Fic: Oceans, part 6 (PG-13)
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
For the next several days, Mr. Wooster kept to himself. He ate when I served him, and gave his thanks when I prepared a drink for him or drew his bath. He was reading his manuscripts, curled into his favorite chair, barely moving. His eyes peeked over the edges of the paper, stealing curious glances at me which I pretended not to detect. I watched him, askance, and waited for him to come to peace with his thoughts.
His voice became softer, friendlier, more in keeping with the man I had fallen in love with. I was preparing dinner one evening when he slipped into the kitchen, as he used to, and sat beside me.
“Jeeves.” He said, hesitantly.
“Yes, sir?”
“Those manuscripts… they are the truth, aren’t they?” His eyes were troubled, reflecting a soul anxious to be reassured.
“As you see it, sir. In your own words.”
He fidgeted with his cuff links. “In these stories… you always helped me.” His voice was small.
“Yes, sir. I always shall.” I placed the paring knife on the board and faced him.
“You would do the feudal thing for me, then. You’d be loyal no matter what I did.”
“I would, sir.” I replied. I attempted to condense the severity of my feelings into these three words. I would willingly give my life for Mr. Wooster. I knew well that I would serve him in hardship, I would lie for him, I would even kill for him, if need be. These feral feelings, however, are best kept to oneself in polite society, especially when the one I would give everything for was apt to be startled like a woodland fawn. He must learn to trust me, once again.
He gestured at the chicken I was deboning. “If I said that I wanted to eat lamb tonight, you would see to it.”
“Do you, sir?” I asked.
He bit his lip. “No, no, Jeeves. Chicken is fine, just spiffing, really. But if I wanted my money, you would give me some?”
“It is yours.” I replied. “I can give you all you might use. Soon, you will be familiar with this life again, sir, and I will sign it over. I know that it is yours, sir. I am only handling the somewhat unpleasant matters of the paperwork.”
“Nothing could make you act against me, then. Nothing could break your loyalty.” He stated it, yet his eyes posed it as a question.
“Nothing, sir.” It was then that I felt his fingers on my thigh.
“Sir…” I whispered. Surely, I was dreaming.
His voice was low, and a bit gravelly. “You would stay loyal to me if told you I would have you?”
My eyes slid shut. “Yes, sir. Please, sir." and abruptly, his hand was removed.
There was a new emotion expressing itself across his sweet features. It was fear. He rose to his feet, and scuttled out of the room. I realized then that he had been bluffing. I had damaged what little I had cultivated, perhaps beyond repair. I sat with my head in my hands, desperately attempting to marshal my thoughts. I had let lust impair my judgment. Unable to effect a solution, I returned to the practical matter of peeling potatoes.
………………………………………………
Mrs. Gregson arrived the following afternoon, and only addressed me to say that she had spoken with Mrs. Travers about the money. Her manner seemed snider than usual, no doubt she thought she was getting the better of me by stating, once more, that the money was no longer to be mine. I betrayed no emotion either way, and served as a mute fixture.
Mr. Wooster seemed bewildered by this new development in his circle of acquaintances, and he seemed nervous. No doubt, he had been strongly affected by what he had written concerning Mrs. Gregson in the past. There was also her direct manner in speaking to him, as though amnesia was no excuse for him to betray ignorance or weakness of any kind.
“Dreadful woman, what?” he asked, as the door was safely closed behind her. “I say, Jeeves, she was a bit rough on you.”
“Not at all, sir.” I replied. “I am accustomed to Mrs.Gregson’s ways.”
He indulged me in a soft smile, then. “You really are a singular sort of chap, Jeeves.”
It was the first compliment I had received from his lips since recovering him. A warmth spread inside of me. Happiness, I realized, belatedly. It was troublesome to not recognize happiness. Had I forgotten?
He took his seat at the piano and tinkered with a few keys. “Do you still look in at the Junior Ganymede, Jeeves? There’s a lot about them in the manuscripts.”
“Not since your return, sir.” I replied. “I felt much too anxious. I was needed here.”
“Ah.” He played a few bars of a long forgotten tune, and straddled the bench to face me. “I never did apologize for being so bally wretched to you. Why don’t you go to the club tonight? There’s still that roast in the kitchen from this afternoon. I’ll fend for myself.”
“Thank you, sir.” I must confess that I felt quite sanguine, despite the difficult situation we found ourselves in.
…………………………………………
When I returned from the Junior Ganymede, Mr. Wooster was pacing. I didn’t have a chance to ask him what was bothering him before he slammed a piece of paper down on the table. It was the letter he had left me in his will.
“You were in my room.” I was, for once, quite stunned. Mr. Wooster thought nothing of lounging about the kitchen, but my rooms were always something he considered to be private, owing to his Code, I always assumed. Evidence of the changes in him rattled my senses.
“I know it wasn’t something one should do.” He blustered, but asserted himself again. “I was trying to remember, you know. Then I find this. I… I was going to trust you, and then I find this forgery.”
“It is no forgery, sir.” I whispered. “You left this letter behind. I do not pretend to be worthy of it. I do not expect you to feel the way you once did.” I knew this was a lie the moment the words left me. Of course, I had expected him to love me still, it was to my bitter disappointment that he did not.
A long, painful silence followed as Mr. Wooster chewed on his lip, looking to me with red eyes. “But... if it’s not a forgery… I said I would beg for you. I said I loved you.”
“I know.” I sighed. “Perhaps, once, you did, sir."
“…I can’t remember you.” And with that, Mr. Wooster’s tears began to flow. I hurried to his side and offered him my handkerchief. He clung to me, and sobbed, his shoulders heaving piteously. I rubbed his back in a soothing, circular motion, and soon enough he was spent.
“Would you like some tea, sir?” I asked, gently. He nodded. I led him to the kitchen and he took his place at the table, with a sigh.
“What now?” he asked, timidly.
“Now, you will drink your tea.” I would not, could not push him, no matter how much I longed for him. It had to be his decision.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
For the next several days, Mr. Wooster kept to himself. He ate when I served him, and gave his thanks when I prepared a drink for him or drew his bath. He was reading his manuscripts, curled into his favorite chair, barely moving. His eyes peeked over the edges of the paper, stealing curious glances at me which I pretended not to detect. I watched him, askance, and waited for him to come to peace with his thoughts.
His voice became softer, friendlier, more in keeping with the man I had fallen in love with. I was preparing dinner one evening when he slipped into the kitchen, as he used to, and sat beside me.
“Jeeves.” He said, hesitantly.
“Yes, sir?”
“Those manuscripts… they are the truth, aren’t they?” His eyes were troubled, reflecting a soul anxious to be reassured.
“As you see it, sir. In your own words.”
He fidgeted with his cuff links. “In these stories… you always helped me.” His voice was small.
“Yes, sir. I always shall.” I placed the paring knife on the board and faced him.
“You would do the feudal thing for me, then. You’d be loyal no matter what I did.”
“I would, sir.” I replied. I attempted to condense the severity of my feelings into these three words. I would willingly give my life for Mr. Wooster. I knew well that I would serve him in hardship, I would lie for him, I would even kill for him, if need be. These feral feelings, however, are best kept to oneself in polite society, especially when the one I would give everything for was apt to be startled like a woodland fawn. He must learn to trust me, once again.
He gestured at the chicken I was deboning. “If I said that I wanted to eat lamb tonight, you would see to it.”
“Do you, sir?” I asked.
He bit his lip. “No, no, Jeeves. Chicken is fine, just spiffing, really. But if I wanted my money, you would give me some?”
“It is yours.” I replied. “I can give you all you might use. Soon, you will be familiar with this life again, sir, and I will sign it over. I know that it is yours, sir. I am only handling the somewhat unpleasant matters of the paperwork.”
“Nothing could make you act against me, then. Nothing could break your loyalty.” He stated it, yet his eyes posed it as a question.
“Nothing, sir.” It was then that I felt his fingers on my thigh.
“Sir…” I whispered. Surely, I was dreaming.
His voice was low, and a bit gravelly. “You would stay loyal to me if told you I would have you?”
My eyes slid shut. “Yes, sir. Please, sir." and abruptly, his hand was removed.
There was a new emotion expressing itself across his sweet features. It was fear. He rose to his feet, and scuttled out of the room. I realized then that he had been bluffing. I had damaged what little I had cultivated, perhaps beyond repair. I sat with my head in my hands, desperately attempting to marshal my thoughts. I had let lust impair my judgment. Unable to effect a solution, I returned to the practical matter of peeling potatoes.
………………………………………………
Mrs. Gregson arrived the following afternoon, and only addressed me to say that she had spoken with Mrs. Travers about the money. Her manner seemed snider than usual, no doubt she thought she was getting the better of me by stating, once more, that the money was no longer to be mine. I betrayed no emotion either way, and served as a mute fixture.
Mr. Wooster seemed bewildered by this new development in his circle of acquaintances, and he seemed nervous. No doubt, he had been strongly affected by what he had written concerning Mrs. Gregson in the past. There was also her direct manner in speaking to him, as though amnesia was no excuse for him to betray ignorance or weakness of any kind.
“Dreadful woman, what?” he asked, as the door was safely closed behind her. “I say, Jeeves, she was a bit rough on you.”
“Not at all, sir.” I replied. “I am accustomed to Mrs.Gregson’s ways.”
He indulged me in a soft smile, then. “You really are a singular sort of chap, Jeeves.”
It was the first compliment I had received from his lips since recovering him. A warmth spread inside of me. Happiness, I realized, belatedly. It was troublesome to not recognize happiness. Had I forgotten?
He took his seat at the piano and tinkered with a few keys. “Do you still look in at the Junior Ganymede, Jeeves? There’s a lot about them in the manuscripts.”
“Not since your return, sir.” I replied. “I felt much too anxious. I was needed here.”
“Ah.” He played a few bars of a long forgotten tune, and straddled the bench to face me. “I never did apologize for being so bally wretched to you. Why don’t you go to the club tonight? There’s still that roast in the kitchen from this afternoon. I’ll fend for myself.”
“Thank you, sir.” I must confess that I felt quite sanguine, despite the difficult situation we found ourselves in.
…………………………………………
When I returned from the Junior Ganymede, Mr. Wooster was pacing. I didn’t have a chance to ask him what was bothering him before he slammed a piece of paper down on the table. It was the letter he had left me in his will.
“You were in my room.” I was, for once, quite stunned. Mr. Wooster thought nothing of lounging about the kitchen, but my rooms were always something he considered to be private, owing to his Code, I always assumed. Evidence of the changes in him rattled my senses.
“I know it wasn’t something one should do.” He blustered, but asserted himself again. “I was trying to remember, you know. Then I find this. I… I was going to trust you, and then I find this forgery.”
“It is no forgery, sir.” I whispered. “You left this letter behind. I do not pretend to be worthy of it. I do not expect you to feel the way you once did.” I knew this was a lie the moment the words left me. Of course, I had expected him to love me still, it was to my bitter disappointment that he did not.
A long, painful silence followed as Mr. Wooster chewed on his lip, looking to me with red eyes. “But... if it’s not a forgery… I said I would beg for you. I said I loved you.”
“I know.” I sighed. “Perhaps, once, you did, sir."
“…I can’t remember you.” And with that, Mr. Wooster’s tears began to flow. I hurried to his side and offered him my handkerchief. He clung to me, and sobbed, his shoulders heaving piteously. I rubbed his back in a soothing, circular motion, and soon enough he was spent.
“Would you like some tea, sir?” I asked, gently. He nodded. I led him to the kitchen and he took his place at the table, with a sigh.
“What now?” he asked, timidly.
“Now, you will drink your tea.” I would not, could not push him, no matter how much I longed for him. It had to be his decision.