Thursday

by K.H. Ivywater

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement was intended in the writing of this story and no profit is being made. Arthur Dent, Ford Prefect, and all of the other lovely characters in this work of fiction are (forever!) property of Douglas Adams.

Notes: Questions and comments and feedback are most welcome, and please let me know if you rec.

Summary: Arthur/Ford. Begins during the end of chapter 31 when they're on Magrathea. Arthur informs everyone he didn't ask to be there. Rated T for vicious thoughts regarding Zaphod and mild coarse language.

Dates: This story was begun on an unknown date and completed on February 28, 2009.

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It had to be Thursday again.

There were two mice on glass transports swinging through the air towards his head. They had just finished telling him in conversational tones that they wanted his brain removed, treated, and diced for the express purpose of finding the Ultimate Question to the Ultimate Answer of Life, the Universe, and Everything.

His brain was wondering if he should lodge a formal complaint somewhere. His stomach was busy doing a hyperactive's impression of tranquility. Sadly, his mouth decided to join the rebellion.

"Er…"

Embarrassed, his brain abandoned its ironic musings and rushed to his rescue.

"Er, hello? Does anyone understand I didn't ask for this?" He stumbled forward, trying to dodge the airborne rodents. Trillian grabbed him by the arm to drag him towards the door, but he refused to move. "I don't want to be here, you know?" he asked her. She let him go, and nodded understandingly. "I didn't ask to be taken off my planet. I didn't ask to be picked up by Vogons. Or to have a fish thrust into—"

Trillian wandered away. Her mice, however, swooped for Arthur again, and Frankie mouse tore a hole in the arm of his dressing gown. This enraged Arthur.

"I don't want to be here!" he screamed. He ran for the table, picked up a fruit from Decadancia VI that's better for throwing than it is for eating, and hurled it at one of the mice. "Why me?" he shouted. "Why me?" He continued throwing fruit at the rodents and their whiskey-glass transports.

By that time, Ford had turned around briefly to see what the fuss was about.

"Arthur!" he yelled.

Arthur rounded on him. "And you, Ford!" He chucked a fruit at Ford, because Ford was the one responsible for all the things he couldn't cope with.

"Ow!" said Ford, and threw up his hands, turning back to the door. Arthur raged at his back.

"Why am I here, Ford? Are all Betelguesians sadistic scientists like you? 'Hmm, let's see what happens when the monkey is ripped from everything he ever knew!'"

One of Zaphod's heads snorted. "Couldn't have been much."

Arthur ignored this by picturing both of Zaphod's heads being run over repeatedly with a lawn mower. The devastating lack of lawn mowers spurred him on. "Why?" he repeated. "Out of the grand number of lunatics you must have met on my horrible little planet, Ford, why me? Why not Peter? Why not Harry, or Jim, or Bob? Why not Stace, for Christ's sake?" He ducked to avoid the swooping mice, and hurled the remaining fruit at them. "Hell, why not the bartender?"

Trillian's vague irritation at Arthur's outburst suddenly turned into vague interest.

Zaphod would have been interested, too, had he and Ford not just yanked the door open to reveal a small pack of ugly men heavily armed with even uglier medical tools.

Ford backed away and shot Arthur the cheerful, insane smile only used by unflappable women in complaint departments.

"Now probably isn't the best time to have this conversation," he said.

Arthur didn't agree. He was about to die and he needed something to tell his great granny when she asked what took him so long and why he never came to visit.

"Ford," he began to whine, but fortunately every alarm on the planet chose that moment to whine even louder.

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Amusingly, thanks to Marvin's awful outlook on Life, they were still breathing a few hours later.

While the Heart of Gold sped away from the Horsehead Nebula in no particular direction at all, Zaphod was getting drunk for no particular reason. In a corner of the bridge, Ford and Trillian were having a particularly quiet conversation regarding a particular subject—who wandered away to his cabin after he realized that no one was going to talk to him.

Ford glanced up to watch him disappear, his sentence trailing off into silence. Trillian then fixed Ford with a very pointed look, which Ford pointedly ignored.

"Oh, good. Monkeyman left." Zaphod's second head was doing the talking while the other did the drinking.

Ford bristled a bit. "His name is Arthur," he said, and sunk lower into his seat when this made both of Zaphod's heads grin.

The drunk one regarded him in a way that made Ford wary. "Ford, baby, come have a drink with your old cousin Zay—" Hiccup. "—phod." He raised his glass to Ford invitingly.

But Ford frowned, because alcohol didn't seem like the answer—and if alcohol wasn't the answer, then he must have been asking the wrong question.

Sensing his reluctance, Zaphod's other head smiled a smile that had far too many teeth. "Come on, Ford. We'll have a nice drink together and you can explain the whole monkey thing."

Ford frowned again, and Trillian hissed something admonishing to Zaphod. When Zaphod responded angrily, Trillian's hiss got louder, until at last a full-blown argument erupted.

But Ford wasn't listening. He was slipping off to find Arthur.

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