Pleasure Never is At Home
Fancy Pants wandered into the kitchen and made himself an afternoon bite. It was nothing more remarkable than a straightforward daffodil and chive sandwich, but it would serve. He chuckled softly as he imagined the horror with which Peach Cobbler would have beheld the sight of her employer preparing his own food. Still, he was hungry right now, he had plenty to get done and waiting for his cook to return from her break didn’t seem like a terribly inviting proposition. Protocol might very well have required that he wait; his stomach had its own demands, and it would brook no delay.
A few minutes later, munching on the last mouthful of his snack and wiping a forehoof idly on his dark grey jacket, Fancy Pants re-emerged. He moved with a little more purpose now as he headed for the Blue Drawing Room. He stopped for a moment by one of the discreetly expensive antique mirrors that Fleur had installed here and there around the mansion and brushed a few stray crumbs out of his moustache. He was careful to catch them all, depositing them in a nearby bin before they could soil the spotless navy blue carpet that caressed his immaculately groomed hooves.
He frowned slightly as he looked up and noticed that the new portrait he had commissioned of his wife was still not hanging exactly straight. He fixed that problem quickly with a brief burst from his horn, but then lingered in place, gazing lovingly at the painting. Fleur was shown as she usually appeared in public: devoid of clothing but with her wonderfully rich, subtly pink-striped mane and tail angled so as to impress on the viewer the otherwise pure white mare’s sophisticated beauty and languid grace. The artist had done a remarkable job, felt Fancy Pants, with Fleur’s cutie mark appearing almost to glow even in this subdued light.
Oh, I say, he thought. You really are the most elegant and bedazzling mare a stallion could ever hope to have by his side. I only wish—
He shook his head and blinked a few times before tearing himself away. It really would never do to let down his guests – such as they were – and as such a regular host of these little “At Home” gatherings, he took it upon himself to ensure that everything was absolutely “just so” before anypony else arrived. It always was: he prided himself on that. Still, this was a job that he could not do alone, and the recent news from the Castle made that need for assistance all the more important.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said his butler, Silver Cloud, bowing low and dipping his wings respectfully as his master trotted into the drawing room. “I took the liberty of setting out the furnishings earlier. I must say, you’re looking awfully dapper today. You are looking forward to this evening, I trust?”
Fancy Pants grimaced and dropped heavily to his haunches on one of the maroon velvet cushions that were laid out around the low, highly-polished mahogany table that dominated the room. “Now look here, Cloud, you really don’t have to do that every time I come into your presence. In fact, I’d rather prefer it if you didn’t. It does make a stallion feel dashed uncomfortable to see a good pony bowing and scraping like that in his own home.”
The butler gave a short laugh, his steel-coloured feathers twitching a little despite the still air. “I wouldn’t presume to call it my home, sir. It’s just where—”
“I would,” interrupted Fancy Pants firmly. “Now let’s have no more nonsense about that; would you join me, please? We should be making a start on getting a spot of entertainment worked out for after dinner.” Seeing his butler's uncertain expression, he went on. “Games, Cloud. Games!” He patted the cushion beside him amiably.
The butler closed his wings and raised a greying eyebrow. “Games, sir?”
Fancy Pants snorted. “Oh, do stop doing that, Cloud. You’ve been in my service more than long enough now to know how I like these things to go. Perfectly ghastly affairs, of course, but regrettably one does have one’s responsibilities if one wishes to keep one’s position intact in the, aha, social whirl. At least a few games and whatnot may add a little piquancy to the proceedings, which quite frankly is something they could sorely do with. Now do be a good fellow and sit down here with me, won’t you?”
Silver Cloud perched awkwardly on the cushion Fancy Pants had patted, fidgeting with his black, short-cropped mane and seeming entirely ill at ease. Nevertheless, he waited politely for his master to speak.
“Capital,” said Fancy Pants, rubbing his forehooves together. “Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. Unfortunately my wife will not be joining us tonight, as she has been unavoidably detained at the Castle. She’s taken a bit of a tumble and badly bruised a hock, I understand; a Royal Guard came to the door with the message a little while ago, and I told him to pass my compliments to Celestia and let Fleur know I’d had the news. She’s going to be perfectly all right, and she gave strict instructions to the Guard that I not go and fuss about up there, but... oh, what is it this time, Cloud?”
Silver somewhat hesitantly answered, “Well... far be it from a humble servant to criticise you, sir, but you really ought to have allowed me to have answered the front door for you; it’s not at all seemly for the master of a house to lower himself to such an extent.”
Fancy Pants removed his monocle, breathed on it, wiped it on his sleeve and replaced it carefully in position before replying. “Then I dare say I shall just have to come to terms with being the most unseemly stallion in Canterlot society.”
“Oh, perish the thought!” cried the butler just a little too loudly, his eyes wide with horror. “Who could ever say such things about the finest gentlestallion in all Equestria?”
Fancy Pants said smoothly, “Jet Set and Upper Crust could, and they very often do, or so Celestia tells me. They’ve never been quite the same since that little affair with Miss Rarity and the other charming fillies who came up to town from Ponyville the year before last. And then when I took on a pegasus pony as my butler, I thought they’d burst with indignation.” A tinge of amusement crept into his voice as he added, “I really am the absolute end, aren’t I? I don’t know how I can bear to show my face around Canterlot these days.”
There was silence in the room for a while; the grandfather clock in the far corner ticked inexorably onwards and the patterns of light and shade on the smoothly-painted light blue walls inched their way through their daily routine. Fancy Pants sat calmly, his pale azure eyes half-closed, breathing deeply and steadily. Silver Cloud picked at his hooves and twitched his ears rapidly, his own eyes darting unevenly around the room. From somewhere came the faint buzz of a fly trying to find its way into the rear gardens through the closed French windows. At length, the unicorn spoke again.
“Oh, this will never do.” Fancy Pants cracked his hoof-joints and sighed. “Amusing as it would doubtless be to see Jet Set’s expression when confronted with an entirely empty drawing room, I suppose we can’t really go telling our guests that they will have to sort out their own entertainment tonight. Some of the younger chaps might have... their own ideas, and I’m not really sure I’m quite the stallion for foalish games of charades, what!”
“You could play Pin the Tailcoat on the Pony, sir,” suggested Silver. This intervention brought a slight yet distinct hardening of his superior's expression.
“That will do, Cloud,” said Fancy Pants, a little sharply.
The butler reddened slightly and bowed his head. “My apologies, sir. Please, do continue.”
“Hmm,” mused Fancy Pants, his expression mild once more. “Belle Epoque and Beau Monde will be visiting us tonight. We must do our utmost to be welcoming to our guests from Prance, and I’m led to believe that they cannot abide gambling, so cards won’t do this time. Pity. I wonder, what else... ah! Cloud, would you fetch me down a few of the backgammon sets, please? Not the best one.”
Silver looked at his employer. “I believe they are stored on the highest shelf in the far corner of this room, sir.”
Fancy Pants nodded at him. “Indeed.”
Silver gave the unicorn an awkward look. “For a servant to fly in the drawing room before dinner is generally considered very poor form in the best circles, sir. All the more so when the said servant is in the presence of his betters. It would be – if I may make so bold – more appropriate to your exalted station if you were to make use of your most elegant telekinesis for such purposes.”
Fancy Pants groaned and threw both forelegs in the air irritably, almost sending a heavy candlestick flying with one flailing hoof. “You can stop that ridiculous verbal cringing too, please. I’d really rather not be toadied to like some appalling empty-headed princeling who wouldn’t know a good day's work if it rose up and bit him. As for the question of flying etiquette, I think we’ve been over that quite enough times already, thank you. Who’s to see? Only me, and I shan’t tell. Just humour an old stallion and get the damned things down for me, Cloud.”
Reluctantly, the pegasus opened his wings and took to the air, gliding smoothly to the relevant storage area and picking out three heavy wooden boxes. He gave them a discreet dust with his feathers and stifled a cough before returning to land next to Fancy Pants. He set the boxes in a neat row on the table in front of the other pony.
“Good show,” said Fancy Pants. He gave each of the boxes a cursory inspection, opening each in turn and peering briefly inside, before laying them back in their former positions. “These fellows do seem to have been in the wars somewhat, but I always say that backgammon is just as much a war game as chess. Besides,” he added with a small smile, “it will give Jet Set something else to complain about, and I do awfully want to keep my guests happy.” He looked at his fetlock-watch. “Ah, jolly good. I imagine Peachy will be back by now.” He looked expectantly at the servant.
Silver Cloud gave a brief nod. “I shall send to Mrs Cobbler for tea and biscuits at once, sir.” He walked over to a small control panel by the door and pressed a switch. The surround lit up and a tiny bell rang; Silver turned back to Fancy Pants. “Will you be taking your tea on the terrace today, sir?”
“Hmm?” Fancy Pants looked up, holding a moistened white handkerchief, which bore his monogrammed initials in one corner but which had clearly seen better days. “Oh dear me, no. Rather a stiff breeze today, and I’d prefer not to have the newspaper end up all over the croquet lawn. Luna’s dropping in for lunch next week, you know, and I’d like to have the chance of beating her for once.” He spat on the handkerchief, earning a look of not-quite-concealed distaste from his butler. Fancy Pants didn’t notice, and began to rub vigorously at the pocket of his jacket. “Out, damned spot,” he muttered. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Another silence descended, broken only by the arrival of the tea, which the two ponies drank without a word. The light was beginning to go as the day faded into evening, and there was a slight tinge of pink from the occasional scudding cloud in the quiet sky. Once, a pegasus flew lazily past, lying on her back and riding the last of the afternoon thermals. The day was winding down, and Fancy Pants’ preparations were doing likewise. Even the fly no longer buzzed angrily at the windowpanes, but instead walked quietly up and down one of the sills, occasionally turning in sudden circles as though its long-sought exit to freedom had been cunningly concealed behind its own abdomen.
Fancy Pants, finally satisfied with his jacket, stretched and yawned. “Dear me,” he said, “it is getting late. I should really be dressing for dinner, but I fear I shan’t have the time now. Ah well, I suppose I’ll just have to make the best of it.” He stood up and kicked vaguely at the floor, then produced a small comb from another pocket and used his magic to run it a couple of times through his mane. Walking to a mirror, he squinted at his reflection and adjusted his moustache slightly, before he turned back to Silver Cloud and smiled. “There! That should—”
Another, much louder, bell rang. Silver Cloud gave a small cough, raised his head, fanned his wings and began to strut in a stately fashion towards the hall. Fancy Pants raised an eyebrow.
“Goodness. Already? I wonder if that’s the Prenchies; I understand that they like to arrive as early as possible at their own soirées. Cloud!”
The butler stopped and turned to face his master. “Yes, sir?”
“You can stay here. I’ll answer this myself.”
Silver’s wings drooped noticeably and his ears flattened against his head. “But sir, it’s not...” He trailed off and looked helpless, caught between two equally unpalatable faux pas.
Seeing this evident discomfort, Fancy Pants relented. “Oh, if you must, Cloud. If you must. I concede that it may just be one of the neighbours, or some colt come to ask if he can get his blasted ball back again.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Silver Cloud. He took a moment to recover his bearing, then made his way towards the front door. Fancy Pants wandered over to the door of the drawing room, from where he could just see the mansion’s main entrance. He watched as his butler processed almost regally along the carpet and opened the door – but Silver had barely begun to greet whoever had called than Fancy Pants’ mouth fell open as he caught a flash of a mare’s mane. A striped mare’s mane.
The most elegant stallion in Canterlot almost tripped over his own hooves as he broke into a ragged canter. “Fleur!” he yelled wildly. “Fleur, my love! I had no idea!” His monocle fell from his eye and bounced against his chest as he ran through the hall, but Fancy Pants paid it no heed. He put his head down and barged the startled Silver out of the way, reaching the pure white mare on his doorstep and throwing his forelegs around her in a delighted hug. “Oh, Fleur!” He had to wait only moments for the mare to reply.
“Ah... bonsoir, mon cher Fancy Pants,” came a muffled voice. “May I ‘ave ze honour of introducing my ‘usband, Beau Monde?”
Author's Note
Yes, I know Fimfiction spells his name "Fancypants". I don't. 
“Ever let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home”
--John Keats, Fancy
