Fic: The Complications, part 1
This is a little something written as a birthday present for the lovely kahvi The premise being, what if Jeeves HAD married that cook?
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
It’s funny how one falls into things in life. One moment you’re a bachelor, content with your lot in the world, and through some horrible twists of fate and terrible misfortune, you find yourself lost and alone, only to discover that what you want most in this world is to share your life with someone. I get ahead of myself here, as I often do- in medias res, as Jeeves informs me, a technique that works better with some writers than others. I suppose I should state the facts, set the scene, as it were. I lived my life with my valet, Jeeves, the most competent, loyal, brilliant marvel of a man as any that had ever lived; and I was content. My Aunt Agatha habitually threw young women in my path in hopes of marrying me off, sometimes, the beazels in question would take it upon themselves to do the flinging- and yet, so contented was I with my peerless paragon of a valet who never tried to mould or improve me, as my Aunt Agatha says (as though this were to be thought of as a good thing!) that I never shared their vision of wedded bliss. Being that we didn’t see eye to eye on this marriage business, I could always rely on Jeeves to untangle me from the mess without a stain on my character. Perhaps a slight sullying, in the form of rumors of insanity or a trip up with the law, but never anything that would make me seem less of a gentleman, for one doesn’t like to let down the hopes of the fairer sex.
I had made up my mind that we’d be together always. Who needed a wife when they have a man as capable, as wonderful as Jeeves to look after them? Certainly not Bertram Wooster. However, as my fellow Drones married one by one, and talked of their wives and children and such, I began to wonder if I was missing out on something. I was toying with the idea of adopting a daughter, a jolly little girl to sit on my knee and be charming and full of sugar and spice and such, as they say, when my world was shaken by an unexpected horror.
Jeeves had contracted an understanding with some cook at a country house. What was worse was the fact that what he had contracted had addled his able, logical brain, and he wished to act on it. Biff off to the country and marry her, leaving me alone. It was quite a nasty shock, but, mulling it over, what right did I have to stop him? Jeeves had given me such joy and contentment, and what had I given him in return but a wage he could earn elsewhere? The years I’d spent with him had been the happiest of my life, and I could hardly begrudge him his own happiness, if this is what he truly wanted. I couldn’t blame him, really, for although someone of his intellect and charm would have done better to leave me to become the Prime Minister or a dashing cinema star and not the husband of some country house cook, one has to admit that the care and feeding of one hapless Wooster, B. is not what someone as great as him must aspire to in life. I had to be encouraging and supportive, for his sake.
I did my bit as best as I could, offering my congratulations warmly and insisting that he accept a tidy sum to set up his household as a wedding present. I insisted that he come to me in times of need, and he returned the warmth by asking me to stand by him at the altar as his best man. On the morning of the wedding, I prayed for some miracle to stop the nightmare from progressing, but my hopes were dashed, as the miracle worker himself had a different hope for the day’s outcome.
As I caught sight of him, my heart plummeted to my stomach. He was wearing a crisp collar and tuxedo, his buttonhole sporting a posy of deep violet flowers. He looked even more handsome and perfectly put together than was his custom, which I hardly thought was possible. Something inside me shattered at that moment, a black cloud of gloom filling me as I realized that surely, he was the only one I had ever truly loved; and I would never get to tell him because he was leaving, dash it, leaving to start a new, proper life without me. I cursed my stupidity, for not taking the risk to tell him all, for not being selfish and insisting on keeping him at any cost, for not being born female so that I could lock the bride in a broom cupboard and take her place.
I didn’t want to see the bride. I didn’t want to see the face of some pretty young thing, knowing that I would memorize it and think of Jeeves smiling at her the way he used to smile at me. Her veil was trailing behind her, though, and not covering her face, so I had to take a glance. It pleased me in a way to see that she was plain; brown hair, brown eyes, not unattractive, surely, but someone you’d never look at twice in a crowd. I bit my lip then, considering what her attraction was. Surely she was a brainy beazel, if not beautiful, able to discuss Spinoza and recite verses in Latin. It had to be that.
I looked away when the vows were exchanged, and stayed at the small reception long enough to make a toast in a shaking voice, and greet the guests. I slipped away then, and off to a nightclub to drink. I didn’t want to go to the Drones, or see anyone I might know, because I didn’t want to talk about what had just happened. I made it home, somehow, and stared my new life hung over, with no restorative to set me right in the morning.
Suffice it to say, it has been a difficult three years.
*******************************************************************
I found the newspaper by my bedside one afternoon, left by Miller, the quiet, older chap I had hired to replace Jeeves. He kept to himself and rarely said a word unless spoken to, but he managed to feed me and remind me when the bills were due, which was a great help. My survival was further aided by a young maid named Maude, who did a bit of cleaning and indulged me in the idle chat, which Miller was less than comfortable with. I knew Miller had left the paper because it was Thursday, and Maude was only here three times a week. I rubbed my temple and winced at the searing beam of sunlight falling over my brow. It was this light that finally convinced me to sit up fully and begin the day.
I supposed I would eat the breakfast that Miller had left for me and read the paper cover to cover, as was my custom when delaying getting out of bed. I even began to read the political articles, and was halfway through them before I stopped, bored half to sleep again. For lack of anything better to read, having read through the society pages, sport pages, and even the classified ads, I turned to the fine print announcing arrests (which are usually full of interest and entertainment, but alas, not that day), and finally the obituaries. It was there that I saw it.
JEEVES, Mary M. died 20 May 1929 - Memoriam by husband, Reginald
& daughter, Hazel JEEVES (Monday - 23 June 1930)
Jeeves! There was no further explanation. I read it three times to be sure that I had grasped the facts. A month had elapsed, and he hadn’t come to me for a shoulder to lean on! I frowned at the paper. A daughter! He’d never mentioned that. I was seized by the need to see him, to hear his voice, to do what I could before he stopped contacting me altogether- not even a Christmas letter- and in time, forget about me completely. The thought formed a lump of ice in my stomach. I stumbled out of bed and towards the telephone to place a telegram.
*******************************************************************
MR.WOOSTER,
I AM ABLE TO COME TOMORROW AFTERNOON 3 O’CLOCK AS REQUESTED. DO NOT TROUBLE YOURSELF. JEEVES.
My hand shook in anticipation as I folded the telegram, having read it a dozen more times, and tucked it into my jacket. He would be here any moment now, surely. Miller had left cold beef with tea at my request. It was hardly the best offering, but what I had to tell Jeeves wouldn’t go over well in public. He’d never forgive me if I sprang my idea on him in front of lunching couples.
I was jarred from my reverie by the buzzing of the doorbell, and I leapt from my seat, scrambling across the sitting room to fling the door open with all the enthusiasm of a dog pulling on its lead. I was not disappointed; for Jeeves had arrived in the flesh, at the exact appointed time, punctuality being a sacred virtue to him.
“Sir.” He said, simply, and my mouth struggled to find words as my eyes searched him. I didn’t like what I saw. His eyes were tired, and sported dark circles beneath them. He looked leaner, and had the air about him of someone undone, not keeping with the idea I had of him as a godlike figure able to sail smoothly through any trial.
He reached out with deft fingers, and carefully straightened my tie. His eyes fell with a touch of disapproval on my waistcoat, which, hence unknown to me, had lost a button. I swallowed a lump in my throat. The poor man had been through hell, and at a time like this he was concerned about the state that I was in! “Oh, Jeeves.” I managed, hoarsely. “Come in.”
to part 2
/lj-cut
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
It’s funny how one falls into things in life. One moment you’re a bachelor, content with your lot in the world, and through some horrible twists of fate and terrible misfortune, you find yourself lost and alone, only to discover that what you want most in this world is to share your life with someone. I get ahead of myself here, as I often do- in medias res, as Jeeves informs me, a technique that works better with some writers than others. I suppose I should state the facts, set the scene, as it were. I lived my life with my valet, Jeeves, the most competent, loyal, brilliant marvel of a man as any that had ever lived; and I was content. My Aunt Agatha habitually threw young women in my path in hopes of marrying me off, sometimes, the beazels in question would take it upon themselves to do the flinging- and yet, so contented was I with my peerless paragon of a valet who never tried to mould or improve me, as my Aunt Agatha says (as though this were to be thought of as a good thing!) that I never shared their vision of wedded bliss. Being that we didn’t see eye to eye on this marriage business, I could always rely on Jeeves to untangle me from the mess without a stain on my character. Perhaps a slight sullying, in the form of rumors of insanity or a trip up with the law, but never anything that would make me seem less of a gentleman, for one doesn’t like to let down the hopes of the fairer sex.
I had made up my mind that we’d be together always. Who needed a wife when they have a man as capable, as wonderful as Jeeves to look after them? Certainly not Bertram Wooster. However, as my fellow Drones married one by one, and talked of their wives and children and such, I began to wonder if I was missing out on something. I was toying with the idea of adopting a daughter, a jolly little girl to sit on my knee and be charming and full of sugar and spice and such, as they say, when my world was shaken by an unexpected horror.
Jeeves had contracted an understanding with some cook at a country house. What was worse was the fact that what he had contracted had addled his able, logical brain, and he wished to act on it. Biff off to the country and marry her, leaving me alone. It was quite a nasty shock, but, mulling it over, what right did I have to stop him? Jeeves had given me such joy and contentment, and what had I given him in return but a wage he could earn elsewhere? The years I’d spent with him had been the happiest of my life, and I could hardly begrudge him his own happiness, if this is what he truly wanted. I couldn’t blame him, really, for although someone of his intellect and charm would have done better to leave me to become the Prime Minister or a dashing cinema star and not the husband of some country house cook, one has to admit that the care and feeding of one hapless Wooster, B. is not what someone as great as him must aspire to in life. I had to be encouraging and supportive, for his sake.
I did my bit as best as I could, offering my congratulations warmly and insisting that he accept a tidy sum to set up his household as a wedding present. I insisted that he come to me in times of need, and he returned the warmth by asking me to stand by him at the altar as his best man. On the morning of the wedding, I prayed for some miracle to stop the nightmare from progressing, but my hopes were dashed, as the miracle worker himself had a different hope for the day’s outcome.
As I caught sight of him, my heart plummeted to my stomach. He was wearing a crisp collar and tuxedo, his buttonhole sporting a posy of deep violet flowers. He looked even more handsome and perfectly put together than was his custom, which I hardly thought was possible. Something inside me shattered at that moment, a black cloud of gloom filling me as I realized that surely, he was the only one I had ever truly loved; and I would never get to tell him because he was leaving, dash it, leaving to start a new, proper life without me. I cursed my stupidity, for not taking the risk to tell him all, for not being selfish and insisting on keeping him at any cost, for not being born female so that I could lock the bride in a broom cupboard and take her place.
I didn’t want to see the bride. I didn’t want to see the face of some pretty young thing, knowing that I would memorize it and think of Jeeves smiling at her the way he used to smile at me. Her veil was trailing behind her, though, and not covering her face, so I had to take a glance. It pleased me in a way to see that she was plain; brown hair, brown eyes, not unattractive, surely, but someone you’d never look at twice in a crowd. I bit my lip then, considering what her attraction was. Surely she was a brainy beazel, if not beautiful, able to discuss Spinoza and recite verses in Latin. It had to be that.
I looked away when the vows were exchanged, and stayed at the small reception long enough to make a toast in a shaking voice, and greet the guests. I slipped away then, and off to a nightclub to drink. I didn’t want to go to the Drones, or see anyone I might know, because I didn’t want to talk about what had just happened. I made it home, somehow, and stared my new life hung over, with no restorative to set me right in the morning.
Suffice it to say, it has been a difficult three years.
*******************************************************************
I found the newspaper by my bedside one afternoon, left by Miller, the quiet, older chap I had hired to replace Jeeves. He kept to himself and rarely said a word unless spoken to, but he managed to feed me and remind me when the bills were due, which was a great help. My survival was further aided by a young maid named Maude, who did a bit of cleaning and indulged me in the idle chat, which Miller was less than comfortable with. I knew Miller had left the paper because it was Thursday, and Maude was only here three times a week. I rubbed my temple and winced at the searing beam of sunlight falling over my brow. It was this light that finally convinced me to sit up fully and begin the day.
I supposed I would eat the breakfast that Miller had left for me and read the paper cover to cover, as was my custom when delaying getting out of bed. I even began to read the political articles, and was halfway through them before I stopped, bored half to sleep again. For lack of anything better to read, having read through the society pages, sport pages, and even the classified ads, I turned to the fine print announcing arrests (which are usually full of interest and entertainment, but alas, not that day), and finally the obituaries. It was there that I saw it.
JEEVES, Mary M. died 20 May 1929 - Memoriam by husband, Reginald
& daughter, Hazel JEEVES (Monday - 23 June 1930)
Jeeves! There was no further explanation. I read it three times to be sure that I had grasped the facts. A month had elapsed, and he hadn’t come to me for a shoulder to lean on! I frowned at the paper. A daughter! He’d never mentioned that. I was seized by the need to see him, to hear his voice, to do what I could before he stopped contacting me altogether- not even a Christmas letter- and in time, forget about me completely. The thought formed a lump of ice in my stomach. I stumbled out of bed and towards the telephone to place a telegram.
*******************************************************************
MR.WOOSTER,
I AM ABLE TO COME TOMORROW AFTERNOON 3 O’CLOCK AS REQUESTED. DO NOT TROUBLE YOURSELF. JEEVES.
My hand shook in anticipation as I folded the telegram, having read it a dozen more times, and tucked it into my jacket. He would be here any moment now, surely. Miller had left cold beef with tea at my request. It was hardly the best offering, but what I had to tell Jeeves wouldn’t go over well in public. He’d never forgive me if I sprang my idea on him in front of lunching couples.
I was jarred from my reverie by the buzzing of the doorbell, and I leapt from my seat, scrambling across the sitting room to fling the door open with all the enthusiasm of a dog pulling on its lead. I was not disappointed; for Jeeves had arrived in the flesh, at the exact appointed time, punctuality being a sacred virtue to him.
“Sir.” He said, simply, and my mouth struggled to find words as my eyes searched him. I didn’t like what I saw. His eyes were tired, and sported dark circles beneath them. He looked leaner, and had the air about him of someone undone, not keeping with the idea I had of him as a godlike figure able to sail smoothly through any trial.
He reached out with deft fingers, and carefully straightened my tie. His eyes fell with a touch of disapproval on my waistcoat, which, hence unknown to me, had lost a button. I swallowed a lump in my throat. The poor man had been through hell, and at a time like this he was concerned about the state that I was in! “Oh, Jeeves.” I managed, hoarsely. “Come in.”
to part 2
/lj-cut