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Jeeves and the Best Laid Schemes, Part 1/6
Wooster B

Title: Jeeves and the Best Laid Schemes
Author: sex_in_spats 

For: erynn999 
Beta: [info]ataratah , who is an absolute paragon. Thanks are owed not only for doing a wonderful job beta-ing my fic in spite of the busy holidays but also for providing many of the better plot points when my imagination failed me.
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~16000 words
Warning: Graphic sex and Jeevesian schemes, stratagems and spoils going awry
Summary: For the yuletide exchange, written for this prompt:
While on holiday, Jeeves finally realizes he can't take it any more and decides to make his move on Bertie when he gets home. Every time Jeeves tries to say something, there's an interruption. - birds, bezels, aunts, traveling salesmen, thunderstorms, the more bizarre the better. Finally, seeing that trying to talk to Bertie about it is going to be hopeless, he engineers a few days of absolute isolation and pounces the young master, who responds with delight and a what-took-you-so-long attitude. Massive happy smut ensues. Satisfaction is had by all.
Disclaimer: I am not P.G. Wodehouse. My silly stories belong to me, all the marvelous characters I use and abuse belong to him.


All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare.”



Suspense is worse than disappointment.”

-Robert Burns


Self-knowledge is the highest human virtue, and I had always imagined I possessed it in uncommon abundance. Self-mastery, sister to self-knowledge, was another trait which I took care to cultivate both philosophically and in the practicalities of my personal and professional existence. Self-knowledge and self-mastery allowed me to preserve my dignity, liberty and sanity throughout my double life as both the consummate valet and as a gentleman who prefers the company of other gentleman. A servant must learn to wear masks, and for a confirmed invert who has known of his proclivities since he was quite young, these masks must be maintained even among those of one's station.


I have always believed that one who has his hand firmly on the wheel of his own soul can face the vicissitudes of fate with a steady eye and a calm heart. In pride born of long and difficult experience, I imagined that I was unshakable and untouchable. However, in less than one calamitous week, a singular series of events revealed that I did not understand what a powerful sway my feelings could exert over my reason. I was blissfully unaware that in the face of a circumstantial frustrations I might find myself heedlessly abandoning my own best interests in a desperate bid for improbable happiness.


My undoing began with my employment to Mr. Wooster. From the first time I saw him, I was charmed by and attracted to him. For a personal attendant to find the svelte body and fine features of his master pleasing to the eye is a seductive boon, and I indulged this private discomfort and minor pleasure without hesitation. After this had gone on for some time, however, I found that my sentiments concerning Mr. Wooster were not altogether limited to his physical qualities. The thought of him being taken out of my life became increasingly distasteful. Seeing him smile or hearing him praise my cooking or my intellectual prowess became my great secret joy. I experienced pangs of what an honest man would have immediately recognized as jealousy when I found his affections had yet again been engaged in some dubious quarter. I realized, a bit belatedly, that I had fallen in love with my employer.


For many years, I believed that this did not pose any sort of serious obstacle to my contentment. It might be assumed that I must have been unhappy serving a man for whom I had romantic feelings, but I was not. A valet must never be a slave to his emotions, and with little difficulty, I was able to ensure that the tendre I felt for my employer was never visible on my face and scarcely disturbed my inner calm. What more could I ask beyond creature comforts, fiscal security and the constant companionship of the man I adored?


In my weaker moments, I had the combined memory and anticipation of the weeks I spent during my vacation on the French Riviera to sustain me. Every year I would travel to the Cote d'Azur, ostensibly for the fishing. The real pleasures of my leave, however, were confined to the long and balmy Mediterranean nights. After fishing during the day I would spend the evening drinking, smoking and sharing my bed and body with like minded men. Little did Mr. Wooster suspect that the bathing beauties contest I judged did not feature a single female specimen.


Half way through the fifth vacation I took as Mr. Wooster's personal gentleman, I realized that something had changed. I was seated on a balcony overlooking the shimmering, fragrant sea at a discreet little restaurant I favoured when I was suddenly forced to acknowledge the fruit of what had been growing in my heart for many years. The night was lovely. The full moon illuminated the smooth sands of the shore, and a cigar smoked in its holder at my elbow as I sipped a fine vintage of Beaujolais. We are allotted a finite number of perfect moments in this life, and by all counts this ought to have been one of them. But I could not drink deep its bliss as I had once done because I missed Mr. Wooster.


In the past, I had thoroughly enjoyed the fleshly diversions the Côte d'Azur provided; though my affections were thoroughly engaged with my employer, I would have been either a fool or a madman to allow such a one-sided and hopeless attachment to lessen the sweetness of my dalliances. This time, however, I found that I had little interest in my usual evanescent intrigues and seductions. The magical place which once offered me the freedom I craved like air had lost its charms. I didn't want to spend my night with a stranger; I wanted him.


Things, I concluded as I drank the dregs of my wine, had gotten out of hand. I asked myself whether my new-found inability to regulate my feelings for my employer would lessen with time. Given that my affection for him had only grown stronger throughout the many years of our acquaintance, I could only conclude that this was unlikely. I considered my next course of action. I could exert more effort to keep my unruly feelings in check in the interest of maintaining the status quo, but something deep and unruly inside my heart rebelled at the thought. I considered resigning, but I could not bear the idea of never seeing him again.


Or, I thought, allowing my mind to linger on a fantasy which I had forbidden myself for half a decade, I could declare myself to him.


I would have never contemplated such a drastic and dangerous step had I no indication that Mr. Wooster might welcome the change in our arrangement. As it stood, I believed he was almost certainly an invert, though whether he himself was aware of this remained questionable. By this time he had sworn off women entirely, but even during the years when he had fancied himself in love with sundry members of the fairer sex, his love seemed to be seated in his imagination rather than in any genuine romantic attachment to the individual in question. Once all ties had been severed, he never regretted their loss for long, if he did at all.


But what, I wondered, rolling the flute of my glass between my thumb and forefinger, did he think of me? Of course I was aware that Mr. Wooster was fond of me; my presence was the lodestar of his domestic life. But did he see me as anything more? I did not—could not—know beyond a shadow of a doubt, but I suspected that he did. There were times when I would notice him watching me with a look of mingled fondness and sadness which would vanish so quickly I almost suspected I imagined it. Many times he had tried to elicit information about my family and my affairs, inquiries I half indulged and half dodged, and this concern gave me hope. Finally and most tellingly , when I was gone from him he pined. There is no other word for the despondency I read in his demeanour and from a thousand other signs which only someone who knew Mr. Wooster as I did could interpret.


That night I resolved to take the first daringly foolish step of my life. I was aware that I faced the possibility of utter ruin. But as I stood, paid my bill and made my way down the gas lit roads back to my solitary cottage by the sea, I vowed silently to the man I had come to love as dearly as life itself, I'll follow you and make a heaven out of hell, and I'll die by your hand which I love so well.




We apologize for the continued delay. We are fixing the problem as quickly as we can, but we probably won't get into London until around midnight.”


The conductor who made the announcement looked exhausted, but I was too entrenched in my own eagerness to return to Mr. Wooster to feel anything but an uncharacteristic impatience. I had been sorely tried. The trains in France had run late, but that was no surprise; the French have a much more lax attitude toward punctuality than the English. When I boarded the ferry which was to take me across the Channel the weather was bright and the sky clear, and I felt optimistic that I would be back in Berkeley Square by mid-afternoon. As soon as we were a hundred yards from shore, however, thunder heads rolled in and the winds picked up from the south. Soon torrents of rain lashed the deck and enormous waves battered the ship. I arrived many hours too late for my connecting train and barely caught the 7.14.


I was beginning to wonder irritably whether I would ever reach London at all when the conductor made his announcement to our crowded car. We were about halfway down the Brighton line and I would not be able to send a telegram to Mr. Wooster alerting him to my late arrival. I took a deep breath and calmed my rattled nerves. I was, after all, a deeply disciplined, resourceful, but most of all, patient man. And, while inconvenient, this delay was inconsequential to my larger plan.


Little did I suspect that the mishaps plaguing my journey were mere shadows of the trials to come, trials which would weigh my self-mastery in the balance and find me wanting.


* * *


The conductor's estimated time for our arrival was optimistic, for we did not reach Waterloo station until well after 1:00 AM. By the time I found myself standing on the kerb opposite our building looking up at the windows, it was slightly after 2:00 AM. Our lights were still on, which I took as a propitious sign. Mr. Wooster often goes to bed in the small hours of the morning and sleeps quite late, so there was a good chance I could make my confession that very evening.


In spite of my anxiety and exhaustion, I walked to the lift with a sure and resolute step. I let myself in the flat and looked around for my employer, clearing my throat to announce my presence. Every light was on and the room looked an absolute disaster. I hung my hat and coat and began slowly tiding as I worked my way to the master bedroom. He was not there. I turned back to the living room and realized that the flat was such a mess I had initially failed to notice Mr. Wooster's lanky legs protruding from beneath the chesterfield.


Alarmed, I reached his side in moments and peered into the dark recess under the couch. “Sir?” My calm inquiry, which betrayed none of the frantic concern I felt, elicited a groan. “Sir, are you well?”


The legs moved and my master slid out from under the furniture, his curls tousled and his clothing in a state too wrinkled to contemplate. He was not, as I had at first feared, injured, but only intoxicated—exceedingly intoxicated. My heart sank. All hope of bringing up the matter which had lain so heavily on my mind for two weeks vanished. I rose to my feet and asked a bit coolly, “Did sir wish to spend the night on the floor, or shall I prepare the master bedroom?”


When his eyes finally focused on me, they grew wider. “Jeeves?” he slurred, pulling himself onto the cushions with considerable effort. “You're here.”


Indeed, sir. Did you enjoy an invigorating evening?”


Mr. Wooster was curiously affected by my presence; he seemed surprised to see me. “Jeeves... I ... where were you?” He blurted out. “Was... worried, 'bout you. Thought you'd giv'n me the... ol' heave-ho. It was the chequered tie, thought you'd decided to say dash th'feudal spirit and the young master ... I never even wore the bally tie, Jeeves!”


I was aware, of course, of the existence of the aforementioned article, which had been naively concealed in the bottom of his sock drawer. I had intended to destroy it as soon as Mr. Wooster took a trip to the country, but he had not ventured to wear the horrific thing in my presence so far. I gathered from his disjointed ramblings that when I had not arrived that morning and sent no word, he had leapt to the hasty and erroneous conclusion that I had decided to leave his service without notice on account of the contraband item. What this suggested about my master's estimation of my integrity and devotion to him did nothing to alleviate my growing resentment of his excessive drunkenness. Behind my irritation part of me wondered why he was drunk. While it was not uncommon for him to make merry at the Drones Club and come back somewhat the worse for wear, I had rarely seen him so far gone.


I continued to address him in glacial tones. “Sir, my train was delayed and there was some unexpected difficulty crossing the channel. I would have sent you a telegram but was never afforded the opportunity. I trust this has caused you no undue distress.”


Undue distress?” He mouthed the words slowly, as if they were in a language unfamiliar to him. He shook his head and raised his hand over his eyes. “Jeeves, you sound destickt-distingu-”


Distinctly, sir?” I supplied reflexively.


He raised his eyes and gave me a look of dizzy and somewhat uncharacteristic belligerence. “Very very soupy, n' froglike.” His eyes were red-rimmed, although whether this was a symptom of his inebriation or whether he had been crying I could not say.


I stiffened at his words. “I shall endeavour to correct it, sir. If you will excuse me I must prepare the master bedroom.”


I drifted out of the living room and began stripping the sheets off his bed. I was so disturbed by how rapidly he had assumed that I had abandoned him that for a few evil moments I entertained the thought of dumping him in the rumpled sheets and retiring for the evening. But no, regardless of my petty resentment it would not do to let standards drop. I snapped the clean sheets onto the bed and finished tucking them in when I turned to find Mr. Wooster leaning heavily on the doorway of the bedroom, watching me in silence. He seemed more collected and a bit contrite.


'M sorry Jeeves.”




M'sorry m' so tight, old thing. I just wonder sometimes, what a paragon like you is doing with a chump like Wooster, B. Gets worse when you're gone y'know. When I didn't hear from you I biffed off to the Drones to pass the time and the later it became the more sense had been washed out of the Wooster onion.” He gave me a wan smile which faded as he registered something in my expression. “How was your trip? You look distinctly un-chuffed, if that's a word. Usually you come back from the shores stuffed to the brim with fish and the Viking light gleaming in your baby blues. Is something wrong?” He lurched forward to peer at my face more closely.


He has always been adept at reading even my slightest expression and it is a tribute to his acute sensitivity that even in this state he could sense my displeasure. “My vacation was quite satisfactory, thank you sir,” I replied more gently. “If you are ready to retire the bed has been prepared. You will find a glass of water on the bedside table should you need it.” He obligingly, if a bit clumsily, began stepping out of his clothing. When I finished gathering them up in his wake he had slipped into his pyjamas and was crawling into bed, his eyes never leaving my face. I disposed of the clothing and stood at attention. “Will there be anything else this evening, sir?”


He frowned in concentration even as his eyelids began to droop. “Met Gussie at the Drones, and he needs your help fishing him out, though if you ask me he's behaving like a first-rate chump. He's in the metrop. for a week and...” His voice trailed off. “Meant to tell you something, Jeeves, but I can't seem to get my bally brain to deliver up the goods.”


Do not concern yourself, sir. We will speak tomorrow,” I assured him as I left the room. As soon as I had switched the light off a small voice murmured, almost inaudibly, “Missed you terribly, Jeeves.”


I closed the door behind me softly and lingered outside his bedroom for a moment, closing my eyes. Perhaps it was sheer psychological and physical exhaustion, but I found myself deeply affected by this unprecedented, if drunken, confession. I tried to temper the warmth which blossomed in my chest by reminding myself that to take seriously the things a man says whilst in his cups is dangerous, particularly for someone in my position. This did not prevent me from replying, softly, “I've missed you too, sir.”

Part 2

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Do mine eyes deceive me? Are there no comments for this story? But it is magnificent. I love your description of Jeeves' tightly controlled philosophies. You do a wonderful job of subtly making emotion clear, if that makes any sense.

All in all, can't wait to read the next part, and the thought of Bertie pining for Jeeves is the most adorable thing in the world. :D

Why thank you! I am flattered, and glad you're enjoying my humble offering. :)

I certainly am. You're an engaging writer. :)

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