hawk1701 (hawk1701) wrote in by_jeeves,

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Title: No One the Wooster (Part 2-?)
Authors: hawk1701
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't even own a decent pair of shoes. . .  how could I own Jeeves and Wooster? In fact, when was the last time I had a decent meal . . .?
Author's note: I’m unsure when this takes place exactly. It’s from Jeeve’s POV.
Summary: Jeeves had to deal with a drunk Bertie, things happened, and now he's paid a visit by Aunt Agatha as well as confronted by the confused Bertie . . .


I awoke before my alarm had a chance to announce the hour, my own internal clock accustomed and thus set to wake me at the appropriate time without further aid. The small window above my bed was almost lazily letting in the tawny light of morning which served as only another reminder that the day and its inevitable happenings would soon follow.

I sat up in bed, running a hand through my dark hair, letting it fall in front of my still weary eyes before swinging my legs slowly over the side of my cot. Not a drop of spirits I myself had drank but I was greeted, upon achieving a more upright position, by a steady, painful pounding between my temples.

Taking a few moments, blinking the sleep from my eyes, my mind clumsily grappled after the remnants of a dream I’d had during the night, though when I’d had time to dream it, having only slept for less then three hours, I haven’t a clue.

It had to do with Mr. Wooster, that much was clear. Clear but in no way comforting.

I sighed impatiently, throwing myself into my morning routine with vigor, getting dressed and preened in the comfortingly automatic way void of any futile daydreams or pondering. Concern, of course, was drawing my haste so I could check on Mr. Wooster and make sure he was alright.

Once dressed I walked solemnly across the flat, grasping the cool handle of his bedroom door, careful to not open it too far to the light, and entered his dark room. My eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, during which time I listening to his breathing that sounded reassuringly steady, a sense of great relief coming over me at knowing he had at least survived the night.

            After a few more hours, managing to find several things to occupy my time with, one being to press and clean the clothes he had worn the previous night, which were, needless to say, in  severe need of mending.

Once it had almost neared noon, I opened his door again, creeping quietly across the carpeted floor, having done it countless times before, just as I had slowly opened his heavy curtains to let in the already bright daylight countless times as well.

From the bed I heard a moan, its piteous nature in no way unmistakable, followed by the sound of rumpling sheets as he pulled them quickly over his eyes.

“Good morning, sir,” I said in my usual calm voice, picking up the tray from the table where I’d left it, “How are we feeling this morning, sir?”

But I received no answer from the seemingly lifeless pile of sheets and covers, in fact there remained no movement or sound for at least ten seconds and even then it was clear this would be a slow process. He emerged from under his covers and was able to drink what I gave him, one of the stronger remedies for this certainly drastic state. Once obtaining an upright position he proceeded to speak.

 “What the devil happened last night I can’t ruddy remember,” he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, hunching his shoulders with a miserable groan. One blue eye opened, though only a fraction of the way, to look up at me and I received its intentional eye-contact only for a moment before diverting my concentration to his breakfast.

            “If I might be pardoned to ask, sir, how much of last nights frivolities are in your recollection?”

            “Well . . .” he said as I turned and busied myself drawing his drapes, straightening his bed-sheets, adjusting his pillows, waiting for that very prolonged well to come to an end.

            “Gosh, only bits and pieces really . . . that blighter Bingo was in a sorry way, some problem or other, and the only solution apparently was to boldly try and out-best any prior record involving how much drunk and how little remembered on the morrow . . . though, dash it, now I can’t even remember what his dilemma was,” Mr. Wooster took a sip of tea, grimacing slightly, “Well, well, must have been something worth it all,” he directed bloodshot eyes to the ceiling in a pondering way, “Some very odd memories actually, very odd . . . something about . . .” my heart nearly stopped, “A bicycle? Wait a minute . . . yes, there was a bicycle . . . I rather hope no one was hurt, neither of us was in the right condition to operate on our own two legs let alone two wheels . . . actually . . .” he brought a hand to his right leg, giving a faint ouch, “I’ve been injured,” I raised both my eye brows in a questioning way, he shrugged one shoulder, “No worries, Jeeves, nothing a Wooster can’t handle.”

            “I’m glad, sir,” I said.

            “When did I get in?”

            “Around two o’clock in the morning, sir.”

            “That’s not that bad,” he said brightly, then winced, bringing a hand to his head, “I don’t even remember getting into bed . . . did I make it myself?” he looked up at me.

            “No, sir,” I answered, “It was not in your ability to remain vertical for very long, I was forced to assist in your disposal,” I chose not to mention his rather ill state, figuring it wasn’t a necessary inclusion, nor was I willing to prod anymore, though I desired to, simply to know if he recalled what had happened. Perhaps he would never remember and everyday would begin and end and accumulate as they always have. But my heart ached looking at him. He looked so lost even now and there was nothing I could do. I know he enjoys this life, for the most part, but his intelligence, intelligence he outwardly dismisses and berates, is enough, in fact he is an extraordinarily bright individual, to allow him a sense of listless emptiness to which he oftentimes feels trapped within. Loneliness had darkened a corner of his mind, somewhere within the alternating shades of blue in his eyes, and he kept it behind a locked door.

            “Well, Jeeves,” he said, taking a hesitant bite of food, I imagine he could taste the vomit in his mouth but said nothing, “I think I’ll have a quiet night tonight.”

            “As you wish, sir,” I said, finishing laying out his clothes.

            “Jeeves. I—” I heard behind me. I turned.

            “Yes, sir?”

            “I didn’t, I mean, so to say, um .  . .” he licked his lips, a clumsy grin befitting his face, “I feel like I should be saying sorry to you, old chap.”

            “No, sir,” I said, standing near the door.

            He watched me then, eyes wide and questioning, mouth slightly open, then he shrugged, face relaxing, “Well all right, uh, I’ll be off then to the Drones I think, as soon as I get dressed.”

            “Of course, sir,” I said, “Will that be all, sir?”

            “Quite,” he said, returning his eyes to his food.


            Not two hours later there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Wooster’s Aunt Agatha.

Aunt Agatha’s hat gave the impression of an unfortunate bird taken to roost, black wings folded across the silvery curls of her head, several of its glossy black feathers sticking straight up in what must have been its dieing throws.

The creature curled around her neck gave near the opposite impression, like it would, if given proper motivation, unfurl itself from atop the prestigious woman’s shoulders and frisk away to a better life in the country. It’s now lifeless head seemed to stare at me with its hollow eyes, resting its weary head upon her breast with the wisdom only gained after death, scrupulous gaze boring into me as if possessing knowledge best left unknown.

For a moment my frantic mind imagined it turning its pointed snout to the unknowing aunt’s ear to reveal the loathsome truth, leaving me to stagger backwards, offering pleads of denial and nevertheless receiving reproach and disgust in return. Absurdly, I feared it would seem obvious to her, as if the truth about last night was written somewhere in my face or dress or on the walls or in the air, and it was only a matter of time before she figured it out. She was an extremely shrewd woman after all. And now, confronted with that shrewdness, I felt completely exposed, like she could tell just by looking at me that I’d kissed her nephew last night. Her sometimes hopeless, reckless, haphazard nephew to whom she scolded but with no doubt adored. What she would do if she knew chilled me to the bone.

I was startled from my thoughts almost immediately, taking her coat and hanging it, and the fur, carefully next to the door as she glided into the sitting room. Her often critical gaze seemed to survey the apartment, lips pursed in consideration before finding it acceptable to sit on the couch. I remained standing, as required.

She looked up at me from her seat on the sofa, hands smooth the folds of her dress, “Jeeves, do sit down, I’d like a word.”

            “With me, madam?”

            “Yes,” she affirmed somewhat sharply, “With you.”

            I lingered, feet not moving an inch over the carpet, “Mr. Wooster . . .”

            “I didn’t come to talk with Bertie, man, if I had I would have said so.”

            “Of course, madam,” I responded with a nod, moving to sit down across from her, the gesture seeming, despite the invitation, a great intrusion.

            “He’s out is he?” she asked and I figured it a rhetorical question, allowing her to continue with a remediate fluttering of her eyelashes, “At the Drones, I supposed?”

            “So he said, madam.”

            “In every manner of the word, in every possible dialect, that man is utterly hopeless. If there were someone needing a visual definition all they’d have to do is point at that silly grin and carefree countenance of his and that would be it,” her gloved hands wrung together as discreetly as they could in her lap as I listened quietly, “I’ve tried, Lord knows I’ve tried, but in vain—in addition to any other kind of aid or advice he seems impervious to my counsel as well,” she heaved a sigh, catching my eyes briefly, “You, Jeeves, out of all his friends, hooligans the lot of them, seem the most and only intelligent choice to inquire after what goes on in Bertram’s mind, I honestly can’t say, and I at least know I can have an engaged, reasonable conversation with you.”

            “I’m flattered, madam,” I offered, hands folded on top of my knees.

            “Don’t be,” she waved her hand, “You’re a smart chap and should be proud of it, brains are a precious commodity with youth nowadays.”

            “Such is often the case, madam,” I agreed, realizing suddenly I hadn’t offered her anything to drink, the knowledge deeply unsettling for a panicked moment.

            Aunt Agatha’s chin raised and she peered at me over rouge red cheeks, thoughtful for a moment before continuing her speech, “Bertie isn’t seeing anyone at the moment is he?”

            “Seeing someone, madam?” I asked, attempting to play dumb.

            “A young lady perhaps, one he hasn’t told anyone about?” her sculpted eyebrows rose in question, “If he’s hiding some girl, for whatever reason, you’d tell me wouldn’t you?”

            “Why is it you believe him to be concealing a relationship, madam?” I asked.

            “I haven’t heard from him in weeks. When last I saw him he seemed as distant as an island,” her hand played at the string of pearls at her neck, seeming to calm herself, “I did some thinking and it seemed likely, in his scheming mind anyway, that he thought I might disapprove of her, thus hiding her away, explaining, of course, his odd behavior as of late.”

            The collar of my shirt had started to seem tighter around my throat and I had to, for a moment, gather a steady breath in my lungs before continuing, “To my knowledge there is no young lady to speak of, madam.”

            “Have you any idea what’s gotten into him lately, then?” she demanded of me in the same abrasive way she did Mr. Wooster. Now on the receiving end I was more aptly able to understand the apprehension he felt toward his aunt.

            “While I am unable to speculate on the current mental status of my employer, and by no means am I an expert at inferring such things, I am able to recognize a notable increase in reclusive—” I almost cleared me throat but remained stoic in my account, “—even self-destructive behavior. On what grounds this behavior instigates, I’m not certain, madam.”

            Her eyes fell shut for a moment, an aged hand, ornamented with several glints of shinning metal, rose to her temple and I was unable to keep from noting the sudden weariness that greyed her features, counteracting her glamorous, calculated appearance and unraveling the stately woman sitting before me into a desperate, all too human soul, worried for her nephew’s welfare.

Aunt Agatha heaved a slow breath, opening her eyes resiliently against her fatigue, “Yes . . . well, I almost wish it were a girl, Jeeves,” she lifted her head, blinking away what might have been tears, “Then I could at least have an explanation,” she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve in an undistinguishable movement, tabbing at her eyes quickly, “Do you know what happened with that girl Madeline?” she asked me.

            “It’s not my place to say, madam,” I admitted, feeling I’d overstepped my bounds already.

            “Enough with the formalities, Jeeves!” she cried suddenly, hand crushing her handkerchief, shaking in anger, “Tell me what happened! I can’t—” she let out a shuddering breath, “I can’t bear it. I’ve worried, I’ve hoped, I’ve done everything I can, I just need to know why Bertie’s . . .” her words fell apart and I watched in concern, feeling the different tone the conversation had now taken on as well as realizing the depth of concern for her nephew Aunt Agatha had, but to which I hadn’t previously known.

When she didn’t continue I cleared my throat, “I think, with Madeline, as well as with the other young ladies Mr. Wooster has been in association with, he was averse to the necessary commitments and expectations of such a union.”

She gave a bitter laugh, “You’re saying he’s afraid of marriage? Nonsense, all men are until they’ve gone and done it.”

“Perhaps Mr. Wooster is simply not ready to brave the confines of marriage just yet, madam.”

“How much longer is he willing to wait, then?” she asked fiercely, “He doesn’t seem to care, Jeeves. He sees a woman coming in his direction, a perfectly fine young woman who would make a charming wife, and it a near certainty that he’ll run in the opposite direction, I don’t understand it why he does this, why he doesn’t seem to care.”

“It is odd, I agree, madam.”

Aunt Agatha took a solemn moment, distant and pensive. I was no help to her, as she had perhaps hoped I would be. But I didn’t know what to tell her. I didn’t know what I could tell her. Mr. Wooster had managed to evade several engagements since I’d known him but until now I’d not considered another explanation besides the one I had just gaven his aunt. I’d given much thought to the predicament, on my own and in the numerous situations in which I was required to, and after conceiving and eliminating many theories as to the reason or possible solution I deemed his simply not being ready the most likely answer.

I’d considered many factors, from his upbringing, pressure from relatives, to the various aspects of his rather unique personality, and though it would never be my place to intervene, I had often sought to understand Mr. Wooster and his reasons not to marry.

 Last night is a new factor to consider. For fear of my own personal, and even to myself unmentionable qualities, I negated the possibility that the reason he didn’t presume marriage is because he doesn’t want to. Looking at him in this light, considering this fate for him, would be like holding up a mirror to myself.

But I couldn’t tell his aunt this. I couldn’t tell her that it was possible that her nephew had no desire to marry a woman. That the constant, and even increasing, pressure from herself and other family members to marry someone was perhaps more painful to him than she was aware, painful and difficult because he was fighting something he couldn’t control or even reveal to anyone. What if it were true? What if he was attracted to men instead of women? Or was last night only an unfortunate drunken mishap in which I might have appeared to the very intoxicated Mr. Wooster to look like a lovely young woman who he wouldn’t hesitate to kiss.

“Well,” Aunt Agatha said, drawing herself straighter in her seat, “I think I’ll come back later, when he’s here,” she stood up, straightening her hat, “Would you tell him for me, Jeeves?”

            “Of course, madam,” I answered standing as well, placing my hands behind my back.

            “And thank you,” she offered, though not specifying what. I led her to the door and helped her into her coat. She nodded farewell, eyes still somewhat glassy, and was out the door as quickly as she’d entered.


            I didn’t hear the door open or close, so when the kitchen door swung open and Mr. Wooster sauntered in I nearly jumped up in alarm. Mr. Wooster held up a hand to keep me seated then sat in the other chair with a pronounced sigh, slouching at length so the back of his head was almost settled on the back of the chair.

            “Should you be breathing in all those fumes, Jeeves?” he asked after a moment, referring to the polishing I was engaged in.

I set the kettle I was working on down, fingers somewhat discolored from the polish though otherwise unmarred, “It rather helps to breathe through the mouth, sir,” I explained, though I’m sure it didn’t escape him the same amount of fumes was nonetheless consumed, it was only easier on the nostrils.

            He made a wordless response, like a grunt I suppose, and folded his hands across his lap, leaning back even more if it was possible. I took a brief moment to observe his physical wellbeing and found him looking better since this morning at the very least, his face had acquired some color and a brightness had returned in his eyes, signs, I hoped that he was feeling well enough recovered from last night excursions. He was wearing no jacket, though I guessed he had taken it off at the door, it being a rather warm day in London, and his shirt sleeves were folded all the way to his elbows.

            “Your Aunt Agatha was here today requesting to speak with you, sir.”

            “Oh, really?” he responded, rolling his head slightly to the side to look at me. He’d left the flat so quickly this morning he had done nothing with his hair but let it fall where it may, which indeed it had in a very unruly manner across his brow, like it had been stirred by a great wind, waves of brown and almost blonde sticking nearly straight up in some places, giving him an almost adolescent, dare I say delinquent, appearance, “Any idea what about?”

            I paused for a second, reapplying some polish to the rag in my hand, “She actually spoke to me at length, though informed me that she would return at a later time, sir.”

            “Spoke to you?”  he responded, blinking rapidly several times in an irritated way, “She has servants of her own if she needs something done.”

            “I’m afraid it was not a professional service she was seeking, sir,” I said, noting the tension in his voice, “She was concerned about you actually, and desired to consult me on the subject. Apparently she considered my perceptions on a certain matter to be a last recourse, sir.”

            At that Mr. Wooster pushed himself more into a sitting position, the collar of what was now a rather wrinkled shirt open at the collar, tie hanging loose, waistcoat unbuttoned. My eyes instantly dropped back to the table at the sight of him, his collar bone and several inches of his chest visible from under the cream-coloured fabric of his shirt, “Certain matter?” he asked, voice cracking slightly, “About me?” he scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Of course she’d talk to you. Shall we get our alibi straight then?”


            “Well if it’s not one thing I’m doing wrong it’s another, I can’t jolly well keep up with it—nor am I too keen at explaining myself, again,” he heaved a sigh, “What was this thing she wanted to talk to you about Jeeves?”

            I cleared my throat, “About marriage, sir.”

            “Whose marriage?”

            “Yours, sir.”

            “I’m getting married?!”

            “No, sir, rather I misspoke, I mean the prospect of marriage.”

            “Is there one?”

            “That was what she was trying to ascertain, sir.”

            “Dash it, not this again,” he moaned, leaning his head back once more. I saw his throat swallow and his chest rise as he breathed deeply, “Still,” he said, “Why’d she want to speak to you about it?”

            “She speculated I was perhaps closest to you, as well as the most . . . credible, sir.”

            “Thinks you’ve got me all figured out, does she?”

            “She had hoped I did, sir.”

            “And you don’t?”

            “It would seem not, sir.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean, it would seem not?

            “I was only referring to the contrasting degree in which she figured I understood you and your actions to my actual knowledge.”

            “Ah,” he paused, thinking, the only sounds coming from my polishing and a taxi making its way down the uneven road outside, “I have to ask you Jeeves,” he started, licking his lips, “I can’t remember a great deal about last night, that blasted Bingo and his woes nearly killed me but, I, uh, I have this memory, or at least I think have, it’s that or it was a dream, which is rather unlikely because I don’t often dream after a night like that but, uh,” he gave a small nervous laugh, I’d stopped polishing, my eyes nonetheless only focused on the numerous forks and knives in front of me, “I remember coming back to the flat, god knows how I made it, and you and I were there, in the bedroom there, and someway or other I remember I, I remember I kissed you . . .” his face was screwed up in a puzzled expression, “T-that’s not true, is it?”

            “You were indeed very drunk, sir,” I said, the pounding of my heart almost painful against my ribs. He waited, watching me. I licked my lips and swallowed past the tightness in my throat, “You didn’t know what you were doing, sir.”

            The expression on his face changed, eyes darkening, mouth closing, “I’d hoped I’d dreamed all that,” he brought a hand to his forehead.

            “It’s alright, sir.”

            “No it’s not blasted alright!” he yelled, dropping his hand, eyes flashing, making me sit back a little, “You really must stop with this constant forgiveness thing you have going on, Jeeves,” he said, “Especially with me, you must be blooming mad—a gentleman doesn’t come home from a late party, stumbling drunk, and kiss his valet, sorry, but they just don’t,” his hand was back to his forehead, rubbing at what I guessed was an aching temple, then it lowered to his mouth, almost at once jerking his fingers away, staring at them before forcing his hand back down.

            “The blame, sir,” I said, keeping my eyes away from him, “Doesn’t entirely fall on you,” out of the corner of my eye I saw him look up, “It wasn’t, or rather I didn’t entirely resist you, sir,” I lifted my eyes, “Please forgive me, sir.”

            His blue eyes bore into me under a slightly furrowed brow, then they blinked rapidly, tongue wetting his lips as he looked away, “Yes, well, maybe I would blame you,” the pause was agonizing to me, “Except that I wanted to do it, Jeeves.”


            “I would have never even attempted it if I hadn’t drunk as much as I had,” his hand played at the tablecloth on the table, “God, I’ve fouled things up now,” he seemed to wade out of his self-pity for a moment, looked up at me, frowned, “You . . . said you kissed me back?”

            “I did, sir.”

            His eyes met mine. They pulled at what reserve I had left and I realized how much I’d missed him, an overwhelming wave of fond feelings like the eroding salty waves crashing against a boat’s tether, threatening to snap the line and be lost at sea. A question swelled in his eyes like a wave, that same sea where his loneliness spread from horizon to horizon, making mockery of all his carefree antics and blithe attitudes.

            I cleared my throat again and pushed some of the silver out of the way, “Can I get you some tea, sir?” He looked at me as if I’d done something wrong but I got up anyway, knowing at least this was the right thing to do. Only I wasn’t expecting Mr. Wooster to get up as well, making tea is after all a solitary activity which I was positive I could do alone, at least assuming Mr. Wooster was satisfied with the end of the conversation, which apparently he wasn’t.

            “I don’t want any tea, Jeeves,” he said, voice frustrated.

            “Then what do you want, sir?” I asked.

            “Nothing a little tea’s going to fix, that’s for sure,” he answered, “Is that all you know how to do?”

            “No, sir.”

            “And stop saying sir you bloody idiot, talk to me, for Christ’s sake!”

            “About what?!” I heard myself suddenly shout.

            He only seemed momentarily taken aback by my outburst, pausing for one opened-mouth moment before continuing with a rather renewed resolve, “For starters I’d like to know why you kissed me back, if you don’t mind,” he  leaned one hip on the counter, crossing his arms in front of him, "And if you still insist on thinking of this as a simple employer employee business, consider that an order, all right?”

            My hands dropped to the counter, all thoughts of tea suddenly seeming not only irrelevant but utter nonsense, “I’m afraid it would be inappropriate for me to answer that question, sir. I cannot,” I turned to face him, an action which had never been as difficult as it was now, “I will not.”

            “I see,” he retorted, “Not even going to bothering lying, are you?” he snorted, “Might be better, you know, maybe I’m stupid enough to believe some excuse or what-other that you make,” his arms unfolded and he glared at me, “Not giving me an answer isn’t an answer, Jeeves.”

            “It’s my only answer, sir.”

            His piercing eyes wavered and he blinked several times, forcing anger out through the pores of his skin, leaving him pale, more reserved, eyes imploringly bright, “I need to talk about this, Jeeves.”

            “I’m sorry, sir,” I answered, “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

            I pushed my way out of the kitchen, feeling as if a gust of wind were at my back. What had I done? Do I even know what I’m doing? Most of the time I in fact do know what’s going on, and what will be going on in a presented situation, but figuring the logistics of a situation is a great deal more difficult when you yourself are involved. And I’m not the reserved, controlled person I make myself out to be. I’m just very skilled in a lot of ways, one of which is keeping in control, most of the time.

            “Not so fast, Jeeves,” I heard behind me as Mr. Wooster came striding through the door after me. I turned to face him. “You can’t just walk away,” he exclaimed in an appalled voice, “It’s called courage and I plan on using it!”

            “This is not necessary, sir,” I tried to explain, feeling cornered in.

            “I say it is! Very necessary in fact!”

            “Can I inquire as to why, sir?”

            “Because I’m angry at you, you blighter!

            “Mr. Wooster,” I started, “You must understand the difficulty in which the current situation, as your employee, puts me in—this is my job, sir.”

            “That’s all it is?” he retorted, “A job? That’s brilliant—and convincing. Well, I’m satisfied now, we don’t have to talk about this ever again!” he gave a pronounced shrug, “You know you’re extremely frustrating sometimes, enough to drive a chap mad! Wash my clothes you’re an expert on me. Say sir after ever blasted thing you say and you’re indistinguishable from any other soulless civil servant—well no longer, if you haven’t noticed we run things a little differently here in the Wooster household,” he had taken two more steps toward, standing threatening close to me, his rapid speech causing him to nearly gasp at his pause, “This is more than you’re my valet and I’m your gentleman—it’s more, and if you say it isn’t you’re nothing but a lying bastard!”

            He stopped, expecting, demanding an answer, standing extremely close to me, the wall extremely close behind me.

            “Sir . . .” I tried, the words refusing to come to my lips, making me feel near paralyzed.  His eyes were diving into me, angry and hopeful and tired and alarmingly awake, his entire being somehow charged behind description.

            “Let me make it easy for you,” he insisted impatiently, the blue shade of his eyes now desperate, “Just tell me yes or no, please, just tell me if you feel the same way at all, tell me if you wanted to kiss me last night. I know I was drunk, and I know that you know that this is wrong and impossible and against whatever rules you and most everyone else plays by, but for heaven’s sake Jeeves tell me if you kissed me back because you wanted to—tell me if you want to kiss me now, or am I mistaken about all of this,” he offered me a pause, his words untangling themselves in my mind, the anger washing again from his features, “Yes or no.”

I can say one word, it’s not that hard, just one word. I met his eyes, trying to find my proverbial footing, attempting to find a shore and not drown in them, my heart breaking itself against my ribs, “Yes,” I answered.

            Mr. Wooster affirmation was a slow blink as his mouth dropped open slightly and I believe he smiled slightly. His breath was heavy, he tried catching it but couldn’t, and he seemed unable to wait any longer. He closed the distance between us and suddenly his lips were against mine. So different than last night. Intention now lied in these lips, purpose and direction and a skill I hadn’t known he possessed.

My shoulders hit the wall as my feet stumbled backwards, the subsequent gasp opening my mouth, allowing Mr. Wooster to slip his tongue between my lips. A shaking, hesitant hand touched itself to my cheek, though how such a simple act of touching could at all compare to kissing, why it might be more difficult, I had no idea. Long fingers I’d seen dance over the piano countless times in the past pulled my chin closer, stroking my skin in the same caressing way his tongue moved in my mouth.

My hands lifted to his waist and I felt something break, some hinge undo itself, and I kissed him back, trying to gain some kind of advantage with my height. One of my hands ran through the array of soft curls, stopping at the back of his head, my other hand falling to his hip. The fierce kissing quieted and he pulled back with two slow, wet kisses to my lips, breathless, forehead leaning against mine. His eyes are closed.

His hand hasn’t left my face, though the other, and I assume he was in control of its actions though it seemed to almost move of its own accord, slid slowly downward, delicate fingers stroking the front of my trousers. My breath hitched sharply in my throat and my legs pronounced their utter weakness in the current situation yet again. Mr. Wooster’s eyes opened and locked with mine even as his hand gripped and pressed itself over my hardening cock. He kissed me again and we writhed and rocked against the wall, one of his legs slid in-between mine so his hips pressed dangerously against mine. Can’t do this in the doorway. But, lord, I don’t want to stop him.

“Jeeves,” he breathed, gasped, moaned in my ear, the wet warmth of his tongue touching my neck as his hand fumbled with my trousers and his hips rocked into mine with more persistence.

I wrapped my arms tight around him, holding him as close to my being as possible, wanting to be encompassed by all that is Bertie Wooster in smell and taste and touch and wanting more.

His breaths are quickening, harder and faster and I dared to slide my hands to his ass, god, pulling him even tighter to me, closer, all I wanted was closer. Our mouths met again, all wet breaths and gasps.

And that’s when the doorbell rang.

Good lord, it's Part 3 . . .



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