A/N: I’m not sure whether I should be pelted with tomatoes for missing the point in writing a semi-serious story, or whether I’m actually on to something here, but it seemed worth a try. There’s a tragic shortage of Blackadder fiction out there, and Jeeves and Wooster isn’t much better. When you sit down to try to help rectify that, you sort of realize why. Well, the language, obviously… how either Wodehouse or Curtis and Elton managed to be unflaggingly clever all the time, I will never know. Ah, all those wonderful insults. And whatever amazing language it is that Bertie speaks, I am very sure that I never learned it.

But it seems like it’s characterization that’s even trickier, especially for any story that isn’t either humor in the spirit of the originals, or angst in the prescribed angsty way of just about every fanfic universe out there. Either of these universes, but Blackadder especially, was really not made for serious characterizations and dramatic plots. There may, in fact, be a strong argument for the possibility that trying to think like Baldrick, Edmund, or Jeeves, or giving Bertie a crisis that is slightly less frivolous is inherently out of character, because the purpose of the character is humorous effect… that the characters act and react according to a logic that is less internal mental states and more the dictates of comedy value—which is awesome within the stories, but maybe it would be somehow out of character to depart from it? Is the rhetoric of humorous events inseparable from the character’s characterizations? I don’t agree with the argument, but then, I may possibly be insane. Where my characters fall in relation to it I don’t know either. But C’mon, it’s gotta be possible to write these people believably into something that isn’t either angst or completely humorous, right? And what else is fanfiction for, but to see whether this sort of thing can be done?

Other note: the Blackadder and the Baldrick described here are not any of their canonical incarnations, and there are definite differences, intentionally so. On the other hand, they should still be identifiable as incarnations of Blackadder and Baldrick.

So, let me know how any of this has worked.

Eddie Says What Ho

Chapter 1

The Drones Club was unusually empty that Tuesday afternoon. The air was scented with the familiar fragrances of rich furnishings and the enduring strains of alcohol. Pale sunbeams slanted down onto the rich, intricate patterns of the carpet and gleamed on dark wood and leather and velvet, but not on the accustomed preposterous antics that had been displayed on the few occasions Jeeves had previously ventured in. At this particular moment in this particular room there were but two occupants frozen for the moment in a rather peculiar tableau beside an open window. Jeeves had been about to cough softly, but the timing seemed inopportune. It certainly was not curiosity that impelled him to wait in the shadows beside the open door. Certainly not.

Mr. Wooster prostrated himself upon one knee in an attitude of profound and patient obeisance. (The action lifted the cuff of Mr. Wooster’s pant leg high enough to display a hint of yellow sock. Good heavens, how on Earth had Jeeves failed to intercept that shade of mustard prior to its public debut?) The August Personage who was the object of Mr. Wooster’s genuflection, black-coated and white-spatted, grizzled-whiskered, bright-eyed and rotund of girth, stood aloof, apparently considering whether his subject demonstrated the reverence proper to his station.

Apparently bowing alone was not sufficient to the August Personage.

“Caviar! What do you think of that? Absolutely tip-top stuff too!” Mr. Wooster reached up to the table nearby and brought down a dish, which he offered to the dignitary before him. The supplication was at last satisfactory.

“Mew,” intoned the August Personage. Mr. Wooster’s eyes widened with delight as if his cup of happiness had overflowed and he scooped up all twenty-five pounds of sleek and near-spherical cat and danced with his burden into a comfortable chair where he commenced scratching it behind the ears.

Jeeves smoothed away the smallest of fond smiles and waited for the right moment to make his presence known. Once the August Personage was purring contentedly, he stepped forward.

“Oh, what ho, Jeeves! Look who er… what’s the word? Dined? Donned? No, that’s not it…”

“Deigned, I believe sir.”

“Oh, yes, that was it. Didn’t I say that? Well, anyhow, look who deigned to join me for a drink.” (Here Mr. Wooster eased a dish of cream from the table down to his knee where the August Personage set into it with single-minded application.) “He thought I was beneath him, but I won him over with the patented Wooster charm.”

“And caviar, sir.”

“Say what?”

“Caviar, sir. I observed that caviar appeared to play a significant role in the forging of the bond between you twain.”

“Ah, lovely word, twain, capital word. Burns used it a lot, didn’t he Jeeves?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“But about the caviar you mention, I really don’t think it was… something to the issue. Inter… um…”

“Intrinsic, sir?”

“Yes, intrinsic. Bustopher (1) here felt a bit peckish, and I thought it meet and right to satisfy him in that respect, but the question of victuals is decidedly secondary.” Mr. Wooster looked slightly wounded at the imputation that the cat’s chief interest in their relationship might be nutritional rather than personal. Jeeves had observed him in the past to take a certain pride in the status in which cats seemed to hold him and his success in gaining their esteem.

“If you do not mind me saying so, sir, if one were to judge by the feline’s circumference, one might be led to the conclusion that he has not, in fact, been hungry in quite a long while.”

“Which goes to show that he has no interest in the caviar at all.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“You are using that tone again, Jeeves.”

“What tone, sir?”

“The one that means that you don’t actually agree with me but you’re not saying so. Give it to me plainly, Jeeves, and lay it on thick. No pulling your punches or unwhetting the whatsit of your razor wit. I can take it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well then?”

“It is just that I have seen this particular cat before, begging for food at other clubs and gourmet restaurants. He has even been known to peek his whiskered face into the Junior Ganymede club once or twice, but he relented when no one offered him anything.”

“Yes, I suppose it does seem a bit foolish to picture a bunch of stuffy valets waving bits of herring in front of him.”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Oh, dear. I didn’t mean that, Jeeves. Not all valets are stuffy.”

“…No, sir.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it that way either. You know I don’t find you at all stuffy, don’t you Jeeves?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now… But what was it you came here for, anyway? Surely you didn’t come here to warn me that the local cat’s intentions are not all they might be?”

“No, sir. I received a telephone call this morning. It appears that my aunt has taken ill, and desires my presence for some time.”

“Jeeves! You should have said so sooner!” Mr. Wooster stood up quickly, which served to send the cat rolling across the floor with a disgruntled yowl that lasted until it found its feet again, and doing so, picked itself up and marched out the open window with an air of offended dignity. It also served to spill what was left of the cream on the leg of Mr. Wooster’s trousers.

Jeeves located a napkin and proffered it, a fraction of a second slower than he might have, for he did not approve of that particular shade of plaid. “There is plenty of time to catch the next train, if it would be alright with you, sir. I regret having to leave so suddenly-”

“Of course, Jeeves, of course. It will be no trouble. Go cool the fevered brow in the bosom of family, and whatnot.” Mr. Wooster had, in general, one of the least credible stiff upper lips of any gentleman ever to pride himself on his supermandibular inflexibility, though Jeeves would not have had him know this for all the world. At the present moment, his jaw was set bravely, and his posture was gallant, but his eyes shone with quiet and pathetic gloom. Jeeves knew no sorrow ever weighed down on Mr. Wooster for long, and some foolish plot would soon occupy his mind, and soon enough after that, he, Jeeves, would be called upon to extricate him from it, but just for this moment, just like every other similar occasion, taking his leave of Bertram Wooster was surprisingly difficult.

“Thank you, sir. I will let you know as soon as I learn something more definite about the duration of my visit.”

“Thank you, Jeeves.” Mr. Wooster held out his hand and the tragic sheen to his eyes moistened further. Jeeves grasped his hand solemnly. “I hope it isn’t too bad there. Aunts are hardy chaps though… she’ll pull through, I’m sure. Well then… toodle pip, and all that sort of thing, I suppose.”

“Take care, sir.” Jeeves slipped out quietly, wondering what harebrained schemes he would be called upon to set aright when he returned. At the very least, there would be some sort of deviance of wardrobe that would have to be curtailed. Mr. Wooster was coming along nicely and remained well in hand for the most part when Jeeves was present (except those yellow socks- how had he managed to sneak those out?) but Jeeves had learned from a few unpleasant nervous shocks to brace himself whenever he returned from a journey of any length. Well, hopefully the immediately impending disasters would at least be more along the lines of garish checkers and less along the lines of unsuitable engagements, incarcerations, or threats of bodily harm.

Jeeves allowed himself a shake of the head and a small smile as he broke from the elegant gloom of the club into the bright sun and turned down the street towards the train station.

---

“You know what we need, Baldrick?”

“Yes, Mr. Blackadder.”

“Really,” said Mr. Blackadder, raising both eyebrows. “Do tell, then.”

Baldrick drew himself up to recite by rote, as he remembered vaguely from the time that somebody had once thought to send him to school. It hadn’t worked out very well, but he remembered how to draw himself up to recite things. “You said, ‘We need to find a hollow daffodil donkey that somebody named Harry made into an orange pastry.’”

“You know we had this conversation very recently, Baldrick.” There was a flicker in Mr. Blackadder’s eye that meant a few more false steps would bring Mr. Blackadder’s fist into painful contact with Baldrick’s face.

“Yes sir. Last week, I think. That’s how I knew what the answer was.”

“You know, that’s very interesting, Baldrick, because by my clock” (Baldrick followed his master’s gaze to the clock on the chipped mantelpiece. He knew that clocks had something to do with numbers and bits of the day, and he knew that the little black pieces on them seemed to change position somehow when nobody was looking, but he had never managed to piece together what the pattern was or what exactly it all meant) “by my clock,” Mr. Blackadder was still saying, “we had that conversation approximately an hour and a half ago.”

Mr. Blackadder seemed to attach some importance to this distinction, but people attached importance to many things that Baldrick didn’t understand, so he let it go.

“And furthermore, Baldrick, I did not in fact say that we need oddly hued baked goods with equine contents but rather that we needed ‘a daft and callow ass rolling in more dough than Mata Hari conducting an orgy in a bakery.’” Baldrick decided to trust that this was another example of an important distinction better left to more agile minds.

Mr. Blackadder’s ire seemed to have subsided for the moment, so Baldrick decided to press on with this new vein. “Yes, Mr. B. So where do we find the donkey?”

Baldrick saw the eyes flicker too late to brace against the blow, and he only managed to yelp as Mr. Blackadder’s fist knocked him down.

Mr. Blackadder twirled on his heel and tossed himself into a moth-eaten velvet chair, gazing at the ceiling with a dissatisfied grimace. Baldrick drew his legs closer beside him (away from the chair) so that he achieved the most comfortable sitting position possible under the circumstances. Part of that comfort, as always, involved not being within immediate reach of Mr. Blackadder’s fists.

But the angry flicker was dying down below even it’s usual low smolder, and it seemed safe to approach. Warily, Baldrick crawled to his feet and made his way to the sideboard where he poured wine into the least dirty glass. He minced his steps a bit as he neared his master, but Mr. Blackadder accepted the glass with, if not actually mildness, at least an abatement of his usual rage.

“What are we doing here, Balders? Good God, my ancestors were kings, and I can’t afford a damned new chair.” He pulled out a few strands of yellowed stuffing and took a sip from the glass. “Or a decent servant.” Baldrick turned his head away slightly, but Mr. Blackadder didn’t notice. After all, Baldrick knew, some of Mr. Blackadder’s unawareness was his own fault: he didn’t understand most of Mr. Blackadder’s insults well enough to wince at them, so when he did wince, it was fairly unlikely that Mr. Blackadder would look or correctly interpret. But he was wincing a bit now, all the same.

“Do you think I like fleecing these millionaire sheep?” Baldrick cast his mind back and failed to remember an acquaintance with any of this multitude of barnyard animals that Mr. Blackadder was talking about tonight, but he preferred the conversation in its new, non-violent tone, and so did not mention the discrepancy. “Well… maybe I do, a bit. But I’d give my brains and mothy sofas for their soft heads and cash faster than one of those rich louts could eye a platinum-haired waitress, drape her over the back seat of his automobile, and run after another one.”

Baldrick thought a question would be not too ill-timed this time, as he refilled Mr. Blackadder’s glass. “Is that fast, sir?”

“Yes, Balders. All aspects of the operation are bloody fast, at least so I hear.”

“Well, Mr. B, we’re better off than we were before, anyway.”

“Yeah, I’ll give it that. I’ve managed to foist and finagle our way down from the tenements, at least. It’s no place for a Blackadder when he shares one room with five other people that smell worse than you do. But this is no place for a Blackadder either.” Mr. Blackadder clasped his hands and sat forward. The wine had softened his look slightly, and Baldrick dared to take a seat on the threadbare sofa opposite him. “But I think maybe I have it this time, Balders. This girl I was talking to the other night once knew this guy…Fleeciest and most fleeceable ass in London, our golden-egg-laying goose at last.” Baldrick twisted his mouth around in his effort to envision that barnyard chimera, but Mr. Blackadder continued without noticing. “And I subsequently did a bit of research about him on my own, and that much is absolutely true. But the thing about him… the thing about him is he’s got this valet that can pretty much outmaneuver the best conmen in the city. They’ve tried and they’ve been flattened, and not a single one has come out with a single drop of that oasis. But I’ll be different, Balders, I’ll get it all.” He reached forward and grasped Baldrick’s hand. Baldrick froze, but had enough self-preservation not to display any fear and not to express any doubts of his master’s ability to succeed where everyone else had failed, particularly when his master was in this particular proximity. Mr. Blackadder’s eyes were shining with rare optimism and near-nonexistent alcohol tolerance. “You know why I’m going to succeed, Balders? I’m going to succeed because the ass’s keeper-shepherd-valet-thing has gone away and left his lamb all alone for the wolves to get at, and you know why else I’m going to succeed, Balders?”

“Why is that, Mr. B?”

“Because I’m Edmund Blackadder.” It did not seem wise to question that sort of reasoning. It had certain kernels of undeniable truth to it, anyway, and Baldrick thought it likely that he was merely missing some of the connections, as he often did. “Have a drink with me, Balders.”

“Er…”

“Baldrick.” There was a sort of warning tone in Mr. Blackadder’s voice that said it was wiser to comply. Baldrick quickly amended his answer.

“Um, glad to, Mr. B.”

Baldrick filled another glass and sat back down, sipping it slowly, unsure as to what was coming. Mr. Blackadder regarded him thoughtfully, then leaned forward again, taking Baldrick’s chin between his finger and thumb and tilting his face up. Baldrick became very unsure as to what was coming.

“Balders,” Mr. Blackadder said with a grin that made him look a little like that wolf he’d been talking about earlier, “Have you ever given any thought to becoming a valet?”

---

(1) Eheh, gratuitous cameo. I grew up on CATS, and suddenly understanding another one of Eliot’s literary allusions is always fun.