Fic: Oceans, part 1 (PG-13)
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
He had left everything to me: the flat, the two-seater, every last penny in the bank. There had been no explanation when the will was read, only my name, and an unlabeled key that had been left in the solicitor’s safe box. I had claimed ignorance when presented with the key, when of course I knew what it belonged to. In the corner of Mr. Wooster’s bedroom there is an old side table with a locked drawer. I had asked about it once, and he had told me that the key was lost, and the drawer empty. I must confess that my curiosity remained in regards to this matter, and I have, in the past, gone so far as to gently shake the table to confirm that it was, indeed ,empty.
That evening, I approached the table, and slipped the key into the keyhole. As I expected, it slid in easily and popped open the lock. It was a lovely piece of furniture upon close inspection, and it took me several minutes to find the release mechanism on the compartment hidden under the drawer. Prying up the edge, I found my prize: an envelope taped securely to the underside of the false bottom of the compartment. I sat with the letter, and it was not long before my fingers began to tremble, and my vision began to blur.
Jeeves,
If you are reading this, then I am gone, and I trust that you really are reading this because you, of all people, are clever enough to find this letter. I hid it so as not to implicate you, and the only reason that I risk writing this at all is so you can know what I was never brave enough to tell you. I can’t bear you never knowing, but I am too afraid to risk you leaving me again.
Since the day that you first came to me, I have felt blessed beyond reason, and happier than I’m likely to be in Heaven. I hope that I haven’t been much trouble to you, old thing. I know that I can be a handful. Everything I had is now yours, and, feudal spirit or not, I want you to accept it, to live your life to the fullest. Go to Cuba and catch all of their fish. Take a flat in Paris and stay out until dawn. Spoil all of your nieces. Do it, for me.
I’m not sure when I realized that I loved you. It seems like something that has always been a fact, like the sky being blue, the grass being green, aunts being ornery. It can’t be the case though, since it has been a mere seven years since we met. I needed you, and it somehow became more.
Forgive me for saying all of this, but you were everything this Wooster could ever want. You were the keeper of my home, a sympathetic ear, a strong spirit and a clever, scheming mind to counteract my own mental deficiencies. Many times I’ve daydreamed of taking you for my wife, impossible, I know, but if it were possible, oh, how I’d woo you and beg you to accept my ring and my name. These words probably disgust you, or perhaps merely amuse you with their foolishness. Still, I remain your fool, and yours alone,
Bertie
For eighteen months, Lady Worplesdon had contested the will, thwarted by Mrs. Travers, who testified to Mr. Wooster’s mental soundness and generous nature with her own legal expert. My own representative defended my character, for although I had not expected to be remembered so handsomely, I could not bear the thought that I might be seen as having had manipulated him for his money. I would have been more personally involved in these matters had my heart not been broken, had I not felt such shame and guilt at inadvertently being the cause of this feud between Mr. Wooster’s family. I avoided Lady Worplesdon as much as possible, and courteously declined Mrs. Travers’ offers of hospitality.
I did not leave the flat. It was too large for me alone, and too expensive to justify keeping, and yet I stayed. I was not ready to let him go, not ready to pack up his clothing, his books, his piano. I slept in the bed long after it ceased to hold his scent, played the sheet music propped upon the piano, pretending that it was his fingers bringing the notes to my ears. I do not think that I prepared a single meal in this time, preferring to eat and drink at the Junior Ganymede when I remembered to eat at all.
Long had I loved Mr. Wooster, yet it seemed an impossible love at the time, bound by my station as well as my sex. I served and advised him faithfully, and watched desperately for signs that he might welcome my advances. Brushing against my fingers, praising me fondly, a soft word or glance, all made me bolder, until he began to exhibit more obvious behavior. He became less difficult. He no longer opposed me in matters of dress, he agreed to more traveling, and he lingered in the bath, stretching his long, creamy leg up while I watched, exposing the soft skin of his inner thigh, maddeningly covered in soap bubbles at the point where I longed to trail hungry kisses.
My want for him grew until it was too much to bear. It was on the ship to New York where he first allowed me into his bed. It would be the last, and only, time.
It pains me to remember the events of that night. Something had gone terribly, horribly wrong, and there was no stopping the water that flooded the lower decks of the ship. Hundreds of lives were at stake, yet to me, there was only one. I shielded Mr. Wooster against the panicking crowd, and, murmuring reassurances to him, lowered him into the flimsy life boat as he clung to me in fear.
I remember a blunt pain and a loud noise as colors exploded behind my eyes, followed by a blackness that could have lasted seconds or days. I awoke in a sterile, white room, the back of my head sore and stitched, and a great panic filled me. I jumped to my feet, and searched every narrow bed in turn for him, but he was gone.
For months now, the nightmares consumed me. Had he suffered? Had he reached for me as the icy water claimed him, betrayed by my limp hands? Night after night I saw him die, each time more horrifically than the last. The worst dreams, however, were the peaceful ones, when he was happily at my side, only to be gone when my senses overtook me in waking. When I awoke, guilt and misery plagued my every moment.
I could not accept losing him, not without a fight. I saw the faces of the recovered dead, and failing to identify him, filed him among the thirty two missing. My heart caught in my throat each time I heard of bodies washing ashore, one by one, and each time I would frantically hurry to see if I could distinguish his features under the bloated mask of death that the corpses wore. Mr. Wooster remained missing, one of twelve men and two women.
The police seemed to wash their hands of the affair after a few months, telling me that the sea buries her own. Undaunted, I hired investigators to scour the seaside. It has amounted to little, and yet, I am unable to call off the chase. If he does not live, I feel the need to at least recover him, and bury him beside his departed parents. I have no right to lay beside him in his family plot, but perhaps someday, in death, my ashes might be spread over his grave. It is the best that I can hope for.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
He had left everything to me: the flat, the two-seater, every last penny in the bank. There had been no explanation when the will was read, only my name, and an unlabeled key that had been left in the solicitor’s safe box. I had claimed ignorance when presented with the key, when of course I knew what it belonged to. In the corner of Mr. Wooster’s bedroom there is an old side table with a locked drawer. I had asked about it once, and he had told me that the key was lost, and the drawer empty. I must confess that my curiosity remained in regards to this matter, and I have, in the past, gone so far as to gently shake the table to confirm that it was, indeed ,empty.
That evening, I approached the table, and slipped the key into the keyhole. As I expected, it slid in easily and popped open the lock. It was a lovely piece of furniture upon close inspection, and it took me several minutes to find the release mechanism on the compartment hidden under the drawer. Prying up the edge, I found my prize: an envelope taped securely to the underside of the false bottom of the compartment. I sat with the letter, and it was not long before my fingers began to tremble, and my vision began to blur.
Jeeves,
If you are reading this, then I am gone, and I trust that you really are reading this because you, of all people, are clever enough to find this letter. I hid it so as not to implicate you, and the only reason that I risk writing this at all is so you can know what I was never brave enough to tell you. I can’t bear you never knowing, but I am too afraid to risk you leaving me again.
Since the day that you first came to me, I have felt blessed beyond reason, and happier than I’m likely to be in Heaven. I hope that I haven’t been much trouble to you, old thing. I know that I can be a handful. Everything I had is now yours, and, feudal spirit or not, I want you to accept it, to live your life to the fullest. Go to Cuba and catch all of their fish. Take a flat in Paris and stay out until dawn. Spoil all of your nieces. Do it, for me.
I’m not sure when I realized that I loved you. It seems like something that has always been a fact, like the sky being blue, the grass being green, aunts being ornery. It can’t be the case though, since it has been a mere seven years since we met. I needed you, and it somehow became more.
Forgive me for saying all of this, but you were everything this Wooster could ever want. You were the keeper of my home, a sympathetic ear, a strong spirit and a clever, scheming mind to counteract my own mental deficiencies. Many times I’ve daydreamed of taking you for my wife, impossible, I know, but if it were possible, oh, how I’d woo you and beg you to accept my ring and my name. These words probably disgust you, or perhaps merely amuse you with their foolishness. Still, I remain your fool, and yours alone,
Bertie
For eighteen months, Lady Worplesdon had contested the will, thwarted by Mrs. Travers, who testified to Mr. Wooster’s mental soundness and generous nature with her own legal expert. My own representative defended my character, for although I had not expected to be remembered so handsomely, I could not bear the thought that I might be seen as having had manipulated him for his money. I would have been more personally involved in these matters had my heart not been broken, had I not felt such shame and guilt at inadvertently being the cause of this feud between Mr. Wooster’s family. I avoided Lady Worplesdon as much as possible, and courteously declined Mrs. Travers’ offers of hospitality.
I did not leave the flat. It was too large for me alone, and too expensive to justify keeping, and yet I stayed. I was not ready to let him go, not ready to pack up his clothing, his books, his piano. I slept in the bed long after it ceased to hold his scent, played the sheet music propped upon the piano, pretending that it was his fingers bringing the notes to my ears. I do not think that I prepared a single meal in this time, preferring to eat and drink at the Junior Ganymede when I remembered to eat at all.
Long had I loved Mr. Wooster, yet it seemed an impossible love at the time, bound by my station as well as my sex. I served and advised him faithfully, and watched desperately for signs that he might welcome my advances. Brushing against my fingers, praising me fondly, a soft word or glance, all made me bolder, until he began to exhibit more obvious behavior. He became less difficult. He no longer opposed me in matters of dress, he agreed to more traveling, and he lingered in the bath, stretching his long, creamy leg up while I watched, exposing the soft skin of his inner thigh, maddeningly covered in soap bubbles at the point where I longed to trail hungry kisses.
My want for him grew until it was too much to bear. It was on the ship to New York where he first allowed me into his bed. It would be the last, and only, time.
It pains me to remember the events of that night. Something had gone terribly, horribly wrong, and there was no stopping the water that flooded the lower decks of the ship. Hundreds of lives were at stake, yet to me, there was only one. I shielded Mr. Wooster against the panicking crowd, and, murmuring reassurances to him, lowered him into the flimsy life boat as he clung to me in fear.
I remember a blunt pain and a loud noise as colors exploded behind my eyes, followed by a blackness that could have lasted seconds or days. I awoke in a sterile, white room, the back of my head sore and stitched, and a great panic filled me. I jumped to my feet, and searched every narrow bed in turn for him, but he was gone.
For months now, the nightmares consumed me. Had he suffered? Had he reached for me as the icy water claimed him, betrayed by my limp hands? Night after night I saw him die, each time more horrifically than the last. The worst dreams, however, were the peaceful ones, when he was happily at my side, only to be gone when my senses overtook me in waking. When I awoke, guilt and misery plagued my every moment.
I could not accept losing him, not without a fight. I saw the faces of the recovered dead, and failing to identify him, filed him among the thirty two missing. My heart caught in my throat each time I heard of bodies washing ashore, one by one, and each time I would frantically hurry to see if I could distinguish his features under the bloated mask of death that the corpses wore. Mr. Wooster remained missing, one of twelve men and two women.
The police seemed to wash their hands of the affair after a few months, telling me that the sea buries her own. Undaunted, I hired investigators to scour the seaside. It has amounted to little, and yet, I am unable to call off the chase. If he does not live, I feel the need to at least recover him, and bury him beside his departed parents. I have no right to lay beside him in his family plot, but perhaps someday, in death, my ashes might be spread over his grave. It is the best that I can hope for.