Locked Drawers
Title: Locked Drawers
Fandom: Psmith (PG Wodehouse)
Pairings: Psmith/Mike
Rating: PG-13 (Just for safety)
Warnings: Pure fluff.
Word Count: 800
Summary: In which Psmith fails to consider that a drawer was locked for a reason and a letter causes all sorts of problems.
A/N: Set during Psmith and Mike's time at Cambridge. Told as a series of drabbles.
Psmith stared at the letter in horrified fascination. His immediate instinct was to crumple it up and burn it, possibly jumping on the ashes for good measure, but he forced himself to walk calmly to a chair and read it through once more. He entertained a vain hope that he had got hold of the wrong end of the stick, which lasted until he reached the line, ‘shower your face with burning kisses’. A definite lack of ambiguity there, he decided. He stared at the addressee: Mike Jackson. All he cared about was that it was not signed ‘Rupert Psmith’.
~~~
A knock at the door sent Psmith diving for the open drawer of the desk with a total disregard for his trousers. Impossible to explain to Mike why he had been going through his things. Any explanation would have meant confessing thoughts he disliked admitting even to himself.
The knock sounded again. Not Mike. Even in his current confusion, Psmith managed some eloquent nonsense about an important letter he had to write, and the intruder left.
Returning to the desk, he arranged everything precisely as it had been before. The world could collapse, but everything would still look the same.
~~~
Talk, Psmith, he told himself sternly. It’s what you do best, after all.
Several times during the evening he had tried to speak, but a strange knot in his throat had kept him silent. And meanwhile, Mike chattered on about cricket and the likelihood of getting his Blue next year.
Cricket, Psmith reflected gloomily, was the only thing that got Mike excited. Cricket and, presumably, Henry Brady, his poetic correspondent.
Soundlessly, Psmith cursed his own stupidity. If only he’d said something! But supposing he had, what if Mike had still preferred Brady to him? Perhaps this was better than rejection.
~~~
A few days later, Mike burst into the room in which Psmith was reading.
“I found this,” he said, holding up something that glinted sharply in the morning light. “It was in a locked drawer in my desk,” he continued, grimly.
“If indeed it is, as it appears to be, made of solid gold, I should think that a very sensible precaution to take.”
“I know it’s yours. I only bought you those cufflinks last Christmas.”
The silence that followed pressed in uncomfortably.
“What? No clever explanations at all?” Mike’s voice, usually so cordial, had become venomously sarcastic.
“Not one.”
~~~
Psmith stared miserably at the page in front of him. He had made a promising start with the words, ‘Dear Jackson,’ but now he floundered.
Letting Mike storm out like that had been a mistake, but what could he have said? That he had been so desperate for a semblance of intimacy that he’d sunk to lockpicking?
He glanced at the picture on his desk that had been cut so painstakingly from the Sedleigh First XI photograph. Its edges were slightly crinkled, as though it was often held.
Psmith picked up his pen and tried to find the right words.
~~~
Mike eyed the letter in his hands as if it was liable to explode. He had read the apologetic first paragraph, but it was the start of the next that caused a curious throbbing at his temples.
That three simple words could -! And that he had not noticed! He refolded the letter, shoved it deep into his coat pocket, only to snatch it out a moment later to read through it again.
He tried to consider the contents logically. Broken-into desk: explained. Psmith’s unusually sombre behaviour: explained. What it failed to explain was the agonising rush of his heart.
~~~
Henry Brady was a decent chap. He could also, Mike discovered, be painfully pragmatic at times.
“You don’t love me? Well, why on earth should you? We were just two chaps who enjoyed each other’s company - I don’t recall any mention of love. These things happen. I certainly have no wish to spend my life with a University fling."
“Right,” said Mike, feeling somewhat dazed.
“As it happens, there’s a rather good-looking rower I wouldn’t mind knowing better.”
“Well, er, have fun.” Mike blushed at his ridiculous choice of words, but Henry grinned.
“I have every intention of doing so.”
~~~
“So, Psmith. You love me?” Mike was sitting in an armchair; Psmith perched elegantly on its arm.
With a quiet groan, he buried his face in Mike’s neck and murmured, “Please don’t make me say it again.”
“But I like hearing you say it.”
“Very well. I love, nay, I adore you, Comrade Jackson. Would you like me to recite poetry for you? I do a passable line in Catullus.”
“Oh do hush now,” said Mike, wrapping his arms around Psmith’s body and pulling him onto his lap.
With a contented sigh, Psmith let his head rest on Mike’s chest.
Fandom: Psmith (PG Wodehouse)
Pairings: Psmith/Mike
Rating: PG-13 (Just for safety)
Warnings: Pure fluff.
Word Count: 800
Summary: In which Psmith fails to consider that a drawer was locked for a reason and a letter causes all sorts of problems.
A/N: Set during Psmith and Mike's time at Cambridge. Told as a series of drabbles.
Psmith stared at the letter in horrified fascination. His immediate instinct was to crumple it up and burn it, possibly jumping on the ashes for good measure, but he forced himself to walk calmly to a chair and read it through once more. He entertained a vain hope that he had got hold of the wrong end of the stick, which lasted until he reached the line, ‘shower your face with burning kisses’. A definite lack of ambiguity there, he decided. He stared at the addressee: Mike Jackson. All he cared about was that it was not signed ‘Rupert Psmith’.
~~~
A knock at the door sent Psmith diving for the open drawer of the desk with a total disregard for his trousers. Impossible to explain to Mike why he had been going through his things. Any explanation would have meant confessing thoughts he disliked admitting even to himself.
The knock sounded again. Not Mike. Even in his current confusion, Psmith managed some eloquent nonsense about an important letter he had to write, and the intruder left.
Returning to the desk, he arranged everything precisely as it had been before. The world could collapse, but everything would still look the same.
~~~
Talk, Psmith, he told himself sternly. It’s what you do best, after all.
Several times during the evening he had tried to speak, but a strange knot in his throat had kept him silent. And meanwhile, Mike chattered on about cricket and the likelihood of getting his Blue next year.
Cricket, Psmith reflected gloomily, was the only thing that got Mike excited. Cricket and, presumably, Henry Brady, his poetic correspondent.
Soundlessly, Psmith cursed his own stupidity. If only he’d said something! But supposing he had, what if Mike had still preferred Brady to him? Perhaps this was better than rejection.
~~~
A few days later, Mike burst into the room in which Psmith was reading.
“I found this,” he said, holding up something that glinted sharply in the morning light. “It was in a locked drawer in my desk,” he continued, grimly.
“If indeed it is, as it appears to be, made of solid gold, I should think that a very sensible precaution to take.”
“I know it’s yours. I only bought you those cufflinks last Christmas.”
The silence that followed pressed in uncomfortably.
“What? No clever explanations at all?” Mike’s voice, usually so cordial, had become venomously sarcastic.
“Not one.”
~~~
Psmith stared miserably at the page in front of him. He had made a promising start with the words, ‘Dear Jackson,’ but now he floundered.
Letting Mike storm out like that had been a mistake, but what could he have said? That he had been so desperate for a semblance of intimacy that he’d sunk to lockpicking?
He glanced at the picture on his desk that had been cut so painstakingly from the Sedleigh First XI photograph. Its edges were slightly crinkled, as though it was often held.
Psmith picked up his pen and tried to find the right words.
~~~
Mike eyed the letter in his hands as if it was liable to explode. He had read the apologetic first paragraph, but it was the start of the next that caused a curious throbbing at his temples.
That three simple words could -! And that he had not noticed! He refolded the letter, shoved it deep into his coat pocket, only to snatch it out a moment later to read through it again.
He tried to consider the contents logically. Broken-into desk: explained. Psmith’s unusually sombre behaviour: explained. What it failed to explain was the agonising rush of his heart.
~~~
Henry Brady was a decent chap. He could also, Mike discovered, be painfully pragmatic at times.
“You don’t love me? Well, why on earth should you? We were just two chaps who enjoyed each other’s company - I don’t recall any mention of love. These things happen. I certainly have no wish to spend my life with a University fling."
“Right,” said Mike, feeling somewhat dazed.
“As it happens, there’s a rather good-looking rower I wouldn’t mind knowing better.”
“Well, er, have fun.” Mike blushed at his ridiculous choice of words, but Henry grinned.
“I have every intention of doing so.”
~~~
“So, Psmith. You love me?” Mike was sitting in an armchair; Psmith perched elegantly on its arm.
With a quiet groan, he buried his face in Mike’s neck and murmured, “Please don’t make me say it again.”
“But I like hearing you say it.”
“Very well. I love, nay, I adore you, Comrade Jackson. Would you like me to recite poetry for you? I do a passable line in Catullus.”
“Oh do hush now,” said Mike, wrapping his arms around Psmith’s body and pulling him onto his lap.
With a contented sigh, Psmith let his head rest on Mike’s chest.