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taleyaJust doing some clearing up and archiving, pay no attention.....
I'm a very, very bad person.
Blame![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nicodeimus for egging me to post this. And the FilthCave, always blame the FilthCave...
This.....This was unexpected. Completely and utterly unexpected.
Ford felt small and alone in the hard plastic chair, clutching his towel between his hands and twisting it back and forth in a wretched manner. He'd quite liked human cars. They smelled a little, and made interesting noises, but as a way from A to B, they definitely beat walking. And there were all sorts of nooks and crannies on the interior that were filled with fascinating pieces of human artifacts - at least in Arthur's car there were. He'd been a bit puzzled by the strip of rubber circles tucked down the side of the door though. How in Zarquon's name were you supposed to enjoy sex with that thing wrapped around your penis?
But it was a minor bump in his general enjoyment of motor vehicles. They were wonderfully quaint pieces of workmanship.
He released his poor, battered towel and stared at the floor, wrapping it comfortingly around his wrist. The air smelled rank and sharp with something that was almost-but-not-quite alcohol, with faint traces of cleaning fluid, vomit and blood wrapping around it in a nauseatingly prismatic display of scent. Overlaying this, stronger and sharper, were the smells of fear, of hope, human tears and quiet hopelessness.
He had quite liked cars.
Had.
All that time he'd happily ridden along with Arthur in his neat little car, the one thing he hadn't realised was how badly the manufacturers of said car had completely and utterly failed to include anything remotely approaching acceptable safety measures in case of accidents. They'd traded solidness for speed, padded interiors for interesting little nooks, and until that moment earlier tonight in the screaming lights of a drunken driver, he hadn't realised how brutally its thin little metal case would crumple under impact.
There was blood on his plimsolls.
It wasn't his own.
Over the PA, someone was calling for Doctor J. Hamilton. Ford buried his face in his towel and tried not to think.
I'm a very, very bad person.
Blame
nicodeimus for egging me to post this. And the FilthCave, always blame the FilthCave...This.....This was unexpected. Completely and utterly unexpected.
Ford felt small and alone in the hard plastic chair, clutching his towel between his hands and twisting it back and forth in a wretched manner. He'd quite liked human cars. They smelled a little, and made interesting noises, but as a way from A to B, they definitely beat walking. And there were all sorts of nooks and crannies on the interior that were filled with fascinating pieces of human artifacts - at least in Arthur's car there were. He'd been a bit puzzled by the strip of rubber circles tucked down the side of the door though. How in Zarquon's name were you supposed to enjoy sex with that thing wrapped around your penis?
But it was a minor bump in his general enjoyment of motor vehicles. They were wonderfully quaint pieces of workmanship.
He released his poor, battered towel and stared at the floor, wrapping it comfortingly around his wrist. The air smelled rank and sharp with something that was almost-but-not-quite alcohol, with faint traces of cleaning fluid, vomit and blood wrapping around it in a nauseatingly prismatic display of scent. Overlaying this, stronger and sharper, were the smells of fear, of hope, human tears and quiet hopelessness.
He had quite liked cars.
Had.
All that time he'd happily ridden along with Arthur in his neat little car, the one thing he hadn't realised was how badly the manufacturers of said car had completely and utterly failed to include anything remotely approaching acceptable safety measures in case of accidents. They'd traded solidness for speed, padded interiors for interesting little nooks, and until that moment earlier tonight in the screaming lights of a drunken driver, he hadn't realised how brutally its thin little metal case would crumple under impact.
There was blood on his plimsolls.
It wasn't his own.
Over the PA, someone was calling for Doctor J. Hamilton. Ford buried his face in his towel and tried not to think.
