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Chapter Text

1st August, 1921

Dear Jeeves,

I’m writing a letter to you, but not really to you, you see. It’s more one of those mental exercise thingummies, a way to allow oneself to loosen the tap of emotions brewing in one’s head. And what emotions they’ve been, Jeeves, that makes writing this letter so necessary, seeing as I love you so terribly much. 

You’re away right now on your yearly biffing-off, someplace warm and sunny and with fish aplenty to rue the day you walked into their homeland, hand ready to reel in their kin. No doubt you have shed the togs of servitude and are ankling ‘round the town in the lighter accoutrement fit for a man on holiday. No doubt– no doubt– you shall return to me tanned and fit as a fiddle ever was, that I might try very hard to not be caught staring. Please don’t be cross if you do spy me doing so, since you can’t possibly know how terribly delish you look after your month-long soirées.  

Your young master is right now safe at home and in the hands of another capable but distinctly un-Jeevesian valet, mourning the loss of that stuffed-frog mask and that head which bulges so sportingly in the back. He is thinking of you, as he is always thinking of you, only now the y. m. has reached several conclusions that warrant a bit of self-reflection and a titanic amount of self-discussion. That I am sans Jeeves is precisely the reason why I am out of sorts, but also the reason for which I feel secure enough to put pen to paper about my feelings, as confusing as they’ve been for the past year. 

Over the past twelve months I’ve felt a sensation bubbling in the pits of my stomach, some tangled sort of emotions that I couldn’t slap a name to even if I wanted. The sensation always seemed to be cropping up unexpectedly, at all sort of different times and locales, so much so that I wasn’t able to puzzle out the bally thing until quite recently, and on an occasion that you’ll probably not remember, being of such insignificance to anyone else except for one B.W. Wooster. 

Do you recall last Thursday when, after a pitiful afternoon tea with the dreadful Aunt Agatha, you fixed me a much-needed b. and s.? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought myself, only I keep coming back to the scene; self, sat on the chesterfield and in a miserable state, bemoaning my existence and other some such, feeling put out in the most basic sense. Enter you, Jeeves, holding a filled glass to my side and whispering in a soft, quiet manner, “Here, sir.” You’ve done this many a-time for old Bertram, but when I gazed up at you then, the setting sun washed your face in gold and, I tell you, your eyes were so warm I knew I could walk bare-footed in the Arctic and not feel a jolt of cold, so long as my peepers were perched on your own. 

Then the little bubbling came back, only on this occ. it was more like a twister in the Wild West, and I, a simple cowboy, was forced to weather it alone. I took the tumbler from you, and thanked you heartily as per use., but if you saw on my map any sort of sudden epipha-whatsits then you should know that I had, in that moment, come to realise what exactly I was about.  

So, to make a short point out of a drawn-out, mixed-up number of feelings: I love you, Jeeves, and I hope you are enjoying yourself, but I wish I could be enjoying myself while you enjoyed yourself, that is, I wish we could be enjoying ourselves, together. Rummy business, this love thing. I feel odd all the time, for example, even as I wish for you to be safe and have a whale of a time I can’t help but also seethe at the thought of you staying longer than your allotted time away. But who knows what tomorrow may bring– this same mo. next year, I may have lost all tender pash for you and will be content to call you my close friend and confidant, but not my lodestar. Adieu for now, and when you return perhaps I’ll put the soupy circs to you, Jeeves, and see if you can’t advise the young master on what I ought to do.

Yours, 
B.W.W.

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2nd September, 1921

Sardinia was excellent in August. It was hot and disgustingly humid, but the wind coming in from the sea acted as a constant coolant, so there was no real need for complaint. The land itself was beautiful, and the ocean surrounding it even more so. Considering the open sea was where Reginald had spent most of his time, it made for an altogether divine experience.

His grasp of Italian was standard, certainly enough to get by for purchasing foodstuffs and fishing supplies, but he was not proficient enough to have made many friends in the town he vacationed in. This made no difference to him, as he spent six hours on the water, alone, stopping back to his rented home for an hour’s lunch, and then using the rest of the late afternoon and evening for reading, cooking, and reading once again. This silent routine suited him, and after only a few days the sound of his own voice was foreign to his ears.

The rooms he had rented came with several modes of entertainment, most notably a newly-bought radio and a century-old piano, both resting in the same far corner by the armchair. Neither device went into use during his time. Reginald found he did not quite appreciate Italians’ eccentric tastes in radio music, and he did not wish to make merry with the piano then. Besides, he only knew duets.

It was an excellent holiday; Sardinia was excellent. And the flat had not burnt down, so the respite was not a terrible blunder overall.

Taking up the pinstripe trousers once more, Reginald feels himself slipping into the skin of service, a comforting presence due in one part to its familiarity and the other to his own adeptness. 

Bertie greets him at the door with, “What-ho, Jeeves! How was your sojourn away from the metrop?” His eyes are alight with excitement and another emotion Reginald finds he does not recognise. At the sight of Bertie’s welcome, the thought passes briefly in Reginald’s mind of one’s returning home to find the family dog waiting at the door, jumping and licking in fervent happiness at his master‘s homecoming. There was no jumping here— and certainly no licking— but the analogy was apt nonetheless, and it put a secret smile on his face.

Later on, when his things are put away in their proper places and all is as it always has been, the night comes on tenderly, the sun fading away beneath the stories of buildings. Moonlight fills the flat with a deep sense of peace, and Reginald swears even the furniture heaves a breath of contented relief.

Bertie, lounging on the chesterfield, was a welcome sight after a month away. When he sees the young master’s hand flex minutely, it is no great feat of the mind to guess what it is he wants: a brandy and soda, with a light speck of the latter. Before any words are said, Reginald is at the bar and fixing it, a steady and tanned hand pouring the drink into his preferred crystal.

He holds the glass out next to the young master’s right side. There is no platter this time, for Reginald wants something specific to finish his holiday activities which requires the absence of the silver tray.

Although he has done his utmost to be silent as the grave, it has been more than a year since Bertie has jolted from the lack of noise his valet makes— it is not just Reginald who has become accustomed to the ways of things. The drink is passed from one large hand to another with a happy, “Thank you, Jeeves; this whistle needed to be wetted, methinks,” pouring out from Mr. Wooster’s mouth. 

As the exchange is made, Reginald moves his ring and pinky fingers slightly farther down than necessary, so that they might brush against Bertie’s for a half-second. Bertie, thankfully, either does not notice or says nothing on the matter. Reginald draws his hand back with a short exhale of fulfilment.

This touch alone will keep him satiated for another three months at least, until he feels secure enough to touch Bertie outside of the proprieties of the service once more. Sardinia was excellent, but he is glad to be home.

Chapter Text

29th August, 1922

Dear Jeeves,

I’ve been attempting to get you out of the grey matter all year, but no such luck. Dash it all! I feel pent-up and useless, holding onto all of these emotions and with no place to set them down. This tiger has been circling the Berkeley enclosure for days now, desperate for some sort of release from this pain, with none to assist me in my agony. 

I say I’ve had no help, but to tell the truth, Jeeves, I might have done some romping about recently– just the once, though, you know, but it hardly matters, since it didn’t do me any good at all. It’s only that you’ve been gone for almost two weeks, and I’ve missed you so much, and I have been trying not to miss you, because loving and missing you is not very productive, you see. 

Dash it all, but I shall tell you about my tryst. It’s been a long, long time since I’d set my cap on someone; not since Oxford had a Wooster finger been laid on another. On the subj. of Oxford, I should mention that it was complete coincidence and nothing more that Ginger had been in the metrop these same past two weeks, and that I had time aplenty to spend with him was no one’s fault, really.

I shan’t beat around the bush, Jeeves. Ginger and I dillied and dallied several times at school, and so did we once more, yesterday evening. He was gentle and sweet during our horizontal waltz, although I’d forgotten how loud I’m liable to get when there descends a mouth upon the Wooster neck. Good times were had all around, indeed. He’s not such a terrible sight for sore eyes, old Ginger, but I must confess that, when the deed was done and we lay there, entwined like ivy on his hotel bed and panting from the exertions of our romp, I admit to a twinge of disappointment when I looked up and saw his blotchy visage instead of your own smooth, pale mask. His arms, too, are nice and muscled, but when they wrapped around me I dreamed they were wider and heavier, and attached to that paragon of valets whom I love so dearly. 

Have I betrayed you, Jeeves? Since it wasn’t

My night with Ginger makes me feel disgustingly guilty

So you see, Jeeves, that my attempt at a bit of r. and r. was all for naught. For whilst I lay in the arms of another, methought I saw my late espoused saint, only you are neither late nor espoused— at least I bally well hope so! Poor J. M., I understand what the cove must have gone through, for I too am on pins and needles to have full sight of you without restraint, and whatnot. What doesn’t make any sense is, is that I was labouring under the impression that old Johnnie Milton was blind. If he was operating sans peepers, then, how exactly would he see his beloved dead filly? Or perhaps it’s simply a turn of phrase. You could clear up the misunderstanding in a minute, were you here next to me, although if you were sat besides self and reading over my shoulder I suspect I’d have bigger things to worry about than the four working senses of Mr. Milton.

I wonder what a cove can take for my present relief. This morning, after I legged it back to the flat at the ungodly hour of eight in the ack emma, I laid abed again and tried to catch some forty winks on my lonesome, but to no avail. Tell me, Jeeves, is this how I will feel forever? As if I’ve lost a part of the Wooster corpus in your leaving? By Jove, you’re only gone for the month and I’m so bally melancholic, if melancholic is the word I want! Tonight I’ll go back to bed and wrap my own arms around the young master, and I’ll imagine them to be bigger and heavier like yours. I’ll throw my pins over a spare pillow and conjure up the farce that the stuffed feather-down is in reality your own legs against mine. I’ll be depressed again tonight, I think, but we’ll see if that doesn’t get you out of my ticker come sunrise, what? I doubt it, but I’ll give it the old Oxford go. 

That’s all I have for this year’s letter. ‘Tis year number two of my loving you. I miss you. Please come home early. Stay away as long as you need, to get all the Bertie-ness expunged from your system. I miss you. I hope you miss me, dear thing. I now understand that I am no one else’s but 

Yours,

B.W.W.

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4th September 1922

It is impossible to miss, but necessary, for both his sanity and the maintenance of his composure, to ignore. Reginald continues to assist the young master in his daily dress, averting his eyes from the spot and the mark thereupon it. 

Nonetheless, it is there and he knows of its existence. The colouring, light blue in the centre and ringed with yellow, has faded enough to be barely noticeable, but the bruise’s placement on the nape of Bertie’s neck tells its lurid story aloud to Reginald’s eyes alone. He looks away, focusing instead on the choice of ties and cufflinks to finish the outfit, pushing down any errant thoughts. There will be no thinking about Bertie in flagrante with another, about his back pressed against an intruder’s breast, close enough to suck hard on Bertie’s nape while he is being brought to pleasure in such a base manner—

Reginald chooses an elegant forest green for the tie that Bertie does not object to. Earlier, he had preferred the cobalt and thought to recommend it to his employer; now he decides to strictly prohibit any blue articles for at least a month and to put a firm foot down on any talk of yellow. 

Bertie takes the green tie with little ado. Slipping the fabric around his collar, the young man ties it with his usual grace and gives himself a once-over in the mirror. Not a hair is out of place; Bertie looks clean enough to eat off of. 

Imagining mouths anywhere near his young master’s body distinctly does not help. 

Jealousy, white-hot and pounding, courses through his system throughout the rest of the week, leaving him dizzy and uncomfortable and determined to work even harder than before, if that's possible. To know that the thing occurred would have been bad enough, but to see the evidence on Bertie’s person, full admission that an act has occurred which Reginald has scarcely let himself dream about, sears like a lance to the side.  Reginald imagines late one night, tossing and turning in a complete turnaround from his usual cadaver-like mode of sleeping, stealing into Bertie’s room and covering the mark with his mouth— not biting, he has not lost all his feudal sensibilities, but simply hiding the thing from view. He imagines less the taste and more the feel of Bertie’s skin on his tongue, wonders if the skin there would be thin and sweaty, or if he could feel the bones underneath moving as Bertie takes long, slumbery breaths. Perhaps, seeing as the bruise is on the young master’s nape, Reginald might also wrap his arms around him, chest to back, and hold them both in a tight embrace until morning comes. 

When morning does come, in the real world and not the fantastical, Reginald tosses the idea from his mind with a firm conviction. He is not a dog begging for scraps. Whatever Bertie wishes to engage in, and whomever he wishes to engage with, is explicitly none of Reginald’s business, in this case. It is his task to make sure Bertie’s life is one of ease, and to stop him from committing egregious sartorial felonies, but not to hinder him from an occasional dalliance, as long as it is discreet. Were it not discreet, Reginald does not know if he would remain so level-headed; he’s barely holding on as it is. 

Eventually, the pang of jealousy simmers down to a low heat, and then the gas is turned off entirely on the event. Time moves on, the world marches forward on its journey around the sun, and Bertie continues to purchase items to disgrace his wardrobe. But Reginald does not forget. Blue and yellow and not his— he does not forget.

Chapter Text

1st August, 1923

Jeeves,
Reggie,
Reginald,
Jeeves,

My dear, 

You’ve only just left a few hours ago, and here I am, desperate to relieve myself of this yearly burden once again. I can’t help it, you know— perhaps it’s that psychology of the individual, that this particular individual is once a year in need of a good untethering of the softer emotions on fresh-picked paper. 

What’s in a name? Juliet said that, I think, to her dream rabbit Romeo, only those two were not quite in it for the long stuff, what? Poor souls. Their problem being that they each came from families who’d got it in for each other for centuries, and that they two lovers did not, in fact, have it in for each other, but rather the opposite. What’s in a name, Jeeves? Jeeves— wherefore art thou Jeeves? That is to say, why do we have to be separated by these bally surnames and proprieties? Why can we not ankle around the metrop arm in arm, with my side pressed against yours?

I know why, of course: you’re my valet and I’m your young master. It’s the proper way to do things, and you and I have always committed ourselves to our own individual codes of conduct. You have your feudal spirit, and I have my Code of the Woosters and the way of the preux chevalier. I shouldn’t ever wish for you to lose your f. s., old thing, since it is such an intrinsic— is intrinsic the right thingummy here?— part of the Jeevesian character. To have a Jeeves sans feudal spirit would be to have soda without brandy, or young and well-to-do men without beastly aunts. No, you’ll never drop your propriety, nor shall I ever drop mine. That doesn’t mean I have to be chuffed about it.

I understand all of this, really I do, but sometimes I imagine what it might be like to hear the word “Bertie” come out of your lips. Or, if you’d like, you could call me “Bertram” instead. No one’s ever called me Bertram, except the rozzers that one evening during my first term at Oxford, before I figured out that I could easily supply the policing chappies with a clever pseudonym instead. I would like very much to hear it from you, old thing. One imagines you would say it in a sweeter, softer tone than those pesky officers of the law. You might whisper it in the Wooster ear, before moving your mouth lower to give the labials a press of their own. 

Hearing you call me by my Christian name has become infuriatingly important to me, infuriatingly because I know of all the requests I can put to my paragon of valets, this can’t bally well be one of them. Still, a chappie can dream, what?

And then there is the other side to my little sitch. Would you be absolutely shirty if I were ever to call you Reggie? I can’t imagine us being in media of an afternoon of tender pash and I, overcome with love and whatnot for you, pulling back and saying, “Oh Jeeves, let’s stay in tonight, what?” I’d much rather call you Reggie or Reg whenever we two are alone. In fact, I have   To tell the truth, old fruit, there are some nights— only when I’m bally secure in the fact that you are at around fifteen or twenty of your forty winks— when I lie in bed and practise saying your name aloud. I don’t do it often, or too loudly, but whenever I let the word “Reggie” pass from the voice box, my heart pounds and my map runs red-hot in embarrassment and not a little bit of want.

Reggie, could I be your Bertram? Is there any way around our strict codes, a way to work out a situ. wherein we are each other’s very specific dream rabbits and no one else’s? There’s nothing else in the whole wide world that I want more than this, to be yours and vice versa. If I could come up with some spiffing scheme to get you to utter those two blessed syllables I so long to hear… but the y.m. has never been the go-man for such things, Reg, that title belongs strictly to you. It’s a bally shame I can’t go to you about the soupy circs I find myself in, for that would defeat the purpose of the thing, methinks. Dash it all! Here I am, pacing around the grey cells, metaphorically speaking, with no one to talk to except the ink and paper before me. It’s a hard thing for a cove, Reggie, to have such a rummy set of cards with no one to split the hand with. Maybe one day, Bertram tells himself, maybe one day when I screw my courage to the sticking place, if that translates to my feelings correctly, you won’t mind hearing about how much I dreamt about calling you anything other than Jeeves, and how the epi-whatsit ‘sir’, while it does send a racy shiver down the spine sometimes, could not compete with the oojah-cum-spiff feeling I’d receive should I ever hear you call me Bertram.

This is the third year, and your third letter. A third letter, by Jove! I can’t recall any other time I’ve been so dedicated to anything, never mind love. It seems the Wooster blood-pumper’s working overtime in want of you. In want of you, always. Lord love a duck, that’s a line from La Basset, most likely. What have I become? Oh, well, c’est la vie, if that’s the mot juste. Even if you don’t wish to be my Reggie, Reggie, I’m still content to be 

Yours,

B.W.W.

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14th February 1924 

The man who delivers the telegram is wearing a rose, dark red and still dewy, in his buttonhole, most assuredly in honour of today’s celebration of Saint Valentine’s Day. Reginald gives him his customary thanks, closes the door, and places the piece on a tray, as is proper. 

Bertie is in the bathroom, currently waist-deep in the tub and cleaning his legs. As he works the soap into a lather, Reginald watches as Bertie brings his right leg up to rest his foot against the ledge of the tub, making the soaping process easier. He keeps his eyes on Bertie’s hands, which are making their way up his calf, but the sight of a harsh caress against the knee jolts Reginald back into his role. He coughs lightly, causing Bertie to glance behind him, but not to stop his hands’ journey up and onto his thigh for a proper cleaning. 

“A telegram for you, sir,” Reginald informs him as Bertie moves on to the next leg, “from Miss Angela Travers.” 

Bertie makes an interested noise. Very rarely does he receive letters from the younger of the Travers ladies, so Reginald too feels his interest piqued at the sight of the sender’s address, and what information may be enclosed therein. 

“Angela, eh? Well, tally-ho, Jeeves, and read it aloud, if you would.” Bertie takes a moment to dunk his head beneath the tub while Reginald opens the telegram. He begins washing his hair with a thorough hand as the note is read aloud. 

“Hildebrand in hiding, stop.” Reginald says, breathing in the steam, “Divulge location immediately and none will be harmed, stop. I’ve no wish to involve prohibition of Anatole but needs must, stop. Don’t think I don’t know that you know Bertram, full stop.”

There is a long, uncomfortable few minutes in which Reginald awaits a reply from Bertie that does not come. Reginald is standing behind the tub, making it so he cannot see Bertie’s face, however, he catches sight of the tips of the young man’s ears, which are now as red as a tomato, and certainly not from the bathroom’s heat. 

Perhaps, Reginald muses, he knows what trouble Mr. Glossop has gotten himself into and is internally reeling at the dire situation of his cousin and her fiancé. If so, then it is likely not as terrible as Bertie might think, and Reginald knows he may be able to offer assistance in the matter, so he forgoes waiting for a reply. 

“Sir, would you like me to inscribe a reply to Miss Travers?” he asks Bertie. Reginald shifts his weight from one leg to another, feeling the uncomfortable aroma wafting about the place.

Silence continues to reign supreme in the bathroom. 

“Sir?” Reginald asks again. 

Again, no response is forthcoming. Reginald is about to leave the young master to his own devices when Bertie’s voice rings back against the tiles, “Y-yes, old thing.” Bertie’s voice warbles and Reginald, for once, must strain himself to hear it. “Sorry… terribly sorry. Yes, I’ll send a reply, only later, please. Thank you… Jeeves.” 

Reginald takes that as his leave, closing the door behind him, confusion never taking a spot on his face but absolutely running amuck in his mind, and makes his way into the kitchen. Perhaps a nicer dinner tonight, he calculates, to combat whatever brown study has taken Bertie over so suddenly. 

As he pulls the handle in firmly, Reginald swears he hears a noise, something between a sigh and a hiccough, which somehow– he could never explain it in any meaningful way, even after years have passed— sounds both utterly content and desperately agonised.

Chapter Text

19th August, 1924 

Dearest Reggie,

You probably think I’ve been a complete ninny this past year, what with my spending habits graduating from trite to unrestrained and unmethodical. Oh, but there is a method to this Wooster’s madness, I tell you, even if a madness it may well and truly be. 

We’ve long known that I am utterly dippy for you— that is, I know and you, Jeeves of the unsent letters, know— but keeping my thoughts and feelings to myself has never been my strongest suit, what? As it is, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster has found a topping way of circumventing, if circumventing is the word I want, these useless feelings into a channel which is decidedly less useless than simply mooning over you whenever you aren’t looking. In short, I have come up with a corker of a plan that allows the young master to shower the man he loves with tokens of affection, even if the man in question is unaware that said t.s are ones of a. 

I started out easily enough— perhaps you remember the occ. back in January (before I’d ever heard you say my name aloud, God in Heaven, that was a bally religious experience) when I ankled home with a rather large tome tucked beneath my elbow. A second edition Gogol, it was, and dashed expensive, too, but you’d mentioned the johnnie as one of your favourite Russian authors, and so I rushed out post-haste to find a special copy for you. It took me a week of searching in the catacombs of bookshops, but I finally got my mitts on the thing. When I came back to the flat, I had my alibi prepared and was raring to go. A gift from Lady Florence , I fibbed to you, and one that I shall send right into the bin— unless you’d like to have it, old fruit? I pride myself to think that nary a waver did the Wooster voice make, and I believe that, in your desperate desire to make sure the article remained un-binned, you did not ponder too harshly over my flimsy excuse. You read the thing cover-to-back in two days, Reggie, and imparted on the y. m. all sorts of intellectual faffings that I tried and failed to keep up with. I was too busy, focused on your disposish; dare I call it sunny, my love? I think so, in your own special Jeevesian sort of way. I loved to see that look about you, and I fear that I’ve been hooked on dousing you with gifts whenever the coast is clear for secretly bestowing my affections. 

No doubt you’d think these purchases have been nothing more than thoughtless drawings on the Wooster financials, but in reality each one is heavily weighed against how much my Reginald Jeeves will approve of the object. And I know you’ve approved of nearly every one, Reg, especially the boat. Technically speaking I did not purchase so much as trade in for the thing— Dilly and Bingo really are such nooses at cards, you know— so it all chalks up to my lucky royal flush against the Drones lads’ pitiful two pairs. I remember how you coughed and sighed lowly in expression of your dissent, but really, did you think I took the bally thing for myself? What the devil do I need with a boat? I hardly ever go anywhere except New York, and I prefer the spaciousness of a good liner suite instead of the Pyramus’ two cramped cabins and its tactless excuse for what claims to be a full bar setup. At first I thought it an unnecessary addition to the Wooster financial upkeep, but to see you so tickled pink made any thoughts of banking fly out the porthole. I could afford the boat, but I could not afford to never see you smile so warmly at me again. 

The whole boat situ. was not a total dip in the red for old Bertram, though, if you can believe it. Despite my general dislike of boating (an Oxford man always prefers an oar rather than an engine to handle sailing over lakes and hamlets) I quickly found my silver lining the second day we spent out on the sea, after you had returned from a jaunt of solitary fishing on the attached dinghy. I was laid out on the back of the ship, the stern I think you said it was called, thoroughly diverted by my new mystery novel. Hearing you steer the little rowboat up to the Pyramus, I thought of nothing more than whether your catch had consisted of any grouper for tonight’s dinner. When you climbed up the stairs and onto the deck, wet and missing a shirt and hauling a gargantuan sack of your outing’s victories, my mouth turned as dry as the Gobi. Good God, man! But a close of the eyes and I can still see the picture clear as day. You had mentioned taking a swim if the waters were warm enough, and thank the Lord they were, for your bare chest was laid out to me, shiny from the seawater, and I managed an entire ten seconds of taking in your broad chest and strong, pouched stomach. Your hair, usually slicked back in a perfect, shiny backcomb, had flung itself thisaway and that, giving you the appearance of a ruffian or street boy. My stomach was doing gymnastics that could rival any Olympic johnnie, I tell you. Heavens but I hope you didn’t see me staring. And I was staring, my attention rapt. Terribly rude of me, I know, but the mirage before me was more delish than Anatole’s finest courses. Bung Anatole out of Old Blighty, for all I care; in one movement you had satiated me for a bally lifetime.

After you went inside to shower and started on dinner (no grouper, I was sad to hear) I stayed outside on the stern, laid out in naught but my trunks. And do you know what I did, Reggie? I took myself in hand— I was already raring to go the mo. you stepped out in less than your usual ensemble— and handled myself swiftly with the help of your image seared into my grey cells. I hope you don’t mind it, my dear. If it’s any consolation, I had to toss that swimsuit overboard, ruined as it was and with the damning evidence stained permanently upon the cloth, but you had always made your low opinion of it known. You’re welcome, then, old sport. 

I’ve no doubt there will be other gifts, more expensive than the last, to be ‘saved from the bin’ or ‘forgotten to be returned’. Finally, a happy medium hath been forged in the Wooster household. Just the in nick of time, too, for I almost spilled all that day you called me Bertram in the bathroom. The time is not quite right yet, I think. Maybe someday, but not now. Loving is a patient art, I’m coming to realise.

This is your fourth letter, Reg. You’re out in Greece this time, and I'm waiting patiently for you to telegram your safe arrival. By the way, if you couldn’t guess already, I’m still in love with you . Always, always, always

Yours, 

B.W.W.

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27th July 1925 

He holds the door open for Bertie, who trudges into the flat, splashing and squeaking all over the hardwood floor. Bertie is soaked from head to toe; his hair, perfectly coiffed to a delightful spring this morning, now lies limp across his forehead. His starched white shirt is clear and clinging to his chest, and parts of his suit are covered with splotches of mud from the errant spaniel dogs who had found the young master’s person an excellent place for jumping and pawing at.

Reginald takes Bertie’s waterlogged jacket away to be dried and cleaned. Cloudy-eyed and silent, Bertie barely manages to take the four steps into the master bedroom where, God willing, he will finally be able to remove the rest of his soiled accoutrements and take a well-deserved and much needed bath. It would be an understatement of the greatest proportions to say that the day had been hard— trial after trial had occurred this afternoon, and Bertie had borne the brunt of each and every one. 

First, they had come across Mr. Pinker, who had on him approximately fifteen brown-haired cocker spaniels on fifteen different-coloured leads, on their way back from the Drones and the market. Mr. Pinker explained to Bertie that Miss Byng had got it in her mind to get her hands on a purebred spaniel, specifically brown-haired, for some unspecified and frankly mystifying reason, and as such had instructed Mr. Pinker to go out into town and procure a suitable one for her purposes, whatever those purposes may be. Threats of exterminated engagements were levied should he find himself unable to successfully perform this task. After explaining this conundrum, Mr. Pinker, in his usual ungraceful character, managed to lose control over his hands and the leads within them. Bertie suddenly found himself under siege by fifteen brown-haired cocker spaniels, who brought him to the ground for further rough-housing and pawing-at. While Bertie thrashed and shouted on the ground, Reginald dug into his left breast pocket to retrieve the dog whistle which he always carried in his waistcoat in case of emergency situations such as this. With a few short blows of the whistle, the dogs bowed their heads in subservience, and Reginald wrangled the animals together, all fifteen leads reacquired and clutched tightly within one of his hands. He handed the leads back to Mr. Pinker, who took them with good enough grace to at least appear apologetic, and helped Bertie to his feet. 

That seemed to be enough excitement for the day. Reginald was determined to get Bertie back to the flat for a change of clothes— for now the excellent black-striped suit was ruined with dirt and mud— and a stiff drink. Then Reginald looked, and beheld a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Richard Little, and Hell followed with him. Reginald tactfully withheld any noises of contempt. 

Mr. Little waved at Bertie with an energetic “What ho!” which seemed to make Bertie cheer up and brace himself simultaneously. Bertie adored his Drones friends, Reginald knew, but he was also aware of their recurring ‘ventures into the soup’, as his young master would phrase it, and was not looking forward to being put out again. 

Another venture this would prove to be; not three seconds after shaking hands had Mr. Little already conscripted Bertie into assisting him in winning the heart of a new love. Bertie, a kind-hearted but naïf young man, had acquiesced with little fight, as he always did.

In this case, it was a mere fifteen minutes before Bertie was found knee and elbow-deep in Trafalgar Square Fountain, having been shoved in secret by Mr. Little. The man had it in his head that, in an effort to appear more heroic and thoughtful to his latest paramour, he might save a man from drowning. How a fully grown adult would drown in metre-deep water, and in a fountain besides, Reginald would never know. Additionally, while Mr. Little enjoyed shoving Bertie into the fountain, he was evidently too wrapped up in explaining to his female friend how he might save Bertie that he forgot about actually enacting the rescue mission in question. In the end, the young woman seemed more impressed by Bertie, whose appearance was one of a drowned kitten, than by Mr. Little himself. 

Reginald saw the wedding bells ringing in the eyes of the young lady and immediately moved to inform the pair of Bertie’s forthcoming nuptials to a Daphne Dolores Moorehead, whom the lady, a cafe waitress, of course, had never heard of. Dismayed by the knowledge that Bertie had already been snapped up, the young woman took Mr. Little’s arm, supposedly content to take up with the second-best option. Seeing the most imminent crisis averted, Reginald helped Bertie out of the fountain before someone had the good sense to call for the police.

Bertie, now sopping wet and still stained with mud, was even more desirous of heading home. He edged along the pavement, Reginald following alongside him as they walked slowly but surely towards the flat. These things were meant to try us, Reginald had mused, then said aloud in the hopes of lifting Bertie’s low spirits. 

They were nearly to Berkeley Mansions when Bertie ran, in a literal sense, face-into-barrel chest with D’Arcy Cheesewright. There is no need to recount their tumultuous conversation; suffice to say, after Bertie had made a completely innocuous comment about the Lady Florence, Mr. Cheesewright, pugilistic man that he is, drew his fist back and hit him firmly across the eye. Reginald, a better match of height for Mr. Cheesewright, placed himself between Bertie and his assailant, obstructing his view in the same way a matador might do against an especially aggravated bull. Reginald developed an exit strategy as Mr. Cheesewright continued to froth at the bit. The quickest idea he could muster was to point in the vaguest direction of a bookstore, and note that he caught the visage of Lady Florence in said store, purchasing a copy of Kant.  

The result, though haphazardly created, was effective. Mr. Cheesewright fled in the direction of the bookstore and left Bertie sitting on the pavement, clutching the right side of his face. For the third time that day, Reginald assisted Bertie in standing, and the two finally finished the march home.

Now, as Reginald enters the bedroom, he can see how badly Bertie’s eye has been injured. The socket is bruised to a pervasive black, and the surrounding skin is red and swollen. Reginald’s heart goes out to Bertie– the day had truly been horrible, and he has every right to be miserable. 

Bertie is standing in the middle of the room, struggling out of his disgusting waistcoat, finally getting the thing off and throwing into a puddle in some corner of the room. As he moves on to his sunken shoes and socks, Bertie makes the quick remark, “This would make a topping story for my editor, at the very least, what?” In his tone is a fair try at mirth, Bertie side-eyeing Reginald with a sly grin. Reginald appreciates the attempt, but the effect is ruined when he notices a wince line the edges of Bertie’s mouth from the pain in his cheekbones. 

“Indeed, sir,” Reginald replies, “though you may have to redact some smaller details regarding yourself and Mr. Little’s foray through the zoo in order to reach Trafalgar on time.”

Bertie considers this for a minute. Whenever Bertie contemplates, Reginald has discovered, his brows draw close together and his nose scrunches up in an entirely too endearing manner. It was just so at this moment. “Oh yes, I’ll censor that bit out, then. But you did so brilliantly today, Jeeves, that I simply know the old readership will eat the story up, zoo promenade or no.”

Reginald smiles at the compliment, his back turned from the young master as he bends to retrieve what was once a very fine waistcoat. He is hungry for any affection Bertie deigns to show, despite the fact that he does so quite often. “Very good, sir.”

Turning back to Bertie, Reginald can see he is unable to unbutton his shirt due to the severe shivering of his whole body. Bertie’s misuse at his friends’ hands today has been wholly unsupportable, Reginald thinks, but grits his teeth and keeps the unprofessional comment to himself. He places one hand atop the younger man’s, lowering it and unbuttoning the shirt himself. 

“Sir, you are shaking.”

“I am?”

“I am afraid so. You must be cold, and in no inconsiderable amount of pain.” The final button is undone, revealing Bertie’s chest and stomach, moving softly with each breath he takes.

Bertie smiles again, then winces again, too. “Desperately so, I’m afraid. But really, you did so well, Jeeves.” Bertie cocks his head slightly, as if trying to remove the water from his ears. He fixes Reginald with a familiar but unknown gaze. “Did you enjoy yourself, old fruit? I know how much you like fixing my little day-to-day run-ins with the soup.”

Bertie stands before him, shirt unbuttoned but not yet removed, dripping wet and shivering from the coldness of the flat, eye bruised and swollen and no doubt painful, as miserable and pitiful a picture as ever there was, and yet his gaze is so tender at the hopeful notion that Reginald, his valet, had enjoyed himself in the day’s trysts. 

Suddenly the sight is too much for Reginald to handle. Without thinking, he lurches forward, rests a hand on the side of Bertie’s face that is unscathed, and kisses him. Bertie inhales deeply, a sharp gasp of surprise, but returns the kiss with ardour. The feeling is conflicting; he wishes to be gentle as Bertie’s injuries require, but he also wishes to be decidedly ungentle, or at least do several ungentle things to his person before taking the best care of him afterwards. In honest truth, he does not think about this at all at this moment; he is too busy feeling– feeling!– Bertie’s soft keens on his own lips, vibrating the small space between their closed mouths. It is, in a word, heavenly.

Reginald decides to push farther. Without stopping for breath, he runs his tongue along the seam of Bertie’s lips until the man understands what Reginald is asking for, and opens his mouth accordingly. Bertie’s mouth is hot and pliant, and it is too easy for Reginald to slip his tongue along Bertie’s teeth and back almost to his palate.

The kiss lasts years and seconds simultaneously. Reginald is aware of a million things at once: their twin laboured breathing, Bertie’s hands on his arms, his own hands placed still on Bertie’s cheek and shoulder, the silence that fills the rest of the flat. 

All at once it is too much, and the gravity of the situation crashes firmly on his mind. Reginald separates them, ending the kiss with force. What is he thinking, kissing his employer? Bertie is not inclined in the same way, merely led on by Reginald’s dominating character, just as he always is. Bertie trusts Reginald, would follow any task Reginald put to him, and yet here he was, violating that precious trust with his own need for physical satisfaction. 

They are both panting from the exertion of the kiss, and the sight of Bertie’s lips, red and swollen from Reginald’s press, nearly causes him to damn propriety and resume their course. Then, moving his gaze upwards, the similar sight of Bertie’s swollen red eye and cheek causes him veer off-course, back into strictly feudal territory. He has not made a mistake; he has committed the worst error of his life.

“Sir,” he tries to explain. “Sir, I am sorry. I—“

“A bath, I think, Jeeves. I can run it myself.” Bertie interrupts, looking anywhere but at Reginald. He does not wince. “Be a good chappie and lay the heliotrope pyjamas out, if you would. Lord, but my head is pounding hooves, I say.” Reginald takes the dismissal for what it is. Bertie bathes and then goes to bed early.

They do not speak of the event the next morning, or the next day. Three days later Reginald leaves for his due holiday. 

France, he thinks, will not be so enjoyable this year.

Chapter Text

2nd August 1925 

Mister Reginald Jeeves—

You kissed me, old thing. What the devil was that about? And then you had the bally nerve to push me away. Why? I’m dashed confused about the whole affair, I say. I can only assume that, having kissed me then sent me away with a frigid ‘sir’ upon the lips— those lips which I now know are soft but unyielding, and quite adept at plying noises from the y. m. which— to hell with this!

That is, having kissed me and summarily dismissed me, I can only take these actions to mean that you were so overcome with feeling that you required, in a way any cove might need, a quick and easy outlet for your feelings. I quite understand, Reggie Jeeves. I too on occ. find myself in need of a swift respite (and swift it often is, when I think of you) when the soft stuff becomes too much for the Wooster corpus to handle. Normally I should be over the moon and other like-minded planetary bodies after receiving such a delightful kiss from the lodestar of my life, but the aftermath of the moment, that forceful ending and the bally nerve to call me ‘sir’, put a dampening on any happy emotions I might have possessed. The dreadful silence which filled the flat in the days following almost made the young master chuffed to see you finally on your way to France for the month. We need a dash of latitude between ourselves, I think, to examine what rumminess possessed us both that evening. 

Do you love me, Reggie? I don’t think you do. I don’t know what the deuce to think, honestly. If you hold the same tender pash for Betram as he holds for you, why should you push him away? If you don’t, though, why kiss me at all? You are an infuriating bird, do you know that? Lord love a duck. I wonder if right at this moment you are lying abed, somewhere warm and windy from the incoming tide, asking yourself the same questions as I am. If you are, Jeeves, then no doubt you also have all the answers to our questions, for there is no query in the whole terra firma that my man cannot answer. 

To be frank, I have always assumed that a paragon such as yourself would never– could never– love me back. To do so would be going against that feudal spirit you cling to, like an anchor clings to its ship. Do you know, it is absolutely infuriating that the things I love most about you are also the things that keep us from bridging the gap of soupiness that lay between us. Suffice it to say, I was labouring, and perhaps I still do, under the impression that any dandiness on my part was never to be reflected in your traditional old soul. You’ve an animus for the ages, Jeeves, one which I had assumed did not even ponder on kissing coves or young masters besides. It’s a rummy thing, you know— I’ve been dippy for you nearly five years, and yet throughout all that time of wanting and loving and despairing I never once imagined a scene in which you would return any desire for your Bertram. As I said, I always assumed you were incapable unwilling not going to love me back. And now I don’t know what to think at all. 

I suppose that’s part of the reason I began writing and publishing the adventures of self and my man Jeeves.  Showing the public our little stories, in which I am cast in the role of helpless aristocrat and you are my shining knight in well-polished armour, has helped me to make loving you not so bally painful in light of its unrequited quality. I know you’ve read the stories, old sport, but can you detect the hints of dippiness woven in the very fabric of the thingummies? It is there, I assure you, in every line— nay, in every word I bung down on the page. 

In fact, I remember the specific mo. when I decided to put pen to paper re: our ventures into the soup for the public at large. It was May, and the spring daisies had bloomed their sweet fragrant bulbs and whatnot. We were on a jolly romp around the metrop, gabbing about this and that, when you imparted on me that young men of my age and status ought to brush up on their Baudelaire lest the peerage fall perilously low. I took the hint for what it was, and when you biffed off to ankle around to the Junior Ganymede I, a la Sherlock Holmes, stealthily snuck down to the same bookstore which had sold me your Goggle-Russian chappie to purchase for myself a copy of Baudelaire’s hot stuff.

The cove certainly does a lot of talking, what? And the subj.s he covers are sometimes too much for the Wooster grey matter to comprehend, so when I came across a corker of a quote from old Charlie that sang to my own heart’s struggles, I was not likely to forget it.  I’ve even copied it down here, for future ref.: 

“Perhaps you will say to me: 'Are you sure that it is the real story?' What does it matter, what does any reality outside of myself matter, if it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?”

After reading that little blurb, I was nearly brought to tears, if you can believe it. In an instant I understood what the bird was saying. Writing about us, about you, has truly helped me live, has helped me process exactly who and what I am. And what I am is a cove who has gone past shame and past desort desig desolation. I now know the stuff I am made of and what I am made for, even if knowing such a thing has only caused me to be tinged with confusion and loneliness. It's better than bally Baudelaire, for my stories are true as well, only slightly embellished to make you shine extra brightly, but any accomplished reader expects such liberties to be taken.  

I don’t know if you love me, Reginald. Nor do I know if I will ever get any bally peace not knowing. What I do know, and it is important information indeed, is how your mitt feels on my cheek, warm and gentle, and that my insides are liable to turn into flambé at the brush of your tongue against my teeth. 

I do not know if you love me. But I am what I am, Reg. If there are self-made purgatories, then we all have to live in them, what? Never forget that, although I am temporarily lonely and unhappy and confused, I am still forever 

Yours, 

B.W.W.

----------------------

31st December, 1925

The new year is not likely to arrive with any snowfall, though the dark clouds rolling towards the house anticipate a generous amount of rain in the upcoming hours. Reginald decides to take his stroll through the garden now, before the heavens open up in a deluge and everyone is forced inside. He has the better part of an hour to rest; his services have not been required as much since they arrived two weeks ago, likely due to the rare absence of any unmitigating characters. 

Normally, Bertie elects to spend New Year’s Eve in London (or in New York, which proved to be a mistake– Times Square, though possessing many merits, more resembles a warzone than a functional city forum on December 31st.) Reginald has never had cause to complain about this arrangement, as Bertie usually scrambles away to bring in the new year with the Drones and leaves Reginald to his own devices. This year, however, the decision was made to join the Traverses for both Christmas and New Year’s, and so Reginald has called the Brinkley Court servant quarters home for the last two weeks. 

Reginald does not have to guess the reason behind Bertie’s sudden change of heart. They have not spoken about what occurred last July, but the memory, at least for Reginald, is a constant presence in his mind. The tension that hangs about the flat is palpable, and it sets Reginald’s mind rocking in unease. No doubt Bertie has chosen to spend several weeks with his relations in an effort to see less of Reginald’s face around the house.

Not that Bertie has given any indication that he feels this way, or that he feels anything about their current situation at all. The young master continues to operate as his usual cheery self, electing, Reginald supposes, for blatant denial instead of refusal. For the past five months Bertie has played his dance hall pieces on the piano, launched into tirades about the latest mystery novels and their apparent plot inconsistencies, and worn every unfashionable colour imaginable upon his neck. All while the memory of that afternoon kiss has haunted Reginald, Bertie has affected a perfect air of nonchalance. He would be more impressed with his employer if it did not also confound him to no end. 

In the time it takes to ponder over the previous months, Reginald finds himself on the south end of the house. There is a bench, which he avails himself on, and decides to take his reprieve in the unseasonably warm air. He is out of sight to anyone who might look out of the window behind him, and when he finally relaxes enough to recognize the sound of Bertie’s voice, the call to listen in is too powerful to ignore. It’s not eavesdropping, exactly, if one happens to take one’s respite on a bench, and the window behind happens to be open a touch, letting sound travel out easier. 

Bertie is in the middle of finishing his sentence when Reginald’s attention is focused. “...not that I mind making merry at Brinkley for the holidays, of course. Only I hope you haven’t invited any Bassets or Glossops over to join us; I’m not sure the Wooster stomach could handle a guest list overflowing with those two surnames without several stiff drinks.” 

Reginald silently agrees. The previous eleven months were ample time for frivolous helmet absconding and other injudicious activities; they both deserved a month’s reprieve before callers abound came to Berkeley for their assistance.

“Down, boy,” comes the booming cadence well associated with Mrs. Travers. “You know you oughtn’t speak that way about a lady.” 

“I was referring to Sir Roderick and Sir Watkyn as well, aged a. I’d hate to get Uncle Tom’s indigestion acting up when Anatole’s operating at his absolute summit.”

“Well, no worries on either front. Tom’s stomach is holding strong, and I haven’t invited a single guest to Brinkley this year. I’d prefer to welcome 1926 without any mopey spirits or idiotic blatherings– besides yours, of course.” 

“Awfully chuffed to hear you say so, Aunt Dahlia.”

Mrs. Travers inhales loud enough for Reginald to hear through the room and glass between them. “Next year we might not be so lucky, if Angela and the younger Mr. Glossop are finally married. There will be no escape for me, unfortunately. But you could easily manoeuvre out of any obligation, you plum, if you said Mrs. Wooster wanted to be with her family for the holiday season. Of course that means you would be forced to marry a girl with an expansive and living family– never a good combination.”

“That’s not on, I’m afraid,” Bertie says lightly. 

“And why not?” 

“I am simply not one of those johnnies built for marriage.” 

“For marriage or for love?” Mrs. Travers asks pointedly.

Silence fills the air, both inside and out of doors. Its presence frightens Reginald; not for years has he felt the feeling with such force, but Bertie is sailing into territory that Reginald is both desperate and loath to know about.

“Aunt Dahlia…” 

“I mean romance, you blighter.” She clarifies. “No one thinks you incapable of general love, you’re too soft-hearted for that. But Bertie, really. You need a companion, someone to look after you in your old age.”

“I say! I’ve only just turned thirty this month, there’s no need to go shopping for headstones quite so soon. Besides, there’s no need to worry. I'll have Jeeves with me to look after the aged young master.”

Mrs. Travers sighs deeply, frustrated with Bertie for not understanding her. Reginald thinks he understands perfectly. “I mean someone who loves you, you dolt. Jeeves is excellent, undoubtedly, but he would leave at the drop of a dime should he find greener pastures or a bigger paycheck— or a new gentleman who’s not so empty-headed as his current employer. A wife and children are physical ties, ties of blood and estates and all that legal and genetic nonsense. They wouldn’t be able to pop off and abandon you without warning.” 

In his heart Reginald is deeply offended by the idea. As if he would ever leave Bertie for monetary reasons– he has been offered double, once even triple, his salary by various gentlemen. Years ago Reginald told himself the rejections were because none measured up to his high standards, but he cannot fool himself about the true reason anymore. It’s Bertie for him, and that’s final. He would rather suffer a few months of discomfort than one week under the employ of Lord Chuffnel again, or any other gentleman for that matter. 

Yet the logical part of Reginald, the brainy sect, as Bertie deems it, understands the points Mrs. Travers is putting forth. There existed no equivalent to the contract of marriage for the understanding between a gentleman and his valet, meaning that Reginald could in fact leave Bertie’s employ at any time without repercussion, except for the consequence of possibly wounding the young master’s feelings. But this would only be a problem if Bertie was in love with him, rather than the simple hero-worship that Reginald finds imprinted on nearly every line of Bertie’s comical publications. In sum, there is no need to worry about Bertie’s heart, though Reginald could not inform Mrs. Travers of this.

“Jeeves would never do such a thing, I’m sure.” Bertie insists.

“Bertram.” Mrs. Travers’ tone grows serious in her specific way. Anyone who has attended Brinkley Court knows that when Dahlia Travers lowers her voice, usually employed to rouse the hounds on the foxes of Market Snodsbury, to a low, quiet timbre, whatever matters she plans to discuss are grave indeed. “I am going to speak with you on this precisely once, and then we shall never talk of it again. But you must listen, Bertie.” 

Bertie has enough sense to remain silent. Mrs. Travers continues.

“I understand you hold your valet in high regard. I also understand that you are not a man who wishes to attach himself to any woman. I am… not unsympathetic to you, you know.”

Outside, Reginald’s eyes open a fraction wider in understanding. 

“Aunt Dahlia, I—“ But Bertie is cut off swiftly.

“Hush. Let me finish, Attila.” Mrs. Travers’ pearls clack together loudly as she leans in towards Bertie. “One day, God help us, you are going to inherit and take your uncle’s spot in the House of Lords. When that day comes, the public will begin watching everything you do, everyone you associate with, what you wear, how you talk. I know you were just a babe when it happened, but for the last thirty years that blasted Wilde scandal has caused every unmarried man to be placed under a tight watch, and you will join the ranks of those men. You don’t know the situation you’re in, Bertie, and that frightens me. You always manage to muddle out of your little problems with your fatheaded friends, but even one rumour, just one accusation, and the Yard would send you right to gaol to break rocks for two years. I’ve seen one month of such work break stronger men than you, Bertie. You’re my nephew– you’re a dolt and a half-wit, but you’re my brother’s only son and I care for you. All I am asking is that you think, really think, about your future, preferably without the input of Jeeves; you never can know which staff to trust these days. Bertie, we shall never speak of this again. I want us to enjoy our evening tonight— I hear Anatole is going to outdo himself for the festivities. Bertie?” A pause, and then a heavy sigh comes from Mrs. Travers. “Very well. I’ll have Seppings fetch you in an hour or two if you haven’t moved yourself already.” 

When the conversation ends, Reginald hears the light fall of footsteps on the carpet, and then the opening and closing of the door. He stands too, unsteady and mute, and as he does he spots Bertie through the window, still occupying the room. He is sitting close to the fireplace, facing away from Reginald, and he watches as Bertie presses his face into his hands, hunching over and exhaling deep, shaking breaths.

Chapter Text

13th August, 1926

Dearest , 

Darling ,

Dear Reggie,

There’s too bally much to say and not enough trees in the world to write it all out as it ought to be. But it must be said, and so I will try to keep myself concise.

Occasionally I find that I wish I had never met you. Not for any malicious reasons— never that, Reg, but for a reason far more shameful and more pathetic than I want to say. What I mean is, I wish I could pass you by on the street without so much as a glance my way from you, for then I would have even half as much more of a chance at wooing you than the chances I have as your employer, which tally at none with a side of zilch. Unfortunately I can’t help it if you are my specific dream rabbit, which you are, of course, and so I wish we had never become master and servant, simply because being a stranger to you would both hurt less and also open more avenues between ourselves for amours.

Imagine in what sitch we might have become acquainted, had you never walked into the flat that day from the agency. We might’ve met at a club for gentlemen of our (or perhaps just my own) tastes, wherein you would have talked for hours about Goethe and Spinoza whilst I watched on, smitten from the first glance at that stuffed-frog mask. 

Or, as I said before, perhaps a chance meeting on a street. Would I turn your head, Reg? Or would you sneer at the sight of offending purple bow ties and yellow paisley spats? I admit I would have become a mite shirty at a stranger bestowing his sartorial judgement on me- though, as I think about it, the idea of devoted relations sprouting from hostile meetings does send an odd rubescence along the map. But in all probability you would look at me and think nothing at all, as we all do with strangers passing opposite us on the pavement. I could live with that, I think. Ignorance is bliss, whereas parting is such sweet, sweet sorrow. 

The core of the apple is that I don’t think I could breathe and pump blood normally without remembering how your labials feel against mine. I’m at a loss for how I functioned before the feeling was tucked away in my memories, only to be brought out when I was sure of my solitude. If I didn’t know the taste of a Jeevesian mouth, would I spend my life trying to chase the sensation, as I do now? No doubt you’ve seen right through my facade of normalcy I’ve put on these last few months– it’s only that you looked so bally uncomfortable even being in the same room as me, that I wanted to assure you of my confidence, of my steadfastness. There would be no facade had we never kissed, my dear, and there would be nothing to hide except my own nature if I had a valet whom I wasn’t desperately in love with. 

I hope you are aware, Reg, that you’ve already got me, hook, line, sinker, the entire kit and the caboodle besides. Say the word and I am there; tell me you love me and I will be your slave. I care not if the idea is abhorrent to society, I only care if I am dear to you. I’ve sometimes wondered who Bertram Wooster would be without his Jeeves— the answer is, a perfectly normal Bertram Wooster. Normal in the base meaning, that is. A Bertram Wooster with a Mrs. Wooster, mitt-picked by the reptilian Aunt Agatha herself, one and one-half children running around a terribly boring country estate with naught to do but sit there and await my death before biffing off with the Wooster inheritance. It astounds me sometimes how you’ve managed to change the entire narrative of my life. I know you are probably tiffed out about my constant boasting of my Scripture Award, but hopefully you won’t mind if I say that you are my holy pillar of fire, sent by God to save Moses, aka the young master, though if I should ever try to produce a beard of biblical proportions I have no doubt you would object thoroughly in your usual Jeevesian way. Although I am not entirely sure if Moses ever wanted to wrap the pillar of fire in his arms and take it on exorbitant trips across the world to appease the h. p. of f.’s latent viking blood, but the metaphor still stands, regardless.

What I mean to say through all of this piffle and frank balderdash, is that there are many avenues for which a cove can travel his life on, and although this particular thoroughfare has left me wanting for one thing, I cannot bring myself to be disappointed. Desolate? Of course. Depressed? Occasionally, but only when my dear Reggie is not around to brighten my mood with a well-placed quote from Goethe or a good spat about, well, spats. Despite what I wrote at the beginning of this letter, I would rather spend forty years having tiff after bally tiff with you about my choices in bowties and cumberbunds than to never have had the pleasure of you in my life at all, in any capacity. 

Year number six. You’ve biffed off to your sunny Spanish beaches, the world is especially unfair, and I am still desperately in love with you. I cannot help but be 

Yours, 

B.W.W.

-----------------------

 31st July, 1927

Two weeks. Two weeks since he had found them in the false bottom of the desk drawer, and for  two weeks he has done nothing for it, either out of cowardice or remorse. Certainly he had deliberated on what action to take, but when any seemingly perfect time came to reveal all he managed to concoct some flimsy rationale for inaction. And now here he is, luggage packed and waiting for him by the front door, his normal suit exchanged for daily wear, ready for another year’s send-off. 

Bertie is coming through the door to give him a final good-bye, dressed in a fine heather-mixture suit with an atrociously unfitting tie. He scans over the small stack of luggage crowding the flat’s entrance with a tight smile.

“Well,” Bertie sighs, clapping his hands together, “you had best be off then, old thing. I hope you enjoy Monaco and all her elegant sights.” 

Reginald sees, for the first time, that in his eyes Bertie is begging him to stay. He cannot recall ever seeing such desperation on his employer’s face before, in any situation. Had Bertie worn this look always, every time he had left for the month? When the door closed behind him each year, did he stand in the foyer as Reginald stands now, wishing he had said something?

It has been two weeks of silence, but it has been seven years, too. There is little room for unspoken confessions anymore, Reginald thinks, and as he casts his eyes over Bertie’s expression, pleading yet resigned, he finally brings himself to ask, “Will you be writing another letter, sir?” 

Reginald sees that his meaning is not understood by Bertie, who smiles once more with tense cheeks. “If you’d like,” he answers honestly, “Only send a telegram with your address and I’ll bung a letter over to you post-haste.”

His train leaves within the hour; there is no time for prevarication. “Forgive me, sir, but you misunderstand. What I mean by my question is, as it is the seventh year of your affections, will you be writing a seventh letter to me?”

There is a look of disbelief on Bertie’s face, perhaps thinking he had misheard or once again misunderstood. “W-what?”

“A seventh letter. Or have your feelings been altered after the incident?” Reginald knows they haven’t, he’s read the letters— consumed them with a singular passion, more like, but he asks the question despite this, always willing to give Bertie an out, should he not be ready for admissions. 

“Jeeves… I…”

“Bertram.” Words cannot describe how thrilling it feels to finally say it aloud, not merely in his head.

Bertie’s breath leaves his lungs in a powerful exhale. “Jeeves…” he says. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You might start by calling me Reggie.”

“Reg,” he whispers into the room, more like a prayer than any Our Father or Glory Be that had ever left his lips. “How?”

“I overheard your conversation with Mrs. Travers on New Year’s Eve. Do you recall it?”

“New Year’s…” Bertie looks down, brows furrowed while he tries to grasp for the memory. When realisation dawns on his face, he keeps his eyes on the floor. “Oh. Yes, I— yes. I do remember that particular exchange, if that’s what you could call it.”

“It was frightening for me, Bertram, but also enlightening. When I realised that you held similar predilections to myself, I immediately began to develop a long-term plan to press my suit and woo you accordingly. It would have been one of my longest and most involved ‘schemes’, as you would call them, should I have had the need to complete it.” Reginald clears his throat deeply, gathering his strength. “Great was my desire to have your love. I did not realise that I had already won it until recently.”

Bertie’s eyes are as wide as fine China saucers. He blinks once, twice, and then swallows. Reginald tries not to get distracted by the sight of his Adam’s apple. “Similar predilections?” Bertie parrots back to him. “Press your suit?” 

Reginald could have laughed at Bertie’s dumbstruck words if the man did not look near ready to faint. 

“Bertram? Are you alright?” He puts his hands on Bertie’s arms, in case his feet should fall out from under him.

“Oh, yes,” replies Bertie in a light tone, almost laughing. “Absolutely spiffing. Tickety-boo, as they say.” Reginald leads him to the Chesterfield despite his protestations of good health, where he rests Bertie against the arm of the sofa. When Bertie appears to have regained his senses, Reginald leaps into the fray once more. There are questions which need to be posed, and answers he wishes very much to hear rather than dream about.

“Bertram—“

But Bertie interrupts him with a question of his own. “You love me, Reggie? Truly?”

At least it is an easy question, Reginald thinks, though the answer is not without its complexities. Yes, Reginald loves him, but does Bertie know how much? Is he aware that, for every year he’d sat at his writing desk and penned a letter of love he’d believed to be unrequited, Reginald was there by his side, nursing the same ache in his chest? Yes, the answer is easy. But there is so much in the reply itself that may require months, perhaps years of explanation. Reginald smiles at this thought. Luckily for them, he decides, they shall have many, many years to provide one another the clarification they deserve. For now, though, Reginald’s response is the simple truth. 

“I love you, Bertram. Truly.” 

Evidently this is enough for Bertie’s sensibilities. Pushing up from the arm of the sofa, Bertie lurches forward, rests one hand on the side of Reginald’s face and the other on his shoulder, and kisses him soundly. 

Reginald had forgotten how heavenly the feeling was; it is nearly three years since their last kiss, so now their lips slot together incorrectly until Reginald finds the wherewithal to correct the misalignment. Their teeth clack together, causing Bertie to pull back in pain, and Reginald’s nose hurts from where it was smashed into Bertie’s sharp cheekbone. A horrible way to mark the beginning of a… whatever this is, but when Reginald meets Bertie’s eyes, his fingers rubbing consolation on his teeth and Reginald’s own hand doing the same for his nose, the sight they make causes them both to burst out laughing— Bertie with a full-bodied chuckle and Reginald with his characteristic huff of air and lilting smile, which by now he knows Bertie can decipher as his mirth mirroring Bertie’s own. 

During the proceeding kiss, softer and much more comfortable this time around, Reginald believes Bertie is thinking the same thing he is: that it feels wonderful to be known so well by someone so beloved.

Twenty-four hours later Reginald and Bertie are safely ensconced in the private rooms Reginald had rented for his month’s stay in Monaco. They are abed, despite it being nearly one in the afternoon, but Reginald does not feel the usual incessant tug to perch himself on the dock to partake in a hearty round of fishing. He has Bertie in his arms and his love is returned, and right now that is all that matters. 

His eyes are closed, not feigning sleep but merely content to lay close to Bertie. He feels his brow being stroked by a pianist’s thumb, and when Reginald makes a noise to convey his state of awareness Bertie whispers between them, “I wanted to ask, old thing. How exactly did you find your letters?”

They have not had the time nor the sense to discuss the letters in the day since Reginald revealed he knew of their existence. After endless deliberation (fifteen minutes of energetic kissing followed by the most alacritous luggage-packing Reginald has ever done), Bertie had decided to join him for this holiday, wherein the train ride and subsequent ship’s journey afforded them no privacy to fully discuss the situation. They could have initiated the conversation once they arrived at the hotel, but they had elected to spend their first moments of solitude attending to… other matters. 

Reginald thinks back to the occasion, that moment when the Earth seemed to invert upon its axis, so surprising was the revelation. “It occurred two weeks ago,” he recalls aloud, “during my annual deep-crevice dusting—“

“I adore hearing you say that, you know.”

“Bertram.” Reginald chides him, but there is little heat behind the admonishment. “While I was cleaning, I discovered the desk drawer in the master bedroom had been left unlocked and recently handled. At the time I was considering possible avenues for pressing my suit, therefore I felt no shame in investigating, should the results prove to benefit my task. The false bottom in the drawer was easily found, and when I discovered a handful of letters addressed to me, written over a span of nearly seven years… Bertram…” Reginald feels the phantom lurching that struck him in that moment, and clutches at Bertie tighter lest he fall away into a dream. 

But Reginald is not dreaming anymore, and Bertie has contrition written along his face as he confesses, “I know I ought to have burned the bally scripts, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it, old fruit. I’m terribly sorry.”

Reginald opens his eyes to look at Bertie face-to-face. “It would be prudent to rid ourselves of the damning evidence.” 

“I understand completely, Reg. I shall do so posthaste, the very sec. we are back in Berkeley, I promise.”

“I said it would be prudent,” he repeats. “I did not say that we would be doing so. There are precautions we shall take, but I would like to retain the sentiments, if that is amenable with you.” Reginald would be buried with those letters if possible, though he keeps that thought to himself. He would rather not think of leaving Bertie alone so soon after they’d finally— finally— come together. 

“Everything in the world is amenable to me right now, Reggie. I daresay I could stomach a three-hour tea with Aunt Agatha and any demonic fiancée-to-be at this very mo. Imagine the picture us three would make, good Lord!” 

Bertie’s words, humorous as they are, initiate a spark of recognition in Reginald’s mind, something he had forgotten to ask amid the hectic hours of travel and the hours when his mouth was duly occupied. “Bertram, I would like to ask something of you now.” Bertie nods his assent. “Where did you procure that photograph which was kept with the letters? I was startled to find I could not remember having my picture taken, and wondered how you might have accessed the item.”

The photograph was back in England, tucked away beneath the letters just as Reginald had found them. He wishes he had brought the whole drawer with him, though that would be the most senseless thing he’d ever done. The image itself was a candid shot, taken from several steps away, perhaps across a street. Reginald had been in his best suit for a night of dining, wining, and clubbing. He looked as immaculate as any gentleman, except for his hair, which was mussed from its usual slicked-back style by errant fingers of fellow party-goers who were evidently too drunk to rein in their digits. He recalls the night with only vague images in his mind, but does remember taking notes against the lamp post which appears in the picture as he leans against it, the lipstick stain still bright red upon his cheek. His eyes were downcast, rapt on whatever he had been writing in his small journal, too busy to notice any sign of a camera in the vicinity.

“I, ahem.” Bertie stops to clear his throat, embarrassment clear in his eyes, and Reginald prepares himself for an excellent story. “This Wooster may have taken the thing himself, my dear. While you were out taking notes about the New York nightlife for Rocky’s aunt, you remember that soupy circ? I’d finished my night with Tuppy early— he’d said something about Angela that rankled and I decided to see no more of his map for the rest of the night. He’d left his little camera with me, the one he was using to snap shots of New York pigeons for God knows what reason, and his exit was done with not a bit of celery-whatsit.”

“Celerity, my love,” Reginald corrects without a second thought.

“Oh.” The thumb which had halted its ministrations on Reginald’s forehead resumes again, and Bertie offers a peck to the area as well. “I thought I adored hearing you say deep-crevice, but that’s tuppence compared to hearing you call me your love. Say it again.” Reginald does, then once more after he is asked to. Bertie’s face and neck are positively rubescent when he resumes speaking. “Yes… well, back to the crux of the matter– celerity– that’s the ticket. I was holding onto the camera in one hand and indulging in a midnight gasper with the other, and then suddenly you were there, across the street from me. You looked a dashed sight in your black box ensemble. I wanted to say hello, but a feeling rummy held me back by the starched collar, so I snapped your image instead. I hope you don’t mind, Reggie.”

He does not mind at all, but doubts the photograph will be necessary, seeing as Reginald has no plans to leave Bertie’s side ever again. “I did not realise you had been watching me,” he says honestly.

“I’m always watching you.” Bertie shuts his eyes and squeezes his mouth tight. “That sounded much more romantic in my head.” 

Reginald chuckles, a real one, this time. “Bertram.”

“Yes?” comes the reply. 

“I simply wished to say your name again.”

“Oh God help us, Reg.” Bertie buries his head into Reginald’s pyjamied chest. “You know I’m yours, what? I feel as if I’d forgotten to mention it.”

“Trust me, Bertram,” Reginald says into the mess of hair below his nose, “you already made me quite aware of the fact.”