(no subject)
Title: Feels Like Home
Author: AngstSchrei
Pairing: Ford/Arthur
Fandom: Hitchhiker's Guide
Theme: #5 strawberry jam, #68 lullaby
Rating: pg-13
Disclaimer: The Guide is not mine, Ford is not mine, and, most sorrowfully, Arthur is not mine.
Summary: Arthur has problems sleeping and Ford's there to help. FluffyMcflufffluff at the end, weird in the middle. One-shot.
He could not find it in him to fall asleep that first night, nor the night after. He would doze lightly in the unfamiliar atmosphere of the cold, white ship, watching visions of the earth exploding pass through his mind. His eyes would close and he would see the cool, cloudy blue of his home planet like a strike of nostalgia to his brain, before the violent reds and oranges of an exploding world would fill his vision, overload the back of his eyelids with angry fire and his eyes would shoot open once more. So close, so close to sleep and so far away.
He would stare, blankly, tiredly at the wall across from his bed (not his bed, he told himself, his bed was gone. And the pillow he was laying on was not his pillow, the sheets that were sticking to his slightly sweaty body were not his sheets. The tiniest things made the biggest impact.). His eyelids would droop, heavy from lack of sleep and drained of energy, and his breathing would slow. He refused to close his eyes fully unless it was to blink, and even those instances were rare. He just stared at the wall and listened to his slowing breath, in and out, in and out.
If he didn't look to hard, he could almost picture himself back in his house, in his lonely little bedroom with olive drab curtains closed tight from the light of the moon. He could almost picture his own clean, white walls, hung carelessly with pictures of his mother and his father, a photo of the trip he had taken to France two summers past. He could almost see his dresser, with it's solid oak drawers and deep, near purple, varnish, the big, heavy mirror peering out from it's wooden frame.
He was walking downstairs now, to his kitchen and he could see his fridge, plastered with notes and a big white calender in the middle. April first. His tiny little table, it sat two of course, in case of company, and he was settling himself down into one of the chairs. A big comfy recliner that he hadn't remembered bringing into the kitchen, but it didn't bother him, really. Why should it? It was only a chair.
He was taking a bite from a bisquit that he hadn't known he had been holding, lemon with a hearty filling of jam in the middle. Strawberry jam, he thought idly, before he took another bite from his treat. It crumbled before it reached his mouth, and he couldn't help but sigh. What a waste of a perfectly good snack, and now he would have to clean up the mess of ashes from underneath his desk.
Ashes. He didn't like ashes, he never had. They made him sneeze and reminded him of his grandmother's funeral, where they had
scattered her burnt remains across the river out back of their old London house. He missed his grandmother, she had been a nice old woman with an undying love for cats.
Maybe he would go visit her, and he climbed over his desk and out the second story window, dropping to the river below. Water engulfed his body, trapping him in the ethereal sea around him. It was cold, he knew, but not wet. He couldn't feel the wet, nor could he swim, though he tried, flailing his arms. He was going to drown in this sea of oil, but he couldn't move. Why had they thrown his grandmother's ashes into a sea of oil? Was this how she had felt, trapped in a thousand little pieces, drowning, dying again? Would he die? But he hadn't even had tea yet.
He was crying like he was ten years old and had just fallen off of his bicycle for the umpteenth time and couldn't get back up. The bicycle wouldn't stay upright and he couldn't keep afloat, but that was alright, because he was flying now, like he had simply missed the ground as he fell from the oily waters below. He was soaring through the clouds, up and up and up, still crying, the tears stinging his eyes, cold on his cheeks. He was flying up and away from home, past the clouds now, past the stars and there was warmth at his back, so he turned. And he saw the earth exploding.
“Arthur! Arthur, for the love of God, wake up!”
Arthur's eyes flew open in fear. Had he fallen asleep? He blinked and felt tears sting his vision, blurring the face above him from view. There was a hand on his forehead, and it traveled lightly down his cheek, figertips brushing a soothing song over his heated skin, brushing away sweat and tears, brushing away the fear. Ford.
God, he felt like a child. Afraid to sleep because when he did, the nightmares came, and he would always wake up crying with Ford right by his side, mothering him, petting him, telling him everything was alright, words of nonsense. Nothing was alright, the Earth was gone, destroyed for a hyperspace bypass because some silly fool had decided that the lives of a few billion creatures were a lot less useful.
But still, he allowed himself to be soothed back into a state of calm, not quite rational being. Ford's words were nothing to him, his planet was gone, but his presence was a warm, familiar lullaby that gently pushed back into the land of a peaceful, harmless sleep. One that came only with the knowledge of safety.
Ford's warm body pressed against his own, arms encircled his waist and a kiss was pressed lightly against his mouth. “Night, Arthur,” and thoughts of homes and drowning and strawberry jam were hidden away until another night of uneasy rest would come its way.
He didn't dream any more that night. He never did after Ford managed to save him from himself. But he could hear his friend humming softly to himself, a lullaby of his own, perhaps, and it wafted its way leisurely through his overtaxed mind, soothing his soul like Ford had soothed his body. Arthur would find himself humming it the next morning, and the morning after, and many, many mornings after that, with no knowledge of where this strange melody came from, but no care either. It was childish, a childish little tune of ups and downs and roundabouts, but so was waking up in a fit of tears to your alien best friend. It felt like home.
Author: AngstSchrei
Pairing: Ford/Arthur
Fandom: Hitchhiker's Guide
Theme: #5 strawberry jam, #68 lullaby
Rating: pg-13
Disclaimer: The Guide is not mine, Ford is not mine, and, most sorrowfully, Arthur is not mine.
Summary: Arthur has problems sleeping and Ford's there to help. FluffyMcflufffluff at the end, weird in the middle. One-shot.
He could not find it in him to fall asleep that first night, nor the night after. He would doze lightly in the unfamiliar atmosphere of the cold, white ship, watching visions of the earth exploding pass through his mind. His eyes would close and he would see the cool, cloudy blue of his home planet like a strike of nostalgia to his brain, before the violent reds and oranges of an exploding world would fill his vision, overload the back of his eyelids with angry fire and his eyes would shoot open once more. So close, so close to sleep and so far away.
He would stare, blankly, tiredly at the wall across from his bed (not his bed, he told himself, his bed was gone. And the pillow he was laying on was not his pillow, the sheets that were sticking to his slightly sweaty body were not his sheets. The tiniest things made the biggest impact.). His eyelids would droop, heavy from lack of sleep and drained of energy, and his breathing would slow. He refused to close his eyes fully unless it was to blink, and even those instances were rare. He just stared at the wall and listened to his slowing breath, in and out, in and out.
If he didn't look to hard, he could almost picture himself back in his house, in his lonely little bedroom with olive drab curtains closed tight from the light of the moon. He could almost picture his own clean, white walls, hung carelessly with pictures of his mother and his father, a photo of the trip he had taken to France two summers past. He could almost see his dresser, with it's solid oak drawers and deep, near purple, varnish, the big, heavy mirror peering out from it's wooden frame.
He was walking downstairs now, to his kitchen and he could see his fridge, plastered with notes and a big white calender in the middle. April first. His tiny little table, it sat two of course, in case of company, and he was settling himself down into one of the chairs. A big comfy recliner that he hadn't remembered bringing into the kitchen, but it didn't bother him, really. Why should it? It was only a chair.
He was taking a bite from a bisquit that he hadn't known he had been holding, lemon with a hearty filling of jam in the middle. Strawberry jam, he thought idly, before he took another bite from his treat. It crumbled before it reached his mouth, and he couldn't help but sigh. What a waste of a perfectly good snack, and now he would have to clean up the mess of ashes from underneath his desk.
Ashes. He didn't like ashes, he never had. They made him sneeze and reminded him of his grandmother's funeral, where they had
scattered her burnt remains across the river out back of their old London house. He missed his grandmother, she had been a nice old woman with an undying love for cats.
Maybe he would go visit her, and he climbed over his desk and out the second story window, dropping to the river below. Water engulfed his body, trapping him in the ethereal sea around him. It was cold, he knew, but not wet. He couldn't feel the wet, nor could he swim, though he tried, flailing his arms. He was going to drown in this sea of oil, but he couldn't move. Why had they thrown his grandmother's ashes into a sea of oil? Was this how she had felt, trapped in a thousand little pieces, drowning, dying again? Would he die? But he hadn't even had tea yet.
He was crying like he was ten years old and had just fallen off of his bicycle for the umpteenth time and couldn't get back up. The bicycle wouldn't stay upright and he couldn't keep afloat, but that was alright, because he was flying now, like he had simply missed the ground as he fell from the oily waters below. He was soaring through the clouds, up and up and up, still crying, the tears stinging his eyes, cold on his cheeks. He was flying up and away from home, past the clouds now, past the stars and there was warmth at his back, so he turned. And he saw the earth exploding.
“Arthur! Arthur, for the love of God, wake up!”
Arthur's eyes flew open in fear. Had he fallen asleep? He blinked and felt tears sting his vision, blurring the face above him from view. There was a hand on his forehead, and it traveled lightly down his cheek, figertips brushing a soothing song over his heated skin, brushing away sweat and tears, brushing away the fear. Ford.
God, he felt like a child. Afraid to sleep because when he did, the nightmares came, and he would always wake up crying with Ford right by his side, mothering him, petting him, telling him everything was alright, words of nonsense. Nothing was alright, the Earth was gone, destroyed for a hyperspace bypass because some silly fool had decided that the lives of a few billion creatures were a lot less useful.
But still, he allowed himself to be soothed back into a state of calm, not quite rational being. Ford's words were nothing to him, his planet was gone, but his presence was a warm, familiar lullaby that gently pushed back into the land of a peaceful, harmless sleep. One that came only with the knowledge of safety.
Ford's warm body pressed against his own, arms encircled his waist and a kiss was pressed lightly against his mouth. “Night, Arthur,” and thoughts of homes and drowning and strawberry jam were hidden away until another night of uneasy rest would come its way.
He didn't dream any more that night. He never did after Ford managed to save him from himself. But he could hear his friend humming softly to himself, a lullaby of his own, perhaps, and it wafted its way leisurely through his overtaxed mind, soothing his soul like Ford had soothed his body. Arthur would find himself humming it the next morning, and the morning after, and many, many mornings after that, with no knowledge of where this strange melody came from, but no care either. It was childish, a childish little tune of ups and downs and roundabouts, but so was waking up in a fit of tears to your alien best friend. It felt like home.