Weekly Drabble challenge

[momentarylapse8.livejournal.com]

Rules:

1) A drabble is, by definition, a 100-word story therefore all responses should be 100 words exactly, no exceptions.
2) You may also choose to respond to this challenge with a five-minute sketch.
3) PLEASE put the word DRABBLE at the top of your post. That way people can easily spot the drabbles in amongst any reader comments they receive.

RATING: I don't think this should be limited so reader beware that they could be any rating (you could put it in the subject line if you feel it needs it)

PLEASE try to remember to make each drabble a comment in response to the original post. That way, if the comments start to collapse, the drabbles themselves should remain visible.

Pre-Canon

Anything you like about the boys before they entered each other's lives
Please tag :)

Comments

[godsdaisiechain.livejournal.com]

Drabbles: Before we met


Jeeves
He smiled cheerfully, walking with young Lady Caligula in the garden one afternoon. I overheard her mentioning him in the drawing room. “Oh, Bertie? He is handsome and rich and pleasant enough. A fool, but he’ll do.”

“Admit it Florence, you love him. He’s such a darling lamb.”

“I do, but it will not make me soft. Lamb or not, he’ll have to grow up. I’ll wipe that goofy smile from his face.” She could be so needlessly, ruthlessly cruel.

I left Steeple Bumpleigh. Lord Brancaster sleeps frequently, and I study his books assiduously. I must forget young Mr. Wooster.


Bertie: Some years later
I always thought getting engaged should be a bit of a wheeze, what? Maybe a bit of a smooch or some cuddling in the moonlight, or somesuch. Bongo spoke highly of such things when we were alone and he was in his cups. The beazels seemed to want to bestow kisses and hugs.

It would have been so very welcome to the young Wooster. Such things had been rather thin on the rocky ground since my mother had died.

But Florence isn’t like that. And on top of it Meadowes, who I thought was an ally, has been pinching things.

Agatha
She had promised his parents to look after him and see him well situated. He’d been so promising as a young boy, taking the Scripture Knowledge Prize and making the best collection of wild flowers. Losing his mother had destroyed him. Everyone called him a fool, thought him an ass and let him get away with his lounging.

Even if she could convince him that he was capable enough to become an adult, Florence should never marry him. She needed a firmer, stronger hand to help her master that temper. If only Dahlia would help and stop coddling the boy.

Honoria
There was a great deal to disapprove of in Bertie Wooster. He stayed out too late and drank and slept too much. When awake, he talked incessantly about racing and gaming. The checked pattern on his suit made the eyes water. He was silly and overly fond of his food. At sports, he was indifferent, sloppy, and lazy. Even among the idle rich, he seemed particularly idle.

Still, one could not help liking him. He was handsome and pleasant and cheerful. She never heard him say anything to hurt a person’s feelings, even hers, even big, muscular, sporty Honoria Glossop.

Jarvis
“The young man in 3A? Bertram Wilberforce Wooster? Named after a race horse, he said. Friendly young man.” Jarvis had had a long morning. Most of the valets and housekeepers felt he was beneath them. He liked this newcomer.

“Wooster?” The tall dark man was startled, and Jarvis patted his arm reassuringly.

“I know it’s hard with these toffs sometimes, but he’s an OK sort. Very free with tips. That last bloke was a fool.”

“Really?”

“Stole. Nice young man like that.” Jarvis regarded the new valet. “He’s just back. Out all night. Nice to meet you…”

“Jeeves. Reginald Jeeves”

[krisreinke.livejournal.com]

[Just a try at explaining Bertie’s valet fetish.]

“Hullo?” A male voice inquired.

Bertram Wooster huddled under the stairs, limbs tense as if some greater effort might shrink his shivering frame into even deeper shadow. No use. The black-suited man popped Bertie out like a cork from a particularly ill-fit bottle.

Dark eyes took in the ruin Eustace had made of Bertie’s coat.

The man frowned.

Bertie cringed. He knew he was in for a whipping.

“Come now, Master Bertram. No need for tears.” With a few swift strokes of a needle he had the buttons back, firm as ever. “See. All set to rights.”

And it was.

[krisreinke.livejournal.com]

“Good luck, lad.” The cook plucked the book from his hands. “Lord Waldham’s agreed to keep you on as junior gardener.”

“A… gardener.”

“You’ve got the strength for it.”

He’d been hoping to continue on to high school, but his father’s death had destroyed that. Still, shouldn’t his studies at least have qualified him for indoor service?

She cut him off. “No backtalk, lad. Life is work. Learn that, and be content.”

Reginald plucked yesterday’s Times from the bin and patted the flattering reference he’d forged last night.

Gardener? Never!

He’d learned, all right. Learned to rely only on himself.

[krisreinke.livejournal.com]

[ I have no idea where this Jeeves came from. Musey is evil!]


“Your references are most impressive.”

They were indeed.

Lord Pelham, deceased. Sir Patrick Fotthering, fled before the constabulary and never to be heard from again. Mister Thomason moved to America to pursue the literary arts. (Even less likely to be heard from, if the screed salvaged from the publisher’s bin was considered. Still, the signed stationary was conveniently reusable.) And his early service at Mrs. Mendham’s School for Young Ladies? That was a stroke of genius. Explanation for both his education and his (nearly extinguished) northern accent – all in one neat package.

Reginald Jeeves nodded. “I try to give satisfaction.”

[krisreinke.livejournal.com]

[No idea where these are coming from. Sorry.]
Double drabble.


“Batson resigned.” Marse said. “Found a place as a law clerk.”

‘Fortunate.” Jeeves had known the other valet was ambitious, but he hadn’t expected Batson to find such quick success. A few years reading law and, with the right allies, he might even rise to the bar.

“Foolish.” The older Ganymedian shook his head, as if to dislodge such foolish notions. “He’ll slave his life away, twisted between clients and partners, and for what? A Mayfair address, a fine suit, and a Bentley.”

“Better than slavery at five pounds a week.” He had no idea how demanding a senior law partner might be, but it could hardly exceed the hours expected by his current employment. Between Mrs. Nelson wanting breakfast at seven and Mr. Nelson staggering home at two?

“You think so? Marse smiled as a man in position of a secret. “I live in Mayfair, wear a suit, drive a Bentley – all without wrestling with anything more weighty than a bow tie.”

“Your master has a Bentley and a mansion, Mr. Marse.”

“My gentleman, Mr. Jeeves.” Marse lifted his wine glass, indicating the wish for a refill. “We are theirs. And properly managed? What is theirs is ours too.”

[random-nexus.livejournal.com]

DRABBLE: Before Bertram

Reginald Jeeves filled out yet another entry in the Junior Ganymede Club book, wondering if he would ever be truly content as any gentleman’s gentleman.

Certainly he’d compromised along the way on minor points, but he had yet to find someone who met his basic requirements, as well as those which he could only hope might be met.

How he would prize a gentleman who would accept not only his service as an excellent valet, but who would take his equally excellent advice; treating him as a valued employee, rather than merely a servant.

“Someday,” he sighed, closing the book.