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Apr. 1st, 2008 03:17 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
limerentish.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
indeedsir_backupI'm sorry to doublepost, but I had more fic and could not be stopped from inundating you with it.
Title: Bertie Leaves It to Psmith
Chapter: Two
Pairing(s): Jeeves/Wooster, with perhaps a bit of Mike/Psmith in the offing.
Summary: Bertie is madly in love with someone he can never have. Desperate, he answers a strange advertisement professing that a certain young man called "Psmith" will perform any job he likes. Soon, his life is disturbed by a blackmail plot and two burgeoning illegal romances! Can Jeeves and the eccentric Psmith extract Bertie, never mind themselves, from the soup?
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't even own the shoes I'm wearing.
In this chapter, Psmith is punctual, Bertie is in his pyjamas, Jeeves has good gaydar, and Bertie does not.
Chapter Two
Bertie Engages an Accountant
It has been said of Ronald Eustace Psmith that he thrives on the bizarre, adores the peculiar, and eats up the odd like Sunday’s lunch. The noble people who put such ideas into the public consciousness are quite correct. Indeed, it was precisely due to his love for the less everyday components of life that Psmith was currently installed at the door to Bertie Wooster’s flat. His mouth was arranged into a tightly knotted smile, and his shoes, while perfectly polished, occasionally gave an impatient tap.
In short, Psmith was in a state of nervous anticipation. This, however, was deeply uncommon for him, and he dropped out of it after a few moments. The primary thing to do in ridding oneself of nervousness and pain, Psmith had discovered, was to stop thinking about Mike Jackson. He waited like a true Psmith, pressing the bell every minute or so, and humming a jaunty air so as to prepare himself for the forward thrust to come.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
I sat like a red Indian upon my bed, legs crossed, arranging and rearranging thoughts and dreams within the old bread loaf. It was late evening and perhaps I ought to have moved out of my pyjamas and bed, but I was a boomps-a-daisy young man, full of laziness and without a fig for the outside world. So deep in dreams of glorious valet-loveliness was that venerable mind of mine that I failed to hear the doorbell the first three time it jangled.
On the fourth I sat up like one of the pointer dogs from old Aunt Dahlia’s younger days. Why in the name of all that is on velvet and good whatsits had Jeeves not got the door? This was the first time in many a centurion of positively topping service that Jeeves had failed to answer the door. I cocked my head, more like a spaniel now than a pointer, for those of you at home tracking which canine I’ve become.
“Jeeves!” I called out in my most carrying and manly tones, “There is someone at the door!” It took all my strength not to add “what” at the end of that particular utterance, but it is noble to change oneself for love.
With a barely audible little whir, Jeeves was by my side. “Yes, sir?”
“Someone at the door,” I repeated, a little gaspingly, as his arm was not two torturous inches from my shoulder. “Didn’t you hear it, Jeeves?”
“I’m afraid I did not, sir.” It was then that I looked up, and lo! before my eyes a very rummy thing had taken place. Jeeves had a splash of ink upon one white cuff. Never had I seen such a thing before. I went quite faint and was about to lose all faith in the universe when Jeeves excused himself and went to get the door.
Alas, I had time neither to contemplate the inexplicable ink stain nor to regain my faith in the r of the u, for I abruptly realized who our visitor must be. Having no desire for Jeeves and the honorable R. Psmith to come into contact, I speedily leapt from bed in my best striped sleepwear and dashed like the dickens towards the entryway, not even pausing to put on my dressing gown.
The door creaked open, and Psmith was greeted by an apparition from a magical place where God stows examples of perfect domestic help. Save for a smallish ink stain on his cuff, the sight that greeted Psmith was nothing short of miraculous in both his competence and his meticulously well-kept appearance.
“Hello,” Psmith greeted him graciously. “I, Comrade, have arrived in hopes of contact with a gentleman willing to offer me employment. One Mr Wooster. It is my dearest hope that he is in to visitors at present time, for I am steadfast in my belief that Mr Wooster and I shall shortly become the dearest of chums. If he is out,” Psmith added, removing his monocle to polish it on his lapel, “I shall await his triumphant return, like unto Penelope in her loyal sojourn for Odysseus.”
While Psmith did not speak in his unique manner to shock people – he spoke in his unique manner solely because he enjoyed it – he was unaccustomed to the hearer being as totally unruffled as this valet was now. Only Mike, the great exception to all things Psmith-related, had never balked at Psmith’s interesting use of his tongue.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
“A delay on the part of Mr Wooster would be most distressing, sir,” Jeeves was saying as I crept down the hall in my natty striped bedwear, concealing myself cleverly behind knick-knack tables and all that sort of general thing. Alack! cried out my ashamed soul. There is nothing to prevent the twain of Jeeves and R. Psmith from meeting and saying how-d’you-do, and thus all our efforts at secrecy have come to nil!
And yet, recalling that ever present Wooster necessity to keep the upper lip stiff, I kept steady on. I felt quite noble by the time I reached the door, much as if I had come through the Great War. Courage in conflict, that’s the Wooster motto.
There was a muffled noise as someone’s coat was removed, and I cringed at the thought of Jeeves undressing any person, place, or thing who hadn’t the ill fortune of being yours truly. Then there was a droney murmuring sound that went on for rather a long time. I began to wonder whether my guest was really R. Psmith, or perhaps a drunken beehive in disguise.
Proximity and a keen eye proved this untrue, for as I got closer and closer it became evident to me – through the heavenly pane of Jeeves’s legs, no less – that R. Psmith was in fact a tall and slim young man of relatively ordinary aspect save for one eye, which was glazed over. Possibly he was rabid only in one eye. I wondered if he would begin to foam at the mouth.
“I am assured Mr Wooster is indeed at home, sir,” said Jeeves. “Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Mr Psmith,” said R. Psmith, with a wide grin, utterly failing to begin f-ing at the m. “In response to his letter requesting my illustrious services, you might be so kind as to add. I have been longing for his august and hopefully enriching presence ever since I received the aforementioned missive, and I hope you will allow me to express that it would not go amiss,” R. Psmith was saying solemnly, “to say that I have pined.”
Jeeves nodded, and the altitude in the room went up a bit as a result of his raised eyebrows. “Mr Wooster,” he called, in that soft voice of his that makes me absolutely potty, “if you will be obliging enough to remove yourself from beneath the end table, I shall formally announce this gentleman to you. A Mr R. Psmith, sir.”
A little shamefacedly, I did so. Let it not be said that my man Jeeves lacks intuition, even when said intuition bites at me. Either I stood up too quickly or rabies had given R. Psmith a certain jay nay say quoi, because his look was strong and piercing enough to give me vertigo, if that’s the word I’m looking for.
“Mr Wooster,” he said, a picture of cordiality, and extended a long white hand for me to shake. I began to shiver a bit (understandable, what, considering all these things rattling at my young nerves) and upon achieving handshake contact I could have rented myself out as a vibrating back massager for the old and aching. My heart shall evermore rest in the trusty palms of Reginald Jeeves, but this Psmith fellow had an undeniably pleasant effect upon some of my less mentionable parts
“Mr Psmith,” I managed to gulp. “Shall we adjunct to the parsimony?” I was not quite bearing up in the presence of these two men. The combined pressure was well nigh too much for me. The stiffest of upper lips could not compare to the other marked stiffness I was experiencing.
Mr Psmith blinked. “If I am permitted to correct you,” he said in a voice like silk, “I think you mean ‘adjourn to the parlor.’ Malapropism, Mr Wooster, is a truly understandable human failing, and I admire you all the more for your willingness to air it to the world. The cry pervades all London: ‘Wooster is unashamed to belong to our flawed and great species!’ I congratulate you.” And he bowed, flourishing one of those extraordinary hands.
I wasn’t sure I got him, but I smiled anyway. We were a veritable goldmine of smiles, we three, except Jeeves, who seemed a bit jealous that his job of correcting any word choice had been temporarily usurped.
“We shall indeed adjourn,” I was just saying, when Jeeves broke in with, “I do beg your pardon, sir, but might I speak to you beforehand for just a moment? It is,” he added to Mr R. Psmith, rather icily I thought, “domestic business.”
“Nothing, Jeeves,” I informed him fervently, “would please me more.”
The Psmith fellow removed himself to the parlor without having to be told, which I thought very nifty of him. I swung my goggle eyes back to Jeeves after but a moment, being as I was thirsty for the merest glimpse.
“Sir,” said Jeeves fantastically, as he says all things, “May I inquire as to Mr. Psmith’s business with you?”
“Oh, certainly Jeeves, certainly.”
There was a moment or two of Jeevesy silence. I stared at his hair, which had a particular lovely sheen upon the day I here discuss.
“What is Mr Psmith’s business with you, sir?”
I jumped. “Oh yes Jeeves, of course.” I swallowed. Thankfully, I had invented a spiffy cover story the day previous, being well aware I could hardly tell Jeeves I planned to pay this Psmith to pretend to be Jeeves while we Were Intimate. “He is going over the accounts with me, Jeeves,” I announced. “Giving me some assistance in balancing the hefty Wooster checkbook, what?” The “what” slipped out before I could stop it. Oh, to the devil with my blooming human failings, and dash what Psmith says about airing them and cries pervading London and all that rot. Jeeves doesn’t have to have ‘em, why must I?
“Over the accounts. I see, sir.”
There was a certain chilly resentment in the air, detectable even from Jeeves’s well-restrained person. I offered up a grin of good fellowship, for well did I remember the long nights spent together on accounts, I woefully scratching at a pad in hopes of impressing him with my self-sufficiency, he fixing it all just when I’d managed to foul up the sums beyond repair.
“Well Jeeves, I must be going.”
“Very good, sir. Only hold a moment, sir, if you would.” I could see that my grin of g f had had no effect upon him, alas, and so I held for an m, indeed for several ms, if I may mix abbreviations, which I rather think I may. “I believe, sir, that this Mr Psmith is perhaps not the most respectable of men.”
I frowned. He mustn’t suspect. “Oh, Jeeves?” I asked, affecting an air of utmost nonchalance, if that’s the word I want. “How do you see the cards?”
“The ‘cards’ as I see them, sir, are thus,” said Jeeves, and I could hear the quotation marks. “Mr Psmith, while he may be in all respects an excellent gentleman and a good accountant, is of a certain persuasion, sir, and rather obvious in that persuasion. He is what those in the medical profession refer to as a ‘homosexual.’ Were it still the gay nineties, sir, I do not doubt that Mr Psmith would wear a green carnation in his well-tailored buttonhole.”
The side of my left eye began to twitch, and I hadn’t a bally idea of how to make it stop. “Oh,” I managed to gasp out. “Do you think it still wise to avail myself of his accounting skills, Jeeves?”
“It remains wise, sir. He is excellently dressed, one of the best testaments to a gentleman’s good character, and if he is wise a preference for one thing or another in private life does not affect his work. My only worry, sir, was for your reputation, spotless as it is.”
I was a bit chuffed by this. “Really, Jeeves? What kindness.”
“As we have found sir, a good reputation has more value than money.”
“That sounds like one of your gags from a dead chappie, Jeeves.”
“Publilius Syrus, sir.”
There was another Jeevesy silence.
“Although I do wish you would tell me, sir, when you engage new help.”
I thought perhaps a tone of sad reproach was there in his words, as though he worried at being replaced, and so I endeavored to demonstrate why I found him indispensable to the very utmost. “Jeeves,” I asked, as I really was languishing in blackest ignorance, “why is one of this Psmith fellow’s eyes glassy? Are all homosexuals like that, with one glassy eye, or is he rabid? Or are homosexuals all rabid?” It does occur to me, upon further consideration, that I may well be a homosexual, feeling as I do towards Jeeves, and so perhaps these were unreasonable questions.
“I believe it is a monocle, sir.”
“Oh.” Now at least I could get rid of any chafing worries as to whether I shall become rabid in the future. “And Jeeves, one more thing – how could you tell him, you know, for what he was?”
“It is imperative that men such as myself have such an ability, sir.”
“Who, valets?”
“Oh yes, sir. Valets.”
Title: Bertie Leaves It to Psmith
Chapter: Two
Pairing(s): Jeeves/Wooster, with perhaps a bit of Mike/Psmith in the offing.
Summary: Bertie is madly in love with someone he can never have. Desperate, he answers a strange advertisement professing that a certain young man called "Psmith" will perform any job he likes. Soon, his life is disturbed by a blackmail plot and two burgeoning illegal romances! Can Jeeves and the eccentric Psmith extract Bertie, never mind themselves, from the soup?
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't even own the shoes I'm wearing.
In this chapter, Psmith is punctual, Bertie is in his pyjamas, Jeeves has good gaydar, and Bertie does not.
Chapter Two
Bertie Engages an Accountant
It has been said of Ronald Eustace Psmith that he thrives on the bizarre, adores the peculiar, and eats up the odd like Sunday’s lunch. The noble people who put such ideas into the public consciousness are quite correct. Indeed, it was precisely due to his love for the less everyday components of life that Psmith was currently installed at the door to Bertie Wooster’s flat. His mouth was arranged into a tightly knotted smile, and his shoes, while perfectly polished, occasionally gave an impatient tap.
In short, Psmith was in a state of nervous anticipation. This, however, was deeply uncommon for him, and he dropped out of it after a few moments. The primary thing to do in ridding oneself of nervousness and pain, Psmith had discovered, was to stop thinking about Mike Jackson. He waited like a true Psmith, pressing the bell every minute or so, and humming a jaunty air so as to prepare himself for the forward thrust to come.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
I sat like a red Indian upon my bed, legs crossed, arranging and rearranging thoughts and dreams within the old bread loaf. It was late evening and perhaps I ought to have moved out of my pyjamas and bed, but I was a boomps-a-daisy young man, full of laziness and without a fig for the outside world. So deep in dreams of glorious valet-loveliness was that venerable mind of mine that I failed to hear the doorbell the first three time it jangled.
On the fourth I sat up like one of the pointer dogs from old Aunt Dahlia’s younger days. Why in the name of all that is on velvet and good whatsits had Jeeves not got the door? This was the first time in many a centurion of positively topping service that Jeeves had failed to answer the door. I cocked my head, more like a spaniel now than a pointer, for those of you at home tracking which canine I’ve become.
“Jeeves!” I called out in my most carrying and manly tones, “There is someone at the door!” It took all my strength not to add “what” at the end of that particular utterance, but it is noble to change oneself for love.
With a barely audible little whir, Jeeves was by my side. “Yes, sir?”
“Someone at the door,” I repeated, a little gaspingly, as his arm was not two torturous inches from my shoulder. “Didn’t you hear it, Jeeves?”
“I’m afraid I did not, sir.” It was then that I looked up, and lo! before my eyes a very rummy thing had taken place. Jeeves had a splash of ink upon one white cuff. Never had I seen such a thing before. I went quite faint and was about to lose all faith in the universe when Jeeves excused himself and went to get the door.
Alas, I had time neither to contemplate the inexplicable ink stain nor to regain my faith in the r of the u, for I abruptly realized who our visitor must be. Having no desire for Jeeves and the honorable R. Psmith to come into contact, I speedily leapt from bed in my best striped sleepwear and dashed like the dickens towards the entryway, not even pausing to put on my dressing gown.
The door creaked open, and Psmith was greeted by an apparition from a magical place where God stows examples of perfect domestic help. Save for a smallish ink stain on his cuff, the sight that greeted Psmith was nothing short of miraculous in both his competence and his meticulously well-kept appearance.
“Hello,” Psmith greeted him graciously. “I, Comrade, have arrived in hopes of contact with a gentleman willing to offer me employment. One Mr Wooster. It is my dearest hope that he is in to visitors at present time, for I am steadfast in my belief that Mr Wooster and I shall shortly become the dearest of chums. If he is out,” Psmith added, removing his monocle to polish it on his lapel, “I shall await his triumphant return, like unto Penelope in her loyal sojourn for Odysseus.”
While Psmith did not speak in his unique manner to shock people – he spoke in his unique manner solely because he enjoyed it – he was unaccustomed to the hearer being as totally unruffled as this valet was now. Only Mike, the great exception to all things Psmith-related, had never balked at Psmith’s interesting use of his tongue.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
“A delay on the part of Mr Wooster would be most distressing, sir,” Jeeves was saying as I crept down the hall in my natty striped bedwear, concealing myself cleverly behind knick-knack tables and all that sort of general thing. Alack! cried out my ashamed soul. There is nothing to prevent the twain of Jeeves and R. Psmith from meeting and saying how-d’you-do, and thus all our efforts at secrecy have come to nil!
And yet, recalling that ever present Wooster necessity to keep the upper lip stiff, I kept steady on. I felt quite noble by the time I reached the door, much as if I had come through the Great War. Courage in conflict, that’s the Wooster motto.
There was a muffled noise as someone’s coat was removed, and I cringed at the thought of Jeeves undressing any person, place, or thing who hadn’t the ill fortune of being yours truly. Then there was a droney murmuring sound that went on for rather a long time. I began to wonder whether my guest was really R. Psmith, or perhaps a drunken beehive in disguise.
Proximity and a keen eye proved this untrue, for as I got closer and closer it became evident to me – through the heavenly pane of Jeeves’s legs, no less – that R. Psmith was in fact a tall and slim young man of relatively ordinary aspect save for one eye, which was glazed over. Possibly he was rabid only in one eye. I wondered if he would begin to foam at the mouth.
“I am assured Mr Wooster is indeed at home, sir,” said Jeeves. “Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Mr Psmith,” said R. Psmith, with a wide grin, utterly failing to begin f-ing at the m. “In response to his letter requesting my illustrious services, you might be so kind as to add. I have been longing for his august and hopefully enriching presence ever since I received the aforementioned missive, and I hope you will allow me to express that it would not go amiss,” R. Psmith was saying solemnly, “to say that I have pined.”
Jeeves nodded, and the altitude in the room went up a bit as a result of his raised eyebrows. “Mr Wooster,” he called, in that soft voice of his that makes me absolutely potty, “if you will be obliging enough to remove yourself from beneath the end table, I shall formally announce this gentleman to you. A Mr R. Psmith, sir.”
A little shamefacedly, I did so. Let it not be said that my man Jeeves lacks intuition, even when said intuition bites at me. Either I stood up too quickly or rabies had given R. Psmith a certain jay nay say quoi, because his look was strong and piercing enough to give me vertigo, if that’s the word I’m looking for.
“Mr Wooster,” he said, a picture of cordiality, and extended a long white hand for me to shake. I began to shiver a bit (understandable, what, considering all these things rattling at my young nerves) and upon achieving handshake contact I could have rented myself out as a vibrating back massager for the old and aching. My heart shall evermore rest in the trusty palms of Reginald Jeeves, but this Psmith fellow had an undeniably pleasant effect upon some of my less mentionable parts
“Mr Psmith,” I managed to gulp. “Shall we adjunct to the parsimony?” I was not quite bearing up in the presence of these two men. The combined pressure was well nigh too much for me. The stiffest of upper lips could not compare to the other marked stiffness I was experiencing.
Mr Psmith blinked. “If I am permitted to correct you,” he said in a voice like silk, “I think you mean ‘adjourn to the parlor.’ Malapropism, Mr Wooster, is a truly understandable human failing, and I admire you all the more for your willingness to air it to the world. The cry pervades all London: ‘Wooster is unashamed to belong to our flawed and great species!’ I congratulate you.” And he bowed, flourishing one of those extraordinary hands.
I wasn’t sure I got him, but I smiled anyway. We were a veritable goldmine of smiles, we three, except Jeeves, who seemed a bit jealous that his job of correcting any word choice had been temporarily usurped.
“We shall indeed adjourn,” I was just saying, when Jeeves broke in with, “I do beg your pardon, sir, but might I speak to you beforehand for just a moment? It is,” he added to Mr R. Psmith, rather icily I thought, “domestic business.”
“Nothing, Jeeves,” I informed him fervently, “would please me more.”
The Psmith fellow removed himself to the parlor without having to be told, which I thought very nifty of him. I swung my goggle eyes back to Jeeves after but a moment, being as I was thirsty for the merest glimpse.
“Sir,” said Jeeves fantastically, as he says all things, “May I inquire as to Mr. Psmith’s business with you?”
“Oh, certainly Jeeves, certainly.”
There was a moment or two of Jeevesy silence. I stared at his hair, which had a particular lovely sheen upon the day I here discuss.
“What is Mr Psmith’s business with you, sir?”
I jumped. “Oh yes Jeeves, of course.” I swallowed. Thankfully, I had invented a spiffy cover story the day previous, being well aware I could hardly tell Jeeves I planned to pay this Psmith to pretend to be Jeeves while we Were Intimate. “He is going over the accounts with me, Jeeves,” I announced. “Giving me some assistance in balancing the hefty Wooster checkbook, what?” The “what” slipped out before I could stop it. Oh, to the devil with my blooming human failings, and dash what Psmith says about airing them and cries pervading London and all that rot. Jeeves doesn’t have to have ‘em, why must I?
“Over the accounts. I see, sir.”
There was a certain chilly resentment in the air, detectable even from Jeeves’s well-restrained person. I offered up a grin of good fellowship, for well did I remember the long nights spent together on accounts, I woefully scratching at a pad in hopes of impressing him with my self-sufficiency, he fixing it all just when I’d managed to foul up the sums beyond repair.
“Well Jeeves, I must be going.”
“Very good, sir. Only hold a moment, sir, if you would.” I could see that my grin of g f had had no effect upon him, alas, and so I held for an m, indeed for several ms, if I may mix abbreviations, which I rather think I may. “I believe, sir, that this Mr Psmith is perhaps not the most respectable of men.”
I frowned. He mustn’t suspect. “Oh, Jeeves?” I asked, affecting an air of utmost nonchalance, if that’s the word I want. “How do you see the cards?”
“The ‘cards’ as I see them, sir, are thus,” said Jeeves, and I could hear the quotation marks. “Mr Psmith, while he may be in all respects an excellent gentleman and a good accountant, is of a certain persuasion, sir, and rather obvious in that persuasion. He is what those in the medical profession refer to as a ‘homosexual.’ Were it still the gay nineties, sir, I do not doubt that Mr Psmith would wear a green carnation in his well-tailored buttonhole.”
The side of my left eye began to twitch, and I hadn’t a bally idea of how to make it stop. “Oh,” I managed to gasp out. “Do you think it still wise to avail myself of his accounting skills, Jeeves?”
“It remains wise, sir. He is excellently dressed, one of the best testaments to a gentleman’s good character, and if he is wise a preference for one thing or another in private life does not affect his work. My only worry, sir, was for your reputation, spotless as it is.”
I was a bit chuffed by this. “Really, Jeeves? What kindness.”
“As we have found sir, a good reputation has more value than money.”
“That sounds like one of your gags from a dead chappie, Jeeves.”
“Publilius Syrus, sir.”
There was another Jeevesy silence.
“Although I do wish you would tell me, sir, when you engage new help.”
I thought perhaps a tone of sad reproach was there in his words, as though he worried at being replaced, and so I endeavored to demonstrate why I found him indispensable to the very utmost. “Jeeves,” I asked, as I really was languishing in blackest ignorance, “why is one of this Psmith fellow’s eyes glassy? Are all homosexuals like that, with one glassy eye, or is he rabid? Or are homosexuals all rabid?” It does occur to me, upon further consideration, that I may well be a homosexual, feeling as I do towards Jeeves, and so perhaps these were unreasonable questions.
“I believe it is a monocle, sir.”
“Oh.” Now at least I could get rid of any chafing worries as to whether I shall become rabid in the future. “And Jeeves, one more thing – how could you tell him, you know, for what he was?”
“It is imperative that men such as myself have such an ability, sir.”
“Who, valets?”
“Oh yes, sir. Valets.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-04-01 12:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-01 08:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-01 01:16 pm (UTC)“It is imperative that men such as myself have such an ability, sir.”
“Who, valets?”
“Oh yes, sir. Valets.”
Poor Bertie. And poor Psmith, o dear; I wonder, does he know he's been engaged as a rent boy?
no subject
Date: 2008-04-01 08:08 pm (UTC)I believe Psmith does know. He's a smart boy, after all, and I'm pretty sure that if he'd intended to bring a substitute he would have already done so.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2008-04-01 01:29 pm (UTC)This is SO good- I think I nearly died.
It's just...wow. Delicious.
Possibly the only crossover I've ever enjoyed- there's no amount of praise that could even begin to cover how lovely it is.
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Date: 2008-04-01 08:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2008-04-01 01:51 pm (UTC)Jeeves must be livid with jealousy at this point. I wonder if he sees right through Bertie's scheme, or if he believes that his employer is too innocent/oblivious. Either option is distressing.
Well, I'm hooked. And I have to agree with
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Date: 2008-04-01 08:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-01 02:28 pm (UTC)I anticipate something like a perversely polite and civilized cat-fight.
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Date: 2008-04-01 08:10 pm (UTC)(Partly inspired, I have to say, by Stephen Fry's way of saying "Very good sir," that actually means, "Ram it up your arse with a broom, sir.")
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Date: 2008-04-01 04:20 pm (UTC)OH, I am so happy to see some more so soon. I cannot wait to see the "deal" that Bertie wants to strike with Psmith. And does Psmith know that he's the substitute, or does he believe he just needs to find one?
I cannot WAIT to see a Jeeves v. Psmith throwdown. Perhaps with lots of historical references to equate with the modern day 'yo momma's. Please post more, and soon!
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Date: 2008-04-01 08:12 pm (UTC)The prospect of writing smut in Bertievoice is a fascinating one, particularly since - do you really think Psmith ever stops talking? Even during sex?
(no subject)
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Date: 2008-04-01 04:37 pm (UTC)Also: MOAR. Aren't I original?
Also also: "We were a veritable goldmine of smiles, we three, except Jeeves, who seemed a bit jealous that his job of correcting any word choice had been temporarily usurped." Brilliant! :D :D :D.
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Date: 2008-04-01 08:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-01 04:56 pm (UTC)My favorite part of this is certainly Psmith. You've got his voice perfectly.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-01 08:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2008-04-01 09:01 pm (UTC)JEEVES vs. PSMITH. FIRST ROUND TO PSMITH! )))
no subject
Date: 2008-04-01 09:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
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Date: 2008-04-02 12:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-02 01:23 am (UTC)The green carnation bit was, I'm afraid, the result of spending a really inordinate amount of time in the Victorian era.
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Date: 2008-04-02 01:31 am (UTC)The door creaked open, and Psmith was greeted by an apparition from a magical place where God stows examples of perfect domestic help.
The ending is marvelous!
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Date: 2008-04-02 01:33 am (UTC)Thanks!
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Date: 2008-04-02 03:10 am (UTC)There are too many bits of loveliness to fit here, but I'm especially curious to know what the ink stain is about. Clearly something is rotten in the state of Jeeves.
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Date: 2008-04-02 04:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-02 03:14 am (UTC)The Jeeves and Psmith interaction is just how I hoped it would be, and Jeeves being concerned/jealous is always adorable in my eyes. You've got their characters down so brilliantly, this is all I could have hoped for in a crossover of the two.
Oh Bertie, thinking homosexuals are rabid and not knowing a monocle. Jeeves being annoyed that Psmith stole his word corrections! And Psmith just being Psmith in response to Bertie's malapropism, ::squee::.
And the last bit, "Oh yes, valets". aha.
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Date: 2008-04-02 05:03 am (UTC)Also, I now sort of want to write crackfic about rabid!Psmith.
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Date: 2008-04-02 11:49 am (UTC)I don't want to push you, because of course I hope that every word continues perfect, but I will let you know that I was considering re-reading the previous chapter if a new chapter wasn't up today, because it's too delicious.
Have more hearts, although I know they are not much payment for the work you're doing...
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Date: 2008-04-02 09:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-02 02:23 pm (UTC)“Jeeves!” I called out in my most carrying and manly tones, “There is someone at the door!” It took all my strength not to add “what” at the end of that particular utterance, but it is noble to change oneself for love.
Awww, Bertie. <3 More now pls?
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Date: 2008-04-02 09:36 pm (UTC)Ha, and I'm wearing Charli's sneakers lately. We can't spend time together, we forget who owns what.
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Date: 2008-04-03 02:11 am (UTC)It's brilliant so far, and I can't wait for more, and, and...
Possibly he was rabid only in one eye.
This had me giggle aloud at an inappropriate moment during the Devil's game.
Can't wait for more. EEE SQUEE!
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Date: 2008-04-03 07:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-03 04:36 am (UTC)Absolutely loveing this, please write more soon!
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Date: 2008-04-03 07:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 03:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 08:31 pm (UTC)