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indeedsir_backupHallo, hallo, hallo! This is my first proper Jaunt into writing anything for Jeeves and Wooster, however it is certainly not my first jaunt into Wodehouse's wonderful world. I suppose I'm a bit nervous that I've gone and caused several massive environmental disasters, because I'm sure old Plum is spinning in his grave right about now. The reason I'm posting this in parts is because it's my first legitimate fic in this fandom, and I am in desperate need (or rather, want) of a beta.
Deep breaths, here we go.
Title: Jeeves and The Children's Charity Ball (Chapter 1)
Author: tin_antiquity
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: G? PG? I dunno. *shrug*
Words: 1839
Summary: Bingo has fallen head over heels once again, and this time, it's Bertie's help he needs, no Jeeveses need apply. This necessitates wibble!Bertie, dance lessons and reminiscing.
Disclaimer: THEY STILL. AREN'T. MINE. DAMN IT ALL.
Author's Notes: This is my first sojourn into writing Jeeves and Wooster, so any constructive criticism is vastly helpful.
I suppose it has always been a well-known fact to anyone who’s ever dropped themselves into one of the many tales in the vast Wooster back catalogue that my man Jeeves is an absolute marvel, and not just in the field of valeting (at which he excels, of course.) This marvelous-ness he possesses seems to follow him wherever he goes, in whatever he does, whether it be valeting, buttling, scheming, plotting or generally pulling Bertram out of the soup. He always seems to be floating about, doing something productive and useful, and he’s always near me whenever I need him. Naturally, one would have a high opinion of an absolute savior such as Jeeves, but I like to think I go a bit above and beyond the status quo in the Jeeves-appreciaction department.
I must warn you, dear reader, that this tale does veer off a bit into the soppier side of things. Now, I’m certain some of you must be thinking to yourselves “Wooster has fallen for some poor, unsuspecting female? The poor dear.” However, that is not the case, reader. No, it is no unsuspecting female I have fallen for, rather, it’s an unsuspecting valet.
Now, some of my more perceptive readers may have picked up on it by now: I think Jeeves is the smartest, brightest, and brainiest cove in all of Old Blighty. However, many of you have probably ‘til now been left in the dark as to how deep my affections for the aforementioned paragon run. Not only is Jeeves the brainiest and brightest, he’s also the most handsome and dashing chap I’ve seen in a rather long while.
Yes, it seems my heart has been thoroughly ensconced in the warm, valet-y grip of love. However, it had not escaped my notice that, upon my realization, I knew next to nothing about Jeeves. I didn’t have an inkling as to what his first name may have been, or if he even had a first name. He had been in my employ for eleven months at this point, and all I knew was that he had a fondness of that Spinoza chappie, and was possessed of an absolute myriad of astounding talents.
One of these skills, one that had (only until recently) escaped my knowledge happened to be the uncanny ability to turn my insides to something rather a lot like jam, or rather, he seemed to be able to turn all of the Wooster corpus into the sweet and spreadable (jam, I mean).
All Jeeves had to do to make the pins go wobbly and the eyes starrier than Madeline Basset’s was to straighten my tie, or waft into the room to help me face the cruel, bright morning. This presented quite a problem you understand, for those are both duties he must regularly perform as my valet. What I mean to say is that, when all Jeeves had to do to make Bertram go soppy as a doe-eyed female was walk (or rather, waft) into the bally room, then a course of action had to be taken to prevent uncomfortable tenseness and raised Jeevesian eyebrows.
I can only guess that it was this tendency for the innards to go wobbly and jam-like at said r. J. e.s that was sure to give me away in such a situation as the one I was to face. Said sitch. saw me with my hand placed lightly in one capable Jeevesian paw, with the other capable paw at my waist, while I gripped at his shoulder helplessly, not unlike some love-struck beazel from a Rosie M. Banks novel or some other such rot. In fact, I’m certain that the only thing preventing me from looking the spitting image of one of Ms. Banks’ hopeless, mooning fillies was that I was not in possession of long, flowing locks or a billowy gown, nor was I an escaped servant girl seeking solace in the arms of her one true love, the captain of the HMS Thingummy.
But you see, I’ve done it again. I’ve bunged you right into the middle of the story, and given you no explanation as to how I came to be in such a rotten situation, I’ve started you off a bit too much in the Media of the Res, you see. Some chaps can pull that off, use it to get right to the action and all
that, but not I. I fear I may never fully master the skill. But any-who.
I suppose the blame could be placed squarely on none other than Bingo Little. You see, old Bingo has always been a dreadfully romantic sort of chap, always chasing after this girl or that one. His most recent objet de l’affection was a fiery-headed woman of substantial wealth who happened to work for a children’s charity. He had been chasing after her for a sigh-filled, soppy fortnight when I received a call from the old blighter. Said c. from the o. b. came whilst I was lounging around the flat, curled up with a rather riveting new mystery novel about a detective who could communicate with the dead. Corking stuff, what? I was pulled from my reading by the sound of a sheep giving a wise cough on some far off hilltop. It took me a moment to realize that I was not actually on a hill somewhere in France or Sweden or what have you, nor where there any elderly sheep present. “Ah, it must be Jeeves!” I thought.
“Ah, Jeeves, it must be you!”
Jeeves’ answer was a slight quirk of the eyebrow, and another small cough. He spoke.
“Indeed it is, sir. Mr. Little is on the telephone for you. It seems he requires your assistance in solving a recent romantic matter. Shall I tell him you are ill, Sir?”
Jeeves asked with with a slight quirk of the lips. I replied with a smile of my own.
“No, no, Jeeves. Unfortunately, I saw Bingo at the Drone’s yesterday, so I suppose I’ll just have to brave the love-struck buffoon, what?”
Immediately, he was asking (or rather, begging) me to give him and his ‘Tender Goddess’ lunch at the flat.
“Please, Bertie. I beg of you, do this for your old pal.” He pleaded, and I could practically hear him bending on one knee.
“Well, old thing,” --I drew in a sharp breath through my teeth here, for dramatic effect, you see-- “I don’t know.” At this, bingo let loose a pained wail, and attempted to resume pleading, but I plowed onward. “I mean, I was rather hoping to entertain Aunt Dahlia and old Angela and Tuppy at the flat tomorrow.”
I had no intention of doing such a thing, but I thought Bingo might deserve a bit of worry for all of the trouble he threw him self into over the sight of a strong profile.
“Oh, please, Bertie! She’s just so marvelous, Gladys is! She’s an absolute Tender Goddess, Bertie. Please, old thing. It will only be for one afternoon, and besides, we were at school together, old fruit, remember?”
I gave an exasperated –or is it exuberated? Oh well, I’ll have to ask Jeeves when I get the chance—sigh before speaking once again.
“Well, very well, Bingo, but only because I’ve known you for so long. Really now, why couldn’t you just give the old girl lunch at some nice restaurant or other?”
Bingo sounded absolutely scandalized as he answered my inquiry.
“A restaurant? Are you mad, Bertie? A lady such as Gladys needs the utmost privacy and confidentiality when planning such an important event. Really, Bertie, I’d think you would know better!”
I flopped the arms about a bit in indignation before realizing that Bingo couldn’t actually see me doing my best impression of a flounder that has suddenly been met by a rather large amount of very dry air. I gathered my wits before responding.
“I say, Bingo, that’s no way to treat a chap, what? Now, what’s all this talk of important events and whatnot? I thought you were trying to court the girl, not hire her to plan the next Drone’s Ball!”
“That’s just it, Bertie! Gladys is planning a ball, a Charity Ball, and she needs someplace peaceful and secluded to discuss her plans with me! My place is being repainted, so it wouldn’t do at all. Aside from that, she needs your help.”
I resumed my absolutely corking impression of a landed flounder.
“My help? Why would she need my help?” I spluttered.
“You see, Bertie, the charity ball is to raise money for orphans, children who’ve lost their—“
“I know what an orphan is Bingo, I’m rather personally acquainted with the term, what.”
“That’s my point, Bertie, she wants to talk to you about your experiences, about what you think the children will need, aside from an armful of hugs, I mean. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, old thing, but I just thought, well, seeing as you…”
I must admit, I felt a warm, spreading whatsit throughout the Wooster frame at this statement, along with no small amount of sadness and sympathy for the young things. I told Bingo as much.
“Oh, dear. Of course I’ll talk to the girl, Bingo. It does seem a worthy cause, what? Well, I suppose you can bring her ‘round here tomorrow afternoon, old thing.”
Bingo let out a sigh, and spoke. “Oh, thank you, Bertie! This really will be great, you’ll see. I’m certain you’ll be invited to merry-make and dance along with us at the ball! Thanks ever so much, old thing. How does one o’ clock tomorrow sound?”
I murmured in the affirmative, and the call quickly drew to a close.
I returned to my fireside lounging in something of a daze. You see, Bingo’s words had troubled me somewhat. I mean, Bertram is as much a fan of merry-making as the next cove. It’s the dancing part I was worried about. I’d never been much of a stepper, and this was not something I was willing to flaunt in front of the Drones, let alone a large group of respectable people at a respectable Charity Ball. Assorted people have tried and failed to teach me how to step lightly and fluidly without trampling their unsuspecting toes to smithereens.
It was with these thoughts that I returned to my tale of dashing detective and dastardly ghouls. I found it hard to focus, my mind to preoccupied with worries. Not only did I think about my dancing skills “or rather embarrassing lack thereof), but I thought of the young children the dance was to be held in honor of.
I thought about how sad they must be, about how sad young Bertram had felt when my own parents left this world. It filled me with a sneaking suspicion that there would be tears in the old baby blues at some point in my coming conversation with Ms. Gladys Webley.
Deep breaths, here we go.
Title: Jeeves and The Children's Charity Ball (Chapter 1)
Author: tin_antiquity
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: G? PG? I dunno. *shrug*
Words: 1839
Summary: Bingo has fallen head over heels once again, and this time, it's Bertie's help he needs, no Jeeveses need apply. This necessitates wibble!Bertie, dance lessons and reminiscing.
Disclaimer: THEY STILL. AREN'T. MINE. DAMN IT ALL.
Author's Notes: This is my first sojourn into writing Jeeves and Wooster, so any constructive criticism is vastly helpful.
I suppose it has always been a well-known fact to anyone who’s ever dropped themselves into one of the many tales in the vast Wooster back catalogue that my man Jeeves is an absolute marvel, and not just in the field of valeting (at which he excels, of course.) This marvelous-ness he possesses seems to follow him wherever he goes, in whatever he does, whether it be valeting, buttling, scheming, plotting or generally pulling Bertram out of the soup. He always seems to be floating about, doing something productive and useful, and he’s always near me whenever I need him. Naturally, one would have a high opinion of an absolute savior such as Jeeves, but I like to think I go a bit above and beyond the status quo in the Jeeves-appreciaction department.
I must warn you, dear reader, that this tale does veer off a bit into the soppier side of things. Now, I’m certain some of you must be thinking to yourselves “Wooster has fallen for some poor, unsuspecting female? The poor dear.” However, that is not the case, reader. No, it is no unsuspecting female I have fallen for, rather, it’s an unsuspecting valet.
Now, some of my more perceptive readers may have picked up on it by now: I think Jeeves is the smartest, brightest, and brainiest cove in all of Old Blighty. However, many of you have probably ‘til now been left in the dark as to how deep my affections for the aforementioned paragon run. Not only is Jeeves the brainiest and brightest, he’s also the most handsome and dashing chap I’ve seen in a rather long while.
Yes, it seems my heart has been thoroughly ensconced in the warm, valet-y grip of love. However, it had not escaped my notice that, upon my realization, I knew next to nothing about Jeeves. I didn’t have an inkling as to what his first name may have been, or if he even had a first name. He had been in my employ for eleven months at this point, and all I knew was that he had a fondness of that Spinoza chappie, and was possessed of an absolute myriad of astounding talents.
One of these skills, one that had (only until recently) escaped my knowledge happened to be the uncanny ability to turn my insides to something rather a lot like jam, or rather, he seemed to be able to turn all of the Wooster corpus into the sweet and spreadable (jam, I mean).
All Jeeves had to do to make the pins go wobbly and the eyes starrier than Madeline Basset’s was to straighten my tie, or waft into the room to help me face the cruel, bright morning. This presented quite a problem you understand, for those are both duties he must regularly perform as my valet. What I mean to say is that, when all Jeeves had to do to make Bertram go soppy as a doe-eyed female was walk (or rather, waft) into the bally room, then a course of action had to be taken to prevent uncomfortable tenseness and raised Jeevesian eyebrows.
I can only guess that it was this tendency for the innards to go wobbly and jam-like at said r. J. e.s that was sure to give me away in such a situation as the one I was to face. Said sitch. saw me with my hand placed lightly in one capable Jeevesian paw, with the other capable paw at my waist, while I gripped at his shoulder helplessly, not unlike some love-struck beazel from a Rosie M. Banks novel or some other such rot. In fact, I’m certain that the only thing preventing me from looking the spitting image of one of Ms. Banks’ hopeless, mooning fillies was that I was not in possession of long, flowing locks or a billowy gown, nor was I an escaped servant girl seeking solace in the arms of her one true love, the captain of the HMS Thingummy.
But you see, I’ve done it again. I’ve bunged you right into the middle of the story, and given you no explanation as to how I came to be in such a rotten situation, I’ve started you off a bit too much in the Media of the Res, you see. Some chaps can pull that off, use it to get right to the action and all
that, but not I. I fear I may never fully master the skill. But any-who.
I suppose the blame could be placed squarely on none other than Bingo Little. You see, old Bingo has always been a dreadfully romantic sort of chap, always chasing after this girl or that one. His most recent objet de l’affection was a fiery-headed woman of substantial wealth who happened to work for a children’s charity. He had been chasing after her for a sigh-filled, soppy fortnight when I received a call from the old blighter. Said c. from the o. b. came whilst I was lounging around the flat, curled up with a rather riveting new mystery novel about a detective who could communicate with the dead. Corking stuff, what? I was pulled from my reading by the sound of a sheep giving a wise cough on some far off hilltop. It took me a moment to realize that I was not actually on a hill somewhere in France or Sweden or what have you, nor where there any elderly sheep present. “Ah, it must be Jeeves!” I thought.
“Ah, Jeeves, it must be you!”
Jeeves’ answer was a slight quirk of the eyebrow, and another small cough. He spoke.
“Indeed it is, sir. Mr. Little is on the telephone for you. It seems he requires your assistance in solving a recent romantic matter. Shall I tell him you are ill, Sir?”
Jeeves asked with with a slight quirk of the lips. I replied with a smile of my own.
“No, no, Jeeves. Unfortunately, I saw Bingo at the Drone’s yesterday, so I suppose I’ll just have to brave the love-struck buffoon, what?”
Immediately, he was asking (or rather, begging) me to give him and his ‘Tender Goddess’ lunch at the flat.
“Please, Bertie. I beg of you, do this for your old pal.” He pleaded, and I could practically hear him bending on one knee.
“Well, old thing,” --I drew in a sharp breath through my teeth here, for dramatic effect, you see-- “I don’t know.” At this, bingo let loose a pained wail, and attempted to resume pleading, but I plowed onward. “I mean, I was rather hoping to entertain Aunt Dahlia and old Angela and Tuppy at the flat tomorrow.”
I had no intention of doing such a thing, but I thought Bingo might deserve a bit of worry for all of the trouble he threw him self into over the sight of a strong profile.
“Oh, please, Bertie! She’s just so marvelous, Gladys is! She’s an absolute Tender Goddess, Bertie. Please, old thing. It will only be for one afternoon, and besides, we were at school together, old fruit, remember?”
I gave an exasperated –or is it exuberated? Oh well, I’ll have to ask Jeeves when I get the chance—sigh before speaking once again.
“Well, very well, Bingo, but only because I’ve known you for so long. Really now, why couldn’t you just give the old girl lunch at some nice restaurant or other?”
Bingo sounded absolutely scandalized as he answered my inquiry.
“A restaurant? Are you mad, Bertie? A lady such as Gladys needs the utmost privacy and confidentiality when planning such an important event. Really, Bertie, I’d think you would know better!”
I flopped the arms about a bit in indignation before realizing that Bingo couldn’t actually see me doing my best impression of a flounder that has suddenly been met by a rather large amount of very dry air. I gathered my wits before responding.
“I say, Bingo, that’s no way to treat a chap, what? Now, what’s all this talk of important events and whatnot? I thought you were trying to court the girl, not hire her to plan the next Drone’s Ball!”
“That’s just it, Bertie! Gladys is planning a ball, a Charity Ball, and she needs someplace peaceful and secluded to discuss her plans with me! My place is being repainted, so it wouldn’t do at all. Aside from that, she needs your help.”
I resumed my absolutely corking impression of a landed flounder.
“My help? Why would she need my help?” I spluttered.
“You see, Bertie, the charity ball is to raise money for orphans, children who’ve lost their—“
“I know what an orphan is Bingo, I’m rather personally acquainted with the term, what.”
“That’s my point, Bertie, she wants to talk to you about your experiences, about what you think the children will need, aside from an armful of hugs, I mean. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, old thing, but I just thought, well, seeing as you…”
I must admit, I felt a warm, spreading whatsit throughout the Wooster frame at this statement, along with no small amount of sadness and sympathy for the young things. I told Bingo as much.
“Oh, dear. Of course I’ll talk to the girl, Bingo. It does seem a worthy cause, what? Well, I suppose you can bring her ‘round here tomorrow afternoon, old thing.”
Bingo let out a sigh, and spoke. “Oh, thank you, Bertie! This really will be great, you’ll see. I’m certain you’ll be invited to merry-make and dance along with us at the ball! Thanks ever so much, old thing. How does one o’ clock tomorrow sound?”
I murmured in the affirmative, and the call quickly drew to a close.
I returned to my fireside lounging in something of a daze. You see, Bingo’s words had troubled me somewhat. I mean, Bertram is as much a fan of merry-making as the next cove. It’s the dancing part I was worried about. I’d never been much of a stepper, and this was not something I was willing to flaunt in front of the Drones, let alone a large group of respectable people at a respectable Charity Ball. Assorted people have tried and failed to teach me how to step lightly and fluidly without trampling their unsuspecting toes to smithereens.
It was with these thoughts that I returned to my tale of dashing detective and dastardly ghouls. I found it hard to focus, my mind to preoccupied with worries. Not only did I think about my dancing skills “or rather embarrassing lack thereof), but I thought of the young children the dance was to be held in honor of.
I thought about how sad they must be, about how sad young Bertram had felt when my own parents left this world. It filled me with a sneaking suspicion that there would be tears in the old baby blues at some point in my coming conversation with Ms. Gladys Webley.
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