title: three roads not taken
fandom: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
characters/pairings: Fenchurch, Arthur, Ford
rating: G
warnings: none
summary: at a crossroad.
notes: for fanaticalone, for this request on fic on demand. for real this time, le sighs. ~_~ *sucks*
the first two lines are from the request.

The problem was that Fenchurch wanted to see the best of the Universe, and Ford was apparently looking for the worst of it. And Arthur... well, he simply wasn't as particular about it as they were, as long as he could always find a decent cup of tea.

He looked helplessly at his two friends. Well. His two. Er. They were. Yes, they were very important to him. Really good friends. Now, he was pretty pleased with himself for having landed her. He just never quite understood how he got into the equation, but it had been explained to him numerous times, so he just accepted it.

That was rather far from being the point, however.

Ford was looking right, and practically slobbering. There, before his eyes, the dirtiest, slimiest, greasiest greasy spoon in all of the known and unknown universe. Ford's salivary glands were not up to the task of thoroughly expressing his utter need to go there, make snide comments about the filth of the cutlery, order the most obnoxious combination of fried meats, cheeses, and potato-based products, and then report on all of it in super exaggerated, sarcastic detail to hopefully make it into the Guide.

Fenchurch was looking left, at a building that appeared to be several giant hula hoops strapped onto a styrofoam cup with chicken wire. There was a glittering stainless steel staircase leading up to the top of the lip of the overturned cup (and a side staircase of cement, since the steel staircase was too smooth, and the few who tried to alight it were left in crumpled heaps at the base of the stairs), and a bright red flashing neon banner over what might, in the mind of an insane person, be a door which read "Intergalactic Trash: Modern Art Museum." She was quivering with the need to get inside, but Arthur knew well what would happen when she did. She would look at the art, certainly. She might even understand some of it, possibly. Mostly, she would think sarcastic things about the art, but she would shush him imperiously if he said anything. She would also watch the other patrons, silently rating their fashion sense and accessories, and compile a mental list of all the things she was being seriously and grievously deprived of.

Straight ahead, there was a small little shop with a teapot sign hanging somberly outside. It looked dinky, and certainly not the sort of place that anyone who had anything to do would ever consider going into.

It looked like it might serve tea.

Arthur pasted on his brightest, most child-like smile. They liked his child-like nature. That had been explained to him, too, in far greater detail than he actually needed to hear. "Let's meet back here in two hours."

Fenchurch and Ford opened their mouths in unison, met each other's gazes, measured their desire to have their own way, glanced briefly at Arthur, who was already inching toward the tea shop, and then they closed their mouths, nodded, and turned and went off to their own chosen destinations.

Arthur heaved a heavy sigh of relief, and tried valiantly not to get his hopes up too high. Still.