July 6th, 1891 — Cresswell Residence, Sanditon Terrace

"Sorry to barge in! Just wanted to ensure all was we—"

A ghost freezing in place looks rather different than a living person doing so. This is because all that lies behind them—household staff, ticking clocks, feral dogs, et. al.—remains visible through their translucent form, not dissimilarly to a sheer curtain. With his head and shoulders through the closed door to his friend's study, however, and the rest of him on the other side, Herbert looked particularly comical, his mouth and eyes wide in surprise.

He would have blushed, had he still had blood.

Merit and Fortuna Cresswell had arrived at the Fudges' home for an early dinner before the performance of Chinese acrobats at the resort that evening. Their father, they had said, was unwell, and so, much though he wished to see the performance, Herbert had felt it his duty to check on his friend at home, and perhaps fetch one of the Doctors Pomfrey if so needed.

He had never expected to find his dearest friend since childhood being tended to by another fellow, both in various states of undress.

A second, or perhaps a lifetime (he could not tell) passed before Herbert quite awkwardly phased back through the closed door (Doors closed for a reason, he reminded himself vaguely), his non-existent heartbeat loud in his ears.

— Cassius Lestrange/Prosper Cresswell —

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   Friendless Night

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— who doesn't want a ghost dad? —

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It was hard to arrange any dalliances around the presence of his children; he'd taken the opportunity tonight to feign illness, and their absence for the next several hours to invite over one of his occasional lovers. Prosper's office wasn't the most romantic place for romance, but it offered an extra layer of security that most of the rest of the house did not — just in case Merritt or Fortuna came home early.

Of course, his locked office only offered an extra layer of security for the living.

Prosper froze at the sound of Herbert's voice, but — regardless he was more or less caught red-handed, and he could only watch as Herbert vanished back through the wall, and then finally he removed his hands from the other man. Go, Prosper mostly mouthed, and he waited until his partner apparated out of the office with a crack! to frantically put himself back together. (Fly zipped, buttons redone, he did not bother to put his jacket back on because shit.)

His heart was pounding in his ears. Prosper opened the office door. "Herbert," he said, hesitant.

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   Herbert Fudge

Herbert Fudge was not a man to shy away from adventure. He had sailed about the globe, visited jungles and deserts, and understood better than he cared to admit how a fellow might be drawn away from the marriage bed and into the arms of someone more...novel. He knew, too, that there were men who, indeed, preferred the touch of other men, though such a notion never taken root within his own soul. Still, bringing all this information together and then applying it to Prosper was proving challenging, to say the least.

But he didn't flee into the night (which, given he didn't need to use actual doors, would have been wonderfully easy), so at least there was that. Of course, after a moment, Herbert wondered if he should, if Prosper would rather avoid any sort of discussion, or would remain busy...

When Prosper did appear, he did so disheveled, though decidedly more put-together than he had been in the study.

"You're feeling...well, then?" Herbert asked, the reason for his visit seeming a safer topic to land upon.

— Cassius Lestrange/Prosper Cresswell —

  

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The question was so innocuous that Prosper was momentarily thrown off; he blinked before he was able to answer. "Oh," he said, on remembering his excuse from earlier, "Erm, yes." It seemed obvious enough to him that his illness had been made up in the first place — but he did not necessarily want to announce it when he was still recovering from the shock of having been caught.

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A beat, and then, "I cannot knock," Herbert offered awkwardly by way of explanation. "Lack of corporeal form rather...rather puts the kibosh on, on social norms."

— Cassius Lestrange/Prosper Cresswell —

  

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Prosper usually was not caught unless he was trying to be caught; the last time this had happened, his wife had found his letters, and that fallout had been so firmly in the department of passive aggression that Prosper did not know what to do with this. He ran a hand over his hair. "Right," he said, "Well, ah — no harm." Other than that Prosper wanted to sink into the floor to avoid this, of course.

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No harm. Good. That was good. Prosper Cresswell was Herbert's oldest and dearest friend, and while this was a shock to say the absolute least possible, he would hate for this to colour the live man's opinion of him.

It was a long, awkward moment before Herbert realized that this position could go both ways.

"A little awkwardness among friends," he offered with an uncomfortable chuckle. Then, more earnestly, "But no harm done at all."

He could not quite meet his friend's eyes as he said it, but the words were meant with the utmost sincerity.

— Cassius Lestrange/Prosper Cresswell —

  

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Prosper exhaled, and there was more relief in it than he would have liked to admit. Herbert was his longest friend — and also his employer — and their friendship was important to him. (Certainly more important than the tumble he had been trying to have in his office, no offense to the fellow involved.) "I think I need a drink," Prosper said, "I would offer you one, but — we can go downstairs and pretend you have one."

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"The inability to enjoy a good brandy," Herbert replied with mock solemnity, "is one of the greatest disappointments of my afterlife. I can, however, win a 'footrace' with ease."

With that, Herbert slid downwards through the floorboards.

— Cassius Lestrange/Prosper Cresswell —

  

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