Categories > Books > Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy > Control
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0 reviewsA Heart of Gold interlude. Arthur was always in control of the situation, as long as he has his tea. A little slash, a little het.
1Funny
Arthur did not feel at all in control of the situation.
It was not normal for him. At home, he had always been very much in control. Dull, perhaps. Staid, most certainly. Not quite the one with the upper hand in dates, indeed. But he had always been in control of his own life. He knew how much money he had in his account, and did not overspend. He bought his own scratch and ate blandly healthily food. He drank in moderation, and when he decided to let go and get drunk, it was a sensible decision, with a designated staggerer. His watch was always correct. He always had a working pen.
It bothered him to even leave the house without being properly dressed. But the degree to which things went downhill after that was mind-boggling. He tried, at every step, to take control of his own fate, but he was destined to be tossed around by Electronic Thumbs and bug-eyed green monsters and Improbability Drives and depressed androids and only mildly sane ex-Galactic Presidents.
As frustrating as all of that was, none of those were the one thing that pushed him over the edge. He could have stood it all, he decided, if he could only have a cup of tea. And so, when push came to shove, he shoved as hard as he could. He had given up control in every other facet of his life, and accepted the fact that he was being propelled through the universe at the whim of others in his dressing-gown, but he was damned if he was going to accept this liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea as a substitute for tea. He would have tea - real tea - if it killed him.
Given that it almost did, it was still worth it. When he sat down in the gently swaying, engine-dead ship, hoisted the bone-china cup, and enjoyed the magnificent tea, with milk, he finally felt back in control of the situation.
Ford was not quite so sanguine. He had finished another round of storming through the ship, hitting things and swearing fruitlessly at Eddie. He threw his satchel on the ground in frustration.
"Almighty Zarquon! How can you just sit there?"
Arthur was in a magnificently sanguine mood. "Sit down and have a cup of tea, Ford."
"I will not bloody well sit around sucking down dried leaves and earth mammal secretions. I am trying to get this blasted ship to respond!"
"Realistically," asked Arthur, "is there anything you can do? Beyond stomping and swearing, which has proven somewhat less than effective?"
Ford stomped and swore some more. The computer failed to respond.
"Ford. Sit down. Relax."
Ford did the first, slumping with unnecessary noise into an elegant white plastic chair. He stubbornly refused to do the second. "I don't know how you can sit there like a contentedly beached whale while..." Ford waved his arm, indicating the general absence-of-Zaphod-ness and computer-non-responsive-ness and odd-ship-swaying-ness.
Arthur took one last sip of tea, heaved a quietly contented sigh, and leaned forward to set the cup down. "I have been needing a cup of tea since the night before the earth was destroyed."
"So?"
"When you want something that much, for that long, and finally get it, everything else can pretty much go to..."
He did not finish the sentence, as Ford's eyes lit wickedly and he pounced. Pouncing was never a move that Arthur had ever truly felt worked with anything other than big cats or irritated squirrels, but there was no other word for the way Ford propelled himself off of his chair and towards Arthur in a low-flying leap. Startled into stillness, Arthur could only sit with slack-jawed astonishment as the chair creaked and tipped backwards onto the ground, clonking his head. He grabbed for the nearest thing to his hands as he started to slide backwards off of the chair, which happened to be Ford's hips. It took a minute to process the fact that Ford has his hand around the back of Arthur's head and was kissing him, and by that time, tongues had become involved and Arthur could not really bring himself to ask any silly and blatantly obvious questions, such as, "Ford, what are you doing?" As Ford undid Arthur's robe tie, slid his hand into the worn pajama bottoms, and grasped Arthur's buttock with a firm squeeze, Arthur reluctantly concluded that his brief stint of being in control of things was now over.
It was not normal for him. At home, he had always been very much in control. Dull, perhaps. Staid, most certainly. Not quite the one with the upper hand in dates, indeed. But he had always been in control of his own life. He knew how much money he had in his account, and did not overspend. He bought his own scratch and ate blandly healthily food. He drank in moderation, and when he decided to let go and get drunk, it was a sensible decision, with a designated staggerer. His watch was always correct. He always had a working pen.
It bothered him to even leave the house without being properly dressed. But the degree to which things went downhill after that was mind-boggling. He tried, at every step, to take control of his own fate, but he was destined to be tossed around by Electronic Thumbs and bug-eyed green monsters and Improbability Drives and depressed androids and only mildly sane ex-Galactic Presidents.
As frustrating as all of that was, none of those were the one thing that pushed him over the edge. He could have stood it all, he decided, if he could only have a cup of tea. And so, when push came to shove, he shoved as hard as he could. He had given up control in every other facet of his life, and accepted the fact that he was being propelled through the universe at the whim of others in his dressing-gown, but he was damned if he was going to accept this liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea as a substitute for tea. He would have tea - real tea - if it killed him.
Given that it almost did, it was still worth it. When he sat down in the gently swaying, engine-dead ship, hoisted the bone-china cup, and enjoyed the magnificent tea, with milk, he finally felt back in control of the situation.
Ford was not quite so sanguine. He had finished another round of storming through the ship, hitting things and swearing fruitlessly at Eddie. He threw his satchel on the ground in frustration.
"Almighty Zarquon! How can you just sit there?"
Arthur was in a magnificently sanguine mood. "Sit down and have a cup of tea, Ford."
"I will not bloody well sit around sucking down dried leaves and earth mammal secretions. I am trying to get this blasted ship to respond!"
"Realistically," asked Arthur, "is there anything you can do? Beyond stomping and swearing, which has proven somewhat less than effective?"
Ford stomped and swore some more. The computer failed to respond.
"Ford. Sit down. Relax."
Ford did the first, slumping with unnecessary noise into an elegant white plastic chair. He stubbornly refused to do the second. "I don't know how you can sit there like a contentedly beached whale while..." Ford waved his arm, indicating the general absence-of-Zaphod-ness and computer-non-responsive-ness and odd-ship-swaying-ness.
Arthur took one last sip of tea, heaved a quietly contented sigh, and leaned forward to set the cup down. "I have been needing a cup of tea since the night before the earth was destroyed."
"So?"
"When you want something that much, for that long, and finally get it, everything else can pretty much go to..."
He did not finish the sentence, as Ford's eyes lit wickedly and he pounced. Pouncing was never a move that Arthur had ever truly felt worked with anything other than big cats or irritated squirrels, but there was no other word for the way Ford propelled himself off of his chair and towards Arthur in a low-flying leap. Startled into stillness, Arthur could only sit with slack-jawed astonishment as the chair creaked and tipped backwards onto the ground, clonking his head. He grabbed for the nearest thing to his hands as he started to slide backwards off of the chair, which happened to be Ford's hips. It took a minute to process the fact that Ford has his hand around the back of Arthur's head and was kissing him, and by that time, tongues had become involved and Arthur could not really bring himself to ask any silly and blatantly obvious questions, such as, "Ford, what are you doing?" As Ford undid Arthur's robe tie, slid his hand into the worn pajama bottoms, and grasped Arthur's buttock with a firm squeeze, Arthur reluctantly concluded that his brief stint of being in control of things was now over.
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