Fic: The Matter of the Poetic Soul
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indeedsir_backupTITLE: The Matter of the Poetic Soul
AUTHOR: youofwales
FANDOM: Jeeves and Wooster
PAIRING: Jeeves/Wooster
RATING: The faintest whiff of PG
SUMMARY: Bingo Little’s in love again, but Jeeves has a brilliant solution.
NOTES: Cross-posted to fryandorlaurie
DISCLAIMER: Jeeves and Wooster don't belong to me. They belong to P.G. Wodehouse. So please don't sue.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is the third story in my “Matter Of…” series. Here are links to the first two stories:
The Matter of the Bed
http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/109063.html
The Matter of the Theatre
http://community.livejournal.com/fryandorlaurie/85499.html
It was a cool, crisp autumn day. Birds were in the trees, apples were in the trees, children were in the trees—in short, the trees were absolutely brimming with things both useful and un. Jeeves and I had just returned from a distinctly harrowing series of events at Brinkley Court, but we scarcely had the time to enjoy fully our escape from the previous landslide before the next boulder came rushing down the hill toward us. I had just filled the Wooster lungs with a heaping quantity of good old fresh a. when Jeeves appeared.
“Telegram from Mr Little, sir,” Jeeves said.
I let out what should have been a sigh of relief in a pathetic, leaky tyre sort of wheeze. Bingo Little is an old school chum of mine, and to say that he falls in love once a day is, if anything, underestimating a bit. I have come to possess a sort of extra sense about when Bingo is or is not overcome by the mad throes of misty-eyed love, and my extra sense was sounding the alarm gong so loudly it nearly caused my head to vibrate.
“In love again, eh, Jeeves?” I said.
“He does not say so explicitly, sir, but that seems to be his intimation,” Jeeves said.
“Well, go on, Jeeves,” I said. “Read it. Let us hear in what flavour of jam Bingo is currently squelching about.”
“Very good, sir,” Jeeves said. He cleared his throat. “ ‘Bertie old thing old chap old egg I must have your help at once. I was soaring on wings of the eagles but have taken a nasty plummet. I am in the most dire trouble Bertie old chum. I need your help and am coming to see you and Jeeves immediately. Jeeves is there isn’t he. Make sure he is there and ask him to make that tea I like. Help help please help. Bingo.’”
“I see Bingo hasn’t allowed his terrible trouble to keep him from using twice as many words as he might,” said I.
“Indeed, sir, his loquacity in a format charging by the word continues to be a source of amazement,” Jeeves said.
“Just so,” I said. Then the full meaning of Bingo’s telegram made itself clear to me. “Jeeves! He’s coming here?”
“It would seem so, sir,” Jeeves said.
“Oh, dash it. Take a telegram, Jeeves,” I said.
Jeeves produced the necessary materials instantly. “Yes, sir.”
“To Bingo Little, wherever the deuce he is. ‘Bingo, stop. Don’t, stop. BWW.’” I thought my missive succinct and to the point. It lacked subtlety, but then, so did Bingo.
“It might be wise, sir, to specify which action of his you wish your admonition to prevent,” Jeeves said.
“Yes, you’re quite right, Jeeves. Change ‘Don’t’ to ‘Don’t come,’” I said.
“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said.
I allowed myself to give Jeeves a daffy sort of grin. Ever since an excursion to the seaside we had taken earlier in the year, Jeeves and I—well, we had a sort of understanding. Suffice it to say that neither one of us would be leaving the carefree life of a bachelor in public, and neither one of us would be spending much time away from the other in private.
Jeeves looked up to find me regarding him with a besotted expression. “Sir?”
“I like to watch you think, Jeeves,” I said. “It adds a sort of beatific glow to your countenance.”
Jeeves is not a blushing man, but I think I detected some slight pinkness about his cheeks. He lowered his voice to the intimate tone he only uses when we are alone. “You are too kind, sir.”
“Not at all, Jeeves,” I said. “Not at all.” And to make my point, I brushed a kiss on his cheek as I started for the bedroom.
A knock on the front door brought me darting out of the bedroom. “Jeeves! It isn’t!”
“I fear it may be, sir,” Jeeves said. “If you wish to continue dressing, I will provide Mr Little with tea and anything else he may require.”
“Jeeves, I’ve said it before and I shall say it until the voice fails—you are a marvel.”
Jeeves got that quirk around the corner of his mouth that he only gets when he is especially pleased. “Thank you, sir.”
I legged it into the bedroom and proceeded with my daily routine. I was tempted to tie on my bright green cummerbund as a sort of bracing measure, but Jeeves is less than fond of that particular article of clothing, and I wanted him sturdily on my side for the disaster which I was sure was about to ensue. I had taken care to keep the offending cummerbund far from his view once we had become involved; to parade about in it in times of turmoil seemed the height of recklessness.
I emerged from the bedroom wearing a grey tweed suit and what I hoped was a jovial smile. “What ho, Bingo!”
Bingo turned to look at me, sipping his tea. “Oh, hullo, Bertie. Did you get my telegram?”
“Only just,” I said, taking a seat. “So what is this life-changing peril in which you find yourself and, perhaps more importantly, what is her name?”
“That’s not fair, Bertie,” Bingo said rather reproachfully. “Especially to her. She’s such a rare and entrancing creature…”
Jeeves and I exchanged a glance.
“Well, quite,” I said.
“Her name is Amanda,” Bingo said, and I could see by the inch-thick glazing on his eyes that he would shortly tell all. “Doesn’t the name just sing of gentle breezes and loving laughter, Bertie?”
I was attempting to ascertain how such a name might sing and was having a difficult time of it. “I can’t see how it would, Bingo, no.”
“No?” Bingo looked utterly shocked.
“No,” I said.
“That is only because you haven’t got the proper amount of poetry in your soul, Bertie,” Bingo said. He looked a little crestfallen. “Unfortunately, Amanda hasn’t yet realized the tremendous amount of poetry I have in my soul.”
“Poetry? In your soul?” I said.
“A tremendous amount,” Bingo said firmly. “But what’s the use of all that poetry if all I can do is goggle at her whenever she’s nearby?”
I tried to look thoughtful, but really, I am utterly without the knack. Jeeves is much better at it than I am, and I was hoping he would step into the conversation sometime soon.
“Well, well,” I said. “Well, well.”
“May I make a suggestion, sir?” Jeeves said.
There he was! A dashed amazing cove, Jeeves—he has never failed me yet.
“By all means, Jeeves,” I said, favoring him with a bright smile.
“Yes, please,” Bingo said anxiously.
“It has occurred to me, Mr Little, that perhaps a demonstration of the method by which you may give voice to your deepest feelings might serve both as a procedure to follow and as a motivational tool,” Jeeves said.
Bingo looked disconsolate. “Yes, but where am I going to find a pair good-natured enough to let me watch as they bill and coo?”
Jeeves seemed to stand a little taller. “If Mr Wooster will allow it, I would like to propose a scenario in which I will take the part of the lovestruck young gentleman and Mr Wooster will take the part of the unwitting young lady.”
“Would you?” Bingo said hopefully.
“Tish, pshaw, and nonsense,” I said. “You seem to forget, Jeeves, I am not and have never been a member of the feminine persuasion.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said, “but surely you have been in love?”
It seemed to me Jeeves was asking the question to rope me into his scheme, not because he had any real doubt about my answer. The blighter knew I was in love at that exact instant. “Well, yes…”
“Excellent,” Jeeves said. “If you will sit just there, sir.”
I sat where Jeeves indicated, feeling slightly foolish. However, if this was part of an ingenious plan devised by Jeeves to disentangle Bingo from the Wooster hair, I decided I had no right to complain.
“For the sake of romantic atmosphere, sir, let us say that our interaction takes place in a garden,” Jeeves said.
“All right,” I said. “Here I am, sitting in a garden, being a girl. Tra-la, tra-la.”
“Good evening, miss,” Jeeves said.
“Is it, Jeeves?” I peered out the window. “I thought it was only mid-morn…oh.”
I understood now; he was setting the scene. It was like those moments in Shakespeare when a chap darts onto the stage and describes in glowing terms the beauteous castle, the horrors of the battlefield, etc., and the listener is meant to imagine that the stage contains all this. That is, if one can swim through the “whosoe’er hath usurped the toffee of my father” speeches and what-not.
“I mean,” I said, “good evening, sir.” It felt dashed odd to call Jeeves sir, but I supposed there was no harm in it as long as the old feudal spirit bubbled merrily away at bottom of it all.
Jeeves sat beside me. “You look surpassingly lovely this evening.”
“Oh, ah,” I said. “Thank you.”
I am unused to being on the receiving end of compliments. Both the chaps at the Drones and the family Wooster regard me as a man rather short of the mark, although in the perception of some parties, notably Aunt Agatha, I am shorter than most. Even Jeeves has, from time to time, said things that suggest he doesn’t think much of the old bean. At this point, it was hardly as if he were suggesting I had the mental capacity of an Oxford don, but complimentary words regarding me have been few and far between, and I must admit these particular words warmed my cockles considerably.
Jeeves was staring at me now, with a steady, clear look I did not recognize.
“What?” I asked.
“I was simply noting how the stars in the evening sky seem to be, at present, pale reflections of the vivacity and light in your own eyes,” Jeeves said.
The lower half of my body seemed to melt.
“Oh, I say,” I whispered.
“In addition, I could spend evening upon evening regarding your handsome face and never wish to look away,” Jeeves said.
I was in grievous danger of becoming a puddle of Wooster and ruining the Chesterfield. I had suspected Jeeves of being a man of entrenched passions, but I had not understood how deep were the depths until now.
“Why did you never tell me this before?” I said.
“I am unused to express manifestations of this kind,” Jeeves said. “I had feared you might reject my words if I appeared to give them too hastily.”
“I could never reject you,” I said.
Jeeves’s voice took on that low, intimate tone once more. “Nor I you, my darling.”
I realized, with some surprise, that I was trembling. Jeeves removed his jacket and draped it over my shoulders, although I am certain he knew my shivers were caused by no alteration in temperature.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I am no poet,” Jeeves said, “but I often find that poets have phrased things in a more convivial way than I myself am able.”
“I find that dashed unlikely,” I said, “but all right.”
“In this case…” Jeeves paused a moment, gazing into my eyes with such a look of naked longing that I found myself quite unable to breathe. Then he did something even more astonishing—he touched my face. “ ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire/doubt that the sun doth move/doubt truth to be a liar/but never doubt I love.’”
Well, I ask you, what is a fellow to say to that? I found myself curiously bereft of words, so I made some sort of soft mewling sound and buried my face in Jeeves’s shoulder.
“Bravo!” shouted Bingo.
I must admit, I had quite forgotten he was there, else I might have been considerably more circumspect in my lovemaking. Then again, when Jeeves talks of stars and fires and suns moving, one has to be a pretty unfeeling bloke not to forget other people in the room. I pulled away from Jeeves reluctantly, coming back to the land of Bingo Little with a resounding thud.
“I say, that was marvelous,” Bingo said. “That’s just what I want to say to Amanda. What was that poem again, Jeeves?”
“I suspect it might be more favourable to you, Mr Little, if you selected your own words rather than attempting to commit mine to memory,” Jeeves said. He gave me a glance, though, and in that glance I saw all—Jeeves did not wish anyone else to use the poem he had set aside for me.
“Yes, yes,” Bingo said, getting to his feet in a great state of excitement. “Oh, wish me luck, Bertie!”
“Good luck, old man,” I said, though it scarcely mattered. Bingo would have floated out the door even if I had told him his face bore a striking resemblance to roly-poly pudding.
After Bingo left, I remained seated, while Jeeves stood, waiting for my next directive.
“ ‘But never doubt I love’?” I said softly.
Jeeves coughed. “It seemed a pertinent choice, sir.”
“Even when we’ve been alone, you never behaved like that,” I said. “Why now, and in front of Bingo?”
“I am used to exercising the utmost restraint in the vicinity of my employer, sir,” Jeeves said. “One cannot alter one’s deeply ingrained way of behaving lightly, and at times, a certain amount of pretence is useful for dislodging any remaining qualms or inhibitions.”
“I suppose so,” I said, “but why Bingo?”
“Mr Little has always been intent upon his own desire to the exclusion of recognizing the desires of others, sir,” Jeeves said. “I felt certain that he would concentrate on his courtship of the aforementioned Amanda and would regard our interaction as a tutorial only.”
“The psychology of the individual, eh, Jeeves?” I said.
“Precisely, sir,” Jeeves said.
I stood, gathering my courage. “Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Might you—might you be persuaded to pretend again? The evening, the garden, the whole bit? I know I made a dashed awkward girl, but I’m willing to have another go at it if you are. I could practice batting my eyelashes and what have you.”
Jeeves approached, stopping less than a half-inch from me. My system always has a frightfully strong reaction to Jeeves being in such close proximity—in this instance, my teeth began to chatter.
“Next time, sir,” Jeeves said, “there will be no need for pretence.” And he kissed me, a slow, lingering kiss that spoke of wandering moonlit gardens together and nights spent in quiet adoration of each other.
Jeeves was right. Whatever we were as ourselves would be quite satisfactory.
THE END
AUTHOR: youofwales
FANDOM: Jeeves and Wooster
PAIRING: Jeeves/Wooster
RATING: The faintest whiff of PG
SUMMARY: Bingo Little’s in love again, but Jeeves has a brilliant solution.
NOTES: Cross-posted to fryandorlaurie
DISCLAIMER: Jeeves and Wooster don't belong to me. They belong to P.G. Wodehouse. So please don't sue.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is the third story in my “Matter Of…” series. Here are links to the first two stories:
The Matter of the Bed
http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/109063.html
The Matter of the Theatre
http://community.livejournal.com/fryandorlaurie/85499.html
It was a cool, crisp autumn day. Birds were in the trees, apples were in the trees, children were in the trees—in short, the trees were absolutely brimming with things both useful and un. Jeeves and I had just returned from a distinctly harrowing series of events at Brinkley Court, but we scarcely had the time to enjoy fully our escape from the previous landslide before the next boulder came rushing down the hill toward us. I had just filled the Wooster lungs with a heaping quantity of good old fresh a. when Jeeves appeared.
“Telegram from Mr Little, sir,” Jeeves said.
I let out what should have been a sigh of relief in a pathetic, leaky tyre sort of wheeze. Bingo Little is an old school chum of mine, and to say that he falls in love once a day is, if anything, underestimating a bit. I have come to possess a sort of extra sense about when Bingo is or is not overcome by the mad throes of misty-eyed love, and my extra sense was sounding the alarm gong so loudly it nearly caused my head to vibrate.
“In love again, eh, Jeeves?” I said.
“He does not say so explicitly, sir, but that seems to be his intimation,” Jeeves said.
“Well, go on, Jeeves,” I said. “Read it. Let us hear in what flavour of jam Bingo is currently squelching about.”
“Very good, sir,” Jeeves said. He cleared his throat. “ ‘Bertie old thing old chap old egg I must have your help at once. I was soaring on wings of the eagles but have taken a nasty plummet. I am in the most dire trouble Bertie old chum. I need your help and am coming to see you and Jeeves immediately. Jeeves is there isn’t he. Make sure he is there and ask him to make that tea I like. Help help please help. Bingo.’”
“I see Bingo hasn’t allowed his terrible trouble to keep him from using twice as many words as he might,” said I.
“Indeed, sir, his loquacity in a format charging by the word continues to be a source of amazement,” Jeeves said.
“Just so,” I said. Then the full meaning of Bingo’s telegram made itself clear to me. “Jeeves! He’s coming here?”
“It would seem so, sir,” Jeeves said.
“Oh, dash it. Take a telegram, Jeeves,” I said.
Jeeves produced the necessary materials instantly. “Yes, sir.”
“To Bingo Little, wherever the deuce he is. ‘Bingo, stop. Don’t, stop. BWW.’” I thought my missive succinct and to the point. It lacked subtlety, but then, so did Bingo.
“It might be wise, sir, to specify which action of his you wish your admonition to prevent,” Jeeves said.
“Yes, you’re quite right, Jeeves. Change ‘Don’t’ to ‘Don’t come,’” I said.
“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said.
I allowed myself to give Jeeves a daffy sort of grin. Ever since an excursion to the seaside we had taken earlier in the year, Jeeves and I—well, we had a sort of understanding. Suffice it to say that neither one of us would be leaving the carefree life of a bachelor in public, and neither one of us would be spending much time away from the other in private.
Jeeves looked up to find me regarding him with a besotted expression. “Sir?”
“I like to watch you think, Jeeves,” I said. “It adds a sort of beatific glow to your countenance.”
Jeeves is not a blushing man, but I think I detected some slight pinkness about his cheeks. He lowered his voice to the intimate tone he only uses when we are alone. “You are too kind, sir.”
“Not at all, Jeeves,” I said. “Not at all.” And to make my point, I brushed a kiss on his cheek as I started for the bedroom.
A knock on the front door brought me darting out of the bedroom. “Jeeves! It isn’t!”
“I fear it may be, sir,” Jeeves said. “If you wish to continue dressing, I will provide Mr Little with tea and anything else he may require.”
“Jeeves, I’ve said it before and I shall say it until the voice fails—you are a marvel.”
Jeeves got that quirk around the corner of his mouth that he only gets when he is especially pleased. “Thank you, sir.”
I legged it into the bedroom and proceeded with my daily routine. I was tempted to tie on my bright green cummerbund as a sort of bracing measure, but Jeeves is less than fond of that particular article of clothing, and I wanted him sturdily on my side for the disaster which I was sure was about to ensue. I had taken care to keep the offending cummerbund far from his view once we had become involved; to parade about in it in times of turmoil seemed the height of recklessness.
I emerged from the bedroom wearing a grey tweed suit and what I hoped was a jovial smile. “What ho, Bingo!”
Bingo turned to look at me, sipping his tea. “Oh, hullo, Bertie. Did you get my telegram?”
“Only just,” I said, taking a seat. “So what is this life-changing peril in which you find yourself and, perhaps more importantly, what is her name?”
“That’s not fair, Bertie,” Bingo said rather reproachfully. “Especially to her. She’s such a rare and entrancing creature…”
Jeeves and I exchanged a glance.
“Well, quite,” I said.
“Her name is Amanda,” Bingo said, and I could see by the inch-thick glazing on his eyes that he would shortly tell all. “Doesn’t the name just sing of gentle breezes and loving laughter, Bertie?”
I was attempting to ascertain how such a name might sing and was having a difficult time of it. “I can’t see how it would, Bingo, no.”
“No?” Bingo looked utterly shocked.
“No,” I said.
“That is only because you haven’t got the proper amount of poetry in your soul, Bertie,” Bingo said. He looked a little crestfallen. “Unfortunately, Amanda hasn’t yet realized the tremendous amount of poetry I have in my soul.”
“Poetry? In your soul?” I said.
“A tremendous amount,” Bingo said firmly. “But what’s the use of all that poetry if all I can do is goggle at her whenever she’s nearby?”
I tried to look thoughtful, but really, I am utterly without the knack. Jeeves is much better at it than I am, and I was hoping he would step into the conversation sometime soon.
“Well, well,” I said. “Well, well.”
“May I make a suggestion, sir?” Jeeves said.
There he was! A dashed amazing cove, Jeeves—he has never failed me yet.
“By all means, Jeeves,” I said, favoring him with a bright smile.
“Yes, please,” Bingo said anxiously.
“It has occurred to me, Mr Little, that perhaps a demonstration of the method by which you may give voice to your deepest feelings might serve both as a procedure to follow and as a motivational tool,” Jeeves said.
Bingo looked disconsolate. “Yes, but where am I going to find a pair good-natured enough to let me watch as they bill and coo?”
Jeeves seemed to stand a little taller. “If Mr Wooster will allow it, I would like to propose a scenario in which I will take the part of the lovestruck young gentleman and Mr Wooster will take the part of the unwitting young lady.”
“Would you?” Bingo said hopefully.
“Tish, pshaw, and nonsense,” I said. “You seem to forget, Jeeves, I am not and have never been a member of the feminine persuasion.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said, “but surely you have been in love?”
It seemed to me Jeeves was asking the question to rope me into his scheme, not because he had any real doubt about my answer. The blighter knew I was in love at that exact instant. “Well, yes…”
“Excellent,” Jeeves said. “If you will sit just there, sir.”
I sat where Jeeves indicated, feeling slightly foolish. However, if this was part of an ingenious plan devised by Jeeves to disentangle Bingo from the Wooster hair, I decided I had no right to complain.
“For the sake of romantic atmosphere, sir, let us say that our interaction takes place in a garden,” Jeeves said.
“All right,” I said. “Here I am, sitting in a garden, being a girl. Tra-la, tra-la.”
“Good evening, miss,” Jeeves said.
“Is it, Jeeves?” I peered out the window. “I thought it was only mid-morn…oh.”
I understood now; he was setting the scene. It was like those moments in Shakespeare when a chap darts onto the stage and describes in glowing terms the beauteous castle, the horrors of the battlefield, etc., and the listener is meant to imagine that the stage contains all this. That is, if one can swim through the “whosoe’er hath usurped the toffee of my father” speeches and what-not.
“I mean,” I said, “good evening, sir.” It felt dashed odd to call Jeeves sir, but I supposed there was no harm in it as long as the old feudal spirit bubbled merrily away at bottom of it all.
Jeeves sat beside me. “You look surpassingly lovely this evening.”
“Oh, ah,” I said. “Thank you.”
I am unused to being on the receiving end of compliments. Both the chaps at the Drones and the family Wooster regard me as a man rather short of the mark, although in the perception of some parties, notably Aunt Agatha, I am shorter than most. Even Jeeves has, from time to time, said things that suggest he doesn’t think much of the old bean. At this point, it was hardly as if he were suggesting I had the mental capacity of an Oxford don, but complimentary words regarding me have been few and far between, and I must admit these particular words warmed my cockles considerably.
Jeeves was staring at me now, with a steady, clear look I did not recognize.
“What?” I asked.
“I was simply noting how the stars in the evening sky seem to be, at present, pale reflections of the vivacity and light in your own eyes,” Jeeves said.
The lower half of my body seemed to melt.
“Oh, I say,” I whispered.
“In addition, I could spend evening upon evening regarding your handsome face and never wish to look away,” Jeeves said.
I was in grievous danger of becoming a puddle of Wooster and ruining the Chesterfield. I had suspected Jeeves of being a man of entrenched passions, but I had not understood how deep were the depths until now.
“Why did you never tell me this before?” I said.
“I am unused to express manifestations of this kind,” Jeeves said. “I had feared you might reject my words if I appeared to give them too hastily.”
“I could never reject you,” I said.
Jeeves’s voice took on that low, intimate tone once more. “Nor I you, my darling.”
I realized, with some surprise, that I was trembling. Jeeves removed his jacket and draped it over my shoulders, although I am certain he knew my shivers were caused by no alteration in temperature.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I am no poet,” Jeeves said, “but I often find that poets have phrased things in a more convivial way than I myself am able.”
“I find that dashed unlikely,” I said, “but all right.”
“In this case…” Jeeves paused a moment, gazing into my eyes with such a look of naked longing that I found myself quite unable to breathe. Then he did something even more astonishing—he touched my face. “ ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire/doubt that the sun doth move/doubt truth to be a liar/but never doubt I love.’”
Well, I ask you, what is a fellow to say to that? I found myself curiously bereft of words, so I made some sort of soft mewling sound and buried my face in Jeeves’s shoulder.
“Bravo!” shouted Bingo.
I must admit, I had quite forgotten he was there, else I might have been considerably more circumspect in my lovemaking. Then again, when Jeeves talks of stars and fires and suns moving, one has to be a pretty unfeeling bloke not to forget other people in the room. I pulled away from Jeeves reluctantly, coming back to the land of Bingo Little with a resounding thud.
“I say, that was marvelous,” Bingo said. “That’s just what I want to say to Amanda. What was that poem again, Jeeves?”
“I suspect it might be more favourable to you, Mr Little, if you selected your own words rather than attempting to commit mine to memory,” Jeeves said. He gave me a glance, though, and in that glance I saw all—Jeeves did not wish anyone else to use the poem he had set aside for me.
“Yes, yes,” Bingo said, getting to his feet in a great state of excitement. “Oh, wish me luck, Bertie!”
“Good luck, old man,” I said, though it scarcely mattered. Bingo would have floated out the door even if I had told him his face bore a striking resemblance to roly-poly pudding.
After Bingo left, I remained seated, while Jeeves stood, waiting for my next directive.
“ ‘But never doubt I love’?” I said softly.
Jeeves coughed. “It seemed a pertinent choice, sir.”
“Even when we’ve been alone, you never behaved like that,” I said. “Why now, and in front of Bingo?”
“I am used to exercising the utmost restraint in the vicinity of my employer, sir,” Jeeves said. “One cannot alter one’s deeply ingrained way of behaving lightly, and at times, a certain amount of pretence is useful for dislodging any remaining qualms or inhibitions.”
“I suppose so,” I said, “but why Bingo?”
“Mr Little has always been intent upon his own desire to the exclusion of recognizing the desires of others, sir,” Jeeves said. “I felt certain that he would concentrate on his courtship of the aforementioned Amanda and would regard our interaction as a tutorial only.”
“The psychology of the individual, eh, Jeeves?” I said.
“Precisely, sir,” Jeeves said.
I stood, gathering my courage. “Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Might you—might you be persuaded to pretend again? The evening, the garden, the whole bit? I know I made a dashed awkward girl, but I’m willing to have another go at it if you are. I could practice batting my eyelashes and what have you.”
Jeeves approached, stopping less than a half-inch from me. My system always has a frightfully strong reaction to Jeeves being in such close proximity—in this instance, my teeth began to chatter.
“Next time, sir,” Jeeves said, “there will be no need for pretence.” And he kissed me, a slow, lingering kiss that spoke of wandering moonlit gardens together and nights spent in quiet adoration of each other.
Jeeves was right. Whatever we were as ourselves would be quite satisfactory.
THE END
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-09-20 01:32 pm (UTC)A great read from beginning to end.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-20 01:44 pm (UTC)*blinks*
*picks jaw up from floor*
*applauds wildly*
wow. That was good. Rather, that was amazing. I always love stories where jeeves woos bertie, and this one made my heart become a puddle of muscle-y goop. good job.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-20 01:51 pm (UTC)It was like those moments in Shakespeare when a chap darts onto the stage and describes in glowing terms the beauteous castle, the horrors of the battlefield, etc., and the listener is meant to imagine that the stage contains all this.
i want to make mad love to that line.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:43 pm (UTC)i want to make mad love to that line.
Oh, good--I was hoping it would give the proper effect. :)
no subject
Date: 2006-09-20 05:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-20 05:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-20 05:57 pm (UTC)I love the poem Jeeves quoted. It reminds me of the last fic, where Bertie wondered if Jeeves was having second thoughts about them.
So lovely! I can't do Bertie justice as a writer because my style is a little too formal and I struggle to get his voice right.
Bravo!
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Date: 2006-09-25 05:47 pm (UTC)Well, Jeeves is always quoting poetry about things, so I thought his repertoire might include love poems too. :) And thank you--I'm glad you think I do Bertie justice. I certainly try. :)
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Date: 2006-09-25 05:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-20 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-20 10:39 pm (UTC)So much to love about this fic - your Bertie is fantastic, from the trees brimming, to the jam squelching, to the hilariously cryptic telegram. I love that he's secure enough to play the "girl" with no qualms (or, well, not many qualms).
And your Jeeves - so passionate, yet so repressed, requiring the fiction of the "tutorial" to really let go. *wibble* I like how he slipped and mentioned Bertie's "handsome" face but Bingo didn't pick up on it. Oh! Oh - and how he didn't want Bingo using the poetry that he had picked out for Bertie! *swoons*
Gorgeous, gorgeous work. Thank you so much for sharing this!
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Date: 2006-09-25 05:52 pm (UTC)And I did want the Jeeves of this universe to be a repressed romantic--a repressed romantic who can think his way out of his own repression. :)
Well, thank you very much for reading and commenting! I'm pleased that you enjoyed it. :)
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Date: 2006-09-25 07:18 pm (UTC)Well, girls can be described as handsome, too. They just aren't very often.
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Date: 2006-09-20 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-21 10:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-23 07:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-25 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-26 07:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-26 11:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-02 09:36 pm (UTC)I love this, and as much as the romantic bits have turned me into a useless mishmash of girl-ooze, I must say I can't get over this line:
“whosoe’er hath usurped the toffee of my father” speeches
xD
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Date: 2007-03-01 01:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-07 05:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 01:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-13 02:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 01:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-16 02:05 am (UTC)The poem and Bertie's reaction to it are both wonderful! And all the moreso because he and Jeeves both seem to have forgotten about Bingo, caught up as they are in each other. Just utterly yummy. :-)
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Date: 2008-02-10 03:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-17 12:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-11 07:13 am (UTC)