out_there | Jeeves & Wooster fic: Reggie and Wooster

Title: Reggie and Wooster
Fandom: PG Wodehouse's Jeeves and Wooster
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,791
Notes: A while ago (a long while ago),

tardis80 suggested an AU where Jeeves was the master and Bertie was the valet. It's just taken me a dreadfully long time to finish it. Thanks to

phoebesmum for betaing and suggesting the word "hitherto". I need an excuse to write "hitherto" in more of my stories.
Summary: At first glance Wooster appears to be a reasonable Gentleman's gentleman. His collar is ironed, his dark suit simple but well-pressed, and a bowler hat sits upon his head, although the style does not suit him terribly well.

The arrival of Wooster into my life could be likened to the experience of walking down a London street in the middle of winter, fog so dense and dirty you can barely see your hand before your face, and suddenly finding yourself surrounded by a storm of coloured confetti. As far as experiences go it is not a particularly common one, but neither is Wooster a common sort of valet. In fact, he's most uncommon in almost every conceivable way.

At first glance there is nothing out of the ordinary about him. Average to tall frame, slender to average build, and the possessor of a longish face that vaguely reminds one of a racehorse, Wooster could easily be overlooked unless you caught him in the middle of a smile or a frown or one of the other myriad expressions that pass daily across his features.

I had no particular wish for servants. In fact, as a solicitor who occasionally dealt with unusual circumstances and confidential matters, having an extra set of ears within the household was a hindrance.

I had gone through five valets before Wooster arrived at my door. All were capable, efficient men, who were diligent and organised. All of them believed that my conduct and appearance was somehow reliant upon their approval, and to a man, they all harboured grave misgivings regarding the way I prefer to do business.

Stating it in that way makes me sound like an unprincipled man, someone deviously hoarding secrets and deceit. I would not consider that the truth. It is simply that part of my job is to be unorthodox and inventive. When there are three legatees all scrabbling over a Will, it is in everyone's best interest that each party be convinced they are the one truly gaining, that they have some unfair advantage over their closest relatives, and that letting the Will pass uncontested would be the most expedient way of attaining more than their fair share.

I must admit that dealing with estates in a manner that precludes court hearings is a very profitable business. Although I aimed for the utmost discretion, word of mouth had made me a rather sought-after man. I had developed a reputation for being able to extract clients from compromising positions without alerting either the authorities or reproachful family members, which is when the necessity for a valet reared its ugly head.

As a successful Probate Solicitor, it had been hitherto appropriate only to meet clients either at my offices or at their club. However, with my growing reputation I found certain clients reluctant to be seen talking to me in public or to be noticed attending my offices, so the simple pretext of attending my flat for a social visit had become quite valuable.

Unfortunately the very men who seek my advice are typically the types who expect servants as surely as they expect fish to swim and golfers to understate their handicap. The idea of any moderately successful bachelor living alone and organising his own affairs would seem unfeasible and suspicious to them. They would doubt my advice, rendering it ineffective, and an inability to smoothly resolve situations would damage my professional standing, thereby discouraging new clients. While these men assumed servants were simply a part of life, to my mind, they were inconvenience that would have to be borne.

After trotting through five of the agency's purported best men I suggested (in a flash of perverse inspiration, it must be acknowledged) that they send me their worst fellow; shortly thereafter Wooster arrived on my doorstep. As I have said, at first glance he appears to be a reasonable Gentleman's gentleman. His collar is ironed, his dark suit simple but well-pressed, and a bowler hat sits upon his head, although the style does not suit him terribly well.

His flaws may be hidden to the casual observer but were quickly made clear to an employer. He was not unintelligent in his own undisciplined and highly curious way. But in the more traditional requirements of a valet, he failed rather miserably.

His ability to cook in particular was dismally lacking. It took me until the third day of his employment to discover this detail, when I came home unexpectedly early and caught him in the act of fumbling through my door, arms full of dishes. In his surprise to see me he nearly dropped the full serving dishes, but between the two of us we luckily stopped the sauce from splattering my carpet.

"What is this?" I asked, as gently as I could, knowing that confessions come more speedily to a sympathetic interrogator.

"From Sally, sir," Wooster said, as if that explained the entire affair.

"Sally gave you food?"

"Well, not gave so much as sold. On credit, luckily, since she said she'll be happy to wait until I get paid at the end of this month. She works at the tea shop downstairs, sir."

"Why are you buying food from her?"

"She's a wonderful cook, sir. The cat's pyjamas," Wooster said, employing one of those odd turns of phrase that have become so popular nowadays. "She makes a sumptuous roast chicken."

"Would that be the same roast chicken I had for dinner last night?" I asked, and the answer was clear in Wooster's guilty expression. "If so, sumptuous is the right word for it."

Wooster grinned brightly, the hopeful, desperate smile of someone who knows he is standing before the gallows. "I'm not much of a cook, sir. To cut to the chase, anything more than tea and toast is beyond me. I know it's stretching the truth, but Sally really is very talented, and, well..." Wooster shrugged and fell to silence.

"Let's get these into the kitchen," I said. I helped him carry them, and my mouth watered at the smell. There was no doubt that Sally was indeed quite talented. "Wooster?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Have you considered how much you'll owe Sally by the end of the month?"

"I don't follow your point, sir."

"Think about your monthly salary," I explained, well aware of the financial realities of the purchase of meals and the meagre wage that Wooster was earning. "Then consider how much this arrangement will cost you. I already allow for a kitchen budget. If you had told me, I could have arranged to provide for Sally's expenses directly."

"That's hardly fair," Wooster said eagerly. "It's part of my job. Also, Sally's agreed to teach me. I'm sure within a few months it won't be a problem. Within three I'll be bound to have learned enough, and within four I'll pay her back completely."

He seemed quite certain that he could learn, suggesting that he'd possibly never been taught. "You've never had to cook?"

"I worked in a country house, sir. We always had kitchen staff. I never had a need to learn."

"Ah," I heard myself say. Normally, when I spoke, my words were far more portentous than that. Perhaps at that moment I should have recognised the one area where Wooster excels: his remarkable ability to make me react most unlike myself. But at the time, the thought did not occur to me.

"I'm sure I'll learn eventually, sir."

I decided that if I found him as unbearable as his predecessors I would ensure that a bonus was paid to him to cover the expense of Sally. I disliked the thought of him leaving my employ with nothing to show for it, but I held few doubts that his employment, too, would be temporary. "Very well."

Wooster had no concept of the expected distance between employer and employee: he would chatter on in a most over-familiar manner that would be impossibly unacceptable in public. Luckily he restricted his blathering on such topics as the weather, the latest music hall tune he'd heard, or the engagement of a friend or distant cousin, to private occasions only and remained appropriately silent when in company, although his facial expressions of surprise and amusement quite clearly showed. I instructed him to stand where I could see him and guests would not, and that quiet rebuke was enough to avoid the censure of my peers.

His taste in fashion was simply appalling. He did not understand why the loud checks favoured by the Oxford crowd were entirely unsuitable for a man of my social standing. Yet as long as I instructed him on precisely which suit and which tie would be worn, he would prepare my costume correctly.

Despite his flaws, he had virtues. He possessed a surprisingly cheerful disposition, one given readily to forgiveness. This was a virtue when it came to dealing with me, for when roused from sleep I tend to say miserable, mean things I do not mean in the light of day. Wooster never took offence at any of my grumbling insults. He'd look surprised and press a cup of coffee into my hands, but he never held the slight.

For all of his jovial blather and inquisitive questions about my business, my whereabouts or my friends -- always a touch too familiar, a touch too close -- he could be surprisingly tactful when necessary. An example of this would be the occasion when I forgot an article and returned to my flat to collect it. Wooster opened the door and said, quite forcefully, "No, thank you, not today," and closed it so sharply it hit my nose. I am not a man accustomed to having doors slam on my face. I was quite irate until I heard him say loudly, "As I said, Mrs Rutherford, Mr Jeeves is out at his club and may not be home for several hours."

It was a somewhat obvious ploy -- personally, I would have found a more subtle way to alert someone to an unwanted presence -- but it worked. I went down to the local tea shop and waited until I saw Mrs Rutherford depart in a cab.

"I didn't mean to be offensive, sir," Wooster said earnestly when I returned. His face was pulled in worry, bringing to mind a nervous greyhound. "But I remembered you saying that her documents would not be ready until tomorrow and I thought that--"

"I understand the reason for the deception, Wooster," I said, and he snapped his mouth shut like a trout.

Wooster's most valuable virtue was that he did not question my decisions or the way I lived. Certainly he would query it -- he would ask why I was heading out in disguise or why I needed tickets to tonight's opera in box five, and no other box -- but he would then listen to the explanation without comment. He rarely gave an opinion on these matters, but when he did, it was flatteringly full of admiration.

"You really do think of everything, sir," he said to me once, blue eyes wide and voice softly awed.

Almost without me noticing he became a fixture of my life. I still ran the household in most of the practical ways: I arranged the budgets, organised the payments of any services necessary, and I arranged my wardrobe. But I became used to Wooster's presence and the sound of him whistling in the kitchen, humming as he dusted, and singing under his breath as he tidied the flat.

He caught me staring once and hastily apologised. He was silent for the next few hours and it was disconcerting how much I missed the noise. "Wooster," I was forced to say, "continue humming as you wish. The noise does not overly bother me."

He beamed at me as if such faint encouragement had buoyed his spirits immensely.

I even became used to finding colourful ties appear within my drawers as if by magic, subtle patterns in periwinkle or deep green. If I happened to wear one, Wooster would spend the day smiling and once had been so bold to say, "The colour suits you admirably, sir."

While I was not ruled in any way by Wooster, I was influenced. I found myself wearing colourful ties simply for his smile. In my idle hours, reading through the Times on a Sunday morning or absorbing an improving book by an evening fire, I would find myself thinking of that smile, fixing it clearly in my mind and wondering what that expressive face would show at other pleasurable moments. I thought it a fancy, a harmless indulgence, until Lord Chuffnell came to visit.

Lord Chuffnell, known as Chuffy to his friends (though I've always loathed such sobriquets and struggle to avoid them wherever possible) had come to seek my opinion on the sale of his ancestral home, something he did not wish known by all and sundry. He had come to my flat to discuss the matter.

I had not noticed anything amiss until the tea service was late and I was forced to enter the kitchen to see what was keeping Wooster. The tea was prepared, sitting on its silver platter, but Wooster was seated at the table, staring at the pot in lost concentration.

He looked up as the door closed behind me. "Sorry, sir. I was... steeling myself."

"Whatever for?"

"I used to work for Chu-- Lord Chuffnell," Wooster said, and that simple slip made it quite clear that Wooster had been on far too familiar terms with his former employer. "It's simply been a while since I've seen him. I was caught up in memories, sir, but I'll bring the tea out now."

I am an observant man and with my interest piqued, I found myself paying close attention that afternoon. I saw the brief frown cross Lord Chuffnell's face when Wooster poured tea and the clear way that he completely ignored Wooster after that. Wooster's face, always far too expressive for his own good, looked hurt but not surprised. As the hour wore on, it was the other expression that crossed Wooster's face as he watched Lord Chuffnell -- a certain wistful smile, a soft fondness in his gaze -- that told far more of their history.

My harmless fancy had suddenly grown dangerous claws. It is one thing to coddle a mild infatuation when it is hopeless and an entirely different matter to allow it when there is the chance that, even if not reciprocated, it will still be noticed.

There are certain gentlemen of my acquaintance who share my proclivities when it comes to romance. However they would have been quite mortified by what I did next. They are the type to think of servants as poor game. (It's felt that a servant can easily be bought with trinkets, and feared that their story can as easily be bought with sterling.) Admittedly, they would be shocked for another reason: asking outright about a man's previous understandings would be considered scandalous.

But I had never let the approval of the masses dictate my actions and did not intend to start allowing them veto power over my choices.

"Did you know Lord Chuffnell long?" I asked Wooster as he prepared my bath the next morning.

"I grew up in Chuffnell House, sir. I became Lord Chuffnell's valet after he came down from Oxford. I've known him, or known of him, for most of my life."

I picked up my teacup and held it before me, enjoying the sensation of warm china against my fingers and the rising scent of the brew. I allowed myself one sip and then asked, "What sort of man would you say he was?"

Wooster's head popped round the doorway, his eyebrows jumping high. "Sir?"

"You have known him for years. After such a lengthy acquaintance, you must have formed an accurate understanding of his character." I took one more sip, and Wooster continued to stare at me like a frog that has found itself being serenaded by a fly. "I assure you, Wooster, whatever you say I will hold in utter confidence."

"I'm sure you would, sir," Wooster said, as if the thought had never crossed his mind. Given Wooster's general propensity to assume the best of everyone and not think too deeply on most subjects, it was possibly true. "But it's hardly my place to say."

"I would value your opinion," I said and he beamed at me for a moment.

"Lord Chuffnell is..." Wooster frowned in concentration, slowly pressing his thoughts into words. "He's a good egg, sir, through and through. Stands by his word, trustworthy fellow."

"He is recently married, is he not?" I asked, knowing quite well that he was.

For a brief moment, Wooster's habitual smile gave a good impression of a grimace. "This year, sir. He was terribly in love with her."

Taking a sip of my tea, I considered Wooster's phrasing. It is interesting how much we tell without meaning to. "I had heard otherwise," I said, although I'd heard nothing of the sort.

"Oh, no, sir." Wooster gave a quick shake of his head. "He's head over heels for her. Absolutely ga-ga. Since the first night he met her, he talked of nothing else for months."

"Ah," I said, drawing out the sound, "I had heard his tastes... ran to other things."

Wooster flushed, proving my conclusions correct. "Why would you think that, sir? Lord Chuffnell is a decent sort. He always was."

"I never implied he wasn't."

"Possibly not, sir," Wooster said, sounding as if he was trying to follow one of my more complex machinations and failing to understand, "but the point stands that he's dippy for her. Whatever indiscretions Lord Chuffnell previously indulged in lost their appeal once he saw her profile."

"What type of indiscretions would those be, Wooster?" I watched him over the rim of my cup and saw the conflicted emotions cross his eyes.

"Sir, you can't expect me to tell you that," he said reproachfully.

"I could guess, Wooster." I looked down into the empty cup, only to give him the politeness of not watching his reaction to my words. "I could guess that you shared his bed. More than once."

There was a long silence and then Wooster said quietly, "It doesn't change anything. Chuff-- Lord Chuffnell is still a good man, who keeps his promises."

"To you?"

I could not resist asking and yet, I almost regretted it when I saw Wooster's hurt expression, the way he glanced away and set his jaw. "He never made a promise to me that he did not keep."

I blinked and let the matter drop. It seemed far too like Wooster to accept any treatment, as long as it was honestly dealt, and to walk away genuinely thinking well of the other party, regardless of his own stake in the situation. I found myself thinking that if I had been in Lord Chuffnell's shoes, I would have acted very differently.

This was the thought that would not leave me alone. The one that would occur to me at odd hours as Wooster straightened my collar or fetched me a whiskey and soda. The thought that haunted me as he hummed and smiled, patiently accepted my early morning bad manners and answered my door.

It was this thought that finally undid me.

A good portion of the blame must rest squarely on the shoulders of Charles Merivale and Charles Wordsworth, the first students to establish Boat Race Night. The sporting rivalry between Oxford and Cambridge has always called old alumni to arms. Even a sensible, practical man such as I felt the call of the old Oxford spirit and the need to celebrate this year's victory.

A more well-regulated valet would have let the event pass without comment. But Wooster, eyes stretched wide as he opened the door to let me in and saw my slightly inebriated form, announced, "You're drunk, sir!" and stood in shock as if he were as much a teetotaller as my Aunt Agnes.

"I am in high spirits, Wooster," I replied grandly, stepping through my threshold and trying to conceal a momentary loss of balance. "Nothing more."

Wooster grinned. "If you say so, sir. May I ask the occasion?"

"The glorious youth of Oxford's stunning victory over the louts of Cambridge."

"Boat Race Night," he said brightly. "Don't know how that slipped the grey matter."

"You know it?"

Wooster's smile grew wider and his blue eyes positively twinkled. "Oh, yes. I remember one year, Chuffy-- I mean Lord Chuffnell," he corrected quickly.

"He's a fool."

Wooster's brows jumped and I realised I'd said that aloud. It was a slip I would never have made sober, and the principal reason why I do not, as a habit, drink to excess.

"Why would you say that, sir?"

"He had you in his grasp--"

"No, sir," Wooster said, shaking his head quickly, urgently, forgetting the rudeness of his interruption, "there was no grasping."

"He had you in his bed," I said more plainly and Wooster flushed beguilingly. "He clearly held your affections in very low regard."

"He fell in love, sir. You can hardly hold that against a fellow."

"I would. I would think very ill of someone who spurned my affections after turning someone else's head."

"But those circumstances are vastly different, sir," Wooster said quite strangely. "Let's get you to bed."

"I don't parse your meaning," I told him, allowing him to lead me to my sheets.

Wooster helped me remove my jacket and spoke into the open cupboard as he hung the garment up. "I doubt anyone who gained your affections would let them slip through their fingers, sir. They'd be a fool. A little companionship found in a servant's bed is hardly the same thing."

Normally I am a man of words; a man who understands what to say, when to say it, how much to infer to lead someone to the right conclusion. In this circumstance, words deserted me. I stood there, feeble-minded and mute, wondering how I had noticed the tender smile Wooster had for Chuffnell, but had never noticed his growing warmth towards me. Now that same expression of fondness was aimed in my direction, and I struggled for the words to proceed.

There are things I could have said to cement such an understanding, to make my intentions clear and convince him, but instead I stepped closer and pressed a kiss to his lips.

"Sir?" he asked afterwards, sounding surprised yet pleased.

Now, the words came easily. "If I held your affections, I would never release them so easily."

Wooster has always been a man to display his feelings clearly upon his face. It would have been impossible for me to misinterpret the answer, although the words themselves were quite ordinary. "Let's get you into bed, sir."

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Jeeves & Wooster fic: Reggie and Wooster

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