Chapter Text
1st August, 1921
Dear Jeeves,
I’m writing a letter to you, but not really to you, you see. It’s more one of those mental exercise thingummies, a way to allow oneself to loosen the tap of emotions brewing in one’s head. And what emotions they’ve been, Jeeves, that makes writing this letter so necessary, seeing as I love you so terribly much.
You’re away right now on your yearly biffing-off, someplace warm and sunny and with fish aplenty to rue the day you walked into their homeland, hand ready to reel in their kin. No doubt you have shed the togs of servitude and are ankling ‘round the town in the lighter accoutrement fit for a man on holiday. No doubt– no doubt– you shall return to me tanned and fit as a fiddle ever was, that I might try very hard to not be caught staring. Please don’t be cross if you do spy me doing so, since you can’t possibly know how terribly delish you look after your month-long soirées.
Your young master is right now safe at home and in the hands of another capable but distinctly un-Jeevesian valet, mourning the loss of that stuffed-frog mask and that head which bulges so sportingly in the back. He is thinking of you, as he is always thinking of you, only now the y. m. has reached several conclusions that warrant a bit of self-reflection and a titanic amount of self-discussion. That I am sans Jeeves is precisely the reason why I am out of sorts, but also the reason for which I feel secure enough to put pen to paper about my feelings, as confusing as they’ve been for the past year.
Over the past twelve months I’ve felt a sensation bubbling in the pits of my stomach, some tangled sort of emotions that I couldn’t slap a name to even if I wanted. The sensation always seemed to be cropping up unexpectedly, at all sort of different times and locales, so much so that I wasn’t able to puzzle out the bally thing until quite recently, and on an occasion that you’ll probably not remember, being of such insignificance to anyone else except for one B.W. Wooster.
Do you recall last Thursday when, after a pitiful afternoon tea with the dreadful Aunt Agatha, you fixed me a much-needed b. and s.? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought myself, only I keep coming back to the scene; self, sat on the chesterfield and in a miserable state, bemoaning my existence and other some such, feeling put out in the most basic sense. Enter you, Jeeves, holding a filled glass to my side and whispering in a soft, quiet manner, “Here, sir.” You’ve done this many a-time for old Bertram, but when I gazed up at you then, the setting sun washed your face in gold and, I tell you, your eyes were so warm I knew I could walk bare-footed in the Arctic and not feel a jolt of cold, so long as my peepers were perched on your own.
Then the little bubbling came back, only on this occ. it was more like a twister in the Wild West, and I, a simple cowboy, was forced to weather it alone. I took the tumbler from you, and thanked you heartily as per use., but if you saw on my map any sort of sudden epipha-whatsits then you should know that I had, in that moment, come to realise what exactly I was about.
So, to make a short point out of a drawn-out, mixed-up number of feelings: I love you, Jeeves, and I hope you are enjoying yourself, but I wish I could be enjoying myself while you enjoyed yourself, that is, I wish we could be enjoying ourselves, together. Rummy business, this love thing. I feel odd all the time, for example, even as I wish for you to be safe and have a whale of a time I can’t help but also seethe at the thought of you staying longer than your allotted time away. But who knows what tomorrow may bring– this same mo. next year, I may have lost all tender pash for you and will be content to call you my close friend and confidant, but not my lodestar. Adieu for now, and when you return perhaps I’ll put the soupy circs to you, Jeeves, and see if you can’t advise the young master on what I ought to do.
Yours,
B.W.W.
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2nd September, 1921
Sardinia was excellent in August. It was hot and disgustingly humid, but the wind coming in from the sea acted as a constant coolant, so there was no real need for complaint. The land itself was beautiful, and the ocean surrounding it even more so. Considering the open sea was where Reginald had spent most of his time, it made for an altogether divine experience.
His grasp of Italian was standard, certainly enough to get by for purchasing foodstuffs and fishing supplies, but he was not proficient enough to have made many friends in the town he vacationed in. This made no difference to him, as he spent six hours on the water, alone, stopping back to his rented home for an hour’s lunch, and then using the rest of the late afternoon and evening for reading, cooking, and reading once again. This silent routine suited him, and after only a few days the sound of his own voice was foreign to his ears.
The rooms he had rented came with several modes of entertainment, most notably a newly-bought radio and a century-old piano, both resting in the same far corner by the armchair. Neither device went into use during his time. Reginald found he did not quite appreciate Italians’ eccentric tastes in radio music, and he did not wish to make merry with the piano then. Besides, he only knew duets.
It was an excellent holiday; Sardinia was excellent. And the flat had not burnt down, so the respite was not a terrible blunder overall.
Taking up the pinstripe trousers once more, Reginald feels himself slipping into the skin of service, a comforting presence due in one part to its familiarity and the other to his own adeptness.
Bertie greets him at the door with, “What-ho, Jeeves! How was your sojourn away from the metrop?” His eyes are alight with excitement and another emotion Reginald finds he does not recognise. At the sight of Bertie’s welcome, the thought passes briefly in Reginald’s mind of one’s returning home to find the family dog waiting at the door, jumping and licking in fervent happiness at his master‘s homecoming. There was no jumping here— and certainly no licking— but the analogy was apt nonetheless, and it put a secret smile on his face.
Later on, when his things are put away in their proper places and all is as it always has been, the night comes on tenderly, the sun fading away beneath the stories of buildings. Moonlight fills the flat with a deep sense of peace, and Reginald swears even the furniture heaves a breath of contented relief.
Bertie, lounging on the chesterfield, was a welcome sight after a month away. When he sees the young master’s hand flex minutely, it is no great feat of the mind to guess what it is he wants: a brandy and soda, with a light speck of the latter. Before any words are said, Reginald is at the bar and fixing it, a steady and tanned hand pouring the drink into his preferred crystal.
He holds the glass out next to the young master’s right side. There is no platter this time, for Reginald wants something specific to finish his holiday activities which requires the absence of the silver tray.
Although he has done his utmost to be silent as the grave, it has been more than a year since Bertie has jolted from the lack of noise his valet makes— it is not just Reginald who has become accustomed to the ways of things. The drink is passed from one large hand to another with a happy, “Thank you, Jeeves; this whistle needed to be wetted, methinks,” pouring out from Mr. Wooster’s mouth.
As the exchange is made, Reginald moves his ring and pinky fingers slightly farther down than necessary, so that they might brush against Bertie’s for a half-second. Bertie, thankfully, either does not notice or says nothing on the matter. Reginald draws his hand back with a short exhale of fulfilment.
This touch alone will keep him satiated for another three months at least, until he feels secure enough to touch Bertie outside of the proprieties of the service once more. Sardinia was excellent, but he is glad to be home.