Warning: Contains slash
Pairing: Ford/Arthur
Words: 806
Disclaimer: Is it really necessary to point out that I am not Douglas Adams? Is that what people really need? (I'm not even English and I don't even look like a Douglas.) Also, I do not endorse drunk driving or letting Ford shout out directions.
Midnight Show
Ford had finally invited Arthur to come and see a play. He wasn't actually in it, and he didn't actually known any of the actors, but it was a play all the same.
Unfortunately, it had been a particularly boring play. Arthur had managed to stay awake through the whole thing, but only by virtue of the fact that Ford fell asleep and kept half-waking up to attempt a slightly more comfortable way of laying his head on Arthur's shoulder.
"Come on," Ford said afterwards with a yawn, "I need a drink to wake up."
So they went to a pub. Some time later they wandered back out of it and located, with some difficulty, Arthur's car.
"Prob'ly shouldn't be driving," Arthur muttered as he fumbled getting the keys into the ignition for a second time. Then he finally managed it, and the thought was forgotten as he grinned. "Third time's lucky." This sent Ford into fits of laughter as they pulled out of the otherwise empty car park, because he'd never understood those kinds of sayings.
Arthur drove a little faster than he might have done completely sober, but it was late (or early) enough that there was no traffic and he forgot to let the nasty statistics worry him. All the windows were rolled down and Ford was singing wildly and badly into the wind and somehow that more than made up for the terrible play.
"Turn," Ford said suddenly. "Turn here!" In response to Arthur's curious look, he simply said, "I know a place."
Under Ford's instruction, the car lurched through a few more abrupt turns before coming to an even more abrupt halt. As they climbed out, Arthur looked around in confusion.
"Ford… This is a field."
"No-oo," his friend replied, drawing something out of his satchel with a flourish. "It's a field – with a towel."
The terrycloth material made a soft "fwump" as it was unfolded in midair and settled to the grass with only a few stray creases remaining. Ford sat on it and patted the space next to him, grinning.
"Sit."
Fighting the familiar instinct to cover his neck and back away, Arthur sat. He was about to ask why they were in a field when Ford leaned close and wrapped an arm around his middle. Something, his vaguely befuddled brain was telling him, seemed off. Then it occurred to him:
"Ford, this isn't… a date, is it?"
The out-of-work actor (who was not, in fact, from Guilford, though it would be some time before Arthur understood the full significance of this) looked a little embarrassed. "Isn't it? I've been doing research. I thought I fulfilled all the requirements…"
"Oh, you did. As far as dates go, this was not outside the norm." Arthur paused. "'Cept, of course, I'm not a woman, obviously, so… well… I wasn't expecting this, you see, or I'd have said something earlier." Having said this, he marveled at both Ford's peculiar ignorance of normal social niceties and the fact that he himself had not yet attempted to dislodge the wayward arm.
Apparently Ford had noticed this too.
"Well," he began in a wheedling tone, "you don't really mind, do you? I mean, if it's been a good date, why spoil it worrying over the tiny, inconsequential detail of our both being male?"
Arthur's better judgment insisted that this argument didn't really make sense. Against his better judgment, Arthur decided to ignore his better judgment because he was actually having quite a nice time, and on some level Ford was right. Why waste a perfectly good evening? (Omitting the play. Though that mindless tedium had helped make the evening afterward so enjoyable, so, really, it was all relative. Some months later, Arthur would come to the same conclusion regarding Vogon poetry and the subsequent life of anyone who survived being subjected to it.)
"All right," he said a tad nervously, "what happens now, then?"
"Well…"
Arthur found himself pinned between Ford and a towel, being kissed with surprising enthusiasm. Only it wasn't really surprising. In fact, he was just beginning to realize how very unsurprising it was. Nor was he scandalized, or even mildly alarmed, when he realized he was kissing back.
Perhaps it had something to do with the drinks he had consumed in the pub fiddling with the dials on his inhibitions – yes, it was probably that – but it was definitely an enjoyable experience. One that bore repeating, Arthur decided as Ford began to draw back, if only, he reasoned, to be absolutely sure. He wrapped his arms quickly around his friend's warm body and pulled him closer for another breathless kiss that somehow promised to lead to much more.
Above them the stars glowed silently through the curtain of atmosphere, and the universe in general sat back and enjoyed the midnight show.
Ford seems to wants me to continue writing this. Arthur is blushing modestly -- which is pretty ambiguous if you ask me. Any thoughts? Opinions? Requests?
