indeedsir_backup | What ho!

My word! It's rather good to be back. It feels like it's been ages.
Anyway, I come bearing a little piece of post-Christmas chess-based fluff. Enjoy!
Title: On Chess
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster lite. (very lite)
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~2k
Disclaimer: All characters belong to P.G. Wodehouse. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Christmas traditions and a high-stakes game of chess.

Feedback isn't appreciated: It's adored.
*Edit*Also: I haven't managed to take away that annoying formatting default popping up. Terribly sorry about that eyesore, old tops. If anyone's got ideas or suggestions, please pass them on. Much obliged.

At Christmastime, it is usually my habit to discontinue my normal working routines. The day of Christmas Eve, I depart from the home I share with my master to go and visit a few of my close relatives, who gather at the home of my sister for the holidays. After a pleasurable stay there, I return home to my master, Mr Bertram Wooster, the day after Boxing Day. I have always found the extent of this leave given me exceedingly generous on behalf of my master, and for the first year or so of my employment, gave air to my protests.

nbsp; “Now, Jeeves,” Mr Wooster had said, “the word of the young master is final. You’re not expected here until December the twenty-seventh. If you so much as think about coming home before midnight on Boxing Day, well…” he searched the carpet for inspiration, then lifted his eyes back to mine, waggling his finger, “well I rather shouldn’t like to be you. There’d better be a dashed good reason, I mean to say.”

nbsp; I cleared my throat, pausing respectfully. “Sir, if I may make gesture that should you and your friends require service, perhaps housekeeping or cooking, during their stay…”

“Friends, Jeeves?”

nbsp; “Yes, sir. I took the liberty of assuming that the reason you desired my absence from the homestead was that you intended to host a holiday celebration of sorts, perhaps with your friends.”

nbsp; Mr Wooster raised an eyebrow, smiling, “Well, not exactly, Jeeves. I’m really quite hopeless as a host of all sorts, as you should probably know by now. Actually, I was planning on the Drones later this evening, then popping down and surprising Aunt Dahlia Christmas morn, Christmas Dinner at Brinkley with her lot, and back here for a rather more relaxing Boxing Day. And I’ll be right here to greet you on the foyer come day after. A pleasurable holiday, eh what?”

nbsp; “Very good, sir. Is there particular reason as to why sir is so adamant about the date of my return?”

nbsp; “Oh, but I’m not, Jeeves! If you like, you go right ahead and stay ‘till the New Year! Mind you, I’d pack more than that if those are your plans.” He said with a smile, gesturing to my valise besides the door.

nbsp; “Actually, the young men to whom I have been engaged in the past have usually requested my return on Boxing Day morning itself, if not late on Christmas Day.”

nbsp His normally expressive face became doubly animated, his mouth fell agape and his eyeballs seemed to be threatening to eject. Eventually he regained the power of speech with “Some people… I mean to say, the only reason I’m hesitant on going to Brinkley at all is that Anatole won’t be there, and we’ll have to make do with Aunt Dahlia’s ham-quiche-surprise and Angela’s dreadful fruitcake! The nerve of some people. But never you worry, Jeeves, for your holidays from now until…well, whenever… will be as extended as you like!”

nbsp; And with this proclamation, the tradition was set that I departed from the flat in Berkeley Square the day of Christmas Eve, and returned the day after Boxing Day.

When I entered the door one such particular occasion, I came upon the scene to which I have become accustomed: the flat in a more or less acceptable state (considering my absence) betraying a few scant traces of wrapping tissue and red ribbon, scraps of spare paper on which Mr Wooster had scribbled reminders to himself or disjointed thoughts, in the kitchen a few remnants of a substandard sustenance preparation, and the typewriter left out casually on the kitchen table (“Lends a much more chipper ambi-whatsit, don’t you know. I mean to say, a study is well and fine for brooding chaps like yourself, Jeeves, but I find the kitchen really is the to-go place for a good story.”). More usual it is for my master to be occupying that ill-placed typewriter when I return, but on this particular occasion I found him, after donning my coat and hat and clearing my throat to indicate my arrival, in the sitting room.

nbsp; Anticipating the sight of him in the company of a mystery novel or nodding before the fire, I was slightly surprised to find the young master hunched over a piece of new furniture, staring intently at what I perceived to by a finely crafted, brand new chess set. It had a rich mahogany varnish and was, if I am correct in my perception, was of either Swiss or perhaps German make. The pieces too were finely textured, smooth, and heavy, a sign of their excellent craftsmanship. It was a beautiful piece.

nbsp; He lifted his head with what seemed like great difficulty, as though the magnetism of this excellent addition to our home had locked him in a staring challenge.

nbsp; nbsp; “Good afternoon, sir,” I said, and swept my valise into my room.

nbsp; “Jeeves, old thing! Oh... you’ve gone...”

nbsp; “Here, sir.” I said, re-entering the room.

nbsp; “Blimey, Jeeves... Come here, look what Santa Clause’s left! Had a pleasant holiday, did you, Jeeves?”

nbsp; “Most pleasurable, thank you, sir. A fine instrument indeed, sir.”

nbsp; He sat before the white side of the board, and gestured at the settee across him. “I must say I only found the bally thing yesterday but I’ve been hard pressed to leave its side. I haven’t really played much since Oxford, and I was trying to reacquaint myself with the board...” the longer I stood at his side, the more he rambled, arm outstretched in gesture, blue eyes wide and searching. “What I mean to say is... er... Fancy a game, my man?”

nbsp; I allowed a small smile to betray my good humours, before politely declining in the favour of preparing his lunch.

nbsp; “But... but, why, you’re only just back five minutes! You’re practically still on holiday!” He said, and at this juncture I began to wonder as to the nature of the beast from which he was attempting to distract me. “Off your feet, Jeeves, I insist.”

nbsp; Whatever it is, I determined, it lay waiting in his wardrobe.

nbsp; “What colour is it, sir?” I asked during a brief pause in his increasingly panicked monologue.

Mr Wooster stared back, his wide blue eyes glossing slightly. He blinked, “What colour, did you say, Jeeves?”

nbsp; “Yes, sir. The article of what I have assumed to be neckwear—although that is merely a guess—that is currently occupying space in your wardrobe; I wonder as to its colour, sir. Or its...pattern.” I finished, suppressing a shudder.

nbsp; His mouth had dropped unattractively, and once more his eyes threatened in their own peculiar way to leave their proper places. He stammered unintelligibly for some time, asserting in fragments that I had never been more wrong in my life, before at last giving me a forlorn, withering look.

nbsp; “Well, I suppose it’s no good fooling you, Jeeves. I might have known... I mean, you would have found out anyway. But you are wrong still, Jeeves. In the sense that,” he paused, looking up and into my eyes, whilst I tried my best at a slightly more hardened look of reserve and disapproval. Unfortunately my attempts usually come to fruition in the form of some more amphibious form. Mr Wooster sighed, “In the sense that it’s not one article. It’s actually four: one bright pink with little embroideries of baby chicks, that’s for spring; one bright yellow with some textured red umbrellas for summer; one a sort of maroon-ish red with brown and yellow leaves for autumn; and the last a brighter red with a rather on green wreathe, complete with little red wreathe bow.” I feared, for a brief moment, that I would faint, but managed at the last moment to regain the ability to breathe. “All hand crafted and custom made, courtesy of my dear but tasteless cousin Angela and my dear but tasteless chum Tuppy Glossop.” He finished, and did not bother to try and withhold my gaze, which had closed completely upon running completely out of surfaces to examine. Instead, he let his head hang, continuing to wring his hands for want of something to do.

nbsp; At last, just as I had nearly regained my full composure, he added sorrowfully, “Jeeves, I am terribly sorry, old thing. It’s not as if I could have chucked it in the fire right then and there. She went on and on about how expensive they were, and Tuppy looked rather pained the whole time, and she was just so proud of the detail and the little designs and how they would look... I knew you would find out anyway, but I just rather hoped a game of chess would... you know...”

nbsp;      “Soften my principles, sir?” I looked directly at him once more, feeling a more considerable amount of sympathy than I betrayed.

         “I mean, it’s not as if I’d wear them, they’re all rather beyond even my eccentric tastes. Not a good one among them. But perhaps I thought I could have avoided getting you upset... It’s not something I like to do, you know.” He finished, looking downcast in the acknowledgement of his own defeat. A thought occurred to me, and I glanced at the chess board.

        “Sir, I wonder if you are still interested in a game of chess?”

nbsp; His head snapped back up immediately, eyebrows high at my sudden change of conversation. “Well, I mean, the scheme’s gone awry, Jeeves. I didn’t think you’d actually be interested in a game. Though, of course, if you really are...” He began rolling up his sleeves and preparing in a manner whose only accurate and summary adjective is ‘adorable.’ His excitement, his enthusiasm, and his ease, were all nothing short of adorable.

nbsp; I sat gingerly across him, before the black set. “If I may make a proposition, sir?”

He was still wringing his fingers as if manual dexterity had any advantage on a chess board, and nodded his assent.

nbsp; “Should you win this game, you may consider the present from your cousin completely out of harm’s way, and do with them what you like.”

nbsp; He folded his arms before him. “And if you win they go in the shredder? Or experience an unfortunate mishap with the iron? Or you, while carrying them before an open window, fail to see the coffee table, resulting in some rather festively decorated asphalt and the promise of repletion of my boudoir with new acceptable ties?”

nbsp; “Something of the kind, sir. Are the terms agreeable to you?”

nbsp; His shoulders lifted, braced, and he seemed brightened by the singular opportunity to redeem himself. “Very good, Jeeves. But I warn you, my man, I was one of the best at school.”

nbsp; “Then, sir, it is your move.”

nbsp; Within the first six moves, my master had lost a pawn, castle, and bishop, and his queen was facing jeopardy at the hands of my own queen, castle, and bishop; he had also admitted that perhaps he had actually been best at chucking eggs at moving targets from the roof of his school, the two pursuits were so ‘dashed similar.’

nbsp; For his seventh move he elected to put forth his queen’s knight, which, upon thorough analysis, I realized would have protected the queen itself not one bit. I chanced to look up at him, and found him gazing at me intently, with not one trace of menace, deviousness or secrecy. I raised an eyebrow slightly, and he raised both of his in surprise. “Something the matter, old thing?”

nbsp; My curiosity had gotten the best of me: what did he see that I did not? “I do not believe so, sir. I am merely contemplating what security you found in the knight. Surely laying a trap for whatever piece I use is less important than guarding your queen?”

nbsp; His wide, round eyes darted a few times between myself and the board, eventually landing on the board, which he scrutinized before ejaculating, “Good gravy, Jeeves! Do you know, I hadn’t even noticed... oh, oh well... Your move, Jeeves.” He sighed, hanging his head once more, apparently unable to look at the slaughter that was about to occur.

nbsp; I, too, moved my eyes, albeit more subtly, between my master and the board. I deemed it an unworthy shot, and what’s more completely predictable and obvious. I retreated my own queen, and let him have at his turn.

nbsp; He looked at first shocked and grateful, then apprehensive, and I realised this did look like the worst kind of trap. “Alright, Jeeves, I’ll play your game. Hm...” His queen took my bishop, his first win of the game, and I pondered my options. It occurred to me then that this game was going to be extremely difficult for the both of us; for him, due to his demonstrated lack of skill or forethought, and for me, due to this undying loyalty to and love for him.

nbsp; The game continued, and with each mistake on his part, my will to see this through to the end faltered a little more. We neither advanced nor conceded an inch, or so it seemed. In actuality, we by the end of our struggle had lost most of our battalions. It was the only time in my life that a game of chess carried on beyond twenty minutes: it actually carried on for an hour. At some point Mr Wooster intimated that we should rest the game for a moment to eat something, and dutifully accompanied me to the kitchen like a fair player while I prepared a simple repast for us. When we returned to the game, feeling slightly more invigorated, the bloodbath continued, with my wrestling myself on opportunities to take and to leave, and his wrestling with an uncooperative combination of good nature, lack of forethought, and familial loyalty. Despite the stakes, I found I could not beat him.

nbsp; nbsp; Eventually, we called the stalemate, and he extended his left hand. “Jeeves, my man, an excellent game.”

nbsp; nbsp; It had not been, by any measure, an excellent game, of any sort. Nevertheless, I returned his handshake gratefully, and agreed, thanking him for his sportsmanship.

nbsp; nbsp; “I rather think you were the sporting one, old thing. You could have beat me in one, and don’t pretend you couldn’t. I wasn’t fooled a moment: we Woosters may not be chess masters, but we well know our valets!” He was still shaking my hand as he spoke, and his inflections were unexpectedly cheerful and animated for one who has just received a rather dreadful amount of pity.

nbsp; “Sir, I apologize for any insolence if...”

nbsp; “Insolence, Jeeves?” He cut me off. “Nonsense, more like! I wasn’t expecting to win by any chance, and nor did I expect you to throw me a mulligan! Once it popped into the old noggin that you were trying to lend this Wooster a hand, I... well... I rather appreciate it, old thing. It’s a sign of good character, to humour a daft ball like myself. And you do it every day... Oh, sorry about that, old thing,” he said, letting go the hand he had finally discontinued shaking. “I ought to keep mind of where I’m putting my hands, really. Anyway, my good man, the long and short of it is... those neck ties, Jeeves?”

nbsp; “Ah, yes, sir?”

nbsp; “Do what you like with them, Jeeves. It was the thought that counts.”

nbsp; nbsp; I rose from the settee and began walking towards the master bedroom, when I heard a polite cough behind me. “And, Jeeves, old thing?”

nbsp; “Sir?”

nbsp; “When you come back, there’s still something under the tree here. I have very good reason to believe it’s yours. It’s the rather immense bookshelf-looking thing with the ribbon.”

nbsp; “Very good, sir,” I allowed a smile as I turned back towards the hallway.

nbsp; “Oh, and, Jeeves?”

nbsp nbsp; “Yes, sir?”

“Thanks awfully for the chessboard.”

nbsp; “You’re quite welcome, sir.”