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sissyTitle: Of Swans and Settling Down
Fandom: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Characters: Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent
Prompt: 025. Strangers
Word Count: 2,593
Rating: PG
Summary: Crossover with Hot Fuzz.
Table
The latest edition of the Stanford Citizen, which had been out of commission since the demise of its lead writer and Editor, Tim Messenger, via falling concrete, was an odd one. Previous editions of the Stanford Cit., had largely been founded on sundaes and gratuitous misspellings, which was a sort of oddity itself, but most of the readers, Stanford’s citizens, had never heard of Snaggle-backed Frottleggers, nor heard of its plight against the ravenous flesh-eating Piddleteeth of Maneverous Nine. That is, of course, until it graced the front page of the newly staffed Stanford Cit.
The Andes (as in, Detectives Andrew Cartwright and Andrew Wainwright) found this issue almost, but not quite, as entertaining as they’d found the notorious ‘Angle’ issue.
“Look at this shit!” Andy exclaimed, while Andy dropped a coin in the swear box.
Nicolas Angel, street hardened police sergeant, glanced up critically from his own issue, “I am looking at it.” His partner, Danny Butterman, was studying a sketch of the plighted creature on page two. “Well I don’t think its shit- thanks Doris-” because Doris Thatcher dropped a coin in the swear box,“actually, I think its sort of interesting.”
“Interesting.” The Andes echoed, with matching eye rolls. Nicholas folded his paper and sighed, interrupting the Andes before they could start out on a degrading rant. They’d get enough of those in throughout the rest of the day, for sure. “Alright, alright. That’s enough. Don’t you lot have work to do? C’mon Danny, we’ve got patrol.”
Danny crammed the paper into a fold and tucked it under his arm.
As soon as their fun-sucker of a sergeant left, Tony Fischer leaned forward over his desk,” Sooo…”
“I think,” Doris answered, “the interesting part ain’t what’s written, but who’s writtin’ it.” She eyed her nails with all the self-satisfaction of a gossip who knew something good that nobody else did.
“Whazutit?” PC Bob Walker mumbled. Saxon, the SPDs faithful canine, snoozed at his feet.
“Well,” Doris said. She paused, tapping her chin with a look of serious contemplation. “Doris,” the rest of the staff intoned.
“Oh, alright.” Doris, always one to enjoy telling the latest bit of juice to hit Stanford, gave in, “ I saw ‘em at the pub night before last. Cindy—you know Cindy? Darlene’s cousin’s sister-in-law’s nephew’s girl from Beiuford?” The others nodded. Of course they knew Cindy. “Right, Cindy pointed ‘em out. Two blokes from London, yeah? Been living in the country a while, I think, but not around here. And they’re, well, y’know. Peculiar.”
“Peculiar?” Danny asked. The others starred. “Forgot my pad,” he added, retrieving said standard issue ticket book from his desk.
“Right. Peculiar.” Doris repeated, waggling her fingers and eyebrows. “You know.”
“Not really, no.” Looking confused, Tony scrunched his face up.
“Woah, woah.” Said Andy Cartwright, eye wide beneath his dark glasses. “You mean…peculiar?” asked Andy Wainwright, with a matching expression.
“Yes!” Doris said.
“Bloody hell.” They echoed.
“What?!” Tony demanded.
“I don’t get it.” Danny squinted.
“Oh, they’re bloody poofs!” Andy snapped, while the other Andy gave Danny a ‘duh, stupid’ look. “They’re a couple of fags!” he added loudly, just as Nicolas walked in.
“Who’s a couple of fags?” he asked, automatically, before shaking his head and asking Danny, “I thought you said you were just grabbing your pad.”
“The new newspaper guys.” Andy laughed. “No wonder the paper’s so queer.” He and his partner laughed raucously.
“What?” Nicolas asked again, reflexively. He caught himself, “Ah, no, never mind. That doesn’t matter. Just get back to work. Come on Danny.”
There was something very awkward about two men living together in Stanford. Not that it was unheard of (the Andes lived together, but, well, they were the Andes) but still. All the men who had lived together like that had..er..moved away soon enough.
“S’that where they live?” Danny asked. “Who?” Nicolas glanced up from his eye sweep of the bushes. The thing about bushes, you know, is that all kinds of things can hide in them. Like swan.
“The blokes running the newspaper, Nic. That’s what we’re talking.” Danny sounded exasperated.
“I thought we were talking about the swan.” Nicolas sighed. He looked at the cottage Danny gestured toward and made a face, “Oh. That really fits in with the village’s rustic aesthetic.”
This was a sarcastic comment because it did not fit in at all with the village’s rustic aesthetic. Quite the opposite, actually. It had, at one time, but it was now decked out in strange metal plates, odd moving rods sticking out in various places, and weird, bright colored plants decorated the porch. A black flamingo was staring out from the lawn along with its brothers, blue and green.
“What’s all that stuff?” Danny asked.
“Those are sub-etha receptors,” announced a voice from behind him. A ginger-haired man pointed at the scrutinized object, managing to show an outstanding amount of teeth when he smiled, “It’s just so difficult to get good reception on this pla—er, in the country.”
Danny blinked. Several times, in sympathy for his suddenly watery eyes. “You live there? Are you the guy running the Stanford Citizen?”
“The Stanford Citizen. Yep, that’s me.” He looked vaguely annoyed, in a strange ‘I don’t really care because I’m too cool’ kind of way. “I wanted to change the name to something more…flashy, but Arthur says you can’t just move into a town and change the name of their paper. But really, I think I’d be doing you a favor.”
“Er, right.” Danny wiped his hands on his pants, then offered it to the other man,” I’m Danny Butterman, police constable for the Stanford Police Department.”
The man looked at his hand for a moment before blinking, finally. “Oh, right.” He shook it enthusiastically. “I’m Ford Prefect.” He offered his hand to Nic, grinning again in a way that had to make his cheeks sore.
“Like the car?” Danny asked vaguely, unheard over Nicolas’s introduction of “Nicolas Angel, police sergeant. Welcome to Stanford.”
“Right, right. Well, I was just heading off to the pub. I thought it was that way-” he pointed to the direction he’d come from, “ but I suppose it’s—“
“That way.” Danny supplied helpfully, pointing in the opposite direction.
“Right. I figured as much.”
“Actually,” Danny clapped Ford on the shoulder, pointedly not glancing at his partner, “It’s about lunch time, so why don’t you join us for a pint? Give you a ride.”
“Danny ,we still haven’t caught the…” Nicolas trailed off when he saw Danny widen his eyes and quiver his lower lip pleadingly. He sighed. “Alright.”
Arthur rather liked Stanford. It was a big bigger than Cottington, which was more for Ford’s benefit than his own, but still much smaller than London. And it had won village of the year for so-so years, which meant—er—something. Things were really turning out quite well. This particular planet, while not his earth, was amazingly similar. The perfect place to settle down.
The years of time travelling, dimension crossing, and hyperspace jumping had been kind to Arthur. Living in a spaceship, as it turned out, was actually very good for your health. This was probably the Universe’s way of making up for all the other danger it contained. Nonetheless, Arthur was a bit older, and he’d been ready to find some place quiet. The fact that Ford had agreed to come with him, and even found such a perfect place for them to go, had been a pleasant and unexpected surprise. Even Betelgeusians like to settle down eventually, as long as there’s a good bar around, Ford had explained. Whether this was true or not, Arthur had no idea, but he wasn’t about to complain.
And the cottage. The cottage was wonderful. It was just the right kind of roomy, comfortable, and in a quiet, nice neighborhood. Arthur liked it so much that he didn’t even mind Ford’s attempt at decorating.
The one thing he didn’t like about the cottage was that it was currently occupying a swan.
“Er, yes. A swan.” Arthur said into the telephone.
Really, who did you call when a swan breaks into your house? Swan-busters? There hadn’t been a number for animal control in the Stanford Phonebook. So he’d called the police. If the giant hole in his kitchen’s screen door was anything to go by, this definitely counted as breaking and entering. “What does it look like?” Arthur echoed the police correspondent. “It’s…well, it’s mostly white with some black around the facial area…it’s got some feathers. Lots actually. It…It’s a swan.”
Arthur squinted at the swan. “It’s just sitting there. Hmm? Well, that’s not the point, is it? How would you feel about a swan sitting on your kitchen counter? It’s unsanitary.”
The swan quacked and pecked at Arthur’s sugar bowl.
“Yes, please.” Arthur said desperately. “Send someone over, please. Thank you, Doris.” Hanging up the phone, Arthur sighed loudly. “Well…” he addressed the swan, running a hand through his hair, “.. at least you’re just a normal swan. At you’re not some alien from another planet who just happens to look like a swan, but nobody knows it because, well, I suppose the people on this planet are rather like the humans from my planet.”
“Actually, that’s exactly what I am.” said the swan.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” admitted Arthur.
“Look, I don’t meant to impose,” the swan ruffled its feathers, “but really, it’s not often that visitors come here, to this planet, much less here, to this town! I’ve been stuck here for a very long time, you see.”
“Really?” Arthur asked, politely. He started to boil water for tea. He deserved a good cup right now. Or two.
The swan stretched its wings. “Oh yes. I just meant to pop in for a bit of sight-seeing, see how the uncivilized half of the galaxy lives, you know. But my ride never came back…So I’ve been…”
“Stuck.” Arthur finished for it. He set his tea bag into the steaming mug. “Yes, I know how that is. Tea?’
“No thanks.”
Arthur sipped his tea. The swan preened its feathers. “So…” Arthur cleared his throat, “ What exactly is it that you want me to do?”
“Oh.” The swan honked, “If I could just use one of your sub-etha connected communication lines, please, that’d be wonderful. I saw the receptors outside .By the way, that’s a nice setup you’ve got.”
“Thanks.” Arthur scratched his nose. “Well, I don’t really know about that sort of stuff. You’re welcome to, er, look around the house and find the…um…space telephone, but I really don’t know what or where it could be.”
“Right O.” Uttered the swan in a deep quack.
The swan jumped/fluttered off the counter. It waddled into the living room. Arthur made another cup of tea. Stranger things had happened.
“Excuse me,” asked Ford, still not understanding why exactly he’d been dragged out of a perfectly good pub to hide in the bushes outside his own home, “there’s a what in my house?”
“A swan!” hissed Danny, followed by a “shhhh” from Nicolas. He lowered his voice, “ A swan, from Stacker Farms. It’s Stanford’s most wanted. Doris, that’s our correspondent, she got a call from your house saying the swan was there.”
“Right.” Ford nodded. He shuffled around, swatting leaves from his hair. In a vaguely concerned tone, he asked, “It’s not dangerous, is it?” These days, he found this sort of thing made him a little more than vaguely concerned, but that didn’t mean he had to show it.
“Nah. Just really bloody annoying.”
“Oh good.” Ford added, “ Arthur doesn’t like dangerous things. Puts him in a mood something awful.”
“Well, don’t worry, sir.” Nicolas was watching the house through a pair of binoculars. “We’ll take care of it.” He caught sight of something white and feathery passing by a window. “SWAN! Danny, go ‘round front. Go, go, go!”
Two of SPD’s finest split up to catch the swan, leaving an amused Ford Prefect in the bushes. Ford shook the dirt from his pants and meandered his way into the kitchen from the side door. “Morning, Arthur.” Ford greeted his friend, brushing some feathers off the counter.
“Afternoon, Ford.” Arthur corrected, smiling warmly, “Tea?”
“Not right now, thanks.” Ford looked around, “Where’s the swan?”
“It wanted to use your…sub-etha phone or something.”
“Ah.” Ford began to shuffle through the cabinets. “Hey, what happened to that packet of craps I bought yesterday?” Arthur gave him an exasperated look. “You ate them. On the way back from the store. Just wait, I’ll start lunch. I didn’t think you’d be back from the pub so soon.”
“I wouldn’t have been, but these cops at the pub made me come with them to catch the swan.” Ford obediently moved out of the way as Arthur moved around the kitchen. “It didn’t bite you or anything, did it?”
“Oh no, it was actually very polite.” Taking sandwich supplies out of the fridge, Arthur mused aloud, “To be honest, I’d already forgotten about calling the police. They’re after the swan? Where are they?”
An awful crash of crunching wood and shattering glass startled Arthur. The thankfully plastic jar of mayonnaise hit the floor in time with Arthur’s surprised gasp.
“I think they’re in the living room.” Ford supplied helpfully.
“SWAN!” yelled two voices from the other room. A mass of sleek feathers hurdles into the kitchen in a flurry of flapping wings,” Thank for the help, ol chap.” It squawked in a panicked, breathy way before flying out the door.
Two blurs of SPD standard uniforms shot after it. “There it goes, get it!”
Arthur picked up the mayonnaise. “Turkey or ham,” he asked Ford.
“Both, please. And hey, none of that yellow stuff, it gives me a runny nose.” yawned the Betelgeusian.
“What?!” came a startled cry from the yard. Danny Butterman’s voice dripped with shock and disbelief. “Did…bloody hell! It just ‘poofed’! Disappeared.”
“Bloody hell.” Nicolas echoed.
“You now,” the human, Arthur Dent, gestured around his new home, “I like it here.”
“Mmm.” Ford agreed, crunching on a pickle, “S’quiet.”
They shared a smile over the kitchen counter.
“I-…thanks for coming with me, Ford.” Arthur swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “ I really didn’t think you would.”
Ford gave him a rare, serious look. “Of course I came, Arthur.” A slow, cheeky, familiar grin made its way across his face, “Besides, if I didn’t, who would be around to make my sandwiches?” he chuckled at the mock insulted face Arthur made.
“Er, excuse me,” Nicolas stepped carefully through the giant rip that was now the kitchen’s screen door. “I don’t suppose either of you happened to see the swan come back through here?”
“It got abducted by aliens,” Ford told him, laughing. He took a huge bite of his sandwich.
“You know how swans are,” Arthur screwed the jar lid back on, “sneaky little fellows.”
“I know.” The police sergeant scratched his head and turned to leave. He paused. “Have…have we met before?”
Arthur blinked, “ Erm, no. No, I don’t believe so. I’m Arthur Dent.”
Nicolas narrowed his eyes, “Are you sure? Because you look…you look awfully familiar. Almost exactly like---“
“Nic! A ship, Nic! A bloody spaceship.” Danny’s excited cry interrupted, “Oh shit, the Andes are never going to believe this.”
As Nicolas disappeared back in to the yard, Ford licked his fingers clean, much to Arthur’s disapproval. “I could go for that cup of tea now.”
Fandom: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Characters: Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent
Prompt: 025. Strangers
Word Count: 2,593
Rating: PG
Summary: Crossover with Hot Fuzz.
Table
The latest edition of the Stanford Citizen, which had been out of commission since the demise of its lead writer and Editor, Tim Messenger, via falling concrete, was an odd one. Previous editions of the Stanford Cit., had largely been founded on sundaes and gratuitous misspellings, which was a sort of oddity itself, but most of the readers, Stanford’s citizens, had never heard of Snaggle-backed Frottleggers, nor heard of its plight against the ravenous flesh-eating Piddleteeth of Maneverous Nine. That is, of course, until it graced the front page of the newly staffed Stanford Cit.
The Andes (as in, Detectives Andrew Cartwright and Andrew Wainwright) found this issue almost, but not quite, as entertaining as they’d found the notorious ‘Angle’ issue.
“Look at this shit!” Andy exclaimed, while Andy dropped a coin in the swear box.
Nicolas Angel, street hardened police sergeant, glanced up critically from his own issue, “I am looking at it.” His partner, Danny Butterman, was studying a sketch of the plighted creature on page two. “Well I don’t think its shit- thanks Doris-” because Doris Thatcher dropped a coin in the swear box,“actually, I think its sort of interesting.”
“Interesting.” The Andes echoed, with matching eye rolls. Nicholas folded his paper and sighed, interrupting the Andes before they could start out on a degrading rant. They’d get enough of those in throughout the rest of the day, for sure. “Alright, alright. That’s enough. Don’t you lot have work to do? C’mon Danny, we’ve got patrol.”
Danny crammed the paper into a fold and tucked it under his arm.
As soon as their fun-sucker of a sergeant left, Tony Fischer leaned forward over his desk,” Sooo…”
“I think,” Doris answered, “the interesting part ain’t what’s written, but who’s writtin’ it.” She eyed her nails with all the self-satisfaction of a gossip who knew something good that nobody else did.
“Whazutit?” PC Bob Walker mumbled. Saxon, the SPDs faithful canine, snoozed at his feet.
“Well,” Doris said. She paused, tapping her chin with a look of serious contemplation. “Doris,” the rest of the staff intoned.
“Oh, alright.” Doris, always one to enjoy telling the latest bit of juice to hit Stanford, gave in, “ I saw ‘em at the pub night before last. Cindy—you know Cindy? Darlene’s cousin’s sister-in-law’s nephew’s girl from Beiuford?” The others nodded. Of course they knew Cindy. “Right, Cindy pointed ‘em out. Two blokes from London, yeah? Been living in the country a while, I think, but not around here. And they’re, well, y’know. Peculiar.”
“Peculiar?” Danny asked. The others starred. “Forgot my pad,” he added, retrieving said standard issue ticket book from his desk.
“Right. Peculiar.” Doris repeated, waggling her fingers and eyebrows. “You know.”
“Not really, no.” Looking confused, Tony scrunched his face up.
“Woah, woah.” Said Andy Cartwright, eye wide beneath his dark glasses. “You mean…peculiar?” asked Andy Wainwright, with a matching expression.
“Yes!” Doris said.
“Bloody hell.” They echoed.
“What?!” Tony demanded.
“I don’t get it.” Danny squinted.
“Oh, they’re bloody poofs!” Andy snapped, while the other Andy gave Danny a ‘duh, stupid’ look. “They’re a couple of fags!” he added loudly, just as Nicolas walked in.
“Who’s a couple of fags?” he asked, automatically, before shaking his head and asking Danny, “I thought you said you were just grabbing your pad.”
“The new newspaper guys.” Andy laughed. “No wonder the paper’s so queer.” He and his partner laughed raucously.
“What?” Nicolas asked again, reflexively. He caught himself, “Ah, no, never mind. That doesn’t matter. Just get back to work. Come on Danny.”
There was something very awkward about two men living together in Stanford. Not that it was unheard of (the Andes lived together, but, well, they were the Andes) but still. All the men who had lived together like that had..er..moved away soon enough.
“S’that where they live?” Danny asked. “Who?” Nicolas glanced up from his eye sweep of the bushes. The thing about bushes, you know, is that all kinds of things can hide in them. Like swan.
“The blokes running the newspaper, Nic. That’s what we’re talking.” Danny sounded exasperated.
“I thought we were talking about the swan.” Nicolas sighed. He looked at the cottage Danny gestured toward and made a face, “Oh. That really fits in with the village’s rustic aesthetic.”
This was a sarcastic comment because it did not fit in at all with the village’s rustic aesthetic. Quite the opposite, actually. It had, at one time, but it was now decked out in strange metal plates, odd moving rods sticking out in various places, and weird, bright colored plants decorated the porch. A black flamingo was staring out from the lawn along with its brothers, blue and green.
“What’s all that stuff?” Danny asked.
“Those are sub-etha receptors,” announced a voice from behind him. A ginger-haired man pointed at the scrutinized object, managing to show an outstanding amount of teeth when he smiled, “It’s just so difficult to get good reception on this pla—er, in the country.”
Danny blinked. Several times, in sympathy for his suddenly watery eyes. “You live there? Are you the guy running the Stanford Citizen?”
“The Stanford Citizen. Yep, that’s me.” He looked vaguely annoyed, in a strange ‘I don’t really care because I’m too cool’ kind of way. “I wanted to change the name to something more…flashy, but Arthur says you can’t just move into a town and change the name of their paper. But really, I think I’d be doing you a favor.”
“Er, right.” Danny wiped his hands on his pants, then offered it to the other man,” I’m Danny Butterman, police constable for the Stanford Police Department.”
The man looked at his hand for a moment before blinking, finally. “Oh, right.” He shook it enthusiastically. “I’m Ford Prefect.” He offered his hand to Nic, grinning again in a way that had to make his cheeks sore.
“Like the car?” Danny asked vaguely, unheard over Nicolas’s introduction of “Nicolas Angel, police sergeant. Welcome to Stanford.”
“Right, right. Well, I was just heading off to the pub. I thought it was that way-” he pointed to the direction he’d come from, “ but I suppose it’s—“
“That way.” Danny supplied helpfully, pointing in the opposite direction.
“Right. I figured as much.”
“Actually,” Danny clapped Ford on the shoulder, pointedly not glancing at his partner, “It’s about lunch time, so why don’t you join us for a pint? Give you a ride.”
“Danny ,we still haven’t caught the…” Nicolas trailed off when he saw Danny widen his eyes and quiver his lower lip pleadingly. He sighed. “Alright.”
Arthur rather liked Stanford. It was a big bigger than Cottington, which was more for Ford’s benefit than his own, but still much smaller than London. And it had won village of the year for so-so years, which meant—er—something. Things were really turning out quite well. This particular planet, while not his earth, was amazingly similar. The perfect place to settle down.
The years of time travelling, dimension crossing, and hyperspace jumping had been kind to Arthur. Living in a spaceship, as it turned out, was actually very good for your health. This was probably the Universe’s way of making up for all the other danger it contained. Nonetheless, Arthur was a bit older, and he’d been ready to find some place quiet. The fact that Ford had agreed to come with him, and even found such a perfect place for them to go, had been a pleasant and unexpected surprise. Even Betelgeusians like to settle down eventually, as long as there’s a good bar around, Ford had explained. Whether this was true or not, Arthur had no idea, but he wasn’t about to complain.
And the cottage. The cottage was wonderful. It was just the right kind of roomy, comfortable, and in a quiet, nice neighborhood. Arthur liked it so much that he didn’t even mind Ford’s attempt at decorating.
The one thing he didn’t like about the cottage was that it was currently occupying a swan.
“Er, yes. A swan.” Arthur said into the telephone.
Really, who did you call when a swan breaks into your house? Swan-busters? There hadn’t been a number for animal control in the Stanford Phonebook. So he’d called the police. If the giant hole in his kitchen’s screen door was anything to go by, this definitely counted as breaking and entering. “What does it look like?” Arthur echoed the police correspondent. “It’s…well, it’s mostly white with some black around the facial area…it’s got some feathers. Lots actually. It…It’s a swan.”
Arthur squinted at the swan. “It’s just sitting there. Hmm? Well, that’s not the point, is it? How would you feel about a swan sitting on your kitchen counter? It’s unsanitary.”
The swan quacked and pecked at Arthur’s sugar bowl.
“Yes, please.” Arthur said desperately. “Send someone over, please. Thank you, Doris.” Hanging up the phone, Arthur sighed loudly. “Well…” he addressed the swan, running a hand through his hair, “.. at least you’re just a normal swan. At you’re not some alien from another planet who just happens to look like a swan, but nobody knows it because, well, I suppose the people on this planet are rather like the humans from my planet.”
“Actually, that’s exactly what I am.” said the swan.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” admitted Arthur.
“Look, I don’t meant to impose,” the swan ruffled its feathers, “but really, it’s not often that visitors come here, to this planet, much less here, to this town! I’ve been stuck here for a very long time, you see.”
“Really?” Arthur asked, politely. He started to boil water for tea. He deserved a good cup right now. Or two.
The swan stretched its wings. “Oh yes. I just meant to pop in for a bit of sight-seeing, see how the uncivilized half of the galaxy lives, you know. But my ride never came back…So I’ve been…”
“Stuck.” Arthur finished for it. He set his tea bag into the steaming mug. “Yes, I know how that is. Tea?’
“No thanks.”
Arthur sipped his tea. The swan preened its feathers. “So…” Arthur cleared his throat, “ What exactly is it that you want me to do?”
“Oh.” The swan honked, “If I could just use one of your sub-etha connected communication lines, please, that’d be wonderful. I saw the receptors outside .By the way, that’s a nice setup you’ve got.”
“Thanks.” Arthur scratched his nose. “Well, I don’t really know about that sort of stuff. You’re welcome to, er, look around the house and find the…um…space telephone, but I really don’t know what or where it could be.”
“Right O.” Uttered the swan in a deep quack.
The swan jumped/fluttered off the counter. It waddled into the living room. Arthur made another cup of tea. Stranger things had happened.
“Excuse me,” asked Ford, still not understanding why exactly he’d been dragged out of a perfectly good pub to hide in the bushes outside his own home, “there’s a what in my house?”
“A swan!” hissed Danny, followed by a “shhhh” from Nicolas. He lowered his voice, “ A swan, from Stacker Farms. It’s Stanford’s most wanted. Doris, that’s our correspondent, she got a call from your house saying the swan was there.”
“Right.” Ford nodded. He shuffled around, swatting leaves from his hair. In a vaguely concerned tone, he asked, “It’s not dangerous, is it?” These days, he found this sort of thing made him a little more than vaguely concerned, but that didn’t mean he had to show it.
“Nah. Just really bloody annoying.”
“Oh good.” Ford added, “ Arthur doesn’t like dangerous things. Puts him in a mood something awful.”
“Well, don’t worry, sir.” Nicolas was watching the house through a pair of binoculars. “We’ll take care of it.” He caught sight of something white and feathery passing by a window. “SWAN! Danny, go ‘round front. Go, go, go!”
Two of SPD’s finest split up to catch the swan, leaving an amused Ford Prefect in the bushes. Ford shook the dirt from his pants and meandered his way into the kitchen from the side door. “Morning, Arthur.” Ford greeted his friend, brushing some feathers off the counter.
“Afternoon, Ford.” Arthur corrected, smiling warmly, “Tea?”
“Not right now, thanks.” Ford looked around, “Where’s the swan?”
“It wanted to use your…sub-etha phone or something.”
“Ah.” Ford began to shuffle through the cabinets. “Hey, what happened to that packet of craps I bought yesterday?” Arthur gave him an exasperated look. “You ate them. On the way back from the store. Just wait, I’ll start lunch. I didn’t think you’d be back from the pub so soon.”
“I wouldn’t have been, but these cops at the pub made me come with them to catch the swan.” Ford obediently moved out of the way as Arthur moved around the kitchen. “It didn’t bite you or anything, did it?”
“Oh no, it was actually very polite.” Taking sandwich supplies out of the fridge, Arthur mused aloud, “To be honest, I’d already forgotten about calling the police. They’re after the swan? Where are they?”
An awful crash of crunching wood and shattering glass startled Arthur. The thankfully plastic jar of mayonnaise hit the floor in time with Arthur’s surprised gasp.
“I think they’re in the living room.” Ford supplied helpfully.
“SWAN!” yelled two voices from the other room. A mass of sleek feathers hurdles into the kitchen in a flurry of flapping wings,” Thank for the help, ol chap.” It squawked in a panicked, breathy way before flying out the door.
Two blurs of SPD standard uniforms shot after it. “There it goes, get it!”
Arthur picked up the mayonnaise. “Turkey or ham,” he asked Ford.
“Both, please. And hey, none of that yellow stuff, it gives me a runny nose.” yawned the Betelgeusian.
“What?!” came a startled cry from the yard. Danny Butterman’s voice dripped with shock and disbelief. “Did…bloody hell! It just ‘poofed’! Disappeared.”
“Bloody hell.” Nicolas echoed.
“You now,” the human, Arthur Dent, gestured around his new home, “I like it here.”
“Mmm.” Ford agreed, crunching on a pickle, “S’quiet.”
They shared a smile over the kitchen counter.
“I-…thanks for coming with me, Ford.” Arthur swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “ I really didn’t think you would.”
Ford gave him a rare, serious look. “Of course I came, Arthur.” A slow, cheeky, familiar grin made its way across his face, “Besides, if I didn’t, who would be around to make my sandwiches?” he chuckled at the mock insulted face Arthur made.
“Er, excuse me,” Nicolas stepped carefully through the giant rip that was now the kitchen’s screen door. “I don’t suppose either of you happened to see the swan come back through here?”
“It got abducted by aliens,” Ford told him, laughing. He took a huge bite of his sandwich.
“You know how swans are,” Arthur screwed the jar lid back on, “sneaky little fellows.”
“I know.” The police sergeant scratched his head and turned to leave. He paused. “Have…have we met before?”
Arthur blinked, “ Erm, no. No, I don’t believe so. I’m Arthur Dent.”
Nicolas narrowed his eyes, “Are you sure? Because you look…you look awfully familiar. Almost exactly like---“
“Nic! A ship, Nic! A bloody spaceship.” Danny’s excited cry interrupted, “Oh shit, the Andes are never going to believe this.”
As Nicolas disappeared back in to the yard, Ford licked his fingers clean, much to Arthur’s disapproval. “I could go for that cup of tea now.”