Where We Belong Part 1 of 2
OK I am usually not a big person for OC bu I had a few requests for how Bertie and Jeeves would handle a child after The Complications fic, so I did this. Hope it brings some closure!
The Complications
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
The kitchen became busy with pre dinner activity, spilling over into the pantry where Hazel Jeeves curled into a worn armchair with a tattered leather book , surrounded by the stacks of cast off newspapers and magazines that were gathered for the war effort . It was her favorite place at Brinkley Court; snug and tidy with just enough lazy sunlight to read by. Officially, it was the lair of kindly old Mr. Seppings, who often called her ‘dear’ as he offered her warm ends of bread smeared in extra rations of honey, and Hazel had taken a liking to it at an early age.
Tonight, however, she was reading poetry, poetry that required more quiet to comprehend than the pantry offered. She wanted to memorize a passage that had makings in the margin, knowing that her father’s eyes would shine approvingly when she recited it on his birthday. She reluctantly rose, leaving her mug in the sink, and made her way up the stairs, considering the window seat on the east side of the house for her next perch.
She reached the window and stared out over the lush grounds, still picturesque despite being a bit more unkempt than they had been when she was a very young girl. With this view in mind, it was difficult to imagine that the country had been at war until only two months ago. She frowned a moment, wondering what had really become of London. Her father and Uncle Bertie had sent her to Brinkley Court years ago, but had finally come to join her permanently eight months before. Though she preferred their presence to weekly letters and occasional parcels between visits, their arrival had a dark side to it, as well. London had become too dangerous, her father had said, grimly, and Uncle Bertie looked to be on the verge of tears. They might not go home any time soon.
Hazel shared her godfather’s sentiments, for although she loved her family at Brinkley Court, there were other people underfoot, most irritating being the children of other nobles, sent to the country as she had been once London became a target. Several of the children were nice enough, but there were a few that snubbed her because of her father’s profession.
Chief among her adversaries was a girl three months younger named Louise Bingsley, some distant relative of Uncle Tom’s. She possessed long, platinum hair and a silvery laugh, a bitter giggle that accompanied her reminders to Hazel and anyone else that might be around of her father’s rank on a daily basis. She often added that she was the prettier of the pair while she was at it, which seemed both cruel and redundant to Hazel, who felt that anyone with eyes didn’t need a verbal reminder. It wasn’t long before she had begun to dislike Louise’s every aspect, including her name, which at times she thought sounded like the word “sleaze”, but also reminded her of the word “louse.” Louise’s young admirers often sought to endear themselves to her by making snide remarks at Hazel’s expense. She found that it was easy enough to ignore or avoid them for the most part, with the exception of one boy.
His name was Percy Engels, and in a word, she found him repulsive. He was two years her elder, and towered over her despite her lanky legs. He looked a bit like a red potato, with his short gingery hair and skin permanently flushed a blotchy red from playing rugby. Not content to be just another taunting voice in the crowd, he had recently been giving her special attention, cornering her to tell her that the rag and bone man had come looking for her dress, to shove her arm to make her drop her books, and to generally be a nuisance whenever here was no one else around. Hazel had cheered when the fighting ceased, as much for the fact that these horrid people would surely leave Brinkley Court forever now, as much as for her patriotism.
Still, weeks had passed, and yet Percy and Louise were still there. It was infuriating.
It was doubly infuriating that thinking of the demon seemed to have summoned him. Hazel heard him before she saw him, instinctively rising to slink off when she heard the first thumping of his flat feet. Noticing that she was at a dead end, she sat down again, pretending to not notice him over the pages of her book. She bristled slightly as he sat beside her , bumping her leg and leaning his arm across the window seat to lean on the frame.
“Hullo.” He said, tapping on the cover of the book. “If you don’t take your face out of that book, it’ll stay that way.” He added.
She frowned, folding the slim volume in her lap. “I think you mean…” she sighed, deciding that explaining a mixed metaphor was an exercise in wasted time. “I mean to say, I’m trying to study. I want to memorize this verse, and I need some quiet, please.”
“I’ll be quiet.” He promised, and Hazel, though annoyed, resumed her reading, in hopes that he would grow bored and wander off. She startled as his hand came to rest on her leg.
“Don’t touch me.” She added, pressing herself into the window frame.
“Why not?” he asked, leaning over her, as though he were testing how far he could bend without her flinching. Hazel glared at him until it became apparent that he meant to kiss her, and then pulled away with a small yelp.
“I said, don’t touch me.” She felt as though she had the situation in hand until he stood, as well, once more towering over her. “If you don’t respect my wishes, I’ll tell Aunt Dahlia.” She added.
He laughed, as though she hadn’t been serious. “She’s not even your real Aunt.”
Hazel felt anger rise in her chest. “She won’t be happy about your behavior. You have to follow civil rules when you’re a guest.”
“Crazy old Wooster isn’t even your uncle.” He added.
“He’s my godfather.” Hazel bristled. “This is my house, not yours. You are a guest here, so you should act like one.”
“If he wasn’t so crazy to think that you’re his daughter or something, you’d be down in the kitchen scrubbing pots with your old man.” He took a step forward, and Hazel held her ground, determined to not let him back her into a corner. “You should be happy that someone like me is taking an interest. “ He gripped her shoulder firmly, and leaned closer once again. Hazel tugged her shoulder free, and gasped as he kept the cloth in his grip, ripping the hem of her collar and sending the delicate strand of pearls that Uncle Bertie had given her for her birthday flying out in all directions, a dozen scattering sounds echoing in the stillness of the hall. In her anger, she brought down her foot on his toes as hard as she could.
Percy yelled out in pain, and Hazel met his gaze briefly enough to see the fury in his eyes. Talking advantage of the split second he’d removed his hand from her, she ran, pearls and poetry abandoned on the floor panels. She couldn’t tell if she was being pursued, as her heartbeat was echoing in her ears as she ran blindly. Blindly would do no good, she realized, if she suddenly ran out of places to run to. Uncle Bertie’s room was closest, she knew. She soon found herself at his door, and was dismayed to find the door was locked. Frantically, she threw her shoulder against the door twice before the object gave in, and she flew into the room with a slight sob of panic.
Uncle Bertie seemed to be dressing for dinner, and he looked up at her in alarm. It was then that she realized that her father was there, as well, and with a great cry of relief she launched herself into his arms, faintly wondering why his own shirt buttons were undone to the waist.
“Oh!… oh, Hazel, what seems to be the problem?” Uncle Bertie’s fingers were suddenly brushing her hair back, while her father gripped her tightly.
“Yes, what is it, my precious girl?” her father asked, mumbling into her hair.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and attempted to retell her story. “It’s Percy. He tried to kiss me, and he ripped my blouse, and he… he broke my necklace.” Her voice cracked, and her father squeezed her, reassuringly.
“I shall replace your pearls.” He said, gently. She could tell that he and Uncle Bertie were looking at each other over her head then, as they did when Something Proper needed to be taken care of by Uncle Bertie.
“It’s not that.” She sniffled, angry at herself for sounding so upset over a silly necklace. She couldn’t say that what she really wanted was for her father to lay the brute out cold once and for all, instead of having Uncle Bertie merely complain on her behalf. It just wasn’t the done thing if you came from a proper family. In Hazel’s world, those sort of satisfying brawls only happened in magazines.
“What! I’ve had enough of this young blighter.” Uncle Bertie’s voice was reassuringly angry and firm. “I will not have him thinking he can manhandle my goddaughter in my own family home. He’ll be out of this house before dinner, never to darken our door again.” She felt him rise and leave the room. He wasn’t even dressed, she realized, with rising hope. He was actually going to do something about it.
She shifted in her father’s arms, and sniffled self consciously as he dried her eyes with his handkerchief. “We would never let anything bad happen to you.” He assured her. His eyes were hard and dark, as though he were holding back as many words as she herself was.
“I know, Papa.” She sighed. He held her silently, petting her from hair to shoulder in a soothing motion.
“Did he do anything else to you? “ he asked, his voice grim. Hazel shook her head frantically, embarrassed by what her father’s question was suggesting.
“Do you wish to talk about it?” he added, quietly. She shook her head again.
A small, squeaking noise alerted them to Uncle Bertie’s arrival. Now that she was calmer, she had to smile at the sight. His cuffs were undone, and he had neither jacket nor trousers on. She almost laughed, imagining him demanding to speak with Aunt Dahlia in such a state.
“He’s on his way.” Uncle Bertie said, with a sweep of his hand. “Out the door and onto the next train, and good riddance!” he slammed the door behind him, and took his place beside her on the bed. “Don’t cry, little love.” He added, taking the handkerchief from her fingers and attempting to dab at tear stains that had already dried.
“I’m not.” She swallowed, and sat up, feeling drained.
“He’s really gone?” she asked, softly.
“Kicked him out the back door myself.” Uncle Bertie replied, earning a small smile from both father and daughter. “Now, what can I do to make you feel better?” he asked, folding her hands in his earnestly.
“I want to go back to London.” She blinked, surprised that the words had come to her lips without her planning them.
Her father and godfather exchanged another set of their curious looks, and her father opened his mouth as if to say something. Uncle Bertie spoke first, nervously rubbing the back of his head.
“Hazel… er. Well.That is, well. You know that we love you; very, very much, of course. And you know that your father and I are, well. Lovers. Right?” he added, shyly, glancing nervously between her and her father.
For a long moment, time seemed to hold still.
to part 2
The Complications
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
The kitchen became busy with pre dinner activity, spilling over into the pantry where Hazel Jeeves curled into a worn armchair with a tattered leather book , surrounded by the stacks of cast off newspapers and magazines that were gathered for the war effort . It was her favorite place at Brinkley Court; snug and tidy with just enough lazy sunlight to read by. Officially, it was the lair of kindly old Mr. Seppings, who often called her ‘dear’ as he offered her warm ends of bread smeared in extra rations of honey, and Hazel had taken a liking to it at an early age.
Tonight, however, she was reading poetry, poetry that required more quiet to comprehend than the pantry offered. She wanted to memorize a passage that had makings in the margin, knowing that her father’s eyes would shine approvingly when she recited it on his birthday. She reluctantly rose, leaving her mug in the sink, and made her way up the stairs, considering the window seat on the east side of the house for her next perch.
She reached the window and stared out over the lush grounds, still picturesque despite being a bit more unkempt than they had been when she was a very young girl. With this view in mind, it was difficult to imagine that the country had been at war until only two months ago. She frowned a moment, wondering what had really become of London. Her father and Uncle Bertie had sent her to Brinkley Court years ago, but had finally come to join her permanently eight months before. Though she preferred their presence to weekly letters and occasional parcels between visits, their arrival had a dark side to it, as well. London had become too dangerous, her father had said, grimly, and Uncle Bertie looked to be on the verge of tears. They might not go home any time soon.
Hazel shared her godfather’s sentiments, for although she loved her family at Brinkley Court, there were other people underfoot, most irritating being the children of other nobles, sent to the country as she had been once London became a target. Several of the children were nice enough, but there were a few that snubbed her because of her father’s profession.
Chief among her adversaries was a girl three months younger named Louise Bingsley, some distant relative of Uncle Tom’s. She possessed long, platinum hair and a silvery laugh, a bitter giggle that accompanied her reminders to Hazel and anyone else that might be around of her father’s rank on a daily basis. She often added that she was the prettier of the pair while she was at it, which seemed both cruel and redundant to Hazel, who felt that anyone with eyes didn’t need a verbal reminder. It wasn’t long before she had begun to dislike Louise’s every aspect, including her name, which at times she thought sounded like the word “sleaze”, but also reminded her of the word “louse.” Louise’s young admirers often sought to endear themselves to her by making snide remarks at Hazel’s expense. She found that it was easy enough to ignore or avoid them for the most part, with the exception of one boy.
His name was Percy Engels, and in a word, she found him repulsive. He was two years her elder, and towered over her despite her lanky legs. He looked a bit like a red potato, with his short gingery hair and skin permanently flushed a blotchy red from playing rugby. Not content to be just another taunting voice in the crowd, he had recently been giving her special attention, cornering her to tell her that the rag and bone man had come looking for her dress, to shove her arm to make her drop her books, and to generally be a nuisance whenever here was no one else around. Hazel had cheered when the fighting ceased, as much for the fact that these horrid people would surely leave Brinkley Court forever now, as much as for her patriotism.
Still, weeks had passed, and yet Percy and Louise were still there. It was infuriating.
It was doubly infuriating that thinking of the demon seemed to have summoned him. Hazel heard him before she saw him, instinctively rising to slink off when she heard the first thumping of his flat feet. Noticing that she was at a dead end, she sat down again, pretending to not notice him over the pages of her book. She bristled slightly as he sat beside her , bumping her leg and leaning his arm across the window seat to lean on the frame.
“Hullo.” He said, tapping on the cover of the book. “If you don’t take your face out of that book, it’ll stay that way.” He added.
She frowned, folding the slim volume in her lap. “I think you mean…” she sighed, deciding that explaining a mixed metaphor was an exercise in wasted time. “I mean to say, I’m trying to study. I want to memorize this verse, and I need some quiet, please.”
“I’ll be quiet.” He promised, and Hazel, though annoyed, resumed her reading, in hopes that he would grow bored and wander off. She startled as his hand came to rest on her leg.
“Don’t touch me.” She added, pressing herself into the window frame.
“Why not?” he asked, leaning over her, as though he were testing how far he could bend without her flinching. Hazel glared at him until it became apparent that he meant to kiss her, and then pulled away with a small yelp.
“I said, don’t touch me.” She felt as though she had the situation in hand until he stood, as well, once more towering over her. “If you don’t respect my wishes, I’ll tell Aunt Dahlia.” She added.
He laughed, as though she hadn’t been serious. “She’s not even your real Aunt.”
Hazel felt anger rise in her chest. “She won’t be happy about your behavior. You have to follow civil rules when you’re a guest.”
“Crazy old Wooster isn’t even your uncle.” He added.
“He’s my godfather.” Hazel bristled. “This is my house, not yours. You are a guest here, so you should act like one.”
“If he wasn’t so crazy to think that you’re his daughter or something, you’d be down in the kitchen scrubbing pots with your old man.” He took a step forward, and Hazel held her ground, determined to not let him back her into a corner. “You should be happy that someone like me is taking an interest. “ He gripped her shoulder firmly, and leaned closer once again. Hazel tugged her shoulder free, and gasped as he kept the cloth in his grip, ripping the hem of her collar and sending the delicate strand of pearls that Uncle Bertie had given her for her birthday flying out in all directions, a dozen scattering sounds echoing in the stillness of the hall. In her anger, she brought down her foot on his toes as hard as she could.
Percy yelled out in pain, and Hazel met his gaze briefly enough to see the fury in his eyes. Talking advantage of the split second he’d removed his hand from her, she ran, pearls and poetry abandoned on the floor panels. She couldn’t tell if she was being pursued, as her heartbeat was echoing in her ears as she ran blindly. Blindly would do no good, she realized, if she suddenly ran out of places to run to. Uncle Bertie’s room was closest, she knew. She soon found herself at his door, and was dismayed to find the door was locked. Frantically, she threw her shoulder against the door twice before the object gave in, and she flew into the room with a slight sob of panic.
Uncle Bertie seemed to be dressing for dinner, and he looked up at her in alarm. It was then that she realized that her father was there, as well, and with a great cry of relief she launched herself into his arms, faintly wondering why his own shirt buttons were undone to the waist.
“Oh!… oh, Hazel, what seems to be the problem?” Uncle Bertie’s fingers were suddenly brushing her hair back, while her father gripped her tightly.
“Yes, what is it, my precious girl?” her father asked, mumbling into her hair.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and attempted to retell her story. “It’s Percy. He tried to kiss me, and he ripped my blouse, and he… he broke my necklace.” Her voice cracked, and her father squeezed her, reassuringly.
“I shall replace your pearls.” He said, gently. She could tell that he and Uncle Bertie were looking at each other over her head then, as they did when Something Proper needed to be taken care of by Uncle Bertie.
“It’s not that.” She sniffled, angry at herself for sounding so upset over a silly necklace. She couldn’t say that what she really wanted was for her father to lay the brute out cold once and for all, instead of having Uncle Bertie merely complain on her behalf. It just wasn’t the done thing if you came from a proper family. In Hazel’s world, those sort of satisfying brawls only happened in magazines.
“What! I’ve had enough of this young blighter.” Uncle Bertie’s voice was reassuringly angry and firm. “I will not have him thinking he can manhandle my goddaughter in my own family home. He’ll be out of this house before dinner, never to darken our door again.” She felt him rise and leave the room. He wasn’t even dressed, she realized, with rising hope. He was actually going to do something about it.
She shifted in her father’s arms, and sniffled self consciously as he dried her eyes with his handkerchief. “We would never let anything bad happen to you.” He assured her. His eyes were hard and dark, as though he were holding back as many words as she herself was.
“I know, Papa.” She sighed. He held her silently, petting her from hair to shoulder in a soothing motion.
“Did he do anything else to you? “ he asked, his voice grim. Hazel shook her head frantically, embarrassed by what her father’s question was suggesting.
“Do you wish to talk about it?” he added, quietly. She shook her head again.
A small, squeaking noise alerted them to Uncle Bertie’s arrival. Now that she was calmer, she had to smile at the sight. His cuffs were undone, and he had neither jacket nor trousers on. She almost laughed, imagining him demanding to speak with Aunt Dahlia in such a state.
“He’s on his way.” Uncle Bertie said, with a sweep of his hand. “Out the door and onto the next train, and good riddance!” he slammed the door behind him, and took his place beside her on the bed. “Don’t cry, little love.” He added, taking the handkerchief from her fingers and attempting to dab at tear stains that had already dried.
“I’m not.” She swallowed, and sat up, feeling drained.
“He’s really gone?” she asked, softly.
“Kicked him out the back door myself.” Uncle Bertie replied, earning a small smile from both father and daughter. “Now, what can I do to make you feel better?” he asked, folding her hands in his earnestly.
“I want to go back to London.” She blinked, surprised that the words had come to her lips without her planning them.
Her father and godfather exchanged another set of their curious looks, and her father opened his mouth as if to say something. Uncle Bertie spoke first, nervously rubbing the back of his head.
“Hazel… er. Well.That is, well. You know that we love you; very, very much, of course. And you know that your father and I are, well. Lovers. Right?” he added, shyly, glancing nervously between her and her father.
For a long moment, time seemed to hold still.
to part 2