Archive of Our Own

Mr Wooster was sitting on the window sill, a lit cigarette in his grasp, the smoke swirling lazily up to the ceiling and filling the room with its musk. If he wasn't careful, the cigarette would recede so far to scorch his fingers.

The soft light of the sunset poured through the window and silhouetted him against the dim room. The light against his curls made them appear to be a liquid gold that framed his face. He is golden, I thought as I stared at him then, and more beautiful than anything that could possibly be sculpted from it.

I am awfully fond of Mr Wooster, and I am aware that my thoughts of him often venture into the realm of the impure, of the inverted. I know that such thoughts are dishonourable, and I am doing him a grave disservice by not tendering my resignation. Instead, I stay by his side to satisfy my own selfishness. I swat away his many unrelenting fiancés as if they are nothing more than an annoying gnat, and I know he is grateful, yet it still feels wrong somehow, even if I am fulfilling his wishes.

He had not noticed me enter the room, even though it was the usual time in which I bought him his whisky and soda, though today he had requested I hold the soda. That was a clue into his mood.

I was able to take advantage of his lax in focus to gaze upon him with an admiring eye.
But I did not see just beauty. The light bounced off the white of his eyes, exposing them for me to see.

He looked out the window with a faraway gaze, the glaze over his eyes preserved the desperately sad look they held. I stopped short, and it didn't take me long to forget the tray that held his drink.

I had never seen him look so sad.

I had caught glimpses of his melancholy, of course. One couldn't be as bright and bubbly as Mr Wooster all of the time, he was a human with human emotions. Can we truly be human without sadness? But Mr Wooster was always so careful to wear a perfectly constructed mask of carefree joy. He was quite skilled at picking up the façade even in his most dire moments, quickly making some quick witted remark to put me, or more likely, himself, at ease.

There was none of that in front of me. He was completely indifferent to my presence. It was likely he hadn't heard me enter the room at all.

Unable to bear the peculiar silence for too long, I coughed lightly to alert him of my presence.

It was as if a bomb had gone off. He startled so badly he almost dropped his cigarette. He looked looked about himself with wide, startled eyes, before he noticed me and jumped anew, as if he had been caught doing something particularly scandalous.

"Oh! Jeeves!" he gasped, then he forced a strained chuckle from the depths of his throat. "I thought I was used to you doing that. You know, the whole appearing out of thin air thing."

I felt unable to comment on what I had just witnessed. It was above my place. So instead I nodded toward his cigarette. "If you are not careful, you will burn yourself, sir."

He looked down and saw the cigarette, about to drop its grey ash onto the carpet. "Oh!" he said again, and immediately stubbed it out in the ashtray next to him, unsmoked. "Thank you, old man."

I set his drink down on the table next to him and stood back, the tray held behind me. "If that's all you'll be requiring, sir?"

The glazed expression was threatening to take hold once again, and Mr Wooster made an immense effort to shake it off. "What?" He asked, blinking. "Oh yes! Yes, yes, that'll be all, Jeeves."

I bowed and took my leave.

I have seen many things during my career as a gentleman's personal gentleman that concerned me, but this I found shook me to my core. It was so unlike Mr Wooster that anxiety settled in the pit of my stomach. I was exceedingly fond of the young man, more than any of my previous employers, and so when I felt concern toward Mr Wooster, I felt it greatly.

I wished for him to talk to me. I am well aware of the need for one to have a friend to talk to, but I was bound by my own code, my own professionalism. How could I ask him to pour out his deepest feelings to me? No matter how much I wished for us to be more than master and servant, it would not be. Yet, I did not want to be his friend, for I shuddered at the very thought of being lumped in with those leeches he calls friends. No, I wished to be more.

Ultimately, I wanted to be a person that Mr Wooster could confide in without hesitation, of things of a more personal matter than I have been privy to in the past.

I wanted to wipe that sad, sad look from his face.

I stood in the kitchen for a long while. To return to his side without being summoned would be wrong, yet I wanted him to know he could confide in me about anything.

I clenched my fists, then loosened them again with an exhale. I made up my mind and returned to the living room.

I was once again startled to a halt at what I saw.

The room was darker now, within the last few minutes the sun had dipped behind the horizon and the light of the room was dimmer than before. Gold had turned to a burning orange, an orange that held hardly any light. Even so, I could still make out the form of Mr Wooster sagged in the armchair, his head hung low and his hands clasped tightly between his knees. The room was utterly silent, apart from the shaky sobs that wrenched themselves from Mr Woosters throat.

I had never seen Mr Wooster cry before, not truly, and I was struck dumb by this presentation. My feet were simply rooted to the spot as I took in the scene in front of me.

Mr Wooster's shoulders shook with the exertion of his sobs, and what were undoubtably tears caught the lowlight and sparkled mockingly in their decent from his cheeks to the carpet below. Still unaware of my presence, he brought his hands up to his face to bury his face in his palms as the sobs intensified.

I could not leave him like this. I pulled myself together quickly - Mr Wooster needed me.

I drifted across the room, my footfalls silent against the carpet, until I was standing directly in front of Mr Wooster. I sank down to one knee so my head was below his. He still did not notice me, so I cleared my throat. "Sir?" I asked softly.

His reaction was much the same as before - he shot back with a wrenching gasp, his eyes wide and his lips parted in shock. He stared at me for a few moments, his mouth opening and closing uselessly, before he ducked his head and wiped hurriedly at his eyes. "Jeeves," He gasped. "Sorry, dear chap. I thought you had gone."

My heart stuttered in my chest. The fact that he was reluctant to share these feelings with me wounded me. I wondered for just how long he had been crying alone.

"It is quite alright, sir." I said. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and held it out to him. He took it with a small, forced smile of thanks and began to dab at his eyes. He still kept his head low and did not meet my gaze.

Silence fell between us. It was much unlike our usual silences, which were comfortable and familiar, but deeply strained. I let it linger for a while, but when he didn't break it, I spoke up. "Is there something I can assist you with, sir?"

Mr Wooster fiddled with my handkerchief in his lap with the air of a schoolboy who had been caught graffitiing the desktops. He shook his head mutely.

I should have taken my leave. I shouldn't have returned to the room at all - I wasn't called for. But I could not leave him like this in good faith, it was my own selfishness that had me linger there, for the guilt would eat away at me for goodness knew how long should I have left him then. So instead I took a breath to ask him another improper question.

"May I ask what has you so upset, sir?" I asked it quietly, my voice no more than a whisper. I desperately wanted to convey that it was all ok - he had no reason to hide his feelings in front of me. Instinctively, I wanted to reach out and gather him into my arms so he could cry upon my shoulder. It killed me to hold back.

His face crumpled as sobs overtook him, and he hid his face in his hands once again, his elbows on his knees. I did reach out to him then, to lay a hand on his shoulder. No matter our positions, it would be cruel not to.

"Oh, Jeeves. It's dashed silly." He managed when he had regained some semblance of control over himself. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve again, before I nodded to the handkerchief he still clutched in his grasp. He sniffed, still looking down. "I don't even know why I'm crying about this!"

"It's alright, sir." I said in the most reassuring tone I could muster.

He sniffed again and nodded once. "I just... I'm so useless, Jeeves."

I was shocked. I had no idea my master held these views toward himself, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have been a surprise. This was a number of days after we had returned from Brinkley Court after the affair with his cousin Angela and Mr Glossop's falling out, Mr Fink-Nottle's disastrous speech at Market Snodsbury, the affair concerning Anatole, and of course the fire alarm, which resulted on Mr Wooster completing a 18 mile round trip on a bicycle in the rain at my suggestion. I was unaware that he had any lingering feelings upon the matter.

Nevertheless, I endeavoured to confirm my suspicions. "Is this about our recent visit to Brinkley Court, Sir?"

He winced. "Yes. No. Maybe. Oh, I don't know, Jeeves!"

He looked troubled and he gnawed at his bottom lip with the complexity of what he wanted to say. It seemed we needed to have a longer conversation, so I stood. "Please excuse me one moment, Sir."

I left him for a few moments only to return to the kitchen to fill a glass of water and run a clean cloth under the tap. I returned to the living room to find Mr Wooster sitting exactly where I left him, fidgeting in his chair, undoubtably uncomfortable at being caught in his earlier outburst. I was saddened at his embarrassment.

I pulled the footstool in front of the chair, sat on it and handed him the glass of water, which he sipped gratefully. "If you will allow me, sir." I said, holding up the damp cloth.

He eyed me with curiosity, but did not move away when I gently ran the cloth over his flushed cheeks, wiping under his eyes where hot tears were still continuing to fall. After a few moments of this, his shoulders sagged with a long, drawn out sigh. "Jolly good of you, Jeeves." He murmured.

"I always endeavour to give satisfaction, sir."

"Yes. Yes, that you do..." He sighed again, looking off into the distance. I sat back and waited patiently for him to speak again.

"It's just..." He huffed in frustration, "Not just the past few days, although they certainly didn't help. But they did highlight that I'm just... no good, Jeeves."

He looked up at me, and I looked into his desperate, red rimmed eyes. "It's all the same. Whenever I try to help a friend or loved one out of the soup, I just end up landing them further in it. It's you that ends up saving the day, every single time. I can never do anything to help... Everyone was so angry at me, Jeeves. It just... Well. It didn't feel good."

He sniffed again and let his head hang. "I just don't see the use in me." He whispered.

My blood ran cold at his words. He uttered them with such an air of finality that, quite frankly, terrified me. "Sir..." I whispered.

He attempted to smile at me, but it looked more like a grimace. "I'm sorry, Jeeves. I'm on a bit of a downer tonight. Not what you've come to expect of me, what?"

I didn't respond, I only stared at him as I digested his words. He seemed a little unnerved by this and ducked his head again. Then, his bottom lip started quivering anew.

I could hold myself back no longer, though I still held enough self control to let Mr Wooster make the first move. Wordlessly I sat back and spread my arms.

Mr Wooster blinked owlishly at me for a few moments as he processed my intentions. Then, his face completely crumpled, and with a small wail, launched himself into my arms.

I was almost knocked back with the force of my master barreling into me, but I quickly righted myself and folded him within my arms. Our positions were slightly awkward, he was half knelt on the floor with his upper body leant toward my chest whilst I was still perched on the footstool.

I do not know what came over me. At the time, I can recall wishing for my employer to be more comfortable as he released an onslaught of emotion over me, but there are very few excuses for what I did next: I leant down, scooped him up into my arms and cradled him to my chest.

Mr Wooster was in no position to notice this, much to my advantage. Instead, he instinctively hooked his arms around my neck and buried his face into my shoulder as he continued to shake with the force of his renewed sobs.

I stood and carried him over to the sofa, where I sat us both down. Mr Wooster seemed in no hurry to be freed from my hold, so I kept him cradled against me. Taking advantage of our positions, I began to gently rock the both of us from side to side in an attempt to soothe him.

"It's alright, Sir." This close I could smell the scent of his shampoo in his hair, the cigarette he had just smoked and a smell that was uniquely Bertram Wooster. He hiccuped against me, his fist twisting into the front of my waistcoat as he fought to regain control of himself. He was shaking like a leaf in a storm, and he was struggling to pull in breaths. "You must breathe, Sir."
He laughed, a shrill sound in his hysteria. "I-I can't. I don't know what's... what's happening to me, Jeeves. I... I..."

I held him even closer to me and lay my hand over his clenched fist. "Can you do something for me, Sir?"

He hiccuped again, "Wha..."

"I would like you to focus on my breathing. Can you do that, Sir?" I admit it was a challenge to keep control over my own breathing. The entire situation was so unnerving that I could hardly spare a thought to the fact that Mr Wooster was curled up in my arms in a way that I had only fantasied about.

Mr Wooster screwed his eyes up tightly, but after a few seconds, he nodded frantically.

"Thank you, Sir. Can you try and match my breaths?" I took a greatly exaggerated inhale, held it for a moment, then let it go. My exhale tickled the blond curls at the top of his scalp, so close we were. "Can you do that, Bertram?"

His brows furrowed in concentration, but he did as I asked. His first attempt was shaky, and he exhaled involuntarily, which seemed to distress him greatly. I rubbed at his back, "It's alright," I said, "Try again."

He did, and he was able to fill his lungs to the brim, but his breath left him in a hurry and he sobbed. "'m sorry, Jeeves. 'm trying-"

"I know you are, Bertram, I know. You're doing very well," I soothed, "We'll keep going, just keep trying. I will stay with you for as long as it takes."

In the end, it took quite a few minutes. He had gotten himself quite wound up, confirmed by just how tight his shoulders were beneath my hand. I lost track of time as we sat there, simply breathing together, but eventually, the rate of Mr Wooster's breathing returned to normal.

His breaths were still far to loud in the silence of the room. His sobs seemed to still float on the air. But he was calming, slowly but surely.

I still rocked us slowly, and I did not let him go.

"You called me Bertram."

I froze. He had said it so simply, like it was a mere statement informing me of the arrival of the next train, though his voice was cracked and raw. My voice lodged itself in my throat and refused to co-operate, but eventually I was able to force out a slightly strained, "I'm sorry, Sir."

Mr Wooster huffed a laugh against my chest. "Don't worry about it, old thing. I... I quite liked it."

I looked down at him quite sharply, and I saw a slight twinkle in his eye. "I'm sorry, Jeeves. I've never seen you so rattled."

I chose not to reply to that particular observation. "Are you alright now, Sir?" I asked instead.

"I'm dashed exhausted to be completely honest with you." He admitted, and he defiantly looked it, the shadows fell about his face in a way I had never seen before. His head was still against my shoulder, and he closed his eyes with a sigh. "I think I'm done in for the evening. I think... I'd like to go to bed."

"Of course, Sir." I said, but neither of us moved. Mr Wooster was still clutching the front of my waistcoat, but his grip was now lax.

"I can't feel my legs." He admitted at long last, his eyes shining with a slight, albeit exhausted fear, "Or my hands."

"That will be due to the hyperventilation," I told him. He relaxed minutely.

"Ah. My point being, Jeeves, I think I may be stuck here for the foreseeable future." His cheeks darkened. "Sorry about that.”

"It's no problem at all, Sir." I said, "With your permission, I can carry you to your bedroom."

He flushed further, and he looked down. "Ah. That would be very helpful. Thank you, Jeeves."

I lifted him with very little issue - Mr Wooster's frame was, as he describes it, willowy. Whilst he wasn't overly light, he wasn't exactly heavy either. With his weight spread out in my arms, it was very easy for me to cross the living room to his bedroom. He hung on to me the entire time, arms looped around my neck and head resting on my shoulder.

I set him down on his bed, where he let himself go limp and he sprawled back across the covers, his arms flung wide. He let out a shuddering sigh and closed his eyes.

"Do you require assistance changing, sir?" I asked.

He opened his eyes to regard me from upside-down. His usually brilliant eyes were dull and bloodshot from his earlier emotion. He looked exhausted. "Yes please," He said weakly.

I often helped Mr Wooster change. In the early days of my employment, this was restricted to the more usual activities such as laying out his clothes and helping with his cuffs. As we became more familiar with each other, it was easy to button his shirts and tie his shoes. On more than one occasion, I had dressed him as one would dress a small child. These occasions were few and far between, and often occurred when Mr Wooster was more than a little intoxicated. I performed these tasks for him now - kneeling before him to untie his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it down his arms, pulling his trousers down and off, then slipping the sleeves of his pyjama shirt over his outstretched arms, like a shop mannequin ready to be dressed.

I could feel his breath on the top of my head as I buttoned his silk pyjama shirt, slow and heavy. When I had completed my task and glanced up at him, my suspicions were confirmed - he was so exhausted that he was almost falling asleep where he sat.

"Shall I prepare you a cup of tea, sir? Perhaps a relaxing chamomile?"

"Hm?" His eyes, which had fallen shut once again, flickered open to meet mine. "Oh. Yes please, Jeeves." I turned to go, but a hesitant sound stopped me in my tracks. "And, err. Make one for yourself, won't you? If you want one, of course."

I fought the urge to raise a surprised eyebrow. Mr Wooster had never before asked to have a cup of tea with me. Such things did happen, but only when Mr Wooster drifted into the kitchen whilst holding his own tea cup and we ended up falling into an easy conversation. It was all very informal. He had never asked outright before.

I forced any feelings I had on the subject down (concern at the action being overly unprofessional, a hopeful joy at my master requesting I partake in tea with him as equals...) and simply said, "Of course, sir."

Three heaped teaspoons of chamomile tea went into the pot, and the tray was laid with two pairs of cups and saucers instead of one, and I was soon back in Mr Wooster's bedroom.

He was in bed, sat up against the headboard with his hands in his lap. He looked up as I entered and a small smile adorned his face.

I lay the tray across his lap, then straightened and stood with my hands behind my back in my customary place on the middle of the carpet to await further instruction. As I did so, a troubled look crossed his face.

"Um, Jeeves?" He asked, then cleared his throat, "I will understand if you say no, you're free to do so, of course, but I, ah. Would... would you sit next to me?" He patted the the pillow next to him tentatively. "I just... don't want to be alone right now."

"Of course, sir." I said, ignoring how my heart leapt at the request. I crossed to the other side of the bed, sat down, and paused. "Would you prefer if I removed my shoes, sir?"

He looked momentarily confused at my question, but he soon shook himself clear, "Oh, yes, yes! Do as you please, Jeeves."

My shoes were therefore removed and placed neatly on the floor at the side of the bed. I swung my legs up on top of the covers so they were parallel to Mr Wooster's, and leant back against the headboard at his side. He smiled.

I poured our tea, and for a while we sat drinking in silence. Mr Wooster was tense, his jaw set in a way which told me he had more he wished to say. I sat and sipped my tea quietly as I waited for him to speak, hoping that the pounding of my heart wouldn't betray my lack of internal composure.

He took a sudden, deep breath. "You know Jeeves, I was having the rummiest thoughts earlier." He said. He was smiling, as if he were trying to convey a funny story, but his eyes were shining with new threatening tears. His hands shook, his tea cup clattered against it's saucer. He set them both down on the tray. "I was looking out of the window, before you came in, you know... And I wanted to jump out of it."

My own teacup descended toward my saucer quicker than I intended, and it required a lot of effort on my part to distill the resulting clatter. Mr Wooster didn't appear to notice. He sat staring straight ahead as a hysterical little giggle left his lips and a tear slipped down his cheek. "It gave me quite the shock - who knew you could be surprised by your own thoughts, what!"

I said nothing. I doubted any sound that left my throat at that moment would resemble anything close to words. Mr Wooster glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, then down into his teacup. "Sorry, Jeeves. I probably shouldn't have said that."

I shook my head, "No, sir." I was glad when my voice sounded completely normal, "I am sorry, sir. I simply wasn't expecting..."

"Don't worry, Jeeves. I wasn't either."

Silence fell again. I could feel Mr Wooster tensing up next to me and felt a sudden pang of dread. I could not let him close himself off to me, not now he had started to open up. He needed me.

"May I ask what lead to these thoughts, sir? Perhaps what we were discussing earlier?"

He hummed. "I suppose. I was just thinking things over... thinking about how I don't bring anything to anyone. A chap likes to feel useful, and every time I've tried, it's ended in disaster."

"If I may speak out of turn, sir, but what you have just said is not true. You bring me a lot of joy."

I did not make the conscious decision to voice these thoughts, but the words slipped out of my mouth without my permission. The room rang with them, deafening in the silence that fell between us. I turned away, ashamed; I could not look at him.

Finally, finally, after what felt like an age, Mr Wooster spoke breathlessly. I could barely hear him over my own heartbeat an the rush of blood in my ears. "Do you really mean that, Jeeves?"

I managed to turn back to him. His eyes were wide, spilling over with tears. His lips were parted, his face the perfect example of that struck-dumb expression I adored so much.

"Yes, sir." My voice was almost as quiet as his own.

He dropped his gaze, "Earlier. Earlier, in there. You called me Bertram." When he looked up at me again, his expression achingly and beautifully hopeful.

"I did."

"Did... What... What did you mean by it?"

What did I mean by it? I hadn't meant to say it, the word had been a betrayal of my vocal chords.
What had I meant to convey to him in that moment?

"I meant to comfort you," I said at last, "I wished to provide you safety. I wished to provide you-" The word caught in my throat as I stared at him.

His tea was forgotten, and the tray pushed to the side. He shuffled closer to me. "What?" He asked, his hushed voice almost demanding, "What did you wish to provide me with?"

I swallowed. "Love, sir.”

The room was silent as my confession hung in the air, blanketing our surroundings like a fresh layer of snow on a winters morning. I desperately wanted to look away, be cowardly and hide the emotion that had undoubtably etched itself into every inch of my face, but Bertram looked at me with such openness that it felt unfair to do so, so I repressed the urge.

He was still staring at me with that struck dumb expression, eyes wide. I forced myself to study his face, to look for any traces of anger among his shock, or perhaps any trace of disgust. There was none.

I cleared my throat, the silence was beginning to get unnerving. "Sir-"

"Not Sir." He whispered.

This was an invitation. I swallowed, and I admit my voice trembled slightly when I next spoke.

"Bertram." I breathed.

I do not remember closing the remaining distance between us, nor do I remember Bertram doing so. But in the next moment, I was breathing a shaky sigh against his warm lips.

He was not a good kisser. I had my suspicions that my employer was inexperienced in the realm of physical affections, no matter his illusions to the contrary, and now I had my proof, presented to me in the most wonderful way possible.

I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him into my lap to take control of the kiss. He let me do so willingly. His arms, like earlier, wrapped themselves around my neck to pull me ever closer, and my right hand found its way into his soft, blond curls, my fingers entangling themselves within the soft strands in a way I had only dreamed of.

It was a soft, slow kiss. I feel we were both too emotionally drained to venture into the realm of passion, and whatever lay between us felt far too fragile in that moment. There was no gasping for breath, no fingers desperately clutching at clothes, just gentle caresses and soft sighs.

He pulled back after a few minutes, his eyes lidded and his red lips parted. He was panting softly, even though neither of us had exerted ourselves. I found myself a little breathless too.

"Jeeves," He whispered. He was still in my lap, and even in the dim room I could see stars sparkling in those perfect blues, rekindled by hope. "Did you really mean that?"

I let a soft smile stretch my lips. "I was rather hoping what passed between us just now would show that yes, I did."

He stared at me for a moment longer, then began to chuckle softly. My smile widened at the sound, music to my ears. He leant his forehead against mine, and I pressed back into him.

"Me too, you know." He murmured. "Love you, I mean."

I squeezed him tighter. "I'm glad."

This time, the silence was comfortable as we sat, basking in the presence of each other.

Soon though, I could feel him drooping in my arms, and I reluctantly pulled back. He whined at the loss of contact. "You are tried, Bertram."

"Exhausted, to tell you the truth." His grin was sheepish, but then it faltered and he looked down. "I... Er. Would you mind staying with me? Just until I fall asleep, then you can leave, if you want. I'm still not keen on the idea of being on my own."

I pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I will stay with you all night, if you wish it."

I would never tire of that hopeful expression, even if I saw it every day until my last. "Yes please." He said in a rush.

I left him only to retreat to my room to change into my nightclothes. In my haste to be with him, I had even neglected to attend to my usual nighttime chores. I did these only after Bertram had gone to bed, but tonight I would be going to bed with him.

He lay on his side on the right side of the bed. He smiled sweetly as I parted the covers and slid in next to me.

He giggled, "You look strange with your hair like that." I had combed it free of it's usual gel before changing, as I did every night. It occurred to me then that he had likely never seen it before. "It's nice, I like it."

"I'm glad." I said. I lay down next to him and rolled onto my side to face him.

We lay like that for a while, our hands to ourselves, in silence. Eventually, and cautiously, Bertram shuffled closer and tucked his head under my chin.

My arms came up to wrap around him and I held him close, my nose buried in his hair. I closed my eyes and breathed him in.

"We have a lot to talk about, don't we?" He said from around my collarbone. "I mean, I know this isn't a good idea, broadly speaking. There are laws and thinggummy."

I nodded. "We can get into a lot of trouble."

His arm tightened where it lay around my waist. "I would hate for anything to happen to you, old chap." He whispered, "Especially if it were because of me."

I placed a kiss on the top of his head. "We shall not speak of this now," I said, "You need your rest. There will be time to talk in the morning."

I felt him smile against me. "Yes. There will be time, wont there? Lots of time. Together."

I closed my eyes. "Together." I echoed.