Fic: Oceans, part 3 (PG-13)
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
I feel him against me, soft skin wrapped in silk pajamas , the faint brush of his stubble against my throat. His smile is gentle, his eyes are bright. He whispers silly, endearing things to me as his hands slide under my own clothing, wrapping long limbs possessively around me as we kiss. He can utter the most romantic drivel this side of the silver screen while looking into my eyes, but a mere word of a sexual nature makes him cast his eyes downward, and blush delightfully. I find myself rambling, telling him how I’ve missed him, how hopeless I was without him. I love him, I want him, and I could not say which emotion holds more power over my soul as I pin him under me. When I awaken, I am thrusting pathetically into the mattress, and the pillowcase is damp.
I am no longer startled by these abrupt realizations, but I am not yet immune to the ache of them. I bathed and dressed, and , still feeling lost, I took a pill and lit a cigarette. I tidied the flat, completing my morning routine, so much shorter without Mr. Wooster to look after.
Determined to clear my head, I headed out for a stroll, circling the park before browsing my favorite book seller’s shelves. I politely declined help, for I was not looking for anything to read today. I was looking for myself, for my sanity. It is calming to be surrounded by tall shelves of bound leather volumes, comforting to smell the ink and pulp of the stacks of paperback novels that crowd the entrance and bombard customers with their brightly printed jackets. A sense of peace overtook me, and in my improved mood, I purchased several gaudy paperbacks , intending to present them to my aunt at the next opportunity. Sending them back to the flat, I walked to the Junior Ganymede for tea, and let my mind wander to the problems of my colleagues, offering advice and lending a sympathetic ear. Today, I felt, was one of the better days, despite how it had begun.
It was a dangerous thought, one that I should not allow myself to indulge in before clicking the switch of the bedside lamp at night. It is particularly dangerous on days when you find yourself fighting the procession of the day’s events, becoming more hopeful with each setback. Nonetheless, I indulged, only to have my heart sink upon seeing Mr. Green waiting for me in the lobby of Berkley Mansions. I nodded to him in resignation, and invited him into the flat.
I poured two whiskey and sodas as he spread the contents of his attaché across the table. “I’ve spent this week interviewing people where that lost debris showed up last week on the shoreline. I have some hospital reports.”
I watched him spread them before me, listening to him make flimsy connections with great gestures of his hands. All the papers were like all of the ones before, a great pile of garbage that amounted to nothing but a wild goose chase that had long ago taken all the heart out of me. “I’ve had enough.” I hadn’t realized that I had spoken aloud until he ceased speaking and raised his eyes to me, slightly alarmed.
“I’m sure we’re closer, Mr. Jeeves.” He began. His manner seemed doggedly insistent, in line with what I have come to expect of him. I felt momentarily shamed for even considering giving up. He was talking again, comparing this case to another he’d solved and chronicled. I half listened, my fingers idly leafing through the files.
I mentioned before how irony loves to have its way , and it struck once more. I had only just determined that the new reports were so useless that even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t salvage an obscure clue from the rot, when I noticed a scrap of paper poking out of the inside pocket of the open case. I pulled it loose, and felt my heart drop to my stomach. It was Mr. Wooster’s handwriting, of that I was sure. I doubted my judgment and sanity for only a moment before slamming the ragged paper to the table and fixing Mr. Green with a steely glare. “Where did you get this?” I growled.
He paled, and the momentary look of horror was not lost on me. Quickly regaining his composure, he took the paper from me and hastily ran his eyes over it. “It’s a case study I wrote for a magazine.” he said, his manner obvious of one desperately trying to dismiss suspicion.
“This is not your handwriting.” I stood to my full height and fixed him with a stern glare. In retrospect, I realize he had never seen such a glare from me, having become accustomed to my far off, hopeless stare. “I am not a fool, Mr. Green. Tell me the entire truth.”
He actually looked frightened, his dark eyes widened and trembling. “I didn’t know.” He stammered. “I mean, not at first.”
I softened the tone of my voice, just a bit, but held my stern gaze. “What didn’t you know?”
“I didn’t know it was him until I saw the photograph, after I accepted the case. See, I was working on another case, finding a stolen pearl necklace, when I met this man. He was a scruffy looking thing, and a lazy sod to boot. John, he was called. He was working in the kitchen of the resort hotel I was staying in, peeling potatoes, running errands, that sort of thing, in exchange for a bed. I met him one night while sneaking down to the kitchen for a bite after missing dinner. He showed me where the pantry was, and we ate our pilfered meal together. He was full of questions, even back then, and I wound up telling him what I did for a living, foolish of me to divulge to a stranger at the scene of the crime, I know. He seemed genuinely interested, or maybe he just is the sort to make one feel interesting, to this day, I don’t know. There was just something about him. Maybe I was lonely, maybe a bit frustrated. So, I told him how hard it was, to establish oneself in this field , how every success is followed by ten failures, and how difficult it was to make a name. “He fidgeted with the buttons on his coat, and continued, in a fast rush of words.
“Applesauce!” says he, “Why don’t you make your own name?” I didn’t rightly understand, but he told me he’d help, for five bob. It was already a night for foolishness, and I found myself taken in by his charm. I gave him the money, and the next morning, he slips me a letter while clearing up the breakfast trays, and it’s a regular mystery story, just like in the magazines, but with me as the hero. He left me a note saying to give up on the damn pearl necklace and send the letter to the papers. It was published the next day. I gave him another five bob and he comes out with another incredible story, snapped up by the papers the week after. Suddenly, I was famous. Me, famous!
I took him back to London with me, offering him room and board, and half the money we made, and he agreed. I still took cases, but most of our money came from the stories. When I saw his picture, I suspected, but I told myself that it was a coincidence, must be dozens of chaps looking like that, even though I kept finding evidence that it was him that you were looking for. I didn’t want to lose him, Mr. Jeeves. This is the first thing in my life that’s ever really worked out.”
My emotions were going wild within me, joy at the news that Mr. Wooster was alive, anger at having been deceived for so long, and a desperation that I couldn’t quite describe. “Give him to me.” I said, firmly.
“But, Mr. Jeeves, I need him!” Mr. Green looked pathetic then, almost enough to warrant sympathy. Instead, I was freshly enraged. I spoke as levelly as I could.
“If you deliver him to me safely, I will give you five hundred pounds. If you refuse, I will expose you to the proprietress of Milady’s Boudoir and smear your name. I will then hunt you down and take him myself. Take the reputation you have made for yourself and sell your honest toil.” And if he is harmed, I thought, may God help you.
He stammered, and I gripped his shoulder, firmly. “I will not let you out of my sight.” I growled. “Bring me to him.” And this is how I came to be standing outside of a shabby flat across town, my heart racing wildly.
“John?” Mr. Green led me into the dismal place, furnished with the elderly spinster type who usually rented these rooms in mind.
Even so bedraggled, he was unmistakable, clear blue eyes shining from behind a scruffy beard and worn penny dreadful. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his ear on his left side, and his skin was lightly tanned. “Who’s that, then?” he asked, rising to his feet.
He didn’t know me. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach, and I felt as though I might cry, from this horrible realization, and from joy, combined. I bowed my head. “Sir.” I began, my voice suddenly rough and raspy, “I am your faithful servant.”
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
I feel him against me, soft skin wrapped in silk pajamas , the faint brush of his stubble against my throat. His smile is gentle, his eyes are bright. He whispers silly, endearing things to me as his hands slide under my own clothing, wrapping long limbs possessively around me as we kiss. He can utter the most romantic drivel this side of the silver screen while looking into my eyes, but a mere word of a sexual nature makes him cast his eyes downward, and blush delightfully. I find myself rambling, telling him how I’ve missed him, how hopeless I was without him. I love him, I want him, and I could not say which emotion holds more power over my soul as I pin him under me. When I awaken, I am thrusting pathetically into the mattress, and the pillowcase is damp.
I am no longer startled by these abrupt realizations, but I am not yet immune to the ache of them. I bathed and dressed, and , still feeling lost, I took a pill and lit a cigarette. I tidied the flat, completing my morning routine, so much shorter without Mr. Wooster to look after.
Determined to clear my head, I headed out for a stroll, circling the park before browsing my favorite book seller’s shelves. I politely declined help, for I was not looking for anything to read today. I was looking for myself, for my sanity. It is calming to be surrounded by tall shelves of bound leather volumes, comforting to smell the ink and pulp of the stacks of paperback novels that crowd the entrance and bombard customers with their brightly printed jackets. A sense of peace overtook me, and in my improved mood, I purchased several gaudy paperbacks , intending to present them to my aunt at the next opportunity. Sending them back to the flat, I walked to the Junior Ganymede for tea, and let my mind wander to the problems of my colleagues, offering advice and lending a sympathetic ear. Today, I felt, was one of the better days, despite how it had begun.
It was a dangerous thought, one that I should not allow myself to indulge in before clicking the switch of the bedside lamp at night. It is particularly dangerous on days when you find yourself fighting the procession of the day’s events, becoming more hopeful with each setback. Nonetheless, I indulged, only to have my heart sink upon seeing Mr. Green waiting for me in the lobby of Berkley Mansions. I nodded to him in resignation, and invited him into the flat.
I poured two whiskey and sodas as he spread the contents of his attaché across the table. “I’ve spent this week interviewing people where that lost debris showed up last week on the shoreline. I have some hospital reports.”
I watched him spread them before me, listening to him make flimsy connections with great gestures of his hands. All the papers were like all of the ones before, a great pile of garbage that amounted to nothing but a wild goose chase that had long ago taken all the heart out of me. “I’ve had enough.” I hadn’t realized that I had spoken aloud until he ceased speaking and raised his eyes to me, slightly alarmed.
“I’m sure we’re closer, Mr. Jeeves.” He began. His manner seemed doggedly insistent, in line with what I have come to expect of him. I felt momentarily shamed for even considering giving up. He was talking again, comparing this case to another he’d solved and chronicled. I half listened, my fingers idly leafing through the files.
I mentioned before how irony loves to have its way , and it struck once more. I had only just determined that the new reports were so useless that even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t salvage an obscure clue from the rot, when I noticed a scrap of paper poking out of the inside pocket of the open case. I pulled it loose, and felt my heart drop to my stomach. It was Mr. Wooster’s handwriting, of that I was sure. I doubted my judgment and sanity for only a moment before slamming the ragged paper to the table and fixing Mr. Green with a steely glare. “Where did you get this?” I growled.
He paled, and the momentary look of horror was not lost on me. Quickly regaining his composure, he took the paper from me and hastily ran his eyes over it. “It’s a case study I wrote for a magazine.” he said, his manner obvious of one desperately trying to dismiss suspicion.
“This is not your handwriting.” I stood to my full height and fixed him with a stern glare. In retrospect, I realize he had never seen such a glare from me, having become accustomed to my far off, hopeless stare. “I am not a fool, Mr. Green. Tell me the entire truth.”
He actually looked frightened, his dark eyes widened and trembling. “I didn’t know.” He stammered. “I mean, not at first.”
I softened the tone of my voice, just a bit, but held my stern gaze. “What didn’t you know?”
“I didn’t know it was him until I saw the photograph, after I accepted the case. See, I was working on another case, finding a stolen pearl necklace, when I met this man. He was a scruffy looking thing, and a lazy sod to boot. John, he was called. He was working in the kitchen of the resort hotel I was staying in, peeling potatoes, running errands, that sort of thing, in exchange for a bed. I met him one night while sneaking down to the kitchen for a bite after missing dinner. He showed me where the pantry was, and we ate our pilfered meal together. He was full of questions, even back then, and I wound up telling him what I did for a living, foolish of me to divulge to a stranger at the scene of the crime, I know. He seemed genuinely interested, or maybe he just is the sort to make one feel interesting, to this day, I don’t know. There was just something about him. Maybe I was lonely, maybe a bit frustrated. So, I told him how hard it was, to establish oneself in this field , how every success is followed by ten failures, and how difficult it was to make a name. “He fidgeted with the buttons on his coat, and continued, in a fast rush of words.
“Applesauce!” says he, “Why don’t you make your own name?” I didn’t rightly understand, but he told me he’d help, for five bob. It was already a night for foolishness, and I found myself taken in by his charm. I gave him the money, and the next morning, he slips me a letter while clearing up the breakfast trays, and it’s a regular mystery story, just like in the magazines, but with me as the hero. He left me a note saying to give up on the damn pearl necklace and send the letter to the papers. It was published the next day. I gave him another five bob and he comes out with another incredible story, snapped up by the papers the week after. Suddenly, I was famous. Me, famous!
I took him back to London with me, offering him room and board, and half the money we made, and he agreed. I still took cases, but most of our money came from the stories. When I saw his picture, I suspected, but I told myself that it was a coincidence, must be dozens of chaps looking like that, even though I kept finding evidence that it was him that you were looking for. I didn’t want to lose him, Mr. Jeeves. This is the first thing in my life that’s ever really worked out.”
My emotions were going wild within me, joy at the news that Mr. Wooster was alive, anger at having been deceived for so long, and a desperation that I couldn’t quite describe. “Give him to me.” I said, firmly.
“But, Mr. Jeeves, I need him!” Mr. Green looked pathetic then, almost enough to warrant sympathy. Instead, I was freshly enraged. I spoke as levelly as I could.
“If you deliver him to me safely, I will give you five hundred pounds. If you refuse, I will expose you to the proprietress of Milady’s Boudoir and smear your name. I will then hunt you down and take him myself. Take the reputation you have made for yourself and sell your honest toil.” And if he is harmed, I thought, may God help you.
He stammered, and I gripped his shoulder, firmly. “I will not let you out of my sight.” I growled. “Bring me to him.” And this is how I came to be standing outside of a shabby flat across town, my heart racing wildly.
“John?” Mr. Green led me into the dismal place, furnished with the elderly spinster type who usually rented these rooms in mind.
Even so bedraggled, he was unmistakable, clear blue eyes shining from behind a scruffy beard and worn penny dreadful. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his ear on his left side, and his skin was lightly tanned. “Who’s that, then?” he asked, rising to his feet.
He didn’t know me. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach, and I felt as though I might cry, from this horrible realization, and from joy, combined. I bowed my head. “Sir.” I began, my voice suddenly rough and raspy, “I am your faithful servant.”