First Jooster fic: Most Agreeable

[triedunture]

Title: Most Agreeable
Pairing: Jeeves + Wooster friendship
Rating: G
Warnings: Spoilers? Uh, I guess? Angst? Sap?
Summary: Jeeves and Wooster in their later years
Disclaimer: I'm fairly sure I don't own any characters.

<><><>

It was the uncharacteristic rattle of glassware that brought Bertie Wooster out of his bedroom while wrapping himself in his silk dressing gown. Beyond the windows of his modest apartment, the streets of London were quiet and dark. It was nearly midnight.

"I say, Jeeves, everything all right?"

The valet in question was standing at not quite his full height, and leaning heavily on the sidebar. His normally impassive face was pinched like a boxer attempting to shake off a horrific bout. A crystal tumbler had fallen over and was rolling slowly toward the edge. Jeeves reached out just as slowly and stopped its progress with a shaking hand.

"Forgive me, sir," he said. "I fear it is another attack."

Bertie pursed his lips at that. After a lifetime of standing during long dinner parties, carrying heavy baggage, and generally putting the comfort of one Mr. Bertram W. Wooster above his own, it seemed Jeeves had developed some sort of chronic condition. Bertie was not privy to the details of the matter (Jeeves wouldn't have that) but some weeks ago Bertie had awoken to find Jeeves standing over his bed as usual with the paper and breakfast tray, except for one missing item.

"I say," Bertie had murmured.

"Yes, sir." Jeeves deposited his burden in his master's lap with an awkward grip. His fingers, usually so deft and lively, were curled into an uncomfortable-looking position. "It pains me to ask for your assistance at such an early hour," he continued, keeping his eyes somewhere on the ceiling, "but it appears I cannot complete the maneuver on my own."

After a moment of sleepy blinking, Bertie reached up and knotted Jeeves' loose tie in an instant.

"Thank you, sir." A flicker of the gaze towards the dreary scene outside the window. "I believe it is the weather, sir. An affliction of the joints, perhaps."

"You could go without a tie, Jeeves," Bertie pointed out, munching on his neat triangle of toast. "Plenty of respectable men do these days, you know."

"If I may say so, sir, I would not like to be acquainted with such gentlemen, let alone be counted as one of their number."

And so Bertie had insisted he go see the family of doctors whom had tended to the Woosters for years. The pills that had been prescribed were large, foul-smelling, and quite expensive. "Don't fret," Bertie had said. "It will come out of your pay, don't you know."

(This was Bertie's version of a clever joke; Jeeves hadn't drawn a proper paycheck in nearly ten years. Being the sole manager of the Wooster finances, Jeeves had cleared his throat at that time and remarked that the amount left in Bertie's inheritance would not, in fact, be sufficient to sustain both the gentleman and the gentleman's gentleman indefinitely, as the family financier had told him decades ago on the occasion of his uncle's death. The financier could not be wholly blamed for his miscalculation, however; no one could have known just how long Bertie would remain of this earth, given the bent of modern medicine.)

"So the pills haven't done you any good, have they?" Bertie said, scratching at his thinning hair. It was peppered grey and allowed to curl as nature intended, these days. ("A man of my age with slicked and blackened hair? I won't stand for it, Jeeves.") He sometimes found himself jealous of Jeeves, who had never lost a hair on his head, only went grey at the temples, and then, completely silver. Now he resembled a perfect copy of a marble bust.

"It seems not, sir." Jeeves had not yet moved from the sidebar, but clutched at its edge as if it alone would support him.

"Well, let's get you off your feet, then." Bertie shored his valet up by slinging one of his arms over his shoulder, and then led him to the chesterfield.

Despite his years, Bertie was still quite spry. Though he mightn't be able to run circles around the gentry like he used to (usually in a panicked attempt to escape them), he was still fairly fit as far as his body was concerned. The same could not be said for his mind. He left it to Jeeves to remember the names and addresses of various persons, the dates of certain events, and the details of their decades of adventure. Jeeves' brain was still sharp as a pin; that would never change, Bertie knew.

"There you are, then," he said brightly, easing Jeeves onto the cushions. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them with an eagerness he did not feel. "Fancy a cup of tea? I was just about to have one myself."

"Bertram." Jeeves lifted a hand to his brow, covering his eyes. "I am so very sorry, sir."

It was said so softly that Bertie had to stop and wonder if it had just been a whisper of the curtains. The fact is, Jeeves had only used his informal name twice before.

The first time was years ago, when Bertie was just about forty. Thinking he was about to coast into his middle years still in a blissful state of bachelorhood, Bertie was shocked to find himself ensnared in yet another engagement to a woman. Allison Appleton had been the oldest daughter of an American tin foil manufacturer, and she had come under the impression, via an amusing series of miscommunications, that Bertie desired her hand in marriage. Furthermore, she had been adamant that, as a gesture to the start of their married life, Bertie would have to dismiss Jeeves forever.

"Your man Jeeves refuses to work for anyone but unattached gentlemen. And anyway, he won't allow you to wear those gloves you love so well," she pointed out. "When I'm your wife, I will carry out your every decision like a true servant, not a meddling busybody. Besides, I love those little gloves."

Suddenly, Bertie didn't find the gloves so attractive.

For once, all of Bertie and Jeeves' complicated plots to wriggle out of the arrangement had been foiled. The wedding was to take place at Aunt Dahlia's estate with over five hundred guests in attendance. Jeeves had packed his one suitcase in silence, and stood at the back of the church like a dark shadow as Bertie stood gaping on the altar.

When the vicar arrived at the part where people might have a chance at objecting to the union, Bertie glanced back over his shoulder at Jeeves, but no help was forthcoming. So Bertie had no choice but to blurt out, "I dashed well object!"

After the gasping had died down, Bertie turned to his lovely, if ill-balanced bride and said, "Allison, I am truly sorry. To marry you would pull you into a world of suffering the likes of which should not be contemplated. I am a terrible example of a human being in general, and would make for a dreadful husband. I've started a fist fight with your brother, broken your mother's prized china, and nearly strangled your pet parakeet to death all in an effort to convince you not to marry me. It appears now that nothing can change your mind short of this: I am leaving you, here, at the altar, in front of all these people, to prove once and for all that I am a lout."

And then Bertie ran down the aisle, dodging the grasping hands of assorted angry uncles and cousins, and dashed past Jeeves, shouting, "The car, Jeeves, the car!"

"And the luggage, sir?" Jeeves, now jogging beside him.

"No time. We'll have to send for it," Bertie panted, "if she doesn't burn it all first, that is."

"I was attempting to say, sir," Jeeves said calmly as he leapt into the driver's seat and gunned the Aston's engine to life, "that the luggage is already at the railway station, awaiting your now-defunct honeymoon departure. Perhaps we should make a quick stop to retrieve it."

Bertie collapsed into the passenger seat, completely out of breath. "Good thinking, Jeeves. My god, never in my life have I thought I would be able to hurt a young woman so cruelly. I now understand how a cornered animal feels."

The car squealed, turning on a dime despite the clinking tin cans attached to the bumper with string.

"Mr. Wooster, sir." Jeeves did not take his eyes from the road, but he seemed to be blinking more than was necessary. "Sir, Bertram, sir..."

"What's this, Jeeves?" Bertie's mouth hung open. "You've never once called me by my first name!"

"I've never been so proud of you before, sir," Jeeves said. "I can only thank you from my innermost heart."

Bertie smiled widely. "Jeeves, when we get back to London, you may dispose of those gloves you loathe. Although I am certain you've done so already."

"I have taken the liberty, sir," Jeeves had confirmed.

But now, it seemed that the name 'Bertram' was passing Jeeves' lips in a less joyful burst of emotion. Bertie frowned. "Sorry? Oh, rot. Nothing to apologize for, Jeeves," he said.

"I cannot help but imagine, sir," Jeeves said, removing his hand to reveal his usual composed countenance, "that if it had not been for my lifetime of interference, you might now have a family on which to rely in your twilight years."

That was true enough; Bertie was the last surviving Wooster. His gaggle of aunts and uncles had long since passed, as had the twins, his cousins. He was without an heir and entirely alone in the world, relations-wise.

Still, he scoffed. "You mean to say that some horrid child might be inclined to take care of Old Papa Bertie if one such existed? Surely you remember how Stinker's flock of gambling children left him penniless and in the poorhouse? And Gussie's spawn, locking him up in a rest home the minute he signed over the estate. Not to mention Bingo's brood, who allowed him to remarry ten times over in his addled old age. No, Jeeves, I am thankful you've prevented me from breeding a new, deadlier species of Wooster. It's for the best. Now, tea?"

Without waiting for another sorrowful confession, Bertie scooted into the kitchen and examined the myriad pots and pans. "Tea. Tea. Tea..." he muttered to himself.

A deep throat-clearing sounded from the other room. Bertie poked his head out. "Yes, Jeeves?"

"In preparation for this day," Jeeves said, slowly reaching into his suitcoat's inner pocket, "I have composed a small pamphlet for you, sir." He extracted a thin notebook and held it out.

"Oh, not your will and testament or any of that, is it? I refuse to read it, Jeeves," Bertie said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Sir. It is merely a simple missive on the making of tea." Jeeves raised an eyebrow a firm quarter-inch. "But thank you for concerning yourself with the details of my final requests, whenever they may arise, sir."

Bertie took the notebook between two fingers, as if he was still afraid of its contents. But flipping through it proved Jeeves correct; written in the valet's elegant longhand were simplified steps for making tea (both Darjeeling and Earl Grey), how to order the milk, where to purchase hats, belts, socks, and other sundry, and the differences between a soft- and hard-boiled egg, among other things. In short, a guidebook on how to care for oneself without the aid of a caregiver.

"Dashed useful, this." Bertie thumbed through it, squinting at it as was his wont when reading Jeeves' curving writing.

"I've placed colored markers on the kitchen items referred therein," Jeeves continued. "You may find the corresponding marker in the upper left-hand corner of each entry."

"Ah, yes. I see that post-morning tea is denoted with a blue circle. Right." Bertie moved into the kitchen once more, studying the little book in his hands. He banged about before locating the proper strainer, pot, and silver box of leaves, all with a small blue circle stenciled on their faces. He set the water on to boil (step two) and sat back with a satisfied smile, feeling quite capable all of a sudden. He was looking around the room like he'd never seen it before (did he really own all these pans, dishes, and food-making devices?) when he saw the door to Jeeves' quarters cracked open.

Bertie peeked in from the doorway. It was a very small room, simply furnished with a bed and a trunk. Bertie could only recall being inside the room once before; it had been the second time Jeeves called him by his first name.

It had also been the day that Jeeves had announced the financier had been a bit optimistic about Uncle Wooster's nest egg, as described previously.

"I'm dreadfully sorry to have to say this, sir," he apologized after the explanation.

Bertie sat down heavily in an armchair, gaping open-mouthed. "Well, well, well. What is to be done about it, Jeeves? I suppose I'll have to take one less egg in my omelets from now on?"

(This was another one of Bertie's peculiar quips. At the time, the Drones Club had been closed for many years, and some of the best restaurants in the city had been bulldozed to make way for fried food shops with smiling cartoon characters on the paper menus, menus that also served as place mats. As a result, Bertie had been dining more and more at the flat, choosing to eat even the least impressive of Jeeves' dishes with relish. "A flash in the pan is worth two in the street," Bertie had explained, but Jeeves had just given a shake of his head and served the wine.)

So after the omelet joke, Jeeves walked stiffly out of the room without a word. Bertie followed him to his quarters, pleasantly surprised to see that they actually existed and Jeeves didn't just evaporate every night before reforming at breakfast time. Jeeves was busying himself by folding his two spare black suits and placing them into his single suitcase.

"I say," Bertie said with his hands on his hips.

"It's the only solution I can devise, sir," Jeeves said. "You cannot continue living in the manner which you are so rightfully accustomed while still paying my salary."

Bertie's mouth flapped open and closed. "Look here, you can't just up and potter off like this. No, there's got to be another way."

"There is one option," Jeeves said slowly. "My room and board all come from the same funds that are used for those of yourself, sir. I have never desired anything beyond that; my savings will leave my favorite niece with a modest inheritance. Otherwise, I am content to remain as your valet, if you are content to allow it, sir."

"Without any payment?" Bertie snuffled at the idea. "I say, that sounds like bloody slavery if you ask me."

"Slavery cannot be freely given, sir."

Bertie nodded thoughtfully. "But wait a moment; here's an idea." He wagged his finger, brimming with energy. "What if I promise you that anything you need will be paid for? That is to say, the remaining money from my inheritance shall be split between us equally and used as need be for either party. Fifty-fifty, as they say."

Jeeves looked distinctly uncomfortable at the notion. "Sir, while I hesitate to question your generosity..."

"No longer servant and master!" The plan had begun to grow on Bertie. "Not that you ever fit that doddering old mould anyway, Jeeves. But simply two gentlemen living out their remaining years in relative comfort. Complete equals. What do you say?" He offered his hand to Jeeves. "...old Reggie?" Bertie added, working his mouth around the unfamiliar name.

Jeeves extended his hand as well and allowed the counterpart to flow from his lips. "Old Bertram," was the try. Jeeves' face then puckered up like he'd tasted something sour, and his hand dropped.

Bertie frowned in his comical way. "Eh. So we'll keep it Jeeves and sir, then?"

"Quite, sir." Jeeves unpacked quickly and efficiently.

Bertie recalled the whole exchange not lasting more than five minutes, and then he had gone back to the world of the apartment proper. But now that he had a chance to enter Jeeves' room, he could only think to do one thing, and he did it before returning to the whistling kettle.

(Bertie forgot step four, the straining, but that was fixed easily enough by dumping the tea back in the pot and having another go from step three.)

All in all, the brew he handed to Jeeves in the white china teacup (sans saucer, but he was still learning) looked about the same as it usually did. Bertie was more than a bit proud of that fact.

"Give me your honest opinion, Jeeves."

A judicious sip, and Jeeves said, "Most impressive, sir."

Bertie sat with his own cup, his finger hooked round the handle as he drank. "Now, shall I read from the papers?" He reached for a copy of the Mirror; while Bertie's eyes were still in fine shape, it seemed that the detailed work of manicuring, mending, and mixing had taken their toll on Jeeves' sight. He had a set of reading glasses, but he was blind of a bat without them when it came to print, so Bertie had taken over the work of reading the evening paper aloud. (Jeeves often offered assistance with the more troublesome pronunciations.)

"Actually, sir, I believe I should be packing my case tonight." Jeeves set his cup down on the side table with an unsteady hand.

Bertie rolled his eyes. "Not this nonsense again."

"A valet that cannot produce a simple pot of tea, nor mix a simple cocktail, nor knot a simple necktie is not fit for any sort of service." Jeeves gripped the arms of his chair in an effort, it seemed, to hoist himself out of it, but the correct leverage did not materialize.

"You are no longer a valet!" Bertie cried. "You haven't been for years. You've just been the man who happens to know where the bread is kept in the house. Well, don't worry, old friend." Bertie drew the little notebook from his shirt pocket. "It's about time you sat back and let me take over for a change."

Jeeves finally managed to get to his feet. "I hardly think, sir..."

Bertie rose as well and pursued Jeeves in his slow, not-quite-smooth glide into the kitchen. "That's your problem; you refuse to think on it. But really, Jeeves, this could be just one more astounding caper of ours. Can you imagine? Turning yours truly into a gentleman's gentleman? All our problems would be solved."

"Sir..." Jeeves was about to retort, already at the door to his private quarters, when his eyes fell on the bed.

Bertie had turned the sheets down.

Jeeves stared in silence, his hands supporting him on either side of the doorframe.

"I know I probably did it all wrong, I'm sure." Bertie stood behind him, clacking his fists together nervously. "There's probably some official valet angle at which the bedspread must lie. I just tried for a sort of triangle bit and hoped for the best." He cleared his throat. "So, what do you say, Jeeves?"

Jeeves right hand began trembling on the doorframe, and he dropped it to his side. He turned to Bertie and said with a tad of the old twinkle in his eye, "Most agreeable, sir."


fin.



You can download the podfic of this story as an audiobook/m4b or as an mp3.

The audiobook was created by the lovely cybel.

Comments

[theempress14.livejournal.com]

D'aaww! I love this! it's such a great little 'slice-of-life' fic! I've noticed that the J&W fandom is quite fond of the Old!Jeeves & Old!Bertie, still going strong after all these years kind of fics. That's probably because it works so well! and this is no exception!

[random-nexus.livejournal.com]

I seriously misted over, my dear. Lovely! My heart is wonderfully aching.

[jihime47.livejournal.com]

That doesn't happen quite often-- I had to stop reading and go find some handkerchiefs. That hurt, but in a good way. Reminded me of a Holmes/Watson fanfic I read some time ago, Intimations (http://nolessremarkable.wordpress.com/intimations-policeman-series/).

Brilliant job there, I say.