A/N: Thank-you so much for the lovely reviews! I'm afraid this chapter is also rather unfair to Arthur, it's just not been his day, and there's nothing I could do about it without severe continuity problems. I promise I'll give him a better time in Chapter 14 ;-D
Chapter 13 - An explanation of how to top a really bad day
Arthur clunked his way down the corridor. Somehow, his recovering brain had not yet passed on many messages from the lower part of his body, really having been too concerned with the top and middle sections. However, as he turned into his room, he became aware that walking was more of a problem than normal and was making a lot more noise. He concentrated hard and finally worked out what it was. It was the mop bucket. Getting to the kitchen, drinking, falling down in a stupor, waking up, going to sleep again, waking up, getting as far as the table, eating, listening and marching out of the room: all these things he had somehow accomplished, blissfully unaware of the lump of plastic attached to his lower leg. And no-one had said a word about it. He wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, but he wasn't going to waste any more time thinking about it.
Arthur sat down on the edge of his bed and leant forwards. He grasped the bucket firmly by the sides and pulled. It didn't budge. He wiggled his toes. It still didn't move, though his toes weren't jammed against anything. He pulled his other leg up and braced it against the top of the bucket and pushed. His trapped leg complained, but the bucket stayed fixed. He looked down. Logically there had to be a reason why the bucket wasn't moving. Then he saw it: Inside the bucket, the plastic grill that drained the mop was broken and jagged. The hem of his pyjama bottoms had wrapped itself round one of the projecting spears of plastic and was so tight around his ankle that he couldn't even pull his foot out of the leg. Balancing carefully on the edge of the bed, Arthur bent down and slipped his hand into the bucket to try to free the offending bit of plastic. It was a very small bucket and there wasn't much room for manoeuvre, but he could just get his fingers round to the end. If he could only pull back a little now, it would unhook...
...but it wouldn't unhook. Largely because he couldn't pull back. The broken plastic was acting like a barb, and his thrusting motion into the bucket had snared the cuff of his dressing gown on a particularly sharp bit, straight through, from side to side, right next to his wrist. Pulling back on it just made it tighter and he felt the pulse sing in his wrist as he tried to free his hand.
"Great." Said Arthur, in the voice of one who is certainly not happy with the situation, but who has been through this sort of thing often enough to know that making a fuss about it won't actually get you anywhere. (As opposed to other, less matter-based problems, where sheer mindless panic is the only proper reaction)
With his left foot and his right hand swallowed up in the bright red junior mop bucket, movement was going to be an interesting test of willpower. Arthur slowly pushed his bottom up off the bed, and gripping his ankle to stop himself pulling the gown-sleeve any tighter, he swung that leg forward. The bucket landed with a 'thunk', and Arthur overbalanced. By throwing his other leg forward, he was able to right himself, his left arm windmilling furiously. He looked up, craning his neck to see where he was in relation to the door. If his calculations were correct, if he went forward six steps in this direction, he should come to the wall, against which he could balance while he edged sideways to the doorway. As it turned out, not entirely unexpectedly, his calculations were wrong. On the fourth step, his eyes on the floor, his head came into sharp contact with the wall. Surprise knocked him off balance and he fell sideways, managing to break his fall with his free arm, but still ending up on his side.
Getting up was tricky. He had fallen away from the wall, so he had no support but himself. 'It is amazing,' he thought to himself, 'how much you need arms to get up.' He almost added 'At my age,' but fought the fogeyish impulse and redoubled his efforts. A few minutes of not-unimpressive gymnastics later, Arthur was once more in an upright position, only now the corner of his dressing-gown skirt had somehow become trapped in with the foot and the hand. Vague panic circled around him as it occurred to him that he was slowly being eaten alive by a piece of damaged (and therefore probably malevolent) cleaning equipment.
Arthur shuffled, Quasimodo-like, out of his room and down the corridor to the galley. Exhausted and aching, he tumbled across the threshold, and it was with a shock of resigned horror that he realised the room was empty: Ford and Zaphod were gone. Part of him wanted to let himself fall over there and hope it would all go away if he just went to sleep, but most of him realised that he had just spent the best part of a day asleep on this very floor, and not only would doing the same again look like he had run out of ideas, but, given his current position, he would probably be utterly unable to move when he woke up.
A slightly mischievous urge took him, and settling his weight onto the trapped foot, he hooshed himself around with his other foot. The plastic spun perfectly on the smooth galley floor, and he whizzed round a couple of times in his doubled-over position, feeling rather like an ice skater in a low spin, before a wobble nearly threw him to the floor and his sensible side reasserted itself. Stopping the spin facing the doorway, Arthur resumed his clumsy stagger down the corridor towards the bridge.
There was no-one on the bridge. Arthur sighed; he should have known. Where would Ford and Zaphod be? An idea flickered through his head, but he banished it swiftly. 'Think, Arthur." He thought to himself. Then it clicked. They had been wondering about The Drink. Undoubtedly, given what he knew of those impossible men, they had gone looking for it. And the first place they would look would be Trillian's cabin – Ford had said so himself.
Another spin on the bucket turned Arthur back round to the door, and five painful minutes later, Arthur stood outside Trillian's room. The door didn't open.
"Excuse me." Said Arthur, "Can I come in?" The door made a little sound like it had jumped, startled,
"I'm so sorry, my sensors did not register you down there." It said cheerfully. Arthur grunted as it opened,
"Have a nice day!" Said the door.
The room was brightly lit. Trillian was sitting in bed, the covers drawn up to her waist, her arms folded, a look of uncertainty on her face. Ford and Zaphod were perched either side of her on the bed, and Zaphod had got the infamous bottle in his hands and was sniffing at the top. They all turned as Arthur came noisily into the room. Zaphod's foreheads creased as if he couldn't quite work out what Arthur was doing, Trillian hastily pulled the sheets up to cover her head, from which muffled sniggers soon emerged, and Ford looked quizzically at him, obviously unsure whether to take the Zaphod or the Trillian route,
"How did you end up like that?" He asked eventually, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice,
"I decided to see if I could get my whole body inside and it went wrong." said Arthur. Ford and Zaphod looked at each other as if to say – he's finally lost it completely. Then Ford's brain slowly clicked into place and he remembered something of his researches on Earth. 'Ah, sarcasm...?" his brain asked. He decided it was, and tried to explain to Zaphod, who looked ready to edge round the Earthman and get The Drink safely out of the room before the madness worsened.
"He doesn't mean it. He means...he was trying to get out of it and got stuck...I think." He chanced a glance at Arthur, who nodded.
"Then why'd he say that?" Asked Zaphod
"I dunno...it's an Earth thing." He turned back to Arthur, "Do you want some help?"
"Thank You." Said Arthur, without amusement. His back was really hurting now, and his neck and legs were complaining at their harsh treatment. Ford hauled himself off the bed, his eyes tracing a lingering path over Trillian's cleavage – freshly re-revealed as she emerged to watch the procedure. Zaphod noticed and gave an unreadable twitch of his facial muscles, before leaning back next to her and clutching the bottle more tightly while his third hand wandered off onto Trillian's shoulder and started to stroke little patterns on the exposed flesh in a proprietorial manner.
"What's keeping you in there?" Ford asked. Arthur looked up at him as best he could and explained using the voice he would have used back on Earth to explain a peculiar 'thunking' sound from his car's steering rack to a garage mechanic,
"My pyjamas and my dressing gown are caught in the plastic bits at the top. When I try to pull away, it just wraps it tighter round my wrist and ankle."
"Let's have a look," said Ford, "Sit down."
"I can't," said Arthur, "I have to either stand or fall over, there is no in-between." Ford rolled his eyes,
"Don't be difficult, Arthur, just get your weight off it and hold it up so that I can see."
Since Ford was obviously not going to help him reach this position, Arthur reluctantly threw his weight to one side until he toppled over. Lying on the floor, he looked at Ford and raised his bucketed hand and food painfully into the air. Ford sat down, legs crossed, and pulled the bucket onto his lap. He looked at Arthur and let go of the bucket. He took off his jacket, undid his shirt cuff, and rolled up his sleeve. Then he slid his arm down beside Arthur's, feeling for the bits of plastic caught in the rough wool fabric of the sleeve.
"It's gone right through." He announced a few seconds later.
"I know." Said Arthur tetchily.
"We could break the bucket." Said Ford.
"How? It's bloody tough, I tried to crack the sides. I'm not having you swinging a hammer at me." Said Arthur with feeling.
"Marvin could probably do it." Ford mused.
"I'm not having that robot waving anything sharp around near my skin. I'm sorry, but I just don't trust a walking computer in that way."
"Fair enough." Ford replied, slipping his hand back out of the bucket, scratching at the skin on his forearm and chewing his lip as he thought.
"Well, I can't do it from that angle. Maybe if I got a knife and just cut your gown?" Arthur's mouth shot open, as his eyes widened unnaturally. He felt his whole body tense as if someone had gripped him tightly,
"You'll do no such thing. Look, I know it's probably not the best outfit known to the galaxy, but it is the only clothing I've got, and I don't want to have to walk round in a dressing gown with a great fraying hole in it. Nor do I relish the thought of you wielding a knife in such a confined space."
"Okay, okay." Said Ford in a placatory tone, "I'll see if I can get a better grip from another angle. He put his head to one side and considered the problem. If he could get his hand directly down the side of Arthur's leg, he'd be able to get a better grip on the fabric, maybe enough to pull it off.
Sitting himself down on Arthur's left side, he hoiked Arthur's trapped leg up onto his shoulder at the knee, and held the bucket between his own knees in his lap. By digging his elbow back into Arthur's armpit, he could now get the angle for an easy entry into the bucket, between Arthur's arm and leg.
Because his hand was trapped up with his foot, Arthur was compelled to remain in a sort of semi sit-up, his stomach muscles doing all the work to stop himself leaning back on his arm, because every time he did, he got an irritable, 'Arthur, don't pull.' from Ford.
Inside the bucket it was hot. Three limbs on a warm spaceship, the muscles all working hard and all tangled up with a length of insulating wool fabric, give off a lot of heat, and as Ford's hand rubbed past Arthur's, he could feel them slide, both slick with sweat. Arthur groaned inwardly to himself: now was not a time for inappropriate thoughts; not when his groin was firmly planted against the base of Ford's spine... He groaned silently again and thought hurriedly about tulips.
Five excruciating minutes later, the pain in his contorted body being somewhat offset by the concentration he was having to apply to keeping thinking about Spring-flowering bulbs, Arthur felt his cuff slide off the plastic, and Ford wrap it more tightly around his wrist and help him remove his hand from the bucket. He let go, and Arthur fell back on the floor, rubbing his wrist and stretching his back as far as he could. The hem of the skirts was released easily, and Arthur wriggled happily, all the kinks in his spine hurting in a getting-better sort of way now.
Ford could now get both his hands into the bucket, and his fingers easily worked the pyjamas off the spikes of red plastic. He did not, however, let Arthur remove his foot at once, but kept it in there, hidden from the gazes of Zaphod and Trillian, while he stroked his thumb around Arthur's ankle, and brushed the sole of his foot until Arthur muttered,
"Tu-u-ulips," with a half sob, and Ford glanced back at him, smirked, and let the foot out, saying cheerfully,
"There you go, Arthur." He laid Arthur's leg down on the floor next to him, and got up, stretching himself, while Arthur arched his back, stretched his feet, and yelled as a spasm of cramp shot up his leg.
"Thank-you." he said at last.
He got up and looked at the bed, where Trillian was once more ensconced between Zaphod and Ford. She looked slightly...not uncomfortable, that was too strong a word, but almost as if she knew she shouldn't be letting them do this, but that she could because...well, because Earth rules just didn't apply here. To Arthur, however, they did apply. He stole a glance at the expanse of cleavage available to view, and looked sheepishly back at his feet.
"I'll, uh... I'll be off then." He said, and walked out of the door. Then he walked back, collected his bucket, and left again.
Zaphod looked at Ford, clutching the bottle to his chest, and Trillian to his side,
"Don't you want to go to bed?" He asked, a slight warning tone in his voice. Trillian hitched up her eyebrows and closed her eyes. This wasn't a conversation she thought she should get involved with. Ford shook his head,
"Not while that bottle is out on its own. I don't know what might happen to it."
"Well, given your total lack of control last time it was left with you, you needn't think that's going to happen again." Zaphod muttered. Trillian opened her eyes,
"I should never have let you have the bottle. Look, you're not actually going to drink that tonight are you? It is past four in the morning. I think you'd be better off leaving it. You'll enjoy it more if you have to wait for it." She looked steadily at Zaphod, who watched her with his left head, while the right kept its eyes fixed on Ford, trying to stare him out of the room,
"I thought you didn't want to let me loose around Arthur?" Ford said. Zaphod snorted,
"Hey, I've got a girl in my arms and a bottle in my hand. I think I'm in a much more hoopy position that you right now. Go find the monkey if you want." Trillian swung her legs out from under the covers, climbed over Zaphod and stood next to him by the bed. She held out her hand,
"Give me the bottle Zaphod." Zaphod looked at her in surprise,
"Hey...baby...?" He said, unsure of what she was actually doing.
"I'm not going to sit here and listen to you and Ford argue over me and Arthur and that bottle. So firstly, I'm going to remove one of the problems..." taking Zaphod by surprise, she managed to prise the bottle away fro him and got it into the voice-print locker by the bed before he could stop her, "and secondly, I'm going to ask at least one of you to leave, and the other not to stay unless he can get it into is heads that I am just not available at this time of night, and can keep his roving hands to himself for a couple of hours. If neither of those last two is achievable, I'm going to go and find another room for the night. Perhaps I'll go and spend it with Arthur, shall I?" She said these last words in such a menacing tone, that Ford and Zaphod both shrank back into the bed. Ford got the hint first, and headed towards the door,
"Well, I guess I'll have to wait till morning for that drink. Um, best of luck mate." He said to Zaphod, "'Night Trillian." He said to Trillian's breasts, and walked straight out of the door.
Instinct took Ford straight down the corridor to Arthur's room. The door opened: Arthur hadn't locked it, and Ford peered inside. Arthur was stretched out on top of his covers, as if he'd fallen asleep before he could actually get into bed properly. Ford tiptoed over to him. He knew that face: it was the face of a man who has been up half the night getting his drunken friend settled on the couch and consequently needs to sleep for longer in the morning than the drunk man does. Ford had seen it once or twice...well, three or four...okay, a lot of times before. He reached out his hand on an impulse, and his fingertips brushed Arthur's cheek. Arthur batted at the hand with his own, muttering to himself in his light sleep. Ford withdrew the hand and sighed. Being sober wasn't helping to control a certain background horniness that was currently assailing him whenever Arthur was around, but it was, at least, allowing him to remember the sort of reaction he might expect if he woke Arthur now and tried to persuade him to do anything. It simply wouldn't be worth the effort. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be okay. Tomorrow night he would see off Zaphod and find out a bit more about Arthur's sexual skills. Tonight...well, he could probably do with the sleep anyway.
Ford went back to his own room, fell into bed, and within minutes was dreaming about girl's chests and large glasses of horrifically strong alcohol. He smiled a smile that made Arthur, in his own cabin, frown and turn fretfully in his sleep as he dreamt of ravening monsters chasing him and swallowing him whole.
In a third cabin, Zaphod bowed to a will almost as strong as his own, and dozed in his clothes while Trillian let the one hand on her inner thigh pass without comment, and slept.
Will Trillian ever let Zaphod have the bottle back? Will he share it with Ford when he gets it? Or is he too annoyed about the Trillian based retaliation? And most importantly, will Ford and Arthur get around to doing what they were meant to do three chapters ago? I'll happily deprive myself of sleep to answer these important questions, if only I get reviews :-)