Title: A Fairytale Of Betelgeuse Seven
Pairing: Ford/Arthur
Summary: As well as being my favourite Christmas song, I've always thought 'A Fairytale of New York' perfectly fits Arthur and Ford's relationship in a lot of ways. Told over four Christmases, the one right before the Earth was destroyed and the three following it, this is their story. Oh, and Ford sings the Shane McGowan part and Arthur sings the Kirsty MacColl part.
Universe: Er, none really, because it blatantly ignores the fact that Arthur and Ford were stranded on prehistoric Earth for five years. Call it TV-verse and assume they got off the planet in time for Christmas. .
Rating: It doesn't get any worse than the song lyrics; light T for swearing I guess.
Disclaimer: If I was Douglas Adams I would be doing a hell of a lot more with these characters than writing crappy fanfic.
Wordcount: 2680 including song; 2376 of my own.
A Fairytale of Betelgeuse Seven
It was Christmas Eve, babe
In the drunk tank
Ford Prefect had never got the hang of Christmas. It was a strange tradition that seemed to be common to a great many Earth people, or at least the parts he visited. The way he understood it, at Christmas, which occurred in the coldest parts of the year when a blazer and an argyle sweater just wouldn't cut it, you spent time with the people you knew best, snuggled up inside with alcohol and (inexplicably) a tree, and got given a great many colourfully wrapped presents. This sounded simple and pleasant enough. So, the night before the big day, Ford had invited his close friend Arthur Dent down to the pub. Someone he knew best, check. Alcohol and a tree, check. And he'd even bought a present. Arthur had seemed pleased, though a little bemused, by the fluffy purple BHS towel. But before they could even get started on their fifth drinks, Arthur announced that he had to leave, because he had family to visit.
An old man said to me
Won't see another one
Ford Prefect didn't have any family to visit, and the same was probably true of the people who were still in the pub as midnight drew near. As last orders were called, an Earthman, who looked like he was not far off Ford's age but was, in all probability, about a hundred years younger, leaned over him to get a final pint of stout. The barman leant on the lever in the same way that a person with a pain in their right leg might choose to lean on the left one, and the man glanced at Ford, nodding once.
"That guy you were with. You won't find another one like him."
And then he sang a song
The rare old mountain dew
I turned my face away and dreamed about you.
The man's drink appeared on the counter. He swept it away and curled back up into his corner, humming a tune quietly to himself. It didn't sound like the Janx Spirit song or any other drinking ditty Ford was familiar with. Ford cradled his final glass of gin to his chest. It had nothing on Arcturan Mega-Gin, but what could you do? He wondered what Arthur was doing right now. Had he made it to his mother's house on time and without reprimands? More importantly, was he thinking he would have had a better time if he'd stayed in the bar with Ford, drinking til they were thrown out?
Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
But really, Ford should count himself lucky. He'd been in much worse places than alone in a bar on the eve of a holiday he didn't celebrate. He'd been stranded alone in deserts of quicksand, almost frozen to death in a planet coated in dry ice, deserted by Zaphod Beeblebrox in the face of one of Eccentrica Gallumbits' jealous ex lovers, lived in a field of sentient tuxedoes who kept insulting his fashion sense, and worst of all, he'd once spent a week living with an estate agent. This time, none of those things had happened. This time, he'd got it right. Sure, the planet itself wasn't so great, but the company… the company, if nothing else, was certainly some of the most consistent he'd ever had.
I've got a feeling this year's for me and you
And Ford couldn't lose Arthur as a friend. Four years ago he'd arrived in England, with plans to head south in a few weeks' time. Nothing had ever stopped him from doing that (except lack of money, but since when had he let that affect him?) and yet he was still here, day after day. He didn't know why, and if he didn't know why then he'd bet the copyright of his best ever Guide entry that Arthur, a significantly less evolved being, didn't know why either. This year, he had to do something different, to make Arthur see that the two of them had something special.
So happy Christmas; I love you baby
I can see a better time when all our dreams come true.
On the long walk back, Ford passed Arthur's house. Inside everything was dark, but the porch light was still aglow, a bright golden beacon lighting up the sky and running up Arthur's electricity bill. Shaking his head at the human's forgetfulness, Ford jogged up the front path and switched the light off. Immediately his vision distance decreased tenfold, and he couldn't see further than the front door, barely a foot away.
"Happy Christmas, Arthur. I love you," he whispered to the door as he returned to the main street, wondering if he should – or could – say it to his face. One thing was certain: as much as he loved Arthur, he wasn't prepared to give up everything for him. He could have it both ways, couldn't he? He could travel to every corner of the galaxy visiting dozens of strange worlds, and at the same time, he could have the comfort of a familiar face?
Maybe?
They've got cars big as bars; they've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you; it's no place for the old
In Arthur Dent's eyes, there were two distinct types of planets. There were planets that were Earth and planets that were not Earth. He preferred planets in the first category, but since all planets in the first category had been demolished to make way for a hyperspace bypass, he'd been spending most of his time on planets in the second category. They were all the same. Large, for one. Intimidating, certainly. Unfriendly to humans, it was almost a guarantee. Arthur's mother would have hated them. Although possibly only slightly more than he himself did.
When you first took my hand on a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me Broadway was waiting for me
There were solutions, of course. He had already lived a good six months longer than he rightly should have done, given that he should have been blown up with the rest of his planet. Ford had saved him, though. Him, rather than one of those university girls who sometimes came to the pub for pre-clubbing drinks on a Saturday night and who would happily shag Ford at a moment's notice. Despite the lack of breasts and see through shirts, Ford had saved him. And he told him he would show him the marvels of the entire Galaxy.
You were handsome - you were pretty
Queen of New York City
For the most part, Arthur was still waiting for the whole 'marvels' thing. But it was undeniable that Ford really did know what he was doing. This time last year, Arthur would never, ever have associated the phrase 'in safe hands' with Ford Prefect, but that's exactly what he was. Or at least, much safer hands than he would have been with anyone else. Nicer hands, too, he thought absentmindedly, staring at the left one that was currently waving the Sub-Etha thumb in the air.
When the band finished playing we yelled out for more
Sinatra was swinging; all the drunks they were singing
And Arthur really couldn't shake the nagging feeling that maybe Ford had been preparing him for this. In the last few months before they left, Arthur had been dragged out of his comfort zone more and more often, to do crazier and crazier things. That wasn't a good thing in the slightest, he hastened to add. But it did mean that he was ever so slightly more at ease with the infinite amount of insanity the universe had to offer him; slightly more able to join in.
We kissed on a corner and danced through the night
And joining in was even easier when you had somebody who was so willing to do it with you.
The boys of the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.
The song at this strange kind of party was vaguely familiar. Arthur was sure he'd heard it before somewhere, but Ford was spinning him round and round and insisting he drink up and Arthur didn't have a moment to spare to think about what it might be. He tried to put it out of his mind and threw his head back and laughed, and at that moment, his digital watch bleeped at him. He squinted at it (the numbers were all fuzzy) and saw that it had just ticked over to December 25th.
One thing was guaranteed. The most exciting thing that happened this Christmas wouldn't be his mother throwing a glass of eggnog at his aunt.
You're a bum, you're a punk
Arthur wasn't sure who or what had started the argument. They'd been reading the Guide, hadn't they? Yes, that was right, trying to decide where to go next. Arthur was sick of hitching random lifts and landing wherever they happened to land, which is what they'd done ever since Zaphod and Trillian had abandoned them to go off on their third honeymoon. He wanted Ford to take him somewhere, somewhere nice. Ford said he couldn't afford it. Arthur said, well how do you manage to buy all those ouisghian zodahs? And Ford had said it just wasn't worth paying to get somewhere when you could do it for free.
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed.
So then he had asked if Ford meant that he didn't think Arthur was worth anything. Ford didn't quite see how Arthur had made that leap but decided to just go with it, saying that actually he had thought Arthur was worth quite a bit, had done for a long time, and that was how this whole big mess had gotten started, but recently Arthur had been proving him wrong time and time again, refusing to help or show an interest or do anything,
You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot
Arthur couldn't believe what he was hearing. He clamped his hands over his ears but he couldn't block out the voices in his head, much like it is no use placing a lid over a cake that is already covered in flies. Hurt and shocked, he hurled out every insult he could possibly think of in Ford's general direction, not listening, trying not to think.
Happy Christmas your arse, I pray God it's our last.
And when he was all out of things to say, he slammed his fist into the wall and told Ford that if he had it his way, the two of them wouldn't be together for that much longer and that would just about solve this whole argument, wouldn't it? And Ford had said he wouldn't care if it weren't for the fact that Arthur would never survive out there on his own. And to prove a point Arthur had nicked the Sub-Etha thumb from Ford's satchel and hoisted it into the air.
The boys of the NYPD choir were still singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.
Even after all this time, Arthur always felt shaky after the matter transference beam. This time, it could only be exacerbated by the fact that he had had a huge fight with his – what exactly were he and Ford, anyway? Travelling companions? True, but more than that, certainly. Best friends? Well, maybe, but in all honestly not everything they did fell into best friend sort of territory. Somewhere, it appeared, they'd crossed some sort of line and become boyfriends. Not that it mattered anymore. It was in the past.
He hummed a song to himself to try to forget. It was an old Earth song, one he didn't know he'd even remembered until this moment. As he reached the first chorus, his digital watch sprang to life. The light was barely working these days, but it still managed to tell the time, and it still managed to let out a feeble bleep that was inappropriately cheerful for a man who was alone, light years away from everything and everyone that he had ever known.
I could have been someone.
Ford grumbled to himself. A hundred years ago he was young and free with every possibility in the Galaxy open to him. And what life had he chosen? He'd decided that it was more important to try to force some unwilling ape descendent to appreciate the universe than to actually appreciate it himself.
Well so could anyone
It wasn't like being an interstellar hitchhiker was anything to be particularly proud of, Arthur reasoned. After all, if he could do it, it must be pretty damn easy.
You took my dreams from me when I first found you
There are different stages of space travel, Arthur Dent thinks to himself. There's the first stage, where you can't quite believe any of this is happening and you'd just like to pretend it's not, thank you very much. Then there's the second stage, where you're used to it enough that you can actually find some enjoyment, perhaps after a few gynnan tonnyx, and you're making the best of what you have and things can get surprisingly exciting when your life isn't in immediate danger. But then there's the third stage. When you're just tired of it all and you want nothing more than to go home and curl up in bed. Except you don't have a home because it was stolen from you and you were stolen from it.
I kept them with me babe; I put them with my own
Ford interrupted Arthur's long winded explanation of his feelings. It was bound to be long winded, he supposed. Arthur talked a lot and after this amount of time not seeing each other, he was bound to have a lot to say beyond the obvious question of 'What a coincidence you're also on Cassieopeia Gamma' and 'Isn't it a nice day today now that the acid rain has stopped?' But Ford had to tell him, to explain. It wasn't always going to be like this. He would have given Arthur a home, would have settled down with him, just as soon as they'd found somewhere suitable.
Can't make it out alone, I've built my dreams around you.
The words sounded foreign to him; he'd never said them out loud before. Before Arthur, he thought that the only constant in his life would be alcohol, and that he would probably end up dying from an alcohol related accident as well, because that was the cyclical way the Universe worked, in his experience. Three years ago he'd begun to see Arthur as another constant in his life. Something he had to adapt to and work with, playing off one another, just like he had to adapt to the different varieties of drink that were available on every planet. He began to see that depending on the place, maybe staying somewhere for fifty or more years wasn't the worst thing imaginable, and possibly not even in the top ten. And just as he'd come to that conclusion, Arthur had left.
But the idea never had.
The boys of the NYPD choir are still singing Galway Bay
Arthur listened to Ford's speech, and he'd never heard the other man sound so earnest, or so… sober. And then he glanced into the bright, strange, impossibly alien eyes in front of him and he felt a strange feeling; one that he remembered from a long time ago, but probably hadn't felt since Earth. The kind of feeling you got when you listened to a favourite song or took the first sip of a really good cup of tea or saw your house again after a weekend away doing risky unknown things.
And in that moment he realised that home didn't necessarily have to be a place. Home could be a person, too.
And the bells are ringing out
For Christmas Day.