Jeeves and the Patience of a Saint

Chapter Three

Three hours passed of failed attempts to come to Mr. Wooster's aid, and I was currently occupied in the dining hall, assisting the bewildered Drones members with costuming.

The gentlemen wandered through the hall in clothing half antiquated and half their own, as if awaiting their call to the gallows. Each of them was more garishly attired, in enormous swathes of linen or leather, depending on the painting for which they had been chosen. Every thirty minutes or so, a group of them would be freed back into the hall from the photography shoot in the ballroom, to shed the costumes and flee to the relative safety of their own lodge. Each returning gentleman was flustered and irritated, having been posed and prodded into unnatural positions and instructed to hold still for what seemed like an eternity.

I worried for the state of my employer. Mr. Wooster was not accustomed to providing such a performance on order, and I feared he was trapped in some horrendous renaissance portrait reenactment, by the odious Mr. Jeffries.

A young man passed, bearing an armload of what appeared to be a painted backdrop. He looked harried, and had clearly been rushed through the day's activities. He looked worriedly at the row of doors down the hallway, and shifted from foot to foot. I made my presence known by a slight cough. He turned towards me, and I made my voice as soothing as possible.

"Are you looking for the room where Mr. Jeffries working?"

"I was just there! I don't remember which one it is, and one of these is where the ladies are changing!"

"A predicament, indeed. Perhaps you could entrust the delivery to me? I'd be happy to locate Mr. Jeffries on your behalf. You're much too busy to be wasting your minutes on such a small task..."

"I'm not certain-- Mr. Jeffries is very particular about being interrupted..." The boy was clearly tempted by my offer. I pressed my point while he wavered.

"I'm quite sure he will not mind. I was appointed to assist in his shoot."

"Well, in that case!" said the boy, relief spreading over his face. He deposited the pile of fabric into my arms, and was fleeing down the hall in moments.

Prepared thusly, I returned to the drawing room door, where I knocked softly.

"Is that my backdrop!? What's taken so long!?" came the muffled voice from inside, "Come in, come in!"

Feeling very satisfied in my victory, I pushed the door open.

In that moment, when my hands went numb and the cloth dropped from my hands, I dimly recall that Mr. Jeffries began to berate my interruption. He had no sooner opened his mouth, though, before I was forcibly removing him from the room.

"Out," I declared, planting him outside the door. Something in my voice, low and insistent as an oncoming train, must have stilled his arguments, because he said nothing further when I slammed and locked the door. It was very unlike my usual behavior, but then, I have never before been at such odds against my own strength of will.

With Mr. Jeffries safely huffing away outside the room, I turned, and with my back against the door, drew a deep, shuddering breath at the sight that had first greeted me when I had entered.

Mr. Jeffries was, indeed, an artist of the tableax vivant. He had arranged Mr. Wooster splayed over a table, among cloths that draped against his form, caressing the sides of his body. The lighting was perfect, with dark curtains sheilding the room from light to create the immediately recognizable beax-arts, high-contrast style of 16th century painter, Marcantonio Bassetti.

Mr. Wooster, apparently asleep, reclined with an arm stretched over his head, and his long legs bent at the knee. The cloth wound around one leg, and it can be noted that he wore nothing but the material that draped around him and over the table. The soft candlelight threw the musculature of his torso into sharp relief, and emphasized the beauty of his face in sleep.

I have never before been so simultaneously moved and astonished by a single image.

As I stood in utter awe, trembling against the doorframe, Mr. Wooster stirred, slightly, and, blinking, arched his neck to look at me over his shoulder.

"Jeeves!" he pronounced, delighted. " Don't I look saintly?"

Mr. Jeffries had duplicated a painting of St. Sebastian, casting Mr. Wooster as the beautiful central figure, and shocking me to the core. The weeks we'd been apart, my sudden fondness for Mr. Wooster's unruly curls, the carefully proper warming of his body after his fall-- I had reached the ends of my limits in these circumstances. The emotions swept through me in an intoxicating rush, and I found myself slowly advancing on my recumbent employer.

The painting had long been a favorite of mine. Many men of my persuasion often found themselves drawn to St. Sebastian, painted as he was martyred, impaled by arrows and stretched sensuously to display his pale, masculine beauty. It was no wonder Mr. Jeffries had picked Mr. Wooster to play this part; with Mr. Wooster's slim, attractive frame, and the corona of golden curls, I must have been blind, myself, not to notice the resemblance.

But Mr. Wooster was no untouchable saint-- he was my cheerful, affectionate employer, for whom my fondness had become deeper, even, than I had fully been aware.

At present, his eyes were wide and questioning in the candlelight, as he peered over the top of his shoulder at me, advancing towards him with no clear motive. When I reached his side, I slowed to a stop, and my hand, trembling, extended to touch the faux arrow that was affixed beneath his ribcage. Mr. Wooster must have seen something in my face, because he did not press me with questions.

My hand smoothed down the feather quill, and down the shaft of the arrow, where I grasped it at the base to loosen the adhesive, and pull it carefully from his skin. The arrow pulled free cleanly, the spirit gum unsticking easily from his smooth skin.

There was a shuddering gasp from Mr. Wooster, and I watched his face as I discarded the arrow, and moved to the next one, affixed to his chest. Something about pulling the arrows free of his body, revealing the unmarred skin beneath, was at once sensual and deeply fulfilling, as if I was pulling the arrows from the martyred saint, himself. The act was akin to healing his wounds. I became dizzy with the combined acts of healing and touching my employer and the saint, at once.

I was unsure why this circumstance had resulted in the final crumbling of my barricade against my feelings for Mr. Wooster. Perhaps his role as the objectified saint had placed him, finally, within my reach. Perhaps it was simply the combination of Mr. Wooster's candlelit dishabille and my innate need to heal the metaphorical wounds he suffers.

Mr. Wooster's chest rose and fell rapidly. His wide eyes were unusually dark, and flicking over my hands as they hovered over his chest. I was calmed by the notion that he, too, was effected by the present exchange. I met his eyes as I pulled the last arrow from his body, and he lay before me unimpaled and panting. I have never seen a more arousing sight. Lifting my hands over his smooth skin, I stroked over the places from where I had pulled the arrows. My hands passed carefully down his torso, my fingers following the dips and curves that were so beautifully accented by the candle's shadow.

Unable to stop myself, as if in a dream, I bent at the waist, and followed these curves with my lips, my eyes finally lowering from his own to flutter nearly closed, so I could watch his smooth skin pass so close below me.

Mr. Wooster's gasps and the arch of his back would have broken my facade, if I hadn't already fallen deeply from my constant state of staunch propriety. I was dizzy with the scent of his skin; clean and sharp, with the underlying, subtle musk of his sweat. Suddenly overwhelmed, I groaned against his skin. My hands had found their way to his hips, and I felt his answering undulation.

"Jeeves," he choked, uttering the first word since my composure had broken.

My name, so familiar from his lips, was startlingly affecting in it's ragged, passionate tone. I dragged my lips up over his stomach as I tipped my head to look up the length of his body to his flushed face. He'd raised his head to peer at me over his panting chest, and as we regarded each other in passion and surprise, he smiled tremulously and raised a quavering hand to run his fingers lightly over my hair. As his warm hand passed over my ear, my eyes fell shut, blocking out the overwhelming sight of him and his adoring eyes, and I shuddered against him with a gasp. His thumb rubbed along my jawline, and I let my head drop back down to his warm skin.

This was not an abstracted saint, but the familiar flesh of my employer, which I had so long forced myself to ignore. My transgression was unforgivable, but his skin against my cheek was hot and soft, and I could not help but nuzzle against him. Through the precarious sheet that wound around his pelvis, his arousal pressed against my chest.

It seemed impossible that he should have responded to my sudden advances. I felt lightheaded with the improbability of our current situation. It vaguely occurred to me that I was amorously sprawled across my employer's supine form, as he was laid out upon a drawing room table in an ladies' mountaineering club. But his voice uttering my name in passion seemed to erase my reservations.

"Sir?" I inquired in a low voice against his skin. I watched his face bloom with a wide smile and hectic color. I could not help but return his smile with an answering fond expression. My weight shifted, and I rolled onto my knee, placed between his sprawling, shapely legs. My other knee followed, brushing against his side, and I began to draw my nose along the curves of his stomach and over his chest. My mouth reached his alluring neck, and I brushed my lips along his collarbone and up the sinews of his neck to his ear. My weight came to settle against him, and he gasped in pleasure as our hips fitted together.

As I tasted the skin of his neck beneath his ear, his chest vibrated against my own as he gave a tentative, shuddering groan. I felt his feet slide up my calves, and his legs wrap around my own, and couldn't help but thrust against him.

"That's... That's lovely!" he exclaimed, and his head fell back with eyes shut in passion. His hands slid under the lapels of my open jacket, and over my lower back. As I grazed my teeth over his neck, his hands fisted in my shirt suddenly, inadvertently pulling my shirt-tails from my waistline. His hips were undulating subtly against me, seemingly of their own accord. My own excitement had advanced so swiftly to such a fevered state, that the slight movement was nearly enough to send me into completion. I lifted my head, noting that my breath was coming in soft pants that ruffled his hair slightly.

My eyes fell to his lips, which emitted a soft whimper, and I tilted my chin just enough so that my mouth could feel the heat of his breath, which seemed to stop in his chest as my lips drew nearer to his own.

I trembled over him in my hesitation to transgress the final taboo. I had, with secretive fervency, often contemplated his kiss nearly from the onset of our association. This moment, when I held myself on the brink of my final liberty, my hesitancy at the abandonment of feudal propriety asserted itself subtly, freezing my lips centimeters from his. His eyes darted over my face, pleading, and his whisper brushed our mouths into contact.

"P...please...Kiss me, Jeeves."

It was a irresistible request. My lips landed hard against his, and his arms and legs clutched at me convulsively. My hips were pressed tightly against his. His mouth was so soft and damp, the pleasure was dizzying. His lips parted in a gasp, and searched my own, nipping at my bottom lip. When he bit down softly, I realized that his thrusts had intensified, and, whimpering, he was reaching his ecstasy against me.

My chest swelled as I breathed in, marveling at his beauty, and at the thought that I had taken part in causing him this pleasure. His eyes opened slowly, dark and sated, and met my own. He has never been adept at concealing his emotion, and it was easy to read his feelings across his open expression. I was struck with the thought that I had noticed this expression before, but barred my mind from reading the meaning behind it. Now I could soak in the fondness in his eyes, and let my own show upon my face.

When he lazily slipped his tongue into my mouth, I found myself nearing the apex of my own pleasure. To taste his mouth was intoxicating. His hands had wormed their way under my shirt to brush the skin of my lower-back, and as our kiss intensified, he raked his nails tentatively up my back. I shattered in his arms. My back arched and I ground my hips against him as I was gripped with passion, deeper and harder than I can ever recall. I cried out softly, exclaiming into his lips, and bucked against him, clutching his head with my fingers speared into his curling hair.

When my wits returned, I was panting against his smiling mouth. I rested my forehead against his, while he peered blearily up at me with an expression of slow, astonished happiness. His hands smoothed up and down my back, and I shuddered as his fingertips momentarily brushed into the gap in my waistband.

Miraculously, and despite slowly returning to myself, I found myself smiling down into his face. My body felt heavy and languid, cradled by his limbs. My issue, cooling in my undershorts, wasn't even uncomfortable enough to compel me to move from his embrace.

But the peaceful silence, broken only by the sound of his hands smoothing down my back, and our soft breathing, gave way to the sound of persistent thudding against the door.

I gathered myself as swiftly as I was able, and pushed carefully off my employer's body. The cold against my perspiration-dampened clothing was jarringly unpleasant. He was staring at the door, a panicked look in his eyes, but he continued to lie sprawled enticingly among the sheets, spread like a pinned butterfly. I took a moment to linger over his form, before swiftly righting my clothing and hair. There was nothing to be done, for the moment, for the state of my underthings, but my dark suit would conceal the evidence of my pleasure. With that thought, I turned to Mr. Wooster, who had managed to lean up on his elbows, and was examining his own state of dishabille with worry.

"Jeeves!" he turned to me, pulling at the wetted sheet, "Help!"

I quickly smoothed the wound fabric over him, cleaning his skin of his issue, and tossed the rolled sheet behind a bookcase. It wasn't the most efficacious method of disposal, but it took care of the immediate evidence. It also bared him from the waist down. I felt myself blush when he noticed my regard, and his cock twitched against his leg at my fervent stare.

I carefully arranged one of the other sheets over his hips, hiding the temptation, and preserving his modesty just in time for the study door to burst open. Mr. Wooster met my eyes with panic as Mr. Jeffries and a small entourage of assistants barreled through the doorway, having broken the lock beyond repair.

I placed the back of my hand against Mr. Wooster's forehead, returning his confused gaze, significantly. After a moment of deep thought, he understood my implication, and flopped onto his back, moaning as if violently ill.

"What is this! How dare you, you impertinent philistine, to disrupt my art!" Mr. Jeffries was highly agitated, gesticulating wildly.

"My employer suffers a nervous condition. If he is without his medicine for more than two hours, he is prone to a relapse. Your photographic session extended beyond the time in which he was to receive his medication, and he has subsequently taken quite ill."

Mr. Jeffries sputtered indignantly. There was something in his gaze that clearly indicated that he was more aware of the truth of the situation than he felt comfortable letting be known.

"I've administered his injection, but he is still in grave peril. Now, I must dress my employer and rush him to his sickroom. If you will excuse me..." I indicated with my eyebrows that the crowd should vacate the room. Mr. Jeffries looked daggers at me, but I was certain that, in his final look before he turned to depart, I perceived the acknowledgment of defeat in a jealous admirer.

Mr. Wooster had been playing his act to the rafters, moaning and rolling his head beneath the back of his hand. At Mr. Jeffries' departure, he stilled and silenced his act, and turned to grin mischievously at me; his co-conspirator and rescuer.

I gathered up his clothing and assisted him in dressing. He whistled cheerfully and rocked on his heels as I fixed his tie and adjusted his lapels. He radiated delight, and I found myself unable to resist it's infectiousness, even if my own outward display was far subtler.

When he was presentable, he caught my hands as I ran my fingers along his collar for the second time, and held them in his own. He rubbed his thumbs along my knuckles, and I squeezed his fingers slightly in reassurance, meeting his worried gaze and soothing it. With that, he gathered his acting skills and went limp against me. I half-carried him from the room, supporting his languid form through the crowd of oddly-attired goddesses and greek princes.

His lolling head was supported by my shoulder, and his soft hair caressed the side of my neck. His proximity lapped against my senses as we walked, and I could feel his smile against my skin. His weight seemed insubstantial, and his body was warm against my side.

Over the next hour, I would pack our things while he hummed a tune and watched me surreptitiously from over the top of his novel. We would be shuttled by the aging housekeeper to the gondola departure point. Our tickets would be purchased and our return to London imminent.

On the ride down, suspended above the mountainside in our small gondola, we stood against the wall among the other riders. Their numbers had certainly diminished from our former ride, but there was still a crowd large enough that the space was close.

I felt his eyes on me, and turned to regard him, tipping my head so that my gaze was hidden from others by the brim of my hat. His eyes were wide and affectionate, and with a stifled smile, he directed his sight to the window and the mountainous view around us. His gaze thus innocently trained on the landscape, I felt the brush of his hand against my own, hidden below the sightlines of the crowd of other riders in the gondola.

I turned my head downwards, as if staring towards my feet in thought, but kept my eyes trained to the side, on his face, beaming with joy, but carefully staring straight ahead and anywhere other than towards me. His fingers curled around my hand, brushing over my skin in a warm caress, before releasing me. He did not move his hand away, though, rather allowing it to hang near my own, the backs of our knuckles and fingers brushing against each other's with the movement of the gondola, as if by chance. The warm touch was electrifying, causing my heart to beat quickly, and my fingers to tremble against his at every touch.

Peering at him out of the side of my gaze, my face hidden from outside view by the brim of my hat, I watched his eyes dart to meet mine momentarily, before returning to the landscape, his expression seeming satisfied by what he had read in my look.

With a deep breath, and a feeling of breathtaking contentedness, I joined him in a perusal of the mountains and sky, sharing the sight of the snow-covered Swiss Alps, as I had often shared other views at his side. But this time, I felt the casual touch of his hand against my own, and knew that though we each stared out at the beautiful landscape around us, our minds were elsewhere, and inward. His blue, clear gaze was far off, but I knew his thoughts were with me.

And with the knowledge of that truth, I could only smile.

Author's note: This one took a while. I hope you all enjoyed!