blueberry yoghurt and honeydew with caramel
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Changing Times
Rating: G
Challenge: Honeydew #19: fidgeting, Blueberry Yoghurt #9: better off
Toppings/Extras: caramel
Wordcount: 534
Summary: Half an hour before Mr Prowse’s wedding, he is sought out by Lord Ashdown.
Notes: Basically fluff, takes place just under a year after the plot. :)
“Mr Prowse...”
Blinking, Isaac Prowse turned around to face his boss. He had finally escaped the somewhat small gathering of guests and was happily spending some time on his own: he felt that a groom should be allowed some time to think before his wedding.
Ashdown stood hesitant in the doorway. He smiled somewhat, a shallow curve of the lips.
“Very becoming,” he said, gesturing to the tuxedo he was wearing. “I suppose that one must adapt to the times.”
“To be honest, sir, I prefer trousers to breeches,” Prowse said, politely.
Ashdown looked a little pained for a moment, and Prowse knew that it was nothing to do with his opinion on trousers. Ashdown cleared his throat and fiddled with his silver cufflinks for a moment, and Prowse tried to stop himself from smiling. He didn’t want to embarrass him further.
“Did you want something?” he finally asked, not unpleasantly.
“Oh, well, Mr Prowse...” Ashdown hesitated once more. “It is not an easy path that you have chosen, but I wish you luck on your endeavour nonetheless.”
“Thank you, sir,” Prowse replied humbly. He remembered Ashdown’s reaction to hearing that he and a certain Miss Adele Merritt were going to be married: mostly shock with a touch of deepest sympathy.
“And that brings me to, hum, to the other matter,” Ashdown said, still not looking at him as he straightened his sleeve neurotically. “You see... Mr Prowse... well, I was thinking... merely speculating upon the changes that have taken place since we decided to take up residence here in the far future, and I... well, times have changed and all that, and I find it hard to keep up this... this illusion that I am your better...” Prowse waited patiently for Ashdown to swallow his pride. “I mean... we have been through a lot together, haven’t we, old boy? Perhaps... well. There is no need to call me sir, any more, I think.” Ashdown finally forced himself to look his former aide in the eye. “Please, especially as this is your wedding day... call me Edward.”
Prowse found it very hard to disguise his grin.
“You can call me Isaac if you like.”
“Oh, now...” Ashdown said, flustering quickly. “Perhaps that is a little too far.”
Baby steps, Prowse thought generously. He was sure that Ashdown would become used to the time they had emigrated to someday: it would just take a while.
“Of course,” Prowse replied. “Well, thank you for everything... Edward. I suppose I’ll see you later.”
“Yes, of course. Jolly good.” Ashdown looked mightily relieved. “Jolly good... I shall see you later on in the proceedings, then.”
“Yes.”
“Yes... all right then.” Ashdown turned to heel and began sweeping out of the small waiting room that Prowse had escaped to in order to escape the attention of the well-wishers. Prowse had to smile at Ashdown’s attire: lacking a wig, but the velvet floor-length coat was certainly not normal for the times. He’s dragging himself into the future, century by century, he mused. Suddenly, Ashdown paused and turned around.
“Oh, and, er... Mr Prowse?” He gave an earnest flit of a smile. “Good luck. I strongly suspect you shall need it.”