Warning: Contains slash
Authors: Pirate Hatter and murderofonerose
Pairing: Ford/Arthur (of course)
Words: 380
Disclaimer: We are not Douglas Adams, either separately or collectively. Similarly, I am not Arthur and Pirate Hatter is not Ford. Or vice versa. Anyone who tells you otherwise is speaking lies.
Mr. Sneakypants
Ford Prefect is Mr. Sneakypants.
Mr. Sneakygonnagetinyourpants.
"Surely not my pants," quibbles Arthur.
"Oh that's what you think." Ford flashes a mischievous smile. After all, pajama bottoms are pretty easy to pull down.
Usually. But at this very moment Arthur uneasily pulls them up a little higher on his waist and ties the drawstring very tight. He does not yet know that he secretly does want his private parts infringed upon.
And then Ford produces a pair of large scissors.
Arthur puts his hands protectively over his crotch and runs away, yelling, "You keep those away from me!"
Then Ford, being ill-advised about safety measures, runs after him still waving the scissors.
"YOUR PANTS ARE MINE, DENT!"
"Don't run with those," Arthur yells over his shoulder, "you'll put someone's eye out! And I'd rather it wasn't mine."
"I think your pants are worth it!" Ford calls to him and tries to head him off at the next corner.
Thinking quickly, Arthur skids to a halt, grabs a towel, and wraps it around his waist. "You wouldn't cut a towel, would you?" he asks, panting slightly from the exertion of running.
Ford screeches to a halt and gapes. "You are deviously clever, Arthur… But mark my words, I will get into your pants."
"Oh, good," says Arthur, relived that Ford has, for the moment, stopped threatening to molest and/or inadvertently maim him, and doesn't seem to absorb the full meaning of Ford's statement.
"You seem tired, Arthur." Ford's grin slowly returns. "Feeling a bit out of shape?"
"Um," replies Arthur. He begins to question the validity of his relief and backs into an (in)conveniently placed corner.
Ford takes a step forward, and then another. His electric blue eyes darted from Arthur's eye line to his waist and then back, creepy grin holding its place on his mouth.
"Um," Arthur says again, desperately trying to convey that he is not, in fact, turned on by any of this in the slightest with this single syllable. However, he has never been terribly good at lying. Bending the truth, or telling little white lies, perhaps, but not whoppers.
Ford grabs at Arthur's crotch, removing the towel and pacing it over his own shoulder. "Thanks for the towel, Arthur."
In response, Arthur can only flail…