Warning: Contains slash of the rather angsty variety

Pairing: Ford/Arthur

Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately.

Words: 1452

Hi there. I mostly wrote this over the summer, and am just now getting around to posting it. Hopefully this will make up for my slowness in posting new chapters of Zen. _

Also, books of Murphy's laws and so on are great fun. I recommend them to pessimists the world over.

Part One

Excerpt from pages thirteen and fourteen of the 9th edition of Murphy's Law, and other reasons why things go gnorw! by a Mr. Arthur Bloch, published on the planet Earth in the year 1979:

CHISHOLM'S THIRD LAW

Proposals, as understood by the proposer, will be judged otherwise by others.

Corollaries:

1. If you explain so clearly that nobody can misunderstand, somebody will.

2. If you do something which you are sure will meet with everybody's approval, somebody won't like it.

3. Procedures devised to implement the purpose won't quite work.

The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy has no entry on Murphy's Law or any of the related axioms mentioned in Mr. Bloch's book, but if it did it would probably read almost exactly the same, save for many lengthy footnotes – including the observation that most of these are rather optimistic.

His brain and emotions were on deep freeze when it came to Ford.

They conversed often, at least in theory, if it could be called conversation. Neither of them had much time to actually say much with all the drinking and running around trying not to get shot at. Arthur could think of nothing new left to wonder or feel. To try would be… dangerous. Not necessarily because it would hurt (it would, if he could allow himself to feel it) but because it was nothing he hadn't already thought about three million times before and, like the various semi-interesting gadgets on the Heart of Gold, he had run out of new angles to look at it from. To do so he would have to leave the ship entirely, which was impossible as long as it was in space, and – since this was a metaphor for his brain – it always was. And even when it wasn't he was in a bar watching Ford get drunk and do increasingly obscene things with the other patrons, getting more and more drunk himself at an only slightly more reasonable pace.

No, Arthur didn't think he had the answers to anything. Not to Life, not to the Universe, not to Everything, and certainly not to this.

And the only solution his brain could come up with was, I need to talk to him about it.

To which another part of his brain replied, How many times have you opened your mouth to try and nothing's come out?

To which a third part added, And who knows if he would even want to talk about it when you're probably the only one who's been thinking it?

To which a fourth part answered, Besides, you know enough to know that he'll take just about anyone, so what would make you special?

To which a fifth part mentioned, If you thought you could be special to him you would have said something a long time ago, so why are you still agonizing over something you already consider a foregone conclusion?

To which a sixth part said, But maybe you're wrong.

To which the first part repeated, So clearly I need to talk to him about it.

This never helped, which is why Arthur never thought about it. He was living as if he didn't have a decision to make – whether to move on or to continue pining for someone he could never have – and yet his life was ruled by it. By Ford, and everything the frustratingly amazing alien said and did, didn't say and didn't do.

After all, if it hadn't been for Ford he would have been killed along with everyone else on Earth.

Arthur felt as though he might be able to keep this up for the rest of his life… just tagging aimlessly along after Ford to the end of his days, wondering if the ginger-haired Betelgeusian would ever take the hint. Because whether it was obvious or not, Arthur couldn't bring himself to state it.

Then came a night when Zaphod and Ford got terrifically drunk in the ship's galley – not so unusual an occurrence. Arthur wondered if life was just one big drinking game to them as he hauled his friend to his feet in spite of Zaphod's very slurred protest.

"If you can't even lift the bottle anymore," he replied crossly, "and, in case you were wondering, that's exactly why your glass has been empty the last twelve times you've tried to drink out of it, then you might as well give up and pass out for the night."

Ford squirmed ineffectually as Arthur tried to half-carry him to his cabin, and Arthur really wished he wouldn't. "B'Arth'r…" he mumbled.

"No buts. Not when you find it that hard to articulate vowels."

"Wha'r those?"

Arthur sighed. "That's more or less my point."

He'd almost made it – in the door, at the foot of the bed – when the arm carelessly draped over his shoulders tightened. Ford turned, leaning heavily against him.

"How come you nev'r get ver' drunk? 'S fun." His other arm swung around, looping low around Arthur's waist. "I c'n prove it…"

Danger, danger, Arthur's brain was screaming. For the sake of your sanity and emotional well-being, drop him now and run! But it couldn't convince his body to do either of those things.

"F-Ford, I don't think—"

"You watch me," Ford interrupted. His chin was resting on the shoulder of the worn dressing gown, and their faces were so close that his eyes were going a little cross-eyed trying to keep them trained on Arthur's. "I see. Don' think I don'. An' you…" He wagged his finger precariously close to Arthur's nose. "You think I drink too much… silly monkey, I drink jus' enough. There's lots you don't get, y'see?"

He moved – stumbled, really, forcing Arthur to catch him and ultimately get him where he was going – until he was in front of his (by now very uncomfortable) friend.

"If you wan' me, jus' say."

"Ford." He tried to say it firmly, but it came out as a whimper. "Stop…"

That was when Ford gave up all pretense of having both feet on the ground. It was enough to make Arthur lose his balance, overcorrect, and fall onto the bed with Ford on top of him. To his horror, he became painfully aware of Ford's erection pressing against his stomach – and his own against Ford's thigh. He couldn't help it, it just… happened.

Not like this, he thought desperately, trying to push the drunken Betelgeusian off him.

But Ford wasn't having any of it. He buried himself in the skin of Arthur's neck, using the arms trapped under him as leverage for more contact.

I could be anyone, he wouldn't care… "St-ahh, ahh, ooh… p-please…"

It felt… god, he couldn't even think to figure out how it felt. Wonderful and terrible, smooth and razor-sharp. By the time Ford had fumbled the dressing gown open and pushed the pajama top up as far as it could go (buttons were out of the question) Arthur had given in. A hand slipped down the front of his pajama bottoms. By the time Ford kissed him on the mouth, all tongue and lips and teeth and hints of lemons wrapped around large gold bricks, he didn't know what else to do other than let it happen, even kiss back.

Ford broke away slightly and murmured against his lips, "Y're all salty tasting. Wha's…" He squinted blearily at him. "Crying?"

Arthur's lips twitched, but he couldn't form words. His entire body was trembling and he was, indeed, crying without having realized it.

Ford was suddenly very, awfully still.

"Arthur?"

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut.

Ford jerked away, scrambling until he fell off the bed. His tie, already dangling loosely around his neck (the jacket and argyle sweater were gone, who knows when or to where) caught on something and he ducked clumsily out of it. Then he was up, staggering to his feet, and stumbling out of the door, which practically glowed at the privilege of being useful in the midst of such a hasty exit.

The Earth had just exploded again.

Tea had never existed.

The Universe was a dark and sinister place, and that wasn't paranoia because it really was doing all of this to him on purpose, out of spite.

Shaking, Arthur worked his own hand into his pants, because the last thing he needed was for the last thing he remembered feeling to be Ford's hand, stroking… and then deciding he wasn't even worth the bother. He buried his face in the pillow, pleading silently to know why he'd always expected it would end up like this, somehow, and why he'd had to be proven right – but Ford's scent clinging to the bed sheets didn't have an answer for him.