"And every night, they sang by the pale moonlight-"
My strokes become carefully measured as I endeavour to ignore the young master's thirty-second rendition of the song today day. I understand that it is currently in vogue at the Drones Club, but I cannot say that it makes any step toward displacing my own favourites. Still, it does seem to put him in high spirits, so I cannot disapprove of it entirely.
"Oh by gee, by gosh by gum, by Jove!" The now-familiar words force entry to the kitchen through the closed door as I clear away the work things. It is my intention to retire early this evening, as we shall, unfortunately, be travelling to meet Mrs. Gregson in the morning. If Mr. Wooster is going to require rescuing, as he terms it, from another engagement - which I consider likely, under the circumstances - it would not do for me to be hampered by insufficient sleep.
The words pause a moment, and there is a shuffling of paper that I can only assume is Mr. Wooster turning the page. He clears his throat in the manner of the singer we observed at the opera a fortnight ago, and resumes.
"Oh, my Jeeves, by gosh by gum, by Jove." The words are quiet but distinct, so I know I cannot have misheard. Holding my breath, I listen further.
"Oh by jingo, won't you hear our love? Sit beside me on the sofa,
Mix for us brandy and soda,
Ta, da, da da da da da, da,
Oom-pa, oom-pa, oom-pa, oom-pa."
With much effort, I resume breathing. The words... I can barely think them. But... My heart stills as I allow myself to consider what Mr. Wooster might mean by those wonderful, terrible lyrics. In the sudden silence, I become aware of a new sound, one I do not recognise. It is quiet, gasping, like someone... weeping.
I am in the living room before I can think, materialising less-than-subtly at Mr. Wooster's trembling side. "Sir?" I enquire, only just managing to keep my voice steady as I speak. He starts, looking up at me with wide blue eyes that currently wear a red outline. Wet lines streak down his cheeks, fresh tears renewing them in spite of his best efforts to regain some composure.
"J-Jeeves," he stutters. It takes no small effort to resist placing a comforting hand on his shoulder as I watch him struggle for words. "How... how long-?"
"I was polishing the silverware after dinner, sir," I explain, my tone gentle. The last thing I want is to upset him further. "I could not help but hear you practicing your singing, sir," I add, meeting his watery eyes. I try to convey what I feel in the gaze, but I have never been comfortable expressing my emotions.
"Ah." Mr. Wooster is wringing his hands in his lap, and I clasp my own behind me to stop me from stilling his actions. "Umm... All my singing, Jeeves?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah. Well, that's that then. I expect... you'll be handing in your notice now, then?" I freeze, dumbfounded. Why would I do such a thing?
"If you desire my resignation, sir-" I begin uncertainly, thankfully maintaining a professional tone out of sheer habit. Inside I am shaking apart. I do not wish to leave Mr. Wooster's employ, but more than that, I wish to stay. No valet would surrender lightly such a considerate employer, but I know that to do so would be the end of me. I cannot... The words refuse even to be thought.
A look of horror and confusion crosses his face at my words. "No, no! Of course I don't Jeeves," he splutters hurriedly. "But, I thought," he looks down at his evening shoes, refusing to meet my eye as he speaks. I can see his cheeks burning red. "Don't you want to leave? I mean," he continues before I can reply, "after hearing... that, and everything, I know it isn't-"
"Sir," I interrupt, wincing a little at the breach in protocol. I can see him working himself into a state of great distress over the matter, and I cannot allow it. "If you have no objections, I should like to remain here, with you."
His eyes widen as he looks back up at me. "But the song, Jeeves!" he protests. "Dash it all, man, doesn't it bother you?" I am confused. Does Mr. Wooster wish me to be affected my his words? I am, but not in the manner he expects.
"Of course, sir," I inform him smoothly. He seems to deflate a little at my words. When no response is forthcoming, I excuse myself. "If that will be all, sir?"
His attention returns to the present at that. "What? You mean, you're going to just... biff off to bed?"
"That was my intention, sir." It was not. I said it merely to provoke him into action.
"Leave the young master in a stew, Jeeves?" he protests.
"I was not aware that you were in difficulty, sir," I explain. If what he sang was true... I hold back a shiver of my own. But he is my employer, and consequently I am not at liberty to enquire further, much though I may wish to.
"Jeeves," he begins, looking me squarely in the eye, "It doesn't... upset you, that I just... you know, and... you know?" he finished lamely, form positively trembling with nerves. This time I cannot restrain myself as I place a hand on his arm. He looks up at me, startled. "Sir," I begin uncertainly, "I could not be upset by such a declaration." I want to say more, but the words stick in my throat. With horror, I feel a prickling behind my eyes that I quickly blink away. Mr. Wooster rises to his feet, wobbling only slightly, and I allow my hand to slip from his shoulder.
"In that case, old thing," he murmurs, leaning in closer. Then he is too close, and I can make out the pores of his skin, the individual eyelashes, the scent of his cologne, the feel of his lips, tentatively pressed to my cheek... I cannot think, move, breathe, as he pulls back to observe my reaction with nervous eyes. "Sir," I whisper after a moment, my hand reaching out again to fill the cold space left by his shoulder with his hand, on which I can feel the dampness of his tears.
He smiles at me then, and though I am not given to metaphor, I am blinded. It has to be the most beautiful smile I have ever witnessed; tentative but hopeful as he looks up at me through pale lashes. I bow my head slightly, so that my lips descend upon the bridge of his nose for the briefest of moments. "Oh, dash it Jeeves!" he exclaims suddenly, reaching up to pull my head firmly toward his own. A real kiss this time, our mouths meeting in sweet union. He is gentle and soft and... "Perfect," he murmurs into my lips, echoing my own thoughts exactly.
"I say, Jeeves," he says when we break apart.
"Sir?" I ask, voice rumbling uncharacteristically in my chest. I can only blame the upwelling of emotion I am currently experiencing for the change. Mr. Wooster - Bertie - appears not to object, at least, if the shudder that runs through his body is any indicator.
"We're a pair of fools," he laughs softly, and I detect an edge of regret in his voice. Doubtless he is considering how long we have hidden from one another the full extent of our sentiments. "Indeed, sir," I reply, taking the initiative this time as I catch his parted lips in mine.