Jeeves and the Meddlesome Medium, Part Six
Jul. 3rd, 2010 01:31 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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indeedsir_backupTitle: Jeeves and the Meddlesome Medium
Chapter: 6/12
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster. *Raffles&Bunny cameo*that will break your heart.
Summary: See Chapter 1.
Warnings: Fillies mooning over Bertie! Death! Sex! Destruction! War! Darling!
Chapter Rating: PG-13
He seemed, at first, neutral to the arrangements. It was only after his first line of thought that I was able to gauge just how uncomfortable he was.
“To spend the night so close to him… lord, let me sleep the whole night. Let me fall into deep, exhausted sleep. To dreamless sleep.”
I had no idea why he was thinking such macabre thoughts. I’d assumed he was worried about being able to fall asleep.
“Don’t worry, old fruit. I won’t make a peep.”
He gave me a flash of a wide-eyed stare, before he could put back on his inscrutable frog face. “When? Why won’t you make any noise? What are you doing?”
“Sir?”
“I’m just saying, Jeeves. In case you’re worried about falling asleep tonight. I won’t make a peep, I promise. I’ll pretend you’re not here, if it helps you.
“If only I could pretend you weren’t here. That is the real problem.”
“Oh, I say! Not very decent of you, old chap.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Oh, you… oh.” What was he thinking I would do? What was so terrible about sharing a room with me? I suppose he treasured his time alone in his lair, missed his solitude, undoubtedly spent pondering the mysteries of the universe, solving them, and then coming up with another mystery just for the fun of it. Reading improving books and, I suppose, sleeping. All but bothering with Wooster, all but listening to him babble, all but acknowledging his existence. It depressed me, I hide it not.
Still, I turned my back to him, where he sat looking uncomfortably pensive on his cot. I listened in for more of his thoughts, but they only muddled me further. Now I was completely lost as to what he was worrying about.
“My prayers have been answered only after they’ve been misinterpreted. When I begged, when I longed to be allowed in his chambers, it was not the only thing I wanted access to…”
I started, pretending to loosen my tie and prepare for bed while listening to the unexpected line of thought. It was a testament to how distracted he was that he was not sooner at my side—I’d gotten through my third button already before he realised what I was doing.
“Sir, allow me to assist you…”
“If you’re sure, old thing.” I said, dropping my hands. I didn’t want to sound impatient or curt, but those buttons are a dashed nuisance, and the Wooster patience and delicacy rarely extends to inanimate objects. I was glad for the help.
“I should be most sure, sir, that all routines should be carried out and standards kept. I shouldn’t like this… circumstantial change to affect or impose upon you, sir. I would already feel a burden if…”
“If it wasn’t for the fact that I insisted. I know, old thing, feudal spirit and all that. Still, I… I didn’t like the look of that chap. More than just his look, I didn’t like anything about him.”
His hands shook slightly as he finished the tiny, time-consuming buttons of my shirt, and shimmered behind me. Once our eyes could not meet, he said, so quietly I had to question it being his voice or his thoughts, “He would not have been the first one to conduct inappropriately.”
To avoid another possible embarrassing remark on someone’s thoughts, and to ease my mind, I said, firmly, “You’ll tell me from now on, Jeeves, when there is a mistake in sleeping arrangements. Understood?”
I could hear in his voice that his eyebrow was raised with, if not disapproval, then some form of curiosity. “Mistake, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves, mistake. Because it would be a mistake to put you in a compromising position, particularly when it involves the likes of… scummy people, Jeeves. Not rummy, but scummy, if that’s a word. Now am I understood?”
“Clearly, sir.” His voice had taken on that softly veiled gratitude that it held when we first agreed I would protect him from Coswick. He finally seemed to find my pyjamas from the front of the protruding wardrobe, for he returned, the heliotropes draped perfectly over one arm. He left them on the chair, and turned back to me, his thoughts reverberating in the room once more.
“This will not be as difficult as it seems. I will be able to conceal myself well enough.” I say, was there some sort of wardrobe malfunction? Had Jeeves forgotten his pyjamas?
“Jeeves, you’ve brought your pyjamas, I trust?”
His eyebrow gave a higher raise that usual, “Ah, yes, sir. They, along with my other vestments, are in my portmanteau, sir. I shall not change into nightwear, sir, until you are in bed yourself—perhaps asleep altogether, if that is acceptable, sir.”
I waved the notion of my disapproval away, “As you wish, Jeeves, as you wish. Just thought I’d check.” He slid the shirt from my shoulders as I reconsidered what his trouble might be. What need he conceal himself from? What did he want access to? Lord, but surely it couldn’t be that.
I repressed the thought; tonight would not be the night for misdemeanours.
“Good God, but it is always this difficult...” Well, really. It was, I reflected, a bit bizarre to hear Jeeves’ voice give incomplete thoughts, let alone casual and slightly blasphemous ones. And what was this difficulty he kept recounting to himself. I knew not much more about him now that I could read his mind than I did when I couldn’t read his mind.
He finished putting on the pyjama shirt, “There, and is it silk upon silk? It would seem so.” I say, what? No, I mean it, what? It was, as so many things are, beyond Bertram’s comprehension. I persisted listening to him, deciding whatever it was that troubled him, he would be able to sort it out as always he did. It was still Jeeves, after all. The paragon among men, the miracle of the century, the diamond in the rough.
I undid the buttons of my trousers and pulled down my togs, trying very hard not to think of how to catch a glimpse of Jeeves sans uniform. As he helped me into the pyjama pants, I heard more of his musings, but drowned them out with my own self-chastisement. It really wasn’t cricket of me, after all, to think such inappropriate thoughts about my man, especially in his presence, and of course I would never really abuse his trust like that. Still, it made me feel rather hypo... hypoglycaemic? Hypoactive?
“Jeeves, what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“That would likely depend on the meaning of the word, sir. ”
“You know, Jeeves, doing something you’ve told others not to do? Hippopotamus?”
He almost smiled, “Ah, sir, you mean hypocritical.”
“That’s the baby. Now,” I yawned, not remembering how or why I’d felt hypo-thing. “Bedtime for Bertram, I think, Jeeves.”
“Very good, sir.” He turned down the sheets, saw the y. m. comfortably ensconced in his bed, and shimmered over to extinguish the light. He readied himself for his nightcap in the washroom, but soon the white noise of the faucet running gave way to voices. Not the familiar sonorous buzz of Jeeves’ thoughts, but a wave of unbridled, random ideas roaming about. The rest of the house had fallen asleep, and their dreams were taking rule.
I closed my eyes, hoping and praying I would be able to drift into a dream of my own, that these wanton thoughts would leave me be, but no such luck.
The first image that came to me was either Honoria’s dream, or Bertram’s nightmare. I watched from afar as a doppelganger of self stood at the gallows, watching the blushing Glossop all but trot her way down the aisle, streams of long white dress trailing after her like some sea monster’s tendrils. I realised then that this was certainly Honoria’s dream, rather than my own nightmare, because the dream-Bertram in sponge-bag trousers was smiling, nay, beaming while Pop Glossop tried to keep up with his eager daughter. I shuddered, mentally and physically, and pulled the covers up over me. The glow from the bathroom had ceased; Jeeves was in bed. I restrained myself from saying this phrase out loud, but the metaphorical sound of it alone soothed me out of repulsion. My mind relaxed, leaving me, I suppose, vulnerable to another mental ambush.
Another image came to me, this one could only have been Miss Melody Misselane’s dream. It was more horrific, more appalling than even its predecessor. This time the doppelganger Bertram was, mark my words, making love to the Misselane menace. I started in my dreamless daze, sitting up in my bed quietly. Surely, nothing could be worse than that. I closed my eyes as a man’s voice entered my midst.
His voice was growing hoarse from shouting; Colonel was back in Africa, in what I’d estimated to be the Second Boer War, giving commands and shouting for his comrades. He was calling out for a man named Arthur Raffles, but there was no reply, and he had to move his troops on. The dust, the smoke, the screams of terror, pain and worry, clouded his vision and his mind. He awoke in a hospital, and knew no more. I opened my eyes, wanting to know no more, pitying the Colonel, pitying the Arthur Raffles who was lost, and Manders, the man who wept for him, refusing to leave.
Another man’s voice was whispering in tones one would speak in while reciting poetry to Madeline Bassett. I slunk back, weary, seeking comfort in all the gentleness humanity could cling to.
Comfort though I needed, I did not need to see Worthing’s conjured images to know that he was dippy over Melody. He was whispering sweet nothings to her, while she giggled girlishly, and the unseen and unbidden Bertram repressed the urge to be sick. Three love-sworn souls and a war veteran in one night, and Bertram W. Wooster was wishing I’d never met that damned woman. Indeed, my life would be much better if I was never made to meet a single woman, ever. Barring, perhaps, my mother, lest I not come into existence. After that, however, Bertram could have lived in a male’s-only world with a song in his heart. This, I mused on exasperatedly, before yet another voice echoed into the room.
Tuppy was sitting, simple as a not at all complex person, noshing on steak and kidney pies. To his right, at a small table, was Angela, with a ring on her finger, her pretty head notably divested of hats, animal-like or otherwise. This, while admittedly a little boring, was a sight for very, very sore eyes. Here, I could relax, so long as the dream did not turn into a nightmare.
After an eternity of watching Tuppy shovel perpetually replenishing food into his mouth and Angela looking on fondly, I was beckoned by a voice I could not refuse.
We were no longer in Ditteridge Hall, nor Brinkley Court, but our own cosy abode, in our own sitting room. We sat beside one another on the sofa. I leaned slightly into him, my head resting on his chest, his arms wrapped around me in a languid, lazy grip. One hand held his upon my shoulder, the other wrapped about his waist from behind. His chin nestled in my hair, and every so often he would breathe deeply, his eyes would close in bliss, or he would slightly, ever so slightly, smile. I, too, appeared to have a sleepy smile on my map. The golden glow to it all only enhanced the surrealism of the dream—of my dream, if it was my dream. Whosoever's dream it was, it allowed me to slip into Morpheus’ arms unknowingly.
I woke feeling as though I’d sleepwalked to the Gobi and tried to consume it. That is to say, I needed water rather desperately.
The voices were faded; as though the rest of the house was in such a deep sleep even the dreams were slower and lethargic. I tiptoed, reminding myself that Jeeves was somewhere in the dark, and trying through my muddled daze to remember where his bed had been...
Too late. I’d collided with the bed, swore, and apologised to Jeeves before I even opened my eyes properly. He, to his credit, did not seem perturbed by the sudden addition of the y. m. to his weight. I was trying to regain my orientation when he gently, wordlessly and effortlessly brought me into his arms. This was, indeed, a compromising posish. If I stayed here, like I bally well wanted to, he would eventually wake, say ‘what the dickens?’, although perhaps not exactly those words, and I may as well be valet-less. If I tried to disentangle myself, he’d wake up even sooner, and the cycle repeat.
I made a compromise with myself; I would very carefully and slowly disentangle myself, in an effort to both keep Jeeves asleep, and spend a little bit of time, if not eating the forbidden fruit, I suppose just marvelling at it in all its forbidden tasty wonder.
I tried to memorise the warmth of him first, the feel of his arms around me, just as they’d been in my—had it been my? Yes, surely, my—dream. His breathing seemed much more laboured than ever it was in his wakefulness. His great hand curled around my shoulder, and I chanced a touch before removing said g. h.
It must have taken ten minutes to get off Jeeves and his little cot, but I’d be dashed if I didn't enjoy every bit of it. More fruity images had been conjured from somewhere, this time of Jeeves and I kissing in a rather delicious way. He’d remained a sleep, somehow, and I thanked goodness for my willowy frame. Of course, he didn’t sleep long hours, as he was often not down for the count until the middle of the night and always up at the crack of dawn. If he didn’t sleep much, he must have slept well.
“Good night, Jeeves.” I smiled down at his sleeping form; the hair was mussed in the night, and the sight of him out of his uniform is alien to me, but somehow he stayed perfect even in his deepest philosophy-doused sleep. “Hope you’re having pleasant dreams, old fruit. I know I will be.” I thought to kiss his forehead, his cheek, or his hair, or his hand, but stopped myself immediately, and tried to remember how I’d gotten tangled up in the first place.
The water! I made my way, tiptoeing and toetipping into the kitchen. I flicked on the light switch, and let out a manly scream.
“Darling, shush, I’m just getting some water! You’ll wake the whole house!”
Chapter: 6/12
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster. *Raffles&Bunny cameo*
Summary: See Chapter 1.
Warnings: Fillies mooning over Bertie! Death! Sex! Destruction! War! Darling!
Chapter Rating: PG-13
He seemed, at first, neutral to the arrangements. It was only after his first line of thought that I was able to gauge just how uncomfortable he was.
“To spend the night so close to him… lord, let me sleep the whole night. Let me fall into deep, exhausted sleep. To dreamless sleep.”
I had no idea why he was thinking such macabre thoughts. I’d assumed he was worried about being able to fall asleep.
“Don’t worry, old fruit. I won’t make a peep.”
He gave me a flash of a wide-eyed stare, before he could put back on his inscrutable frog face. “When? Why won’t you make any noise? What are you doing?”
“Sir?”
“I’m just saying, Jeeves. In case you’re worried about falling asleep tonight. I won’t make a peep, I promise. I’ll pretend you’re not here, if it helps you.
“If only I could pretend you weren’t here. That is the real problem.”
“Oh, I say! Not very decent of you, old chap.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Oh, you… oh.” What was he thinking I would do? What was so terrible about sharing a room with me? I suppose he treasured his time alone in his lair, missed his solitude, undoubtedly spent pondering the mysteries of the universe, solving them, and then coming up with another mystery just for the fun of it. Reading improving books and, I suppose, sleeping. All but bothering with Wooster, all but listening to him babble, all but acknowledging his existence. It depressed me, I hide it not.
Still, I turned my back to him, where he sat looking uncomfortably pensive on his cot. I listened in for more of his thoughts, but they only muddled me further. Now I was completely lost as to what he was worrying about.
“My prayers have been answered only after they’ve been misinterpreted. When I begged, when I longed to be allowed in his chambers, it was not the only thing I wanted access to…”
I started, pretending to loosen my tie and prepare for bed while listening to the unexpected line of thought. It was a testament to how distracted he was that he was not sooner at my side—I’d gotten through my third button already before he realised what I was doing.
“Sir, allow me to assist you…”
“If you’re sure, old thing.” I said, dropping my hands. I didn’t want to sound impatient or curt, but those buttons are a dashed nuisance, and the Wooster patience and delicacy rarely extends to inanimate objects. I was glad for the help.
“I should be most sure, sir, that all routines should be carried out and standards kept. I shouldn’t like this… circumstantial change to affect or impose upon you, sir. I would already feel a burden if…”
“If it wasn’t for the fact that I insisted. I know, old thing, feudal spirit and all that. Still, I… I didn’t like the look of that chap. More than just his look, I didn’t like anything about him.”
His hands shook slightly as he finished the tiny, time-consuming buttons of my shirt, and shimmered behind me. Once our eyes could not meet, he said, so quietly I had to question it being his voice or his thoughts, “He would not have been the first one to conduct inappropriately.”
To avoid another possible embarrassing remark on someone’s thoughts, and to ease my mind, I said, firmly, “You’ll tell me from now on, Jeeves, when there is a mistake in sleeping arrangements. Understood?”
I could hear in his voice that his eyebrow was raised with, if not disapproval, then some form of curiosity. “Mistake, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves, mistake. Because it would be a mistake to put you in a compromising position, particularly when it involves the likes of… scummy people, Jeeves. Not rummy, but scummy, if that’s a word. Now am I understood?”
“Clearly, sir.” His voice had taken on that softly veiled gratitude that it held when we first agreed I would protect him from Coswick. He finally seemed to find my pyjamas from the front of the protruding wardrobe, for he returned, the heliotropes draped perfectly over one arm. He left them on the chair, and turned back to me, his thoughts reverberating in the room once more.
“This will not be as difficult as it seems. I will be able to conceal myself well enough.” I say, was there some sort of wardrobe malfunction? Had Jeeves forgotten his pyjamas?
“Jeeves, you’ve brought your pyjamas, I trust?”
His eyebrow gave a higher raise that usual, “Ah, yes, sir. They, along with my other vestments, are in my portmanteau, sir. I shall not change into nightwear, sir, until you are in bed yourself—perhaps asleep altogether, if that is acceptable, sir.”
I waved the notion of my disapproval away, “As you wish, Jeeves, as you wish. Just thought I’d check.” He slid the shirt from my shoulders as I reconsidered what his trouble might be. What need he conceal himself from? What did he want access to? Lord, but surely it couldn’t be that.
I repressed the thought; tonight would not be the night for misdemeanours.
“Good God, but it is always this difficult...” Well, really. It was, I reflected, a bit bizarre to hear Jeeves’ voice give incomplete thoughts, let alone casual and slightly blasphemous ones. And what was this difficulty he kept recounting to himself. I knew not much more about him now that I could read his mind than I did when I couldn’t read his mind.
He finished putting on the pyjama shirt, “There, and is it silk upon silk? It would seem so.” I say, what? No, I mean it, what? It was, as so many things are, beyond Bertram’s comprehension. I persisted listening to him, deciding whatever it was that troubled him, he would be able to sort it out as always he did. It was still Jeeves, after all. The paragon among men, the miracle of the century, the diamond in the rough.
I undid the buttons of my trousers and pulled down my togs, trying very hard not to think of how to catch a glimpse of Jeeves sans uniform. As he helped me into the pyjama pants, I heard more of his musings, but drowned them out with my own self-chastisement. It really wasn’t cricket of me, after all, to think such inappropriate thoughts about my man, especially in his presence, and of course I would never really abuse his trust like that. Still, it made me feel rather hypo... hypoglycaemic? Hypoactive?
“Jeeves, what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“That would likely depend on the meaning of the word, sir. ”
“You know, Jeeves, doing something you’ve told others not to do? Hippopotamus?”
He almost smiled, “Ah, sir, you mean hypocritical.”
“That’s the baby. Now,” I yawned, not remembering how or why I’d felt hypo-thing. “Bedtime for Bertram, I think, Jeeves.”
“Very good, sir.” He turned down the sheets, saw the y. m. comfortably ensconced in his bed, and shimmered over to extinguish the light. He readied himself for his nightcap in the washroom, but soon the white noise of the faucet running gave way to voices. Not the familiar sonorous buzz of Jeeves’ thoughts, but a wave of unbridled, random ideas roaming about. The rest of the house had fallen asleep, and their dreams were taking rule.
I closed my eyes, hoping and praying I would be able to drift into a dream of my own, that these wanton thoughts would leave me be, but no such luck.
The first image that came to me was either Honoria’s dream, or Bertram’s nightmare. I watched from afar as a doppelganger of self stood at the gallows, watching the blushing Glossop all but trot her way down the aisle, streams of long white dress trailing after her like some sea monster’s tendrils. I realised then that this was certainly Honoria’s dream, rather than my own nightmare, because the dream-Bertram in sponge-bag trousers was smiling, nay, beaming while Pop Glossop tried to keep up with his eager daughter. I shuddered, mentally and physically, and pulled the covers up over me. The glow from the bathroom had ceased; Jeeves was in bed. I restrained myself from saying this phrase out loud, but the metaphorical sound of it alone soothed me out of repulsion. My mind relaxed, leaving me, I suppose, vulnerable to another mental ambush.
Another image came to me, this one could only have been Miss Melody Misselane’s dream. It was more horrific, more appalling than even its predecessor. This time the doppelganger Bertram was, mark my words, making love to the Misselane menace. I started in my dreamless daze, sitting up in my bed quietly. Surely, nothing could be worse than that. I closed my eyes as a man’s voice entered my midst.
His voice was growing hoarse from shouting; Colonel was back in Africa, in what I’d estimated to be the Second Boer War, giving commands and shouting for his comrades. He was calling out for a man named Arthur Raffles, but there was no reply, and he had to move his troops on. The dust, the smoke, the screams of terror, pain and worry, clouded his vision and his mind. He awoke in a hospital, and knew no more. I opened my eyes, wanting to know no more, pitying the Colonel, pitying the Arthur Raffles who was lost, and Manders, the man who wept for him, refusing to leave.
Another man’s voice was whispering in tones one would speak in while reciting poetry to Madeline Bassett. I slunk back, weary, seeking comfort in all the gentleness humanity could cling to.
Comfort though I needed, I did not need to see Worthing’s conjured images to know that he was dippy over Melody. He was whispering sweet nothings to her, while she giggled girlishly, and the unseen and unbidden Bertram repressed the urge to be sick. Three love-sworn souls and a war veteran in one night, and Bertram W. Wooster was wishing I’d never met that damned woman. Indeed, my life would be much better if I was never made to meet a single woman, ever. Barring, perhaps, my mother, lest I not come into existence. After that, however, Bertram could have lived in a male’s-only world with a song in his heart. This, I mused on exasperatedly, before yet another voice echoed into the room.
Tuppy was sitting, simple as a not at all complex person, noshing on steak and kidney pies. To his right, at a small table, was Angela, with a ring on her finger, her pretty head notably divested of hats, animal-like or otherwise. This, while admittedly a little boring, was a sight for very, very sore eyes. Here, I could relax, so long as the dream did not turn into a nightmare.
After an eternity of watching Tuppy shovel perpetually replenishing food into his mouth and Angela looking on fondly, I was beckoned by a voice I could not refuse.
We were no longer in Ditteridge Hall, nor Brinkley Court, but our own cosy abode, in our own sitting room. We sat beside one another on the sofa. I leaned slightly into him, my head resting on his chest, his arms wrapped around me in a languid, lazy grip. One hand held his upon my shoulder, the other wrapped about his waist from behind. His chin nestled in my hair, and every so often he would breathe deeply, his eyes would close in bliss, or he would slightly, ever so slightly, smile. I, too, appeared to have a sleepy smile on my map. The golden glow to it all only enhanced the surrealism of the dream—of my dream, if it was my dream. Whosoever's dream it was, it allowed me to slip into Morpheus’ arms unknowingly.
I woke feeling as though I’d sleepwalked to the Gobi and tried to consume it. That is to say, I needed water rather desperately.
The voices were faded; as though the rest of the house was in such a deep sleep even the dreams were slower and lethargic. I tiptoed, reminding myself that Jeeves was somewhere in the dark, and trying through my muddled daze to remember where his bed had been...
Too late. I’d collided with the bed, swore, and apologised to Jeeves before I even opened my eyes properly. He, to his credit, did not seem perturbed by the sudden addition of the y. m. to his weight. I was trying to regain my orientation when he gently, wordlessly and effortlessly brought me into his arms. This was, indeed, a compromising posish. If I stayed here, like I bally well wanted to, he would eventually wake, say ‘what the dickens?’, although perhaps not exactly those words, and I may as well be valet-less. If I tried to disentangle myself, he’d wake up even sooner, and the cycle repeat.
I made a compromise with myself; I would very carefully and slowly disentangle myself, in an effort to both keep Jeeves asleep, and spend a little bit of time, if not eating the forbidden fruit, I suppose just marvelling at it in all its forbidden tasty wonder.
I tried to memorise the warmth of him first, the feel of his arms around me, just as they’d been in my—had it been my? Yes, surely, my—dream. His breathing seemed much more laboured than ever it was in his wakefulness. His great hand curled around my shoulder, and I chanced a touch before removing said g. h.
It must have taken ten minutes to get off Jeeves and his little cot, but I’d be dashed if I didn't enjoy every bit of it. More fruity images had been conjured from somewhere, this time of Jeeves and I kissing in a rather delicious way. He’d remained a sleep, somehow, and I thanked goodness for my willowy frame. Of course, he didn’t sleep long hours, as he was often not down for the count until the middle of the night and always up at the crack of dawn. If he didn’t sleep much, he must have slept well.
“Good night, Jeeves.” I smiled down at his sleeping form; the hair was mussed in the night, and the sight of him out of his uniform is alien to me, but somehow he stayed perfect even in his deepest philosophy-doused sleep. “Hope you’re having pleasant dreams, old fruit. I know I will be.” I thought to kiss his forehead, his cheek, or his hair, or his hand, but stopped myself immediately, and tried to remember how I’d gotten tangled up in the first place.
The water! I made my way, tiptoeing and toetipping into the kitchen. I flicked on the light switch, and let out a manly scream.
“Darling, shush, I’m just getting some water! You’ll wake the whole house!”
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Date: 2010-07-03 05:49 am (UTC)One historical note: the Boer Wars were fought in South Africa, not India, but yay for Raffles and Bunny! *kermitflail*
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Date: 2010-07-03 06:56 am (UTC)He is, the dear. Glad you liked.
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Date: 2010-07-03 07:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 08:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 06:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 06:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 08:03 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2010-07-03 08:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 08:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 08:53 am (UTC)So frickin' adorable, these two!! Oh B, you're so damned dense. Listen to your man just once in a while! -facepalms at the lot- And OMGcliffhanger?!?! -clutches heart- Oh dash it, I'm dying again!
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Date: 2010-07-03 09:04 am (UTC)By your wounds you are healed.
Glad you're enjoying ;) Hopefully won't be so dreadfully long with the next one... RL is kicking my backside lately.
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Date: 2010-07-03 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 10:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 11:48 am (UTC)Yeah right, Bertie... I bet it was really manly :D
I too find Bertie's thickness a bit frustrating, but on the other hand I love it that the cat's not out of the bag yet! Because it means there will be more of this awesomeness :)
Can't wait for more!
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Date: 2010-07-03 03:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 01:20 pm (UTC)i) Goddamn adorable these two are
ii) Dense Bertie is.
iii) Much I'm loving this story <3333
Aw! The Raffles and Bunny reference :'C *sweeps broken-heart-dust off the floor*
Thank god nobody was home whilst I was reading this, at the end I shouted 'WHAT THE FUCK?! GTFO! THEY WERE HAVING A MOMENT!!' Reaally loud xDDD
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Date: 2010-07-03 03:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 04:04 pm (UTC)BUT NOW THE QUESTION! WHOOOOO IS IN THE KITCHEN? 8U BUM BUM BUMBUMBUM BUUUUUM! Can't wait for more! X3
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Date: 2010-07-03 07:49 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2010-07-03 07:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 07:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-04 12:56 am (UTC)And OMG Raffles! I just finished reading a book of Raffles stories and was reduced to pathetic tears by the end. *sniffle*
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Date: 2010-07-04 01:48 am (UTC):3 I like how Bertie can "hear" people's dreams as well as thoughts. It means his powers are logical!
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Date: 2010-07-04 10:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-05 12:16 am (UTC)Much <3 for this fic, as usual :)
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Date: 2010-07-05 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-05 06:05 am (UTC)Thank you!