|Jeeves and the Overindulgence
Author: saoulbete PM
It was not his habit to indulge. However, it wasn't exactly sporting to turn down a round when offered, and he found that the more he drank the less he thought about the problem of Love's Awakening.Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor/Romance - Jeeves & Bertram/Bertie W. - Words: 7,191 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 2 - Published: 09-03-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8495697
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N another old fic i'm resurfacing from LJ. Once upon a time I thought it descended into major suckage, but honestly, now that I'm rereading it some years later...I actually really like it. In all of it's very-long glory.
It was not his usual habit to indulge. Not that he didn't enjoy the pleasant burn of a good whiskey, or the taste of a cool ale on a warm summer's day, but he'd never been one to get, as they call it, blind stinking drunk. He'd been there, of course, as nearly everyone had, as a lad, and found that while he'd thought he'd enjoyed himself, when the events of the night had been related to him by an impartial observer, he'd grown distinctly pinkish around the ears and cheeks. The same sitch had repeated itself the second, third, and fourth times he'd allowed himself more than a very carefully measured amount of alcohol in a night. In short, Reginald Jeeves had the awful habit of making a right arse of himself while intoxicated.
Not that he couldn't hold his liquor, of course. There was a certain amount of imbibing that was expected of him, particularly at darts tournaments on his nights off, or when his employer, the ever affable Bertram W. Wooster encouraged him to sit down and have a drink with the young master. Had it been any other employer, he likely would have found a way to extricate himself from the posish when he found himself in it, but he found himself unable to when it was Mr. Wooster that asked. In fact, as the months ticked by from when he had first stepped across the threshold to find a rather hungover B.W. Wooster gaping at him as though he were some kind of angel sent from heaven above, he found himself increasingly unable to say no to anything that Mr. Wooster asked of him. In short, Reginald Jeeves had found himself rather hopelessly head-over-heels in love with his employer.
It had taken another few months for the feelings that had brewed inside of his heart to quite catch up to his head, and once they did, he found himself rather stricken. Not so much by the revelation of Love's Awakening, as he rather took that one in stride. The Jeevesian form did not bother to tumble the idea of a love for one B.W. Wooster over and over inside of that great brain that lurked therein. No, the aforementioned g. b took the idea of being absolutely Basset-esque over his employer rather much as a given. The issue, however, came over what to do-or rather, what not to do about the soup that he now found himself neck deep in.
He spent three long days pondering this imponderable question, turning over every possible path that could occur. He could confess his feelings, and be given the boot. He could confess his feelings and find them returned in kind. He could confess his feelings, and find that one B.W. Wooster would slowly come around to find that he did, in fact, love one R. Jeeves. Or, on the other hand, he could keep himself quiet, which was likely for the better, never letting Mr. Wooster have any clue how he felt. After all, even if there was a chance at the sort of soppy whatsits that crept up in his collection of Rosie M. Banks novels, there was always the threats of dangerous Aunts and matrimonial prospects-there was always the chance of losing the last of the Woosters to some dashed filly, even if he didn't want to go. There was the dreaded Aunt Agatha, who was surely more dragon than human, and who could pose a threat to their eternal happiness.
It was after he'd spent the third day with his brain thus engaged that his employer noticed, imploring him to take the night off, and the next day if he needed it, as he was "looking rather peaky." Deciding that if his ruminations had affected him enough for Mr. Wooster to notice, perhaps a night out, spent far away from the confines of the flat could be enough for him to put the whole idea behind him. He hadn't actually intended to do much, but had found himself at a small pub, getting rather involved in a game of darts. And in between rounds of darts, having to match drinks with his opponents (as it really wasn't very sporting to turn down a round when it was offered to him.) He found that the more lubricated he became, the less he thought about the problem regarding the young master. It was somewhere around his tenth drink that he was very firmly aware that he was blotto, and by the twelfth he found himself joining the other members of the pub in few rousing, drunken choruses of Rule Britannia (who suggested the song, he did not know), and songs considerably less delicate.
He had fully intended to take one of the rooms in the public house he was in, only to be informed that they were full up. He had enough command of his facilities to recognize that returning to the flat would be perhaps the worst idea to have every crossed his brain in all thirty years of his existence on god's green earth, as he was, at that moment, fully cognizant of the fact that he would not be remembering the circumstances come morning.
It is odd how the brain works like that-when one is soused to the gills, they find themselves under the providence of Dionysus, god of the drunks, who guided them safely to the loo and prevented them from embarrassing themselves on houseplants, who allowed them the ability to stagger home without getting themselves run over by passing taxis, and who allowed them the providence to know better than to return home when one was still singing a rather off-key rendition of a Norwich terrace chant. As such, he staggered out of the small pub, clinging to lightpoles and post-boxes as he went, intending to take his employer up on his offer of an extra day off and plunk down a fairish bit of the money he'd swindled out of the other pub goers (as it would take enough alcohol to have him passed out cold on the floor to lose at darts) on a warm bed as far away from the Wooster eyes as possible.
He had forgotten, however, in his shambling path, that he was stuck going directly past the Drones club. He hadn't even paid it any mind, so focused was he on the rather difficult task of putting one foot in front of the other, until, of course, he heard his name called. "I say, Jeeves?"
Years of training tend to instill certain habits upon a person that even copious quantities of ethanol cannot remove. When he heard his name called, he found himself automatically straightening, turning, and replying nearly as smoothly as usual, "Yes, sir?" There was a hint of a slur around the S's, but other than that, it was rather hard to tell that the figure that had previously been requiring the assistance of the wall to remain upright was the same that was now standing rather at attention.
"I say, Jeeves, what on earth are you doing down here at this time of night?"
"I was at a pub, sir." Wooster, B. may have been many things, but completely-he searched, vainly for the word he wanted, unsure of what exactly it was, but knowing that it began with Un-, and meant something along the lines of being eagle-eyed. Unobservant! That was it-he was far from completely unobservant, and he couldn't help but notice one odd thing.
"And why on earth are you walking that way-"He gestured in the direction that Jeeves had been walking in seconds before, "-When the flat is that way" His other hand pointed in the direction of Berkley Mansions.
"I was intending to procure a room in a hotel for the night, sir." And rather against his will, he found himself swaying slightly on his feet. The young master, after a moment, seemed to piece together what had happened-hindered, no doubt, by the rather the four or so lubricating drinks he himself had had.
"Why-" He paused, as the realization hit him, "-You're tight as an owl, aren't you?"
"Regretfully so, sir." All of this uprightness, without any of the nice leaning he'd been doing previously was making his stomach lurch dreadfully, and he found himself for the first time, wishing to be free of this beautiful, wonderful, man. Entirely because he thought it would be rather unseemly to lose his supper and the fourteen drinks that had been piled on top of it, in front of the other man.
He found that while the god of drunks had, previously, been looking out for him, when confronted with the problem of one Wooster, Dionysus had buggered off and told him, "You're on your own for this one, mate." After a long moment of stunned silence, he found himself treated to the sound of a rich, hearty, laugh. He found his lips twitching upwards of their own accord, as it seemed as though most of his body was acting of it's own will, his mind having buggered off to join Dionysus on some Caribbean isle somewhere.
"And you didn't want to return home because of it, what?"
"It would not be proper, sir." Bertie grinned, taking a step closer to the swaying form of his manservant.
"I say, Jeeves, dash propriety. Why on earth would you stay at some hotel when you could have your perfectly comfortable bed to sleep in. At least, I'm assuming your bed is comfortable, can't say I'd ever given it a shot. But you seem to do well enough with it, and that's what matters. It's not as though I'm going to fault you for having a few too many on your night off, it's allowed of the best of us, isn't it? After all, you've doted on this Wooster after many a long night, the least I can do is allow you back into the Wooster GHQ after getting soused to the gills, what?"
He found that he'd been rather close to asking the young master if he wanted to see just how comfortable his own small bed was, and was thankful for the first time in his life, for Bertie's propensity towards babbling, as it cut him off at the pass, and prevented him from giving voice to the comment. Instead, he found himself taking a cautious step forward, rather intending the sort of shimmering glide that was second nature to him when fully in control of all his limbs, but was rather difficult to perform when his limbs seemed to have grown minds of their own, and were instead taking off in four separate directions. He'd no sooner gotten out an utterance of "Thank you, sir," and was about to tack on a bit about the kindness of Wooster, B, when he became acutely aware of the ground coming up to meet him at a rather alarming rate of speed.
The last of the Woosters may not have had many qualities where he excelled, but he had always been rather fleet of foot and quick of reflexes, and when he watched his faithful manservant start pitching in a groundward direction, those q r's rather took over, and rather without thinking, he'd wrapped an arm around a trim, warm, waist, and hauled upwards, stopping the man from risking his nose-or worse-his suit-on the hard ground. "Good lord, man!" The comment was half-hidden by a laugh, as in all honesty, Bertie couldn't help but find the situation, as amazing as it was, to be rather hilarious. He was fairly sure that the liquor at the Drones had been replaced with absinthe, and he was currently hallucinating the whole sitch, and the very concept of Jeeves being sloshed. "Are you all right?"
"I will be better-" Whatever word was intended to go in the blank was obscured by a hiccough, and the "sir" that followed was intelligible, if more of a groan than an utterance. He managed to right himself, and took another cautious step, this time in the direction of 6A Berkely Mansions.
"Right, good to know then. Shall we?" Bertie had to admit that there was something rather pleasantly chummy about the way that Jeeves was leaning against him, having given up on making it back without any sort of assistance to keep him upright. Had he been more possessed of mental faculties at that moment, Jeeves would have likely gone running in the opposite direction of the idea of slinging an arm of his own around the shoulders of one B. W. Wooster to match the one that was currently wrapped around his waist, and using the lithe form of his employer as a replacement for the lamposts and post-boxes that he had previously been clinging to to stop him from pitching over.
As it was, Dionysus was feeling slightly guilty for abandoning a man who so rarely called upon his aid, and had decided to pop back in to check up on his charge, managing to intervene enough to stop Jeeves from following through with the urge to wrap himself around Bertie like honeysuckle round a trellis as they went. Mentally, the god of drunks was sitting there cursing at himself for getting involved at all, as if he hadn't, it was far more likely that one R. Jeeves would have stumbled over his own two feet within ten yards of the door to the pub and decided that the ground was a perfectly wonderful spot to make camp for the night.
Bertie, for his sake, was putting up with things rather merrily. After all, it had been his idea that Jeeves make it back to the flat rather than the much more respectable option of taking an employer up on an offered day off. Although if the way that Jeeves couldn't hold himself upright was anything to judge by, he was likely to still want that day off anyway-even though, knowing Jeeves, so long as his faithful valet was in the flat, the man would be hard at work. Bertie couldn't help but shudder at the idea of having to make tea at some ungodly early hour of the morning with a morning head. Or even having to make one of those magnificent pick-me-ups while desperately in need of one. Said shuddering motion caused the arm around his shoulders to wind up falling somewhere near the vicinity of his own waist, and he found himself being pulled bodily into the side of Jeeves. Not that he minded, mind you, as the arm threatened to drop lower into an area that could only be called "lecherous." In fact, the idea of that hand moving closer the seat-of-his-pants area for a grope was making him feel rather squiffy inside, and stirred up no small bit of the old Etonian spirit in him.
And he found that the more he considered this idea, the more that he seemed rather agreeable to the idea of a solid rogering not at all unlike the ones that were so common behind closed doors in the dormitories. After all, it is inevitable, when one puts a few dozen spotty, sweaty, crude boys in close quarters from one another (done entirely to save the rest of the public from having to deal with said s.s.c boys) they're bound to find ways to amuse themselves and find a way to let excess energies out. For some, they got themselves into rugby football, which had all of the entertainments of finding onesself in the general area of other men's genitals without the same of pleasure that usually came from such situations. For others, they found themselves going slightly neurotic-as was the case of Gussie Fink-Nottle-from being either too bland to catch the eye of any of the other boys, or too repellent, or too-anything, really, and who found themselves instead left on their own with only their right hand for company-or their left, if they were feeling like trying something new and exciting. For a goodish sized chunk, however, they found that they had rather lost control of their bodies to the strange urges inside of them, and said s. u's were telling them to bugger anything and everything nearby. And as the only thing that was nearby tended to be their fellow schoolmates, they made do with what they had.
And Bertie, for all of his gentlemanly qualities, had found that there were some things in life that, while they did not make for polite conversation, made for a jolly good time. And, always being one that was up for a spot of good fun, very rarely turned down any chance to enjoy himself-be it in games of dinner roll cricket, or in billiards, or card throwing, or splaying Healey, the lad who had the room two doors down from him at Eton, face-down across the mattress and giving him a good what-for. As most lads tended to do once they were unleashed from the petri dish that they were allowed to fester in better known as a public school, once he found himself reintroduced to the odd things that called themselves "girls" he found himself as easily led astray by a beautiful profile as any other lad, and had considered the old Etonian urges to have rather stayed at Eton.
Until now, of course, what with Jeeves half-wrapped around him. Granted, he hadn't exactly found himself in the sort of intimate posish that would result in the sort of way that his blood was wanting to rush to places that it hadn't rushed to with either the female or the male of the species since his Oxford days, but now that he found that there was a rather warm, broad hand inches away from his bum, he found that a grope wouldn't at all be called improper at that moment in time. In fact, he thought, he was in just the sort of mood for it, having imbibed slightly more than he had planned on that night as well. Not nearly as much as it seemed poor Jeeves had, and certainly nowhere near enough to have him bicycling around in the nude belting out songs as he was wont to do after a long night when he was at Oxford, but it was enough to have his guard down, and have him rather pleasantly relaxed. And thinking unseemly thoughts that the Wooster mind would have, in any other situation, likely quickly boxed up and shipped out to Ceylon, rather than ruminate on them.
But since he was well-oiled at the time, he found that he was, in fact, ruminating on the idea of spreading Jeeves face down over his bed and giving him a good what-for. And he found that he was very much not at all opposed to the idea of it. In fact, he found that he could quite enjoy it, and quite possibly never stop enjoying it, as where all the other spotty, sweaty, crude lads had been, well, spotty, sweaty, and crude, this was Jeeves that he was thinking of. Jeeves, who could do absolutely no wrong. Jeeves, paragon amongst men, who somehow had decided to cast his lot in with the last of the Woosters and who showed absolutely no sign of wishing to part. Jeeves, who mixed the perfect cup of tea, and knew the perfect temperature to draw a bath to best soothe the Wooster muscles. Jeeves, who cooked, cleaned, and kept him out of the soup. Jeeves, who had all of the advantages that a good wife could provide: that is, nice meals and someone to look after him day in and day out, and who had none of the disadvantages: that is, the tendency to utter soppy whatsits, and insist that he mold himself into some sort of character that he had no intention of becoming. No, Jeeves saw him for what he was, and the only thing that Jeeves tried to mold was the Wooster wardrobe.
He blinked, rather surprised at the paths that his mind took him down when it was left to wander on it's own. Letting his mind have a bit of an ankle every now and then seemed to turn up some rather corking ideas, id estJeeves being better than a wife any day. The only problem that he could see with this idea was though Jeeves was rather wrapped around him at that mo, there was no other indication that Jeeves would be entirely happy with the idea of being seen as a wife. It was rather more likely that Jeeves would take quite a bit of offense at the proposition and hand in his notice. Instead, he gave a sharp whistle inside his head, calling his mind back from it's excursion, and set the leash back on it, directing it in the direction of puzzling out if there was a reason Jeeves was, well, about a drink away from stripping naked and bicycling around while belting out songs. "I say, Jeeves, I don't think I've ever seen you even on the side of slightly tight, there wasn't anything that provoked this, was there? No items in the Wooster wardrobe that required you to delve deep into the brandy in a hope of removing them from your memory,are there?"
He was rather surprised at the chuckle that he got in response-and if the look on Jeeves' face was anything to go by, the action had rather surprised the other man as well. He was fairly positive that he'd never heard the sound before in his life, and what surprised him even more than hearing it was the flip that his stomach did at the sound. Not one of those flips that one gets when they hear that their Aunt is in town, or that their tab has come up due at their favourite establishment, and they have not a penny on them, but one of those flips that one gets when they hear something rather pleasing that makes them feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
"No, sir. Everything in your wardrobe, at present, looks exceedingly good on you." Had he any sort of idea what was coming out of his mouth, Jeeves would have taken the brighter option and wished for a quick death. If there had been a completely impartial observer on hand, they likely would have had this night to hold over his head even more than the time when, at the age of sixteen, he'd first discovered exactly how potent rum was, having been completely unable to taste it when smothered by things like coconut, and wound up doing his best Tarzan impression with the chandelier. Luckily the only other person in the house at the time had been his sister, who being a Sister, and thus a member of the only species worse than Aunts, used the incident as a way to get her brother to do exactly as she pleased, whenever she pleased.
The comment went rather over the head of Wooster, B, as it found the skull entirely too thick to penetrate, and instead looked for a path of less resistance. Really, he was simply glad that he wouldn't have to part with any more of his ties, as he was starting to get attached to the few natty ones that had escaped various fates like irons, terriers (he was fairly sure that that one had most definitely been on purpose, as Jeeves knew far better than to leave anything like a tie where it was easy for McIntosh to reach), and the unfortunate tie that had gotten it's knot stuck somehow, and refused to untie, something that had rather puzzled him, as even once cut away from the Wooster throat, it still seemed as though the knot had been glued into place that morning. "Well that's good to hear, what?" He shifted slightly, finding that he and Jeeves fit rather nicely together when arm in arm like they were. "So if not the Wooster wardrobe, there's nothing that's got you in a mess is there? Because you know I may not have the great brain you do, and I may not be able to get myself out of the soup, but I'm awful good at listening."
The had just reached the front door of Berkely Mansions, and once inside, Jeeves looked at the young master, opened his mouth as though he was going to say something and then caught sight of the doorman standing there as well. "Thank you, sir, for the offer, but I assure you, there is nothing that's troubling me." Now, the young master may have been many things, including mentally negligent, but he wasn't a complete idiot. His valet had simply been out of sorts for the past few days, and was now rather uncharacteristically blotto. It was, he supposed, possible that Jeeves had just let a night out with the lads get a bit out of hand-these things were not unknown to happen, after all. There had been plenty of nights where he'd shown up to the Drones with the full intent of sipping on a nice cold ale and playing a round of darts or billiards and found himself instead wound up exuberantly enjoying some long-lost friend's birthday, or the unfortunate night he found himself forced to match Stilton Cheesewright drink-for-drink. (That night had ended with him effectively killing a rather hideous aspidistra by mistaking it's pot as a good enough receptacle for the contents of the Wooster stomach. Jeeves had not looked heartbroken when he informed the young master of the unfortunate fate of the plant the next morning, and something told Bertie that Jeeves had made no effort to stop the Wooster stomach from depositing itself amongst the roots of the plant.)
Somehow, though neither knew how (and entirely due to the machinations of Dionysus), Wooster, B, managed to get Jeeves, R, up six flights of stairs to stand in front of 6A, fumbling for a key that he could not find. "I say, Jeeves, do you have a key on you?" Of course Jeeves had a key on him, of course, but he found that the comment had gone rather past him as he wondered if Bertie always looked quite so ravishable, or if that was simply the alcohol making him think such things.
"My right inside pocket, sir." Jeeves was rather surprised that he could remember where said key was, but was unable to actually retrieve it. Every time he attempted to get hand into pocket, it seemed he missed. Bertie, on the other hand, had had just enough to drink to affect his thoughts, but not enough to bother his motor skills, and found it easy enough to reach into the jacket pocket in question, hand closing around the thing, but he found that he was rather loathe to step away. He'd never really been this close to Jeeves before, not without the pretense of Jeeves straightening some article of clothing on his person. As such, he'd never really noticed the soft hint of sandalwood and vanilla, something that he'd never thought would be a pleasant combination, but on Jeeves seemed absolutely heavenly. The addition of what his discerning nose made out to be gin and some sort of beer at least gave Bertie a clue as to what his manservant preferred in terms of drinks. Then again, he'd already known that the man liked a good bitter, on the occasions that they'd found themselves exiled to some small town in the country with exactly one pub for entertainment, leaving them little choice to avoid each other, even on Jeeves' nights off. Not that he didn't try to give the man some privacy, but when in the middle of nowhere it wasn't exactly his fault when there was no other place to go for a good drink and a bit of company.
He wondered, briefly, just when and why he'd cataloged that little bit of information, as he couldn't think of anyone else whose drink of choice he could think of off the top of his head, save for Stilton Cheesewright's love of potato vodka, and that was more because he'd found himself having to down sixteen shots of it in a little over three hours. It was enough to put him off of most clear liquors in general, in fear that he should come across potato vodka masquerading in a bottle of triple sec waiting to be mixed into something decidedly more tasty. He decided it didn't really matter, and removed his hand, pondering the look on Jeeves' face, as it was one that he'd certainly never seen before, and that gave him a curious feeling. A feeling not entirely unlike the one the chuckle had roused in him when he'd heard it not fifteen minutes previous. He got the door open, and Jeeves lurched inside, heading directly for the kitchen and a stout glass of water. Even as drunk as he was, there was a niggling reminder in the back of that great brain that a good glass stuff of life would do wonders when the hangover came the next morning.
Bertie lit a cigarette and collapsed onto the couch, his mind reminding him that he was supposed to be figuring out what was the reason for Jeeves' uncharacteristic intoxication. When Jeeves appeared in the doorway, managing to do his impression of his usual self again-there was still the faint sway to the upright, attentive stance, but other than that, to the casual observer, he was as much Jeeves as ever-he found himself putting to action a half-formed plan, hoping that the Wooster knack for improvisation would help him. "Do you need anything before I retire for the night, sir?" Bertie couldn't help the bit of a grin that crossed his face at the idea of Jeeves trying to do anything remotely Jeevesian in the state the man was in. He was sure if anyone could manage it, it would be Jeeves, but he wasn't about to test it.
"It's your night off, there's no reason for you to be attending the young master, Jeeves."
"Very good, sir."
"I say, Jeeves," Bertie asked, his mouth speaking rather more quickly than his brain could track. "How deep does that feudal spirit run? The last time I had a squiffy valet running around the place, he came after me with a knife and nearly burned me to a crisp. You, on the other hand, are still-well, you, even completely blotto. All 'sir' this and 'sir' that, and still offering to bung in a hand with whatever I need. I can't even manage to remember my own name when I'm six or seven deep-say, how much did you have? I've seen you pour one back before, and it never seemed to have any effect whatsoever."
Jeeves attempted to count just how many drinks he'd had. There was the pint of bitter when he'd shown up to the pub, another pint following the first round of darts, the insistence that he join in on the round of whiskey shots that had been bought for the entire bar, another pint following that, two gin gimlets, he was fairly sure he'd had one more pint, and that was where his memory started to go spotty. "Quite a bit, sir." Was his response, as he could not actually come up with a precise amount.
"You know, if it wasn't for this, I wouldn't have thought it possible for you to get tipsy. I'd have thought you'd be immune to it."
"It is very rare indeed, sir, that I lose track of myself like this."
"There must be something weighing quite heavily on that great brain of yours to not only have you looking rather tired and worn for the past three days, but to get you, the measure of perfection, to act in a way that shows you as mere mortal man." Bertie looked rather longingly at his own aqua vitae, and considered mixing himself up a glass of brandy. It wasn't often that he attempted to prise information out of his valet, and usually it was in an attempt to figure out one of his great machinations. It was rather nerve wracking stuff, particularly with Jeeves looking at him that.
"You haven't gone and gotten yourself in the soup, have you? Because rest assured, if you have, Bertram will be here to help you however I can to fish you out of it. I may not be able to scheme a way out of it, but I'll provide any assistance I can." Jeeves found that his eyebrows were no longer his own, and one rose in what could only be described as a cocky, questioning manner, as though it was asking 'oh, really, Wooster?'
"No, sir, I have not."
"Well, that's a relief, what?" It was a bit of a relief for him, as he didn't know how he'd manage without Jeeves. If Jeeves ever found himself in the soup, and threat of death, or prison, or matrimony threatened to separate the happy domestic tranquility of Wooster GHQ, Bertie was sure he would waste away. There was simply no way he could exist without Jeeves, as without Jeeves, he was bound to find himself engaged to someone who was wholly unsuitable, and unable to find a way out of it, he'd find himself condemned to a life of misery. And he wouldn't have Jeeves' soothing presence there. He'd lose the finisher of his sentences, the corrector of his errors, the right hand to his left. He'd lose those firm, broad hands that tucked him into bed every night, and made sure he looked his best by fixing his collar and tie and wiping away any dust and dirt that appeared. He'd lose that rather nice bum that he now found himself staring at as Jeeves bent over to pick up his cigarette case, dropped in a fumble for a lighter.
Wait, where had that last bit come from? Now that he thought about it, like the former Old Etonian stirrings that had come up when Jeeves had been rather pressed up against him, he found himself rather admiring his manservant. Well, he claimed "admiring" but really, given Bertie's propensity for subtlety, it was really more akin to a leer. Jeeves, had he been in full possession of his mental faculties, would have recognized that niggling feeling in the back of his head as the feeling of being ogled, as he prided himself upon his ability to be aware of everything around him at all times. Rather, instead, managed to get his fingers around a cigarette and light it before any of the objects slipped his grasp again. That was one of the problems with consuming in excess-it gave one the odd desire to polish off as many cigarettes as possible. He spent a moment basking in the pleasure that was a good cig after a few too many stiff drinks, and realized, rather belatedly to his dismay, that Bertie had picked up speaking again. And, after that, he wondered when Bertie had ceased to be Mr. Wooster in his own mental monologue and had, instead, not only lost the formality of a surname, but had skipped right past the Christian name into the nickname. "-lost without you, you know. And I value you as more than just an employee, old thing, you're right up on Bertram's list of best mates, and no matter what it is that is weighing on you, rest assured that this Wooster is always here for you, and willing to do whatever it takes to see you in better spirits."
Somewhere along the way, Bertie had risen, and was now rather close to Jeeves indeed. Close enough, that the small, rational, portion of Jeeves' mind was telling him to run, not walk, in the opposite direction as quickly as possible. Close enough that the irrational portion was telling him to reach forward and claim what he wanted. While the two sides of the great Jeevesian brain waged war with one another, Bertie found that he was rather unsure of what to do. His brain had moved to parts further south-that was, he wasn't exactly thinking rationally, but rather found himself feeling not at all unlike he had when he was a youth, and found himself doing rather foolish things indeed in hopes of finding himself in a position to splay or be splayed over a bed. Age had tempered that desire, and as such, when it suddenly flared up again out of nowhere, it puzzled him, shocked him, and scared him. But, he decided, he was a Wooster, and the Woosters had fought at Agincourt, and as such, he wasn't about to back down from a challenge. "Whatever, sir?" The tone sent a little shiver down the Wooster spine, and, in a moment of pique, Bertie closed the gap between them, planting his lips firmly against Jeeves'.
If one was to track the thought process of one R. Jeeves at that very moment it would have looked something along the lines of "....!..." that is to say, there wasn't currently anything at all going on in a brain that was usually twelve steps ahead in forty different plans, considering each and every single possibility. If there was a glimmer of a thought it was some primitive part of his brain telling him to not think and instead simply enjoy the fact that the man he'd fallen for now had the two of them locked in an embrace. So he did what his brain was telling him, as it always knew best, and ceased thinking; turning them so that one B. W. Wooster was now pinned to the wall, being snogged senseless by one R. Jeeves. And said B. W. Wooster was doing anything but complaining. Well, all right, it wasn't exactly how he would have planned it, as there would have been considerably less of the taste of gin and cigarettes on Jeeves' tongue if he'd planned it, but really, there was certainly nothing to complain about. All in all, it was dashed pleasant, especially when Jeeves added a wriggle of the hips that convinced Bertie that from now on, if his brain decided to migrate south, he'd listen to it, as it certainly had better ideas when it was in his groin area than when it was in the Wooster noggin.
And right now it was saying that while it felt dashed good to be pinned against the wall, things would be rather improved if they were moved to someplace slightly more horizontal. As such, he showed a fairish show of dominance by giving Jeeves a gentle push in the direction of the master bedroom, steering the other man by the lapels through the maze that had, at one point, been their flat, but was right now much more representative of a labrynth than a lair. He'd managed to get Jeeves' jacket off, and undid the buttons of a dashing tweed waistcoat, while Jeeves had managed to get with the program somewhat and stripped the young master down to his vest rather quick. Bertie got the first few buttons of Jeeves' shirt undone, suddenly understanding exactly what the Victorians were getting at. There was something utterly erotic about that little glimpse of skin at the base of Jeeves' throat. Bertie edged backwards, until his knees hit the bed, and collapsed, hands still very much tangled up in his valet, pulling all thirteen stone of Jeeves down with him.
His pleasure was very short lived, however, as it seemed that as soon as Jeeves' body hit the horizontal, he was out like a light. Leaving the last of the Woosters rather pinned beneath thirteen stone of now-snoring Jeeves.
The last of the Woosters gave a little sigh of regret, and attempted to rearrange them so that he could at least breathe, managing to wriggle free just enough to allow his lungs to expand fully. He looked fondly over at Jeeves, with his now-mussed black hair falling into his eyes, shirt all wrinkled and partially unbuttoned, and braces dangling somewhere around the area of his knees, gave the man a kiss on the forehead (as he couldn't quite reach anywhere else) shifted a little bit more until he was comfortable, and decided to catch the old 40 w's himself. Over the course of the night, he discovered that Jeeves was somewhat akin to a human octopus while asleep, as he'd awoken at some ungodly hour to find one of the Wooster pins decidedly numb, and every attempt to extricate himself an exercise in failure. Every time he attempted to remove an arm, a leg would swing across to cover him, and every time he'd attempt to remove a leg, he'd find himself pulled rather tightly to the Jeevesian breast, as though he were a favourite teddy bear. The man was soused to the gills, which Bertie supposed was a perfectly valid reason to behave in such a way, but if this whole thing managed to last into the cold light of day, he was beginning to think that a bigger bed might be required. Nonetheless, he thought it was was rather spiffing, being wrapped around Jeeves' strong form. He felt safe and warm and protected, especially when Jeeves nuzzled against his neck. Really, aside from his bed being a titch too small to hold them both comfortably, Bertie could get used to sleeping like this every night. And with that thought in mind, Bertie settled in to catch the rest of his beauty sleep, resolving to not wake up until the sun had risen, and, perhaps, not until it began to descend again.