Jeeves and the Walk-Away-Cone Shoppe

By Lucylou

Intro: This is for S, who reads all my work first, and who plants most of these ideas in my weird little mind. "Eccentric practice" indeed! You naughty, globetrotting thing!

London had been hit with a blistering heat-wave, and the last few weeks had been torturous. I'd been wasting away by the window in nothing but my undershirt and trousers, when Tuppy had called to report the opening of the new ice-cream parlour, just down the road.

And so I'd tossed on my shirt and jacket with a wince, glancing at Jeeves, immaculate and fully-dressed as usual, and wondered how the devil he remained so unperturbed by the heat.

"Fancy something sweet, Jeeves?"

"Thank you, Sir, but no," he'd responded, distracted by somethingorother in the kitchen, and I biffed out for a little treat.

The new parlour was quite the spot, with all manner of flavours, and sharp little men in white hats behind the counter. A great many of the customers seemed to be favoring the walk-away cone, so I thought, why not, and ordered mine in vanilla.

At my first bite, I was quite sure this was just the thing to rally the Wooster spirits to face this infernal heat! The flavour was perfect, and the counter jockeys had given me not one scoop, but two!

I toddled back to the flat, cone in hand, and swept in with a huff-bang, flopping onto the sofa with no little amount of delight.

"Pfah to Edison, Jeeves!"

"Indeed, Sir?" came Jeeves' muffled reply from the next room. I heard the distinct sound of the kitchen window being lifted open, a task that was obviously responsible for Jeeves' absence at the door upon my return.

"And to Newton! And all those other ruddy inventors," I crowed, through a mouthful of pure delight.

I was swirling my treat over my tongue in an enjoyable fashion, when Jeeves, wiping his hands on his apron, re-emerged.

"The open kitchen window should allow for the passage of air from..." but Jeeves trailed off, frozen in the doorway.

"What ho, Jeeves!" said I, gesturing hello with my cone. "Do you, by chance, happen to know the genius responsible for this particular work of brilliance?" I was speaking semi-rhetorically, but of course, this is Jeeves were speaking of, so I was half-hoping for an answer.

I'd asked in order to distract him, because I suspected that he'd be none-too-pleased with my enjoying a spot of ice cream while lounging on the couch in my undershirt (I'd removed my outer-layers again, as soon as I'd made it through the door of our sweltering apartment).

I was sure he'd tut in disapproval for my uncouth habits, but instead, he seemed to take a deep breath, eyeing my ice cream, and launched into a lecture.

"I believe, Sir, that ice cream has been a traditional treat since the middle ages. It is only more recently, most notably at the 1904 World's Fair, that the 'Walk-Away Cone' became popularized. Its invention is credited to Lebanese baker, Abe Doumar."

I happily licked over the top of my ice cream, content to bask in Jeeves' braininess and enjoy my treat, but he paused, suddenly seeming a little funny.

"Would you prefer to... that I retrieve a dish and spoon, Sir? It's a considerably neater method of consuming ice cream, if you'll allow me to say so..." He turned to fetch said d and s, but I protested.

"No no, Jeeves! That won't do at all! The cone is the best part!"

Jeeves looked quite put out at my argument, almost, well, fidgeting on the spot. He studied my technique for a moment, and I'd begun to feel a little funny about enjoying my treat while he looked on sans cone, when he spoke again.

"Perhaps a napkin, Sir?"

"Nonsense, Jeeves. It's silly to try to sop any of this up before I've finished. It'll all melt again before I'd even caught the first bit."

Jeeves looked perturbed, and I was starting to wonder if the heat had begun to get to him, after all. He seemed, from where I stood, a little pink about the cheeks.

"Drat!" I exclaimed, noting that the ice cream had begun to drip down my fingers. I transferred the cone to my other hand, and went to work licking off the melted bits, only to have the cone begin to drip down my other hand!

I abandoned my empty hand, and began to try to catch the drops from the cone, itself, when I noticed that Jeeves had shimmered over, and was standing to my right.

"Are you quite sure you don't-" I licked my the back of my hand where the ice cream had dripped, "-want some, Jeeves? Plenty to," lick, "spare!"

"Sir," he said, and I was surprised to hear his voice had dropped considerably, "you seem to have missed a small amount here," he noted, pointing towards my free hand, which was stuck up in the air awkwardly, to avoid contact with the furniture.

"I know that, Jeeves!" I said, between licks, "But I can't very well do two things at once, you know!"

I felt the melted ice cream on my free hand begin to slide down past my wrist, and could almost feel Jeeves trembling at the thought of it falling to stain the sofa.

"If you would allow me, Sir," he said, and suddenly his fingers were on my forearm. He bent slightly at the waist, and my hand was lifted to his mouth, where he proceeded to kindly avail me of the excess ice cream.

It was strange, you know, that such a simple thing as one fellow aiding another in an iced-confectionary crisis, should make the breath do strange things.

But just as soon as Jeeves closed his lips around my thumb, swirling his tongue around the tip to capture all the melted ice-cream, I felt decidedly odd in the chest and mid-belly area.

He did a thorough job, as one would expect from such a proficient valet, going so far as to lick at my palm, removing all the sticky bits. I fidgeted a bit in my seat, and nearly forgot about the cone still in my hand.

"Thank you Jeeves!" said I, having put my melting ice-cream to rights thanks to his aid, "You're a wonder!"

"I'm glad to be of assistance, Sir," he said, with a slight smile. I noticed the heat must have really been getting to him, as there was the lightest sheen of sweat glistening on his upper lip.

I dug back into my ice cream with relish, watching as Jeeves strode back into the kitchen.

"Good ice cream, isn't it Jeeves?" I called, licking my lips clean of vanilla.

"Delicious, Sir. The best I've had," he responded, before shimmering away again, off to big-brained ruminations and the preparation of afternoon tea.

THE END