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“Alright, cocky, what’ll be?” asked a gruff and uncouth sounding voice. His sharp eyes peered out at me from a small window of the thick wood wall that separates metropolitan bimbos from real men.
“Er, well, is the midnight tube still running, old man?” I asked in a meekish sort of voice. My compatriots grinned widely at me, nodding their heads and giving me hearty slaps on the back. The s.e’s from the window narrowed slightly, giving me the icy gimlet, before the window shut abruptly. In this instance I was ready to give it all up as a good effort and head back to the Drones, counting our losses, when the door clicked open.
“Right this way, cocky,” the voice from before sounded, now attached to a stooping body that, if not for the slouch, would have been about eight feet high, and possibly eight feet across. The sort of man that could give Roderick Spode a queasy sort of feeling in the tum if ever they had to quarrel. Our little entourage was led down metal stairs into an abandoned underground train station that had been outfitted into something of a modern colosseum to watch our fine gladiators brawl for money and honor. I’m not ashamed to say that I felt uneasy in my Saville Row togs and jaunty baby blue tie, walking past all these burly men in work shirts and filthy trousers.
Oh dash it all, I fear I’ve started far too close to the end of this story, what? That’s the problem with being a memorialist, one can never remember where you are when telling the story of one’s life. Start too early and we’re following my life as a mere stripling, picking wildflowers and stealing biscuits. Start too late and well… well we’ll get to that when we get there. Let’s start at the beginning of this particular tale, what? First, our characters.
There is of course myself, Bertie Wooster, amiable chap about town, then Bingo Little, love-lorn goofball of the first degree, Oofy Prosser, club millionaire and stingiest chap I had ever known in all my puff, and Freddie Widgeon, a known hanger-on. Following me so far? Good. I was passing a peaceful afternoon at the Drone’s Club one such lazy Tuesday ago, or perhaps it was Saturday, but that is not tantamount to the details. It was a lazy day, I mean to say, much like any other, when I was approached by the other three characters of this skit, looming over me as I was sunk comfortably low in my leather armchair.
“Ah, what ho, Bingo! What ho, Oofy! What ho, Freddie,” I said, giving them each a thoughtful wave of the hand.
“What ho, Bertie, what ho,” Bingo said, grinning like the cat that had got the cream. “What ho.”
“You’ve said that already,” I pointed out helpfully, as is in my nature.
“Oh, right ho,” Bingo said, and paused slightly before looking at Oofy, then Freddie, then back to self. “Say Bertie, would you like to make a bit of money?”
“Always, old horse,” I said truthfully. It isn’t like I’m not rolling in the stuff, but it never hurts to have a bit of extra dosh for rainy days, or for buying gifts for certain domestic paragons. I had my eye on an annotated copy of Spinoza’s best that I thought would be just the thing for such a brainy chap.
“Then come with us to see a bit of sport tonight! Oofy knows a fellow on the inside and he has it on good information that Reggie the Ravager is a cert! You’ll practically be losing money if you don’t come with us, old man!” he exclaimed emphatically. I pondered on this a bit, not enough to make a credit and debit list, but enough to get the noodle turning. I did always enjoy the thrill of watching a horse-race, and this would certainly be more entertaining than languishing alone at the flat on Jeeves’ night off, and I did stand to win a substantial lump. It intrigued me strangely.
“You intrigue me strangely, Bingo,” I told him. “Alright, I’ll head out with you tonight.”
“Good show, Bertie!” Bingo shouted, patting me roughly enough on the back to jostle the ash that had been accumulating on my cigarette during the events of this conversation. “And uh, since you’re such a good sport, could you lend Freddie and I both a tenner for the betting? Since you’ll probably make back double what you'll have given us, it’s basically nothing.”
I glared at him sharpishly, but dug into my purse regardless, knowing there is no arguing with Bingo when he's short on funds.
After a rousing game of card toss and bread roll cricket, and a hearty supper followed by cigars and port, we ambled our way through town to whatever this “sport” was that Bingo and the lads were so keen on showing me. Although, as we toddled around our environs started to take a rather drastic dip, as it were. The streets became dirtier, the language around us more coarse and I hadn’t seen a single imported tobacconist in ages. It was rather rum.
“Er uh, Bingo, old thing? Where is this horse-race anyway? This doesn’t look like any area I’m familiar with?” I warbled nervously. Bingo grinned like a devil.
“There is no horse-race, Bertie,” he replied, as cool as whatsit.
“Rugby match?”
“Nope!”
“A bit of night time water polo?”
“Nuh uh!”
“Dash it all where are you fellows taking me!” I bellowed, feeling more than completely pipped!
“Right here!” Oofy proclaimed, waving his hand like a magician demonstrating his beautiful assistant sawed a box in half or made a box disappear or however the dashed trick went. No matter, it would certainly be more impressive than what he was showing off, which looked to be the door of an abandoned underground tube train.
“Oofy, that's the door of an abandoned underground tube train. I repeat, what bally god forsaken game are you taking me to?” I shouted, feeling as red in the face as my Aunt Dahlia whilst she’s out chivvying foxes with the Quorn and Pytchley.
“Why Bertie, we’re taking you to a bare-knuckle boxing match,” Freddie said, sounding as innocent and brainless as a newborn babe. “I thought you knew.”
“Dash it of course I didn’t know, you silly young blot! Why on earth would I want to watch a bunch of brainless brutes beat each other black and blue?” I said, throwing an empathetic arm or two out in exasperation. Oofy sneered at me, which he really oughten do with a map like his own.
“For the money, Bertie. I don’t care for these big gorillas any farther than I can throw them, I only care about how much money their pugilism can bring in,” he paused in his ranting, listening at the door. “Hmm, doorman’s almost here. Why don’t you give him the password, Bertie, you wouldn’t want to let your pals down?”
“Password?! Oofy, is this even legal? Oofy? Bingo? Oh! Oh, hang it all,” I groaned, feeling like a man whom all the world’s woes lay upon his head.
“Alright, cocky, what’ll it be?” asked a fifth voice in this four-man comedy act, and now I believe we are all caught up.
True to my insight, it was absolutely an abandoned train station which, as it seems, had been outfitted into something of a modern place for gladiatorial combat. Benches were stacked high against the walls, all circling a small ring of floor that was separated by the spectators only by a rope strung up on some metal poles. While Oofy busied himself with collecting bets from the unwashed masses, Freddie, Bingo and I went about finding a place to sit that wasn’t wet, sticky or covered in unknown grime.
“Come on, Bingo, we really don’t belong here. Let’s just go back to the Drones,” I said after a tense moment of silence, watching the area fill up with men who could easily use the willowy Wooster limbs as toothpicks.
“Bertie, I’m surprised at you! I know you’re no socialist but certainly you aren’t this uncomfortable sharing a night of entertainment with the working class,” Bingo laughed, patting my thigh in the way an aunt would, so as to tell you to buck up and bear it. I grumbled a bit but, true to my word, remained seated. Oofy found his way over to us, his inner coat pocket stuffed to the brim with betting slips, and sat beside us. It was the work of a moment then for the lights to dim around us and for the show, as it were, to begin.
“Alright, I’m gonna make this crystal, yeah?” said the brick wall with an icy stare. The one from the front door of this establishment. He took center stage, as it were, while two brawny fellows wearing white footer bags stood on opposite sides of him. He spoke in a booming voice that hit and echoed against every wall around us. “Three minutes per fight, chappy who’s downed for thirty seconds is out. I don’t want to see you boys kill each other, so let’s make this a clean fight, eh? The geezer which wins this round moves to the next level, till he gets to the heavyweight.”
With those bracing opening words having been said, he departed and the crowd around us burst with applause and cheers. The fellows bumped fists together, a bell rang out and then they were off to the races, so to speak.
I don’t know if you’ve ever watched a boxing match before, as I hadn’t before that night. I believe the closest I had gotten was the time Rev Harold ‘Stinker’ Pinker biffed Sir Roderick Spode, amateur dictator, a good one over the head when said Spode was attempting to strangle the living daylights out of one Gussie Fink-Nottle, known newt fancier with a face like a fish. These two instances should not be compared, as it would be like comparing a quaint country cottage catching fire with a banjolele inside, with the burning of the library of Alexandria. Like the poet chappie said before, somethings must be seen to be believed.
The first lad would swing at the other and his fist would go ‘boof’, he’d hit the other chap in the jaw and he’d exclaim ‘oof’, then spit out a bit of blood and a single loose tooth. I’m not ashamed to admit I felt rather a queer pit in my stomach watching it all. What’s more, it only got more brutal as the evening ran on, because you see, the chappy that gave the other fellow a token for the jolly old tooth fairy, he got to move on to the next round. The next round, where he'd fight an even bigger, more brutish chap. I fear by the time we got to the heavyweight round King Kong himself would jump down from the rafters to pummel any would-be champion pugilist to a jelly!
Not wanting to look like a complete coward, as it would certainly paint a target on my back, possibly my front as well, I didn’t cover my eyes with my hands and sing comic songs to myself until it was over. I did, however, try to look only at their legs for as much of the fight as I could. There was a lot less of the “pummeling a massive ape until he spits raspberry jam” from that angle, and one could almost pretend it was a dance. That is, if one was dancing with a filly who was built along the same mold as Honoria Glossop.
The footwork was quite intricate, lots of rounded arches, stepping back and forth with matching rhythm between partners. It almost makes you want to get up and try it out for yourself. That is, if you aren’t sitting next to Bingo Little shouting such profanities as “yes! Kill the son of a bachelor, hit him right in the kisser, old man! Oh yes, he’ll be feeling that blow for some days now!” I mean really, what would his uncle, Lord Bittlesham, do if he could hear his ewe nephew now. I was aghast and what’s more I was appalled.
“Oh! Bertie look! It’s time for the heavyweight round, that’s our man out there,” Bingo shouted over the ringing din of the crowd cheering and the large announcer fellow announcing this great hulking son of a… well Bingo says it best.
“Our three time heavyweight champion, coming in at 6 '4 and 21 stone, Reggie the Ravager!!” the bloke hollered enthusiastically to the audience of blood-thirsty spectators. I will admit, based on that description alone I felt rather confident in this lad’s ability to bludgeon another chappy over the head with his fists like an overlarge caveman, and felt a feeling of calm stability settling in the confines of my wallet. Deciding that now would be as safe a time as any to look at the great thug that was going to line my pockets, I cast an apprehensive eye to the ring, then shied like a startled mustang.
You see, I can be somewhat a frivolous man, and there are many a time I’ll have set down a cup of tea and find the blasted thing has gone on holiday, only to pour another cup of tea and find the first cup sitting on my side table staring me right in the e.s. I say all this to say, I do not forget a pal’s visage. We could have met boating in the Riviera five summers past and I would know the blighter’s face and say “how have you been, old bean!” A Wooster does not forget. Well, he forgets birthdays and anniversaries but what he does not forget is a head that takes a size 14 bowler hat which bulges out the back to hold all his brains! And he certainly could never forget the noble, if slightly crooked, profile of one Reginald Jeeves, standing as calm as a stony mountain center stage!
“That’s my man!” I shouted, standing from my seat and pointing towards the center of action. Bingo looked up at me in a befuddled sort of way that’s none too uncommon for him.
“I know, Bertie! I told you the Ravager was a cert!” Bingo exclaimed, showing off his ticket with pride. I scoffed audibly at him, or as audibly as I could under the dull roar of the unwashed masses gasping and cheering.
“No, you silly ass! That’s my man, my manservant! Jeeves!! Jeeevess!!” I yodled, clambering down the benches to get within hearing distance of the chap.
“Oh Bertie, throw a handful of pence at that Reggie chap there for me, there’s a good lad,” Oofy said, grabbing my arm and dropping a handful of coins into my hand. I shuddered, imagining how many wealthy chumps like Oofy (‘like myself,’ a nasty voice within me whispered) were here, throwing coins at my marvel like he was no more than a common racehorse. I stiffened the upper lip and moved forward.
There’s a certain something you only notice when, if you’re like me, pushing your way past countless large, smelly men, while staring your valet down as he begins to wallop another fellow a good one. That being, well, that Jeeves is a man. I mean, this is something I thought I had known, that Jeeves sleeps, eats and bathes like the rest of us mortal chappies— although in a way far more mysterious his wonders to perform— but the thought never went much past that. Underneath his perfectly pressed valeting togs was not, in fact, another set of perfectly p. valeting t.s, but muscle, and fat, and skin, and hair. His brawny chest and stomach seemed to have a veritable rug of dark curls which heaved up and down with every breath. He perspired! He grunted, and panted and when hit, he bruised. When hit, he bled. It was that which propelled me forward, caring not a whit who I discombobulated with my frantic quest towards the center of the room, only that I could get to Jeeves and pull him away from all this depravity.
In the distance I could spot a pair of gentlemen in the front row with their pressed suits and toppers sitting on their laps, chucking coins at my Jeeves while he danced and swerved around the fists of his opponent, I felt rather ill.
“Jeeves!! Jeeves!!!” I croaked, stumbling my way towards the ropes that separated us. We were so close now I could see the sweat on his temples, flattening his inky black hair in messy tresses the way his pomade never would. His muscles tensed as he landed a beefy punch right into the other bruiser’s gut. He moved like an adagio dancer as he dodged an uppercut to the jaw, his brow furrowed in determination.
“Sir?” Jeeves asked, sounding slightly startled as he noticed me, and swung hard. Well, that was about all he had time to say. The big lout fell in a heavy heap like the house of Usher. Before you could even say “what ho, what’s all this then?” the maître de cérémonie had counted down and grabbed Jeeves’ hand, holding it aloft and announcing him the four time winner.
There, as you can imagine, was quite the hullabaloo, possibly even a hootenanny. I couldn’t say, as my eyes were locked in on Jeeves, his brows furrowed as he mouthed to me in hissed words ‘what are you doing here, sir,’ looking as soupy as any stuffed frog that was ever plunged in consomme. I didn’t have a good enough answer for him.
The crowd dispersed around us, and I trailed Jeeves into his powder room like a lost duckling, only taking my eyes off him to grant him the privacy of redressing in his tweed travelling suit. Even then, he looked less like himself than I could ever remember. It was a tense, silent walk back to the flat, with enough frosty ice emanating off of Jeeves to freeze even the most experienced arctic explorer. It was only when Berkley Mansions was in sight, and the streets were quiet, save for the hum of street lamps, I felt the verve to speak my mind.
“Jeeves,” I warbled. “You don’t have to keep doing this, if you’re being blackmailed I have more than enough of the ready to free you of your obligations.” Jeeves paused slightly in his long strides, and fixed me with what is known as the gimlet eye.
“Blackmail, sir?” he asked in a quiet, even voice that sounded dangerously like my Aunt Dahlia before she calls me an abysmal chump. I remained steady — the personal safety of my personal gentleman was at stake, it was no time to have my backbone unstarch.
“Blackmail, as in, blackmail, Jeeves,” I said with a touch more vim in my voice. “You needn’t be shy about it, I won’t pry into whatever forces have you performing in the role of a brainless, pugilist brute, but if you’d only let me I can help you eke out of this shady rabbit hole you’ve fallen into!”
Reader, have you ever had the moment where you were speaking, and in the moment it was pretty ripe stuff, only for the stuffing to be knocked out of you as the other half of the party informs you you have been talking absolute bally rot, and they know exactly where you can stick it? Jeeves didn’t say that, in so many words. In fact, save for a small gasp that, to a lesser man, would have been a shocked guffaw, he said only three words.
“Good night, sir,” he gritted out, like he was sharpening his words against a whetstone for the sole purpose of piercing me with them where I stand, and promptly biffed off towards the flat.
“Jeeves? Jeeves! Where are you going? Don’t leave me here!” I shouted, trailing after him. It wasn’t a fair race, mind you. Jeeves has longer legs than I have and beyond a round of bread roll cricket here and there most of my daily exercise comes from toddling to the Drones and back for some snifters and a hot meal. Despite being a nobbled horse, I managed to catch Jeeves about to exit the flat with a small suitcase. I blocked the door with all the limbs I could find use for and stood puffing like a locomotive.
“Dash it man, you can’t leave like this,” I huffed, slowly herding him kitchenwards and away from the front door. To my great shock, the man allowed himself to be herded despite the icy fire of rage that glimmered in his intelligent eyes.
“Like what, sir? Tell me! How was it you said? A hulking, brainless, gorilla? Is that what you think of me, sir?” he snarled at me, his voice frayed at its edges with emotion that stung worse than any kick or punch. I thought back to Jeeves in the ring, Jeeves the man of flesh and bone, not a domestic deity come true. I never realized I could, that the things I said could hurt him. I never even thought they could penetrate. He always seemed so stoic, so emotionless, which just goes to show how much I know. Here was a man brimming to the bally t. with emotion and I found myself at a complete loss.
“No! No dash it all I— I mean you can’t leave like this,” I blurted, grabbing his bruised hand with my own. “You’re bleeding. Please. If you… if you can’t hear me out then at least let me tend to you. I owe you that much.”
He considered it for a moment, his dark grey eyes searching the ceiling for answers, or perhaps he just couldn’t bear to look at me. Regardless, he gave his answer.
“Fine.”
He still looked like he’d rather have my Aunt Agatha gnaw on his bones and marry him off to young Florence Craye, but he allowed me to sit him down in one of the wooden kitchen chairs whilst I puttered around for the first aid kit. I found it and knelt by his side, and whilst I was disinfecting the area his eyebrows raised a nearly fourth of an inch. I could tell he was rather surprised that I knew even the basics of first aid and didn’t immediately start slathering the wound with butter or some such nonsense. I sighed softly in thought as I swabbed the area.
“I wish you would explain, Jeeves,” I said quietly, maybe more to myself than anyone else. I realized now, he knew so much about me, and I knew so little about him. I thought I knew him, I thought we had a relationship that went further than merely man and servant, that perhaps we could be friends, or even… But no, I only knew him as well as he’d let me and worse, I proved myself to be just like every other snobbish aristocrat he’d ever worked for.
“Explain what, sir?” he asked with still quite a bit of bite in his tone but not so much to make me flinch away from the subj. as a whole.
“The things you do?” I asked in a despairing tone. “Why you do them? I’m so bally hopeless without you, I depend on you, you know, and I fear I barely know you. I’m sorry for making assumptions. I’m sorry for not asking you earlier.”
“What would you have me say, sir?” Jeeves asked, the ice and poison in his voice gone and replaced with something I almost couldn’t bear: exasperation and ache. Like a governess who had grown tired of her ward pestering and pestering her. I swallowed down the lump that began to form in my throat.
“Anything. Call me a chump, tell me how you really feel. Say anything at all, just please don’t leave. Not yet,” I whimpered in a manful way, working on dressing the scrapes that littered Jeeves’ knuckles. The astringent smell of alcohol burnt my nostrils as I dabbed the fluid into the cuts. Jeeves hissed gently as it bubbled and fizzed, the antimicrobial whatsits getting ready for a busy day at work, I assume. He didn’t flinch, staying as steady and impassive as I’ve ever known him. The only way I could be certain he wasn't a statue was the heat coming off of his large hands, and his pulse bup-bumping along in a duet with my own. He had so many little scars on his hands, like the silk of spiderwebs. His hands were rough with decades of work I could never know.
“You’re a chump, sir. You have a remarkable tendency to speak so confidently on topics which you have little to no understanding and a remarkable knack for sticking your own foot in your mouth, as the expression goes, sir,” Jeeves said, speaking as plainly as he ever did. It stung, to be sure, but stung significantly less than the polite but subzero cold shoulder he would give me over unsuitable socks or banjoleles.
“All very true, Jeeves. You speak sooth, as the bard would say. My Aunt Agatha—”
“Sir!” Jeeves exclaimed, and I got the picture. With a mouth as big as my own it’s a struggle to imagine I stop speaking even while I sleep. I turned my attention back to his knuckles, the bleeding had more or less given up and became gooey and dark. I swiped cruor away and put the used cotton swab with its other iron-rich brethren.
“Boxing is one of the oldest sports, sir, and I find that such martial arts require both brain and brawn to attain real proficiency. It is not merely enough to keep my mind sharp, but to keep my physical form as skilled,” Jeeves said and this time I really tried to listen. I shouldn’t think he would lie to me about boxing requiring brains as well, and it would make sense that Jeeves would now be a four time champion. The man had more brains than all us duffers at the Drones Club combined, and as I learned tonight, he had quite the impressive and sculpted physique. Big broad shoulders, powerful barrel chest and a hairy, rounded tum that I couldn't stop imagining cradling my head upon.
‘You’ll have to,’ hissed that nasty voice in my head. ‘You’ll have to stop imagining it because as soon as you finish tending to Jeeves’ hand he’s going to scarper off to greener pastures than working for you.’
“Do you… do you find that going for a few rounds in the jolly old ring helps the grey matter work better, Jeeves?” I asked sheepishly, wanting to know more but not knowing when I was going to tread on a verbal landmine.
“Yes, sir, I do. There has been much study on the benefits of high intensity physical activity and cognitive retention,” Jeeves said and his voice was so close to his usual warm, plummy notes I could have wept from the familiarity of it all.
“Well… well bless it, says I. Not that you and your chums need a halfwit like me blessing your activities but — oh dash it — I mean to say I was wrong Jeeves. I judged you and all those fellows unfairly,” I said, falling into muttering as I turned Jeeves’ hands hither and yon until I was sure the bandaging would stick.
“Where did you learn to dress injuries like that, sir?” Jeeves asked in a quiet, almost breathy way. I met his eyes for the second time this evening and saw a glimmer of curiosity hiding inside. I felt, well, emboldened almost.
“Perhaps there are things you don’t know about me as well, old thing,” I told him and then, riding the joyous feeling that perhaps not all hope was lost, I lifted his hand to my mouth and kissed his bandaged knuckles.
“Sir?” Jeeves asked, and if I didn’t know any better, he asked it shyly. His fingers fluttered softly in my hands like the wings of a moth, but he did not move away. He didn’t flinch away from me.
“Well, it’s not official medical text, but kisses do sometimes help the healing process, what? Do you have any place else that needs looking to?” I asked him, a slow smile creeping over my map. I hoped at this moment, after all that had occurred, if the y.m. overstepped his boundaries Jeeves would let him know in no uncertain terms. The other part of me hoped and dreamed to be allowed this impropriety, for him to like it.
Jeeves looked down at me, his lips pursed. For a brief moment I saw a bit of the old stuffed frog make its presence known, and I was about to backpedal and chalk it all up as a bad job, but then he softened.
“Here, sir,” he said, pointing to his chest, just over his heart. I remembered how he had taken quite the hit there, and would certainly bruise. I lifted my head and carefully pressed a kiss into the fabric of his suit. I could feel his heart pounding a mile a bally minute under my lips, I could hear the way his breath hitched. I pulled away, my baby blues meeting his own inscrutable, if somewhat watery, gaze.
“And… and anywhere else, Jeeves?” I asked.
“Here?” he said, so quietly, so uncertain it could have been a question, gesturing to his lips. I didn't need to be asked a second time. I rose from the floor on the stepping stones of my former self, and kissed him, mapping his lips with my own. I kissed him fully, I kissed each corner of his lips, noting how one turned up and the other down. I kissed him and nearly purred when I felt his large hands find their place on the small of my back. I kissed him until I feared I may weep.
“Oh, oh Jeeves, I’m so sorry about all the rotten things I said,” I said, my words hitting his lips in hot puffs of air, in an apology I worried would not be enough to heal.
“You hadn’t known, sir. It would be hypocritical of me to hold your ignorance over you when I have been ignorant many times. When I have hurt you in our shared past, sir,” Jeeves said and I felt the weight of his words settle heavily over me like a warm blanket.
“Think nothing of it, old fruit, please!” I exclaimed, as I had very nearly put the “mentally negligible” remarks out of mind and would like very much for him to do the same.
“And… and could you please call me Bertie? I’d like so much to hear you say it.”
“Bertie,” he murmured in soft reverence, his hand coming up to cup my face. I found myself leaning into his touch, like I would start melting into him at any moment.
“Oh, thank you, dear thing. Is there any little name you’d like to be referred to by? I’d do anything for you, you know? I’d even call you my sugarplum pumpkin-butt if that was your truest, most deepest desire.”
He scrunched his face up in what I would come to know is him finding me both incredibly silly and somehow charming.
“Call me Reggie, Bertie. Or Reg?” he said at last and I fell in love with him all over again, hearing our names so close together on his tongue.
“Reg,” I said, trying it out and marveling at how he lit up. “Reggie. Oh Reg, I was so frightened I’d gone and bungled up our relations for good. You must biff me over the head the next time I start talking rot out of turn, won’t you?”
“Perhaps nothing so drastic is required, si—Bertie,” Jeeves said, briefly letting a bit of the old valet out before stifling it. I ran a hand through his damp hair and kissed his brilliant forehead soundly, I could taste the salt of his skin on my lips.
“Perhaps, perhaps,” I said, but without much heart in it. I never want to come so close to losing him ever again, especially not over some fat headed comment I make without knowing all the facts.
“I will endeavor to let you into my life more, Bertie. What would have been an inappropriate breach of privacy between master and man is more than acceptable for two men who are…” he trailed off and coughed gently like a distant sheep with an embarrassing secret. I jumped in, as it would take a good deal to embarrass me, being the young fool I am.
“Lovers, Reggie?” I asked, and he inclined his head kindly at me.
“Yes, I did not want to make assumptions,” Jeeves said, and while I could readily understand how he felt, I just about liquified and turned to jelly at his confirmation of my own deepest wish.
“Oh Reggie, the things I’ve been thinking, ever since I got to see this lovely thing,” I said, running a hand over his chest and around the curve of his belly. “I should like nothing more than to be your live-in lover, to take anything you see fit to give me.”
“Would you settle for a cuddle?” Jeeves asked in a wry manner. “I am tired and I am sweaty, I would like to take a shower.”
“A cuddle would be more than ooja-cum-spiff-topping, my dearest Reg. Let the rapturous waves of falling water sluice you of your troubles and woe, and I shall be waiting atop my plush throne to give you the snuggling of a lifetime,” I said in my dreamy manner, leading my man towards the master bedroom and salle de bain.
Looking back, he scrunched his face at me again in his most endearing way and not for the first time tonight I felt my chest ache with how much love I had for him swelling in my thorax.
“Are… are we going to be alright, Reggie?” I asked him, feeling a touch apprehensive. Jeeves stopped, touching his bandaged knuckles lightly before gifting me with an absolutely breathtaking smile where his lips raised an entire fourth of an inch.
“Yes, I believe we are,” Jeeves said, and he kissed me so soundly I moaned into his mouth like a taffeta punk.
“You can shower if you really want to, but I’ll be waiting for you in bed, pining like the chappy and his black-eyed gazelle. Is that the quote I’m searching for, Reggie?”
“Very nearly, Bertie,” he said, and kissed me once more.
What happened in the interim didn’t matter so much. Terribly boilerplate, don’t you know? What did, does and shall always matter is that I never have slept so soundly as I did last night with my darling Reggie snuggly cradled in my arms, his back pressed against my front. But I had expected that.