Work Text:
It’s a Thursday, he thinks, as he bursts from the cool, cold glass doors of the radio station.
He doesn’t like Thursdays, usually. He likes them even less today. The more he thinks about it, the less he likes Thursdays in general, and the more he likes any day that isn’t a Thursday, which brings him around to the rather precarious position of wishing he could just flop down on his front doorstep the instant he reaches his house and not move until 4:00PM on Friday at last and he can make a move for the nearest pub to drown his infinite sorrows in -
Arthur trips over a pebble.
He blinks. The pebble winks innocently up at him. He debates kicking it to the curb, but refrains. He doesn’t want to make a spectacle of himself.
A fine drizzle has started up, pattering away dismally at the ground. A few drops land delicately on his dark hair. A few more follow, to the point his hair feels ever so slightly damp.
Arthur starts up a brisk walk.
A red car dashes past him with worrying speed for such a small village in the outskirts of London (of which the majority of the population is surely older than sixty, he thinks dismally, but that makes him living here sound even more depressing than it already does). The sun smiles, watery through the filmy sky.
He waits at a zebra crossing absentmindedly. Realises he's an Idiot and begins to cross the road only for a truck to skid to a halt inches from his face and the driver to stick their head out of the windo furiously, berating him for his carelessness.
Arthur apologises. The driver looks slightly mollified, and drives off, car tires screeching against the wet tarmac.
Arthur closes his eyes. Something cold patters against his forehead.
He squints. Clouds loom, an earthy grey. The musky scent of petrichor thinly permeates his nostrils.
He inhales. It's a nice scent.
Ten minutes later, and the drizzle hasn't eased off.
Arthur wilts, hair dotted with glistening waterdrops. He’d forgotten an umbrella, under the reliable assurance from a reliable source that it would not rain today. I work at a radio station, he thinks, pursing his lips at the sky mulishly. He thinks, more than a little petulantly, Greg told me it wouldn’t rain today, and then, slightly more smug, Greg told the entirety of Cottington it wouldn’t rain today.
The sky rumbles ominously, an unsubtle fuck you to Greg and his premonitions.
Arthur sighs, frankly agreeing, silently gratefu that it was Greg who'd fucked up and not him.
As if on cue, the clouds roll in, tumbling and forebodingly heavy, a flash of lightning reverberates against his spine, the rumbling of thunder soon to follow, and then –
And then it’s pouring.
Arthur clutches his coat more firmly around him, mentally adjusts his internal longing to 'curl up in a ball on his doorstep' to 'curl up in a wet, soggy ball on his warm, dry bed'. He begins to run.
---
He’s drenched by the time he makes it home.
The rain's pelting down with vigour now, and suddenly, what must be the dreariest house in England seems to Arthur to be the epitome of extravagance.
Weeds sprout unenthusiastically, hugging the walls. Rusty leaves curl upwards reluctantly in a solemn attempt at mimicking a bush. Dirty runoff from the pipes spatters to the ground, inches away from his shoes. The house itself is barely holding on. It’s beautiful.
He fumbles for his keys, shivering just shy of uncontrollably, back plastered to the brick walls of his house in an attempt to steer clear of the rain.
He feels something watching him.
He swivels, brandishing an accusing finger at the offender.
A pair of blue eyes glitters disconcertingly at him from deep within the bush.
Arthur gasps. Halts. Frowns. He forgets to shiver from the cold.
The question ‘Why are you in my bush?’ sounds a little too accusing, and a tad too obvious. It stays on the tip of his tongue, nonetheless.
There’s awkward silence for a few moments, while Arthur attempts to find something remarkably more useful to say in a situation where one finds a strange man in one’s bush, and Ford Prefect stares back unblinking, decidedly unhelpful. Perhaps Ford himself doesn’t know why he’s in Arthur’s bush. Perhaps he's stuck in Arthur's bush, has been for a few hours.
Arthur despairs for a few more seconds. Rain trickles down his neck. Ford stares unabashedly, while stray leaves brush his nose.
‘Hello.’ Arthur begins, to be polite. He pauses, and then he adds a politely inquiring ‘Why. Are you in my bush.’, feeling wholly unoriginal as he does so.
His socks are sodden from where they’re clamped around his numb feet, and his smart black shoes make an unappealing squelch sound as he takes a hurried step backwards.
Ford narrows his eyes disbelievingly. ‘It’s raining.’ He remarks casually. He tilts his head, confused, blue eyes contemplating the sheer unexpectedness that is apparently English weather these days. He’s still watching Arthur.
‘Y-yes.’ Arthur tears his eyes away, concentrates harshly on stopping his teeth from chattering. ‘That d-doesn’t really answer my q-question.’
Ford ignores him. ‘Well? Hurry up and open the door.’ He gestures articulately instead, causing a branch to snap and Arthur to squawk agitatedly.
A strand of orange hair flicks frenziedly over his angular face (Even his eyelashes are a rusty shade of orange. They feather, fine, against his cheekbones).
Arthur glares for a few moments longer, and then he rummages around viciously in his coat pockets.
The rain roars. Water pools in his collarbone. His hair clumps, dripping.
And then his trembling fingers close around his front key, and he pulls it out triumphantly, jamming it into the lock with all the urgency of a man in need of a semi-decent cup of tea and a long nap.
He feels Ford unfold himself from the bush, hears him brush dead Autumn leaves off his crumpled blazer. They fall unceremoniously to the ground, crackling beneath fat drops of water.
Sshk. The door unlocks.
They trample in, and the door thuds shut. What follows is tangling elbows, hot breath, steadying hands, as they both wipe and unlace their shoes on the bedraggled welcome-mat.
Arthur peels off his shoes, then his socks, hisses a sharp intake of breath as cold toes grip colder carpet. He feels Ford shake himself off behind him.
Finally, he looks up. Beige walls and grey carpet unfold in a cramped, confined arrangement of mutual distaste for one-another. A dead house plant sags despondently by the door.
He stares blankly. Suddenly, his house doesn’t seem like the haven he mistook it for at all.
It looks too small. Too dark. It closes in like it wants to eat him alive.
Arthur swallows.
A hand finds his shoulder. Tugs gently, insistently. Then, wordlessly, Ford crosses the room, strains to draw the blinds shut.
The room’s plunged into darkness for all of three seconds, Ford now crouching by the sofa and fiddling with a plug, before a lamp switches on, casting a warm, golden glow over the furniture.
Arthur exhales. A weary gratitude unfurls through his chest.
Ford’s eyes meet his. ‘Tea.' He says. He doesn't elaborate.
He watches as Ford moves to the kitchen, and then Ford's coming back, and standing in front of him, and frowning, that unneringly piercing gaze finding his.
'Humans.' Ford tuts in disapproval. 'Get cold so easily. You're freezing. Go take a hot shower.'
Arthur thinks of something to say. In the end, he just says 'Okay.’
He goes.
---
Arthur stands, eyes closed, head tilted to the showerhead. A jet of searing, scalding water cascades against him, against the dull ache of his dead limbs, against the relentless thudding of his heartbeat.
He doesn't know how long he stands there. It must be at least a good twenty minutes, with the water insistently crashing against him, his face, his arms, his chest, his legs.
---
He shambles downstairs in a sweater, tartan trousers and a tartan dressing gown, worn but comfortable. The sleeves hover against his forearms, infuriatingly short.
On contrast, his tartan trousers drape against the carpet, thoroughly too big for him.
Feeling awkward, he resorts to glaring at the miserable potted plant.
Something brushes his shoulder.
He starts. It’s Ford.
‘I thought you were making tea.’
‘I was. You don’t have any milk left. You like your tea with milk.’
‘Aah.’
‘There’s boiling water if you want it, though.’
‘That’s fine.’
Ford disappears back into the poky kitchen, emerging shortly after with two mugs. One has world’s best dad emblazoned on it. Arthur’s not particularly sure how he acquired that mug.
Outside, the rain drums against the roof tiles.
‘You should shower as well.’ Arthur realises aloud.
Ford blinks. It’s uncanny. Arthur wants to see him do it again. ‘Aah. I’m dry, now.’
‘I have spare clothes. You might as well stay the night. The rain...’ Arthur gestures helplessly in the general direction of the outside.
Determined to help his case, thunder rumbles in the distance.
Ford looks at him. Something like shock flashes through his expression, though it disappears just as quickly. ‘I should leave.’ He says finally, still looking.
‘Okay.’ Arthur rasps, also looking.
‘I have to find a place.’ Ford explains, staring.
‘Yeah.’ Arthur says, also staring. ‘That makes sense.’
‘Yeah.’ Ford agrees. ‘Don’t forget to get milk tomorrow.’
‘Wait.’ Arthur frowns.
Ford frowns back, head tilted in that endearingly owlish way. Tilted just a touch too far to be considered human. Arthur shivers. His heart thuds. His palms feel sweaty.
‘What do you mean, find a place. To stay? What about Guildford?’ Arthur asks casually, attempting a careless shrug.
‘Oh. I left. Guildford. The place I was staying.’ Ford grins, shrugs (he does it only marginally better than Arthur). It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I’m just. Looking for a new apartment. Or something.’
‘Where have you been staying?’ Arthur says offhandedly, nails clenched against his mug.
Ford’s gaze stutters around the room. ‘Places.’ He replies vaguely, though there’s a certain, rehearsed stillness to him.
‘You can. Er.’ Arthur says. ‘Stay. Here. With me, I mean.’
Ford glances up at him, blue eyes wide.
Arthur thinks he sees Ford falter, minutely. Lean towards him, like a planet towards the sun. Like he can't leave, even if he tries.
And he thinks he must be wrong, because Ford leaves. He leaves, and the door clicks quietly behind him.
Arthur stands in the living room for a long time. His water goes cold.
He wishes Ford hadn't come in the first place.
---
A knock on the front door shatters the silence.
Arthur pulls himself out of his daze. He sets the mug down on a side table.
It’s dark out.
‘Who is it.’ He calls hesitantly.
‘It’s me.’
He recognises the voice instantly. ‘Ford? Why are you back?’
He opens the door, and is greeted with the sight of a very drenched, very dishevelled looking Ford Prefect. ‘Because I forgot to do something.’ He sounds regretful. He sounds nervous.
‘What?’ Arthur swallows, mouth dry.
'Something very important', is the vague answer, and then Ford's walking forwards and, and then he's reaching up, and then he's grasping Arthur's shoulders through the dressing gown, and then he's - and then he's kissing him.
Arthur's breath hitches. His hands, stupidly, spasm by his sides. Ford's mouth is wet from rain.
Ford falters, draws away slightly, and Arthur panics, clumsily pulling him back into what has to be the most muddled kiss ever experienced, and he curls a hand messily through Ford’s thick hair, carding his fingers through the coarse waves -
- and Ford’s clutching his dressing gown, and then he's dragging his thumbs down his neck gently, and Arthur shivers, desperate, drowning, a low aching pleasure unfolding through him -
They break apart slowly, foreheads resting together, Arthur’s breathing heavy, Ford’s eyes bright.
‘What.’ Arthur pants, and his voice cracks. He finds he doesn’t care.
Ford opens his mouth to say something. He closes it. And then he kisses Arthur again, warm and soft and so very devoted. He's smiling.
Arthur finds it's answer enough.
---
Far away (but not really, it really only is a small town), a man by the name of Greg stares out from the second floor of the local radio station, hands clasped behind his back. He smirks smugly at the rain, and it shimmers back.