Guava #5 and Fudge Ripple #3
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Jetlag
Rating: PG/PG-13, cursing
Challenge: Guava #5: you wouldn’t understand, Fudge Ripple #3: exhaustion
Toppings/Extras: none
Wordcount: 516
Summary: Ashdown suffers from the time-traveller’s ultimate disease.
Notes: Just hours after Ashdown’s arrival in the future. Oh, and an introduction to Horatio Newson...
“Well? Isn’t he up yet?” Horatio Newson demanded from one side of his glossy, minimalistic desk. Impatient as ever, his fingers were tapping every inch of the surface and his feet could be heard pedalling the floor. “We were meant to be meeting nice and early so he could get started on those pirates. What’s wrong with him?”
“We think it’s jetlag, sir,” Adele said tonelessly, avoiding his gaze. She knew what was coming better than most. Horatio exhaled briefly and leaned back heavily in his chair.
“Jetlag! Jesus Christ, what do I pay you stupid fuckers for?” He ran his hands through his thick, implanted hair. “Jetlag? Jet-fucking-lag? Jets weren’t even invented in his time, what the fuck is he doing getting jetlag?”
“It’s the same principle sir,” Adele continued bravely. “He was picked up at night, dropped off in the daytime... he’s never experienced it before, so he hasn’t taken it awfully well.”
“Stupid bastard,” Horatio sighed, and then sat up straight. “Well? Go see to him then.”
Adele did so, wondering tiredly if this was going to be the composition the rest of her life: being battered endlessly between two men of equal irritation to her-the impatient, childish, short-fused Horatio Newson and the snobbish, prejudiced, picky Lord Edward Ashdown. She arrived in front of the door to his bedroom room along with Mr Prowse.
“What are you doing here?” she asked with a heavy sigh. The day got better and better.
“I got rid of the guards,” Prowse said, deadpan. “Where’s Ashdown?”
“In his room,” Adele said between gritted teeth. “Get back to yours, will you? He’s fine.”
“I’m his bodyguard,” Prowse growled. “That’s not going to happen.”
Before she could say any more, the door into Ashdown’s room slid open. Adam Kirby was stood there, politely waiting to be allowed to pass through. Kirby was the facility’s chief scientist, and one of the few given the knowledge of where Ashdown and Prowse had come from. He was acting also as Ashdown’s doctor, not that he needed much doctoring. As always, Adele was stunned by Kirby’s hair: it was so light a blonde his head looked transparent.
“I think he should spend the day in bed; other than that, he’s right as rain” Kirby said cheerily, and then stood aside. Another thing that disturbed Adele about the scientist: why did he have to smile all the time? Did he have something wrong with him?
“Sir?” Prowse called into the room.
Ashdown was propped up in his bed by dozens of pillows, and judging by the amount of teacups dotting every available surface, had been treating himself to plenty of milky tea. He rolled his head weakly towards his aide.
“Don’t come too close,” he croaked. “I have what they are calling the jetlag.”
“What have you done to him?” Prowse snapped, turning his charcoal-black eyes on Adele, glaring angrily.
“Nothing,” she snapped. “It’s just the time-travel messing with his sleeping patterns.” She glanced towards Ashdown with a sneer. “As far as I know, jetlag does not carry a very high mortality rate.”