Fic: Oceans, part 8 (PG-13)
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
I have always been drawn to noble men, elegant and graceful in their expensive finery, blue blood flushing their cheeks with carefree delight. Such men were satisfying to gaze at, yet I had never vied for their affection. They were out of my class, and if they looked twice at me at all, it would be as a plaything that they could soil and discard; and I do have my pride, as much as these young men have their arrogance. That was before I met Mr. Wooster, when every shred of good sense I have ever held regarding the possibility of taking a noble lover deserted me.
I was cautious, of course. I admired him, and it wasn’t long after we met that I was fighting to keep him, taking risks that could have easily cost me my position. I pushed him, bit by bit, to see how much of him I could have, and one day, he stopped pushing back. He was firmly under my control, and happier for it. I knew then that I would never abandon my post, or my gentleman.
He was not like the others. Mr. Wooster was kind, gentle, and amusing. He was intelligent enough to be interesting and foolish enough to be manipulated. He was not the type of man who would star in the cinema pictures. He was, perhaps, the charming sidekick of the hero, giving his all with no recognition. This made him all the more endearing to me, and, as I contemplated him awkwardly wrinkling his nose as he sniffed a cup of coffee one afternoon, I felt the weight of my feelings descend upon me. He was my ideal. Something beyond my understanding, luck, fate, or coincidence, had led me to this man, who would become mine, of this I felt quite certain. In all of the world, there was only him. From that moment on, I was hopelessly tied to him.
Having lost him once made having him again all the more precious. At this moment, he was singing in the bath, his light baritone echoing off the tiles. I was changing his bed linen, and paused to inhale the faint scent of him against the pillowcase. His scent is indescribable, a breath of which triggers memories of intimacy, of warm blankets and confessions and heady lust as much as tea, and bacon, and country houses.
I realized that the song had ceased, and I finished my task quickly, to return to him.
Having dressed him for the day, I tidied the bath and prepared him a drink. He had gravitated towards the piano, and was playing an old favorite of his, a ghastly music hall comedy song, made bearable only by the fact that it brought him such amusement. I placed the drink on the piano lid before him, and an odd expression crossed his wide blue eyes, his mouth opened slightly, and his nose wrinkled in exactly the way that made me want to cover it in kisses.
“I say!” He exclaimed, looking from the glass, to myself. “Put that down again, will you, Jeeves?”
“Sir?”
“The glass, Jeeves. Try that again.”
I removed the glass and placed it beside him once more, and he emitted a disappointed sigh.
“Sir?”
“I almost had it, Jeeves.” He groaned. “For a moment there, I almost remembered something. It was as if I had seen you place that glass there a thousand times before, only I knew it, instead of just knowing about it.”
“Déjà vu, sir.” I replied.
“No, no, not quite. Almost, Jeeves, but not quite. I remember this piano the most. Of all the things I could remember, it’s something that doesn’t expect me to.” He fell into a glum silence then.
“Perhaps there is something about music that triggers your memories, sir. I was reading an article in Modern Science which suggested that all of the senses trigger long stored memories, the senses of hearing and smell being particularly powerful in this respect.” This had been on my mind , of course. An idea began to take shape. “Perhaps we could use this approach to help you, sir.”
Mr. Wooster stood, and sniffed the cocktail. He gazed about him, and his eyes fell on me. “I want to remember.” He muttered, and before I could brace myself, he had shoved his nose into my collar. I was frozen in my place, his proximity making me ravenous with lust, yet unable to do anything about it.
The doorbell buzzed, sending a jolt through us both, distracted from the moment at hand. I was both relieved and annoyed. I strode into the sitting room quickly, for the visitor had become agitated, pressing the button firmly to produce a uniform, nerve shattering peal of bells.
I opened the door, and suddenly the bells seemed quite quaint and harmless, for before me stood Mrs.Gregson.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the lovely works of Wodehouse.
I have always been drawn to noble men, elegant and graceful in their expensive finery, blue blood flushing their cheeks with carefree delight. Such men were satisfying to gaze at, yet I had never vied for their affection. They were out of my class, and if they looked twice at me at all, it would be as a plaything that they could soil and discard; and I do have my pride, as much as these young men have their arrogance. That was before I met Mr. Wooster, when every shred of good sense I have ever held regarding the possibility of taking a noble lover deserted me.
I was cautious, of course. I admired him, and it wasn’t long after we met that I was fighting to keep him, taking risks that could have easily cost me my position. I pushed him, bit by bit, to see how much of him I could have, and one day, he stopped pushing back. He was firmly under my control, and happier for it. I knew then that I would never abandon my post, or my gentleman.
He was not like the others. Mr. Wooster was kind, gentle, and amusing. He was intelligent enough to be interesting and foolish enough to be manipulated. He was not the type of man who would star in the cinema pictures. He was, perhaps, the charming sidekick of the hero, giving his all with no recognition. This made him all the more endearing to me, and, as I contemplated him awkwardly wrinkling his nose as he sniffed a cup of coffee one afternoon, I felt the weight of my feelings descend upon me. He was my ideal. Something beyond my understanding, luck, fate, or coincidence, had led me to this man, who would become mine, of this I felt quite certain. In all of the world, there was only him. From that moment on, I was hopelessly tied to him.
Having lost him once made having him again all the more precious. At this moment, he was singing in the bath, his light baritone echoing off the tiles. I was changing his bed linen, and paused to inhale the faint scent of him against the pillowcase. His scent is indescribable, a breath of which triggers memories of intimacy, of warm blankets and confessions and heady lust as much as tea, and bacon, and country houses.
I realized that the song had ceased, and I finished my task quickly, to return to him.
Having dressed him for the day, I tidied the bath and prepared him a drink. He had gravitated towards the piano, and was playing an old favorite of his, a ghastly music hall comedy song, made bearable only by the fact that it brought him such amusement. I placed the drink on the piano lid before him, and an odd expression crossed his wide blue eyes, his mouth opened slightly, and his nose wrinkled in exactly the way that made me want to cover it in kisses.
“I say!” He exclaimed, looking from the glass, to myself. “Put that down again, will you, Jeeves?”
“Sir?”
“The glass, Jeeves. Try that again.”
I removed the glass and placed it beside him once more, and he emitted a disappointed sigh.
“Sir?”
“I almost had it, Jeeves.” He groaned. “For a moment there, I almost remembered something. It was as if I had seen you place that glass there a thousand times before, only I knew it, instead of just knowing about it.”
“Déjà vu, sir.” I replied.
“No, no, not quite. Almost, Jeeves, but not quite. I remember this piano the most. Of all the things I could remember, it’s something that doesn’t expect me to.” He fell into a glum silence then.
“Perhaps there is something about music that triggers your memories, sir. I was reading an article in Modern Science which suggested that all of the senses trigger long stored memories, the senses of hearing and smell being particularly powerful in this respect.” This had been on my mind , of course. An idea began to take shape. “Perhaps we could use this approach to help you, sir.”
Mr. Wooster stood, and sniffed the cocktail. He gazed about him, and his eyes fell on me. “I want to remember.” He muttered, and before I could brace myself, he had shoved his nose into my collar. I was frozen in my place, his proximity making me ravenous with lust, yet unable to do anything about it.
The doorbell buzzed, sending a jolt through us both, distracted from the moment at hand. I was both relieved and annoyed. I strode into the sitting room quickly, for the visitor had become agitated, pressing the button firmly to produce a uniform, nerve shattering peal of bells.
I opened the door, and suddenly the bells seemed quite quaint and harmless, for before me stood Mrs.Gregson.