Invisible

Chapter Two: "Jeeves."

A/N: This is insanely long overdue, which is why it is so massively long. I doubt I'll be updating super quick but it really depends on how many reviews I get and where my other stories are. I'm volunteering over at the Pet Adoption League so my time is a bit more stretched out now. Enjoy and please review.

~ Jane

Guy walked back to the Knights' lunch table whilst trying to put on a brave face. Marian had once again rejected his advances. It seemed that she couldn't make up her mind one way or the other how she felt about him. She was his lukewarm, perfect girlfriend one minute, and a cold and distant stranger the next, leaving Guy confused and unsure of where they stood.

Guy bit back a sigh and sat down at the Knights' table at his usual place in between Vaysey and Davina Sheriff. He ate in silence and brooded, unnoticed by the others at the table who were all chatting away about one unimportant thing or another. He tried unsuccessfully to figure out what caused the sudden and erratic changes in Marian's behavior, trying very hard not to credit them to his Outlaw rival, Robin Hood.

Finding his train of thought both useless and unsettling, Guy turned his attention to another subject that had been weighing on him of late: his grades, English Lit especially. What the bloody hell was Shakespeare going on about anyway?

Guy's gaze wandered over to the figure of a certain Outlaw female. Gwyn Chantry, biggest brain in school, oversized glasses and frumpy attire included. Guy couldn't help wondering if Vice Principal Prince had gotten her to agree to his plan of her tutoring him over the rest of the school year. He couldn't afford to be held back – God knows how his father would take it. The son of Sir Crispin Gisborne being held back? Not while Sir Crispin lived and breathed! Guy almost scoffed aloud but caught himself before he could draw the attention of his so-called friends.

Guy studied Chantry for a moment, taking in as much about her as he could. Know your enemy and all that, he reasoned. She was plain and wore no makeup, but was not ugly. Her clothes were baggy and black, and her long blonde hair hung limply in her face, suggesting to Guy that she didn't want to be noticed. Her glasses were ugly – too ugly. The vomitous tan color of the frames and the oversized lenses looked almost deliberate. She seemed withdrawn, even from her own group. She watched the others and listened intently, but as far as Guy could tell she participated very little in the conversation, and only then when she had too. Altogether, her appearance seemed to be one big statement of, "You can't see me; I'm invisible. Now mind your own bloody business!"

He wondered what in her life could be so bad that she seemed so withdrawn. In truth, Guy envied the Outlaws, though it would only be under the cruelest torture that he would ever admit it to anyone. His father thought him worthless, his sister despised him for some offence that he didn't seem to know about, he was chained to follow his father's footsteps with no reference to his own heart, he was the captain of a game he hated, his grades were falling apart, he didn't have any real friends to speak of, and the one girl in all the school he wanted, wanted someone else. What in Miss Brainiac's perfect little world could be so bad? Did she get a B on the Trigonometry test?

Guy sighed yet again, lower now that the Knights were within hearing range. The Outlaws seemed to have just about everything, Robin Hood most especially. All Guy could hope for was that for some reason the Chantry girl agreed to tutor him – or at the very least Prince managed to threaten her into doing it somehow. Either way, he was desperate.

Enemies or not, he needed her help or he was going to be held back.

Gwyn didn't know what she had been thinking when she had wanted to help Gisborne. He couldn't possibly need it, not from what she saw as she stared in awe at the mansion before her. It was impossibly large and elegant, something straight out of Pride & Prejudice. She could almost imagine Mr. Darcy walking down the large white steps, his new bride on his arm. Everything was so tasteful and lovely. She tried to imagine living in a place like the Gisborne estate as she walked up the long, winding gravel drive; she couldn't. She was far too used to the squalor of the apartment she shared with her mum, the scent of vomit and booze wafting into her nose and keeping her up at night, unspeakable stains from before her time all over the carpet, making the very idea of walking barefoot on the carpet unthinkable.

To think about all that and stand in this glorious place, surrounded by the sweet scent of the rose bushes lining the drive, it made everything seem surreal, like in a dream. No one who lived in such a place could possibly need help from someone like her, no matter what little problems they were having at school.

She found that she hated Gisborne a little for being rich, for having so much when people like herself and her mother had so little. She knew so many people who couldn't even afford to keep themselves in beans, and then to find out that people lived like this, people she went to school with that lived on the other side of town… It made her blood boil. It wasn't fair.

She finally reached the steps and walked up them heavily, wanting nothing more than to be somewhere else – anywhere else. She lifted the heavy knocker and banged it twice. Almost before she had lifted her hand from it, the door opened, a sharp-featured butler staring down his nose at her. Wow, she thought. Even the servants are snobs.

"Deliveries are made in the back, girl," he said with a sneer.

His arrogance and self-superiority made her want to wretch.

"Do I look like I'm holding a delivery, Alfred?" she said, her sneer rivaling the butler's.

"My name is Giles, girl," he said, his dignified sneer deepening.

"The beauty of Batman is totally wasted on you, Jeeves," she replied, ducking under his arm and entering the enormous foyer. It was easily the biggest room she'd ever been in.

"You can't come in here!" Giles said, scandalized.

"I'm here for Gisborne, you know, the younger one. Tell him his 'study partner' is here. Well, go on," she said when he hesitated, shooing him with her hands. He puffed up like a rooster, harrumphing at her irritably.

"Don't wander, and don't touch anything," he said. With a dignified sniff he swept out of the foyer, leaving Gwyn to her own devices.

Everything was decorated in a Victorian gothic style, blood reds and gold accents everywhere. The floor was a solid sheet of marble, black swirling ominously like smoke through the grayish-white. The wide staircase looked like it could swallow her up.

She didn't like this place, she decided. It was beautiful, there was no question of that; but the beauty of it made her uncomfortable. She felt plain and small in the elegance of the Gisborne Mansion, and she had only seen the foyer.

Her hoodie, large and baggy, felt uncomfortably tight around her throat now. She pulled at the collar, hoping to relieve the choking sensation. It had been her father's and it looked like some sort of ridiculous dress on her, the sleeves going far past her knuckles. When she was younger she wore it out of necessity; the cold had been unbearable during the winter, especially after the power company had turned the electricity off. In a strange twist of fate, a piece of clothing that had once belonged to a man she hated became her favorite sweatshirt. It was warm, and it hid her bruises and scars from prying eyes. It made her feel safe.

The irony was not lost on her.

"Hi."

Gwyn gasped, and turned around sharply, startled. Her backpack, heavy with the books she had borrowed from the library, crashed on the floor after being jerked off her shoulders from the sudden movement. She quickly snatched it up, and her eyes met those of Guy Gisborne's.

He was standing on the wide staircase, his eyebrow raised in amusement.

"Hi," she said dryly, hanging the backpack over one shoulder again.

Guy strutted down the last few steps, looking Chantry up and down the whole time.

"So, you're the smartest girl in school," he said, making what would normally be a compliment into an insult with his tone.

She shrugged.

"Prince seems to think so. I guess it doesn't really matter what I think."

Her tone was surprisingly free of bitterness, of emotion in general actually.

"Did he tell you why you're here?"

"You need help with some of the school work; you're finding it a little difficult to understand, and I'm to help you," she said. To his intense surprise, there was no trace of amusement in her face or posture at his difficulties. Any other Outlaw would've been fighting outright laughter had they been in her shoes.

"You're not supposed to tell anyone; he did make that clear?" he asked, trying to hide the touch of fear that threatened to choke him. Vaysey would have a field day if he knew that he was being tutored by an Outlaw. It would be the end of his social career, and that was if he was lucky. Associating with an Outlaw, regardless of the reason, could make Marian dump him on the spot.

She must have heard the desperation in his voice because her eyes softened a little.

"Yes, he did say that. I won't tell anyone."

An awkward silence stretched between them as they summed each other up, trying to figure each other out.

"So," Gwyn finally said, "where are we going to do this? Living room, kitchen…?"

"Uh, my room would be best," he said awkwardly. "My father never goes in there."

Chantry's eyes widened in surprise.

"Your own father doesn't know about this?"

"No, I don't want him to know."

"But how couldn't he know? He has to be reading your report cards?"

"He gets a weekly call from Prince," he said, avoiding the question.

"Who no doubt lies through his teeth. Lovely," she said, rolling her eyes. "Let's just get this over with."

"We'll take the elevator this time," he said, leading the way through a door straight ahead of her, hidden by the massive staircase. "It'll be quicker."

It lead into the kitchen, a large, sterile-white room that looked more like a laboratory than a kitchen, but instead of vials and vats boiling on burners, there were pots and pans on a massive chrome stove. A cook was bending down over the open oven to baste a large chicken, and the scent of the roasting meat wafted over to Gwyn's nose. The smell of the Gisbornes' dinner cooking smelled heavenly to her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a square meal. She ate, yes, at least most of the time, but never like this. A small part of her, a part she was ashamed of, secretly hoped she would be asked to stay for dinner.

She knew it was unlikely; but still, she hoped.

She saw two glass doors leading outside to a patio, a window on each side of them. Vines climbed up trellises that shaped hearts outside the windows.

She didn't have long to admire the kitchen because she quickly realized that Gisborne was waiting impatiently by another door, leading into what appeared to be a hallway. She caught up and found that the sterility of the kitchen extended to all the servant areas. He led her down the hall, passing the huge laundry room, several tiny bedrooms, a small common area with a coffee table and a few books and magazines, all the same sterile white color with hardly any variances.

It occurred to her that she'd seen a horror movie like this once; a girl being led down the chilly white hallway of a mental hospital by an evil doctor, luring her to his operation room so he could take her apart, piece by piece.

God, why did she watch late night tv?

"I thought you said this would be quicker," she said, her voice a little harder than she had intended.

"You should try taking the stairs sometime," he said, smirking over his shoulder. She couldn't help but smirk a little too.

"We're almost there," he said.

And they were. A few more moments and they were standing in front of a chrome elevator. He pushed a button and the door opened. He stepped in and she followed.

"Why didn't you use the elevator earlier when you came down?" she asked as he pushed a button with a three on it, she assumed for the third floor. There was one with an A above it, probably for the attic. She wondered if that was where they kept the dead bodies.

"The servants use it a lot around this time, preparing for dinner and my father's arrival from the office. I didn't feel like waiting."

"Is the third floor the one with all the bedrooms?"she asked, trying to flame their small talk into an actual conversation. She had to be able to talk to him; if she didn't this was never going to work.

"There are bedrooms on all four floors-"

"Four? I thought there were only three?" she asked, trying not to show her surprise. Only, she thought sarcastically. Like three isn't a totally ridiculous number to begin with.

"There's a lower level, below the one with the foyer," he said. "It's where most of the servants sleep. Giles and Phelps stay on the first level so they can be closer if they're needed."

"Giles? Oh, you mean Jeeves!" she said, laughter creeping into her voice.

"Jeeves?" he asked dryly, not quite hiding the amusement in his eyes.

"I called him Alfred but he didn't seem to get the Batman reference," she said with a wink.

"Doesn't surprise me," he said, an unwilling smirk on his lips. He looked her over, as though seeing her for the first time.

"You're funny," he said, surprised.

"You don't have to sound so shocked," she said, raising her eyebrow.

"Well, shocked would be a bit of an exaggeration – a little one, but still…" he said, his head turned slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked at him out of the corner of hers and noticed the way his black hair now hung in his eyes, still wet from the showers in the school gym. He wasn't quite smiling; it was more like something between a smirk and a grin. She returned it before looking away.

She understood now why the girls at school swooned sickeningly over him. He was very handsome, though most would believe that to be an understatement. She refused to analyze what other people thought of him and why, at least for the moment.

It was at that moment they both realized the elevator had stopped and the doors had been open for some minutes while they exchanged banter. Had they really not noticed?

"After you," he said, gesturing toward the exit.

"I don't know where your room…" she said, trailing off awkwardly.

"Oh, of course," he said, striding out of the elevator doors.

He led her down a long, extensive hallway, as beautiful as the foyer, if not quite as elegant. A few twists and turns later, and they were in another hall, this one with cardboard boxes piled outside the door of one of the rooms. There was a door before that and he stopped in front of it, his hand going to the handle.

"This is me," he said, nodding toward the door. He opened it and walked in.

She peeked in the room at first, hesitant about going inside. She'd never been in a boy's room before and it seemed like uncharted territory that she didn't want to explore. The only reason she hadn't argued about it was because she was sure that he would rather drink a bottle of arsenic than make a pass at her, and she had felt sorry for him when she realized how badly he wanted to keep this from his father. There must be a lot of pressure on him not to disappoint the old man.

The room itself was almost as plain as the servants', though nowhere near as white or hospital-like. It wasn't in the Victorian style of the rest of the house, a light beige color on the walls and ceiling, a modern, dark wood desk and chair near the window, and a matching bed, side table and dresser set in the same dark wood color as the desk; the bedspread was the same color as the walls. There were half a dozen shelves crowded with polo, rugby and futbol trophies. The desk and walls held no pictures or paintings; nothing with color or personality. The whole house – besides the foyer and the rooms no one actually lived in, which seemed to overcompensate – seemed to be completely devoid of those two qualities.

"Have a seat," Gisborne said, sitting on the bed near the headboard and kicking his shoes off. He swung himself around and laid down.

"Where, exactly?" she said, with an arched eyebrow.

"The bed. Where else?" he said as though it was obvious.

She eyed his feet with distaste.

"I'm not sitting anywhere near your gunky, stinky, athlete feet."

"My feet don't stink!" he declared, scandalized at the very idea.

"You're a teenage boy who plays a cornucopia of sports – of course your feet stink."

Slowly, he sat up straight and crossed his legs Indian-style, trying to sniff the air discreetly. It was everything she could do not to laugh at him, and she still had to hide her smile behind her unfashionably long hair. He was so vain that it was almost cute.

Almost.