A/N: This last chapter sprawls a bit, largely because Arthur was completely uncooperative for the whole thing. All I wanted was for him to show a little initiative, be a tiny little bit dominant. I had soundbites of him being just that, playing over and over in my head, but when it came to it I ended up rewriting most of this about five times because he just refused to do it. Ford wasn't much help, he kept pulling characterisation on me, and I just hope that what's come out at the end is vaguely coherent. If it isn't, blame them, not me! Thankyou as always for the lovely reviews, without them I might have had a terminal falling out with Arthur half way through. Happily we are now back on speaking terms and although this surprised me by turning out to be the last chapter, I seem to have a healthy family of young and vigorous plotbunnies living in my head so as soon as they've matured a bit I'll be setting some of them free ;-D
Obviously, the epilogue is not my own. It belongs entirely to other, more fortunate beings. It is there in two versions because you can't be too careful and because although the book version sits better at the end of a fic, Arthur's last line of the extract is my happy place when people get on my nerves at work, so obviously I had to include it!
Chapter 14 - In which Arthur takes the initiative...sort of
Arthur awoke at noon. His brain was whirling, the events of the last two days flashing up in random fragments at the front of his mind. He sat up and planted his feet firmly on the floor, rested his elbows on his knees and tried to think. A few seconds later he decided that this had been a bad plan. The fragments were resolving themselves far too fast into a coherent narrative of moral disaster after moral disaster. What was worse, bits of it were still missing. Nevertheless, even with all the missing bits, a series of undeniably real and distinctly unwanted memories were now available to him. Sleeping with Zaphod, sleeping with Ford, getting horribly drunk on next to nothing, a day spent lying in agony on the galley floor with people watching him, and a final trip around the ship looking like a deformed pot plant – a predicament from which he had had to be rescued in the sniggering presence of Trillian, and which had probably put the last nail in the coffin of his hopes of ever becoming more friendly with her in that sort of way.
The situation required careful consideration. He locked the door. A shower and a shave only increased the number of things he could remember, and minutes turned into hours as Arthur contemplated his options, and his desire to curl up and die grew and grew.
Eventually, Arthur got out his copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and thought for a second, his fingers hovering over the input. Finally he decided, and an entry flicked up on the screen. This is what it said:
What to do when you have had sex with a friend you never thought about in that way before and now can't stop thinking about in that way, even though you definitely don't want to: Don't panic! This is no cause for alarm. You are obviously meant for each other and will have a seriously hoopy time if you just relax and go with it.
Arthur frowned and tried again:
What to do when you have had all your moral views overturned in one night and don't want to admit it, even to yourself: Unless you have access to some heavy-duty time-travelling gear with a personal insensitivity nullifier to allow you to include your own self in the retrogradations, you're probably just going to have to live with it. Take some time to check on your new moral standpoint and you'll probably find it isn't that bad after all. If it is that bad, you may be wise to alter your perspective instead (See articles: Good stiff drink, a; Drugs, mind-altering; and Suspended animation – a way to forget).
Arthur sighed and scratched his head. His fingers moved once more, the guide loaded for slightly longer than usual and he read:
What to do when nothing makes sense any more and you daren't go anywhere on your ship where you might meet people for fear of the embarrassment you are bound to suffer as a consequence of actions or events of the last few days which, due to a variety of circumstances, you have not yet had to face up to: Welcome to the universe. Now may be a good time to start panicking as there is nothing else you can usefully do. You may as well go out there and get it over with. (See footnote)
Arthur selected the footnote and the guide helpfully announced that this was a local, private footnote, uploaded four hours previously. Arthur's head tilted in confusion, then read:
That means you, Arthur. I knew you'd find this. Zaphod's off with Trillian somewhere, so you can zarking well come and keep me company. Now.
Arthur jumped, he'd forgotten Ford's links to the Guide. Clearly he wasn't averse to hacking into Arthur's copy when it suited him. Even so, being so open about the fact that he knew exactly what Arthur was thinking was a bit much. He put away the Guide and got up. Somehow, he knew Ford meant it. Not that he couldn't have ignored him, but it would probably be easier in the long run to face him now than later. He got up, unlocked the door and stepped into the corridor.
"Have a nice day!" Said the door.
"It can't be worse than yesterday." Returned Arthur, morosely, and he stomped towards the bridge.
Ford was sitting watching the sub-ether network news, where the reader was reporting massive drops in galactic share prices for freelance Vogon Constructor Fleets floated in the last three financial years. Ford wasn't actually listening, Arthur realised, but was tallying off the number of sheets of paper the newsreader was getting through as he read, his hand moving fast across the page. It was clear that he was deeply bored.
As Arthur came over to him, Ford looked round and shuffled up on the upholstered bench that had appeared from somewhere, so that there was room for Arthur to sit down.
"At last!" He said, undisguised irritation in his voice.
"I only just got your note." Said Arthur. Then he added, "How many entries did you put that footnote in?"
"Just the one." Grinned Ford, "Sit down." His hand was still flying across the page. Arthur sat next to him and Ford swung his legs away from him and sat leaning against Arthur's right arm.
The Newsreader finished the report, and as the screen changed to the station logo, Ford flicked it off and threw the tally sheet away without looking at it. He tipped back his head and looked at Arthur through his hair. The look on Arthur's face seemed to tell him that all would not be plain sailing. He pushed himself up off Arthur's arm, and swivelled back round to face him.
"What's the matter?" He asked, "You look better than you did yesterday." Arthur nodded – this was probably true. Certainly his head was feeling like it used to again, and the rest of his body felt much less alien.
"If I could just forget the last two days ever happened, I'd be fine." He said. Ford frowned slightly,
"All of it?" He asked. Arthur didn't answer. He couldn't. Yes: he'd rather none of it had ever happened, but now that it had...the feelings at the time had been...amazing. They just weren't things he wanted to have done in order to feel those sensations. Especially now that Ford's knees were digging into his thigh, and instead of the dull pain he should have been feeling, he was receiving little jolts of desire that threatened to overrun his motor centres and make him grab Ford then and there and do to him everything he could ever think of to do. Ford was looking at him with a curiosity that was blooming into understanding. He got up, his decision to be nice to Arthur causing an endearing softness to permeate his facial expression.
"How about this for an idea?" Ford said when Arthur failed to get up with him, "We go get something to eat and then you come to my cabin and we see if we can't make you feel better?" Arthur looked up at him warily,
"What did you have in mind?"
"Sausages?" Asked Ford, eyes wide.
"No, not the eating; I meant the other bit." Ford scratched his head, then looked at the fingernails that had done the scratching,
"Well, you do owe me..." He looked back at Arthur, who sighed,
"Sausages it is then." and got up and headed for the galley.
Ford followed Arthur and spent a time trying to convince the Nutri-Matic to produce something more closely resembling sausages than anything that Arthur had managed with it. At last he sat at the table and pushed Arthur's greyish tubes of not-quite-sausage out of the way with a plate of his more fragrant offering. Arthur nodded his thanks and started to eat, carefully avoiding Ford's gaze, which seemed to burn into his forehead.
This, thought Arthur, is going to be difficult. Either I can break my promise and run and hide, thereby bringing down the full weight of my mother's ethereal wrath upon my head...or I can face up to my responsibilities and have a really good time. Except that you can't just go from eating sausages with someone in silence, to the fun, romping around on the bed bit, without out a lot of awkward moments in between. Awkward moments he was sure he wouldn't cope with very well.
It was too late. The last bit of sausage had gone from his plate, and Ford was up, out of his seat and standing by the door.
"Come on Arthur." He said, as if he knew that Arthur would follow him. Against such staggering confidence, Arthur had no defence. He stacked his plate with Ford's and moved them both a little nearer to the Nutri-Matic, as if that would somehow help with getting them cleared away, and followed Ford.
Arthur had never been to Ford's cabin before. It was superficially tidy, in the way that is only achievable when you simply don't have enough personal possessions to make a place untidy. The contents of his satchel were obviously only in their confines because, as a good hitchhiker, Ford was ready to up and leave at the shortest notice. His towel poked out of the top of the bag in a reassuring manner. Only the very unmade bed and the guest towels lying in the corner of the room gave clues to the fact that, given the chance, Ford Prefect might not actually be the tidiest being in the galaxy.
Arthur geared himself up for awkward moment number one. This was the one where they would stand and look at each other and say something like: 'So...' or, 'Well, here we are...', then trail off into silence, while finding interesting things to look at on the floor and ceiling. This was also the one where Ford might, possibly, take a step towards Arthur, give him a gentle kiss on the lips and say, 'You do owe me, Arthur." before stepping back, and letting Arthur's natural embarrassment burgeon into a ravening monster that would prevent him from doing anything whatsoever that might show initiative.
Instead, Ford locked the door and came straight up in front of Arthur, pressing his full body length against him, steadying himself by gripping the lapels of Arthur's dressing gown.
"I have been very, very bored today." he said. "I almost went to find Marvin to talk to. Now that should give you an idea of just how bored I was." Arthur looked down at him, expecting to push him away and back off with unthinkable embarrassment, but as his eyes locked with Ford's the world melted. Ford's eyes flashed pure desire.
Arthur could feel his natural self-consciousness struggling through his temporary distractedness. He could either give in to it and resign himself to Ford having his way with him again, or possibly to Ford giving up in despair and letting him go (which no longer seemed that attractive to Arthur), or he could keep himself so busy that he wouldn't have time to be self-conscious, and the impulse to run would have to fend for itself without him. Given the second possibility offered by the first option, and without really thinking it through at all, Arthur decided on the second course of action. His hands moved to Ford's shoulders, then up into his hair, and he ran them again and again through the soft curls, still staring into Ford's unblinking eyes, frightened to kiss him in case he couldn't stop, because it felt like he would explode if he didn't do it, or devour Ford whole if he did. Delaying tactics were required, so he spoke, ignoring the protests from the part of his brain that just wanted to get on with this.
"Ford, why did you stop me telling Zaphod what a good time you gave me last..."
"Because it's not worth the bother of making Zaphod feel like someone might be better than him. It just makes him want to prove himself, and because he's usually right, it's nauseatingly predictable. I just couldn't face it. I also know that he would be less inclined to be nice to me if he thought I was going around besting him, and I happen to like having Zaphod on my side. It can be very convenient. Or rather, it can be very inconvenient to have him against you." Arthur looked slightly confused.
"So why were you making eyes at Trillian when he was looking then? Surely that annoys him?"
"Well firstly, it doesn't annoy him that much, since he's convinced no-one would ever be stupid enough to leave Zaphod Beeblebrox; secondly, she's a very nice girl who I wouldn't mind having a shot at if Zaph wasn't keeping an eye on her; and thirdly, he was being very selfish with that drink I discovered, so I thought he deserved it."
"How often have you...with Zaphod?" Ford looked at him,
"Do you really care?" Arthur thought for a moment, eyebrows wiggling in confusion.
"No, I suppose not." He said eventually, though he didn't sound very sure, "But when..."
"Arthur, you're thinking too human. It really doesn't matter. I mean, not in the human sense that it wouldn't matter. I mean, it really doesn't matter."
The parts of Arthur that knew what was good for him triumphed and managed to convince the rest of him to be satisfied at that. He was suddenly aware of his own extra height in comparison to Ford, and the advantage it actually gave him. It made him feel slightly protective of the smaller man, and caused an awful lot of blood to screech to a halt somewhere just under his diaphragm and hold a union meeting about whether to head back to his brain where a lot of work was being done, or go south instead, where a lot of work was shortly to be ordered. The confusion in his upper abdomen seemed to affect the areas around it, and Arthur's lungs felt like they were nudging at his chest, trying to get in on the action. As he ran a hand wonderingly down the side of Ford's face, he found that he was breathing so heavily that swallowing had become a slight technical problem, and it sounded like he'd just run a fast two hundred metres.
Ford laughed slightly, uncertainly, and moved his hands to undo the top button of Arthur's pyjamas, which had reappeared, presumably via Marvin or agencies unknown, in Arthur's cabin the night before. Arthur brought one of his hands back and stopped him,
"No." He said with a gulp, determined to retain the initiative. He got the feeling that if he didn't, Ford's personality would assert itself once more, and he would end up being indebted for two night's work instead of just one. The only problem was, he couldn't think what to do. In theory, this bit should not be a problem, he told himself. This bit he had done with girls, after all, apart from a few superficial physical differences, and rather a lot of psychological differences, the foreplay – the kissing, the nipple-teasing, the skin-playing, the murmured not-words – was much the same. And that was the bit he really wanted to do. This thought hit him like a bomb. It shattered his brain into fragments that span out, crashed into his skull and reassembled themselves vaguely as before, but with enough bodging round the joins to cause him some serious doubts about his sanity. The actual sex bit, in whatever way he went about it, he could take or leave at this moment. That was past his self-knowledge threshold, it was something he just couldn't get his mind to hold steady on; but the other bit – even the thought of it made his whole body behave in a way that, while it was not entirely unpleasant, was alien enough to his normal functioning to make him need to resolve things one way or the other.
'Stop thinking.' said the part of his brain that was in charge of sexual encounters, 'And get on with it before he gives up on you.' A frantic series of messages were sent between parts of Arthur's brain that each thought the other should know what to do in this situation, and eventually he managed to cobble together a temporary solution. It consisted of kissing Ford.
It was just as he would have remembered, had his brain not decided to edit out the juicy details for his own well-being and sanity. A delightful mellowness rushed through him from the warm mingling of tongues and lips. Desperately trying to get closer, he pushed Ford slowly towards where he hoped the bed was and felt the shudder as Ford fought to retain his balance when his calves hit the edge of the bed. The feeling of being much bigger than Ford persisted and was magnified as he held him as near to upright as possible, then carefully let him down to the bed where he felt like he engulfed him, bending over him in his voluminous dressing gown. How could he have felt so powerless yesterday? he wondered, but as he did, the feeling came rushing back – the insecurity and doubt. He spotted it coming and blocked it swiftly with a flick of the tongue, a caress of the hip, a recognition of the hot, irregular breaths tangling with his own as they came out of slightly squashed nostrils.
Arthur opened his eyes and found Ford staring lazily at him, a look of quiet expectation on his face, as if he'd decided to let Arthur have a shot at this without interfering. It was so different from his usual 'let's get on with something' look that he generally wore around Arthur, that it took Arthur a moment to place it. Then he knew: it was the look Ford wore when he had his hands wrapped round a glass of something strongly alcoholic, and a girl had her arms wrapped around him. It was his contented look. Arthur's insides tried to do another little jump, and found that it was impossible to improve on the turmoil already there. He settled for putting his arm further round Ford and making a valiant attempt to get even closer to him. Ford seemed to have worked out Arthur's dilemma for him, he pulled back from the kiss, smiling a pink-edged smile, and said,
"I think you'll find it's the clothes in the way, Arthur." The way he said his name was like a soft purr, and Arthur felt it vibrate through him. Ford was right. There were an awful lot of clothes in the way of what he was trying to do right now. So he changed his tack: It would be a shame to get rid of them all at once just to satisfy his reckless libido. He pulled back and ran his hand up between Ford's blazer and jumper, he felt Ford shuffling slightly beneath his fingers. A twist of the thumb undid the blazer button and he folded it back onto the bed covers.
"I think," he said, looking at the encouraging smirk on Ford's face, "that I could get used to this." Ford grinned his dangerous grin, stretched his arms above his head on the covers, laying himself open to any attack Arthur might feel inclined to make, and said,
"Good."
Arthur's confidence grew. It was obvious to him now that he could do this badly and feel even worse tomorrow morning than he had this morning; or he could do it well and reap unimaginable rewards. A feeling that there was plenty of time washed over him and he rucked the jumper up to Ford's chin, starting to undo the shirt buttons without removing it.
It was comforting to see Ford's chest revealed by the open shirt. Arthur ran his hand down Ford's left side and found that he remembered the exact feel, but this time it was better because he could see it, and, more importantly, he could see the flicker of lost control on Ford's face as his fingers skiffled down his ribs. He grabbed Ford's hands and pulled him up to sitting so that he could haul the bundle of clothes nestling under his chin up over his head and away. Ford obligingly wriggled his arms to help, then let them drop on Arthur's shoulders in the way he always did when he was drunk and needed a hug. It was usually like having two steel girders descend upon your shoulders from a great height, and it always left Arthur with bruises, but today Ford was obviously trying to be careful, because the arms landed, well, perhaps not lightly, but at least without the crashing weight of an Arcturan boa constrictor whose last meal was a bag of ready-mix cement. He plucked at the neck of Arthur's dressing gown, and Arthur let him undo it and shrugged it off. He stopped him at the pyjamas however, and pushed him gently back to the bed. He was racking his brains to try to remember some of the details of what Zaphod had done to him. It was unpleasant to put himself in the debt of the two-headed insult-monger, but he couldn't deny that some of his moves were really rather good. There was a certain way he had trapped Arthur's nipple between his index and middle fingers, leaving his thumb free to graze the top while the fingers applied a painfully wonderful pressure to the sides. Arthur let his right hand wander back into Ford's hair by way of his cheek, while his left hand tried out this particular little gem. Ford arched his back, gasping with pleasure, then his hand shot out and he pulled himself up on Arthur's arm, not letting him stop, but bringing his face so close that Arthur had to concentrate with all his might not to close the gap.
"That's one of Zaphod's." said Ford softly, Arthur nodded, wondering vaguely if it mattered that he'd been rumbled. He decided it didn't, and he gave another little squeeze and rub. Ford took a sharp breath and clung to him, which confirmed Arthur's decision. This time he didn't stop Ford when he started to undo his pyjama buttons. Anticipation was building in him, the lump in his pyjama bottoms was nothing to the steadily growing ball of excitement in his chest. It was nice to be doing something he actually wanted to for a change. He felt the pyjamas slide down and off his arms and then returned those arms to Ford's back.
Shunting Ford further back on the bed and following on his knees, Arthur pulled him closer and kissed him again. This time the barrier was gone, he could get as close as he liked. And he would. His arms were moving behind Ford's back, desperately rubbing themselves up and down his spine. If he had any doubts that Ford might not be so interested in this part of the entertainment, they were dispelled by the crushing grip of Ford's own arms about his own torso: hard little muscles pulling like silk-covered cables across his shoulder blades.
As he pulled Ford's head closer with one hand – a task that was actually physically impossible, but which worked like a dream in the eyes-tight-shut world they currently shared, Arthur let his other hand drift down to Ford's waistband. A wave of uncertainty hit him, and he pulled out of the kiss to check...Ford's eyes had opened when Arthur let him go, and two blue beacons eyed Arthur suggestively, reassuring him. He gazed back at them, wondering at the sensations that travelled through him as he stared. Ford blinked for the first time in an eternity – a languid, lazy blink whose eyelids didn't seem to be in too much of a hurry to open again. When they did, and Arthur was still staring, unmoving, Ford spoke, very softly, but with definite command,
"Arthur, if you don't stop staring at me, and actually do something, I am going to have to take over because I really can't hold on... and then you'll still owe me..." Arthur blinked hard, trying to make up for the fact that Ford's eyelids appeared to be resigned to staying apart for a while,
"I'm not..." He said, then stopped, because he realised what he was about to say, and it was true,
"I'm not doing this because I owe you, I'm doing it because I want to." He said, all in a rush. Something had changed in the last hour or so and Arthur couldn't quite work out what it was. The closest he could get to a solution was that this – the experience of being this close to Ford, of having this licence to do whatever he wanted, of just being with him – mattered. Oh yes, it mattered alright. He had been sitting on a knife edge, the least slip in his determination to be in charge here would have lost him the whole advantage, because he was so used to having his role defined by the fact that the body underneath him was female. Without that helpful piece of information to build his way of working the situation, he was lost, but now he knew what he wanted to do, and he was going to do it. 'Yes, that's it.' His brain said to himself.
Excusing himself from Ford's head, Arthur edged his way down his body to where his trousers were now under considerable strain. It was clear that Ford meant what he said about not being able to hold on. Ford seemed to still be considering Arthur's last remark. He grinned as it sunk in, and Arthur's fingernails dug into his hips as the aftershock of the Smile rolled over him. Ford's hands were on his head, in his hair and on his neck, scuffing the hair back and forth and gently encouraging him in his decided task of getting the trousers open.
The button seemed to be unfeasibly big for the hole. It was inconceivable that this button should be the one that Ford had opened and closed with ease a couple of times a day for goodness knows how long. At any rate, it wasn't co-operating with Arthur's fingers, which seemed to be trembling more violently than they had any right to. After a considerable amount of time, during which he jabbed Ford in the stomach twice and got his skin caught in the twisting fabric three times, Ford made a desperate sort of sound and gave up on his resolution not to interfere. He reached down and tried to brush Arthur's hand away.
Ford had not expected this simple move to be greeted with the reaction he got, but he had not realised that he had come up against a Decision. Arthur grabbed the hand that was trying to help, and scuttled back up Ford's body, so that he could look him right in the eyes.
"No you don't." He said warningly, "I'll do it." He slipped his hand between them again, and managed with superhuman will to undo the button. The zip was easy, and in seconds, Arthur's hand was roaming around Ford's thighs, not bothering to slip the trousers down, or even to try to get inside the underpants which bulged still more dangerously as Arthur's long thin fingers teased at the smooth, smooth flesh of Ford's inner thighs.
Ford was breathing fast now, and it was clear that he was becoming more and more frustrated with Arthur's apparent reluctance to get a move on and satisfy the slowly writhing man under him. He seemed to have become utterly fascinated with Ford's collarbone, and it was as if the hand that now pushed itself deeper between Ford's legs, prodding at the tender skin he kept hidden just below and between his buttocks, was acting of its own volition, and not due to any will of Arthur's.
Ford couldn't take any more. With the benefit of surprise, and the strength of a man frustrated beyond reasonable actions, he twisted his body, flipped Arthur onto his back, and straddled him, panting heavily as his erection bobbed happily in front of him, freed from its confines by his sudden movement. He looked at Arthur with a hint of derangement that Arthur found mind-bogglingly erotic, and pulled at the cord of his pyjama bottoms, opening them easily and throwing himself forward onto Arthur's chest to allow space to push them down Arthur's legs. He had almost achieved this when Arthur shook himself, remembering his earlier resolution, and used his superior mass to roll them back over so that Ford was trapped beneath him again, breathing oddly and looking at Arthur over the top of a pair of imaginary glasses. His hips were rising, desperately trying to rub against Arthur's midsection, but Arthur pulled himself firmly away, pinning Ford to the bed with his hands. He had nearly been caught out that time - well, it wasn't going to happen again.
Holding Ford across the chest with his forearm, Arthur pulled hard on the waistband of Ford's underpants, barely easing them over the invitingly oozing tip of Ford's penis. He hooked the underwear off Ford's legs with his feet and managed to kick and struggle his own off without loosing his grip on the panting Betelguesian who seemed to have lost the power of rational speech and was clutching wildly at he pillows behind him and trying to bite at Arthur's arm in a way that suggested he might have lost sight of the fact that he was meant to be being nice to Arthur. Arthur pulled himself level with Ford's face again. A sheen of sweat was gliding across his face. He looked like someone who had already had one, if not two or three pretty decent orgasms, not someone who had been commendably passively waiting for their first. Arthur couldn't help feeling that he ought to be very proud about this, after all, he seemed to be the one who had caused this ludicrous level of arousal simply by being there. The thought didn't last long however. He was too starkly aware of the effect Ford was having on him. The heaving chest beneath him and the glazed and demanding face inches from his own were making it impossible to rest his groin comfortably on Ford's leg.
He shuffled sideways slightly, and the first contact brought a hopelessly lovable cry from Ford's throat and a whimper from Arthur. He pulled back again, unwilling to let this be over so soon and determined, no matter how much he wanted to join Ford in this, to be the orchestrator, and not to share in it equally. Reaching his hand down, he buried his face in Ford's neck. It was hot and damp and the skin shivered under his lips. His hand closed around Ford, finding even greater heat and a straining hum that turned his fingers to velvet. There was so much he was going to do, so many ways he was going to learn to tease and please...but it was too late. It was enough that he had touched him, and Ford jerked under him, biting at his hair and clutching at his back, shaking him hard with his own power. Then he lay back on Arthur's arm, breathing hurricanes into Arthur's ear, and relaxed,
"Zarquon." He said.
Ford looked at Arthur, a glint of something Arthur wasn't sure about in his eyes. He felt contented – he had done what he had set out to do, he had kept Ford under control and released himself from any perceived obligation, and he had done something amazing to the gorgeous, flushed man currently cutting off the circulation in his right arm. As he wondered at this, a hand wrapped around him, reminding him how hard he was and making him think that maybe it wasn't a bad thing that Ford was looking a little less manic. Ford was, however, looking more like his usual self. Not that he didn't still look contented: he did; he looked like he had just been treated to one of the most pleasurable experiences of his life; but he had that edge back, an edge that would not let him sit back and watch Arthur doing all the work any more. He was up for some fun. He sat up. Arthur was confused, and his eyebrows said so. Ford pulled him up with him, and swung himself into Arthur's lap. His leg brushed Arthur's erection and it twitched hopefully. Arthur blinked, leaning forward to kiss Ford again, and being disappointed when Ford put his hand up and patted his lips softly with his fingers.
"Arthur," said Ford. Arthur blinked, he had forgotten about speech and coherent sentences and all that sort of thing, but Ford seemed to be gearing up for it. However, at that moment, Arthur heard a sound outside the door. Without a second's thought, he wriggled out from under Ford and waddled painfully across the room. Remembering the interruptions and impostures of the previous times, he stood by the door, and waited to see if the sound was repeated. It wasn't. He looked back at the bed. Ford was sitting almost cross-legged, elbows on his knees, looking at him,
"Arthur, what are you doing?" he asked. Arthur found the sound of his voice and the halo of tousled hair surrounding his head utterly irresistible, and practically leapt back to the bed, allowing himself to be sat on again and running his hands feverishly down the outsides of his thighs.
He was aware that Ford was running a hand down his side, plucking softly at the flesh there – flesh that was perhaps a little more fleshy than Arthur would have liked. And he didn't mind. There were lips in his ear that tickled as they spoke,
"Fancy a new pleasure?" Asked Ford in a touchingly innocent voice. Arthur nodded, not giving a second thought to his answer. As long as it kept Ford this close, it didn't matter.
Ford had wiped the results of his own pleasure from his legs and stomach and was smoothing it gently over Arthur's penis, watching his face carefully for any sign that he was close to breaking the suspense. He shuffled further into his lap and pulled himself up on Arthur's neck. Arthur sighed as Ford slowly lowered himself onto him and looked rather as if he were going to cry. Ford took a careful breath and watched Arthur, a slight smile betraying a love that went deeper than he would ever admit to anyone.
"You alright, Arthur?" He asked. Arthur nodded and leaned forward for another kiss, which Ford let him have. Ford brought his legs round to kneel astride Arthur, and the extra leverage this gave him allowed him to start to move up and down on Arthur, altering his position until he found the one angle that suited him perfectly. Arthur got the idea. His hips began to move of their own accord, ignoring his brain which was telling him, quite rightly as it happened, that he wasn't going to last very long anyway, and if he wanted to draw this out at all, his best move would be to stay as still as possible. Their chests were rubbing damply together and nothing that had happened over the last couple of days seemed half as important or half as bad now. All that mattered was the tight, warm squeezing that he was receiving, and the consequent tremors and tics manifesting themselves all over him. He couldn't kiss Ford any more; he didn't trust himself not to bite and pull just as Ford had tried earlier, so he pulled his chin over Ford's shoulder and felt in wonder the ripples of hard-working muscles as Ford moved in his embrace. He threw his head back and moaned unashamedly as his hips slammed up at Ford and he fell sideways, a couple more ineffectual thrusts bringing Ford over the edge with him and leaving them clutching each other so tightly that tears ran down Arthur's Face and Ford wouldn't unstick his forehead from Arthur's shoulder.
They lay there, utterly inside each other and so tightly tangled that a knitting teacher would have had major problems unravelling them, and slowly a feeling came over Arthur and he heard a remembered line of speech in his head, it said:
"You're a jerk."
Arthur stiffened. He reluctantly unwrapped his legs and arms and torso and head from Ford, and suppressed a whimper of loss as he slid out of him. Ford's head unpeeled from Arthur's shoulder and he looked at him questioningly. Arthur tried to explain,
"I remember...someone insulted me. A man, came out of a spaceship...last time...Good grief, Ford, we did this once before. Only we didn't remember because for some reason, he wiped our memories."
A voice made its way across the universe – a voice that rumbled so low that hardly anything could hear it. It throbbed with power and bass and a certain amount of irritation. Many beings would have called it 'the voice of God', if only He hadn't been too busy trying to work out whether or not, according to the laws of logic, He could exist. Actually, the voice hadn't started off sounding quite so divine, nor was it emitted from the Godly voice-box. However, the considerable distortion acquired travelling through both time and space in one go had rendered it deep and throbbing and almost inaudible. It said:
"Bugger."
Wowbagger the infinitely prolonged stepped off the end of his ramp, the ship parked rather badly through the Heart of Gold so that he had to exit in a cleaning cupboard, and put his foot down hard on the draining section of a brand new, small, red mop bucket. He hastily lifted his foot and looked around. He checked his watch, harrumphed, and stepped back into his ship.
"Too early. What's the matter with you?" He asked the computer. The computer coughed and then whirred and beeped a little to prove it could still do the machine thing,
"I apologise for the miscalculation," it said, "It seems there was a glitch in the...time, flux...calibrations..." It didn't sound very sure of itself. What it really meant was that the Heart of Gold itself was such a hugely improbable ship, that arriving in it at the right time was really a stroke of luck more than anything, but Wowbagger was too preoccupied to care.
"Get me to when the memory suppression started to slip." He said. The computer wheeped and flurried for a few seconds in a convincingly time-travelling sort of way, and they clicked back into existence approximately thirty-nine hours later.
Wowbagger stuck his nose out of the hatch and listened.
"Right, thank-you." He said irritably. "I'll tell you when to re-apply it." Then he stalked off down the corridor in the way that only an irritable immortal can, and stopped outside a door, behind which low murmurs and decisive skin-on-skin noises could be heard by anyone with exceptionally good hearing. "A bit early, still, at least I can catch the exact moment this way." Muttered Wowbagger to himself. The noises behind the door stopped abruptly, there was a rustle and the arrhythmic padding of someone walking very carefully and with considerable difficulty towards the door. Wowbagger froze, there was silence, then a fast pitter-patter of feet, a bed-springy cacophony, some whispered somethings and then an unbroken crescendo of heavy-breathing, moaning triumph, silence, then a man's voice saying...'I remember...'. Wowbagger acted.
"Now." he said.
Arthur's eyes flicked uneasily back and forth across the room as he felt a worryingly familiar sensation enter his brain.
"I've felt this before. My memory is being...stolen again... Ford?" He sounded panicked. Ford grabbed him and pulled him close to him,
"I can feel it, but we zarking well won't forget. Not if we're like this, we're too close, we'll have to remember." Arthur felt reassured by this, and put his arms around Ford, encircling him totally. The door opened and Zaphod stood there, looking furious.
"Right. This is the second time I've had whole parts of my day stolen since you arrived on board. I was willing to let it go last time, but it so happens that I have just had a pretty hoopy evening, and I'd like to remember it tomorrow. Or at least, if I can't remember it, I want it to be alcohol-related memory-loss, not some galactic killjoy stealing all my fun. So what didja do? Whose fault is it? And why are you hanging on to each other like that? You know Ford, I wouldn't like to say anything against you, I mean, you're a pretty froody guy most of the time, but clinging to a monkey? Well that's just weird."
Ford didn't let go of Arthur. The thoughts in his head were spinning like water down a plughole, and he felt sure the only thing keeping any of them in there at the moment was the comfortably solid body currently wrapped around him. The only thing... the... he was confused. Arthur was there, he was...where was he...where was, who? Who had he, there was someone there near Zaphod who was leaving...someone with...what did he do last night? Where was he? He had been in bed...in bed with...in bed...must have been asleep...were you?
Arthur didn't let go of Ford. The thoughts in his head were spinning like water down a plughole, and he felt sure the only thing keeping any of them in there at the moment was the deliciously smooth and friendly body currently intertwined with his own. The only thing...the...he was confused. Ford was there, he was...where was he...where was, who? Who had he, there was someone in the bed, and Zaphod was taking his hand, pulling him away from...someone...what had he been doing? Where was he? He had been in bed...in bed? No...going down a corridor, very important, that...to answer some questions...what?
Zaphod stood by the door. The thoughts in his heads were sloshing around like the contents of a very large cocktail glass. He felt sure that the only thing keeping them in there was his determination to find out what role the monkey man had played in this disastrous loss of memory for what he was now certain was the second time. He would have to get the Earthman away from Ford or he'd never get any answers. He would have to...he was confused...a wrist in his hand...a wrist, pull...down the corridor...where was I? where was I? What was I doing? What was I doing? Must have been going to bed... to bed...what's this hand here? Here? I am in my room...must be right...must be right.
The door closed and Zaphod and Arthur both fell into bed, dropping instantly into a dreamless sleep.
Arthur Dent sat up at high speed, bashed his head on something he had a vague feeling shouldn't be there, fell back to the pillow, thought: 'I'll be late for work again', tried sitting up again, succeeded, swung his feet out of bed, and staggered towards the bathroom rubbing his eyes with his wrist. A dull 'thunk' and a very restrained and throaty 'ow' would have signified to any casual bystander that the bathroom door was not where he had expected it to be. To Arthur, it signified the beginning of a day-long headache, and the need for a reappraisal of his situation. In the darkness, he lost his balance and sat down on a floor that was not quite as warm and carpety and rather a lot more cold and metallic than he thought it should be.
Sitting on the floor with an increasingly chilly bottom and a lump on his forehead, Arthur thought. It had been his alarm that had gone off, hadn't it? He wasn't so sure any more. 'Wait, Arthur', he thought, 'it'll all come back to you'. The unpleasant realisation soon came that no, it had not been his alarm, just a dream. That was all. A dream about being late for work, an alarm ringing and still being late. The sort of dream that can propel you to the bathroom at three a.m. and get you down the stairs and pouring the milk on your cornflakes before you realise you've been duped again.
Arthur sighed. Alright, what time was it? How long did he have before the alarm really went off? Would it be possible to go back and have a decent night's sleep, or was it, irritatingly, about five-thirty and not worth the effort? He looked around for the glow of digital numbers and they failed to show themselves. He had obviously walked in the wrong direction, and was now out of sight of the numbers and had no idea in which direction the bed might lie. He sighed again.
There was a sound like the grumpy harrumph of somebody who has heard a man get out of bed at three in the morning, crash into the wall, sit down hard, sigh, and then, just to make sure everyone really was awake, sigh again. Arthur froze. That sound should not be in his bedroom. Even in his seriously befuddled state he could remember that much.
He thought again. What did one do if one heard that noise in one's bedroom? The best answer was probably 'switch on the light', but since Arthur didn't have a clue where the light switch might be lurking, he was going to have to think of something else. The next answer, in the clear light of day, would obviously be 'ask who's there'. However, in the darkness of a room that was already behaving oddly, somehow that didn't seem like a very prudent course of action. That was, in fact, the action most likely to cause swarms of terrifying monsters to come out from their hiding place under the bed, glow nastily, grab Arthur's ankles and...well, he didn't want to think about 'and'.
If Arthur had learnt one thing from his time as a small boy, it was that the only safe place in a haunted or otherwise monster-infested room was the bed. You get in, you pull the covers right over your head, you check for air holes round the side and block them, and you wait. Eventually, when everything has quietened down and the monsters have failed to spot you through your high-tog duvet, you stick your head out, place it on the cold pillow and go swiftly back to sleep in the certain knowledge that this time you outwitted them.
He stuck out his hand and waved it in front of him cautiously. After a few blind passes, his fingers touched the wall; it felt...unfamiliar. Nevertheless, logically, the wall must have been directly perpendicular to his line of travel, so if he walked straight away from it, he must, sooner or later, hit the bed. He got up, flattened his back against the wall, and shuffled forwards, his hands washing around at knee height. After a while, he began to feel that he must have walked right past the bed and must now be heading for the wall. Well, when he hit it he would just have to turn round and try again. He raised his hands to feel for the wall and instantly screamed in pain as his shins connected hard with the sharp metal edge of the bed-frame.
The light snapped on and Arthur's unfocused and light-shocked eyes tried hard to stop squinting and focus on the figure that had just sat up in his bed.
"You've created a paradox." said the computer. Wowbagger drummed his fingers on the control panel as they sped away from the Heart of Gold once more,
"Can I still go and reach this Arthur Dent where and when you calculated before?"
"Yes."
"Well, then I must still be outside the paradox and can therefore stop it whenever I want. Presumably in time to let him end up there. Or maybe they'll get out of it themselves. They can't keep on ending up in bed together, it's not normal." The computer gave a disbelieving sort of noise and reset the coordinates for an insignificant little blue-green planet in its prehistoric era.
Epilogue
A tall figure appeared silhouetted in the hatchway. It walked down the ramp and stood in front of Arthur.
"You're a jerk, Dent," it said simply...
...The alien creature frowned briefly and consulted what appeared to be some species of clipboard which he was holding in his thin and spindly alien hand.
"Arthur Dent?" it said.
Arthur nodded helplessly.
"Arthur Philip Dent?" pursued the alien in a kind of efficient yap.
"Er...er...yes...er...er," confirmed Arthur.
" You're a jerk," repeated the alien, "a complete asshole."
"Er..."
"Don't give me that," snapped the alien. It marched up the ramp, through the hatchway and disappeared into its ship
(LUE Chapter 1)
Or, in another dimension of reality...
FX: Distant ethereal hum... (under following:) Wowbagger ship descends / legs unfold / touchdown. Airlock door opens and a metal ramp extends. A pair of boots descends the ramp, rather pompously...
ARTHUR (cont'd) Good heavens...Look! Can you see what I see? All right! I know you're only a sycamore, you could at least pretend! It's a spaceship! A beautiful, gleaming, silver spaceship! No, Sycamore One, I'm not imagining it! We can escape!! At least...I can escape! I know how that must sound, Sycamore One, but your roots are here! It's landing right in front of us! I'm saved!
FX: The boots stop a few yards from the foot of the ramp.
WOWBAGGER ...Dent?
ARTHUR (Expectant, desperate) That's right. I'll just get my pouch!
WOWBAGGER (Simply) You're a jerk
ARTHUR What?
WOWBAGGER Arthur Dent? Arthur Philip Dent?
ARTHUR What is it?
WOWBAGGER You're a jerk. A complete arsehole.
ARTHUR Er...er...
WOWBAGGER (To himself) Hey ho.
ARTHUR But...! But...! Bu...
WOWBAGGER And stop whining, you snivelling little drip!
FX: He turns and walks away. Smooth, precise sounds of spaceship closing itself up.
ARTHUR Hey! What is this?
FX: Spaceship starts to rise up into the air.
ARTHUR (cont'd) Wait a minute! (Screams in frustrated rage) Come back here and say that! Who the hell do you think you are?
FX: Spaceship swooshes away uncaringly.
(Tertiary Phase, Episode 1)
A/N: Yes, I do feel a bit rotten about leaving him like that, but it had to be... My plotbunnies are currently mostly feeding on reviews - please be friendly and fatten one up for me!