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For once, they're alone and completely unoccupied, and talking, really talking. The windows beckon in the New York sunlight, and Bertie hasn't taken his hat off yet, and they're both finding themselves holding their breath.
“I care about you, you know,” Bertie retorts, to something — something half-said and reaching.
“I know, sir.”
Jeeves’ lyrical voice seems turned down a notch, as if he were a radio someone had hastily adjusted the knob of to not disrupt someone nearby.
Bertie takes a step forward. His man, a step back.
“Jeeves,” it's coming out forcefully now, “I don't think you do.” His eyebrows are knitting together, and he’s sure he sounds like a child.
A moment of silence. Jeeves meets his eyes. It disorients them both to have their gazes reciprocated so directly.
“I assure you, I understand. Sir.”
He makes to shimmer away, but Bertie interrupts his path, scampering ridiculously.
“Please excuse me,” Jeeves says, attempting to navigate around him to the kitchen.
“No,” Bertie replies, haltingly grasping Jeeves’ shoulders. “Excuse me.”
And he dives in to kiss him — or tries to.
Jeeves instantly mimics his arm position, hands on shoulders, holding his employer away with force. Bertie tries again, perhaps thinking something about Agincourt, but this time Jeeves pushes, sending Mr. Wooster stumbling back.
“Please,” Jeeves repeats, before straightening his cuffs. “Sir, I understand.”
Bertie laughs, a little hysterically.
“You don't. You can't possibly. Jeeves, I–”
“Sir. Please trust me. In all my imaginings, there is no possibility of this going well.”
“Your imaginings?” Bertie licks his lips, maybe nervously, and twitches, as if considering bridging the gap between them once again.
Jeeves takes another step backwards, eyes trained on the other man.
“I care about you so much,” Bertie tries, “more than anyone, more than anything.”
“Much appreciated, sir.”
“You can't tell me you don't feel the same.”
“I didn't say that.” Jeeves looks almost offended, or maybe terrified. Eyes wide. “Sir.”
Now it's Bertie’s turn to be an adjusted stereo, to whisper — “Please. Please, we can't go on like this.”
“I beg to differ.”
“I love you, Jeeves.”
“I'm aware of that.”
Bertie’s hurt shifts, just barely, to anger.
He charges Jeeves head-first, wraps his arms around his waist, shoves face against modest black waistcoat. His hat is knocked quietly to the floor.
Jeeves tries to shake him off, staggers around the room, pries at his arms, but to no avail. In the moment he takes to catch his breath, Bertie tilts his chin up to look at him. And Jeeves sees his wet eyes, and the sun behind him, and can’t block out the feeling of his embrace.
“God,” Jeeves says shakily, harshly. “Do not test me.”
“Why not?” Bertie counters. “What's one good reason we shouldn't?”
“I am your valet.” It’s almost a sigh. Exhausted, exasperated.
Bertie gently lets go, allows Jeeves to teleport to the opposite wall.
“That's not a good enough reason.”
“I quite disagree.”
“Jeeves,” he says, severe and pathetic all at once. “It's only us here. Just you, and… and me.”
“It isn't,” Jeeves replies simply. “It never is. We will never be safe.”
“We’ll keep each other safe.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, if your… history of attempts at such goals do not instill the greatest of confidences.”
Bertie considers flopping face-first onto the sofa. But no. He must be brave.
“Wouldn't it be worth it?” Brave, for the rest of their lives. “Even if we have to run, to hide, even if it all explodes? Wouldn't it be worth it? I rather think it would.”
Jeeves doesn't respond.
“But there's no way of knowing for certain, what?” Bertie continues, slowly. “Except, well. Except trying.”
“I do not think,” Jeeves whispers, ashamed, “that I could ever stop at merely ‘trying.’”
“Oh, Jeeves.”
He inches forward, towards the paragon now skittishly hugging the wall, who, blessedly, makes no more attempts to bolt.
Bertie reaches for his hand, brings it up, interlacing their fingers. He lays a kiss on one beloved knobbly knuckle. His other hand comes to rest on a damask cheek.
“Please,” Jeeves blurts, not knowing himself what he wants, or is asking for, but knowing exactly how Mr. Wooster will take it, exactly how he's sealed both of their fates.
The kiss is the most real thing either has felt for the whole afternoon. Or maybe, their whole lives. The sun is warm.