[currently ironing your best trousers, meticulously]

------------------------

Bloody hell, chuck them out the window. I thought I got rid of that poncy clobber.

------------------------

[disapproving look as he continues to iron]

Yes, sir. They were in an undignified lump in the corner of sir's closet.

------------------------

What?! In the corner of the closet? That's not right, not right at all.

They were meant to be put into the fireplace.

[Spike is oblivious to Jeeve's disapproving Look. He has built up an immunity from frequent exposure from various sources. He throws himself into a chair and drapes his legs over the arm.]

Come on, be a sport. Just chuck 'em out the window.

------------------------

[He's in the middle of shaking them out, working on the crease down each leg.]

...I'm afraid I could not bring myself to do that, sir.

------------------------

[Spike gives the trousers a hard look. Then gives you a long, intense, wordless look. Appealing to you, Jeeves. To your sense of humanity.]


Angelus picked them out.



[The trousers, regrettably, are completely suitable in all ways for a young gentleman of Master William's station. A moral dilemma, perhaps, for Jeeves.]

------------------------

[You will pry these trousers from his cold dead fingers before he throws them out a window.]

A friend of yours, sir?

[turning them over to work on the second crease]

------------------------

Friend! Friend?! Mate, does a friend expect friends to dress like a poncy git!

[Spike leaps up from the chair and gesticulates rather dramatically. He gestures at himself, and his current (appalling) state of costume.]

I told him they're not my style. D'you know what he said?

D'you know what that plonker had the nerve to say to me?

"Good!"

[Spike flings himself back down onto the chair, crossing his arms.]

Of course he isn't my friend. He's my S- my- ...father. More or less.

If you're not going to chuck them out the window, don't iron them! It will take me forever to get those creases out.

[Spike sulks for a few moments, popping a few badminton birdies up into the light fixture, until a thought strikes him.]

...You mean you've not ever heard of Angelus?

------------------------

[Meanwhile, Jeeves continues to iron, listening attentively to his spiel and nodding sympathetically where appropriate.]

...if the thought of wearing said trousers gives you ill feelings towards Mr. Angelus, perhaps they could be put to some good use instead. [He's thinking of donating them to some needy gentleman]

[And he's going to be cleaning up those birdies the moment Spike leaves. Don't you worry about that.]

------------------------

Yes! That's just what I was thinking, mate. So, what d'you think-- set 'em ablaze? I've some matches around here somewhere.

...We could chuck the other poncy stuff from the wardrobe on, and have a proper bonfire!

[Spike's youthful face is alight at the notion. Oh dear. Perhaps this is one of Mr Wooster's young chums from the Drone's Club.]

--Say, wot is your name, anyway, mate. 'M Spike.

------------------------

[Now Jeeves is starting to look worried, though he tries not to be.]

Not precisely what I had in mind, sir. However, I would not be adverse to doing a bit of cleaning through your wardrobe, with your permission.

[Then he can rescue the poor clothes from oblivion.]

My name is Jeeves, sir.

------------------------

[Spike brightens considerably at Jeeves's suggestion.]

Yeh-- yeh! Jeeves, that's a brilliant idea. You can go through it all. Chuck the lot.

[Spike looks gleeful-- he can tell Angelus and Darla that some bloke broke into the house and nicked all his formalwear. Goodbye stupid tail coat! Goodbye stiff collars! Goodbye bloody Norfolk suit with the flipping knickerbockers! And the less said about the velvet jacket, the better.]

You're a bloody genius, Jeeves. Anybody ever tell you that? The wardrobe's-- well, I s'pose you know where it is, don't you.

Carry on, Jeeves.

[Spike looks delighted. After all, what could possibly go wrong with this scheme!]

------------------------

...as you say, sir. [Nope, they're not getting chucked. If anything, they're getting washed, ironed, re-hangered, and sorted. Spike may regret this decision for quite awhile.]

It has been said on occasion.

[The trousers folded neatly, he's taking them with him as he goes to the wardrobe and opens it.]

------------------------

[Spike's wardrobe looks as though a bomb exploded in a haberdashery. Suits of various sorts are crammed haphazardly in every which way. Jeeves will possibly be distressed to note some of the articles in question are most assuredly _not_ suitable for a young gentleman of Master William's social standing.

For example, those hobnailed boots. Or those ragged trousers, with the muddy cuffs. Or that... coat, for lack of a better word.

Spike, however, is oblivious to the notion that Jeeves's idea of what constitutes 'suitable' items for his wardrobe might actually side more with Angelus's taste, as opposed to his own. It isn't that Spike is stupid... he's just rather oblivious at times, especially when it comes to his own sense of ...'fashion,' for lack of a better word.]

Excellent, Jeeves. I'll just go downstairs and nick us some whiskey and cigars from the old man's study, shall I? You clear out the wardrobe.

Just bundle everything you're going to chuck up in the bedclothes. It'll make it easier to toss it all out the window that way.

------------------------

[Jeeves seems to be paused before the explosion of wardrobe in front of him, holding the trousers to himself as if to protect them from the hideous sight. Uncertain quite where to begin.]

Er...yes, sir.

[Yes, go quickly. It's not proper to see an English butler cry. Not that he will...ok, he might. He reaches ever so carefully into the mess and withdraws the velvet suitcoat, holding it between two fingers at arms length] Sir...may I ask what precise function this garment serves?

------------------------

[Well, Jeeves, it seems that your and Master William's tastes _do_ converge in one area, at least. Spike regards the velvet jacket with loathing.]

They make me wear it. To have--

[Spike's face darkens, and he grits out:]

Piano_lessons.

Bloody appalling, isn't it!

------------------------

[He regards the object with a grave disposition.] Indeed, sir.

If I may? [Jeeves walks it to the window, this is one article of clothing that deserves a one way trip to the ground floor.]

------------------------

[Spike's face lights up. He leaps to rush across the room and throws open the shutters, shoving up the window sash, grinning from ear-to-ear.]

Yes, do! Chuck it out into the street. If we're lucky, praps a dustman's cart will run it over.

[Spike looks up at you, blue eyes aglow, a gleeful grin illuminating his features.]

Jeeves, you're all right! --Better rip it down the seams first, mate. We don't want that thing coming back from the grave.

------------------------

No need for violence, sir.

[Jeeves then tosses the offending garment out the window and onto the street. Where a hobo immediately picks it up and carries it off.]

------------------------

[Spike watches with immense satisfaction and no little glee, as Jeeves purposefully discards the offending article. He gives a whoop of delight, and calls after the tramp]

Oi, mate, yours to wear in good health!

That chap will be the Oscar Wilde of the vagrants, now! We've improved my life and his, in one fell swoop.

[Spike delightedly extends his hand (it would appear he spends rather less time than a young gentleman ought to on his grooming-- is that boot blacking under his nails? One despairs) to shake.]

Well done, mate! Now, that calls for a stiff whiskey and a good cigar. Don't try to get out of joining me, Jeeves. Hang propriety, we've got to celebrate the destruction of our mutual foe.

------------------------

[How fortunate that Jeeves has kept his black gloves on. He allows a handshake, not nearly as enthusiastic as the young man but pleasant enough.]

Perhaps you would like me to select the appropriate alcoholic beverage. [And then, he is tackling that wardrobe. It will NOT beat him.]

------------------------

[Jeeves may find young Master William's vocabulary and demeanour somewhat at odds with his apparent station-- it is clear from the neighbourhood and the furnishings of the house that he is of solidly upper-middle-class stock, and yet... well. Youth is known for its folly. Doubtless he will out-grow these 'fads' in time.

And yet, despite the young gentleman's best attempts to play the role of a guttersnipe, an Englishman can always discern one's true class. There are the odd words that are pronounced in a quite respectable public school accent. Not to mention the fact that the boy clearly recognises Jeeves's role as a valet, and how he ought to be addressed...]

Yeh, that sounds like a brilliant idea, Jeeves. You handle the drinks. Couple of celebratory cigars wouldn't go amiss either, what d'you think?

[Spike is cheerfully oblivious regarding the ultimate fate of his future wardrobe and specifically, the difficulty of maintaining his carefully cultivated 'street urchin' facade in the near future. He slouches happily in the big chair, legs thrown over the arm, a penny dreadful in hand.]

------------------------

[Indeed, but with a little patience, youth can be molded and prodded in the right directions.]

Yes, sir. [He withdraws, taking one of the birdies out of the light fixture as he does. Soon returning with a tray and a vintage wine of a very good year he found in the kitchen.

The kitchen is not a pretty sight. Jeeves may look a little discomfited as he returns. So much work to do. But for now, he follows through with the duties given to him, pouring out the wine.] If I may, sir...my employer is away for a week in the countryside. While I insisted on joining him, he was determined to survive on his own. [Which Mr. Wooster will likely regret later.] As I find myself summarily unattached, perhaps you could find some use for a good manservant about the household?

[Understatement of the year.]

------------------------

[As it would happen, Angelus and Darla are away for the week, as well. They've got it into their heads that they and Dru needed to go to Paris to absorb some Culture, and for the ladies to upgrade their wardrobes. Spike was left behind, because it was thought that he would attract too much attention.

Angelus took the precaution of engaging a minder, but Spike managed to convince this personage that he was the hallboy, and the family had decided to take young Master William with them on their European Tour, after all.

Spike considers Jeeves's proposal as he leans over to snag a glass of wine from the tray.]

Yeh, Jeeves, you know, I suppose the place could use a bit of sprucing up. I've been batching it here on my own for two nights now, and cold beans out of the tin is beginning to pall a bit.

Right, then, you can stop here with me, til your boss needs you. He much of a sportsman, then? Hunting, fishing, and all that rot?

[Spike takes a healthy slug of the plonk]

------------------------

Mr. Wooster is a gentleman of the first order...though he does have his own eccentricities. He is quite fond of golf and spending his time at the Drones Club.

[Cold beans? This poor boy needs proper food desperately. Jeeves can handle this charge for a week. Even if his changes do not stick, he will have made a valiant attempt at it.] I will need but an hour or so to pack a few essentials.

------------------------

Golf. Bunch of prats chasing after a little ball with sticks. Give me some hunting and shooting any night of the week.

I mean, what's the point of clubbing a ball, Jeeves? An innocent ball, that can't even defend itself.

Now, if you were to chuck in a bit of a challenge, say, dynomite... that might be a sport worth playing! You know, this plonk isn't half bad, Jeeves.

[Spike lounges in the chair, tossing back the remains of the glassful in one swallow and reaching for the bottle.]

You've got it, Jeeves-- pack whatever you need. You can have the Head Minion-- erm-- the butler's room for the week.

------------------------

If I may, sir, it does seem less sensible of a sport but it is highly popular within certain social circles. And it does seem to be less dangerous of a sport then if one were to throw a stick of trinitrotoluene around a greens course.

[He sets the trousers on the bed carefully, closing the wardrobe for now. He'll be back for that later.] Very good, sir.

[One hour precisely, he is returning with two small black bags in hand. Jeeves is nothing if not efficient, even in his packing.]

Date: 2012-06-12 07:51 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] will-aurelius.livejournal.com
[Spike greets Jeeves, wearing what he fondly believes to be his most 'flash' clobber: checked waistcoat, sleek, black trousers, hobnailed boots, and an altogether unsuitable coat. The affair is crowned with a Derby, worn at a rakish angle.]


Welcome back, Jeeves! Fancy a cigar? Only I think we're going to need more booze.
Edited Date: 2012-06-12 07:58 pm (UTC)

Date: 2013-02-16 07:22 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] quvad.livejournal.com
Local women looking for one night stands Go Here dld.bz/chwZG

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