Amnesty: 12
Challenge: Rough
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Characters: Jeeves, Bertie, Sippy Sipperly
Title: Jeeves and the Falling Scales
Summary: Bertie had never thought of Jeeves as connected to the rough and tumble element.  And then something happened.
Words: ~1600
Rating: PG


Bertram Wilberforce, the last of the Woosters tossed and turned in a sea of tumultuous bedclothes like a Mediterranean yacht devoid of French chefs.  Strange, disturbing images roused him from the forty winks at a count of fifteen or even five. Not a sufficiency for the beauty rest.  The grey matter, never of the sharpest, took longer than usual to focus on the nub, or crux, of the issue that was interfering with the restful slumbers. Finally, the scales fell from the cerulean orbs.

It was the thought of Jeeves, that upright paragon of valets, clipping old Sippy Sipperly, the prominent publisher, on the back of the head with a putter.  Reluctantly, the fellow said, he had been compelled to break that cheerful vase to lend verisimilitude to the scene.  And, regrettably, he had fetched old Sippy a rather sharp blow.  At the base of the cranium, if that was the word he wanted.  A dangerous action, if a chap didn’t know what he was about.  It could have landed old Sippy in an untimely grave. Clearly Jeeves had done some f-ing a r. s. b. to chaps in the past.

The last of the Woosters had never thought of Jeeves as capable of strong-arm stuff.  It had opened a whole new aspect of the f.  An a. that had Bertie’s pajama trousers in a rummy state of disorder.

Wooster B always had a weakness for those robust, muscular types.  The chiseled features and the broad, manly shoulders.  Of course, Jeeves had seemed to be more of a sage.  An intellect. A cerebral sort, if that was the word he wanted.   Although one had to admit he knew his way about a trouser.  Bertie shifted uncomfortably.  The heliotrope silk pajamas were not containing the throbbing manhood as well as usual.  And Bertie did not like to see to himself while Jeeves was about the flat.  One never knew when a fellow would walk in on one.

There comes a time in the life of every young man about town when he must give up the struggle to nestle into the arms of Morpheus and imbibe a soothing beverage.  For some y. m. a. t. the soothing beverage of choice might be warm milk.  For others the milk would be mixed with brandy.  Since the schoolroom, Bertie had eschewed milk, w. or otherwise, except with purloined biscuits.

It was the work of a moment to ooze from beneath the tempestuous coverlet, don the splendid dressing gown and shuffle into slippers and out toward the reviving beverages.  The ice bucket, which was usually full of pristine cubes, had been emptied for the night, so Bertie picked up the brandy and ankled toward the kitchen.

Usually at this time of night, the k of Berkeley Mansions would be empty except for perhaps the late night washing up, stacked precisely in the drying rack, a few neatly folded towels and perhaps a suit that retained a few vestiges of flour from an ill-conceived joke, hug carefully on its hanger and put in the corner where it would be out of the way.

But there was more.

Bertie managed to keep hold of the bottle even though the jaw went slack.  Jeeves, bedecked in the brown flannel dressing gown, sat at the table, looking at the ceiling.  A tray of what at the time would have been called ‘fag’ ends and a dog-earred book lying open on the table told the tale of a troubled manservant.  He looked up and stood to help Bertie with the ice tray, the usual professional mask over the chiseled features.

Normally, it is not the done thing to pry into the personal affairs of the staff.  But in a household inhabited only by men with iron wills, sometimes the done thing is not done as a thing and the not done thing becomes done.

“Late night, what?” Bertie asked, forgetting that Jeeves had not had leave to go out.

“I was in all evening, sir,” said Jeeves.  A certain tightness about the eyes told of annoyance at being so questioned.

“Is everything all right, then?  I thought you would have been done with the improving volume and tucked up for a refreshing course of z’s.”  Bertie sipped the puzzled brandy with just a splash of soda.

“Yes, sir,” said Jeeves.  “Will that be all?”

This was a bit ripe.  Bertie did not like being treated like a mere ‘hey you’ about the home and here was his valet dismissing him from his own kitchen.

“No that will dashed well not be all,” said Bertie.  Jeeves waited patiently for his instructions.  Bertie set down his glass and poured another measure of brandy, then crossed to the cupboard for a glass.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jeevesian fingers twitching.  The fellow didn’t want him touching his own glassware.  Bertie flowed back toward the table, glass in hand, leaving the door to the cupboard slightly ajar.

He poured. “Sit, my man, and tell me your troubles.”

Jeeves looked for a moment like a man who had lost his dearest friend.  “I fear I must tender my resignation, sir.”  He caught the bottle as Bertie dropped it.

“Is it the flour?  I’ll pay for a new suit,” said the last of the Woosters.

“No, sir,” said Jeeves.  “It is a personal matter.”

“Trouble with an aunt?” Bertie nodded knowingly.  Jeeves’s mouth quirked in amusement.  Then tears rose in his eyes.

He cleared his throat.  “I fear it is of a more personal nature than that, sir.”

“Has the law caught up with you?”

Jeeves sat down and sipped the brandy Bertie had poured for him. “Sir?”

“I, that is, Jeeves, you must have some sort of past, being able to biff a fellow on the bean like that.  Causing grave but not permanent, if that is the word I want?”

“It is, sir.”

“Injury.”  Bertie went on.  “It was in service to the cause of true love.  And to the young master, I suppose, but startling nevertheless, Jeeves.  Quite startling.”

“I understand, sir.” Jeeves shook himself.

“And I might almost suspect you injured my friend in order to remove that attractive little bijou from the premises.”

“It was unavoidable, sir, and done with the greatest reluctance.”  Jeeves reached into a pocket of his dressing gown and pulled forth a sheath of papers.  He pushed them over to Bertie who read:

“Men and Manservants: A return to the Greeks?” by a Junior Ganymedian.

‘R. J. is a gentleman’s personal gentleman, known about town as willing to do anything for his young master, heir to the Yaxley title and member of London’s fast set.  But how much is too much?  How personal is a gentleman’s personal gentleman willing to be?’

The heir to the Yaxley title sank down into a chair beside his gentleman’s personal gentleman.  They drained their glasses in silent unison. “You mean?”

“It was meant as a practical joke by one my fellows at the Junior Ganymede Club.  I lost an ill considered wager.  Never did I expect that Mr. Sipperly would fail to see that it was a ruse.  A joke,” he added.

“I know what a ruse is, Jeeves.  I took a degree of some sort at Oxford you know.”

“He offered to publish it,” continued Jeeves, “Unless I helped him win his fair love.”

“Offered?”

“Threatened,” said Jeeves.  “I chose to effect matters so that he would not remember what had happened.”

Bertie was slow about certain matters, but not about his manservant’s feelings.  “Why did you not laugh in his face when he accused you of being too personally attached to the young master?”

Jeeves met his young master’s eye.  Bertie, half expecting Jeeves to pull away, grasped the manly arm in a firm paw.  Jeeves only looked down at the slender hand on his sleeve.

“Please don’t leave, Jeeves,” he said.  “You know I’m hopeless without you.”

“I fear this will affect our working relationship, sir,” said Jeeves.

Bertie smiled.  “I rather hope it will.  Jeeves gasped.  His eyes flicked toward his master’s face.

“Oh, sir,” the tone made Bertie’s heart sink.  For once his wits rallied to his aid.

“For example, it would have been very preux of you to remind me about that sack of flour over Sippy’s door.  Fell, as you saw, and burst all over me. Deuced unsettling having to find a taxi in that state.”  Bertie watched the Jeevesian eye soften.

“You know I am very fond of you, sir,” said Jeeves.

“And you know I am very fond of you,” said Bertie, knowing somehow that they would, sooner or later, explore exactly how far this fondness went.  “But it would not do to rush.”

And Jeeves smiled for the first time in their long association. “Very good, sir.  Will that be all?”

Bertie restrained himself from crawling into the Jeevesian lap. “Yes, thank you.”  He waited for Jeeves to pop off.  Instead, Jeeves placed a hand atop Bertie’s.  The last of the Woosters tried not to wonder how that calloused palm might feel rubbing across the more sensitive regions of the willowy frame.

“Good night,” said Jeeves.  He squeezed his master’s hand, then rose and shimmered out.

Bertie blinked a few times more than he ordinarily would, then shuffled brokenly out the door.  He had just entered the corridor when Jeeves emerged from his lair, an expression of eager shyness on the chiseled dial.  Bertie stopped, hoping he did not look too much like a wounded and love sick calf.

“Might I invite you for a drink?” Jeeves said, and Bertie could have sworn the chap was a bundle of nerves.  “I… I know I should not presume to entertain guests, but perhaps my employer would make an exception.”

“Perhaps, Jeeves,” said Bertie, grinning.  “Thank you.”   He moved toward the open door, and Jeeves set a trembling hand at his narrow waist.  Bertie looked up and tilted the bean forward to lock the lips. Their stubly beards rasped roughly, and when they came up for breath, Bertie breathed,  “Delish.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Jeeves.