Archive of Our Own ^beta

Title: Jeeves and the Scandal
Pairing/characters: Jeeves + Wooster
Rating: PG13
Length: 6000 words
Summary: Written for lgbtfest, prompt 1711. Jeeves and Wooster, Reginald Jeeves/Bertie Wooster, a public figure is arrested on charges of homosexuality, and the case makes Bertie and Jeeves, both of whom are hiding their true natures for the other, rather uneasy. A tense atmosphere develops in the Wooster household, and at some point, something (or someone) has to break.
Warnings: some violence

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The morning newspaper was delivered to the doorstep by Jarvis the doorman at 6.15 sharp. Jeeves heard the light flop of the paper being placed on the doormat in the hall, and he retrieved the Daily Mirror with swift efficiency, not that there was an urgent need to deliver the day's news to his master. Though the valet had been awake and alert for some time, Mr Wooster was apt to sleep for at least another three or four hours. No, Jeeves used the early morning solitude for himself. His morning ablutions were complete; his most pressing chores were seen to; and Jeeves felt perfectly entitled to a quiet space of time at the kitchen table, sipping his first of two cups of tea and perusing the newspaper for any interesting information.

Jeeves spread the Mirror flat on the tabletop, careful not to crease the tissue-thin pages; Mr Wooster would want to give the paper a cursory glance when he awoke (relying on Jeeves to impart the bulk of the news verbally). In Mr Wooster's world, the news of greatest import was to be found in the society pages, and so that is where Jeeves normally began in the mornings. However, this morning, the large block letters of the front page caught his eye before he could even flip to the society announcements.

Reginald Jeeves read the headline no less than five times. His strict code of propriety and his stoic nature dictated that the shock he felt at those words resulted in nothing more than slightly widened eyes. Though he was alone there in the kitchen, his hand did not shake on his teacup's handle; the saucer did not rattle; an audible gasp did not escape his lips. Jeeves merely sat, closed his eyes tightly, and placed a hand on his brow.

The flat was quiet. And Reginald Jeeves did not make a sound.

<><><><>

Bertram Wilburforce Wooster woke to the sound of his curtains being drawn, a metallic slide of metal upon metal not unlike a guillotine falling into place. Bright sunlight flooded the bedroom, and Bertie blinked his eyes open to see his man Jeeves, a specter in head-to-toe black and grey, standing beside the cheery window.

"Good morning, sir," Jeeves said in his customary soft morning tones.

"Morning, my good man." Bertie reached almost without looking for the teacup that was surely waiting for him on his bedside table. The warm china met his hand as always, and Bertie drank deeply. "What's on the roster for today, Jeeves?" he asked, surfacing briefly before diving in once more.

No answer came from his usually helpful valet. Bertie waited in vain for three, four, five beats before looking up from his cup. Jeeves was still standing at the window, gazing out over the square with a look in his eye that Bertie could not identify. It was not the calculating look Jeeves got when he was scheming. It was not the dreamy look Jeeves displayed while digesting some serious reading material. It was different, and Bertie did not like it.

"Jeeves? Are you quite all right?"

The valet turned from the window, coughing lightly into his fist, himself once more. "Yes, sir."

"Ah." Bertie drained the last of the tea. Jeeves' ways were often a mystery to him, and he preferred to keep that status very much quo. Massive brain aside, there was something about his valet that made Bertram Wooster stand in awe and say golly, and it would be a shame to shatter that sort of thing. "Just so. I say, Jeeves, I'm feeling famished. Feel free to bung in the tray whenever you're ready."

With a quiet "certainly, sir," Jeeves slipped from the room in that soundless way of his, and Bertie didn't take five breaths before his breakfast shimmered into view before him. Perfectly soft eggs, a wire rack full of toast triangles, neat strips of bacon lined up like soldiers, little pots of butter and marmalade, a lovely violet in a crystal vase: Bertie surveyed the landscape and tucked in with a smile. There was something calming about the way Jeeves could arrange a breakfast tray, as if he'd been doing it since he was in short trousers. Which, Bertie reasoned as he chewed a thoughtful rasher, might very well have been the case.

Then Jeeves laid the newspaper on the coverlet.

Bertie stared at the headline on the front page, his egg-laden fork freezing in midair. He could feel a clammy sweat standing on his brow. A quick glance showed Jeeves fussing across the bedroom with some silk socks. Good. He wouldn't have seen the young master's reaction to the news, Bertie thought.

Food no longer held much interest for Bertie. He set down his fork and picked up the Mirror with what he hoped was a casual air. The words wavered before his eyes, but they didn't transform into better news. The paper still said:

Bertie could read no more, and he hurriedly folded the paper so the society pages were visible instead of that awful story. Eddie De Clare. Bertie knew him, of course. He didn't count him a close chum, but it was difficult if not impossible for a bird to have not run into Eddie at some soiree or other, especially if said bird had an ear for musical shows as Bertie did. And what's more, Jeeves knew that Bertie knew him; like an absolute fool, Bertie had recounted several tales of the oddball playwright for his man, who sometimes almost lifted a corner at his lip for such things.

Bertie looked up at Jeeves again. The valet had finished with the socks and was messing about with a tie or two. His dark eyes shot over to the newspaper in Bertie's hands. Bertie tossed it aside with an affected air of boredom, though he knew Jeeves was too clever to fall for the ruse. But no matter; Jeeves couldn't press the young master on a topic the young master hadn't first brought into conversation.

"Run the bath, Jeeves, if you would. The weather looks so topping, it would be a sin to stay abed one moment longer than necessary. I will be going for a ramble, what?"

"Very good, sir." And Jeeves took away the half-eaten repast.

<><><><>

After Mr Wooster had bathed, dressed, and left the flat, Jeeves found himself distracted most dreadfully from his routine. He had shopping lists to write and errands to run, and yet Jeeves could not bring himself to even take the most cursory step in a productive direction. He retrieved the discarded newspaper from the master bed and read the story for the sixth time. No new detail jumped from the pages, of course, and the sense of despair deep in the pit of his stomach did not leave.

It was only the abrupt jangling of the telephone that roused Jeeves from his hypnotised state. He made his way to the sitting room to answer it. For some reason, the hair stood on the back of Jeeves neck as a wild thought passed through his mind: perhaps this was the police calling. But that was preposterous, and Jeeves struck the idea from his mind as quick as lightning.

"Mr Wooster's residence."

"Jeeves, old boy!" the boisterous tenor of Bingo Little poured through the 'phone. "You wouldn't happen to have Bertie on hand in the homestead, hm?"

"I wouldn't, Mr Little. Mr Wooster is enjoying a perambulation at the moment."

"Ah! That's fine. I say, do you know if he saw the news this morning? There was a big to-do about old Eddie De Clare." Mr Little, far from sounding concerned about the man's fate, seemed positively giddy. Jeeves swallowed quietly before answering.

"I believe Mr Wooster has read the paper, yes."

"And he said nothing about the blighter? I'll tell you something, Jeeves, I was absolutely staggered. All agog. I suppose you must have heard that he—"

"Indeed, Mr Little." Jeeves kept his voice very level.

"Well! I just wanted to chat with Bertie about the whole mess. Do tell him to give me a ring when he gets in. Eddie De Clare! Strange times."

"I will inform Mr Wooster you called, Mr Little. Good afternoon, Mr Little," Jeeves said, and then rang off. He replaced the receiver in its cradle and stared blankly at the contraption for a moment. So this was how it would be: Mr Wooster would gossip and whisper with his acquaintances, and Jeeves would have to listen to every word they said. Mr Little had sounded genuinely shocked at the notion of an invert in their midst, a piece of information that both calmed Jeeves (for it revealed the blindness of those sorts of gentlemen) and wracked Jeeves' nerves (for it meant they might now be more vigilant).

Surely this scandal would pass. The public's attention was always short-lived, Jeeves assured himself. Just last month, there had been a dust-up over an MP and a chorus girl, and what of that tawdry tale? Jeeves hadn't heard a word about it all week. Yes, he decided, Edgar Royce De Clare would slip from the collective mind of London to be replaced by some other flight of fancy.

Jeeves told himself all this, and still his hand tightened on the telephone receiver, frozen in place like a victim of Medusa.

<><><><>

Bertie shut the front door behind him with a sigh. The walk round the park that had been meant to clear his head had only filled it up again. The bally news story was everywhere: in the shops, on the stands, being shouted about in a sort of code by boys in caps. It seemed to Bertie like everyone was talking about the De Clare debacle. It wasn't para-whatsit either. Paranormal? Paranoia! It wasn't paranoia either. Bertie had distinctly heard snippets of conversation on the subject, chaps tutting about it to chaps, ladies hissing about it to ladies, and everyone quieting down as they passed each other on the pavement.

Jeeves met him in the foyer to take his walking stick and topper. "Any letters or anything, Jeeves?" Bertie asked with a sigh. The day had tired him, and it wasn't anywhere near finished.

The valet seemed to hesitate for a moment—a strange thing for Jeeves—while placing Bertie's hat on the hook in the hall closet. "Yes, sir," he finally said. "Mr Little telephoned shortly after you left."

"Oh? What did Bingo want?" Bertie threw himself into an armchair and reached for his box of cigarettes on the end table.

Jeeves preoccupied himself with arranging the sticks and umbrellas in their stand, though Bertie thought they were stuck there just fine. "He indicated a desire to hear your thoughts on a certain news item, sir."

Bertie's thumb froze on the wheel of his cigarette lighter. The cig. he'd placed between his lips nearly fell due to slackness in that region. But, he recovered: "News, you say?" A little high-pitched, but there it was, an answer.

"Yes. I believe it was the story of a Mr De Clare that had captured his attention," Jeeves said, sweeping about the sitting room and straightening a picture frame or twelve. "I told Mr Little I would alert you, sir."

Bertie hummed in a noncommittal fashion and went back to work coaxing a spark out of his lighter. He succeeded after three or four clicks, and the first inhale was both deep and deeply appreciated.

"Sir?" Jeeves coughed into his fist. He appeared suddenly near Bertie's elbow.

Bertie fought the urge to jump out of his skin. "Yes, Jeeves?"

"Are you aware of this matter to which Mr Little alluded? He seemed most eager to know."

"Erm." Bertie smoked a bit more. "Erm, yes. Yes, I've been made aware. There was something about it in the paper, wasn't there?" Bertie motioned minutely to the sideboard and Jeeves stepped over to it with a small nod of acknowledgment. "Did you, ah, did you happen to see it, Jeeves?"

Jeeves took great care in filling the shaker with the proper amount of ice before answering. "I make it a point to lightly peruse the news of the day, sir, in case some item or other proves useful." Gin, vermouth, more ice. The shaker shook loudly in his hands. The strainer strained.

"Hm. Yes, of course. Of course you do, Jeeves." Bertie accepted the martini glass with a distracted air, looking at the far window and not at his valet. "Well, I suppose I'll give Bingo a ring sometime later."

"Indeed, sir. If there is nothing else, sir." And Jeeves turned towards the kitchen.

"Jeeves?" Bertie halted him with a word. The man stopped and waited, the picture of patience, his hands stiff at his sides. When Bertie's voice came next, it was light and frivolous and half-mumbled into his two-olive drink. "Jeeves, you're a bright cove. What do you make of this whole dreadful business with De Clare?"

"Well, sir." Jeeves stood a little straighter. His head was held a little higher. His lips pursed a bit more. "I cannot say, sir," he finally said.

"You cannot say?"

"No, sir."

"What can't you say, Jeeves?"

Jeeves looked down at his seated master sharply. "Sir?"

"Surely you've already come to several dashed clever conclusions about this matter, Jeeves." Bertie stubbed his cigarette out in an ash tray and sat back with his drink. "I just thought you could save me the trouble by telling me what you think."

"I—" Jeeves blinked. Actually blinked. Bertie was certain he'd never seen his valet blink in anything but polite annoyance at patterned waistcoats. But there was not a paisley in sight at the mo'. "I would consider Mr De Clare...." Jeeves said slowly.

Bertie sipped at his martini and gestured for Jeeves to continue with his free hand.

"I would consider Mr De Clare to be an abhorrent example of a human being, sir," Jeeves said. "His behaviour, if only a fraction of the charges against him prove to be true, is that of an animal. It is disgraceful, sir, what some abominable persons think they can get away with in polite society. His iniquity will bear out, and he will be punished, in my opinion, not nearly as harshly as needs be."

Bertie swallowed. He looked at his near-empty glass, then back up at Jeeves. "Ah. Thank you, Jeeves."

"Sir." And with a subtle incline of his head that may have been a nod, Jeeves glided into the kitchen.

Bertie lifted his drink to his lips, but found he had not the stomach for another mouthful, and he placed it on the sideboard with a heavy hand.

<><><><>

Several days later.

Jeeves waited until Mr Wooster had retired for the night, then sat himself at the kitchen table with a lit gasper in one hand and a tumbler of whisky in the other. Hard liquor was not a normal indulgence for Jeeves, but after the week he had endured, he could not think of a better balm for his frazzled nerves. His fingertips twitched nervously round his cigarette; he hadn't eaten dinner or supper, hadn't been able to even think about food all day, and now he was as shaky as one of his master's over-stretched metaphors.

He abandoned the gasper in an ash tray and massaged his aching temple with his now-free hand. The De Clare scandal had not died down as Jeeves had hoped. The papers had dredged up every disturbing detail of the case they could, though Jeeves was certain the bulk of the columns and articles were outright fiction. He had been found half-naked in the rehersal space with an actor; no, two actors; no, he had seduced a married man; make that several married men; no, make that several married men and a handful of young students. The story grew and grew.

Wild speculation on the man's fate had become a favourite topic in Mr Wooster's circle. Thrice now members of the Drones had stopped at the flat to gossip with Jeeves' master. Jeeves had been forced to listen to their rude insinuations and bizarre theories. Mr Wooster, for his part, hardly ever spoke during these quasi-salons. He merely nodded along in a knowing fashion, quirking his eyebrow or lip at what Jeeves supposed were amusing observations by Mr Little or Mr Prossor. Once, when pressed very hard by his friends for his opinion on Edgar Royce De Clare's situation, Mr Wooster waved a lit Turkish cigarette in Jeeves' direction and said, "My man said it best the other day. Two years hard l. is not nearly enough for a monstrosity like that, what?"

Mr Wooster was clapped soundly on the shoulder amid peals of laughter. Jeeves had excused himself to the kitchen for more ice.

Now, sitting alone in the cold kitchen in his shirtsleeves, watching his gasper turn to a line of ash, Jeeves knew what needed to be done. Knew it was something he should have done years ago. He downed the remainder of his drink and made his way to his rooms.

There, under the rickety iron bedstead, a loose floorboard came up with relative ease. Jeeves reached into the dark, secret recesses below the floor. And he retrieved his letters.

<><><><>

At that same moment, Bertram Wooster was pacing his bedroom floor in his dressing gown. He had retired hours before but found sleep very elusive that night. Though his head ached and his bones were tired, Bertie had not relished the notion of tossing and twisting himself up in the sheets all night, so after enough time had passed for him to say he'd given it his best, he began to pace.

The past week had been difficult, not in the least because of Jeeves. This was the man Bertie had relied upon, looked up to (quite literally). And now, Bertie felt a sour, crinkly feeling in the pit of his stomach, a sick sense of foreboding of the type that was usually smoothed out by a chat with Jeeves. But not this time.

Bertie went to his writing desk and opened the second drawer. He took a deep breath, then shut it again, swiftly. "Come on, Wooster," he muttered. "Come on now." Again, he opened the drawer, and this time it remained open. He removed all the papers: assorted notes, little snippets of writings, telegrams Jeeves had sent him.

The false bottom in the drawer came out with a little prodding. Bertie removed the key that lay there, and he took the key to the lock on his private safe, which was stashed at the bottom of his armoire. The safe door swung open to reveal the usual drek. Wills and testaments and financial papers and such. And there, underneath all that, Bertie found his pictures.

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The letters were many. Some were dated nearly ten years ago. Jeeves couldn't stop himself from flipping through the worn, creased pages one final time. He remembered, through them, a summer spent in wheat fields, the smell of hay in another boy's fair hair. He remembered the wine in Spain. He could remember the way seawater tasted when licked from the neck of a man you knew you loved (or thought you knew, or hoped you knew; time eroded all). With these letters, Jeeves could remember what it felt like to be touched and whispered to in the dark, caught in a state between dreams and wakefulness.

He wanted to be angry at himself for keeping these letters, but Jeeves could not bring himself to it. He read the last lines on the last letter:

Though I will never again hold you in the circle of my arms while you sleep, I pray that I may one day hold you when Eternal Sleep comes for me, and I am at peace at last.

I must go. My bride calls to me. Reginald, my dearest, please forgive me.

Jeeves felt his eyes cloud and burn with unshed tears. It had been years since he'd first read this letter; it was not worth weeping over now. No, the reason for Jeeves' tears was deeper than lost love. It was knowing that he could not even be allowed to hold on to this one simple token, this one remembrance of what had been. Jeeves allowed one single teardrop to fall down his cheek and said a silent farewell to his secret life.

He recovered admirably, wiped his eyes dry, and gathered the letters together before rising with the intention of starting a fire in the sitting room grate.

<><><><>

Bertie did not give the pictures a final glance. He knew their every detail already; they were burned into his brain, and Bertie didn't wish to linger over them.

The photographs had been procured through the most secretive means. Bertie had waited until Jeeves had taken his annual vacation, and then he had booked passage to France. There, certain materials could be bought without fear of the law closing in on him in the night. It had been slightly ridiculous and sad, the way Bertie had hunted for these photographs. He had meandered about a coastal village, watchful for any vacationing peoples he might be acquainted with. It was his fiercest nightmare that he would be confronted at a inopportune moment by an aunt, a cousin, an old school chum.

But Bertie knew no one in that village, and so he had slipped into the specialist's shop and rifled through the photographs for sale. The pictures were ostensibly for health enthusiasts, chaps who were interested in the burgeoning sport of muscle displays. Bertie had nearly gasped aloud at the plethora of photos in the shops' racks: well-developed men wearing only the smallest of loincloths, or nothing at all, posed in a fashion that one could argue was merely for scientific purposes. And if some of the men were photographed together, well, that could just be for comparison's sake.

The relative innocence of the pictures didn't matter to Bertie; he bought fifty of them. He had never seen anything like them before, had only heard whispers of their existence, and looking at them set his imagination afire. As well as other, more physical portions of the Wooster self.

But now, what with De Clare, Bertie was determined to be rid of them, of the evidence that could be his downfall. And so he took the packet from the safe.

<><><><>

It was nearly two in the morning when Bertie padded out of his bedroom in his dressing gown and found his valet in the sitting room, messing with the grate. If Bertie hadn't been so surprised to find Jeeves exactly where he had planned to be, doing exactly the thing Bertie had planned on doing, perhaps he would have had the presence of mind to slink away before Jeeves became aware of him, standing there in his house slippers.

But Bertie was surprised, and so he exclaimed quietly, "Oh! Jeeves."

Jeeves, who had been preoccupied with the grate, looked up with doubly raised eyebrows. If Bertie had been surprised before, he was now astonished; Jeeves was never, to his knowledge, caught off guard by anything, and yet, there it was.

Jeeves stood quickly. "Good evening, sir."

"I should rather think it's a good morning, what?"

"So it is, sir."

"It's rather late, Jeeves." Bertie shifted his packet of photographs from under his arm to behind his back, a move that Jeeves' eyes followed. "W-what are you doing up at o'dark thirty?"

"I was about to build a fire in the grate, sir."

"Really." Bertie's gaze tracked along the floor and spied a bundle of papers wrapped with twine sitting next to Jeeves' feet. "It's a warm-ish night, my good man. Why would you build a fire?"

"I—" Jeeves' eyes fell to his shoes, where Bertie was still staring. He must have realised that his master noticed the papers, and he hesitated a moment before continuing. "These are old receipts for the household goods, sir. I have been meaning to burn them since this spring, when I calculated our yearly budget."

"I see." Bertie shifted on his feet. "That's a lot of bally receipts."

"Yes, sir."

"And they must be burned, you say?"

"Indeed, sir," Jeeves intoned. "Sir, if I may ask, were you unable to sleep?"

"Hm? Sleep?" Bertie reddened, his photos still clutched behind his back. "No, no, I, erm, I was just itching for a glass of water."

"Shall I fetch a glass of water for you now, sir?" Jeeves asked.

"Oh, I don't think so, Jeeves. The desire has passed, as they say."

"I see, sir." Jeeves inclined his head to the side and pursed his lips. "Were you planning on perusing a manuscript as well, sir?"

"A what?"

"The portfolio I see you are carrying, sir. Is it a manuscript of yours?"

Bertie brought the large envelope of pictures from behind his back, looking at them as if he was shocked to find them still in his hands. "Oh! This. Uh, yes. Yes, Jeeves, it is a manuscript. I was going to have a gander at it while I drank some water. Couldn't sleep, you know, may as well do something useful."

"Of course, sir. If you would like me to edit the piece as usual—" Jeeves reached out a hand, and Bertie recoiled as if the valet had thrown boiling oil in his direction.

"Erm, no thank you, Jeeves." Bertie swallowed. "The truth is, it's a terrible bore. I was coming into the sitting room to," his eyes fell on the papers on the floor, "burn it! Yes. How funny, what? The both of us coming here in the middle of the night like this, I mean."

"Quite a coincidence, sir." Jeeves was now regarding his master with a closed, blank-mask look. He took a step forward. "Please allow me to dispose of that along with the receipts."

Bertie took a step back and forced a watery smile onto his face. "No, that's quite all right. It can wait."

"It would be more efficient to burn all the documents at once, sir," Jeeves pointed out, and stepped even closer.

"Would it?" Bertie stood frozen in place.

"It would be no hardship." Jeeves placed a hand gently on the edge of the bound packet. Bertie flinched, yanking the portfolio out of his valet's reach.

"No, Jeeves."

"Sir—"

"I said no."

"If you would only let me—"

"Leave it be."

Jeeves reached out once more, a bemused frown on his visage. "Sir, I—"

"Would you just leave it, Jeeves!" And with one hand clasping the photographs to his chest, Bertie shoved his man quite forcefully with the other.

While not a very broad man, Bertram Wooster was very tall, just as tall as Jeeves, and was possessed of a wiry strength. It was this strength that managed to propel Jeeves from his feet and stumble backward several steps into a side table. Jeeves recovered his balance as quickly as possible, but not before upsetting a lamp and sending it crashing to the floor, where it shattered into tiny porcelain jigsaw pieces.

Both men stared at the broken lamp, rooted to their respective spots, silent as the grave in the wake of the loud noise. Then, after an interminable pause, Jeeves looked up at his master and said, "I must now insist you hand those documents over to me, sir."

Bertie felt the blood drain from his face. His hand tightened round his photos. "Stop this, Jeeves."

"Please, sir—" Jeeves strode forward once more, not in the genteel way of a valet, but in a purposeful rush. Bertie flattened himself against the wall, skittering as far away from the man as he could.

"Jeeves, I swear, I won't hesitate to—" Bertie would never know what he meant to say then, because in that moment Jeeves' hand darted out for the photographs and Bertie, without thinking, backhanded his valet across his stoic map. The slap was loud, probably louder than it was painful, but the shock of it showed clearly on both their faces. Jeeves' eyes were wide as the red mark spread across his cheek, and Bertie watched it, horrified.

Belatedly, Jeeves' fingertips came up to touched his injured cheek. He did not speak.

Bertie, who had never harmed so much as a garden insect in his life, and had never, ever raised a hand to a servant, felt the intense need to weep. "I— Jeeves—" he choked out.

Jeeves, without speaking, without blinking, raised his hand and struck his master right in the ear. Bertie reeled; he hadn't had his ears boxed like that since his aunt Agatha had disciplined his schoolboy self. Act like a man, Bertram, like a Wooster! rang through his head, even as his ears rang from the blow. A sudden, overpowering rage overtook Bertie and, dropping his precious burden to the floor, he launched himself at Jeeves with an angry cry.

They rolled and fought on the floor, their backs nettled by the broken bits of the lamp. Bertie felt his lip split when Jeeves' elbow knocked it rather painfully; he retaliated by bloodying Jeeves' nose. Incoherent snarls and growls were punctuated by harsh blows to the ribs and kicks to the shins. After what felt like ages but what was probably more like mere moments, Bertie managed to secure the upper hand. He rolled them so that Jeeves was beneath him, and in doing so, the back of Jeeves' head was bashed into the solid marble of the hearth. It was a sickening thud, and Bertie knew upon hearing it that it was not good.

Bertie looked down at his valet, limp and still beneath him. "Jeeves?" Bertie said, his voice small amid his desperate pants for air. His hands tightened on Jeeves' shirtfront. "Jeeves, can you hear me?"

The valet groaned, his eyes fluttering.

"Oh dear Lord." Bertie felt the back of Jeeves' head, but there was no blood in his black hair. There was, however, a sizable knot forming. Jeeves moaned in pain when Bertie's fingers found it. Bertie pulled his hand back speedily.

"I—I'm so sorry, Jeeves, I didn't mean to," Bertie said, his hands dancing fretfully over his man's chest, unsure of what to do.

"S-sir," Jeeves mumbled with some difficulty, "may I express a similar sentiment over your bloodied lip?"

"You may, Jeeves." And Bertie began the work of hefting his valet upright.

<><><><>

Jeeves swam back into consciousness to find himself lying on the chesterfield in the sitting room. His tie had been loosened and the first few studs of his shirt were undone, probably in an effort to "give him some air." His nose throbbed like hellfire. Jeeves lifted a hand to probe at his injured face, but something batted his hand away.

With pain-clouded vision Jeeves perceived his master perched in a chair next to the chesterfield, dabbing at his nose with a warm, damp washcloth.

"Awake now, Jeeves?" Bertie asked. His left eye was beginning to bruise, and his mouth was swelling even as Jeeves watched.

"Yes, sir. Was I out for very long?" Jeeves tried to sit upright, but an immediate and crushing headache forced him to stay put, along with Bertie's hand on his chest.

"Just a few minutes. Any longer and I would have called the doctor. You got beaned rather badly."

Jeeves nodded as best he could, then saw a pile of papers in Bertie's lap. His papers. His love letters. The twine that had bound the stack was undone. Jeeves reached a hand out and plucked the top letter from the stack. It was unfolded and open to the last page.

Without another word, Jeeves closed his eyes and turned to face the back of the chesterfield.

Bertie cleared his throat. "I only wanted, that is, while I was waiting for you to come round, well, they were sitting there, Jeeves. And I knew they weren't the receipts, so I had to look, you see."

Jeeves still did not speak.

"Dash it, Jeeves, if you weren't already hurt I would smack you again!" Bertie cried. "Look at me, will you?"

The valet did not move, but said, muffled into the stuffing of the furniture, "Strike me again if you wish, sir."

"Jeeves! Don't be absurd! Look at me."

"Yes, I suppose there is no blow forceful enough for what you think I deserve," Jeeves said, still facing away. "What was it you said, sir? That two years hard labour was not enough for a man like me?"

"You said that, Jeeves! I was only repeating you."

"What else could I have said?" Jeeves whispered into the cushions. "But you, sir, you agreed with it so readily, so completely, that I can only assume you will be handing over those letters to the authorities once you're finished with me."

Jeeves heard a short sound of papers ruffling, and Bertie placed a packet on Jeeves' stomach. "Here," he said. "Take these."

Jeeves considered staying still, for he did not want to know what was in the packet after all. Some paranoid part of his mind had conjured up a vision of more evidence against him, a series of documents to prove his illegal doings. With shaking hands, he opened the large envelope.

The photographs spilled out, and Jeeves stared. He picked up one, then another. "I don't understand," he said.

Bertie shrugged one shoulder. "And here I thought you were supposed to be clever."

Jeeves finally looked up at him. "These belong to you, sir?"

A short nod.

"But how? You—" Jeeves swallowed. "You cannot be. I would have known. I would have—"

"Just as I would have known of the inner workings of my inimitable valet?" Bertie ran a hand through his mussed light-brown hair, grin as wide as the split lip allowed. "It looks as though we've both been doing the same waltz, Jeeves."

Jeeves stared blankly at his master. Bertie's smile faded. "Aren't you chuffed at this news, Jeeves? We're both, well, dash it, we're both inverts. Isn't that lucky?"

"Sir." Jeeves began arranging the photographs into a neat pile. "It is apparent I must resign."

"What? Are you mad? Why!?"

Jeeves went on without meeting Bertie's eyes. "It would not be safe for you, sir, to keep an invert as a manservant. Suspicion would be too easily cast upon you were I to be wrapped up in a scandal like the one that plagues Mr De Clare."

"They couldn't prove anything," Bertie said with stubborn assurance.

"Your manner is not suited to lying, sir. I would not risk it."

"I've lied all this time. Even to you, Jeeves." Bertie reached out and grasped Jeeves' elbow. "I can do it some more."

Jeeves shook his head. "I fear I must leave your service, sir. I am sorry but—"

"Leave me because I'm an ass!" Bertie shouted, his grip tightening on Jeeves' arm. "Leave me because you hate my taste in socks! Leave me because I'm a fool and I'm too much trouble for you to bother with, but Jeeves, do not leave me because of this. Please."

Jeeves thought for a moment. "I suppose I might resign myself to never again indulging in such things. Those letters are the only proof of my past transgressions, and if I never violate the law in the future...."

"Oh, Jeeves," Bertie sighed. "I dislike that solution even more."

"Why is that, sir?"

Bertie looked away, his face flaming red. Slowly, Jeeves turned his attention back to the pile of near-pornographic pictures in his lap. All those muscular, scantily clothed men: they were almost all dark-haired and dark-eyed. Flipping through them, Jeeves saw that the few photos that featured two men posing together often paired a slighter, fair specimen with a dark one. If one squinted, well. Then things became clearer.

"As you say, sir," Jeeves said quietly, "I was supposed to be quite clever. But in this instance, I have not been very astute, have I?" He laid his hand over his master's, which was still clutching his elbow. Bertie gasped audibly and stared down at his valet in wonder. Jeeves' fingers tightened in reassurance.

"Kiss me, Jeeves," Bertie whispered. "But very lightly; some blighter gave me a bloody lip."

Jeeves lifted the corner of his mouth in his version of a smile. And followed his master's directive.

<><><><>

The letters and photographs were burned the next day.

Bertie sighed that it was a shame they had to be destroyed, but Jeeves pointed out that they had something better, something intangible, that reminded them of who they really were.

"And what are we, Jeeves?" Bertie asked. "Criminals? Deviants? Bent men?"

"You may call yourself beloved, sir," Jeeves said, tossing the last bit of paper into the fire. "I think it more fitting."

"Yes. Much more," Bertie said, and dropped a kiss onto Jeeves' bruised cheek.

fin.

This was a very different fic for me! It was darker, slower, less about the characters and more about the environment of private anguish that gay men had to go through at that time. Um, WOW, that sounded really pompous! I guess all I mean to say is, here's a story, I hope you liked it.

At times I thought maybe I was taking the prompt too literally, that having something "break" didn't necessarily mean it had to end in a fist fight, but I kind of wanted to push Bertie and Jeeves (who are basically very gentle characters living in a very gentle world, barring one or two incidents where Jeeves knocks out policemen) to violence. Maybe I succeeded in doing that, maybe I didn't, but it was important to try, I think.

Enough blathering! I hope you liked it. <3 <3 <3