Fic: Oceans, part 5 (PG-13)
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
I plated Mr. Wooster’s breakfast: a soft boiled egg, two slices of toast cut into triangles with a pot of marmalade, four crisp slices of bacon, and of course, his morning tea. I arranged the tray , adding a bud vase for a single red rose, before bringing the tray to his room. Mr. Wooster was still asleep, his nose pressed into the pillow, his hair wildly tousled in all directions. For a moment, I gazed at him lovingly, taking in this precious sight which I was sure that I would never see again. My master, my lover, my friend; my dearest Bertram, once more sleeping and warm in the safety of our home. I set down the tray, and his eyes slid open, as if on cue. A momentary confusion clouded his expression, and then, an angelic smile, as he recalled his surroundings.
“Good morning, sir.” I said, reverently.
“Good morning, Jeeves.” He sighed, leaning back against the pillows with a luxurious stretch. I waited, and he said no more before he began his morning meal.
“It is a cool day, sir, with the promise of rain. Autumn hovers in the air.”
He glanced up at me. “Pardon?” he mumbled, around a mouthful of toast.
“You like to know these things in the morning, sir.”
“Do I? Well, then, by all means, Jeeves.” He continued chewing. He must have been ravenous, despite the meal I had presented him with the night before. I felt an ache of sympathy in my chest as I selected his clothing for the day, a tan Harris tweed ensemble with a burgundy silk tie.
“I have telephoned Mrs. Travers, sir. She is your favorite aunt. She will be coming here later this morning, as she is very anxious to see you again.”
“Dahlia.” He muttered.
My heart skipped a beat. “Yes, sir. Dahlia Travers. Do you remember her?”
He shook his head. “She was in the manuscripts.” He must have seen the light in my eyes die, for he then looked extremely disappointed.
“You will remember her, sir. She is not easily forgotten.” Certainly, I thought, more memorable than myself.
…………………………………………………………
Mrs. Travers’ visit was cathartic for us both. She embraced Mr. Wooster, and then myself, and spoke to him intently, attempting to jog his memory. I prepared tea and sandwiches, and kept the visit running smoothly. Mrs. Travers asked me about the estate, and we agreed that it would be best if the money were to stay in my trust until he was well again.
Some time after she left, Mr. Wooster gave me a curious, somewhat worried look. “How much money do I have?” he asked.
“I will show you.” I responded, urging him to sit beside me at the desk. I retrieved his bank statement and his portfolio of stocks and bonds. He looked lost, which was nothing unusual. I explained the balances, and he repeated them after me, looking disturbed that so much money should be in one place at one time.
“Why is your name on the statement?” he asked, turning it over.
I sucked in my breath. “When we thought you were dead, the will was read, and I was the sole beneficiary. The older statements have both of our names listed because it is a joint account. You never cared for paperwork, so I paid the monthly bills and filed your taxes. They needed my signature.”
“I see.” He said, worriedly. “So it’s not really my money, is it? I mean, because you think I’ve got the jim jams. ”
“It is.” I said, emphatically. “Mrs. Travers thinks that it would be best to leave things as they are until you are once more settled in.”
“And who, pray tell, Jeeves, is Mrs. Travers to say anything about it? It’s bad enough that I have to trust you with these matters of being this Bertram chap. Tell me when you will sign it over to me again.” He huffed.
I sighed. “I really couldn’t say, sir.”
“You could just keep me here, under your rule, because I can’t remember.” He was looking more disturbed by the moment.
I set my jaw and looked him in the eyes. “I am not keeping you, sir. You keep me. You are still the master of this house. I must remind you that I actively sought you and willingly relinquish the bank account.”
“Except you’re not.” He pouted. “You and these people you claim I know …” he looked to be at a loss for words. “I have to keep you, don’t I, because you control everything.”
“Sir, I have no doubt that you will remember us.” I said, gently. “You will know then that I am nothing but your faithful man, and Mrs. Travers your closest relative.”
He shoved away his tray. “You bought me for five hundred pounds.” He snapped. “How am I to know I can’t be kept captive if I’ve already been sold once?”
“Sir, you do not understand.” The words were like a knife through me. “I would have given anything to have you home safely.”
“Draw my bath.” He growled. “Then get me a whiskey. No arguments, now. I’m the master, as you say.”
“Very good, sir.” I sighed. I set about my tasks, determined to show him that he was in a safe, welcoming environment.
He barely spoke all day, only occasionally snapping an order. By the time I tucked him into his bed, I began to worry that it was more than just a tantrum. In the past, these fits had lasted less than an hour. How long would he continue? Certainly all would be well if he remembered his life soon, but if he didn’t… I fought back the inevitable, chilling thought that I might have lost him, my dearest Bertram, forever.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
I plated Mr. Wooster’s breakfast: a soft boiled egg, two slices of toast cut into triangles with a pot of marmalade, four crisp slices of bacon, and of course, his morning tea. I arranged the tray , adding a bud vase for a single red rose, before bringing the tray to his room. Mr. Wooster was still asleep, his nose pressed into the pillow, his hair wildly tousled in all directions. For a moment, I gazed at him lovingly, taking in this precious sight which I was sure that I would never see again. My master, my lover, my friend; my dearest Bertram, once more sleeping and warm in the safety of our home. I set down the tray, and his eyes slid open, as if on cue. A momentary confusion clouded his expression, and then, an angelic smile, as he recalled his surroundings.
“Good morning, sir.” I said, reverently.
“Good morning, Jeeves.” He sighed, leaning back against the pillows with a luxurious stretch. I waited, and he said no more before he began his morning meal.
“It is a cool day, sir, with the promise of rain. Autumn hovers in the air.”
He glanced up at me. “Pardon?” he mumbled, around a mouthful of toast.
“You like to know these things in the morning, sir.”
“Do I? Well, then, by all means, Jeeves.” He continued chewing. He must have been ravenous, despite the meal I had presented him with the night before. I felt an ache of sympathy in my chest as I selected his clothing for the day, a tan Harris tweed ensemble with a burgundy silk tie.
“I have telephoned Mrs. Travers, sir. She is your favorite aunt. She will be coming here later this morning, as she is very anxious to see you again.”
“Dahlia.” He muttered.
My heart skipped a beat. “Yes, sir. Dahlia Travers. Do you remember her?”
He shook his head. “She was in the manuscripts.” He must have seen the light in my eyes die, for he then looked extremely disappointed.
“You will remember her, sir. She is not easily forgotten.” Certainly, I thought, more memorable than myself.
…………………………………………………………
Mrs. Travers’ visit was cathartic for us both. She embraced Mr. Wooster, and then myself, and spoke to him intently, attempting to jog his memory. I prepared tea and sandwiches, and kept the visit running smoothly. Mrs. Travers asked me about the estate, and we agreed that it would be best if the money were to stay in my trust until he was well again.
Some time after she left, Mr. Wooster gave me a curious, somewhat worried look. “How much money do I have?” he asked.
“I will show you.” I responded, urging him to sit beside me at the desk. I retrieved his bank statement and his portfolio of stocks and bonds. He looked lost, which was nothing unusual. I explained the balances, and he repeated them after me, looking disturbed that so much money should be in one place at one time.
“Why is your name on the statement?” he asked, turning it over.
I sucked in my breath. “When we thought you were dead, the will was read, and I was the sole beneficiary. The older statements have both of our names listed because it is a joint account. You never cared for paperwork, so I paid the monthly bills and filed your taxes. They needed my signature.”
“I see.” He said, worriedly. “So it’s not really my money, is it? I mean, because you think I’ve got the jim jams. ”
“It is.” I said, emphatically. “Mrs. Travers thinks that it would be best to leave things as they are until you are once more settled in.”
“And who, pray tell, Jeeves, is Mrs. Travers to say anything about it? It’s bad enough that I have to trust you with these matters of being this Bertram chap. Tell me when you will sign it over to me again.” He huffed.
I sighed. “I really couldn’t say, sir.”
“You could just keep me here, under your rule, because I can’t remember.” He was looking more disturbed by the moment.
I set my jaw and looked him in the eyes. “I am not keeping you, sir. You keep me. You are still the master of this house. I must remind you that I actively sought you and willingly relinquish the bank account.”
“Except you’re not.” He pouted. “You and these people you claim I know …” he looked to be at a loss for words. “I have to keep you, don’t I, because you control everything.”
“Sir, I have no doubt that you will remember us.” I said, gently. “You will know then that I am nothing but your faithful man, and Mrs. Travers your closest relative.”
He shoved away his tray. “You bought me for five hundred pounds.” He snapped. “How am I to know I can’t be kept captive if I’ve already been sold once?”
“Sir, you do not understand.” The words were like a knife through me. “I would have given anything to have you home safely.”
“Draw my bath.” He growled. “Then get me a whiskey. No arguments, now. I’m the master, as you say.”
“Very good, sir.” I sighed. I set about my tasks, determined to show him that he was in a safe, welcoming environment.
He barely spoke all day, only occasionally snapping an order. By the time I tucked him into his bed, I began to worry that it was more than just a tantrum. In the past, these fits had lasted less than an hour. How long would he continue? Certainly all would be well if he remembered his life soon, but if he didn’t… I fought back the inevitable, chilling thought that I might have lost him, my dearest Bertram, forever.