Fic: Jeeves and the Bed For Two ch 2
More diabetes for you, just like the doctor ordered. This time, from Jeeves' POV.
Title: Jeeves and the Bed For Two
Pairing: light Jooster
Summary: Jeeves and Bertie see different sides of each other while sharing a stateroom bed.
Rating: G, I guess
Words: 1,271
Disclaimer: Fluffyness. So god damn much of it.
Chapter 1 here.
I heard everything.
I’m afraid that Mr. Wooster lacks, among many other things, my ability to move noiselessly about in a room. Also, I myself happen to be a fairly light sleeper. I awoke to the curious sensation of Mr. Wooster removing himself from my grasp at some indeterminable hour, but refrained from making my rousing known until I had sorted the scenario out in my head. I noticed first and foremost that I was quite chilled and that the resulting shivers were all that prevented me from lying completely still. Second, I appeared to be completely bare as far as bedclothes were concerned, the most likely cause of my chilliness. Third, I also appeared to have unconsciously gravitated towards Mr. Wooster in my sleep, a phenomenon not uncommon with couples who lie together on cold nights or with small children sharing a parent’s bed. This motion unfortunately seemed to have entailed my making considerably closer contact with my employer than was acceptable. I should have to apologize profusely the next morning and ask for Mr. Wooster’s forgiveness. I hardly think that this form of intimacy was what he had in mind when he so graciously invited me to share his bed on this sea voyage.
At this little self-reminder, I scolded myself for worrying. Mr. Wooster does draw lines when our interests and authorities clash, but I have found in my time in his employ that he is, in the end, willing to bend to reason. Forgiveness felt far more probable when thought of this way, adding to the undeniable characteristics of Mr. Wooster as a kind and warm-hearted young gentleman.
I heard the stateroom window shut and Mr. Wooster returning in the direction of the bed. The affair of his attempting to shift me further from the edge of the bed passed, somehow, without alerting him to my heightened state of awareness and he resumed his previous position beneath the sheets. I permitted myself a small smile at this juncture, assuming that the light in the stateroom would not be sufficient enough to facilitate its viewing by Mr. Wooster, if indeed he happened to be looking in my direction at the time or even if he had his eyes open. I rarely received this variety of kindness from Mr. Wooster, with the notable exception of a comforting pat on the shoulder while I briefly grieved the death of fashion sense in Long Island poets, and I confess that it was a most welcome addition to the collection of my rewards. It broke the near monotony of our usual disposal of unsuitable garments. I drifted off to sleep again, riding on the happy reassurance of just how lucky I was to have such an empathically exceptional employer.
I was awoken some time later by a most alarming sound.
At first, I had thought that Mr. Wooster had suddenly become unable to breathe, but then I recognized the noise not to be anaphylaxis, but sobbing. I opened my eyes this time. The darkness was still quite prevalent, but the moonlight from outside cast enough light inside the stateroom to confirm my less life-threatening theory. Mr. Wooster’s usual serene and joyful face was contorted by emotional agony and streaked with desperate bitter tears. He was also gripping a fistful of the bedding quite firmly, as though it was the single most important thing that could possibly exist in the world.
And then he began mumbling something. It wasn’t quite a whisper, but it was low enough that, even at our remarkably close proximity, I would have to lip-read to fully understand him.
I concentrated with all I had, and I heard him:
“…please…”
“…not again…”
“…don’t leave me…”
“…I don’t want to be alone…”
Again.
This was recurring.
Mr. Wooster was having recurring nightmares.
I cursed myself vigorously. How could I not have noticed this? Surely I would have heard him, or even found tearstains on his pillow in the morning. I had seen fate bestow misfortunes upon many individuals who had done nothing wrong and did not deserve their punishments, but this was outright torture. Despite outward appearances, Mr. Wooster already suffers enough. He is always being dragged into the affairs of his friends and relatives with little thought for himself. He will usually take to complaining about being involved in the other’s circumstances, but he always goes through with it in the end. The poor young gentleman has had to endure the threat of marriage to countless unsuitable young women, physical abuse from those who thought him wrong, imprisonment, and even exile from his own home. Oh, to count the many times I have seen him hopelessly distressed would be a futile task. At the very least, a man should have the comfort and reprieve of the night’s sleep to take refuge in after times of hardship, and Mr. Wooster was being denied even that.
I could not allow myself to leave him like this.
Using the clues in his sleep-talk, I attempted to piece together what his nightmare must be entailing. From what little I had heard, I could only assume that he was being forced in his dream to relive the departure of someone very close and dear to him. I speculated that if I could create, through the use of real-world methods, the suggestion in his subconsciousness that this person was not leaving, perhaps even imitate this other person, it might create some form of closure in his mind and effectively cease the recurrence of the nightmares. To put it simply, I would need to physically comfort him in some way and give vocal reassurance while he was sleeping.
Now the question remained how to perform the former. With children, it was customary to take them in one’s arms, as they were small enough to accommodate a fuller embrace, but how to do it with a grown man? I had read in many novels that featured a funeral scene that adults had a tendency to squeeze each other’s hands or shoulders in reassurance. Unfortunately, Mr. Wooster was, in many ways, much like a child in a grown man’s body. Knowing my exceptional fondness for Mr. Wooster but remembering my place in society as well, I decided to try the lighter approach. I reached out with one hand and placed it on the fist clutching the bedsheets, stroking it with my thumb. The fist, to my relief, relaxed slightly. What happened next was quite unexpected.
Mr. Wooster all but threw himself at me, clinging to me desperately as though for dear life.
“…don’t…leave…p-please…I…d-don’t want…to be…alone…”
And I openly confess that it violently broke my heart.
I felt no need for restraint at this point. Bertie Wooster needed me. I wrapped my arms around him and held him tight, resuming my thumb-stroking at the small of his back.
“There there, Bertram,” I whispered gently, one hand moving to stroke his hair. If his face had not been buried in my chest, I would have moved the hand down to wipe his tears away. The fabric of my pyjamas would have to do the task for me. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not leaving you, ever. Come now, there’s no need to cry anymore.”
And I found there was no need for imitation, for I meant every last word of it. I lay there cradling my poor childlike young master far past the subsiding of his sobs. It was not until he had finally settled into a calm rhythm of peaceful breathing, and was relaxed in my arms instead of tense, that I allowed myself to fall asleep again.
Just one more chapter! That will be the morning-after explanation. Any suggestions/preferences on who's POV it should be from?
Chapter 3 here.
Title: Jeeves and the Bed For Two
Pairing: light Jooster
Summary: Jeeves and Bertie see different sides of each other while sharing a stateroom bed.
Rating: G, I guess
Words: 1,271
Disclaimer: Fluffyness. So god damn much of it.
Chapter 1 here.
I heard everything.
I’m afraid that Mr. Wooster lacks, among many other things, my ability to move noiselessly about in a room. Also, I myself happen to be a fairly light sleeper. I awoke to the curious sensation of Mr. Wooster removing himself from my grasp at some indeterminable hour, but refrained from making my rousing known until I had sorted the scenario out in my head. I noticed first and foremost that I was quite chilled and that the resulting shivers were all that prevented me from lying completely still. Second, I appeared to be completely bare as far as bedclothes were concerned, the most likely cause of my chilliness. Third, I also appeared to have unconsciously gravitated towards Mr. Wooster in my sleep, a phenomenon not uncommon with couples who lie together on cold nights or with small children sharing a parent’s bed. This motion unfortunately seemed to have entailed my making considerably closer contact with my employer than was acceptable. I should have to apologize profusely the next morning and ask for Mr. Wooster’s forgiveness. I hardly think that this form of intimacy was what he had in mind when he so graciously invited me to share his bed on this sea voyage.
At this little self-reminder, I scolded myself for worrying. Mr. Wooster does draw lines when our interests and authorities clash, but I have found in my time in his employ that he is, in the end, willing to bend to reason. Forgiveness felt far more probable when thought of this way, adding to the undeniable characteristics of Mr. Wooster as a kind and warm-hearted young gentleman.
I heard the stateroom window shut and Mr. Wooster returning in the direction of the bed. The affair of his attempting to shift me further from the edge of the bed passed, somehow, without alerting him to my heightened state of awareness and he resumed his previous position beneath the sheets. I permitted myself a small smile at this juncture, assuming that the light in the stateroom would not be sufficient enough to facilitate its viewing by Mr. Wooster, if indeed he happened to be looking in my direction at the time or even if he had his eyes open. I rarely received this variety of kindness from Mr. Wooster, with the notable exception of a comforting pat on the shoulder while I briefly grieved the death of fashion sense in Long Island poets, and I confess that it was a most welcome addition to the collection of my rewards. It broke the near monotony of our usual disposal of unsuitable garments. I drifted off to sleep again, riding on the happy reassurance of just how lucky I was to have such an empathically exceptional employer.
I was awoken some time later by a most alarming sound.
At first, I had thought that Mr. Wooster had suddenly become unable to breathe, but then I recognized the noise not to be anaphylaxis, but sobbing. I opened my eyes this time. The darkness was still quite prevalent, but the moonlight from outside cast enough light inside the stateroom to confirm my less life-threatening theory. Mr. Wooster’s usual serene and joyful face was contorted by emotional agony and streaked with desperate bitter tears. He was also gripping a fistful of the bedding quite firmly, as though it was the single most important thing that could possibly exist in the world.
And then he began mumbling something. It wasn’t quite a whisper, but it was low enough that, even at our remarkably close proximity, I would have to lip-read to fully understand him.
I concentrated with all I had, and I heard him:
“…please…”
“…not again…”
“…don’t leave me…”
“…I don’t want to be alone…”
Again.
This was recurring.
Mr. Wooster was having recurring nightmares.
I cursed myself vigorously. How could I not have noticed this? Surely I would have heard him, or even found tearstains on his pillow in the morning. I had seen fate bestow misfortunes upon many individuals who had done nothing wrong and did not deserve their punishments, but this was outright torture. Despite outward appearances, Mr. Wooster already suffers enough. He is always being dragged into the affairs of his friends and relatives with little thought for himself. He will usually take to complaining about being involved in the other’s circumstances, but he always goes through with it in the end. The poor young gentleman has had to endure the threat of marriage to countless unsuitable young women, physical abuse from those who thought him wrong, imprisonment, and even exile from his own home. Oh, to count the many times I have seen him hopelessly distressed would be a futile task. At the very least, a man should have the comfort and reprieve of the night’s sleep to take refuge in after times of hardship, and Mr. Wooster was being denied even that.
I could not allow myself to leave him like this.
Using the clues in his sleep-talk, I attempted to piece together what his nightmare must be entailing. From what little I had heard, I could only assume that he was being forced in his dream to relive the departure of someone very close and dear to him. I speculated that if I could create, through the use of real-world methods, the suggestion in his subconsciousness that this person was not leaving, perhaps even imitate this other person, it might create some form of closure in his mind and effectively cease the recurrence of the nightmares. To put it simply, I would need to physically comfort him in some way and give vocal reassurance while he was sleeping.
Now the question remained how to perform the former. With children, it was customary to take them in one’s arms, as they were small enough to accommodate a fuller embrace, but how to do it with a grown man? I had read in many novels that featured a funeral scene that adults had a tendency to squeeze each other’s hands or shoulders in reassurance. Unfortunately, Mr. Wooster was, in many ways, much like a child in a grown man’s body. Knowing my exceptional fondness for Mr. Wooster but remembering my place in society as well, I decided to try the lighter approach. I reached out with one hand and placed it on the fist clutching the bedsheets, stroking it with my thumb. The fist, to my relief, relaxed slightly. What happened next was quite unexpected.
Mr. Wooster all but threw himself at me, clinging to me desperately as though for dear life.
“…don’t…leave…p-please…I…d-don’t want…to be…alone…”
And I openly confess that it violently broke my heart.
I felt no need for restraint at this point. Bertie Wooster needed me. I wrapped my arms around him and held him tight, resuming my thumb-stroking at the small of his back.
“There there, Bertram,” I whispered gently, one hand moving to stroke his hair. If his face had not been buried in my chest, I would have moved the hand down to wipe his tears away. The fabric of my pyjamas would have to do the task for me. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not leaving you, ever. Come now, there’s no need to cry anymore.”
And I found there was no need for imitation, for I meant every last word of it. I lay there cradling my poor childlike young master far past the subsiding of his sobs. It was not until he had finally settled into a calm rhythm of peaceful breathing, and was relaxed in my arms instead of tense, that I allowed myself to fall asleep again.
Just one more chapter! That will be the morning-after explanation. Any suggestions/preferences on who's POV it should be from?
Chapter 3 here.