: Sid and Stinky, with a very reluctant Harold, thought it would be a hoot to make fun of the walking jinx's allergies. Last Arnold heard, Eugene was stable in the hospital and back in the general ward, which incidentally had been named after him as a token of Drymon Medical Clinic's appreciation for his frequent patronage.

The school day itself offered its own array of drama and surprise, least of which was the pop quizzes that caught everyone unawares. And as if to declare that his pupils hadn't endured enough suffering, Simmons had a substantial homework assignment coupled with a tight deadline up his sleeve. Everyone moaned and groaned, especially Sid who offered an amusing alternative theory that instead of up his sleeve, their teacher pulled everything from his ass.

Only Phoebe seemed to be taking the prospect of the extra workload in her stride. And…Helga too?

Helga, hmm…

Arnold allowed her to enter his thoughts. Much to his surprise, he allowed her to stay there as well. There was ample justification, though. Usually, Helga would be at the forefront when complaining about tests and assignments. Now, however? Well, she wasn't exactly overjoyed by such activities à la Phoebe, but nobody could recall her being especially vocal in her resistance. In fact, she seemed to be performing as well as Phoebe in the tests and quizzes without any hint of foul play.

How is that possible, he asked himself in deep thought. Is it even possible?

No. No. Hell no. He didn't want to think about it, he wanted to relax. Take the load off his mind. Forget about the day. Forget the prank by Wolfgang. Damn sixth-grader thought it would be hilarious to sprinkle ghost pepper flakes in the footballhead's gravy during lunch while Edmund distracted him and Gerald. The screaming lasted five minutes, even with all the milk he was offered. The tears and sweat, twenty.

And just when he thought he was in the clear, after school he was desperately trying to prevent a homicidal Rhonda from rending and flensing a cowering Curly. At that point, Arnold was done. He cared little about the circumstances leading up to that event – something about green Jell-O and a rubber chicken. He cared only for peace between the two, however tentative and however ephemeral.

Back in the present, Arnold was reveling in the steamy environment, allowing it to dispel the day's hardships. Even Wolfgang. Arnold allowed himself some hope at getting back at the mullet-head in the next football game. His team would win, they'd been winning a lot lately.

Dammit, you're thinking of Helga again!

OK, so he was! There was a damn good reason! Her performances on the field had been instrumental in their victories. She was good, really good. Almost…too good. And the more he thought about it, the more mysterious it seemed. Whether football or baseball, she had the habit of being in exactly the right place, marking exactly the right player, all at exactly the right moment. In football, she would make one crucial intercept and one telling tackle after the other. Baseball would see her perform just as impressively at bat, finding the gaps in the opponents' fielding for maximum runs batted in.

Like he reasoned before…too good. It's as if she knew in advance what play would be called, what pitch would be thrown.

Not that he was the only one to notice. He and his peers were quick to comment on her performances, which she'd always attribute to luck. And while the rest decided to leave the matter at that, Arnold Shortman couldn't.

Not in light of that kiss after the Old Timers' game, that passionate kiss following a lifetime of mixed signals from his one-time tormentor. Not in light of that day in his room when she flashed him her undies. Deliberately so. Deliberately.

He'd noticed her white panties despite his best efforts. And the crazy part – actually, not "crazy", more "fucked up" – was how she knew that he'd noticed and wasn't upset by it. The Helga he remembered would have rent him asunder for much less, but this one seemed to enjoy the attention!

He sighed vocally and audibly into the steam: What's going on with you, Helga?

He was to be denied any chance of considering the matter any further.

"Helga!?"

It was all he could do to keep his voice down while exclaiming his surprise at the blonde girl's appearance. And Helga would have been impressed by this feat were she not already banking on her paramour's presence of mind and his discretion. So instead of being impressed, she was merely not disappointed.

"What?" she replied, trying to fake some annoyance while downplaying the current scenario. "I happened to be in the area when I heard you whisper my name. So…you got something you want to say?"

And that was typical Helga. She'd never give an opponent a chance to control a confrontation; she'd push hard to put them on the back foot before they could call her out. Right that moment, Arnold was no exception, having seemingly forgotten that Helga was fully clothed while he was naked but for the towel covering his crotch.

"Well? Speak up if you've got something to say!" she continued, determined to keep his focus on her.

Alas for her: "Helga, can we talk when I'm fully clothed?"

Alas for him: "Look, Footballhead. You called out my name and here I am! I have places to be so we talk now or not at all. And besides…" – she paused to study the towel – "…you're not showing anything I didn't see before at the synchronized swimming."

He had to admit: she had a point. Thus he resigned himself that she was there and she was there to stay.

"So," Helga resumed as she stepped into the structure and drew the curtain as best she could, "what's on your mind?"

Arnold would be surprised at how direct he was with his answer. "You, Helga!" he replied. "You're what's on my mind!"

For the briefest moment, he would have sworn seeing her blink in surprise to his response. But she recovered quickly enough with: "Wow. Quite the combination, Footballhead. You half-naked and thinking about me. Here I'd thought you'd be like all the others and wonder how the hell we keep winning all our games against Wolfgang and his goons. But what the hell, I'm listening."

Classic Helga. Just as eager to discuss the topic; less so to admit to her willingness. Opting instead to put herself in control of the situation, making it seem she's doing him a favor by continuing the conversation. Whatever. Arnold's opening was there.

"You and me, Helga," he responded no less directly. "Where do we stand?"

Helga's second blinking spell lasted a split second longer than the first. She didn't expect such bluntness from Arnold. She was about to ask him to elaborate his question, mainly to buy her a second or two to formulate an answer. But Arnold seemed to be on to her as he followed up anyway: "I mean, before you got beaned, you pretty much went out of your way to tell me and everyone else how much you hated me."

"Uh-huh?" Helga reacted blankly.

"Next thing I know, out of nowhere you're suddenly friendly with me. Not that I mind! Not that I mind!" – he hastily added those last two sentences lest he upset her – "And now we've had the Old Timer's Game…and that kiss, and—"

"Are you saying you didn't like our kiss?" Helga fired back.

"No!" insisted a now flustered Arnold still at an appropriate volume. He took a beat to gather his thoughts before: "I always thought you were cool when you allowed yourself to just be…well…you. That's the Helga I like. That's the Helga I really want to get to know. That's the Helga I'd like to kiss again and—"

He paused, and immediately his reason for doing so became apparent to Helga.

In hindsight, it should have been obvious to him. Hot room, steamy environment. Helga slowly wilting in the heat. Beads of sweat forming on her body from top to toe.

Her hair: clinging oh so suggestively to her brow.

The thin fabric of her clothes: latching on to her slowly glistening skin.

Her contours: becoming more obvious, more prominent.

Plus the heat. In the heat, her speech had become breathier. Almost…seductive.

All of this. All of this plus him blurting out how he'd like to kiss her again…

Helga could only smirk almost sympathetically as she focused again on Arnold's towel which was now struggling to preserve the boy's modesty.

"Well now!" she proclaimed. "Looks like someone's pitching a tent down there!"

Arnold followed her eyes down to his offending member, which he immediately seized in an attempt to hide it. His embarrassment was clearly etched in his expression. He was shaking and stammering for an apology and an explanation, both of which were proving elusive.

"Aw, did I make you do that, Footballhead?" teased Helga. Not that she wanted to stay on topic; they had, after all, had this conversation before in another universe. She was in no mood for a repeat performance. Time to cut to the chase.

"That's OK," she continued in a much more considered tone. "Think of it as you returning the favor."

"Huh?" responded the footballhead.

Helga, seeing her opportunity to advance her agenda, inched closer toward her beloved as she explained: "You see, Arnoldo, it's not one-way traffic. I seem to have certain effects on you." –, she pointed at the towel again – "You in turn…"

She was basking under his full attention. She was reveling in his response as she briefly hoicked up the left side of her skirt for a brief flash of her white panties. Satisfied that his attention wasn't going anywhere else, she continued.

"You make me feel…all funny inside."

"Funny?" asked Arnold.

Yes, funny. In their prior pan-universal conversations she'd used several indiscreet terms to describe how being with him would make her feel.

Wet.

Hot.

Horny.

Sexed-up.

Turned on.

But this wasn't that Arnold. This one would turn tail and run from such language. She had to address him more appropriately. Hence…

"Yes, Arnoldo," Helga confirmed while maintaining her approach. "Funny. Like I've got an itch right here."

Upon "right here", she lowered a hand down to her crotch and lightly rubbed the fabric above the area. She saw how Arnold wasn't looking away and continued explaining.

"Such a good itch," – her speech was becoming breathier still – "so much better when I scratch it."

Before Arnold could react to those words, Helga had closed in on him completely and was now straddling his right leg. Her skirt had ridden up, so he could feel the fabric of her panties pressing down on his quad.

"Want to help me scratch it?" she asked, her breathiness adding a sultry dimension he'd never have thought her capable of. As if her audible sultriness wasn't enough, she'd started a grinding motion along his leg. Part of him wanted to object, to proclaim just how wrong what was happening must have been. But he couldn't. He couldn't because by god it felt so good!

The constant rubbing. The rising heat. Her quickening breath. Her mouth, so tantalizingly close to his.

It was too much. He allowed his baser instincts to override his rationality as he grabbed her by her hips and pulled her closer to kiss her.

Her scent, her taste. All amplified in the heat and the steam well beyond what he experienced during that kiss after the game. Best of all, she wasn't fighting him. She was kissing him back! Moreover, she'd grabbed his hand and was guiding it…

OH MY GOD!

…she was guiding him down to her hoicked-up skirt.

Under the skirt.

Up the skirt.

"How about it, Arnoldo?" she continued teasing. "You want to help with my itch?"

Objecting to her was useless at this point. Any objections he may have had were lost amidst the blissful ether in which his mind was floating, a sensation brought on by having his hand under her skirt, of having it guided up along her thigh all the way to her buttock cheek.

"Want to explore some more on your own?" she asked him, letting go of the hand. Her accompanying smirk suggested a combination of granting him permission and challenging him. Her heavy breathing and especially her deep, longing eyes – like he'd never before seen on her – spoke of not taking no for an answer.

And before Arnold could process any possible response, both his hands were on Helga's hips. He found himself rubbing up and down her thighs and her buttocks. She in response had returned to kissing him, only with a more intense teaser of her accumulated skills. Said intensity involved her tongue, which she ran along the inside edge of his mouth. Before he could express any response to her move, she broke off the kiss to focus on his neck and clavicle. She peppered the area with several lingering butterfly kisses, together with the occasional nip. Each nip would elicit a surprised, though not disagreeable, wince from her beloved.

"Oh, you liked that, didn't you, Footballhead?" she asked. "Want some more? Want to continue?"

She then resumed her grinding motion along his thigh, harder and faster this time with more erotic intent. "Because…I don't mind…not with you…"

Words spoken between soft moans. As she spoke, she felt how his hands had settled back on her hips to latch onto the elastic of her panties. Their eyes met once more, long enough for her to note his unasked question.

She smiled back at him, knowing that he was still too pure of heart to take such an initiative. "Go ahead, Arnoldo," she conceded. "They were only going to get in the way."

"HEY SHORT MAN!"

Grandpa Phil's voice bellowed from outside. Instantly the mood inside was killed dead. Panic ensued as the participants reflexively recoiled away from each other. Helga came off second best as she slid backward off Arnold's thigh and onto the floor for an impromptu backward roll that ended with her flat on her face. Luckily, she'd narrowly missed the heated stones, thus avoiding any further unwanted attention her way.

"YOU'VE BEEN IN THERE A MIGHTY LONG TIME!" Phil continued. "TIME TO CALL IT QUITS BEFORE YOU BECOME ALL DRY AND PRUNEY LIKE ME!"

All Arnold could do at that moment was to assess the situation, which he did first by securing his towel over him, then sticking his head outside to respond. Much to his relief, his grandfather was calling from inside the building, from his bedroom window on the second story to be exact.

"Right, Grandpa!" he answered. "I was just about to get out!"

"Just remember, Short Man. A little steam's good for you. Too much'll kill ya!"

With that, Phil retired back inside and closed the window. Arnold seized the opportunity to inform Helga of her chance to escape. At least, he would have had she not already slipped away through the opposite curtain.

Seriously? Did she already have an escape plan before she visited him? He found himself repeating an unspoken question from earlier: What's going on with you, Helga?

Clearly, matters between them had changed, dramatically so. How would they broach this topic at school the following day? Would she even allow it, or would she publicly pretend nothing happened? One way or another, there was a serious conversation waiting to happen.

And it would have to happen soon, if only for Arnold to return Helga's panties which she must have slipped out of as she slid off his thigh and which he was now holding. Who knew? Maybe he'd even build up the courage to ask her why they were so sticky. After what they'd just done, was such a question even out of bounds anymore?

Tomorrow had become a day to be both feared and eagerly anticipated.

And there we go, the end of the second chapter. Thank you ever so much, dear readers, for giving this work a chance and making it this far. The favorites, the follows, and also the traffic figures that have been most encouraging.

Anyhow...hopefully, if nothing else, I've made it clear that this won't be a PWP title. Story and characterizations will always be of paramount importance, regardless of the genre. And in any case, I've always favored eroticism over straight-up vulgarity. I find the latter to lose its impact and become boring very quickly. Hopefully, you'll be inspired to review this work; I look forward to hearing your thoughts on the title.

Anyway, to the reviews we go.

The hotdog man: Thank you as always for your support.

Guest: Ask and you shall receive.

And finally, here's the Tidal list for this chapter:

I Wish – Gabrielle

Tomorrow Doesn't Matter Tonight – Starship

So that's it for this chapter. I look forward to delivering the next chapter your way as soon as I can. Until then...stay safe, enjoy the holidays, and take nothing for granted.