For some reason, Bertie's key was not unlocking the door. He tried turning it again, then in a moment of (slightly tipsy) revelation, turned it the other way.

It remained locked. Bertie pulled on the handle anyway, just in case, but it would not budge.

"Jeeves," he called out, giving a bang on the door. "Jeeves, old man, would you let me in?" Another mighty bang, rather too loud in the quiet of the night. "My tea's— my key's not working."

He leaned his head against the door for a moment in waiting. "Jee–eeves?"

The yanking open of the door had him stumbling inside, off-balance. But the hands that caught him were not gentle. They shook him roughly then shoved him outside again.

"What's all this noise?" Bertie heard. "Banging and yelling at this hour of the night? Young ruffian!"

When Bertie finally caught his balance, he said dumbly, "But you're not Jeeves."

The man he was looking up at was red-faced and florid-nosed, with a mustache crawling wonkily sideways over his upper lip. Dressed in a nightshirt that had a small hole over his belly, he looked supremely unhappy to be awoken by a probably-drunk Bertram Wooster at two in the morning.

"No, I'm not!" the man roared. "You and your blasted butler are next door!"

Bertie didn't move, trying to process this information. It wasn't happening very quickly— perhaps, he admitted to himself, that last cocktail at the Drones had been a mistake—and Jeeves was his valet, not his butler—

Clearly the man thought he was taking too long to go away, because it was then that he grasped Bertie by the upper arm and dragged him along.

"But—" Bertie managed, stumbling over a rock and barely righting himself. "But— wait—"

"I'll but you and wait you," the man growled. His grip was inexorable. "I'll but you right out of this street! Quiet and peaceful, as the wife wanted— until you moved in next door. Idiotic fop—blasted peacock—"

And then they were at the door, which a fuzzled Bertie did notice seemed right-er than the one he'd been banging on earlier. Now the man— his neighbour— was the one rapping loudly on a door.

"Open up!"

This was not the most dignified position to be seen by one's gentleman's gentleman, hanging from the arm of a half-dressed neighbour. As the door clicked open to reveal the electric light of the hall Bertie tried to pull away, unsuccessfully.

"Good evening, sir," said Jeeves. He took in the scene, looking more composed in his blue-striped pyjamas than the lout of a neighbour could look in full dinner dress.

"Indeed it is not," the neighbour said, jerking Bertie forward. "Not with this vandal halloo-ing and banging and shouting on my front doorstep."

Jeeves' eyes rested on Bertie, who suddenly and unaccountably felt like squirming— though, Bertie thought mulishly, it should be the brute of a neighbour who should be squirming, with his ugly mustache and broad grasping hands that took too much pleasure in shaking him—

Then Jeeves' glance flicked back to the other man.

"It would behoove the situation," Jeeves said coolly, "If you would unhand my master. It would be unfortunate if he were to bruise."

The man's grip tightened, then he was shoving Bertie at Jeeves.

"Unfortunate my ear," he scoffed. "The creature needs a good bit of bruising. Might set him straight."

An inappropriate urge to laugh burbled up inside Bertie. It was something to do with the way the light from the hall was shining on the man's bald patch; the situation itself seemed funnier, now that he was being steadied by the always-reliable Jeeves rather than being pulled around by the arm. And that comment…

"Nothing, I tell you," Bertie chuckled, putting a hand out to steady himself on the doorway and nearly missing, "Nothing is going to set me strai—"

A sharp pinch to his arm silenced him. He stared up at Jeeves instead, eyes round in the feeling of woeful betrayal.

"I do not believe that would be your place," Jeeves said to their neighbour. "It is late. Goodnight."

And he ushered Bertie further inside so he could close the door on the man's face.

"Why'd you— why'd you," Bertie said, the words slipping away from him. "Why'd you—pinch me?"

A short silence, then Jeeves said, "If you weren't drunk, sir, you would not need to ask that question."

"M'not drunk," Bertie pondered, as Jeeves walked him along to his bedroom, supporting most of his weight. "Tipsy, one could say. A little— little pickled. Just enough. But not— not drunk."

Jeeves lowered Bertie onto the bed, then batted away his fumbling hands to undo Bertie's buttons himself. Bertie found himself swiftly dressed in his own pyjamas.

"No, no, m'not drunk," he said again, unsure why he felt the need to protest the point, but feeling that he must. "Jeeves—"

He was manoeuvred onto his bed and under the covers.

"If you weren't drunk," Jeeves said, briskly pulling the quilt up to under Bertie's chin, "Then none of this would have happened. If you weren't drunk, and this did happen, then I might suppose that you intentionally came home several hours later than you told me you would, and intentionally made a nuisance of yourself waking all the neighbours."

He straightened up and walked over to the door, hand over the light switch.

"The key wouldn't fit," Bertie mumbled, trying to keep his eyes open. For some infernal reason they wanted to close…

"It is late," Jeeves said. "But if you insist on telling yourself that you aren't drunk instead of sleeping as you ought, perhaps it would do you well to cogitate on the reason the key wouldn't fit, namely that you were trying to open someone else's front door."

With that he turned out the light and left.

"M'not drunk," Bertie told himself doubtfully as he lay there in the dark.

But he was beginning to think that perhaps he was, just a bit. His bed was so comfortable, though, even if it did feel a bit like he was lying in a gently-swaying hammock, so he rolled over and fell asleep.


It was too bright.

"Urrgh," Bertie moaned, flinging a hand over his eyes to protect them from the sun. "Turn it off."

As the sun declined to do so, he rolled himself over to face away from the window and pulled the covers over the top of his fuzzy, aching head.

Perhaps that last cocktail had been one too many. But they'd been celebrating! Bertie just couldn't quite remember what

It was hot and close under the covers, smelling his own awful breath. Bertie endured it for a few minutes, blinking his gummy eyes and trying to remember if the dancing on the tables had been last night or at Gussie Fink-Nottle's birthday celebrations the previous week.

In the end he decided it didn't matter. He sat up and let the blankets slither off him, then pushed himself up and padded out of his room. What he needed, Bertie knew, was one of Jeeves' patented pick-you-ups.

His tongue was already curling at the anticipated tang of tabasco and red pepper— and whatever else went into the secret recipe— when he entered the kitchen.

"Jeeves," he rasped. "One of those thingummys, please."

But Jeeves, seated at the kitchen table and sewing tiny stitches into something, did not get up. He did not even look up until after a long moment spent pulling a long thread all the way through and tugging it gently.

When Jeeves did look at him, Bertie felt slightly— discombobulated. There was something about the way the man gestured towards the counter, where a glass of murky liquid sat…

"Good-oh," he said, and picked it up. Without looking at it too closely, or thinking about it very much, he poured it down his throat.

Seconds later he was sputtering and rushing to the sink.

"What," he gasped, "Is in that?" It didn't usually taste quite so… spicy.

Bertie turned the tap on then realised he had no glass to catch the water with. He fumbled the door of a cupboard and pulled out a glass, nearly dropping it in his haste.

Several gulps of water later, he managed, "Did you— change the recipe?"

Jeeves calmly tied off a thread, then looked over at Bertie. "I adjusted it," he said. "After your…engrossing late night out… I thought something a bit stronger was called for."

Bertie swallowed another glass-worth of water. "Stronger," he said, wishing he could scrape the taste off his tongue, "is putting it mildly. What's in it?"

This prompted a considering hum from Jeeves. "Oh, this and that… a raw egg, and some tabasco— I also added a few new ingredients for some pep. Mustard— dijon, of course— pepper, salt, and wasabi."

"Wasabi?" Bertie asked, tongue fumbling over the new word. He filled his glass again then turned off the tap.

"Yes," Jeeves said. He brought his sewing close to his face as he snipped the trailing thread with his scissors. "It's a spicy paste used in Japan that I am told is very hot. I put two tablespoons in."

"I don't think it needs that much," Bertie said, heartfeltly, wondering what had got into Jeeves, who was of the taste-as-you-go school of cooking, though he never permitted Bertie to have any food before it was done. It was clear that Jeeves had not tasted this Japanese paste.

But when Jeeves pushed his needle into the pincushion, then held up his work to examine it, Bertie had a flash of realisation put icy tendrils down his back like having cold water poured on him.

The garment in Jeeves' hands was a suit jacket. It was Bertie's suit jacket— the one he'd been wearing last night—

Jeeves folded it neatly, first the sleeves in, then in half, then again.

"It was Tuppy Glossop's fault," he blurted out.

The suit jacket was placed to the side of the table, then Jeeves looked up.

"What, exactly," he said mildly, "was Tuppy Glossop's fault?"


The banister-sliding had been Tuppy Glossop's idea. Bingo Little had just finished telling a rather meandering story involving a policeman, two girls, and a rubber duck, when Tuppy suggested it.

Bertie and everyone else had had several drinks by then, so they traipsed out of the room to look at the Drone's Club staircase. It was large and grand, spanning three storeys— and it looked like it had a magnificent banister for sliding.

Gussie had been persuaded into going first somehow. He was very drunk— Bertie knew that Gussie would never have been game enough to slide down the banister sober— and though they cheered and heckled him on, he slipped sideways off it only partway down, falling onto the staircase itself.

"Poor show," Bertie said. "Poor show, Gussie. I'll show you how a gentleman slides."

His walk to the top had been interspersed by the occasional hiccup. Probably, Bertie told himself, another drink would make them go away. So he needed to get down as quickly as possible, to have that drink.

The sliding itself was thrilling. Bertie didn't go down like Gussie did, lying front-down in an awkward embrace of the banister. Instead, he sat himself sideways as if he was an aunt riding a pony (not that he thought any of his aunts ever did ride anything other than a motorcar) and pushed himself off.

At the second floor, where the staircase turned, he slid right into the post. The teardrop-shaped end of it hit him awkwardly in the chest. He wobbled unsteadily for a moment, shifted around it to the next bit of banister, then said a belated, "ow."

It was at the next turn that it happened. Bertie fumbled his way round the post, like before, but something must have caught. In any case, when he pushed off down the staircase there was a resounding ripping noise.

At the bottom, he tipped off the banister into the arms of Bingo Little.

"Brava!" Bingo cheered. "Now do it backwards!"

A drink was pushed into his hands by Tuppy, and Bertie downed it in a gulp, feeling his cheeks flush with the adrenaline rush and the alcohol. With a mental why not he took off his suit jacket, seeing but not really understanding the long rip up the back of it, and thrust it in the arms of a giggling Gussie Fink-Nottle.

"Backwards it is," he said. And even though he wasn't really sure how to slide down a banister backwards, he gave it his best shot.

Somehow, in explaining this to Jeeves, it seemed that the utter reasonable-ness of sliding down a banister several times was lost. It was perhaps a pity that he was still in the dying throes of a hangover, because Bertie was sure that in any other circumstances he would be able to come up with an acceptable explanation for the tearing of his clothes without any mention of banisters or staircases.

"So you see," Bertie concluded, eyeing Jeeves' too-calm expression warily, "It really was all Tuppy's fault…"

Something about his gentleman's gentleman— something about the way Jeeves was looking at him— made Bertie's eyes flit away. They landed on the newly-mended suit jacket, and Bertie felt a— completely unwarranted, he assured himself— rush of guilt.

Bertie had only acquired the suit two weeks ago, but when Jeeves had dressed him in it, he'd been able to tell that the valet had been pleased with it from the satisfied way that the man had tugged the collar to straighten it. It was in the way that Jeeves had looked Bertie up and down, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

That had more than made up for Bertie's sulking displeasure that Jeeves had naysayed the natty lining Bertie had wanted for it. And indeed, it was a good suit— Bertie had felt very trim in it, and eventually admitted to himself that the modest navy lining looked very well.

And he'd torn it.

Jeeves, Bertie knew from hard-earned experience, was very particular in the care and choosing of Bertie's clothing. And even though he knew he, as Jeeves' employer, should be the one saying what styles he wished to wear, somehow it seemed that the oh-so-ravishing cravat or latest-style jacket that Jeeves thought gauche never remained long in Bertie's wardrobe… Jeeves had a thousand and one ways to express his displeasure with Bertie's attire while still remaining utterly polite and a consummate professional.

Unless Bertie did some inspired grovelling, he was in for Jeeves' coolest treatment in the next few weeks— the ultra-spicy drink would just be the beginning.

"I'm sorry," he said, as sincerely as he could. He had to remind himself not to try the wide, round eyes that sometimes worked on Aunt Dahlia, because he knew that Jeeves could see right through them. "I know you liked that suit. I liked that suit. And—"

What would Jeeves say to Bertie about all this, if Jeeves ever actually said things like this outright instead of just expressing his distaste for such behaviour through a myriad of subtle actions?

"I shouldn't have slid down the staircase," Bertie said. "It was stupid. I could've been hurt. If I broke my arm none of my clothes would sit right anymore. And you were right, I was drunk last night."

Jeeves blinked at him.

Bertie was on a roll. This was surprisingly easy— it seemed, in the time spent with Jeeves as his valet and companion, he had developed an internal voice that sounded a lot like the other man.

"It wasn't really Tuppy Glossop," he said. "He just suggested it. I could have not done it, and my jacket would be completely fine. Oh! and I really should've known that it was the wrong door last night. That was also stupid. I bet that man wants to roll me down the hill in a barrel filled with nails. Sorry, Jeeves. I should've come home earlier, and not had so many drinks, and left you to sleep. Err… and I do realise that my Appalachian hat looks ugly, I was only keeping it to be contrary. You can get rid of it if you like."

Bertie should do this more often. Saying all of it made the atmosphere of the kitchen feel lighter, somehow— and he also had the pleasure of seeing Jeeves open his mouth, then shut it again long seconds later from not knowing what to say.

Jeeves blinked again.

"Bertram Wilberforce Wooster," he said finally. "You are ever a surprise."

Bertie could feel his cheeks redden at that, and a smile was fluttering its way up from his heart.

"Thank you," he said, magnanimously. "I try. Even if it is not appreciated by the relations—"

He stopped himself, feeling that perhaps he should have done so just a bit earlier. Jeeves was doing that thing with his eyes that Bertie knew meant he would be rolling them if it was in any way professional to do so.

"Breakfast?" he said instead, hopefully. "Some of the old eggs and b, perhaps?" His appetite had returned with a vim, the (horrific) drink doing its work.

Jeeves made to rise, then stopped.

"Perhaps," he said, "You had better go apologise to the neighbours, first, so they don't report you to the police next time."

It was here that Bertie brought out his widest eyes, but as predicted they did not work on Jeeves in the slightest.

"Go," his valet said, waving a hand towards the door. "Your victuals will be ready on your return."

And so Bertie sloped off reluctantly to do some more grovelling, to a person he would have been perfectly happy never seeing again in his life— but at least he was assured of a good breakfast on his return.

And the news that his Appalachian hat had already been given away, a few days ago, now… but Bertie had already expected that, somehow. He really was getting to know Jeeves too well— and probably, he mused, tucking into his eggs and bacon, Jeeves knew him too well, too.