Work Text:
March 9, 1968
Calypso—Swing Bar and Restaurant
Ralphinte — 10 km north of Berlint
Four men sat at a well-packed, though not overcrowded, restaurant in a northside suburb of Berlint.
Among them was none other than Loid Forger.
It had been four months since he, Yor, and Anya had attended the fair—an event that had yielded several valuable contacts and more than a few intelligence goldmines.
One of those gains had been the careful befriending of the Desmond family’s butler and his acquaintances.
To Loid’s left sat James Farinelli, the Egeburg butler.
A blond fellow with squared glasses and a notably passive demeanor.
To his right was John Ashton, the Elman butler.
A rounder man with dark hair, far more vocal and unafraid to voice his opinions.
And seated directly across from Loid was none other than Jeeves Kruger—
the Desmond family butler.
Jeeves rose from his seat before lifting his glass.
His long dark hair was neat and straight, reaching his shoulders but going no further.
“A toast,” he said smoothly, “to our combined achievements in keeping our charges—or, in the case of Mr. Forger—our children safe and sound.”
“Cheers!”
The other two butlers echoed in unison, clinking their glasses together with enthusiasm.
Loid was more reserved.
“Aye,” he replied simply.
It was the most he offered before raising his own glass, joining the toast with a controlled, deliberate motion.
Jeeves wore a dark charcoal suit, impeccably tailored, paired with a crisp white shirt and a subdued tie—formal even in leisure, as though he had stepped out of the Desmond estate moments earlier.
His drink was a neat pour of aged whiskey, untouched by ice.
James Farinelli favored a lighter brown jacket over a soft gray waistcoat, his tie loosened just enough to suggest relaxation rather than sloppiness.
He nursed a gin and tonic, condensation collecting slowly beneath his fingers.
John Ashton had opted for comfort instead: a dark blazer worn open over a collared shirt, sleeves rolled slightly as he gestured while speaking.
His choice was a Dortmunder beer—an Ostnian classic.
Already half-finished.
Loid blended effortlessly between them, dressed in his signature green suit—neither too sharp nor too casual, the kind meant to avoid attention.
In front of him sat a simple glass of rye, diluted with a single cube of ice. He drank sparingly, eyes alert even as his posture suggested ease.
Jeeves shifted his gaze toward Loid, violet eyes running over his features. He took a measured sip of his whiskey before speaking.
“Speaking of Mr. Forger—”
Twilight raised a hand.
“Please. Call me Loid.”
Casual is the name of the game here, Twilight.
Jeeves’s lips curved upward.
“Loid. How is Ms— I mean, Anya. Your daughter. Master Damian takes quite a liking to the young Forger.”
Sure don’t act like it, Twilight thought, recalling the tales Anya had shared about Damian’s “bullying.”
“Anya is doing quite well,” Loid replied evenly. “Her grades have improved, and she has received three Stellas thus far.”
And three Tonitrus Bolts, Twilight echoed privately.
But other than that, things were going fairly well.
Loid took a measured swig as Jeeves hummed thoughtfully.
“Did you hear about what happened in Shellbery?” James asked meekly, drawing the attention of the group.
“What about it?”
John said, rasing a brow.
James tightened his grip around his drink before lowering his voice to just above a whisper.
“Word on the street is Western spies went to town but the government denies any of it.”
Loid shrugged.
“Don’t dwell on such rumors, it’s unhealthy to do so.”
Jeeves took a careful sip of his drink before speaking in a calm, quiet tone but undoubtedly clear.
“You would know all about that, wouldn’t you Mr. Forger….”