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Chapter Text

What’s that saying about groundhogs and the ground on which they hog? Matter of fact, what even is a groundhog? I can’t recall ever seeing one in my whole life, but my American chums toss that phrase around like a rugby ball on fire.

Anyway, I had a point about the groundhogs. It was related to Jeeves, so maybe I should simply jump in there. Yes, I shall do that, I much prefer Jeeves to some random yankee animals.

Jeeves is constantly solving the problems of yours truly and my bosom friends, whether it’s tricking a greasy bird or breaking and entering in the pursuit of silverware. There is hardly anything the man can’t do, besides open his mind to a few colourful checks.

It was on the evening of another fine success that I began wondering: is Jeeves adequately thanked? I’ve probably chucked over a right packet to him in our time, but it dawned on me that money was somewhat impersonal. What I really wanted was for Jeeves to feel my hearty appreciation for his being in my life, white mess jackets be damned.

“Jeeves, have you anything in the calendar for tonight?” I asked him as he dusted the ivory keys.

“No, sir. I planned to spend the evening with an enlightening book.”

“Jolly-good, you can come with me then!”

“Sir?”

Now, Jeeves may have the mastery on the psychology of the individual, but I have the psychology of Jeeves. If he found out the young master had spent hours hunting for tickets to something he’d genuinely enjoy, the whole bally scheme would come crashing down on me. I knew he’d never just accept this gift, not without a feudal stick-in-the-mud, so this Wooster employed a little touch of finesse, to take the word of my good man.

“Florence dumped these concert tickets on me, something with Golden Variations or what, and I really don’t fancy going alone, you know.”

The end of his eyebrow twitched ever so slightly.

“Indeed, sir?”

“Indeed, indeed. You really must come with, in case old Florence pops out of the wind section and attempts to engage with more than the Bach, if you follow.”

I watched him carefully, the sculpted face unmoving, but that was enough to tell me he had already made up his mind. If Jeeves didn’t want to go, he would already be out of the room and abandoning me to my fate. He makes a habit of that, you’ll find: mysteriously and silently disappearing. 

“It would be an honour to accompany you, sir.”

Attempting to maintain my oh-so casual demeanour, I let a grin slip out. I felt a bit like a secret agent, except my undercover operation was breaking past the Jeevesian sang froid and seeing the paragon happy. A more worthwhile job than whatever those chappies at MI5 do, in my opinion.

Despite never outright purring, I noted Jeeves’s pleased attitude all the way from picking my suit to plonking in our seats at the theatre. The music was spiffing, obviously. Top-notch, I dare say, but in reality I was only paying half-attention to it. The real spectacle was Jeeves, next to me, relishing in the grand symphonies. 

The near darkness enabled me to stare at him unabashedly, memorising each plane and crinkle that formed his calm bliss. He has delicate lines that surface at the edge of his eyes when the corners of his lips flutter upwards. On his neck, which I really couldn’t help but examine, is a very faint brown freckle, or perhaps a birthmark. Throughout the long hours of the music, I watched it sometimes lift with his pulse. Only sometimes, but not never, not if you keep your eyes close on it. You’d be forgiven for mistaking him for a muse of the great Renaissance artists, what.

By the time I’d really considered what broad shoulders Jeeves had, the concert was winding down and we were on the move.

“Well, old thing, how did you like it?”

I prayed my estimations on his emotions were on target, otherwise I’d have to put myself on a Holmesian training regime, observations and what.

“It was splendid, sir. Thank you for the invitation.”

A lot of effort went into not laughing in delight.

“You know,” I began, trying to stay close to his arm while not whacking right into him as we strolled, “we ought to do this more often. I found myself much more transfixed tonight than usual.”

“Indeed, sir,” he nodded. “It was beautiful.”

“Quite right, my dear Jeeves. Simply beautiful.”

[]

That was that.

Or so I thought, for I believe it was Shakespeare who said that bit about fate sneaking up behind you, tying a blindfold around your map and shoving you off a cliff. Quite rotten, you see.

I am not one to count days, as you can probably tell, but I do know it was exactly eight later when fate’s blindfold came. I noted it in my diary as a perhaps unlucky day, and to avoid any possible fiancées in subsequent years. (You may suspect B. W. Wooster of dramatics. You’d be spot on, what. It ended quite nicely, but I must have some sort of hook here).

“What-ho, Jeeves!” I had just arrived home, handing over my hat and stick to the very fellow I was what-hoing.

“Good afternoon, sir. I trust your lunch went well.”

“Oh, my body has returned unmaimed, so I’d suggest Aunt A was feeling tolerant today. She didn’t even have any prospective matches for me, I suspect her daily dose of baby’s blood expired yesterday.”

Jeeves said nothing, which could have meant he sympathised whole-heartedly, or couldn’t give two figs; the way his hands lingered on my shoulder helping me with my coat, hopefully recommended the former.

“I say, old thing, my aunt – Dahlia, that is, not the hound we were just discussing – mentioned sending us a wire last time we were down at Brinkley, I don’t suppose that came, did it?”

“No, sir,” he replied, calmly as anything.

“Right-ho, never mind then.”

“There was only one visitor while you were out: Miss Craye, sir.”

Dash it all. The blighter gave nothing away – I suspect he revelled in catching me when the shields were down.

“Oh?” I aimed for a relaxed tone and landed somewhere south of sounding like a squeaky door hinge. “Whatever was Florence doing here? How odd. You don’t suppose her and Stilton have unravelled? That would be tragic… very tragic… really, very tragic… what.”

I kept my (no doubt red) face away from Jeeves, but I could sense his smug eyebrows.

“Miss Craye did not leave a message sir, but I do not believe she ended things with Mr Cheesewright.”

“...A cause for celebration, what!”

“She did, however, sir–”

Oh, bloody hell.

“–say something rather intriguing.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. When I thanked Miss Craye for the concert tickets, she professed no knowledge of the matter at all.”

I could stay calm. I could stay collected. We Woosters are made of stern stuff.

“It obviously slipped her mind, don’t you know. Terribly strange how such things occur.”

You do understand my fears, don’t you? Jeeves is perfection incarnate, and that applies to his feudal spirit too. For his fatheaded employer to go beyond the regular rewards of dough and burning ties– well, it doesn’t seem something he’d approve of.

Mentally, I kissed goodbye to all future plans of memorising more than just Jeeves’s countenance and tender neck. Physically, I cowered like a curled up shred of wrapping paper.

But instead of denouncing me as a silly blighter and biffing off to the Viking hills, Jeeves raised his chin, wearing a look of pleasure, or at least not distress.

“The mind is a fickle thing, sir. ‘The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.’”

“Who’s that? Thoreau?”

“Nietzsche, sir.”

There was a line spreading out before us. Crimson, thin as a tightrope, and awfully tempting. Treading lightly to it, it radiated the sensation of a warm bath.

“Perhaps…” I tentatively put forward, “Florence may forget that she has gifted us concert tickets again.”

“We would be obligated, sir, to enjoy the splendid music once more, for Miss Craye’s sake.”

Yes, the line was very tempting indeed, yet Jeeves wasn’t holding up a hand to stop me.

I smiled. “Yes, yes. We really must enjoy it once more.”

Chapter Text

Mr Wooster and I are not attached at the hip, despite the popular belief of his aunt, Mrs Travers, and his friends. Admittedly, we do not have the most common of schedules; previous employment would have me work as closely to the wallpaper as possible, and then vanishing.

Nowadays, it is more often than not that Mr Wooster is in my sight. Even when we are apart, he returns with happy chatter so that I may be in no doubt as to his social circle’s quandaries and trifles. I admit here that I enjoy it immensely, though he is assuredly aware of that.

An example arose recently, of my employer and mine’s closeness. He was playing golf with a group of friends, and I arrived earlier than intended, so the game was not yet complete. 

I found my niece, Mabel, stowed at a garden table with Mrs Rosie Little (the talented author and wife to Mr Wooster’s friend. We exchange letters, often). They basked in the spring sun with straw hats and tea cakes, apparently doing exactly what I was: waiting for the golf to end.

“Uncle Reg!” Mabel called to me.

“Good afternoon Mabel, Mrs Little. How are you?”

“Rosie is letting me pick some names for the side characters in her next book!”

I curled an eyebrow at Mrs Little, deliberately enough so she would roll her eyes and scoff.

She did just that. “It’s difficult naming them all — I ran out of Drones by Mervyn Keene. And don’t give me that eye, there may be a Reginald soon enough.”

Mabel laughed, and tapped the spare chair.

“Sit, Uncle Reg, the golfers will be a while.”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“Jeeves, sit down,” Mrs Little said, finger rigidly pointed at the chair. “I’m getting heat stroke just looking at you.”

I did as I was told. It does not do to disobey the Rosie M. Banks. 

They spread out Mrs Little’s notes between us, weighing them down from the breeze with teacups and one particularly dense scone.

“What about this fellow?” Mabel underlined a scribble. “This just says BigBossMan, all one word.”

“It seemed sufficient at the time.”

“What about Percival?”

Mrs Little shook her head. “Too round-table. He’s much more boring than that.”

“John?”

“The protagonist’s first fiancé that she finds out has a secret wife in the attic, who she obviously rescues, is already a John.”

“Ah, right.”

In such a manner, the debate continued. It was quite an honour to see Mrs Little at work, and the peace of the sunny day lulled me into contentment. 

“What do you suggest, Jeeves?”

Mrs Little and Mabel turned to me, curious eyes.

“…Mr Virgil Russell.”

I admit I thought much too hard on that name, but that is part of my sine qua non of resource and tact.

Humming, Mrs Little wrote it down. “Nice choice, Jeeves.”

“I endeavour to give satisfaction, madam.”

The peace stretched on. I enjoy the company of my niece greatly, even if her husband forgets my name on occasion. The reverse applies to Mrs Little, for I sometimes wish her husband would refrain from pestering Mr Wooster for help like clockwork, and forget our existence for a spell.

After a half hour, we spotted the golfers ambling into view. 

“Do you think they see us?” Mabel asked, squinting into the sunlight at the blurred mass.

“We are a while off,” I said. “It does not surprise me that they cannot make us out.”

Mrs Little snorted. “Richard couldn’t see his own feet if his head fell on the floor. No, they’ll be much too focused on remembering which way the hole is.”

I agreed, the sun melting the distance into a haze. We returned to the notes and gave life to a few additional characters, until a vague shouting forced us to turn around.

There, etched against the blue sky and waving wildly, was Mr Wooster.

“Hello Jeeves! Hello!”

A smile crept across my face.

“It’s me, Jeeves! Hello!”

His voice was almost lost to the wind, but there was no mistaking his excited hands. I could perfectly envision his grin, even from so far.

After a moment, the other men took note of what Mr Wooster was looking at, and Mr Biffen and Mr Little too began waving. The three of us returned the gesture, much to the men’s giddy laughter, which rang out like a bell in the warm air. It wasn’t until Miss Glossop aimed her club at them did they finally return to the game (though Miss Glossop also exchanged a much calmer wave with us).

Resting her chin on her hand, Mabel sighed contently. “That was rather sweet, wasn’t it?”

We nodded, and Mrs Little tried to hide her smile behind a teacup.

“Bertie must be trained to you like a compass, Jeeves.”

Mabel giggled, turning her attention back to the papers, while the words rolled around in my head.

Of course I knew that Mr Wooster and I were close. I appreciate him greatly, and the feeling is mutual, I trust. Yet, I never fully recognised the unrestrained and unfamiliar nature of our relationship, likely because I was already entombed in it, a frog in a boiling pot.

My heart warmed, and I could blame the sun no longer. It ought not to have been so reassuring – I am a valet, after all, but Mr Wooster always appears to have forgotten that long ago. It simply adds to his singularity as a gentleman. Try as I might to blend into the background, he will still spot me from a country mile away.

Chapter Text

Bingo was laughing. I told him my heart-aching story of plight and woe and other such adjectives you find in a thesaurus for ‘gravely, terribly awful’, and he cackled.

“I say, old man! It really isn’t funny!”

“But it is!” he managed, gasping for air and wiping tears from his ducts.

His hysterica passio caught the attention of a few others at the club, and they all closed in like predators on the savannah.

“What’s Bertie done now?” Catsmeat asked.

“Oh, Bertie only ever does one of three things: conspire with Jeeves, argue with Jeeves, or wind up engaged to some poor girl.”

Bingo settled down on the armchair, still grinning at me with the face of a haunted ventriloquist dummy.

“And I am quite content with my life like that, thank you, fathead.”

I, in vain, tried to fight back a sneeze, the pollen, what, and an ache slowly crawled into my arms.

“May I present my case to the jury?” 

Bingo held his hands out. “Be my guest. They’ll find it as hilarious as I do, you know.”

I did know, but one can hold out hope for, perhaps, just maybe, the tiniest drop of the milk of human kindness in one of these stinker’s veins.

“Well, it began a few mornings ago, when I was donning the proverbial cloth armour for the day. Jeeves wanted me to wear this wee yellow daffodil in the buttonhole–”

“For spring,” Bingo added, like the useless side commentator he is.

“Yes, for spring, but I really preferred the carnation. Iron wills clashed, and as it was my buttonhole I put the foot down…”

The Drones gaped at me. Bingo’s giggling started up again. I was He who gets slapped, what.

Catsmeat gasped, “And to think I pinned you as even mildly intelligent at school.”

“This coming from the chap who misspelt ‘umbrella’ on his third year Oxford essay.”

“There are a lot of vowels–!”

“Bertie,” Bingo intercedes, “finish the testimony.”

“All right. Obviously, Jeeves froze like an Arctic chill, and ever since I’ve been met with that blasted stuffed frog, so I said to myself, I said ‘Wooster, this is no day for cracks in the cosy bachelor establishment! A modicum of pride must be sacrificed here and there–”

“Boo! Get a move on!”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what the audience shout at you all the time, Catsmeat.”

“Gentlemen, if you please,” it was like herding cats, dealing with my bosom chums. Absolutely nothing had changed since prep school.

“The thought of Jeeves, my great pearl of wisdom, being bothered by the whole matter disturbed me more than the actual stuffed frog act – he’s got a lot of emotional depth under that suit – so I took it upon myself to gather as many yellow flowers as I physically could and fill the flat with them. You know, actions and words and volume, what. That brings us up to present circs, I dare say.”

The present circs, of course, being my armful of never-ending bouquets, all the smashing vibrancy of a setting sun. Some of the petals had even ended up in my hair, after my hap-hazard trek from the stall to the club, and yet, and yet! I was still met with guffaws.

Ginger, who had snuck down next to Catsmeat mid-explanation, hummed. “I was wondering why you looked like you raided a florist’s.”

“He did,” Bingo and Catsmeat chorused.

I had to nod sheepishly.

“He’s only your valet,” Ginger said. “If he’s mad at you, just tick him right off.”

We all looked at him in sheer horror. To Ginger’s defence, at this time he hadn’t even met Jeeves, and never experienced first-hand all his godlike, tanned, finely chiselled, glory.

“Ginger, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you want Bertie dead,” supplied Catsmeat.

“Oh, please, the last time Bertie argued with one of us he hid the darts board in a fountain– if he’s your employee just hand him the boot!”

“Good lord,” Bingo let out a scoff, “what a ridiculous suggestion. I always suspected you didn’t have a brain, but now things are really falling into place.”

“He’s a valet!”

“He’s Jeeves.”

I had to haul the conversation back onto the rails. “As witty as this debate is, I only popped in to ask for some help carrying all these flowers.”

Bingo, the good chap, steered himself out of the chair and lightened my armful of sunshiney blossoms; I could finally see unobscured now. With a goodbye to the remaining fellows, Bingo and I broke out into the fresh air and headed to Berkeley Mansions.

“This is a sweet gesture, old man,” Bingo said, romantic nature giving a wistful sigh. “I ought to remember it if I argue with Rosie again.”

You know Bingo and his bally lovelight. Behind the daisies, the marigolds, and the tulips, his map was radiating its old-fashioned Soul’s Awakening in pink.

“Ginger hasn’t the faintest what he’s talking about,” he muttered.

I voiced no disagreement.

For future reference, Jeeves rather liked the flowers. His mouth twitched up approximately three centimetres! The stuffed frog was thrown out on its behind and Jeeves looked very dashing with a sprig of gold in his buttonhole. I, for one, wore a daffodil for a month straight to atone. 

Bingo was delighted to hear of the patched relations, as you may expect, because he always lights up about any act of love, no matter which lines they blur.

Chapter Text

The night had fallen by the time we returned to the flat. Though it was not a long journey, the injury to my foot impeded our haste.

An injury which, to my great shame, was the result of my own folly in the contretemp I was supposed to be fixing. 

Mr Wooster was deathly silent as he helped me sit down — not his usual bright self. How could he be? I had failed to bring an end to his engagement with another unsuitable woman, arranged by his aunt, Lady Gregson; not to mention him now afflicted with an injured valet. Of course, without my damaged appendage I would be out the door already. Likely Mr Wooster’s unerring kindness meant he felt obligated to give me rest till the next morning.

As I was contemplating my options, bleak though they appeared, Mr Wooster placed a whiskey and soda in my hand, light on the soda from the smell.

“Frightfully bally, you know, Jeeves,” he muttered, sitting opposite me. This was the first he had spoken since the fruitless incident. I felt it an accurate summation of it all.

“Indeed, sir.” I had to force that much out. Everything else in my throat could only be described as pitiful.

It wounded me, admittedly, to lose a connection so pleasant and cosy as Mr Wooster’s and mine. I had hoped to avoid such a blunder for… to be frank, for as long as I lived. Nothing was more crucial to me than being of use to Mr Wooster.

Yet here I was, wallowing with a potentially broken foot and a certainly damaged sang froid.

I took a breath, preparing my words. Often, I have found that employers can be persuaded into a final, extended pay-cheque if I humbly admit fault and shame. With Mr Wooster, his shining eyes and angelic face, I need not pretend this time.

“I can only apologise profusely, sir – my plans collapsed in a mortifying manner and have resulted in your harm, and I only request a reference based on my past accomplishments–”

“Hold your horses, old thing.”

Glancing up, Mr Wooster’s countenance was not the expected resigned acceptance, but rather, his red lips curled into a despairing frown and his brow crunched together in a look of manifest perturbation. 

“What the devil are you on about?” he cried. “ My harm? It’s your limb!”

“I have failed you, sir.”

“Good lord, you’re leaving me because we couldn’t worm out of one engagement? I’m terribly sorry, Jeeves, but you must believe that we shall have another crack it. Under no circumstances do I want to be caught walking down the aisle, what.”

His agitation rose as he leaned toward me and fiddled with his cuffs. Whatever modicum of finesse I retained evaporated into thin air, my confusion was so overpowering.

“...Sir, may I ask a clarifying question?”

“Of course, my dear man.”

“You are requesting that I stay on?”

“Please!” he exclaimed, sincere through and through. “I mean, yes, please, if you would like, because I would very much like it.”

This was quite the knot. A burn threatened to creep up my neck to my cheeks.

“But sir, I failed–”

“Jeeves,” his tone was even, and his face had morphed away from that characteristic dumb despair to something quite unlike his familiar lightness. “You cannot possibly be suggesting what I, mentally negligible though I am, think you are.”

I did not understand his attitude. Granted, Mr Wooster is the most amiable gentleman I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, let alone working for, but who has need for a useless valet? When a machine becomes obsolete, you throw it away and find a replacement. My purpose has always been the same, in the eyes of the upper-class.

“My past employers–”

“Were fools, no doubt, for me to have you here now,” Mr Wooster finished. “I will not resign from my position of not letting you resign from yours , what.”

A stalemate. He must have noticed my shock in this unmapped territory and took advantage of it, slipping from his chair to kneel at my legs.

“Now, let’s have a look at this foot, old thing. No Dr Glossop am I, but I did examine my fair share of rugby injuries at school, don’t you know.”

I can’t suggest I was capable of words at that moment. He carefully untied my shoe and lifted it off, uttering a soft apology when a wince escaped me, despite my best efforts. Alone, I could have estimated the internal damage to my foot, and carried on accordingly. It was of little consequence, really. Yet Mr Wooster cradled it in his lithe hands with the tenderness of a flower.

“I had hoped you’d think better of me.”

His quiet voice startled me out of a thick reverie, but did not shatter this strange atmosphere between us.

“I know no better man than you, sir. If I may, I could not imagine one to exist.”

My reticent volume, I prayed, matched how true my sentiment was. Though it was he kneeling at my feet, I felt in absolute reverence of him.

When he finally looked up at me, he wore a bashful smile. How charming, and simultaneously distressing, it was that a meagre compliment as that should warm him so. Perhaps one day he may allow me to bathe him in such praise that he should never again be in doubt of his own worth, to me especially.

We sat in peace as he removed my sock and turned my bare foot over in his hands, fingertips grazing as high as my ankle. The skin was inflamed and a darkish bruise slowly blossomed, but the sensation of pain faded to secondary under his touch. 

“I believe it’s just sprained, my pearl. You’ll have to rest for the foreseeable, what,” he declared. He did not move. He did not drop his hold.

“I shall endeavour to work at an improved scheme to detangle you from your fiancée, sir. My injury will heal without prolonged rest.”

“Nonsense! If this Wooster comes to the worst, I can just ask Stiffy to tell the girl I’m a batty kleptomaniac, or what have you.”

As simple as that. I smiled.

“Thank you, sir.”

He returned the smile. “Think nothing of it, silly. Really, recall all the times my plans flop like a tinfoil kite in a lightning storm – your genius status is immovable.”

He lifted my legs onto the chesterfield, allowing me to recline indulgently. My foot was swollen, but cold now he let go. I pictured another quiet evening like this, us reading with the record player humming, ties slightly loosened, my feet tucked under his legs. Perhaps the inflammation was spreading to my brain, for such unrestrained thoughts.

After he pulled a blanket around me and fished an frozen bag from the freezer (per my directions), Mr Wooster threw his coat and hat back on. The concern had drained from his beautiful features, since we both concurred that my injury was only a sprain; he was now softly glowing, like an electric light under a gauze.

“Sit there, drink your whiskey,” he said. “I’m nipping down the street to grab some supper for us – I wouldn’t want to worsen your condition by feeding you my cooking. Or, attempts at it anyway.”

“That is very kind of you, sir.”

He patted my unharmed ankle. “I’ll be back before you can say tinkerty-tonk! Don’t move an inch, Jeeves.”

“I will not.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, sir.”

For the first time in my life, I truly did not mind remaining still. It was not, however, the first time I was reminded just why I fell in love with Mr Wooster.

Chapter Text

“My dear Jeeves, what are you squinting at?”

There are some, in my hectic circus of companions, that believe Jeeves’s finely chiselled map is as unflinching as the stone chappie in Florence. You can sympathise — or is it empathise? I ought to ask Jeeves  —  with their side of things, what. Jeeves possesses many brilliant adjectives but expressive is not one. I myself am guilty of deriding the man’s inability to utter anything more than, “Indeed, sir,” in my time of need. 

However, and that is a rather significant however, long-term study grants one B. Wooster the privilege of deciding when the brow was furrowing and the eyes crinkling. And here, in this train carriage headed to the English countryside, was the Jeevesian squint.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he replied, lowering the book onto his lap.

“What rot!” I exclaimed, watching him from my seat opposite, our knees exchanging static electricity. “You’re glaring at that paper like it’s hiding the secret to Cleopatra’s tomb.”

“I am not, sir.”

“Yes, you are.”

His attitude was petulant and he knew it, for he quite deliberately looked away from me after that. I longed to lean over and hold his face in my hands, smooth the line between his brow with my thumb, but I instead crossed my arms and smiled at him in amusement.

“Just put on your glasses, what.”

It was rather exciting when Jeeves got glasses. You see, nothing much happens in our lives that isn’t an engagement, a crime, or someone else’s problem, so it’s always jolly good fun when the little changes occur. He just popped them on one evening, when we were reading in the living room, likely hoping I wouldn't make a fuss, so of course I made a fuss. 

They were small, oval shaped things. Brown, and delicate. He perches them on the end of his nose, and I wisely avoid comparing him to a librarian each time he casts a glare at me over them. 

Jeeves did not pick his book back up, nor pull his glasses from his pocket. 

We sat in this quiet for a moment. He knew that I knew, and he also knew that I was apt to start laughing at any second.

“Jeeves, old thing?”

“…Yes, sir?”

“You didn’t… forget your eyewear, did you?”

The train shook along the tracks. Jeeves kept looking out the window. I had to hide a smile behind my hand. 

“Oh, the huge brain of Jeeves!”

“Really, sir.”

“The paragon of the greater London area!”

“Your wit astounds me—”

“Felled in one foul swoop by his disloyal vision! How are the mighty fallen!”

“…Very funny, sir,” he said, finally. There was no hurt behind it, even if he didn’t find it as doubling-over hilarious as I did.

Well, it is not often such a fruitful opportunity presents itself, you see: Jeeves hardly ever lets anything slip his mind, let alone spectacles.

I patted his knee and sighed, letting the joy settle over me. “You are not as young as you used to be, Jeeves. But, neither am I. I think I quite like that, you know.”

No doubt my treacherous eyes would need glasses in a few years too. I didn’t mind that much, so long as Jeeves would be there to crack his bitter remarks about my age. Everything is so much sweeter when it is within our cosy bachelor establishment. 

“Here, hand it over, what.”

Jeeves returned his gaze to me, though the knitted brow was still in full force. “Hand what over, sir?”

“The book, my dear man.”

He gently passed it to me, like it were an ancient scroll touched by Beowulf himself, and I examined its stiff and boring cover.

“Who’s Edith Wharton?” I asked.

“The author, sir,” Jeeves replied, letting me flick through the pages and find his bookmark. “The book was a gift from my sister, as it won an award many years ago.”

A sudden thought seized me, “I don’t suppose she’s chums with Florence Craye, this Edith Wharton beazel?”

The corners of his mouth twitched up. “I find it unlikely, sir. Miss Craye’s Spindrift makes waves in a slightly different circle to Wharton’s work.”

I hummed. “That’s oojah-cum-spiff, then. It would do me no good to start reading a brick of a book by a bird who’s akin to Florence, even for you, old thing.”

“…For me, sir?”

Twirling the bookmark between my fingers, I blinked. “I’m going to read it to you, of course.”

Despite our long acquaintance and the very simplicity of this notion, Jeeves’s feudal spirit flared, along with that line between his brows.

“There is really no need, sir.”

“Come off it, old thing, you’ve forgotten your glasses! Besides, it’ll be more entertaining for the both of us than staring out the window for an hour, what.”

Jeeves considered this. “If you insist, sir.”

And I did. So, I cracked the spine and began reciting the book. The plot was a little tricky to follow since I was diving in halfway through, but I gathered it was about some fellow who’s in love with some bird that isn’t his fiancée; rather mundane when you consider half the tripe Jeeves and I live through. 

I watched him through my eyelashes as I read. No doubt he had come up with a thousand solutions to the Johnnie’s predica-whatsit already. His features softened, and the lines all faded into contentment, like a cat sleeping under a yellow sun beam. 

I didn’t think the Wooster voice could be soothing, but maybe Jeeves is simply used to my constant stream of narration. A part of me hoped he might leave his glasses behind more often, because I could have read to him all day. 

Chapter Text

My patience for Mr Wooster’s more frivolous amusements has grown with my adoration of him. I find that our disagreements no longer spiral into harmful clashes, and I instead overlook a great number of things that I previously would have objected to, simply because he is smiling.

However, I was not completely softened yet, Mr Wooster’s newest obsession proving so. He has, presumably from the proprietor of hexed objects, procured a record, a single song, and has played it for a week straight, practically without cessation. It should be worn down now, granting me the belief the item is personally out to drive me to the edge of my senses. 

I consider myself rational and perfectly qualified at veiling my thoughts behind the necessary mask, but the music invaded every inch of the house and I could not avoid it. My pride in performing as the ideal gentleman’s gentleman (and indeed, Mr Wooster’s friend) could not be considered true if I very nearly strangled him every time he touched the record. 

One must handle these unusual situations with resource and tact.

“Sir, may I request an alternative record?”

I would not make the blunder of voicing any immediate disapproval.

Mr Wooster’s eyes widened, but he smiled. “Of course, old thing! What do you fancy? A bit of Stravinsky?”

“That would be much appreciated, sir.”

“Right-ho! I’ll bung it on after this quick spin.”

The dreaded song began, like a shrill through the air. Long has it been established that Mr Wooster and I, charming though he is, do not share a music favour, but this was no mere music hall piece. This was what, I can only imagine, Dante heard on his excursion into the flames.

“Sir, if I may speak freely for a moment?”

“What? I mean, yes, what. Do as you please, Jeeves.”

I knew by then, in our years together, that Mr Wooster no longer cared about my speaking of the mind. Ordinarily, I would be the first to object to such models of impropriety, but it is rare for any closeness to Mr Wooster to be considered ordinary. Prefacing my statement with professionalism was rather for myself, as the clenching of my jaw was the final symptom to my weakening sang froid and I had to hold on to the metaphorical hinges as long as I could.

“If you would please take that record off the player, I should be most grateful. Otherwise, I shall be forced to let the record make close acquaintance with the footpath out the window.”

Mr Wooster’s mouth fell agape.

“...Sir.”

Based on previous experiences, I predicted Mr Wooster would complain and hide any true upset with an exaggerated moodiness, but with a striking loveliness, would respect my opinion and abstain for a while. 

Instead, after a moment of silence, he laughed.

“Great Scott! You should have said something, old thing, if you despised it so much! Look at you– how blind was I to not catch on beforehand?”

“...Thank you, sir.”

“I apologise dearly, Jeeves, the tune’s so catchy! Please forgive me, what.”

The matter appeared resolved. Mr Wooster said no more and tucked the record into the back of his collection, displaying nothing to indicate a change from his usual bright self.

I had thought the matter forgotten, until the next day when, while engrossed in a mystery novel, Mr Wooster began to hum the song. With his genuine heart, he would never do something so mean-spirited as to purposefully agitate me, and indeed when I looked at him, he never even glanced in my direction.

I coughed.

“Hm, Jeeves?”

Before I could voice my concern, Mr Wooster dropped his head.

“Oh, terribly sorry! I didn’t mean– only you see I didn’t realise– it’s trapped in the noodle, my pearl, simply smack me across the bake if I start again.”

An acute adoration impressed me each time this occurred. Though he hummed without awareness, his overwhelming apologetic tone afterwards almost made the vexation of the song absent.

But, to quote William Blake, ‘Without contraries is no progression.’

I embarked upon an experiment to find new methods of distraction when he hummed, trusting that time will bring him to forgetfulness. First, I tried tea. This solved the immediate issue, as he always smiled delightfully at the spontaneous cup delivery, but could not be employed too often. A limit remained on how much tea even a gentleman as Mr Wooster could drink.

Therefore, I moved on to the mind.

The song would start up. I turned to Mr Wooster, “Sir, was there an issue you wished to elucidate involving Mr Little?”

“What? Did I mention an issue?”

“A few days ago, sir.”

“Hm. Well, knowing Bingo I wouldn’t doubt it. Just yesterday he–”

And thus, his psychology was primed to an alternative tangent. I admittedly appreciated this method too, for his conversation is always endearing. But, like previously, this failed as well. Mr Wooster’s peers are notoriously helpless; the issue I arrived at was running out of Drones to prompt him with.

My next endeavour verged on the extreme. I baked a collection of sweet goods and offered them whenever his humming sprawled through the air to me. Mr Wooster was immensely grateful, and we shared an ill-advised amount of biscuits together; the experience of his inebriating compliments to my baking was one I shall savour for a long time. 

Still, it was unsustainable. I could not spend all my time in the kitchen, and I had the unfortunate suspicion I was training his unconscious mind like Pavlov’s dog. 

The repulsive song fought on, to my misery. By the fourth day I believe I was firmly out of my mind, which may be an excuse for the final act of my experiment.

Mr Wooster sat on the chesterfield languidly smoking. My eyes were fixed upon his lissome hands: one sprawled on the back of the sofa and the other arching the cigarette to his lips. Ostensibly I was dusting; multitasking is a skill I have honed to sublimity since being in such close quarters to Mr Wooster.

He hummed the opening notes. The evening was far too late for plotting any grand solutions. The curtains were drawn, and the lamp light hazed through his cigarette smoke, giving him an ethereal glow. Nothing else could be done.

I moved to the back of the chesterfield and leaned down to him. He turned, face illuminated in curiosity at my peculiar position; nevertheless, the humming persisted.

So I cupped my hands around his half-turned jaw, and pressed a kiss into his mouth.

It cannot be stressed enough how inadvisable this is as a method of confessing your undying love to your intended. I confess only to a rush of insanity, impatience, and long-suffering infatuation. 

As to silencing someone however, it works with considerable convenience. Especially if one’s intended responds with such encouraging enthusiasm.

The guilty song melted into a melody of rhapsodic noises and gasps, and he grabbed at my collar to drag me so close that I almost fell over the chesterfield entirely.

His fine hands had nearly pulled my tie loose when we parted, breathless and blushing each.

“Well, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir. It seemed the optimal thing to do.”

“Two birds, one stone, what?”

“Exactly.”

With his hands still encased in mine, I rounded the sofa and sat down, though he crawled atop me with immediacy so we were more reclined.

He set about tracing with his finger the lines of my jaw, down my neck. “And here I was thinking I’d be tight-rope walking for an eternity.” His delicate touch paused on my pulse. “I do really love that freckle.”

“Pardon?”

He lowered his mouth to the tender spot and I was elevated into divine incoherence for a considerable time.

“Sir?” I tried, still out of my mind, but for far more pleasing reasons now.

“Off with the sirs, my love, expunge them from your mind,” wrapping his arms around my neck, he raised his face to mine, beaming lavishly. “I dare say we have crossed that boundary by now.”

“I am inclined to agree, on the condition that you cease singing that piece again.”

I was testing a theory, running a hand through his golden hair while his lips fluttered against my cheek.

He paused, tilting his head. “What song?”

More than obliged, I kissed the furrow from his brow. “Never mind, my dear.”