Ficlet: UnSuitable (G)
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indeedsir_backupTitle: UnSuitable
Author: Blackletter
Pairing: Jooster if you stand on your head, cross your eyes, squint, and hum "God Save the Queen" (Why, yes, I verified this.)
Summary: Jeeves does not approve of the Armani. (AU)
Rating: G
Word Count: ~650
Disclaimer: Jeeves, Bertie, and the British election process are not mine.
Author’s Notes: This is a little scene from a hypothetical modern day Jooster AU I may hypothetically write someday, in which Aunt Agatha is an MP (known as “The Next Margaret Thatcher”) and insists that Bertie makes something of himself...by standing for Parliament. Jeeves is brought in as campaign manager, but being Jeeves, he has an agenda all his own. (This is the sort of madness that my brain concocts while stuck in airports. For the record, modernizing Bertie while making him still sound like himself is amazingly difficult.)
I woke at the painfully early hour of eight in the ah emm, for today was the day of my first big speech and it wouldn’t do to miss the occasion, me being the star attraction, so to speak. Although I was neat and tidy in my habits as a general rule, I planned to take extra care on this particular morning. I even made a few special purchases the day before for that purpose: designer body wash that could transform a bloke into a brooding, dark-eyed, Don Juan with Mediterranean-bronzed skin (or so the adverts seemed to imply); a new razor with more blades than those Lord of the Rings movies, which promised to leave cheeks as smooth and hairless as Patrick Stewart’s head; and hair gel that offered shine, volume, hold, and possibly a divine halo, which would come in handy for wooing the Christian vote.
Washed, shaven, and be-gelled, I processed with great reverence to my wardrobe to fetch The Suit. The Suit deserved those capital letters—both of them—for it was the finest arrangement of cloth ever to grace the Wooster form. The grey linen Armani emphasized my slim frame, made my legs look about a mile long, and gave my shoulders a subtle but respectable breadth that they normally lacked. In The Suit, I could be mistaken for an escapee from an Italian fashion runway—from the neck down, at least. Not even The Suit could fix my weak jaw line and freckled cheeks.
Today, I paired The Suit with a coral pink shirt that flattered my complexion and topped the whole ensemble off with a red tie and gold tie pin. Just as I was straightening the jacket, Jeeves entered with today’s notes and itinerary. He took one step into the room before screeching to a halt, mouth agape. I smirked, quite pleased with myself for flapping my usually unflappable campaign manager. I turned away from the mirror to face him and let him get the full impact of The Suit.
“What do you think?” I struck a pose. “Hot, or what?”
Jeeves’s mouth opened and closed a few times and I would even swear that his eyes were bugging out of their sockets. Just a little bugging, mind you, a gnat or mosquito level of bugging, not a bumblebee or scarab.
At last, he pulled himself together and said, “Mr. Wooster, that suit is completely unacceptable.”
My spirits fell. “What? Unacceptable? Why ever not? This is my best suit?”
“It is too frivolous.”
“Too frivolous? What do you mean, too frivolous?”
“If I may speak frankly, Mr. Wooster?”
“Speak frankly.”
“You look like a young Quentin Crisp.”
“But—”
“I took the liberty of cleaning and pressing an appropriate garment for today’s speech.” With that surprising confession, he fetched from my wardrobe a plain white shirt and black business suit.
“I can’t wear that,” I complained. “I’ll look like I’m going to a funeral.”
“This is the standard uniform of politics.”
“Well bollocks to that! I’m not wearing it.” I was firm on this point. Jeeves may be a political genius, but when it comes to trendy fashion, Bertram W. Wooster is number one. Metrosexual, the Americans call it. “Besides, you’re my campaign manager, not my clothes...planner...thing.” I trailed off in confusion for a moment before rallying for a final salvo. “You told me that I need to make myself appealing to voters, well The Suit is the definition of appealing.”
“That is not the sort of appeal I was talking about.” Jeeves’s jaw tensed and his eyes got that diamond hard quality that meant he was going to fight this. I, however, was resolved as far as this issue was concerned and would not budge, no matter what.
Four hours later, I took to the platform, Jeeves’s coaching rattling around in my head and a funereal black suit garbing my figure.
But at least I got to keep the red tie.
Author: Blackletter
Pairing: Jooster if you stand on your head, cross your eyes, squint, and hum "God Save the Queen" (Why, yes, I verified this.)
Summary: Jeeves does not approve of the Armani. (AU)
Rating: G
Word Count: ~650
Disclaimer: Jeeves, Bertie, and the British election process are not mine.
Author’s Notes: This is a little scene from a hypothetical modern day Jooster AU I may hypothetically write someday, in which Aunt Agatha is an MP (known as “The Next Margaret Thatcher”) and insists that Bertie makes something of himself...by standing for Parliament. Jeeves is brought in as campaign manager, but being Jeeves, he has an agenda all his own. (This is the sort of madness that my brain concocts while stuck in airports. For the record, modernizing Bertie while making him still sound like himself is amazingly difficult.)
I woke at the painfully early hour of eight in the ah emm, for today was the day of my first big speech and it wouldn’t do to miss the occasion, me being the star attraction, so to speak. Although I was neat and tidy in my habits as a general rule, I planned to take extra care on this particular morning. I even made a few special purchases the day before for that purpose: designer body wash that could transform a bloke into a brooding, dark-eyed, Don Juan with Mediterranean-bronzed skin (or so the adverts seemed to imply); a new razor with more blades than those Lord of the Rings movies, which promised to leave cheeks as smooth and hairless as Patrick Stewart’s head; and hair gel that offered shine, volume, hold, and possibly a divine halo, which would come in handy for wooing the Christian vote.
Washed, shaven, and be-gelled, I processed with great reverence to my wardrobe to fetch The Suit. The Suit deserved those capital letters—both of them—for it was the finest arrangement of cloth ever to grace the Wooster form. The grey linen Armani emphasized my slim frame, made my legs look about a mile long, and gave my shoulders a subtle but respectable breadth that they normally lacked. In The Suit, I could be mistaken for an escapee from an Italian fashion runway—from the neck down, at least. Not even The Suit could fix my weak jaw line and freckled cheeks.
Today, I paired The Suit with a coral pink shirt that flattered my complexion and topped the whole ensemble off with a red tie and gold tie pin. Just as I was straightening the jacket, Jeeves entered with today’s notes and itinerary. He took one step into the room before screeching to a halt, mouth agape. I smirked, quite pleased with myself for flapping my usually unflappable campaign manager. I turned away from the mirror to face him and let him get the full impact of The Suit.
“What do you think?” I struck a pose. “Hot, or what?”
Jeeves’s mouth opened and closed a few times and I would even swear that his eyes were bugging out of their sockets. Just a little bugging, mind you, a gnat or mosquito level of bugging, not a bumblebee or scarab.
At last, he pulled himself together and said, “Mr. Wooster, that suit is completely unacceptable.”
My spirits fell. “What? Unacceptable? Why ever not? This is my best suit?”
“It is too frivolous.”
“Too frivolous? What do you mean, too frivolous?”
“If I may speak frankly, Mr. Wooster?”
“Speak frankly.”
“You look like a young Quentin Crisp.”
“But—”
“I took the liberty of cleaning and pressing an appropriate garment for today’s speech.” With that surprising confession, he fetched from my wardrobe a plain white shirt and black business suit.
“I can’t wear that,” I complained. “I’ll look like I’m going to a funeral.”
“This is the standard uniform of politics.”
“Well bollocks to that! I’m not wearing it.” I was firm on this point. Jeeves may be a political genius, but when it comes to trendy fashion, Bertram W. Wooster is number one. Metrosexual, the Americans call it. “Besides, you’re my campaign manager, not my clothes...planner...thing.” I trailed off in confusion for a moment before rallying for a final salvo. “You told me that I need to make myself appealing to voters, well The Suit is the definition of appealing.”
“That is not the sort of appeal I was talking about.” Jeeves’s jaw tensed and his eyes got that diamond hard quality that meant he was going to fight this. I, however, was resolved as far as this issue was concerned and would not budge, no matter what.
Four hours later, I took to the platform, Jeeves’s coaching rattling around in my head and a funereal black suit garbing my figure.
But at least I got to keep the red tie.
