Fic: Life, the TARDIS, and Everything
Title: Life, the TARDIS, and Everything
Fandom(s): Doctor Who, H2G2
Pairings/Characters: Ten/Ford, the TARDIS, and Arthur Dent
Rating: 18/R
Spoilers: A bit for The End of the World
Summary: The TARDIS is picking up hitchhikers.
Notes: Written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (Prompt # 25: Strangers - Claim: Ten/Tardis - Prompt chart here)
• For scots_git, who really just wanted Ford and the Doctor to get it on a bit. Happy birthday, Daniel! (And eternal love to Kimchi the betagoddess, a cool frood who actually knows where her towel is.)
• X-posted to dw_slash
LIFE, THE TARDIS, AND EVERYTHING
The planet of Betilqaksa is generally believed to be the most enchanting in the Galaxy. Wide pink seas lap at the shores of blue-sand beaches, distant and suggestively-shaped mountains are shrouded in a pleasantly mysterious fog, and the Betilqaksans themselves are a polite and peace-loving race who communicate solely through the medium of erotic massage. Twin suns warm the planet by day and sweetly-scented breezes cool it at night, while the air is continually suffused with the intoxicating music of singing grasses and the spirit is illuminated by the wisdom of the Betilqaksan Prophesying Bush.
At this particular moment, however, Ford Prefect was three hundred and twelve thousand light-years from Betilqaksa, crouching in the damp of a squalid swamp on a nameless blot of an empty moon.
He listened for sounds of pursuit. The Villovian Royal Guard were known for their cunning, ruthlessness, and penchant for disembowelment but not, fortunately, for their stealth. Ford relaxed a bit as he heard them squelch away in the wrong direction entirely, cursing loudly in an obscure binary dialect. Beside him in the muck Arthur gibbered quietly to himself and drooled. Ford reached for his satchel.
"Well then," he muttered, "looks like another night under the stars." He cast an eye at the cloud of Arcturan Mega-Gnats buzzing overhead, obscuring the sky from view. "Right - make that under the giant hovering insects. Where's that towel got to?"
"One hedgehog, please, lightly toasted."
"Don't worry, Arthur." Ford glanced up from his satchel and regarded his companion, now frothing slightly at the mouth. "The effects of the Scrambler Ray are only temporary. It's totally harmless."
(In fact, the Wray Gunn Corporation - a wholly-owned subsidiary of Zap-Em Industries, LLC: "Purveyors of fine weaponry for the discerning despot." - has at the insistence of the Galactic Chamber of Commerce been the subject of intense scientific and legal scrutiny for the better part of a century. The long-term effects of the company's Scrambler Ray, Evisceration Beam, Retina-Detachment Pack and Skin-Inversion Land Mines are still unknown, while the legality of the Decap-o-matrix is questionable at best and copyright issues remain unresolved over the Kill-Them-Ded Three-in-One Total Nonexistence Device. Pending resolution of these and other issues, the Wray Gunn Corporation and Zap-Em Industries, LLC are required to publish the disclaimer, "For Novelty Use Only," on all adverts and publicity materials.)
Ford located his towel and gallantly wiped a bit of froth from Arthur's face. "A ha'penny for your midget," Arthur said.
"You're welcome," Ford replied. He stood to drape the filthy bath sheet across several branches and settled back under the makeshift tent, sighing as the swamp oozed up wetly around him. "I blame Zaphod for this, you know," he muttered.
Arthur nodded emphatically. "Satsuma," he added.
"Exactly. It was his idea to stroll off with the crown jewels in the first place - so how's he snug in the palace on Villos and we're camped out on this ball of muck, I'd like to know?"
It would have been no small consolation to Ford and Arthur to know that at that precise moment, Zaphod Beeblebrox was being ritually flogged with golden wire and painted with melted lard in preparation for his forced marriage to Princess Fruntfrrrox the Exasperating, fourteenth heir to the throne of Villos. In the absence of this happy knowledge, however, Ford sought comfort from the only source at hand: "Pass me the Ol' Janx Spirit, would you?" he asked. "There, in the bottom of the rucksack." Arthur rummaged through the bag, humming La Marseillaise, and came up with a depressingly empty bottle. Ford sighed again.
"Oh, Belgium," he hissed. "Well, hand it over - if we're careful we can still get reasonably drunk on the fumes. Unfortunately this situation rather calls for unreasonably drunk, but - "
"A discerning customer chooses carefully," Arthur cried suddenly. "Six out of ten hyperactive stoats agree!"
"Wait your turn, you." Ford snatched the bottle from his hand. Arthur shook his head and pointed into the battered satchel.
"Portcullis. Portmanteau! Port-au-Prince!" he blurbled. Ford frowned and squelched closer to peer into the bag, at the bottom of which a small green light pulsed erratically. Tossing the bottle aside, he reached into the bag and extracted the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic.
"I'll be a lungfish's granny - Arthur! Do you realise what this means?"
"Prostate, pantheistic pantomime?"
"It means, mate, that we're about to be rescued from this stinking swamp."
"Pangolin!"
"Yeah, well - okay, I'm excited too, but watch your language - "
"Porcelain! Peripatetic potboiler!"
Ford struggled to his feet as the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic winked faster, casting a suddenly festive green glow over the grey dampness. "Quickly, Arthur, pass me the Thumb!"
"Passionfruit?"
"The Thumb, the Electronic Thumb! That black rod thing - yes, there! Hand it over - oh, photons, there's no time. Press the yellow button!"
"Principled Pakistanis?"
"The yellow one, Arthur, quickly!" The frenzied blinking of the Sens-O-Matic was becoming more and more hyperactive. Arthur mashed the large yellow button at the end of the Electronic Thumb and held the device aloft. "Plastic polyglot, popover!" he exclaimed as a strange wind whipped up around them. "Prison guard?"
Ford scanned the skies, waving aside clouds of fist-sized insects.
"Priesthood!" Arthur goggled as - with a noise like six hundred and ninety-two people repeatedly saying "Squah, squah!" while walking slowly into the distance - a large blue object materialised in the sludge before them. "Police box," Arthur whimpered, and flopped face-down into the mud.
***
"And just where do you think you're going?" The Doctor put aside his teacup and stalked over to the console. He peered at the monitor and tutted.
"Oh no you don't! You know the rules."
Several small orange lights blinked insistently.
"Not at all. It's just a red alert, nothing serious."
The lights continued to blink.
"I am not in a mood, I'm having a nice quiet cup of tea. The last thing I need is to make uncomfortable small talk with some - "
The TARDIS hummed around him.
"Since always! I simply don't feel like chatting with strangers just now. Besides, look at where we are: Sector LL3 Active Q Beta. There's nothing out here but Villos and about three dozen satellite moons. And you know how utterly boring the Villosians are - all they ever want to talk about is disembowelling this and eviscerating that and stripping the skin from the other and - wait, what? A human, all the way out here? Really?" The Doctor flipped a switch and glanced again at the monitor. "And a Betelgeusian - now they certainly know how to have a good time ... hmmmm. Well, I could do with a bit of company. Be nice to have someone to talk to again ... better pull over and see if they need a lift."
With an ironic squeal and a slight squelch the TARDIS materialised. The Doctor strode to the door and stuck his head out to survey a squalid swamp full of muck, ooze and stunted trees. A man in a dressing gown lay prone, blowing bubbles in a particularly foetid puddle of goo. Nearby a second man stood consulting a hysterically flashing Sub-Etha device. He glanced up and the Doctor found himself staring into not-unpleasantly-intense-yet-disarmingly-aquamarine eyes. He blinked a few times.
The unnervingly blue eyes didn't.
"Er," the Doctor began. He tried again. "Um. Ah! I'm the Doctor. Need a ride?"
The man pocketed the device and squooshed towards the TARDIS. "Cheers!" he said genially. "I'm Ford Prefect, and this - " he indicated the fellow in the muck, "is Arthur Dent." The Doctor glanced down at Arthur.
"Connoisseur of fine swamp fluids?" he asked.
"Scrambler Ray," Ford explained. "We had a bit of a run-in with a squadron of Villovian Royal Guards." The Doctor shuddered.
"Dreadful bores. Well, we'd best get him inside, then. A nice kip, a cup of tea, he should be right as rain ... can you take his other arm? Fantastic. I've got the door, just drag him inside - and mind you don't let those gnats in." Together they hauled Arthur into the TARDIS and the Doctor shut the door behind them. Ford gazed about.
"Nice," he said appreciatively. "Type 40?" The Doctor nodded as Arthur - who had perked up somewhat at the mention of the word tea - suddenly looked about, screamed "Viva Italia!", and pitched forward onto the floor with a dull thud. Ford frowned down at him. "You'll have to excuse my friend. He's allergic to spaceships, I think."
"No worries, it happens a lot around here." The Doctor hauled Arthur to his feet and dragged his inert form towards the corridor. "I'll just find him someplace to have a lie-down. Shouldn't be a minute. If you want to, er ... freshen up ... there's a washroom just through there, second door to the left. I think. At least, there usually is. I'm sure it's still around there somewhere, just have a look about. Um." The Doctor found himself blathering under Ford's intense gaze. "I'll be back as soon as we - well, as soon as I ... get him tucked in. Arthur. Tuck him in. Somewhere. For a rest. I'll be back ... Okay then." Mercifully, he reached the doorway and hauled Arthur through.
Smooth, the Doctor thought, lumping the largely-unconscious human down the corridor. Nicely done. You'd think I'd never met a Betelgeusian with gorgeous eyes before ... well, come to think of it, I don't know that I have met one with such incredibly gorgeous eyes ... Not that I noticed, really. Just in passing, that's all. Nothing strange about that, is there - you meet someone new, you notice his eyes. If you're in the habit of being observant you notice a lot of things. Like the way his hair curls over his ears. Or that he has very nice hands. And an extremely lovely ass - you just notice these things, it doesn't mean anything ... The Doctor kicked open the door to a cosy library and pulled Arthur inside.
The walls were lined with friendly volumes and the room was full of overstuffed chairs and invitingly soft sofas. A cheery fire burned in the grate. The Doctor flopped Arthur onto a couch and plumped a pillow behind his head. "There now, quite nice. You have a bit of a lie-down, all right?"
Arthur's eyes fluttered open. "Would you like chips with that?" he mumbled.
"No, you're quite safe on my ship," the Doctor answered pleasantly.
Arthur flung out an arm, flapping a hand in the general direction of his own left ear. "Sixteen and a half? Or a mouse and a can of oil."
"Oh, no, I shouldn't worry. Those Scrambler Rays are a bit barbaric, but you'll be fine." The Doctor frowned and considered Arthur. "You've got a fish in your ear, haven't you?" Arthur nodded weakly. "Aha. That explains it. The ship has a translation circuit of her own, not to mention that I'm a bit ... well, telepathic myself. Just a bit, mind you, but what with that and the ship and the way that fish works ... I thought I was getting quite a lot of your, er, thoughts. Well. No worries, I'll bring you a glass of water later and we'll have that fish out. In the meantime, just relax and try to get some sleep, yes?"
"Phonetic spelling."
"Good man." The Doctor patted his arm comfortingly and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
***
Ford was having serious towel envy.
He stood in a marvellously-apportioned washroom and gaped in awe at the piles of spotless towels, pristine bath-mats, immaculate face flannels and - Zarquon's knees, could it be? - indecently fluffy bathrobes ranged on the shelves. With a trembling finger he reached out to stroke a blue-and-yellow bath sheet.
Imagine heading out with that in your satchel.
He pulled it from the shelf and unfolded it with reverence. The blue and yellow stripes fairly glowed in the washroom's discreet recessed lighting.
The things a being could do with a towel like this ... A host of interesting images popped into his mind, a surprising number of which seemed to involve the Doctor in a variety of compromising positions on, under, or wrapped in the striped terry-cloth. (Being a modern and quite with-it sort of traveller, Ford had never held particularly to the outmoded opinion that it was in strict bad form to sass one's host.)
He fondled the towel and considered the Doctor and his ship - neither of which by rights should in fact exist, unless the Guide had got it very wrong yet again.
Which was entirely possible.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of Time Lords:
The Time Lords were an ancient and stuffy race of self-righteous prigs who were insufferably smug about both their own ability to travel with ease to virtually any location in space and time, and their absolute refusal to do so on the grounds that it might muck up the space-time continuum or some such nonsense - none of which stopped them, however, from passing judgement on virtually every other race or individual who, in the Time Lords' opinion, was dangerous, evil, or the slightest bit naughty. They were generally regarded by the rest of the Galaxy as a load of obnoxious bores who were too high-minded to have even a little bit of fun with their powers - not even a quick joy-ride in their "Time And Relative Dimension in Space" machines, possibly the most inconveniently-named yet utterly remarkable form of space-craft ever created, none of which survive to this day.
Very few Time Lords ever managed to break free of their infuriatingly prudish society and have a time of it out in the Galaxy, and almost all of those who did so were evil, irritating, smarmy, or at best poorly-dressed. The Time Lords were completely and entirely wiped out along with their mortal enemies, the Daleks (see "Evil Pepperpots," p. 492,641) in the last Time War.
Except, Ford reflected, here he was in what was quite clearly a TARDIS, and the being in command of it was quite clearly - Ford had an excellent eye for species - a Time Lord. What's more, the Doctor seemed for all the Galaxy like a Time Lord who was quite content to be slouching about through space and time in search of a laugh.
A Time Lord who was neither particularly stuffy, evil, smarmy or poorly-dressed ... a Time Lord who was, in point of fact, remarkably easy on the eyes -
"Um, hello?"
Ford started and stuffed the towel guiltily back on the shelf. "Yes?" he called back, glancing quickly at his reflection in the washroom mirror and stepping out into the corridor. The Doctor smiled widely at him.
"Found it all right, then?"
"No problem at all." Ford couldn't manage to look directly into the Doctor's eyes and suddenly found himself staring instead at the quite obvious bulge in his already-tight brown trousers. He felt a blush begin to spread across his wrists (a particular peculiarity of Betelgeusian physiognomy) and tugged the sleeves of his jacket down self-consciously. "Lovely linen collection," he murmured, nodding towards the washroom.
"Thank you." The Doctor regarded him. "You don't happen to have," he said slowly, "and pardon me for asking, a fish in your ear?" Ford nodded.
"Of course. Terrifically useful things. Haven't you got one?"
"Er, no." The Doctor was grinning rather impishly all of a sudden. He turned and started down the corridor, beckoning Ford to follow. "No, I haven't. Come on, then - care for a tour?"
***
"An' what he said was - whoops, seem to have mished the glass, er, missed the glash - no matter, no matter, I can lick it up jus' as well - " Ford paused in his tale and bent to run his tongue over the table. The Doctor watched him, shivering deliciously, and righted Ford's glass.
"Let me," he said, pouring him another shot of Janx Spirit.
"Oh, lovely, cheers."
"You were saying?"
"Was I? Sorry, I've no idea. Say," Ford peered unblinkingly across at the Doctor. "Why's there still only one of you?" The Doctor sighed.
"You mean the whole Time War business? It's rather a long and very unpleasant story - " Ford cut him off with a wave.
"No, not that, forget that. What I mean is. Er. Oh - why am I not seeing double? Or, rather, no, I am seeing double, jus' not of you. Which means that you," Ford pointed across the table, knocking over his glass again, "aren't drunk enough by half."
The Doctor shrugged. "Oh, well, I just - "
"Gingerpop!"
"Pardon?"
"Got any ginger pop around here?" Ford staggered to his feet and wove unsteadily out of the room. "Seem to remember hearing," he called back through the open doorway, "that Time Lords didn't - couldn't - don't get drunk off much." A cascade of breaking glass came from the room opposite. "Whoops, sorry 'bout that, clean it up later. What was I ... right: Time Lords don't get drunk off much. Except," he returned and deposited an armload of bottles on the sticky tabletop, " 'cept for ginger pop. So. Doctor." Ford stood close behind him and reached for a bottle. He popped the top off with a fsst!, placed it carefully before the Doctor, and bent to whisper in his ear. "Don' you think it's time," he purred, "that you stop trying to read my mind and get yourself drunk too, so we can take advantage of each other?"
The Doctor kissed him rather suddenly and reached for the open bottle.
***
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is, as has been remarked many times and in many places - most often and most glowingly in the pages of the Guide itself - a wholly remarkable book. It contains entries on virtually every planet, race, species, subspecies, language, mode of transportation, beverage, and type of undergarment in the Galaxy. It discusses with equal depth and aptitude the causes of major political events and minor skin conditions, and presents useful information on preventing both. It provides perfectly reasonable (if occasionally long-winded) excuses for any missing information, and ample space in the margins for rude doodles.
What it lacks is an entry on sonic screwdrivers, and their many and varied uses in inducing some of the most indecently amazing pan-orgasmic sensations possible in humanoid organisms.
Halfway through the night, Ford Prefect resolved to make it the rest of his life's mission to research and report on just that topic.
Shortly thereafter, through the judicious application of the aforementioned device in the capable hands of an experienced and improbably extant Time Lord, he was temporarily rendered incapable of further coherent thought.
***
The Doctor stood and kicked off the trousers tangled around his ankles. "Hmmm. These aren't mine." He held them out to Ford. "Rather nice, though - are they yours?"
"Uh-hunnnnnngh."
"Where are mine, then?"
"Mrnggh - " Ford paused, collected himself, and tried again. "I think - I think they're what you used to tie me to the ... table, is it?"
"Sort of workbench, actually."
Ford pulled at his trouser-trussed wrists and twisted his head to get a look about. They were in a large, well-apportioned workroom of sorts. Various bits of wires and circuitry - most of which would have made the most jaded electrical engineer spontaneously compose soaring epic verse in tribute - were strewn carelessly about. "What do you know. When did we get in here?"
"After the power ran out on the sonic screwdriver. I needed to plug it in for a bit - "
"So to speak."
"... Indeed. You said something about looking for the linen closet in the meantime, and stumbled in a while later with an arm-load of towels. It gets a little fuzzy after that, I'm afraid." The Doctor loosened the knots around Ford's wrists. "You did keep mentioning something about Smada XV and a mature yak. Sadly," he said as Ford pulled himself free and sat up, "the TARDIS is rather short on yaks at the moment. Mature or otherwise."
Ford stretched contentedly and ran a hand across the Doctor's chest. "Pity, that. The Smadans - have you been to Smada XV? No? Lovely place. Very friendly people - the Smadans have some terribly interesting customs. Largely yak-based, as it happens."
The Doctor caught Ford's hand in his own and pulled him closer to run his tongue slowly along his neck. The Betelgeusian tasted almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a human: salt and sweat and a musk pleasantly redolent of the wide warm plains of Betelgeuse Five. I need to get out of the TARDIS more, he mused, closing his eyes as Ford slipped his tongue between the Doctor's lips and kissed him hard. He was momentarily overcome with visions of vast interstellar distances, majestic starfields sweeping away into the inky blackness at the edges of space, and opened his eyes to find Ford grinning at him.
"Long way from home," Ford said, swinging about to sit on the edge of the workbench, legs wrapped around the Doctor - who realised suddenly that he was speaking for both of them. Ford nodded sagely. "I find that the contemplation of mind-bogglingly huge distances in relation to one's own place in the Universe - such as it is - tends to bring up feelings of ... " He trailed off as the Doctor caught up a handful of his tangled brown curls.
"Horniness?" he purred into Ford's ear.
"Exactly that!" Ford agreed happily. He glanced about the cluttered workroom. "Pass me that jar, would you?"
"What, the Algolian axle grease? What for?" Ford raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Really? You can use Algolian axle grease for that?" Ford nodded, his eyebrow making the nonverbal leap from merely suggestive to outright explicit. "Well! I never knew. And how'd you figure that out?"
"Read it somewhere," Ford said, unscrewing the jar and sniffing at its vaguely luminous green contents.
"Where'd you read it?"
He ran a slick hand over the Doctor's cock. "Oh, a book." The Doctor growled and pulled Ford to the very edge of the workbench.
"Which book?" he breathed.
"Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," Ford managed as the Doctor slid inside him.
"Oh, that thing."
***
The workbench was, mercifully, not terribly far from the floor: not so far, at least, as to cause lasting damage to any part of Ford's anatomy when he accidentally rolled off of it the following morning. He looked about experimentally, happy to find that the vast quantities of Ol' Janx Spirit that he had consumed had not, as tended frequently to happen, rendered him either blind or paralytic. By the time he had located and struggled into suitable amounts of clothing he was reasonably certain that his motor skills had not been unacceptably compromised by either the alcohol or the astonishingly athletic activities of the past night.
There were a few choice revisions to be made to a certain entry in the Guide, he thought, prowling the corridors of the TARDIS.
Ford followed the clinking of teaspoons and the murmur of voices to a small kitchenette. Two figures in dressing gowns sat, their backs to the door, sipping tea. Between them on the table a small yellow fish swam lazily about in a glass of water.
"... remarkable what a nice cup can do, no one seems to understand," Arthur said, feeding bits of biscuit to the fish.
"It's the single greatest contribution of humanity to the Galaxy," the Doctor agreed. "Nothing like it anywhere else. Don't give the fish biscuits. Another cup?"
"Oh - yes, please." Ford stepped into the room. Arthur turned and beamed at him. "Ford! We're just having - "
"Tea, yes, I can see that."
Arthur glanced at the Doctor and shook his head. "You see? They don't understand." He sipped and breathed a sigh of utter contentment. The Doctor grinned at Ford.
"Sleep well?" he murmured.
"Not a bit of it," Ford answered happily. He pulled a chair up to the table. "I was just thinking, by the way - where exactly are you headed?"
"Funny you should ask." The Doctor glanced at Arthur, cooing over his teacup, and back at Ford. "We were just having a chat - over a nice cup of tea, you know - when the subject of domesticated bovines came up. And we thought that it might be ... zoologically stimulating to do a little first-hand research - for the Guide, of course - on some of the more interesting species of bovine that the Galaxy has to offer."
"And it seems to me," Arthur put in hopefully, "that a yak might be less likely than - well, than almost everyone else I've met so far - to want to blow me up, or throw me out of spaceships, or cut open my brain, or insult me."
"Not necessarily."
"Oh? Well then ... "
Ford's eloquent eyebrow delivered a short but pithy monologue to the Doctor. "Why not," he said. "Smada XV, then? And it occurs to me that I might want to take this fish out of my ear as well."
"Oh, no." The Doctor regarded Ford with a grin that would have been classified as illegal by at least six planets, two star systems, and one entire dimension. "I rather think that you should leave it in."
Fandom(s): Doctor Who, H2G2
Pairings/Characters: Ten/Ford, the TARDIS, and Arthur Dent
Rating: 18/R
Spoilers: A bit for The End of the World
Summary: The TARDIS is picking up hitchhikers.
Notes: Written for the doctorwho_100 challenge (Prompt # 25: Strangers - Claim: Ten/Tardis - Prompt chart here)
• For scots_git, who really just wanted Ford and the Doctor to get it on a bit. Happy birthday, Daniel! (And eternal love to Kimchi the betagoddess, a cool frood who actually knows where her towel is.)
• X-posted to dw_slash
LIFE, THE TARDIS, AND EVERYTHING
The planet of Betilqaksa is generally believed to be the most enchanting in the Galaxy. Wide pink seas lap at the shores of blue-sand beaches, distant and suggestively-shaped mountains are shrouded in a pleasantly mysterious fog, and the Betilqaksans themselves are a polite and peace-loving race who communicate solely through the medium of erotic massage. Twin suns warm the planet by day and sweetly-scented breezes cool it at night, while the air is continually suffused with the intoxicating music of singing grasses and the spirit is illuminated by the wisdom of the Betilqaksan Prophesying Bush.
At this particular moment, however, Ford Prefect was three hundred and twelve thousand light-years from Betilqaksa, crouching in the damp of a squalid swamp on a nameless blot of an empty moon.
He listened for sounds of pursuit. The Villovian Royal Guard were known for their cunning, ruthlessness, and penchant for disembowelment but not, fortunately, for their stealth. Ford relaxed a bit as he heard them squelch away in the wrong direction entirely, cursing loudly in an obscure binary dialect. Beside him in the muck Arthur gibbered quietly to himself and drooled. Ford reached for his satchel.
"Well then," he muttered, "looks like another night under the stars." He cast an eye at the cloud of Arcturan Mega-Gnats buzzing overhead, obscuring the sky from view. "Right - make that under the giant hovering insects. Where's that towel got to?"
"One hedgehog, please, lightly toasted."
"Don't worry, Arthur." Ford glanced up from his satchel and regarded his companion, now frothing slightly at the mouth. "The effects of the Scrambler Ray are only temporary. It's totally harmless."
(In fact, the Wray Gunn Corporation - a wholly-owned subsidiary of Zap-Em Industries, LLC: "Purveyors of fine weaponry for the discerning despot." - has at the insistence of the Galactic Chamber of Commerce been the subject of intense scientific and legal scrutiny for the better part of a century. The long-term effects of the company's Scrambler Ray, Evisceration Beam, Retina-Detachment Pack and Skin-Inversion Land Mines are still unknown, while the legality of the Decap-o-matrix is questionable at best and copyright issues remain unresolved over the Kill-Them-Ded Three-in-One Total Nonexistence Device. Pending resolution of these and other issues, the Wray Gunn Corporation and Zap-Em Industries, LLC are required to publish the disclaimer, "For Novelty Use Only," on all adverts and publicity materials.)
Ford located his towel and gallantly wiped a bit of froth from Arthur's face. "A ha'penny for your midget," Arthur said.
"You're welcome," Ford replied. He stood to drape the filthy bath sheet across several branches and settled back under the makeshift tent, sighing as the swamp oozed up wetly around him. "I blame Zaphod for this, you know," he muttered.
Arthur nodded emphatically. "Satsuma," he added.
"Exactly. It was his idea to stroll off with the crown jewels in the first place - so how's he snug in the palace on Villos and we're camped out on this ball of muck, I'd like to know?"
It would have been no small consolation to Ford and Arthur to know that at that precise moment, Zaphod Beeblebrox was being ritually flogged with golden wire and painted with melted lard in preparation for his forced marriage to Princess Fruntfrrrox the Exasperating, fourteenth heir to the throne of Villos. In the absence of this happy knowledge, however, Ford sought comfort from the only source at hand: "Pass me the Ol' Janx Spirit, would you?" he asked. "There, in the bottom of the rucksack." Arthur rummaged through the bag, humming La Marseillaise, and came up with a depressingly empty bottle. Ford sighed again.
"Oh, Belgium," he hissed. "Well, hand it over - if we're careful we can still get reasonably drunk on the fumes. Unfortunately this situation rather calls for unreasonably drunk, but - "
"A discerning customer chooses carefully," Arthur cried suddenly. "Six out of ten hyperactive stoats agree!"
"Wait your turn, you." Ford snatched the bottle from his hand. Arthur shook his head and pointed into the battered satchel.
"Portcullis. Portmanteau! Port-au-Prince!" he blurbled. Ford frowned and squelched closer to peer into the bag, at the bottom of which a small green light pulsed erratically. Tossing the bottle aside, he reached into the bag and extracted the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic.
"I'll be a lungfish's granny - Arthur! Do you realise what this means?"
"Prostate, pantheistic pantomime?"
"It means, mate, that we're about to be rescued from this stinking swamp."
"Pangolin!"
"Yeah, well - okay, I'm excited too, but watch your language - "
"Porcelain! Peripatetic potboiler!"
Ford struggled to his feet as the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic winked faster, casting a suddenly festive green glow over the grey dampness. "Quickly, Arthur, pass me the Thumb!"
"Passionfruit?"
"The Thumb, the Electronic Thumb! That black rod thing - yes, there! Hand it over - oh, photons, there's no time. Press the yellow button!"
"Principled Pakistanis?"
"The yellow one, Arthur, quickly!" The frenzied blinking of the Sens-O-Matic was becoming more and more hyperactive. Arthur mashed the large yellow button at the end of the Electronic Thumb and held the device aloft. "Plastic polyglot, popover!" he exclaimed as a strange wind whipped up around them. "Prison guard?"
Ford scanned the skies, waving aside clouds of fist-sized insects.
"Priesthood!" Arthur goggled as - with a noise like six hundred and ninety-two people repeatedly saying "Squah, squah!" while walking slowly into the distance - a large blue object materialised in the sludge before them. "Police box," Arthur whimpered, and flopped face-down into the mud.
***
"And just where do you think you're going?" The Doctor put aside his teacup and stalked over to the console. He peered at the monitor and tutted.
"Oh no you don't! You know the rules."
Several small orange lights blinked insistently.
"Not at all. It's just a red alert, nothing serious."
The lights continued to blink.
"I am not in a mood, I'm having a nice quiet cup of tea. The last thing I need is to make uncomfortable small talk with some - "
The TARDIS hummed around him.
"Since always! I simply don't feel like chatting with strangers just now. Besides, look at where we are: Sector LL3 Active Q Beta. There's nothing out here but Villos and about three dozen satellite moons. And you know how utterly boring the Villosians are - all they ever want to talk about is disembowelling this and eviscerating that and stripping the skin from the other and - wait, what? A human, all the way out here? Really?" The Doctor flipped a switch and glanced again at the monitor. "And a Betelgeusian - now they certainly know how to have a good time ... hmmmm. Well, I could do with a bit of company. Be nice to have someone to talk to again ... better pull over and see if they need a lift."
With an ironic squeal and a slight squelch the TARDIS materialised. The Doctor strode to the door and stuck his head out to survey a squalid swamp full of muck, ooze and stunted trees. A man in a dressing gown lay prone, blowing bubbles in a particularly foetid puddle of goo. Nearby a second man stood consulting a hysterically flashing Sub-Etha device. He glanced up and the Doctor found himself staring into not-unpleasantly-intense-yet-disarmingly-aquamarine eyes. He blinked a few times.
The unnervingly blue eyes didn't.
"Er," the Doctor began. He tried again. "Um. Ah! I'm the Doctor. Need a ride?"
The man pocketed the device and squooshed towards the TARDIS. "Cheers!" he said genially. "I'm Ford Prefect, and this - " he indicated the fellow in the muck, "is Arthur Dent." The Doctor glanced down at Arthur.
"Connoisseur of fine swamp fluids?" he asked.
"Scrambler Ray," Ford explained. "We had a bit of a run-in with a squadron of Villovian Royal Guards." The Doctor shuddered.
"Dreadful bores. Well, we'd best get him inside, then. A nice kip, a cup of tea, he should be right as rain ... can you take his other arm? Fantastic. I've got the door, just drag him inside - and mind you don't let those gnats in." Together they hauled Arthur into the TARDIS and the Doctor shut the door behind them. Ford gazed about.
"Nice," he said appreciatively. "Type 40?" The Doctor nodded as Arthur - who had perked up somewhat at the mention of the word tea - suddenly looked about, screamed "Viva Italia!", and pitched forward onto the floor with a dull thud. Ford frowned down at him. "You'll have to excuse my friend. He's allergic to spaceships, I think."
"No worries, it happens a lot around here." The Doctor hauled Arthur to his feet and dragged his inert form towards the corridor. "I'll just find him someplace to have a lie-down. Shouldn't be a minute. If you want to, er ... freshen up ... there's a washroom just through there, second door to the left. I think. At least, there usually is. I'm sure it's still around there somewhere, just have a look about. Um." The Doctor found himself blathering under Ford's intense gaze. "I'll be back as soon as we - well, as soon as I ... get him tucked in. Arthur. Tuck him in. Somewhere. For a rest. I'll be back ... Okay then." Mercifully, he reached the doorway and hauled Arthur through.
Smooth, the Doctor thought, lumping the largely-unconscious human down the corridor. Nicely done. You'd think I'd never met a Betelgeusian with gorgeous eyes before ... well, come to think of it, I don't know that I have met one with such incredibly gorgeous eyes ... Not that I noticed, really. Just in passing, that's all. Nothing strange about that, is there - you meet someone new, you notice his eyes. If you're in the habit of being observant you notice a lot of things. Like the way his hair curls over his ears. Or that he has very nice hands. And an extremely lovely ass - you just notice these things, it doesn't mean anything ... The Doctor kicked open the door to a cosy library and pulled Arthur inside.
The walls were lined with friendly volumes and the room was full of overstuffed chairs and invitingly soft sofas. A cheery fire burned in the grate. The Doctor flopped Arthur onto a couch and plumped a pillow behind his head. "There now, quite nice. You have a bit of a lie-down, all right?"
Arthur's eyes fluttered open. "Would you like chips with that?" he mumbled.
"No, you're quite safe on my ship," the Doctor answered pleasantly.
Arthur flung out an arm, flapping a hand in the general direction of his own left ear. "Sixteen and a half? Or a mouse and a can of oil."
"Oh, no, I shouldn't worry. Those Scrambler Rays are a bit barbaric, but you'll be fine." The Doctor frowned and considered Arthur. "You've got a fish in your ear, haven't you?" Arthur nodded weakly. "Aha. That explains it. The ship has a translation circuit of her own, not to mention that I'm a bit ... well, telepathic myself. Just a bit, mind you, but what with that and the ship and the way that fish works ... I thought I was getting quite a lot of your, er, thoughts. Well. No worries, I'll bring you a glass of water later and we'll have that fish out. In the meantime, just relax and try to get some sleep, yes?"
"Phonetic spelling."
"Good man." The Doctor patted his arm comfortingly and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
***
Ford was having serious towel envy.
He stood in a marvellously-apportioned washroom and gaped in awe at the piles of spotless towels, pristine bath-mats, immaculate face flannels and - Zarquon's knees, could it be? - indecently fluffy bathrobes ranged on the shelves. With a trembling finger he reached out to stroke a blue-and-yellow bath sheet.
Imagine heading out with that in your satchel.
He pulled it from the shelf and unfolded it with reverence. The blue and yellow stripes fairly glowed in the washroom's discreet recessed lighting.
The things a being could do with a towel like this ... A host of interesting images popped into his mind, a surprising number of which seemed to involve the Doctor in a variety of compromising positions on, under, or wrapped in the striped terry-cloth. (Being a modern and quite with-it sort of traveller, Ford had never held particularly to the outmoded opinion that it was in strict bad form to sass one's host.)
He fondled the towel and considered the Doctor and his ship - neither of which by rights should in fact exist, unless the Guide had got it very wrong yet again.
Which was entirely possible.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of Time Lords:
The Time Lords were an ancient and stuffy race of self-righteous prigs who were insufferably smug about both their own ability to travel with ease to virtually any location in space and time, and their absolute refusal to do so on the grounds that it might muck up the space-time continuum or some such nonsense - none of which stopped them, however, from passing judgement on virtually every other race or individual who, in the Time Lords' opinion, was dangerous, evil, or the slightest bit naughty. They were generally regarded by the rest of the Galaxy as a load of obnoxious bores who were too high-minded to have even a little bit of fun with their powers - not even a quick joy-ride in their "Time And Relative Dimension in Space" machines, possibly the most inconveniently-named yet utterly remarkable form of space-craft ever created, none of which survive to this day.
Very few Time Lords ever managed to break free of their infuriatingly prudish society and have a time of it out in the Galaxy, and almost all of those who did so were evil, irritating, smarmy, or at best poorly-dressed. The Time Lords were completely and entirely wiped out along with their mortal enemies, the Daleks (see "Evil Pepperpots," p. 492,641) in the last Time War.
Except, Ford reflected, here he was in what was quite clearly a TARDIS, and the being in command of it was quite clearly - Ford had an excellent eye for species - a Time Lord. What's more, the Doctor seemed for all the Galaxy like a Time Lord who was quite content to be slouching about through space and time in search of a laugh.
A Time Lord who was neither particularly stuffy, evil, smarmy or poorly-dressed ... a Time Lord who was, in point of fact, remarkably easy on the eyes -
"Um, hello?"
Ford started and stuffed the towel guiltily back on the shelf. "Yes?" he called back, glancing quickly at his reflection in the washroom mirror and stepping out into the corridor. The Doctor smiled widely at him.
"Found it all right, then?"
"No problem at all." Ford couldn't manage to look directly into the Doctor's eyes and suddenly found himself staring instead at the quite obvious bulge in his already-tight brown trousers. He felt a blush begin to spread across his wrists (a particular peculiarity of Betelgeusian physiognomy) and tugged the sleeves of his jacket down self-consciously. "Lovely linen collection," he murmured, nodding towards the washroom.
"Thank you." The Doctor regarded him. "You don't happen to have," he said slowly, "and pardon me for asking, a fish in your ear?" Ford nodded.
"Of course. Terrifically useful things. Haven't you got one?"
"Er, no." The Doctor was grinning rather impishly all of a sudden. He turned and started down the corridor, beckoning Ford to follow. "No, I haven't. Come on, then - care for a tour?"
***
"An' what he said was - whoops, seem to have mished the glass, er, missed the glash - no matter, no matter, I can lick it up jus' as well - " Ford paused in his tale and bent to run his tongue over the table. The Doctor watched him, shivering deliciously, and righted Ford's glass.
"Let me," he said, pouring him another shot of Janx Spirit.
"Oh, lovely, cheers."
"You were saying?"
"Was I? Sorry, I've no idea. Say," Ford peered unblinkingly across at the Doctor. "Why's there still only one of you?" The Doctor sighed.
"You mean the whole Time War business? It's rather a long and very unpleasant story - " Ford cut him off with a wave.
"No, not that, forget that. What I mean is. Er. Oh - why am I not seeing double? Or, rather, no, I am seeing double, jus' not of you. Which means that you," Ford pointed across the table, knocking over his glass again, "aren't drunk enough by half."
The Doctor shrugged. "Oh, well, I just - "
"Gingerpop!"
"Pardon?"
"Got any ginger pop around here?" Ford staggered to his feet and wove unsteadily out of the room. "Seem to remember hearing," he called back through the open doorway, "that Time Lords didn't - couldn't - don't get drunk off much." A cascade of breaking glass came from the room opposite. "Whoops, sorry 'bout that, clean it up later. What was I ... right: Time Lords don't get drunk off much. Except," he returned and deposited an armload of bottles on the sticky tabletop, " 'cept for ginger pop. So. Doctor." Ford stood close behind him and reached for a bottle. He popped the top off with a fsst!, placed it carefully before the Doctor, and bent to whisper in his ear. "Don' you think it's time," he purred, "that you stop trying to read my mind and get yourself drunk too, so we can take advantage of each other?"
The Doctor kissed him rather suddenly and reached for the open bottle.
***
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is, as has been remarked many times and in many places - most often and most glowingly in the pages of the Guide itself - a wholly remarkable book. It contains entries on virtually every planet, race, species, subspecies, language, mode of transportation, beverage, and type of undergarment in the Galaxy. It discusses with equal depth and aptitude the causes of major political events and minor skin conditions, and presents useful information on preventing both. It provides perfectly reasonable (if occasionally long-winded) excuses for any missing information, and ample space in the margins for rude doodles.
What it lacks is an entry on sonic screwdrivers, and their many and varied uses in inducing some of the most indecently amazing pan-orgasmic sensations possible in humanoid organisms.
Halfway through the night, Ford Prefect resolved to make it the rest of his life's mission to research and report on just that topic.
Shortly thereafter, through the judicious application of the aforementioned device in the capable hands of an experienced and improbably extant Time Lord, he was temporarily rendered incapable of further coherent thought.
***
The Doctor stood and kicked off the trousers tangled around his ankles. "Hmmm. These aren't mine." He held them out to Ford. "Rather nice, though - are they yours?"
"Uh-hunnnnnngh."
"Where are mine, then?"
"Mrnggh - " Ford paused, collected himself, and tried again. "I think - I think they're what you used to tie me to the ... table, is it?"
"Sort of workbench, actually."
Ford pulled at his trouser-trussed wrists and twisted his head to get a look about. They were in a large, well-apportioned workroom of sorts. Various bits of wires and circuitry - most of which would have made the most jaded electrical engineer spontaneously compose soaring epic verse in tribute - were strewn carelessly about. "What do you know. When did we get in here?"
"After the power ran out on the sonic screwdriver. I needed to plug it in for a bit - "
"So to speak."
"... Indeed. You said something about looking for the linen closet in the meantime, and stumbled in a while later with an arm-load of towels. It gets a little fuzzy after that, I'm afraid." The Doctor loosened the knots around Ford's wrists. "You did keep mentioning something about Smada XV and a mature yak. Sadly," he said as Ford pulled himself free and sat up, "the TARDIS is rather short on yaks at the moment. Mature or otherwise."
Ford stretched contentedly and ran a hand across the Doctor's chest. "Pity, that. The Smadans - have you been to Smada XV? No? Lovely place. Very friendly people - the Smadans have some terribly interesting customs. Largely yak-based, as it happens."
The Doctor caught Ford's hand in his own and pulled him closer to run his tongue slowly along his neck. The Betelgeusian tasted almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a human: salt and sweat and a musk pleasantly redolent of the wide warm plains of Betelgeuse Five. I need to get out of the TARDIS more, he mused, closing his eyes as Ford slipped his tongue between the Doctor's lips and kissed him hard. He was momentarily overcome with visions of vast interstellar distances, majestic starfields sweeping away into the inky blackness at the edges of space, and opened his eyes to find Ford grinning at him.
"Long way from home," Ford said, swinging about to sit on the edge of the workbench, legs wrapped around the Doctor - who realised suddenly that he was speaking for both of them. Ford nodded sagely. "I find that the contemplation of mind-bogglingly huge distances in relation to one's own place in the Universe - such as it is - tends to bring up feelings of ... " He trailed off as the Doctor caught up a handful of his tangled brown curls.
"Horniness?" he purred into Ford's ear.
"Exactly that!" Ford agreed happily. He glanced about the cluttered workroom. "Pass me that jar, would you?"
"What, the Algolian axle grease? What for?" Ford raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Really? You can use Algolian axle grease for that?" Ford nodded, his eyebrow making the nonverbal leap from merely suggestive to outright explicit. "Well! I never knew. And how'd you figure that out?"
"Read it somewhere," Ford said, unscrewing the jar and sniffing at its vaguely luminous green contents.
"Where'd you read it?"
He ran a slick hand over the Doctor's cock. "Oh, a book." The Doctor growled and pulled Ford to the very edge of the workbench.
"Which book?" he breathed.
"Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," Ford managed as the Doctor slid inside him.
"Oh, that thing."
***
The workbench was, mercifully, not terribly far from the floor: not so far, at least, as to cause lasting damage to any part of Ford's anatomy when he accidentally rolled off of it the following morning. He looked about experimentally, happy to find that the vast quantities of Ol' Janx Spirit that he had consumed had not, as tended frequently to happen, rendered him either blind or paralytic. By the time he had located and struggled into suitable amounts of clothing he was reasonably certain that his motor skills had not been unacceptably compromised by either the alcohol or the astonishingly athletic activities of the past night.
There were a few choice revisions to be made to a certain entry in the Guide, he thought, prowling the corridors of the TARDIS.
Ford followed the clinking of teaspoons and the murmur of voices to a small kitchenette. Two figures in dressing gowns sat, their backs to the door, sipping tea. Between them on the table a small yellow fish swam lazily about in a glass of water.
"... remarkable what a nice cup can do, no one seems to understand," Arthur said, feeding bits of biscuit to the fish.
"It's the single greatest contribution of humanity to the Galaxy," the Doctor agreed. "Nothing like it anywhere else. Don't give the fish biscuits. Another cup?"
"Oh - yes, please." Ford stepped into the room. Arthur turned and beamed at him. "Ford! We're just having - "
"Tea, yes, I can see that."
Arthur glanced at the Doctor and shook his head. "You see? They don't understand." He sipped and breathed a sigh of utter contentment. The Doctor grinned at Ford.
"Sleep well?" he murmured.
"Not a bit of it," Ford answered happily. He pulled a chair up to the table. "I was just thinking, by the way - where exactly are you headed?"
"Funny you should ask." The Doctor glanced at Arthur, cooing over his teacup, and back at Ford. "We were just having a chat - over a nice cup of tea, you know - when the subject of domesticated bovines came up. And we thought that it might be ... zoologically stimulating to do a little first-hand research - for the Guide, of course - on some of the more interesting species of bovine that the Galaxy has to offer."
"And it seems to me," Arthur put in hopefully, "that a yak might be less likely than - well, than almost everyone else I've met so far - to want to blow me up, or throw me out of spaceships, or cut open my brain, or insult me."
"Not necessarily."
"Oh? Well then ... "
Ford's eloquent eyebrow delivered a short but pithy monologue to the Doctor. "Why not," he said. "Smada XV, then? And it occurs to me that I might want to take this fish out of my ear as well."
"Oh, no." The Doctor regarded Ford with a grin that would have been classified as illegal by at least six planets, two star systems, and one entire dimension. "I rather think that you should leave it in."