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Ford Prefect said strange things, from time to time.
Arthur, who wielded an awful combination of British politeness and an undiagnosed something like a shield in pretty much every interaction he found himself in, never quite knew how to react. Ford proved to be a tougher nut than most to crack, what with his unreadable mannerisms and turns of phrase that sounded close to, but never completely right.
Once, after one of his stranger remarks, Arthur had said, “You know, I love how you’re confident enough to just say anything. Wish I was a bit like you, in that regard.”
Ford ignored the back half of that statement. Brow knitted, he asked, “What’s that?”
“Hm? What’s what?”
“That word,” Ford said. “Love.”
Arthur bristled. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know that word.”
Arthur felt like he’d been thrown backwards into the sea, cold and churning. “Well, it’s,” he started, then faltered. “It’s a feeling you get when, er, you really like something, or a person, or when you’re, you know, you like the things your friends do. You know, ‘I love it when…’”
“Do you love it when I’m around?”
“Something like that.” Arthur flushed.
“I love you, too.”