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alivehawk1701Title: None the Wooster
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Jeeves and Bertie Wooster
Warnings: M
Summary: Jeeve's POV. Bertie's aunt has set up a match with a mystery woman and Jeeves and Bertie, after sharing a few intimate moments, must travel to meet this woman, and meet perhaps, something they were not prepared for . . .
Suffice to say matters did not recommence between Mr. Wooster and myself as soon as his ardent, though still thoroughly distressed relative, left. I packed his things for the upcoming journey and apart from reiterating his desired "quiet night" we spoke not another word about what had happened between us and left the following morning with the tawny light of dawn at our backs.
Her estate was built in a way that was meant to give the illusion of naturalism, nestled, or forcibly interjected more like, within the confines of what had been a charmingly secluded meadow. Now a scattering of peacefully blowing trees on its outer edges halfheartedly giving the excuse that it’s nothing more than a summer cottage. It was not a convincing ruse, to anyone I should think, elaborate sculpted stone was not stacked and placed here as part of some ecological process. No, indeed, the gaudy structure blocked out the sun and cast a very large imposing shadow, cheating the charming meadow of its rightful rays of light and leaving only dirt and gravel in it’s all encompassing shadow that with the rotation of the planet swept over the entire grounds.
As we drove up to the front door the sun was actually on us, and though it wasn’t the hottest of days the gravel had heated under the sun’s rays and seemed to add to the trepidation with its rising heat. The car came to a stop, the motor was cut, and our two weary eyes were cast upward to the tip-most top of the building. The quality of silence, in stark contrast to the bustling streets and high population of London was fine indeed but it wasn’t without a degree of caution that I opened the door of the car and stepped out, disturbing this silence with the scrape of my shoes on the gravel and the shutting of the door behind me, immediately casting my long shadow over the ground.
"Jeeves," Mr. Wooster said, removing himself from the car as well, "I’m forced to assume a dismal mentality about all of this—I’m afraid the whole thing leaves a chap feeling utterly helpless against this thing called chance."
"Chance, sir?"
"Chance that I wouldn’t be halfway around the world or in hospital or kidnapped by bandits when the time came for Aunt Agatha’s patience to finally run out."
"It was never my impression, sir, that patience was one of her key attributes."
"It bally well isn’t, Jeeves—I was just hoping beyond hope that she’d never reach the end of that blasted rope," he heaved a sigh then glanced over at me, blue eyes squinting against the bright morning sun, "I don’t suppose you’ve thought of any way out of this, have you?"
"I’m afraid not, sir," I answered, eyes lowering, my fingers curling on the inside of my sleeves.
"And . . . and this other thing—" he said carefully, "Would be nice to have a moh--together," When I didn’t reply right away, opening my mouth but not immediately finding a response he continued, almost hesitantly, "You led with the duty-first suit, Jeeves, I’ll keep up with that," he thumbed the pockets of his waistcoat, rocking back on his heels slightly, looking away over the grounds, "Maybe it’s too much to ask, suddenly everything seems caught up in some great undertow. I’m trying to be smart about this, trying to use the ol’bean.”
“We do seem at the mercy of external forces, sir.”
“What a place to be,” he grumbled, looking to the giant structure then back to me, “Would you call me Bertie, or at least Bertram,” he smiled though it appeared to take great effort, “At least when we are alone, Jeeves?” he took a half step closer so the light wind blew his scent to my nostrils, “Seems only fitting after I left that bite mark on your neck and you had a right feel around my forward business.”
He seemed amused when a blush spread across by checks, “I was going to mention that,” I said, the corner of my mouth turning up to the slightest of smiles, “Though it will be an adjustment,”
“One of many we may have to make, in future,” he said with a deep inhale. I didn’t know if he meant with the prospect of his marriage or in what was happening between us. He reached and took my hand which was at my side for the briefest of moments, squeezing tightly, perhaps reassuring himself as much as me, “It’s the smart thing to do, the only thing to do, for now, old chap. And maybe the only smart way to do this is . . ." his eyes flickered over to mine as his hand dropped way, "Is . . . to meet the girl."
His words, like they were accompanied by a cloudy day that promised only rain and gloominess, were a painful reminder of what a stolen moment the night before had been, a sadness only amplified by how hard he was trying not to show it. He wanted to be the smart one now. Out of all the myriad of times I so ardently fought to intellectually rise over everyone else because I had to, because he had asked me to—they were suddenly caught topspin, roles reversed—I would have done anything to be able to not use my brains just this once, to act with my heart instead.
Without further delay we walked together to the door.
>>>>>
The girl, and her name turned out to be Aurelia Moniz, was first glimpsed from within the parlor room holding a cup of tea across from Mr. Wooster’s aunt and a large painting of a Victorian gentleman. When our presence was announced the relative and the painting remained sitting, Aunt Agatha’s expression as tight as a Swiss watch at half past six in the morning, while the girl stood in preparation for introductions.
My first impression, standing behind and somewhat to the right of my master, though if chivalry were more in practice I would have aimed to be in more of a frontal position so as to protect him, was that the smile spreading across her pleasant face, appearing both natural and practiced to perfection at the same time, was both a wonderful and terrible thing. She stood across from her painted gentleman and rather than appearing as if she’d just stepped out of the glamorous, finely painted picture, she made it seem like the space around her was as near perfect as a painting, the golden curls of her hair like the gold leaf of the medals adorning the figure’s chest, her rosy cheeks the most perfect shade of pink. And though I knew her to be of Portuguese descent she was fair haired and blue eyed. Her skin had a warm, richer tone however, all of which only added to her mystique.
"Bertie, dear boy," Aunt Agatha said in an almost nauseatingly sweet voice, "You’ve arrived—I’d like you to meet Aurelia Moniz.”
Mr. Wooster took the required amount of steps to carry him within arms length of the girl, holding out his hand, "How do you do?"
"Very well, thank you. And you?" she returned, taking his hand lightly in hers. Though it was hard to see from my vantage point, I believe she was looking him in the eye and there was little of any meekness to the gaze. Mr. Wooster smiled awkwardly, dropping his hand and his eyes. He glanced over at the painting, "Charming fellow—painter are you?"
"Not me," she admitted humbly, "My father—he’s extraordinary. He painted this almost twenty years ago. A self-portrait.I brought it as a gift for your aunt."
"Nice of you. And him," Mr. Wooster said, "Dashed impressive talent too, nothing but respect for chaps of the Monet-what’s-it persuasion, born with it," he shrugged, smacking his lips together and taking a deep breath, "Comes naturally, suppose—not to me, oh no, I’ve never painted so much as a teacup—hopeless with a paintbrush."
"Bertie is wonderful on the piano!" Aunt Agatha quickly interrupted, standing up, "Very musical."
Miss. Moniz’s dark blue eyes shifted over to Mr. Wooster’s Aunt, then back to him, and it was my impression that perhaps for the last half hour prior to our arrival she had had to endure a copious amount of hand-wringing on the elder’s part, nervousness of the initial introduction coupled with the shaky, if at all, faith she had in her nephews ability to make a good impression.
"Well perhaps we could take a walk in the gardens and get to know each other better," she said, placing her arms behind her back and fluttering her eyelashes in a perfectly ordinary, innocent way.
"Oh yes, quite, that would do rather nicely, sort of a long drive up here, our legs could do with a bit of un-cramping," Mr. Wooster answered, smiling.
"Our?"
Mr. Wooster frowned, "Well yes, the two of us," he gestured once at himself then at me, inhaling sharply, "Well, I should say, Jeeves and I—"
"Surely your valet won’t be joining us," she said lightly, a note of disbelief evident in her voice. Her large blue eyes regarded Mr. Wooster from a cocked head, inducing a bout of indistinguishable mumbling that might have consisted of several wells, uhs, and what's before he darted his eyes from the question and said, "No, I suppose not, uh—shall we go?"
"Delighted," she smiled, taking his arm.
In the briefest of moments, in the time it took to rearrange his direction toward the door, Mr. Wooster’s frightened eyes sought mine, if only for a moment, whereafter they proceeded toward the exit. And for one second, as I stared in quiet agony after him and his soon-to-be fiancé, the girls eyes flickered toward mine from over Mr. Wooster’s shoulder, making a brief but chilling contact, an intelligence and strange, indescribable knowing marked somewhere in their dark blue depths, and then they were gone.
I think I should make clear to the reader that one of the things that higher society does not do on a very consistent basis, is make eye contact with servants or staff. In fact, we are meant to not even be seen, let alone acknowledged in such a way. I was shocked. It felt like someone had slapped me, so much was the distressed quality of that gaze, one that shouldn’t have been there to begin with, and for a few seconds I felt frozen by it.
But once Mr. Wooster and the young lady had taken their leave I was left to resume my own duties. And glad to as well. I wouldn’t get a chance to walk through the gardens with them, not that I’d want to unless it was to gather more of an understanding of who she was. I would have to gather my information elsewhere. All that for later though, I suppose. I have to go put the car away and get Mr. Wooster settled in. I quietly made my way outside to do just that.
Though it is hardly my place to say, it appeared that the morning was offering the afternoon a tentative, if not reluctant farewell to the horizon, checking its watch once more before allowing the harsher, noon-day light residence in the strikingly blue sky. The car skidded slightly upon the loose gravel as I turned into the garage, the frame of the automobile shuttering momentarily before I shut the engine off for good, the action giving me an unshakable feeling of finality upon getting out and shutting the door. I moved around back to extract the bags and upon turning on my heel was suddenly halted by the unexpected form of a large dark man standing not three feet from me. Since I hadn’t heard so much as the rustle of an unbuttoned jacket in the wind or loose pebble kicked across the ground I was startled near to the point of dropping all three bags I was carrying.
"I beg pardon," I said somewhat breathlessly, stepping backwards once not only for space but also to gather a better and more extensive observation of the fellow. He was large, as I said, a word I will use twice simply because it is his one, if not only, most prominent characteristic. He wore the clothes attributable to some sort of stable-hand, the addition of dirt and hay adding validation to this presumption, but otherwise his features were startling ordinary and I imagine if one were asked to recall him to a policeman there would be no distinguishable features in which to draw a description, other than large.
"Are you Mr. Wooster’s man?" he asked and I noticed a faint accent, and in knowing Mr. Wooster’s future wife’s nationality I was able to deduce it was an inflection of Portuguese origin.
"Yes, I am," I answered, standing up straighter and though I am on the rather tall side myself, managing only to be almost his height, "And can I assume that you are under the employment of the Moniz family?"
"Yes," he said simply and I was forced to suppress an urge to fidget uncomfortably as his eyes looked me over from head to foot. If he was impressed or disappointed there was no way to tell, like the ambiguous Greek faces upon a million sculptures of their time he offered no expression from which I could draw any conclusions.
It was with hesitancy that I drew my brows together in a slight frown and asked, "Is there something you’d like to discuss with me?"
"Is your master familiar with horses?" he asked.
I shifted the bags in my arms, licking my lips, "No, I don’t believe he’s so much as ridden a horse," I answered, "Miss Moniz has how many animals does she?"
"My lady has four, and I shouldn’t doubt that she’d like to take them out during your stay."
"That shouldn’t be a problem," I said, his dominating presence and fierce eyes starting to wear on what had already been a nervous resolve, "Mr. Wooster can be very adaptive when needed to be."
"He’ll have time to get used to the beasts," the man nodded, "He’ll have to—my lady is a very demanding woman."
"Is she?" I ventured, attempting to ascertain if I couldn’t extract some inside information on the woman.
"Almost impossible to get everything done," he said and maybe for the first time I noticed a change of tone in his voice, this time adopting an almost desperate tone, "But can’t do otherwise, you know what I mean?"
"Yes, I do," I admitted and there was a small pause as I endeavored to steady my heart rate and ignore the sweat I could feel coming to my upper lip.
The fellow nodded and then his eyes shifted to either side of him, over his shoulder, and he leaned in even closer and I hadn’t thought it possible he could seem more menacing, "That’s why she gives us a little help, you see."
"Help?"
He reached into his coat pocket and extracted something wrapped in crinkled foil, "I don’t know what we’d do without this—it’s the only way we get things done, which means the only way we avoid her," he said, holding his large hand out and revealing that inside the foil was a piece of chocolate which he broke in half, holding it out to me, "You should eat some, do you a world of good."
I lowered the bags to the ground and let my eyes drop for a moment to the piece of chocolate, then back up to his face, "Your employer gives you chocolate to help you work?" I asked questioningly, frowning.
"Take it," he said, forcing it into my hand, "I promise you won’t regret it—she’s a powerful woman, believe me," he said, watching me intently, waiting for me to obey.
"I really don’t think—"
"You’d do well to just eat it, friend," he said and I nearly shuddered at the way he said friend.
And simply because it seemed the only way to assure his letting me go and because I was feeling increasingly ill at ease I lifted the piece of chocolate to my mouth and took a bite though I can’t say it tasted sweet at all. It had the ashy, unappealing taste of something eaten while upset and I swallowed it without even attempting to enjoy it.
I lifted the bags again and tried working my tongue around my mouth, ridding it of the taste as discreetly as possible, "Thank you," I said, "But, I really have to get back to work. I’ll no doubt be working with you and her lady’s other staff quite a lot in the near future."
"That’s right," he said, finally taking a step back, "Once the wedding’s done it’ll be like you’re working for her, really."
"Almost," I said and nodded once more, turning to go.
Hefting the bags more comfortably in my arms I set out across the yard to the side door, stopping only once to look over my shoulder and saw that the man had disappeared and was nowhere in sight. I stored the details of the exchange in my mind for the time being, planning to ruminate on it later, but not now. I had work now.
Work had a way of quieting my mind. Or at least it usually did. In all honestly, my mind was occupied with several areas, areas vastly different than Miss Moniz’s rather odd employees or why she might be feeding them chocolate on a regular basis or if Mr. Wooster will or will not be able to stay in the saddle if forced to engage in some kind of horse related activity over the course of our stay.
It was as I was working that I attempted to sort out, to the best of my abilities, what I was going to do about the whole situation. It was a difficult situation, I must say, and it is with a gathering sense of dread that I admit it is one to which the answer was not initially obvious, especially when all I had been successful at doing up to this point was panicking. I usually try to avoid panic, fear, whenever I can. I don’t claim to be master of all my fears, I do have them, but it is possible to out think fear. When I was young it became clear that fear robs one of reason, intelligence, it makes us no better than animals.
In an automatic, habitual way I set to work, unpacking clothes, hanging them up and so forth, and it seemed important, at least during the preliminary stages of analysis to ascertain what my feelings for Mr. Wooster, exactly are.
However, upon barely a second thought, half a thought later, it seemed obvious that such a revelation, indeed it would be a revelation, was impossible to the point that it might as well not even be a factor; it’s a given, I couldn’t change my feeling for him anymore than I could change how many stars were in Orion’s belt.
I care about him. There, I said it. Well, thought it. But I did think it, it’s a step, a step in the right direction, or rather in the wrong direction, but at least it was an action, at least I wasn’t running around the same circle of thoughts over and over. No, I’d thought it. I care about him. I love him. God, I love him. I don’t want to just be his valet. I want to spend mornings in bed with him, I want to rouse him not by pulling curtains or saying good morning, but instead by reaching my hand under the covers and stroking him into wakefulness, I want to kiss him behind his ear, I want to nibble across his collar bone, I want to—I can’t think those kind of things though. I can’t. Can not. Terrible I even let myself get that far.
Alright, alright, I thought to myself, get a hold of yourself. My mind, though usually agile by nature, was moving a mile a moment.
But god, I love him—I do. Doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself not to think it, I’ll just think it ten times more until it wears itself into the lining of my brain and its impossible not to think it. He’s just so perfect and lovely and no one else sees it! Oh, the things I could do for Mr. Wooster, the things I would do for him, I would love him, I would make him moan and squirm and beg for service only I could provide.
Mr. Wooster. He’d asked me to call him by his first name, no sirs, or otherwise. Suddenly it seemed odd, in the middle of my thought process, it seemed something of a problem when not even in my mind could I call Mr. Wooster by his first name. In fact, if given the opportunity, not in this reality certainly, that we were together, parallel, skin on skin, breath and breath, perfectly perfect, and I was giving him all he wanted and deserved, truly deserved, and there was heat and warmth and sweat and cum and everything our mammalian bodies had to offer, that when I let words mix their way in with my gasps I would be saying Mr. Wooster instead of, of . . . Bertie. I imagined it sounding out, cried out in ecstasy, Bertie, yes, yes, Bertie, Bertie.
But really, none of that is very likely though, is it? Is it? Could it be? Many things are unlikely and only a handful of things are positively likely. Things like what that man Newton found out, with apples falling, knowing they will always fall, knowing, and really knowing that this is it, this is the truth. Why do people bother with the unlikely? People claim that the universe is full of endless possibilities but it’s not, it’s really only the likely. In fact everything is so simple it’s humanity’s greatest flaw to try and apply some sort of mystical otherworldly quality to it all—it’s utter madness, utter, complete and wholly without a pause of any kind to gather one’s breath or switch on a light before entering a room or waiting for the listener to take a sip of tea before continuing—madness! We know, we have known, ever since Newton told us—this is it, this is simple—but we can’t accept it! Why can’t we have listened to the fellow!? He was telling us something we can know, something real, and we only just listened, we agreed to the point of safe agreement, but we wouldn't believe it!
Because even more than our desire to complicate everything is our desire to write huge books and scribbled chalk on boards and gather together in circles that nod and say things like ‘ah, yes, I see’ even if we don’t see. We just want to be part of something, of humanity. Just like the apple, we at least know we’re all human.
I’m human, you're human, and so is Mr. Wooster. We’re wonderful and lovely in a two arms, two legs, and a minimum of ten toes kind of way, and that, that simplicity, thank you Newton, is comfort enough, solace to anyone who might need it. Does it make me feel better? Do I feel perhaps relieved to know that since I am human and he is human that we’re perfectly matched? Newton might say we are. The numbers five and seven make the number fifty-six, why can’t Mr. Wooster and I make an equally compelling and gorgeous number? I could be with him! So we are of the same gender animal, what does that matter, we still fit together, we fit perfectly, as we’d observed so fervently. I don’t care about this job! It’s just a job! It’s nothing to me! I don’t care about cleaning or clothes or shoes or cuff links, I honestly don’t buggering care! I only want him!
Blinked, suddenly, looking at my work, I got everything done.
Rather quickly. For a moment I stood, in the middle of the room, like I’d just gotten there, and looked around me, seeing everything I’d done and didn’t immediately remember doing them. Odd, everything looked perfect but it seemed unusual because I don’t remember doing them. Although once you’ve done something enough times I suppose there’s no need to pay attention to details or speed or anything, you just do it.
I stood for anther moment, hoping this one, this moment, would offer the answer to the question of why, why I was suddenly standing her, completely unaware of, totally unable to recall, but then why would I recall, it's not as if it’s important, its not, I just do my job, and can usually remember doing it, the last thirty minutes.
I suddenly felt like I was swaying and I looked at the carpet and saw it blur and bend and swirl and I ran a hand through my hair, finding my skin cold and clammy. And I couldn’t just stand there, one moment was too many, I needed to move. But where, what could I do? The room looked perfect, what could I do? I focused on the bed, and suddenly all the layers of sheets and blankets seemed completely and utterly askew and I shrugged and tore them from the bed. They simply can’t be such a mess, it’s a disgrace. They must be lined up. Perfectly.
Not to mention, not to think of, not to offer even the most pleading notion or the smallest morsel of a thought involving sheets and Mr. Wooster and naked flesh, naked, twisting, perfect in the sheets, the creaminess of his skin on the white cotton, the blue of his eyes reduced to slits as his fists grip and tear and pull at the sheets.
But the sheets aren’t acting right, They aren’t lining up. They aren’t lined up. I hopped on the bed and stared at the top two corners. Lord, this was impossible, no way, no way in hell would they match up, they’ll never match up.
"Jeeves?"
"Sir?" Sat back on my heels, suddenly aware, deeply, insuperably aware, he was in the room, "I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there, I was trying to make the bed, it’s been giving me difficulty, I can’t seem to make it line up for some reason."
"I see," he said and my eyes wouldn’t focus on him as he closed the door after him and strode into the room, "Well, I’m back now, as you can rightly see—I’ve been sunned, charmed and put right on center stage and I think maybe—I say, Jeeves, are you alright, you seem a bit jittery."
"Am I alright, sir? Yes, yes, quite alright, thank you. And sorry for saying sir. Bertie. It’s just these sheets are terrible, completely incorporative, I can’t imagine what the problem is, really, I’ve been working all the time you were gone, got everything done of course, but these sheets are—you were gone, did it go well, I mean, how is she, how does she seem?"
"Jeeves," he said much too slowly, "Is there something the matter?"
"What?" I sat back on my heels and then back on my arse so I was sitting on the bed, one leg over the side, and my mind sorted and brought up a million answers and I didn’t know which one to say,
"Well, actually, I admit I’m a little—I’m sorry sir, I seem to be a bit distracted," I brought a hand to my head and was tremendously aware that he’d stepped forward and had lifted one knee to the bed so he could lean in and place a hand on my forehead, pushing back my dark hair that had come to fall over my face, a look of concern heavy on his face.
"Jeeves, you’re all sweaty and shaky—you’re not alright, what’s happened?"
"I don’t know, I don’t know," I said and closed my eyes which felt hot and feverish, his hand still on my forehead. I felt suddenly very frightened. My heart was beating so fast, “I can’t catch my breath,” I gasped, “My heart,”
"Well just calm down, you’re alright, just take it easy," he said, moving to place a hand over my heart. I felt moved to tears suddenly, my emotions were so unbearably strong and I needed comfort so badly. I caught his hand in mine, the one on my forehead, and brought his knuckles to my lips, kissing them warmly.
"Jeeves," he said, but didn’t pull away. I kissed every one, each perfect knuckle, moving to the fingers, not even bothering to look at his face, able to feel his pulse through his wrist. Kissed the beating there, licking my tongue out at the faint throbbing.
"Jeeves," he said, and I felt a small resistance, "Hold on a moment,"
I looked up at him and saw his lips, his perfect lips, so brilliant, with a lower lip that begged to be sucked, an upper lip which pleaded to be licked, a mouth, eyes that seemed to be calling to me, I couldn’t resist. I rocked forward on the bed and caught his lips in mine, hungry, so hungry, needing, wanting—and I felt him push. Pushing away?
"Jeeves!" he gasped and I was suddenly aware we weren’t kissing, "What are you doing? Stop, you mustn’t do this, I mean it."
"Sorry," I breathed, "Sorry, sorry, god I’m sorry—I don’t feel well, I don’t— I can’t sit still, I can’t slow down, I’m thinking a million things a minute, I can’t slow it down!" I stood up and started to pace, breathing hard. What was the matter with me? I shouldn’t be acting this way.
"Are you ill?" he asked in near panic, eyes wide, shrugging helplessly, one hand running over his mouth quickly as he tried to seek out answers, eyes following me as I paced, "You haven’t been drinking—maybe you ate something, or—"
"That’s it!" I interrupted, stopping for a moment in the middle of the room then starting again,
"Christ, the chocolate."
"Chocolate? What chocolate?"
"He gave it to me—one of Miss Moniz’s men—lord, I should have known, he practically—but what? What was in it?"
"Hold on," Mr. Wooster said, "Are you saying someone’s poisoned you?! We have to call the police!" he sidestepped in front of me, right in my path, stopping me with a hand on my arm.
"No!" I shouted.
"Someone tried to kill you!"
"They drugged me, they didn’t try and kill me," I corrected, and I could feel my shoulders shaking as I stood, one of his hands on my arm, the room blurring around me, all except his face which was clear.
"Drugged you?" he let out a startled breath, "Why?"
"I’ll be alright, I think," I pushed him lightly out of the way and kept moving, holding a hand over my mouth, "I don’t know, I can’t sit still, I feel—I feel terrible, and wonderful, I feel so alive, I’m thinking a million things at once and I can’t even tell you what one of them is," when I rounded again on him, his face frightened and appalled I stopped, "I’m sorry, sir, so sorry," I tried catching my breath, "I’m sorry, I can’t control this, I’m trying—"
"Stop saying sorry!" he nearly shouted, "I’m not mad at you," he exhaled sharply, somewhere between a growl and a sign, eyes glancing toward the door, then back to me, for a moment silent, pensive, tongue playing along the inside of his cheek, "This is an extremely unusual situation, Jeeves, and what I’m going to ask now will seem even stranger—I’m afraid our roles will have to be reversed for the time being, at least until whatever this is wears off, so just tell me, what can I do to help you?"
"I just need something to do," I said, "I think, not sure, but I heard about something like this being used with the Germans during the war, I never thought I’d experience it, and it's beyond me why they’re being given it, besides the obvious of course, overall its not unpleasant, though I don’t think I could feel this way all the time."
"Right," he said, hands together in front of him, "So you need something to do, um," he bit at his lower lip, eyes to the ceiling, "Give me a moment, one minute, all right? Do not leave this room, alright? I’ll be back in the smallest of moments."
"Yes, sir," I acknowledge and he darted out of the room in haste.
When he got back he was carrying a large wooden chest, closing the door behind him and carrying the chest to a table by the window where he set it down with a huff, "Well, you’ll like this, found it in sort of a dodgy back room, over in the eastern corner of the manor," he gestured in what I assumed was the direction in question, "And I told my insipid relative that I was exhausted, could barely stand, simply must take a nap before doing myself serious injury and she seemed to buy it, so," he shrugged, "We should be safe."
The chest was full of very old, very tarnished silverware. We set to work polishing it right away, sitting at the table with the drapes drawn. No words were spoken and besides a nervousness and worry I could feel resonating off of Mr. Wooster in waves he seemed intent to sit there and polish with me, if that’s what it took. I simply needed to do something, something to focus on, and I admit, this was helping. But after a time the silence was getting to me and I had to say something to him and for once my inhibitions were not in the way.
"I am the way I am," I said, paused, agnozied, "And if you only knew how hard I try to be perfect for you, as your valet. It’s all I care about. My hidden qualities aside."
"You are a perfect valet ," he said simply, “And I couldn’t think ill of you. Would be hypocritical, eh.” He reached for another fork and turned it around in his long fingers, brow knitted, mouth screwed to the side, "What do you say, are these two hundred years old? Dread the day I’ll ever have to nibble a turnip off of a piece of silverware that looks like this, let me tell you," he picked up a rag and I felt his eyes flicker to mine, watching me carefully, worry straining his next words, clashing with his forced casual tone, "There’s nothing wrong with feeling something for someone. I’ve come to peace with such feelings, for women or, as it happens, men. People cast their aspersions, regardless. We kissed each other yes. Ardently yes. A couple of times. We properly snogged, one couldn’t argue, without a doubt a real arousal was observed by all involved. And now we know. Which means quite a lot," he stopped polishing to hold the silver out in front of him, turning it in a way toward the light that made it glint and shine.
What love I had for him swelled tenfold at this moment. That and admiration. How had he come to such peace? How could he feel these things absent of all strife and self-hatred. A truly special quality surpassing any prior mention of broad-mindedness. It needn't be explained to me the resilience, the fine intelligence and grace of this man. Such qualities were easy to observe for those looking past his most basic qualities. Indeed beyond what he allowed others to see, perhaps. Another way he bested me and a way I must strive to be.
He looked back at me, "Feeling better?"
"I am," I answered, hands at work, focusing, almost, on polishing in the most repetitive, comforting, thorough way I knew, lining each one up back in their case so they looked perfect. I took a break long enough to look up, if only for a moment, eyes darting from his hands which really were terrible at polishing silverware, then up to his face and saw relief when I finally met his eyes.
"Don’t worry about any of this now," he told me, "I will take care of you," he raised his chin, nodding with pride, then his blue eyes lowered and a sad smirk slid over his lips, "You’ve had to deal with me enough times,” he set down the spoon he was working on, “Besides I rather like seeing the human side of you, soft belly and all, now and again,” he thought for a moment, “I remember one summer evening, couple years back, I crept home after a long walk out with Tuppy, hoping for a sundown cool down in our fair city. Alas no, and so tired, sweaty and bound for bed was I that I went straight to my room. I got up some time later for some water and, I must have been as silent as a moggy because there you sat in the kitchen, your den of sorts, just in your vest, legs up on the table, hair loose about your face, drinking a glass of lemonade and reading a book,” he sat back, eyes bright, a smile wide on his face, “I remember thinking, I’ve never seen so much of his bare skin, what a lovely complexion ol’Jeeves has. Not to mention your long legs and dashed bare feet. I crept away before you knew I was there. You were so relaxed, as I’d not seen. I quite liked that glow about you, stayed with me for days, I’ll admit.”
“I tried very hard for you to never see me that way.”
“Why?”
“Guidelines of my job prohibit being caught unprepared and undignified.”
“Well you can forget that rubbish for now, I like you either way. More so even,” he grinned again, having completely stopped polishing, “Especially that soft patch of skin right under your ear that makes you utter the most undignified sound imaginable.”
“There is the matter of the general public who would be far from interested in such details or sounds. From either of us.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of their business,” he stood, placing one knee on the chair he was just sitting on, tucking his thumbs into the band of his trousers, “What a gentleman and their sometimes valet get up to at home is unlikely to come up in conversation, what.”
“I would hope not,” I agreed, setting a serving spoon in its place, “Am I to--,” I frowned, thoughts still a jumble, feeling a sudden fatigue creep into my limbs, “Am I understanding that you would continue with me in this new capacity?”
“Continue with you?,” he chortled, “I was the one that started this thing. Rather Bingo and his wellspring of worries and martinis. Given the choice I wouldn’t have had it happen that way, if I’m honest. I didn’t know your thoughts on the matter. I only assumed they were tidier, more organized than my own. Think not I’m some exalted being, Jeeves, I’ve not shouted this to or from any mountain top,” his expression hardened, “Rather in the darkest times I was forced to admit the truth or drown in the misery of it all. I thought you’d be gone the following morning, glad to be rid of your poofter of an employer.”
“Perhaps you sensed something in me that gave you hope otherwise.” I let me forehead fall in my hands, “Excuse me, sir,”
“Jeeves?”
All the sharpness and clarity of the last hours was fading into nothingness, replaced by the feeling of cement blocks hanging from my every limb, “I”m suddenly very tired.”
“One wouldn’t wonder. Come on, off to bed,”
He took my arm and lifted me best he could. I didn’t even have the energy to protest lying in his bed. Especially since I’d torn it up and wouldn’t have a chance to right it again.
“I’ll be going to dinner, Jeeves, but I will attempt to abbreviate it, best I can,” he removed my shoes and loosened my collar, drawing the covers over me, “I’ll be back, Jeeves. Sleep,” I felt his lips on my forehead and the room dimmed as he left.
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Jeeves and Bertie Wooster
Warnings: M
Summary: Jeeve's POV. Bertie's aunt has set up a match with a mystery woman and Jeeves and Bertie, after sharing a few intimate moments, must travel to meet this woman, and meet perhaps, something they were not prepared for . . .
Suffice to say matters did not recommence between Mr. Wooster and myself as soon as his ardent, though still thoroughly distressed relative, left. I packed his things for the upcoming journey and apart from reiterating his desired "quiet night" we spoke not another word about what had happened between us and left the following morning with the tawny light of dawn at our backs.
Her estate was built in a way that was meant to give the illusion of naturalism, nestled, or forcibly interjected more like, within the confines of what had been a charmingly secluded meadow. Now a scattering of peacefully blowing trees on its outer edges halfheartedly giving the excuse that it’s nothing more than a summer cottage. It was not a convincing ruse, to anyone I should think, elaborate sculpted stone was not stacked and placed here as part of some ecological process. No, indeed, the gaudy structure blocked out the sun and cast a very large imposing shadow, cheating the charming meadow of its rightful rays of light and leaving only dirt and gravel in it’s all encompassing shadow that with the rotation of the planet swept over the entire grounds.
As we drove up to the front door the sun was actually on us, and though it wasn’t the hottest of days the gravel had heated under the sun’s rays and seemed to add to the trepidation with its rising heat. The car came to a stop, the motor was cut, and our two weary eyes were cast upward to the tip-most top of the building. The quality of silence, in stark contrast to the bustling streets and high population of London was fine indeed but it wasn’t without a degree of caution that I opened the door of the car and stepped out, disturbing this silence with the scrape of my shoes on the gravel and the shutting of the door behind me, immediately casting my long shadow over the ground.
"Jeeves," Mr. Wooster said, removing himself from the car as well, "I’m forced to assume a dismal mentality about all of this—I’m afraid the whole thing leaves a chap feeling utterly helpless against this thing called chance."
"Chance, sir?"
"Chance that I wouldn’t be halfway around the world or in hospital or kidnapped by bandits when the time came for Aunt Agatha’s patience to finally run out."
"It was never my impression, sir, that patience was one of her key attributes."
"It bally well isn’t, Jeeves—I was just hoping beyond hope that she’d never reach the end of that blasted rope," he heaved a sigh then glanced over at me, blue eyes squinting against the bright morning sun, "I don’t suppose you’ve thought of any way out of this, have you?"
"I’m afraid not, sir," I answered, eyes lowering, my fingers curling on the inside of my sleeves.
"And . . . and this other thing—" he said carefully, "Would be nice to have a moh--together," When I didn’t reply right away, opening my mouth but not immediately finding a response he continued, almost hesitantly, "You led with the duty-first suit, Jeeves, I’ll keep up with that," he thumbed the pockets of his waistcoat, rocking back on his heels slightly, looking away over the grounds, "Maybe it’s too much to ask, suddenly everything seems caught up in some great undertow. I’m trying to be smart about this, trying to use the ol’bean.”
“We do seem at the mercy of external forces, sir.”
“What a place to be,” he grumbled, looking to the giant structure then back to me, “Would you call me Bertie, or at least Bertram,” he smiled though it appeared to take great effort, “At least when we are alone, Jeeves?” he took a half step closer so the light wind blew his scent to my nostrils, “Seems only fitting after I left that bite mark on your neck and you had a right feel around my forward business.”
He seemed amused when a blush spread across by checks, “I was going to mention that,” I said, the corner of my mouth turning up to the slightest of smiles, “Though it will be an adjustment,”
“One of many we may have to make, in future,” he said with a deep inhale. I didn’t know if he meant with the prospect of his marriage or in what was happening between us. He reached and took my hand which was at my side for the briefest of moments, squeezing tightly, perhaps reassuring himself as much as me, “It’s the smart thing to do, the only thing to do, for now, old chap. And maybe the only smart way to do this is . . ." his eyes flickered over to mine as his hand dropped way, "Is . . . to meet the girl."
His words, like they were accompanied by a cloudy day that promised only rain and gloominess, were a painful reminder of what a stolen moment the night before had been, a sadness only amplified by how hard he was trying not to show it. He wanted to be the smart one now. Out of all the myriad of times I so ardently fought to intellectually rise over everyone else because I had to, because he had asked me to—they were suddenly caught topspin, roles reversed—I would have done anything to be able to not use my brains just this once, to act with my heart instead.
Without further delay we walked together to the door.
>>>>>
The girl, and her name turned out to be Aurelia Moniz, was first glimpsed from within the parlor room holding a cup of tea across from Mr. Wooster’s aunt and a large painting of a Victorian gentleman. When our presence was announced the relative and the painting remained sitting, Aunt Agatha’s expression as tight as a Swiss watch at half past six in the morning, while the girl stood in preparation for introductions.
My first impression, standing behind and somewhat to the right of my master, though if chivalry were more in practice I would have aimed to be in more of a frontal position so as to protect him, was that the smile spreading across her pleasant face, appearing both natural and practiced to perfection at the same time, was both a wonderful and terrible thing. She stood across from her painted gentleman and rather than appearing as if she’d just stepped out of the glamorous, finely painted picture, she made it seem like the space around her was as near perfect as a painting, the golden curls of her hair like the gold leaf of the medals adorning the figure’s chest, her rosy cheeks the most perfect shade of pink. And though I knew her to be of Portuguese descent she was fair haired and blue eyed. Her skin had a warm, richer tone however, all of which only added to her mystique.
"Bertie, dear boy," Aunt Agatha said in an almost nauseatingly sweet voice, "You’ve arrived—I’d like you to meet Aurelia Moniz.”
Mr. Wooster took the required amount of steps to carry him within arms length of the girl, holding out his hand, "How do you do?"
"Very well, thank you. And you?" she returned, taking his hand lightly in hers. Though it was hard to see from my vantage point, I believe she was looking him in the eye and there was little of any meekness to the gaze. Mr. Wooster smiled awkwardly, dropping his hand and his eyes. He glanced over at the painting, "Charming fellow—painter are you?"
"Not me," she admitted humbly, "My father—he’s extraordinary. He painted this almost twenty years ago. A self-portrait.I brought it as a gift for your aunt."
"Nice of you. And him," Mr. Wooster said, "Dashed impressive talent too, nothing but respect for chaps of the Monet-what’s-it persuasion, born with it," he shrugged, smacking his lips together and taking a deep breath, "Comes naturally, suppose—not to me, oh no, I’ve never painted so much as a teacup—hopeless with a paintbrush."
"Bertie is wonderful on the piano!" Aunt Agatha quickly interrupted, standing up, "Very musical."
Miss. Moniz’s dark blue eyes shifted over to Mr. Wooster’s Aunt, then back to him, and it was my impression that perhaps for the last half hour prior to our arrival she had had to endure a copious amount of hand-wringing on the elder’s part, nervousness of the initial introduction coupled with the shaky, if at all, faith she had in her nephews ability to make a good impression.
"Well perhaps we could take a walk in the gardens and get to know each other better," she said, placing her arms behind her back and fluttering her eyelashes in a perfectly ordinary, innocent way.
"Oh yes, quite, that would do rather nicely, sort of a long drive up here, our legs could do with a bit of un-cramping," Mr. Wooster answered, smiling.
"Our?"
Mr. Wooster frowned, "Well yes, the two of us," he gestured once at himself then at me, inhaling sharply, "Well, I should say, Jeeves and I—"
"Surely your valet won’t be joining us," she said lightly, a note of disbelief evident in her voice. Her large blue eyes regarded Mr. Wooster from a cocked head, inducing a bout of indistinguishable mumbling that might have consisted of several wells, uhs, and what's before he darted his eyes from the question and said, "No, I suppose not, uh—shall we go?"
"Delighted," she smiled, taking his arm.
In the briefest of moments, in the time it took to rearrange his direction toward the door, Mr. Wooster’s frightened eyes sought mine, if only for a moment, whereafter they proceeded toward the exit. And for one second, as I stared in quiet agony after him and his soon-to-be fiancé, the girls eyes flickered toward mine from over Mr. Wooster’s shoulder, making a brief but chilling contact, an intelligence and strange, indescribable knowing marked somewhere in their dark blue depths, and then they were gone.
I think I should make clear to the reader that one of the things that higher society does not do on a very consistent basis, is make eye contact with servants or staff. In fact, we are meant to not even be seen, let alone acknowledged in such a way. I was shocked. It felt like someone had slapped me, so much was the distressed quality of that gaze, one that shouldn’t have been there to begin with, and for a few seconds I felt frozen by it.
But once Mr. Wooster and the young lady had taken their leave I was left to resume my own duties. And glad to as well. I wouldn’t get a chance to walk through the gardens with them, not that I’d want to unless it was to gather more of an understanding of who she was. I would have to gather my information elsewhere. All that for later though, I suppose. I have to go put the car away and get Mr. Wooster settled in. I quietly made my way outside to do just that.
Though it is hardly my place to say, it appeared that the morning was offering the afternoon a tentative, if not reluctant farewell to the horizon, checking its watch once more before allowing the harsher, noon-day light residence in the strikingly blue sky. The car skidded slightly upon the loose gravel as I turned into the garage, the frame of the automobile shuttering momentarily before I shut the engine off for good, the action giving me an unshakable feeling of finality upon getting out and shutting the door. I moved around back to extract the bags and upon turning on my heel was suddenly halted by the unexpected form of a large dark man standing not three feet from me. Since I hadn’t heard so much as the rustle of an unbuttoned jacket in the wind or loose pebble kicked across the ground I was startled near to the point of dropping all three bags I was carrying.
"I beg pardon," I said somewhat breathlessly, stepping backwards once not only for space but also to gather a better and more extensive observation of the fellow. He was large, as I said, a word I will use twice simply because it is his one, if not only, most prominent characteristic. He wore the clothes attributable to some sort of stable-hand, the addition of dirt and hay adding validation to this presumption, but otherwise his features were startling ordinary and I imagine if one were asked to recall him to a policeman there would be no distinguishable features in which to draw a description, other than large.
"Are you Mr. Wooster’s man?" he asked and I noticed a faint accent, and in knowing Mr. Wooster’s future wife’s nationality I was able to deduce it was an inflection of Portuguese origin.
"Yes, I am," I answered, standing up straighter and though I am on the rather tall side myself, managing only to be almost his height, "And can I assume that you are under the employment of the Moniz family?"
"Yes," he said simply and I was forced to suppress an urge to fidget uncomfortably as his eyes looked me over from head to foot. If he was impressed or disappointed there was no way to tell, like the ambiguous Greek faces upon a million sculptures of their time he offered no expression from which I could draw any conclusions.
It was with hesitancy that I drew my brows together in a slight frown and asked, "Is there something you’d like to discuss with me?"
"Is your master familiar with horses?" he asked.
I shifted the bags in my arms, licking my lips, "No, I don’t believe he’s so much as ridden a horse," I answered, "Miss Moniz has how many animals does she?"
"My lady has four, and I shouldn’t doubt that she’d like to take them out during your stay."
"That shouldn’t be a problem," I said, his dominating presence and fierce eyes starting to wear on what had already been a nervous resolve, "Mr. Wooster can be very adaptive when needed to be."
"He’ll have time to get used to the beasts," the man nodded, "He’ll have to—my lady is a very demanding woman."
"Is she?" I ventured, attempting to ascertain if I couldn’t extract some inside information on the woman.
"Almost impossible to get everything done," he said and maybe for the first time I noticed a change of tone in his voice, this time adopting an almost desperate tone, "But can’t do otherwise, you know what I mean?"
"Yes, I do," I admitted and there was a small pause as I endeavored to steady my heart rate and ignore the sweat I could feel coming to my upper lip.
The fellow nodded and then his eyes shifted to either side of him, over his shoulder, and he leaned in even closer and I hadn’t thought it possible he could seem more menacing, "That’s why she gives us a little help, you see."
"Help?"
He reached into his coat pocket and extracted something wrapped in crinkled foil, "I don’t know what we’d do without this—it’s the only way we get things done, which means the only way we avoid her," he said, holding his large hand out and revealing that inside the foil was a piece of chocolate which he broke in half, holding it out to me, "You should eat some, do you a world of good."
I lowered the bags to the ground and let my eyes drop for a moment to the piece of chocolate, then back up to his face, "Your employer gives you chocolate to help you work?" I asked questioningly, frowning.
"Take it," he said, forcing it into my hand, "I promise you won’t regret it—she’s a powerful woman, believe me," he said, watching me intently, waiting for me to obey.
"I really don’t think—"
"You’d do well to just eat it, friend," he said and I nearly shuddered at the way he said friend.
And simply because it seemed the only way to assure his letting me go and because I was feeling increasingly ill at ease I lifted the piece of chocolate to my mouth and took a bite though I can’t say it tasted sweet at all. It had the ashy, unappealing taste of something eaten while upset and I swallowed it without even attempting to enjoy it.
I lifted the bags again and tried working my tongue around my mouth, ridding it of the taste as discreetly as possible, "Thank you," I said, "But, I really have to get back to work. I’ll no doubt be working with you and her lady’s other staff quite a lot in the near future."
"That’s right," he said, finally taking a step back, "Once the wedding’s done it’ll be like you’re working for her, really."
"Almost," I said and nodded once more, turning to go.
Hefting the bags more comfortably in my arms I set out across the yard to the side door, stopping only once to look over my shoulder and saw that the man had disappeared and was nowhere in sight. I stored the details of the exchange in my mind for the time being, planning to ruminate on it later, but not now. I had work now.
Work had a way of quieting my mind. Or at least it usually did. In all honestly, my mind was occupied with several areas, areas vastly different than Miss Moniz’s rather odd employees or why she might be feeding them chocolate on a regular basis or if Mr. Wooster will or will not be able to stay in the saddle if forced to engage in some kind of horse related activity over the course of our stay.
It was as I was working that I attempted to sort out, to the best of my abilities, what I was going to do about the whole situation. It was a difficult situation, I must say, and it is with a gathering sense of dread that I admit it is one to which the answer was not initially obvious, especially when all I had been successful at doing up to this point was panicking. I usually try to avoid panic, fear, whenever I can. I don’t claim to be master of all my fears, I do have them, but it is possible to out think fear. When I was young it became clear that fear robs one of reason, intelligence, it makes us no better than animals.
In an automatic, habitual way I set to work, unpacking clothes, hanging them up and so forth, and it seemed important, at least during the preliminary stages of analysis to ascertain what my feelings for Mr. Wooster, exactly are.
However, upon barely a second thought, half a thought later, it seemed obvious that such a revelation, indeed it would be a revelation, was impossible to the point that it might as well not even be a factor; it’s a given, I couldn’t change my feeling for him anymore than I could change how many stars were in Orion’s belt.
I care about him. There, I said it. Well, thought it. But I did think it, it’s a step, a step in the right direction, or rather in the wrong direction, but at least it was an action, at least I wasn’t running around the same circle of thoughts over and over. No, I’d thought it. I care about him. I love him. God, I love him. I don’t want to just be his valet. I want to spend mornings in bed with him, I want to rouse him not by pulling curtains or saying good morning, but instead by reaching my hand under the covers and stroking him into wakefulness, I want to kiss him behind his ear, I want to nibble across his collar bone, I want to—I can’t think those kind of things though. I can’t. Can not. Terrible I even let myself get that far.
Alright, alright, I thought to myself, get a hold of yourself. My mind, though usually agile by nature, was moving a mile a moment.
But god, I love him—I do. Doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself not to think it, I’ll just think it ten times more until it wears itself into the lining of my brain and its impossible not to think it. He’s just so perfect and lovely and no one else sees it! Oh, the things I could do for Mr. Wooster, the things I would do for him, I would love him, I would make him moan and squirm and beg for service only I could provide.
Mr. Wooster. He’d asked me to call him by his first name, no sirs, or otherwise. Suddenly it seemed odd, in the middle of my thought process, it seemed something of a problem when not even in my mind could I call Mr. Wooster by his first name. In fact, if given the opportunity, not in this reality certainly, that we were together, parallel, skin on skin, breath and breath, perfectly perfect, and I was giving him all he wanted and deserved, truly deserved, and there was heat and warmth and sweat and cum and everything our mammalian bodies had to offer, that when I let words mix their way in with my gasps I would be saying Mr. Wooster instead of, of . . . Bertie. I imagined it sounding out, cried out in ecstasy, Bertie, yes, yes, Bertie, Bertie.
But really, none of that is very likely though, is it? Is it? Could it be? Many things are unlikely and only a handful of things are positively likely. Things like what that man Newton found out, with apples falling, knowing they will always fall, knowing, and really knowing that this is it, this is the truth. Why do people bother with the unlikely? People claim that the universe is full of endless possibilities but it’s not, it’s really only the likely. In fact everything is so simple it’s humanity’s greatest flaw to try and apply some sort of mystical otherworldly quality to it all—it’s utter madness, utter, complete and wholly without a pause of any kind to gather one’s breath or switch on a light before entering a room or waiting for the listener to take a sip of tea before continuing—madness! We know, we have known, ever since Newton told us—this is it, this is simple—but we can’t accept it! Why can’t we have listened to the fellow!? He was telling us something we can know, something real, and we only just listened, we agreed to the point of safe agreement, but we wouldn't believe it!
Because even more than our desire to complicate everything is our desire to write huge books and scribbled chalk on boards and gather together in circles that nod and say things like ‘ah, yes, I see’ even if we don’t see. We just want to be part of something, of humanity. Just like the apple, we at least know we’re all human.
I’m human, you're human, and so is Mr. Wooster. We’re wonderful and lovely in a two arms, two legs, and a minimum of ten toes kind of way, and that, that simplicity, thank you Newton, is comfort enough, solace to anyone who might need it. Does it make me feel better? Do I feel perhaps relieved to know that since I am human and he is human that we’re perfectly matched? Newton might say we are. The numbers five and seven make the number fifty-six, why can’t Mr. Wooster and I make an equally compelling and gorgeous number? I could be with him! So we are of the same gender animal, what does that matter, we still fit together, we fit perfectly, as we’d observed so fervently. I don’t care about this job! It’s just a job! It’s nothing to me! I don’t care about cleaning or clothes or shoes or cuff links, I honestly don’t buggering care! I only want him!
Blinked, suddenly, looking at my work, I got everything done.
Rather quickly. For a moment I stood, in the middle of the room, like I’d just gotten there, and looked around me, seeing everything I’d done and didn’t immediately remember doing them. Odd, everything looked perfect but it seemed unusual because I don’t remember doing them. Although once you’ve done something enough times I suppose there’s no need to pay attention to details or speed or anything, you just do it.
I stood for anther moment, hoping this one, this moment, would offer the answer to the question of why, why I was suddenly standing her, completely unaware of, totally unable to recall, but then why would I recall, it's not as if it’s important, its not, I just do my job, and can usually remember doing it, the last thirty minutes.
I suddenly felt like I was swaying and I looked at the carpet and saw it blur and bend and swirl and I ran a hand through my hair, finding my skin cold and clammy. And I couldn’t just stand there, one moment was too many, I needed to move. But where, what could I do? The room looked perfect, what could I do? I focused on the bed, and suddenly all the layers of sheets and blankets seemed completely and utterly askew and I shrugged and tore them from the bed. They simply can’t be such a mess, it’s a disgrace. They must be lined up. Perfectly.
Not to mention, not to think of, not to offer even the most pleading notion or the smallest morsel of a thought involving sheets and Mr. Wooster and naked flesh, naked, twisting, perfect in the sheets, the creaminess of his skin on the white cotton, the blue of his eyes reduced to slits as his fists grip and tear and pull at the sheets.
But the sheets aren’t acting right, They aren’t lining up. They aren’t lined up. I hopped on the bed and stared at the top two corners. Lord, this was impossible, no way, no way in hell would they match up, they’ll never match up.
"Jeeves?"
"Sir?" Sat back on my heels, suddenly aware, deeply, insuperably aware, he was in the room, "I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there, I was trying to make the bed, it’s been giving me difficulty, I can’t seem to make it line up for some reason."
"I see," he said and my eyes wouldn’t focus on him as he closed the door after him and strode into the room, "Well, I’m back now, as you can rightly see—I’ve been sunned, charmed and put right on center stage and I think maybe—I say, Jeeves, are you alright, you seem a bit jittery."
"Am I alright, sir? Yes, yes, quite alright, thank you. And sorry for saying sir. Bertie. It’s just these sheets are terrible, completely incorporative, I can’t imagine what the problem is, really, I’ve been working all the time you were gone, got everything done of course, but these sheets are—you were gone, did it go well, I mean, how is she, how does she seem?"
"Jeeves," he said much too slowly, "Is there something the matter?"
"What?" I sat back on my heels and then back on my arse so I was sitting on the bed, one leg over the side, and my mind sorted and brought up a million answers and I didn’t know which one to say,
"Well, actually, I admit I’m a little—I’m sorry sir, I seem to be a bit distracted," I brought a hand to my head and was tremendously aware that he’d stepped forward and had lifted one knee to the bed so he could lean in and place a hand on my forehead, pushing back my dark hair that had come to fall over my face, a look of concern heavy on his face.
"Jeeves, you’re all sweaty and shaky—you’re not alright, what’s happened?"
"I don’t know, I don’t know," I said and closed my eyes which felt hot and feverish, his hand still on my forehead. I felt suddenly very frightened. My heart was beating so fast, “I can’t catch my breath,” I gasped, “My heart,”
"Well just calm down, you’re alright, just take it easy," he said, moving to place a hand over my heart. I felt moved to tears suddenly, my emotions were so unbearably strong and I needed comfort so badly. I caught his hand in mine, the one on my forehead, and brought his knuckles to my lips, kissing them warmly.
"Jeeves," he said, but didn’t pull away. I kissed every one, each perfect knuckle, moving to the fingers, not even bothering to look at his face, able to feel his pulse through his wrist. Kissed the beating there, licking my tongue out at the faint throbbing.
"Jeeves," he said, and I felt a small resistance, "Hold on a moment,"
I looked up at him and saw his lips, his perfect lips, so brilliant, with a lower lip that begged to be sucked, an upper lip which pleaded to be licked, a mouth, eyes that seemed to be calling to me, I couldn’t resist. I rocked forward on the bed and caught his lips in mine, hungry, so hungry, needing, wanting—and I felt him push. Pushing away?
"Jeeves!" he gasped and I was suddenly aware we weren’t kissing, "What are you doing? Stop, you mustn’t do this, I mean it."
"Sorry," I breathed, "Sorry, sorry, god I’m sorry—I don’t feel well, I don’t— I can’t sit still, I can’t slow down, I’m thinking a million things a minute, I can’t slow it down!" I stood up and started to pace, breathing hard. What was the matter with me? I shouldn’t be acting this way.
"Are you ill?" he asked in near panic, eyes wide, shrugging helplessly, one hand running over his mouth quickly as he tried to seek out answers, eyes following me as I paced, "You haven’t been drinking—maybe you ate something, or—"
"That’s it!" I interrupted, stopping for a moment in the middle of the room then starting again,
"Christ, the chocolate."
"Chocolate? What chocolate?"
"He gave it to me—one of Miss Moniz’s men—lord, I should have known, he practically—but what? What was in it?"
"Hold on," Mr. Wooster said, "Are you saying someone’s poisoned you?! We have to call the police!" he sidestepped in front of me, right in my path, stopping me with a hand on my arm.
"No!" I shouted.
"Someone tried to kill you!"
"They drugged me, they didn’t try and kill me," I corrected, and I could feel my shoulders shaking as I stood, one of his hands on my arm, the room blurring around me, all except his face which was clear.
"Drugged you?" he let out a startled breath, "Why?"
"I’ll be alright, I think," I pushed him lightly out of the way and kept moving, holding a hand over my mouth, "I don’t know, I can’t sit still, I feel—I feel terrible, and wonderful, I feel so alive, I’m thinking a million things at once and I can’t even tell you what one of them is," when I rounded again on him, his face frightened and appalled I stopped, "I’m sorry, sir, so sorry," I tried catching my breath, "I’m sorry, I can’t control this, I’m trying—"
"Stop saying sorry!" he nearly shouted, "I’m not mad at you," he exhaled sharply, somewhere between a growl and a sign, eyes glancing toward the door, then back to me, for a moment silent, pensive, tongue playing along the inside of his cheek, "This is an extremely unusual situation, Jeeves, and what I’m going to ask now will seem even stranger—I’m afraid our roles will have to be reversed for the time being, at least until whatever this is wears off, so just tell me, what can I do to help you?"
"I just need something to do," I said, "I think, not sure, but I heard about something like this being used with the Germans during the war, I never thought I’d experience it, and it's beyond me why they’re being given it, besides the obvious of course, overall its not unpleasant, though I don’t think I could feel this way all the time."
"Right," he said, hands together in front of him, "So you need something to do, um," he bit at his lower lip, eyes to the ceiling, "Give me a moment, one minute, all right? Do not leave this room, alright? I’ll be back in the smallest of moments."
"Yes, sir," I acknowledge and he darted out of the room in haste.
When he got back he was carrying a large wooden chest, closing the door behind him and carrying the chest to a table by the window where he set it down with a huff, "Well, you’ll like this, found it in sort of a dodgy back room, over in the eastern corner of the manor," he gestured in what I assumed was the direction in question, "And I told my insipid relative that I was exhausted, could barely stand, simply must take a nap before doing myself serious injury and she seemed to buy it, so," he shrugged, "We should be safe."
The chest was full of very old, very tarnished silverware. We set to work polishing it right away, sitting at the table with the drapes drawn. No words were spoken and besides a nervousness and worry I could feel resonating off of Mr. Wooster in waves he seemed intent to sit there and polish with me, if that’s what it took. I simply needed to do something, something to focus on, and I admit, this was helping. But after a time the silence was getting to me and I had to say something to him and for once my inhibitions were not in the way.
"I am the way I am," I said, paused, agnozied, "And if you only knew how hard I try to be perfect for you, as your valet. It’s all I care about. My hidden qualities aside."
"You are a perfect valet ," he said simply, “And I couldn’t think ill of you. Would be hypocritical, eh.” He reached for another fork and turned it around in his long fingers, brow knitted, mouth screwed to the side, "What do you say, are these two hundred years old? Dread the day I’ll ever have to nibble a turnip off of a piece of silverware that looks like this, let me tell you," he picked up a rag and I felt his eyes flicker to mine, watching me carefully, worry straining his next words, clashing with his forced casual tone, "There’s nothing wrong with feeling something for someone. I’ve come to peace with such feelings, for women or, as it happens, men. People cast their aspersions, regardless. We kissed each other yes. Ardently yes. A couple of times. We properly snogged, one couldn’t argue, without a doubt a real arousal was observed by all involved. And now we know. Which means quite a lot," he stopped polishing to hold the silver out in front of him, turning it in a way toward the light that made it glint and shine.
What love I had for him swelled tenfold at this moment. That and admiration. How had he come to such peace? How could he feel these things absent of all strife and self-hatred. A truly special quality surpassing any prior mention of broad-mindedness. It needn't be explained to me the resilience, the fine intelligence and grace of this man. Such qualities were easy to observe for those looking past his most basic qualities. Indeed beyond what he allowed others to see, perhaps. Another way he bested me and a way I must strive to be.
He looked back at me, "Feeling better?"
"I am," I answered, hands at work, focusing, almost, on polishing in the most repetitive, comforting, thorough way I knew, lining each one up back in their case so they looked perfect. I took a break long enough to look up, if only for a moment, eyes darting from his hands which really were terrible at polishing silverware, then up to his face and saw relief when I finally met his eyes.
"Don’t worry about any of this now," he told me, "I will take care of you," he raised his chin, nodding with pride, then his blue eyes lowered and a sad smirk slid over his lips, "You’ve had to deal with me enough times,” he set down the spoon he was working on, “Besides I rather like seeing the human side of you, soft belly and all, now and again,” he thought for a moment, “I remember one summer evening, couple years back, I crept home after a long walk out with Tuppy, hoping for a sundown cool down in our fair city. Alas no, and so tired, sweaty and bound for bed was I that I went straight to my room. I got up some time later for some water and, I must have been as silent as a moggy because there you sat in the kitchen, your den of sorts, just in your vest, legs up on the table, hair loose about your face, drinking a glass of lemonade and reading a book,” he sat back, eyes bright, a smile wide on his face, “I remember thinking, I’ve never seen so much of his bare skin, what a lovely complexion ol’Jeeves has. Not to mention your long legs and dashed bare feet. I crept away before you knew I was there. You were so relaxed, as I’d not seen. I quite liked that glow about you, stayed with me for days, I’ll admit.”
“I tried very hard for you to never see me that way.”
“Why?”
“Guidelines of my job prohibit being caught unprepared and undignified.”
“Well you can forget that rubbish for now, I like you either way. More so even,” he grinned again, having completely stopped polishing, “Especially that soft patch of skin right under your ear that makes you utter the most undignified sound imaginable.”
“There is the matter of the general public who would be far from interested in such details or sounds. From either of us.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of their business,” he stood, placing one knee on the chair he was just sitting on, tucking his thumbs into the band of his trousers, “What a gentleman and their sometimes valet get up to at home is unlikely to come up in conversation, what.”
“I would hope not,” I agreed, setting a serving spoon in its place, “Am I to--,” I frowned, thoughts still a jumble, feeling a sudden fatigue creep into my limbs, “Am I understanding that you would continue with me in this new capacity?”
“Continue with you?,” he chortled, “I was the one that started this thing. Rather Bingo and his wellspring of worries and martinis. Given the choice I wouldn’t have had it happen that way, if I’m honest. I didn’t know your thoughts on the matter. I only assumed they were tidier, more organized than my own. Think not I’m some exalted being, Jeeves, I’ve not shouted this to or from any mountain top,” his expression hardened, “Rather in the darkest times I was forced to admit the truth or drown in the misery of it all. I thought you’d be gone the following morning, glad to be rid of your poofter of an employer.”
“Perhaps you sensed something in me that gave you hope otherwise.” I let me forehead fall in my hands, “Excuse me, sir,”
“Jeeves?”
All the sharpness and clarity of the last hours was fading into nothingness, replaced by the feeling of cement blocks hanging from my every limb, “I”m suddenly very tired.”
“One wouldn’t wonder. Come on, off to bed,”
He took my arm and lifted me best he could. I didn’t even have the energy to protest lying in his bed. Especially since I’d torn it up and wouldn’t have a chance to right it again.
“I’ll be going to dinner, Jeeves, but I will attempt to abbreviate it, best I can,” he removed my shoes and loosened my collar, drawing the covers over me, “I’ll be back, Jeeves. Sleep,” I felt his lips on my forehead and the room dimmed as he left.
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Date: 2020-06-20 06:21 pm (UTC)This is so well-written, I can't get over it. Following Jeeves's mind as he becomes more and more stoned is heartbreaking. Bertie is so clever, finding the old tarnished silver so Jeeves can polish it and calm down. Also the image of Jeeves in his undershirt (vest, in the UK)legs on the table...rowr! I was really swept up in the story. Brava!
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Date: 2020-06-20 06:41 pm (UTC)I will post it to the other community, I think. Thanks for that suggestion as well. I have to read more of the post in that community, so much to catch up on.
I've not completed the story all the way but probably have one more bit to post before I finsih.
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Date: 2020-06-20 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-06-21 10:33 am (UTC)