"Emergency"

Work: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Genre: Humor
Character(s): Ford, Arthur
Rating: PG
A/N: This is my first H2G2 fic, although I've been a fan for a while. Hope you enjoy!

Ford Prefect was a firm believer in the idea of helping out those who had suffered. He was also a firm believer in the mind-numbing powers of alcohol. He certainly felt that he had suffered much, having been stuck on Earth among the ape descendents for eleven years now. He could feel himself getting swallowed up by the planet like a Traalian Winged Viper slowly consuming a Five-Legged Swamprat. It seemed that he had unconsciously accepted the fact that he might never get off the insignificant little planet. He had even made a few good friends. The prospect of this settling-in process was particularly dismal and disconcerting, and though he ached for a stiff Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster or three, he was certainly willing to substitute a couple of bottles of ordinary hard liquor. It had become a bit of a tradition for him to get completely smashed on each anniversary of his thrice-becursed arrival on Earth, and as the eleventh year came to a close, Ford Prefect went home and drank himself into oblivion.
When he awoke, he found himself on the floor of his flat (apparently having missed the sofa completely) with an empty bottle clutched to his chest and the feeling that his head had been replaced with a bowling ball that housed a Disaster Area concert. He groaned to himself and closed his eyes again, trying to get comfortable. He snuggled up against the side of the sofa and utterly failed to feel better. The sun shone brightly through his closed eyelids and he made a small whimpering sound. Blindly he groped for his towel – he could curl up on the floor with the towel, or use it as a pillow for his aching head, and sleep for a few more hours. Yet he couldn't feel it on the floor or on the seat of the sofa. He reached a hand underneath the sofa but came out with nothing but a very dusty hand. Where the hell was his towel?

Ford opened his eyes and squinted in the light. Slowly he turned his head – no towel in sight. Maybe it was in one of the other rooms. Strange, though: when he drank – and, in fact, all the time – he liked to have his towel nearby.

Very, very slowly, he picked himself up and shuffled into the kitchen, massaging his temples. There was no towel there, either, but a very inviting bottle of aspirin. He took four pills (not being human, he needed a larger dosage of the relatively weak medicine) and then headed for his bedroom, trying to actually move as little as possible. No towel. He checked the kitchenette. No towel.

This was neither cool nor froody.

Ford tore through the flat again, overturning chairs and throwing open drawers. He even checked inside the quaintly primitive microwave oven. But it was all in vain.

For the first time since he embarked on a career as a researching hitchhiker, Ford Prefect did not know where his towel was.

Arthur Dent had just fixed himself a nice cup of tea and was settling into a comfortable chair with the morning newspaper when a loud knock came at his front door. He sighed and lowered his slippered feet to the floor, rising from the chair. Before he had moved four feet the knock came again.

"Yes, I'm coming," he called crossly. The knocking did not cease, though, until Arthur opened the door, at which point the person making all the racket very nearly knocked on Arthur's chest.

"Oh, it's you, Ford," he said. "What're—"

"Arthur, you've got to help me," said a very frazzled Ford, pushing into the house and leaving Arthur no choice but to close the door behind him. "It's an emergency." He wrung his hands in worry. "I – I don't know where my towel is. I'm afraid I've lost it," he said like a grave lunatic.

Arthur was puzzled, not to mention a bit irritated. "Ford, are you saying you've barged in here on a Saturday morning to tell me you've misplaced a towel?" His friend grimaced as he said this. "It's a bit early to be drunk, isn't it? Even for you?"

Ford shook his head and then winced. "I'm not drunk. Not at present, anyway. Just feeling the aftereffects."

"Ah. Then you've simply gone mad."

"I need my towel."

"Get a new one," Arthur told him, taking a sip of tea to calm his nerves.

"What? That towel was like a part of me; I need it, and now it's zarking missing..."

Arthur considered asking Ford what the hell "zarking" meant, but decided against it. "Look," he said instead, "if I find you a new towel that works just as well as the old one, will you shut up and go away so I can have my tea and paper in peace?"

"Yeah, sure, anything," said Ford jumpily, "but where can I possibly get a decent towel around here?"

"Let me get dressed. Then we'll find you a towel." Arthur marched to his bedroom, not believing Ford's claim of sobriety in the least.

"Here we are. Marks and Spencer."

"They have towels here?" Ford's face was still creased with worry.

"Yes. I hope you've had the good sense to bring your wallet with you." Ford was silent as they entered the store. "I didn't think so. No matter, I suppose... consider it returning the favor for all the rounds of drinks you've bought us all."

Arthur led Ford to the small bed-and-bath department. "There. Pick your towel so we can get out of here. I need another cup of tea and you need to change your clothes – they look like you've slept in them."

Ford ignored him, inspecting the shelves, upon which were stacks of fluffy towels. Arthur watched as Ford examined each type of towel, feeling its degree of fluffiness and absorbency. He ended up choosing a largish one of a green hue, since it reminded him of Betelgeuse. It fit around him nicely and felt pleasantly soft when he rubbed it against his cheek.

"I think this'll do, Arthur," he said, bringing the find to his friend, who was standing at the end of the aisle with his arms crossed.

"Very nice. It complements the bloodshot quality of your eyes. Now let's go." Arthur paid for the towel with as much geniality as could be expected, and then they took a taxi out of town. The cab stopped first at Ford's building; Arthur made a point of seeing him to the door.

"Thanks very much, Arthur," said Ford, shaking the other's hand. "I won't forget this."

"Don't mention it," Arthur responded. "I hope you enjoy it."

He then returned home, where his half-drunk cup of tea was nearly at room-temperature. Arthur sighed as he brewed some more, and could not help but wonder why his friend was so remarkably odd.