godsdaisiechain.livejournal.com

Challenge: Season
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Pairing: Jeeves and Wooster

Rating: PG

Characters: Jeeves, Bertie, Tuppy Glossop, Florence Craye, Roderick Glossop, Aunt Dahlia, Cousin Angela, Uncle George, Aunt Maude, Chuffy Chuffnell, Claude and Eustace Wooster, Aunt Agatha, Percy Gorringe, Mabel Biffen

Summary:  Bertie and Jeeves struggle toward a reunion during the festive yuletide season after WW2.  Jeevesian wits and Wooster kindheartedness must save the day.

Additional prompts followed: I started this as a response to the Christmas fest suggested by gentlepolinka on indeedsir, but it got too angsty.

Word count: ~6500

Warnings: Bertie and Jeeves are both injured during the war.

Bertie

Harrods had seen better days, but the tatty old decorations still lit the eyes of the young fry at the festive Yuletide season. They had never seen the nicer bits before the war. My youngest cousin, Daisy Glossop, grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the area to see Father Christmas. The queue stretched a bally unmerciful length as it was Christmas Eve. “I say!” The old wound ached sometimes when I stood for too long, but the look in the child’s e. nearly undid me and there was nothing else on the agenda.

A tall, dark man, now a bit grey at the temples turned suddenly at my voice and the laughing expression on his face flashed into a mask of profound sorrow before resolving itself into a rather rusty-looking stuffed frog. “Mr. Wooster.” He froze uncomfortably and then recovered himself. “That is, Lord Yaxley. It is good to see you. I trust your family and friends are well?”

It was not the passionate embrace I rather longed for, but far better than nothing, Bertram supposed. “Yes, Jeeves. Splendid, of course. Splendid, splendid. And yours?”

“Most satisfactory. I thank you for asking, Lord Yaxley.”  He said this as though he was trying the taste of my new name out in his mouth like a fine port, and finding it surprisingly pleasing over the tongue. Odd, I thought, how they’d biffed the old title on Bertram, Uncle George being a Travers and all, but apparently there were no more appropriate heirs, it seemed, than self.

“Uncle Bertie!” Daisy yanked at the coat sleeve and hopped about like a baby bunny rabbit. “When will we see Father Christmas?”

“Ah, well, we have to wait in this queue, my lovely Daisy-bell. And see, my very good friend Mr. Jeeves is here with his niece, who looks to be just about your age. Perhaps you two can become friends and while away a careless hour?”

“Is she exactly four?” asked the young lady in a commanding tone. With an effort, I did not start. Daisy, while golden-haired and angelic looking, had inherited a certain whatsit from her Great-Uncle Roderick, the eminent loony doctor, who was still alive and kicking, tending to the shell shocked and wounded in a selfless way when he ought to have been retired. I’d found him frightening at one point, but he’d become rather more of a hero over the years.

“I’m five,” piped up the pipsqueak balanced on a Jeevesian arm. “And my Uncle Reggie is bigger than your Uncle Bertie.” This young lady had dark curls and a certain sharpness of eye, but she was none other than Elisabeth, youngest of the Biffen brood. A tear started in the e.  Poor Biffy had not made it back from France.

“Betsy,” said Jeeves in his schoolmarm tone, “Please address Lord Yaxley properly.” He carefully lowered that young lady to the floor so that she and Daisy could compare frocks and Christmas lists. They became instant chums as Daisy’s frock, although patched up a bit, was rather the nicer, but Betsy was older and had been to see Father Christmas before and therefore could provide full and exact information on the nature of the encounter before them. I dug in the pockets and produced two peppermints from a battered tin, which eased matters along still further.  Sweets had been rationed since before they were born.  Soon they were holding hands and chatting confidentially, sticking their tongues out at intervals to compare their progress on the candies.

“Well, well, well,” I said, to Jeeves, struggling against the urge to throw myself into his arms and cover his face with kisses. We’d had an understanding, a nice, good, long and positively scrumptious understanding, and then we’d been called up to the war. At first, we’d been in to serve together, which was simply horrible. The fright on his behalf had nearly killed me, the more so as he was bent on protecting the no-longer-young master.

Then Wooster was injured and allocated to play pianos and sing comic songs at officer’s clubs, while Jeeves was attached to Chuffy Chuffnell’s retinue and went on to make quite a mark for himself in the areas of valiant bravery and espionage. It had been years since I last saw him and the old ticker had never been quite right in all that time. He had been back in London—we both had—for several months, but he’d sent a curt reply when I asked him to come back as my valet. We had never been soppy with each other, I knew, but I had always believed he cared for me as much I had cared for him and our understanding had been more, much more, than a mere convenience. I felt such a bally idiot.

Jeeves

I returned from the war a celebrated, but solitary figure, and my injuries pained me in every possible way.  I could no longer hold a tray or carry a bag of golf clubs, and therefore could not return to Mr. Wooster’s service. An injury to my head had damaged my memory. I had forgotten so very many things. My heart felt sore whenever I thought of a previous, most enjoyable, romantic understanding with Mr. Wooster, but I had no recollection of the tender words of love that might have betokened more than an arrangement of convenience. The consolation of being able to help him in financial matters had become much less over the course of several months. I longed to see him with every fiber of my being.

My bookkeeping skills had earned me a position with Sir Roderick Glossop, who spent his declining years tending to the many psychological problems of the veterans.  The columns of numbers soothed me and I had occasion to see many of my own and Mr. Wooster’s friends in the course of my duties.

I had been slowly recovering my former powers, and Sir Roderick had been increasing my responsibilities gradually.  One day, I was engaged in auditing some bills, when I overheard a conversation between Sir Roderick Glossop and Lord Chuffnell, who was leaving after his appointment. “You’re meeting Lord Yaxley? Yes, I saw him at my daughter’s house. The war seems to have made a man of him, finally. He has been a thoughtful member of the house these last months. Finally developing a presence after all these years. It is a mercy that he was spared. Give him my regards.” Sir Roderick then mentioned Mr. Wooster’s plan of entertaining his youngest niece with some gratitude and did so again when I was presenting him the letters to be franked.  There were so few children of that age that each one was especially precious.

The eminent physicians saw Mr. Wooster’s name on a letter I had written regarding his investments. “I am glad you still see young Lord Yaxley, Jeeves. At one time I thought him quite eccentric, but he is very good to my nephew and the children during these dismal times. I understand that he spoke out quite intelligently in the House last week.” He fumbled with another envelope and gave me a sudden, penetrating look. “I am surprised he has not asked you to return to his service before now. A man of his age and responsibilities could do with a secretary of your skills, although he perhaps has not considered it.” He thought this over and seemed satisfied. “Yes.  You could still help me, of course. I could not get on without you.” I smiled to myself at his kind and flattering selfishness.

It was weak, I knew, but I simply had to see Mr. Wooster. Mabel had suffered greatly, losing both her sons and a husband to the war, and her finances were such that she and the remaining child had taken refuge with her parents. She refused my financial help, but never denied Betsy anything. It was easy, therefore, to take the child for the day as a treat.

Even though I had plotted to see him, it was a shock to hear that much-adored voice. Dear Mr. Wooster had changed so little in five years. I surely would have run to him and clasped him in my arms had I been physically able.

Bertie

“A welcome meeting, indeed, sir,” said Jeeves benevolently.  I tried not to flutter too obviously. “Most especially at this festive season.”

I tapped my somewhat scuffed shoes with a slightly battered whangee. “Yes, yes. I hear you are keeping busy these days?”

“I have been employed as a bookkeeper to Sir Roderick Glossop, at his London clinic.”

“And you enjoy it, do you?”

“It is satisfactory,” he said. I watched his eyes as they hopped from the little fray at my collar to the threadbare spot on my scarf and the missing button on the coat. I’d popped that off in the omnibus and then carefully found it and put it in my pocket to be fumblingly reattached by self. We kept the best togs for official visits. “And your affairs, I trust, are in good order?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, thanks to you.” Jeeves had helped make me heaps and heaps of oof before the stock market crash in the 20’s.  No one had ever learned quite how much, as it would not do to speak of it. We’d been careful not to spend even the interest, squirreling it away in Swiss accounts in case our relationship were discovered. I’d inherited another pile when Uncle George died just before the war. Auntie Maude had downright refused to take a cent, insisting on going back to her old house in East Dulwich with her niece and nephew-in-law. She’d grown quite shirty when I tried to help her with the taxes, insisting that the late Mr. Wilberforce had left her more than enough to get by. I had to content myself with sending her anything pink I could find, to help her keep cheerful. Too bad there was so little to buy even with recourse to the black market, except turnips and parsnips. Insultingly enough, even Aunt Dahlia said that I was too mentally negligible to fend for myself without the money.

Under Jeeves’s original directions, Easby turned a tidy profit, as did the old London house, which was now a block of flats I rented out at rates I thought shocking but Jeeves insisted were in fact quite liberal. They had miraculously survived the Blitz. Aside from Angela, the cousins had little to do with Bertram, tending to their own tangled affairs. Claude and Eustace had fallen into the soup during the war and not come back. At least they’d been together at the end, poor noble souls. Aunt Agatha lived with Florence and Percy and their remaining issue in a sizable cottage built on the ruins of Wee Nooke as the big house had been volunteered to the war effort some years back. I had sent Florence money on the sly rather than let the aged r. pawn her pearls, and they had smuggled me eggs and bacon for Christmas.

I felt so dashed humbled in front of Jeeves by my shabby clothes. There was not a decent suit or shirt or shoe to be had. I cheated a bit with the food—there was Daisy to consider, after all, as long as I could smuggle the items in without Tuppy seeing—but it seemed somehow unsporting to cheat in other ways now that I was no longer an impossible bounder. Of course, seeing Jeeves again, the urge to look handsome reasserted itself most forcefully. “You know how it is, Jeeves.”

“Indeed.” He shifted and nearly toppled over on a gammy leg.  I caught his arm and held him up without thinking. Yes, he’d been leaning on the wall while holding little Betsy Biffen. I took in the sturdy cane for the first time. The eyes met and I could see the deep shame behind his dead fish look and he, no doubt, saw the puzzled hurt that flashed on the Wooster dial. Good lord. Had he refused to even see me because he could not carry a tray?

And suddenly, we righted ourselves like a rowboat tipped by overexcited swans under the influence of insidious boy scouts. We chatted of this and that, and this old story and that old story and I felt as though an iron band had been released from about the breast.

Jeeves

My mind was awhirl. I had not expected to feel so much embarrassment at my condition, but the knowledge that Mr. Wooster saw me as anything less than perfect cut me absolutely to the quick. I cursed my pride when I saw the bewildered and injured look on his dear, kind face.  He had not known about my injuries, not understood why I could not serve him.

How I wished we were in Paris so I could take his arm again in the old way.

Bertie

Finally, we saw Father Christmas. The little things shamed me, they honestly did.  Daisy asked for candy to share with her granny Dahlia, and Betsy asked for a warm coat for her mother. I would have to work on that last one.  Biffy would never forgive me if his Mabel caught cold when I could have prevented it on his behalf.

Then Jeeves and I took the two girls for tea and ice cream with some ration coupons I had hoarded for the occasion. Jeeves wanted to refuse, but he hadn’t the heart to deny his niece her share in the pleasure. The look on her face would have been worth a greater sacrifice on my part than a few potatoes and a plate of ice cream. The girls were sweet and appreciative and thankful, rather like Bobbie Wickham’s niece Clementina before I learned that she had left school without permission.

Jeeves and I shared a pot of tea and then a great deal of hot water strained back through the old leaves. “I cannot thank you enough for this kindness, Lord Yaxley.” I pished at him.

We ankled round to deposit the nieces with their respective sets of keepers and some candies—American—to be shared with the older siblings and cousins. I’d bought them on the black market and thought to keep the small packet to give Aunt Dahlia myself, but I rather pressed it on Mabel Biffen, who came to meet Jeeves and retrieve her daughter.

I heaved a relieved sigh when Jeeves followed me onto the omnibus. Angela frowned when she saw the remnants of Daisy’s sticky mouth and stared when she saw Jeeves.  We sat to wait a few moments in case the aged r. returned. Angela grabbed at the willowy arm with a clawlike hand and hissed like a cobra that had just punctured a balloon. “How did you convince him to meet you?”

“I didn’t. I found him in the queue at the Harrods Christmas grotto.”

Angela had always been sweet, but the war had gentled her even more. And Tuppy had been badly wounded early on and sent home. That’s how we ended up with little Daisy-bell. His health had been undependable since then, but he’d insisted on doing his bit. Angela had become such a skilled and devoted nurse, dear heart. “He hurt you, Bertie darling. I saw the look on your face when he would not see you. You’ve never been quite the same, and I will not forgive him until he makes you all better. You should hire a secretary.”

“My dear old fruit, I must protest.  He couldn’t be my valet with his gammy leg. I ought to have just invited him round. And none of us are quite the same anyway. You can’t blame him.” We both took in the horrid scar that pulled at the side of Tuppy’s face. Neither of us mentioned the fine sons, nephews and cousins killed overseas. Tuppy had even grown too proud to accept hampers from me and had come to appreciate bubble and squeak, mashed swedes, and parsnips quite as much as steak-and-kidney pie.

Angela smiled sadly. “You should see the wistful look on your face, little sweetheart. Just…invite him for tea, Bertie. Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding and he does want to work for you again after all.” It was getting to be time for their meal and it would not do to intrude. Angela asked if I could stop in for tea on Boxing Day as they were expected to Sir Roderick’s house for Christmas. I looked up and saw Jeeves admiring some contraption of Tuppy’s.

“Not until you’re all better,” said Angela firmly as I left. Jeeves’s leg was hurting him, I could see. He would not limp, but I could see his lips tighten. He had not had to accompany me, I realized, but I was glad he had.

Jeeves

Mabel, who had come to meet me at the Brompton Road in order to save me a walk, refused the present of candy until she saw the look of profound hurt on Mr. Wooster’s kind, generous face. Mr. Wooster seemed to assume I would accompany him and I followed him onto an omnibus without thinking. His path lay only a short distance out of my way.

Our visit with the Glossops was somewhat more protracted. Young Mr. Glossop had taken to constructing devices to ease the suffering of those who had lost limbs during the war. One day, I hoped to be able to purchase a specialized brace for my leg. I had ended the war only with my savings from my army wages and the uniform I stood up in. It still puzzled me, but I was too ashamed of my mental lapses to inquire with the solicitors as to where I might have left my other savings.

Mr. Wooster and Mrs. Glossop spoke, while I admired Mr. Glossop’s latest invention. Mrs. Glossop looked at me disapprovingly.  I had not understood, not remembered, that my absence would harm my former master.  Her look reminded me how very much he had always relied on me. Could he ever forgive me?

Angela

Angela passed to the telephone as soon as the door swung shut.  “Hello? I’d like to speak with Mrs. Biffen, please, if she is returned home. It’s Angela Glossop, Lord Yaxley’s cousin.”

Mabel Biffen, now widowed and rather poor, was uncertain how to approach the Glossops and opted for formality. “Mrs. Glossop, thank-you for phoning me back. My Betsy was very taken with Miss Margaret. Was my Uncle Reggie there?”

“Yes. Do call me Angela. We Drones wives must all stick together. Thank-you again for phoning to warn me that they were together. I would have fainted otherwise.” 

Mabel sighed. “I am sure Uncle Reggie would love to go back to Lord Yaxley. Neither of them has anyone else, really. Did they leave together? I felt terrible not inviting him for Christmas tea.”

“Yes, thank heavens, they did. I’ll phone Bertie tomorrow and let you know if your uncle is on his own and needs cheering.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Angela. Uncle Reggie makes it terribly difficult to look after him.”

“So does Bertie. He’d already gotten so much smarter spending time with Jeeves and the war has given him a sort of… presence.  We can’t bully him as we used to do. You must come to tea next week. It will be turnips and swedes, of course, and hot water with only a hint of tea in it, but we have plenty of those to go around.  Do come, please, and bring your Betsy?”

“We would be delighted.”

Angela replaced the receiver just as her mother entered the room from a society meeting. “Did I hear you mention Bertie, only daughter?”

“Yes, mama. He was here to take Daisy to Harrods. With Jeeves.”

“Jeeves? Thank heavens.  Is he working for our young blot again? Bertie can take him on as a secretary, I imagine.”

“I hope so, mama.  I hope so.”

“Good.  Will they be to tea on Boxing Day? I have a problem to put to Jeeves.”

“I hope so. I will phone tomorrow to remind him.”

Bertie

 Jeeves and I ankled off toward our part of town. He had begun to limp painfully by the time we were at the top of my street, and I dearly wished we could get a cab. “Is anyone waiting for you, Jeeves?”

“No, just my room above the Junior Ganymede Club.”

Suddenly it was all too much. I could not bear to go home without him.  “Would you come round to the flat for a spot of supper?” I asked, trembling in every limb. He twitched and I noticed a faint scar at the Jeevesian hairline. I grappled with the bean for an enticement. “It’s much less of a walk, what?”

I could read nothing in the deeps of his blue eyes and the heart nearly shattered in my breast. Would he refuse me? How could I go on all alone? “I must ask if you have ample supplies to accommodate me.”

The Wooster dial flushed. I had grown thinner, but not from want, exactly. Well, want, certainly, but want of Jeeves, not want of sustenance. “I know you won’t say anything, but an American pal shipped me a hamper of goods last week from Sweden or Norway or whatsit, Jeeves. You know how proud Tuppy is now.  He’d not take any of it. Please come and share it with me.” He furrowed the noble brow. “And of course, there are plenty of turnips and cabbages, if you prefer something humble and awful.”

Then he smiled and the heart leapt and bounded about the willowy breast. “Thank-you. I would be delighted.”

The corpus quivered. What would he think when he saw the state of the flat? Would he consent to a bit of a snuggle? My hands shook so much that Jeeves had to unlock the door. I oozed in and drew all the drapes as he turned on the lights. Luckily, Mrs. Whatsit had been in that morning, so the glasses and things were cleared away, but Jeeves looked at the furniture with concern, brushing his fingers over surfaces and looking at the dust in the corners and the things still covered with sheets. We disposed our coats in the closet, and I saw him stroke one of my old silk evening scarves as though it was a friend. I ought to have given it to the war effort, I supposed, but I’d given up the two-seater and most of my sheets and all my silk pajamas and even Jeeves, the dearest love of my heart.  They could spare me a deuced scarf, and Jeeves had always seemed attached to that particular one.  I followed him down the corridor toward the kitchen.

Jeeves

I grossly underestimated my emotional reaction to entering the flat that had been my home, my blissfully happy home, for so many years. The whole flat had the air of a place where Mr. Wooster had been camping, waiting for his real life to begin again.

Memory after memory came flooding back. Mr. Wooster had been my dearest friend, and I his, despite all the differences of rank and ability between us. How could I have been so unutterably foolish as to doubt his generous heart? Then I remembered the sight of his injured form and my determination to put him from my mind until the war ended.  How frightened I had been, seeing his pale, bloodied face, until the doctor told me that his injuries were relatively mild and he would live. My own subsequent injury had befuddled my mind so terribly that I almost suspected that Sir Roderick had taken me on out of charity at first.

Tears filled my eyes at the recollection of what I had lost, and without thinking, I moved toward my old room to collect myself. Mr. Wooster did not even comment on my presumption. I detoured to the kitchen. 

This room, also, was a poor shadow of its former self. Mr. Wooster had donated most of his pots and pans to the war effort before we left, and much of the glassware and dishes appeared to be still in their packing. A padlock on the cupboard door and another on the refrigerator were new. Mr. Wooster flushed as he pulled at a chain around his neck. I nearly collapsed.  I had given him the chain as a token of my attachment to him. He had given me a token as well.  A ring. I had no idea what had happened to it.

Bertie

Jeeves had limped over to pull the kitchen curtains fully shut while I revealed the viands. The contents of the hamper had been locked up because the previous Mrs. Whatsit had tried to pinch things. The new doorman had helped me fix padlocks to doors in exchange for a tin of sausages and a jar of jam. Jeeves raised an eyebrow at me and then, as I started to hand him my Christmas treasure—3 eggs and five rashers of b, and rummaged around to find a box of oolong, his face broke into a dashed radiant smile. I could have kissed him senseless right there.

“Would you like me to cook, then, sir?”

“If you please, Jeeves. No one makes the fragrant eggs and b as well as you.” He wobbled a bit and set the precious items carefully down on the table.

“I’ll need your help,” he said shamefacedly, the poor, dear, bally wonderful chap. The heart simply melted with affection. I could not believe he was back, that we were together again in the old way, if only for an evening.

And suddenly I was crying, sobbing the way Daisy had some weeks before when she fell from a tree and skinned both her knees. I stumbled out into the front room and collapsed onto the Chesterfield. Even with the limp and a cane he materialized at my side without making a sound. Gently, he budged me up, and put the arms around the corpus while I composed myself. “I am so sorry,” he said when I had stopped gasping like a beached whale. “I did not…  remember.”

“Whatsit?” I sat up, but he kept his arms around me.

“My head was injured, and I forgot some things until I saw you.” The poor bird seemed rather spooked.

“Some things?”

“I forgot how we pretended that this was merely a convenience, when in fact it was not. Or was it? I feel so very confused. I was, afraid, so afraid to approach you when I could not even hold a tray. How could I serve you properly?”

The darling, wonderful chap. I rested the bean on his shoulder and stroked the side of his beautiful face with the backs of my fingers. “It was not a convenience for me, Reggie. But you are right. We never spoke of it seriously, really. You knew how much I hated being soppy, no matter how I felt. Or feel, that is, rather.”

Something seemed to snap in him. “I love you,” he said brokenly, pressing me firmly against him and kissing the top of the head. “I miss you. I want to be near you every day and never be apart from you again.”

It was as if the grey world suddenly turned into jolly wonderful Technicolor. The bean reeled. “You do?”

“I do.”

“I say, Jeeves, I want the very same thing.”

“That is most convenient, then, sir.” He twinkled at me in the most charming way. I was too dashed happy even to kiss him.

“And that is all? You declare your love and ask nothing in return?”

“Perhaps some eggs and bacon,” he said. “If you would be so kind as to help me in their preparation. And…”

“Yes, Jeeves?” I hoped he wanted a nice snuggle.

“Perhaps you would be so good as to sing ‘Minnie the Moocher’?” We’d given the piano wires to the war effort, so I could not play. “Oh, love, please don’t cry. I am very sorry I have not come to you before now. Please forgive me.”

Eventually I was able to control myself. “How should I help you?”

“Will you let me see to your face first?”

We ankled into the kitchen hand-in hand and he administered some aid to the swollen e.s. Then we cooked up some eggs and b and made a great deal of toast. We plated everything on the best china and ate in the dining room. Afterward, we sang every song we could remember and shared the last of the open bottle of brandy. “You’ll stay the night, then?”

Jeeves grew grave. “What will the door man think?”

“He will think that I have a guest room and a disused servant’s quarters, Jeeves. The busses stopped running at seven and the streets are not safe for you with that gammy leg, even in this part of town.”

Jeeves

In the early days of my association with Mr. Wooster, the repast we sat down to would have seemed a humble slap-up meal, but we ate the eggs and bacon and toast and tea with as much gusto and appreciation we had once shown for dinners prepared by M. Anatole. Mr. Wooster looked at me very closely after we had finished mopping egg yolk from the plates with our crusts.

“You didn’t have any lunch today, did you? And you only took one potato at tea to leave more for the girls.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he pressed my hand and lapsed into his masterly voice. “Don’t try to argue in that soupy manner, Reginald Jeeves. I saw you.” He stood up then and pulled me back into the kitchen. “We’ll have a second go-round in honor of our reunion.  There is no more bread, but I have some potatoes boiled and a rabbit already cooked, if you like them. The nice butcher asked to be remembered to you when you came home. And, of course, the ubiquitous mashed swede. We can heat that in some of the bacon fat to make it less monotonous.” I felt suddenly deeply grateful that he had attended a course on how to care for himself.

We had a very enjoyable second course, and Mr. Wooster produced some wine he had been saving for a special occasion. I thanked him for his generosity.  He took my hand and kissed it. “Reggie, you are the most appalling chump sometimes. A glass of wine and an extra large helping of mashed swede in a bit of dripping, the rabbit left for a treat on Christmas tea, is nothing to what I’d like to bestow upon you.”

Bertie

Jeeves looked gobsmacked when I told him all his things were still in the flat.

We ankled over and I unlocked his old lair. He took up the volume of Spinoza, which was exactly where he’d left it. He opened a drawer and took out a shirt and an old set of his pajamas and his brown dressing gown, and then he sort of shook himself and lifted up the false bottom, revealing a box half full of cigars and two bottles of whiskey and one of brandy. His personal ledger was there as well, and a box full of old bank notes and his diaries. And then he reached into the far corner and came up with a box. He opened it and pulled out the signet ring I’d given him the day we’d promised to stay together for life. I trickled over and slipped it onto his finger for him. He’d grown so thin, we had to put it on another finger. I rubbed at my side absently where the muscles pulled.

“Do you remember the day I gave you this ring, Reggie? Do you remember what we said?”

He touched the ring and then gently and thoughtfully rubbed my side and I realized I’d been pawing at it most of the evening. I arched the back slightly and made a sort of gruntled noise. “I do remember now. You genuinely do love me.” He said this solemnly, as if he were me, trying to wrap the old bean around a difficult problem. I stroked his hair back and kissed his forehead. Poor chap. I could not imagine how frightening it would be to feel so confused when his giant brain had been his only protection for so long.

“Yes, Reggie,” I said. “I genuinely bally love you. And I saw Father Christmas today and I want my present now.”

He started to offer me his bottle of brandy but I waved it off. “No?” He sounded deeply amused with me. “How might I oblige you, then?”

“Well, I’d really prefer a bit of a snuggle.” A confused look crossed his dial and I felt myself blushing a very deep color. “I, erm, well, Reggie, that’s, well, you know a snuggle…” He smiled then and flushed himself.

“My leg is paining me and I can see that your wound is uncomfortable as well.” I started to ankle out to find the aspirins, but he said no. “It would be wise to save them for a real illness, Bertie.”

This seemed unwise to Bertram. “But, Reggie…the snuggle.” Jeeves took my hand.

“I have an idea,” he said, tugging me after him.

“Does it have snuggles in it?” I asked. He chuckled.

“Yes, Bertie, it has snuggles.” I tucked myself up under his arm and he kissed the top of the head again.

I steered him into my bedroom and he started to undress the willowy corpus, but I caught at his hands and pressed the lips to his for the first time in ever so long.  He was delicious, even better than I remembered, despite the lingering taste of swede on both of us. “Oh, Reggie, I missed you so.”

He levered the two of us down to the bed and we nestled together and pashed for quite some time before coming up again for breath. “I love you, darling Bertie, and now I’d like to unwrap my Christmas present if I may?”

“You may.” He started to bung the buttons open as if I were some great treasure and I felt suddenly shy of his seeing my scars. What if he thought me ugly now? “But there will be a snuggle?” I wanted to know. Jeeves caught the side of the face and kissed me again.

“Yes, Bertie, there will most definitely be a snuggle and likely a cuddle afterward as well, just as you like, if I recall your preferences correctly in these matters.”

Somehow I felt the need to clarify the sitch. “A proper snuggle, Reggie?” He paused and ran a finger over my breastbone thoughtfully. “You know, a real, proper snuggle?” And at that, Jeeves looked up and met my eye and we both broke out laughing.  The electricity bunged off, which amused us even more greatly. It took quite some time to catch our breaths.

When we started petting each other again in the dark, Jeeves started to weep, but in a masculine and strapping way befitting a hero of the last war reunited with his lost love. I held him until he’d done, then let him curl up under my chin for a bit and told him straight out, for the very first time, exactly how tenderly I felt about him before we got down to the serious business of snuggling. 

Jeeves

I woke late the next morning with Mr. Wooster’s head nestled against my shoulder in the most sweetly endearing fashion. Our clothes were strewn about the room untidily.  Fortunately, neither of us were expected anywhere. 

My mind was clearer than it had been in many months. We were both completely bare beneath the sheets, which felt exquisitely soft after my bedding at the Junior Ganymede Club. I shifted slightly, surprised at how little my injured leg hurt given the numerous different exertions of the preceding day and night. While I was pressed against my lover, nothing could pain me, it seemed. Mr. Wooster stirred against me and opened his eyes. The military life had left a mark on him and he seemed alert even without his tea. I was deeply grateful that he was alive and once again in my arms where he belonged.

“Reggie,” he murmured wrapping his arms and legs around me. “You’re really here. I am so glad. I dreamt of this so many times…” 

Several moments passed before I found my voice.  I could not believe that he had so generously welcomed me back into his home, his heart, and even his bed without a single word of reproach. “As have I, my dearest darling love,” I said, bending forward to kiss him good morning.

He rubbed his face against me. “I missed your smell.”  I flushed. “Ah, none of that, Reggie. You are a tender god,” he said, running his hands through my hair. “You’re the most handsome, precious, lovely, bally endearing chap. Little fairy voices could not possibly do you the smallest shred of justice. I don’t care how soppy I sound. I love you. Thank-you for coming back to me.” He paused and gave me a worried look. “But how will we have you stay? I can’t possibly give you up again.”

“Sir Roderick Glossop suggested that you might need a secretary now that you have taken up your place in Parliament.”

Mr. Wooster did not at first understand the hint. “So did Angela.  But wouldn’t he find out about us? And I’m bally not giving anyone else your rooms. That is your lair.  Yours, dash it, not some blasted secretary blighter.”

I kissed his delectable mouth. “Perhaps, if it pleases you, I could be your secretary.”

He traced my lower lip with his thumb as he thought this over. Then met my gaze. “You, Reggie?”

“Yes, sweetheart.” I kissed him again and tousled his faded golden hair. “I would be your secretary and help you with all your business affairs, just as always.”

He traced along my collar bones and touched my chin. “You would be my secretary, Reggie?”

“Yes, if you like it, love.” I cuddled him against my breast while he reflected on this quietly.  

The hope in his blue eyes as he looked up nearly made me weep. “And if you were, you could come back and live here with me just as before?”

“Yes, I could live here with you just as we did before, dearest.”

“Could we make it a proper home again, Reggie? All neat and cozy as we used to have it in the old days, well, except with more turnips and cabbages?”

“We can do whatever you like, darling Bertram, although do I agree that the turnips are hardly to be avoided at the current juncture.”

Mr. Wooster pondered this further. “And would we still have, er snuggles, you know?” he asked anxiously. I nearly melted.

“Bertie, darling, I believe snuggles would be a highly essential aspect of any such arrangement between us. I could hardly be content unless I might show you numerous marks of my affection, especially after your most welcome declarations last evening.”

Mr. Wooster beamed. “You are a bally genius. Yes, on mature reflection, I do need a secretary. Or, rather, I need you, Reggie, and if taking you as a secretary means I can have you just as before, then so be it.” He kissed me and I kissed him and he kissed me again in turn. We repeated the procedure and had what Mr. Wooster called a ‘snuggle.’ “I’ve had another thought.”

“Yes, darling?”

“Today is the day for hot water. Shall we have a bathe together?”

I had been forced to make my ablutions in a small sink for some months. “Oh, Bertie. That would be a most welcome treat.”

“Corking,” he said. “I don’t think I can let go of you just yet.”

“Nor I you, beloved darling.”

“Happy Christmas, Reggie. Welcome home.”

“Happy Christmas, Bertie.”