alivehawk1701 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alivehawk1701) wrote2020-06-16 06:52 pm
alivehawk1701) wrote2020-06-16 06:52 pm
None the Wooster (Part 1 of not sure)
Title: None the Wooster
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Jeeves and Bertie Wooster
Warnings: I'll say M further on (golly, like most of my fics)
Summary: Jeeve's POV. After a night of heavy drinking Bertie comes home and certain things are said and done that will shape the nature of their professional relationship. The overall story is of yet another match making attempt that goes so terribly astray, even the point of being potentially lethal . . .
*until i figure out a specific community to post this story to, it will live here. Comments are love, please let me know, this story is dear to my heart.
It is not uncommon that I will spend a great deal, if not virtually my whole day, occupied entirely with shoes, hats, jacket, ties, or various other garments. Of course, that is to say nothing of travel times, appointments, correspondences whether by post or in person, all of which satisfy what time is left, if not simultaneously, with the former.
I mention the garments because while I consider them on a practical level, colour, pattern and so forth, I’ve been disturbingly unable to stop thinking of them on an impractical level, indeed on a personal level. Whilst repeatedly folding or hanging the same clothes, again and again, one can’t help but realize the company one keeps, as a valet, is in general reserved for items of the wool or cotton persuasion. One then must realize that an evening jacket, with very few exceptions, is a poor substitute for a real person.
Silent as garments, and myself, tend to be, words are never spoken to express the dismal nature of waiting up into the early hours of the morning for my master’s return. I wait to hear the stumbling from down the hall or retching from outside, as is another common contingency, followed at some length by the sound of the front door opening. All details may vary to a degree but remain similar enough to produce the same cyclic conclusion night after night. I’m unable to deny, in these lonely hours, that I am by definition supposed to offer services attributable to a valet, not, if I may, those of a nurse maid or medic for my employer.
Returning to the topic of garments, not forsaking but foregoing my questionable occupational duties for now, I meant to make clear a train of thought which starts with the innocent and easily answered question of, whose garments are they? Not a trick question, no, a simple one. They are Mr. Bertie Wooster’s clothes.
None other, some would say. And it’s a great many jackets and a great many ties, all of his ownership. He has worn them, on varying occasions and in varying degrees of consciousness, and wear them again he shall.
It is such an aforementioned evening, ears cocked and waiting, which I am enduring now. And once again, seemingly against my own volition, I’m thinking about his garments in an impractical way despite all my training which insists I do otherwise. But then, my training consists of a great many things. I know all the rules of course, I hardly have to be reminded anymore, and if there were a single infallible manual I would have memorized it. But knowing how to serve hot soup versus cold soup or indeed how to be the most voiceless of shadows, has only gotten me so far. I’m still thinking about him. And not as a valet should. Not about appointments or dinner menus. I can smell him on his clothes and my mind wanders, it wanders far from here, and I worry.
I have a choice whether to serve him, that is not in question, and I have no regrets. Despite it all there is no other place I’d rather be. There is no where I belong apart from at his side. And I’m satisfied with that. However my mind often travels down some impenetrable path or across some uncharitable sea, and the past, I’m afraid, as well as my choices made, are a common course.
You’d like to hear of my misspent youth I suppose, of how I learned to walk the straight and narrow, discarding a life of unruliness and wretchedness to don the attire of a meaningful life of respectful service. That’s one likely story. Another is that a person who has experienced an environment of sordidness and cruelty, let’s say an abusive father, would seek if not crave a life where they can feel that sense of inferiority in their day to day life, such treatment in their eyes registering as affection, the only kind they’ve known, to the point that abuse as a child can be the motivation behind their vocation, relationships, or even the working of their own heart.
This person might not love the same way you do.
The heart muscle may be stunted or scarred, mind you it still works somewhere between the barest sense of the word and impressively well, all depending of course on the person it belongs to.
I’ve no idea how my own heart is at this point, it has been a long and wearisome road thus far, and I avoid, if at all possible, the indulgence of self-examination or moreover self-pity. In any case, I severed connections with my past for a reason, several very good reasons actually, and I ran far enough and long enough to be virtually unrecognizable from whom I once was. And gladly so.
Being in Mr. Wooster's employ, tending to all his needs and wants, is in no way like my father’s actions towards me, I refuse to believe that. I don’t see the authority he has over me as degrading in any way, not really, I’m honored to serve him. I do my very best and he is grateful for my services. He need not know of my past, or the careless way my mind wanders, or indeed how I admire and care deeply for his wellbeing beyond studious attention to ties, waistcoats, and socks. I like how he sees me. And would he look upon me the same if he really knew me?
Save for the singular lamp I’m using and moonlight through the tall narrow windows, the apartment is quiet and dark. Just as I pricked my finger with the needle I heard a car outside, the rumble of its motor loud as if to clear its way of the night. My eyes dropped to the sock I was darning then shifted slowly up my exposed forearm, sleeves pushed up to work, and the scars seem brighter to me, more evident tonight, I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s the light.
The clothes, I digress, are of great import because they are simply his. They’re his because he’s worn them. Time, I’ve come to perceive, spent with his clothes is like time spent with him. Though I prefer being in his immediate company, sometimes this is all I have. It’s better this way though, such affection for one’s employer, when even the simplest attachments are discouraged, can only lead to bad things.
It is a world which I am only allowed to occupy to a designated point. A sort of everyday fixture dare I say as inconsequential as a coat-stand or a lamp, hardly worth noticing, unless of course absent, in which case I, and my kind, or keenly missed.
Suddenly I heard a knock, or what would seem like a knock if memory serves, at the front door. Waiting a moment, I deduced that the preceding knock had not been a knock but rather Mr. Wooster running into the door before recovering to open it properly.
I took a few breathes as I stood up, filling my lungs, trying to prepare myself for the unfortunate task at hand. I ran a quick palm over my hair, exhaling sharply and pushed through the door.
"Jeeves!" Mr. Wooster exclaimed from where he stood at the front door, startled maybe, or surprised, though it was hard to distinguish which since his mouth was already hanging open. He seemed to close it deliberately, rearranging his tongue with such concentration his eyes squeezed shut before saying in a very unclear way, "You are here . . . here," I doubt he knew he was swaying, "That’s . . . that’s good, good because, because . . . you’re here," his eyes opened and he gained footing enough to stand still for a moment, pointing one swaying finger to the ground in a determined way and stated, "Here," which caused a smile.
"I trust sir had an enjoyable evening?" I ventured, walking carefully to his side to retrieve his hat and gloves.
"Of course I did, of course I did, of course I did," he rolled his eyes, and I felt certain he’d say "of course I did" one more time, but he didn’t, in fact he’d stopped smiling, eyes that were normally the most beautiful shade of blue were darkened, downcast and red, "But still," he looked up at me and I was unsure whether I should meet his gaze which seemed as unsteady as he was, until, through what seem simple force of will he made them stop at mine, "I decided to make my way back here before I got too drunk."
"Sir has an excellent gage of self-condition," I said, making a movement for his coat.
His form grew suddenly rigid as my fingers brushed the cloth of his coat and for a moment, from somewhere in the dark corners of my mind, I thought he was going to strike me. I’ve never done well with unanticipated movements and tend to be very vigilant, particularly and especially when someone’s emotions are under the influence of alcohol. Of course there was no danger and, being as practiced as I am, the feeling dissipated quickly and without incident. I remained standing behind him, waiting perhaps for when he was ready to take the garment off, allowing him his own pace. I watched for nearly a minute as he attempted to shrug out of it himself, reaching for a wall to steady himself, but his arms were clumsy and uncoordinated and I was forced to assist again.
"I’ve got it, I got it—" he said weakly, a light sheen a sweat visible on his forehead as I drew the coat from his shoulders, "Go on, say it," he said as I hung up the coat which was in a somewhat malodorous condition, "I’m not, you know."
I turned back to him, straightening my spine, "Not a what, sir?"
His head rolled back impatiently, biting his lips as he did so, leaving it somewhat redder than it had been before as he sighed in irritation, "An imbecile," he slurred, "A moron, a pillock, I’m not an idiot."
"Such an utterance, sir, I assure you, has never left my lips."
"Oh really?" he retorted, smiling a rueful smile, giving a short bitter laugh, "Well, Jeeves, I hope you’re content on that island, all to yourself, population a grand total of one. Only one person on the whole dashed island where no one thinks Bertie Wooster is a git," his eyes darkened and his brow furrowed as he looked away from me, shaking his head slightly before running a hand across his clammy forehead and turning unsteadily to get to his bedroom.
As required, I followed. He’d dragged a hand over his collar, unfastening it so it stuck out to either side of his neck and was trying to get it all the way off but was for the most part unsuccessful. He’d stopped in the middle of his room, swaying, and when I moved to his side he was taking low, shallow breaths, eyes closed.
Inebriation is not an uncommon occurrence at this flat or in the owner thereof. At best, Mr. Wooster’s drunkenness can manifest itself as simply a higher ratio of laughs than words while engaged in pleasant conversation, and at worst, it’s near poisoning. Like someone’s poisoned him. The culprit, the dismal reality reluctantly admits, is only himself. This time is at the worse end of degrees. It pained me to see my master like this, cast so far from the luminescent center to the far reaches, and somewhere in the depths of my own heart rose a smoldering rage directed at all his so called friends who would allow this destruction of character. How dare they. They may do what they wish to their own wretched lives but leave this man out of it.
"Let me—" I started to say, again reaching my hands to help him, but before I could even say sir he slapped my hands away.
"Let you what? Undress me? I can do it my bloody self!"
"Sir," I nodded respectfully, turning to get his pajamas if in fact he intended to wear them, and set them on the bed.
"Damn it," I heard uttered in a frustrated voice, edged with anger, and looked to see him struggling, "Christ . . . I shouldn’t have drunk so much, I’m such a git," he ripped at his white waistcoat and I watched a button fall to the floor, the action followed by an angry, defeated exhale by Mr. Wooster. I stepped forward and let my fingers calmly undo the buttons, easing it over his shoulders.
"Comfort, sir, if my assurance means anything you’ll no doubt feel better in the morning."
"No I won’t," he said, standing utterly still as I folded the waistcoat, set it down, and reached for the next set of buttons, averting my eyes as I was supposed to.
"I wouldn’t say that," I said to him as quietly as I could, one of my fingertips accidentally brushing against the hot skin of his chest, "Things may appear darker now than they really are, sir, but that is what morning is indeed for."
"Bugger that," he said in a shaking voice, "And bugger morning . . . same problems will still be there, I’ll just be sober enough to care. And with a terrible headache. Retching my guts out" he brought a hand to his head, hindering my efforts, running fingers through his disheveled hair, "God . . . I can’t stand," he swayed to the side.
Hardly thinking I grabbed both his shoulders to steady him and at the same time he brought his hands to my arms, his weight dragging on me suddenly. He lost whatever footing he had and whether it was falling or stumbling or both he had collapsed in an almost clumsy way on my chest, arms moving around me in what would by definition be called an embrace. Suddenly Mr. Wooster’s hair was to the side of my nose, smelling of sweat, shampoo, and cigarette smoke, his scent lingering in my nostrils as in my ear he heaved several deep breaths characteristic of one in tears.
I stood stark still, unsure how to respond, as my master cried silently into my shoulder. His cheek was resting just on my collarbone, his body pressed so close I could feel his heartbeat against mine. Though there were no words, a slight shaking had begun somewhere across his shoulders and moved down his back. His arms tightened around me. Tentatively, because I do most things tentatively, I raised one of my hands to his back, wanting to hold him steady. My fingers curled somewhat into the cloth of his shirt as I rubbed his back gently.
"Mr. Wooster," I said softly, clearing my throat past a sudden choking sensation, words, words that I have always and fervently relied on, knowing them never to fail me, were suddenly gone. I licked my lips, mouth open but nothing came out.
"Jeeves," he said, standing back but not stepping back, his face, startlingly his eyes, now close enough to me that if they were separate seas of endless blue a sudden squall would be needless for want to drown in them would be contentment enough. "I’m sorry," he said, looking right at me, "You don’t deserve this. I’m so sorry," tears had made trails of shining light down his face, one in particular had caught my eye, traveling down his cheek to the corner of his mouth.
He’s never touched me in such a deliberate way. The breaching of physical boundaries upset my equilibrium in such a startling way that I was left completely unprepared how to respond. I’m not meant to be a physical form to him, I’m not a body in need of all that life requires, I have no needs. God forbid I sweat or cry or have goosebumps or be noticed. Does he notice me?
"No apology needed, sir," I was able to say.
A moment passed before he looked up, eyes fluttering slightly, pupils drawing into focus with a deep breath and consequent exhale, "Not needed?"
I didn’t divert my eyes, not even sure he’s fully aware of me or his current situation. They’re still full of tears, but a solemn light had fallen over them and for a moment he almost seemed himself. In an idling, almost unintentionaly slow way Mr. Wooster started to lean towards me. His eyes lowered to look at what I deduced were my lips, and in the next moment, Mr. Wooster’s eyes shut dreamily and he kissed me.
I didn’t move, I didn’t react, I kept perfectly still because I can’t kiss him! I can’t, it would be impossible, utterly and completely impossible! But oh, I hadn’t been kissed in a long, long time, intimacy of any sort a far and away experience that was now driving my heart into a state of pure and terrifying ecstasy. My consciousness, which I normally kept neatly removed and compartmentalized from my body was sent slamming back into the aching blood and flesh where it was intended though so infrequently allowed.
Like now, like when Mr. Wooster’s warm, wet, sweet lips are against mine and everything, absolutely everything was telling me to refuse them. He rose his hands to my face and dragged my head toward him, a soft moan rising from the back of his throat as his lips parted, tongue licking open my lips, the heat of which spread all the way from my cheeks which I knew were red to the pit of my stomach, to my groin. And God, I’m kissing back. My hands lowered and slid onto his body. Stop. Stop. My heart pounded, blood pumping, cock throbbing, hard, so sudden I gasped helplessly. Stop. He tasted so amazing, so so amazing. I suddenly fell backwards, in fact pushing him away, making Mr. Wooster jerked away from me.
He stared in shock at me for how long it took him to take five gasping breaths then his eyes look to the floor and he’s shaking his head, "I say, what happened?"
"Sir," I said, feeling myself almost shudder. What had I done?
"Well . . ." he said, breath suddenly catching in his throat, "I—"
God, he’s going to be sick. I had no time to fetch any kind of bowl or container so as to save the carpet before he suddenly doubled over and threw up all over the carpet. He fell to his knees, still gagging, breath like sobs.
I reacted as calmly as I could, something I’m rather good at most of the time, and reached for a towel beside his bed. Once he seemed sure he’d stopped retching he sat all the way on the carpet, struggling for breath, running a sleeve over his mouth.
Hesitant, I knelt next to him, offering him the towel. When he didn’t take it I cleared my throat, only glancing once at his face, his misery seemed to emanate from him.
And here, sitting on the floor next to my master, is a glaring example of what I do wrong, at least where Mr. Bertie Wooster is concerned. If another valet could see me now he’d take everything from my silver tray to my shoe polish and denounce what small title I have.
Actions, yes, are made pinnacle in our judgments of character but what a different world this would be if thoughts were the betrayer. It’s difficult to lie with one's thoughts though easy to lie through one's actions. My father told me that . . . he said no man can lie to himself forever. He was right. And my poor mother had said I was intelligent. God forbid she see me now. How disappointed she would be in me.
"Sir," I said to Mr. Wooster, watching in distress at his continuous use of his sleeve for wiping his mouth, "Perhaps a better rest can be achieved in clean clothes and a clean bed,"
His eyes are closed, mouth open as he took careful breathes. He had his forehead resting on the heel of his hand, elbow propped up on a knee, his other leg bent underneath him.
I watched him, waiting for at least a sign of consent, "Sir?" I asked.
He let his hand fall away from his forehead and his eyes opened but he didn’t look at me, a look of disgust passed over his face as he appeared to attempt swallowing away the bad taste in his mouth, his voice now quiet and ragged, "Don’t hate me," he said finally, taking a shuddering breath.
I almost nearly lost any composure I'd managed to regain, pausing before saying, "Impossible, sir," then moved to pull him to his feet.
I cleaned him up as best as I could, enough so he could sleep comfortably, though it would be more accurately called passing out. As soon as I got him in bed and pulled the sheets up he wasn’t conscious.
"Good night, sir," I said at the door. I hoped he wouldn’t remember. I didn’t want him to remember the pain, pain which by choice or design was graciously kept from his waking hours, and I didn’t want him to remember me, as I’d been then, in that of the sweetest and saddest moments that could never happen again. I’m charged with keeping him safe, after all, above all things.
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Jeeves and Bertie Wooster
Warnings: I'll say M further on (golly, like most of my fics)
Summary: Jeeve's POV. After a night of heavy drinking Bertie comes home and certain things are said and done that will shape the nature of their professional relationship. The overall story is of yet another match making attempt that goes so terribly astray, even the point of being potentially lethal . . .
*until i figure out a specific community to post this story to, it will live here. Comments are love, please let me know, this story is dear to my heart.
It is not uncommon that I will spend a great deal, if not virtually my whole day, occupied entirely with shoes, hats, jacket, ties, or various other garments. Of course, that is to say nothing of travel times, appointments, correspondences whether by post or in person, all of which satisfy what time is left, if not simultaneously, with the former.
I mention the garments because while I consider them on a practical level, colour, pattern and so forth, I’ve been disturbingly unable to stop thinking of them on an impractical level, indeed on a personal level. Whilst repeatedly folding or hanging the same clothes, again and again, one can’t help but realize the company one keeps, as a valet, is in general reserved for items of the wool or cotton persuasion. One then must realize that an evening jacket, with very few exceptions, is a poor substitute for a real person.
Silent as garments, and myself, tend to be, words are never spoken to express the dismal nature of waiting up into the early hours of the morning for my master’s return. I wait to hear the stumbling from down the hall or retching from outside, as is another common contingency, followed at some length by the sound of the front door opening. All details may vary to a degree but remain similar enough to produce the same cyclic conclusion night after night. I’m unable to deny, in these lonely hours, that I am by definition supposed to offer services attributable to a valet, not, if I may, those of a nurse maid or medic for my employer.
Returning to the topic of garments, not forsaking but foregoing my questionable occupational duties for now, I meant to make clear a train of thought which starts with the innocent and easily answered question of, whose garments are they? Not a trick question, no, a simple one. They are Mr. Bertie Wooster’s clothes.
None other, some would say. And it’s a great many jackets and a great many ties, all of his ownership. He has worn them, on varying occasions and in varying degrees of consciousness, and wear them again he shall.
It is such an aforementioned evening, ears cocked and waiting, which I am enduring now. And once again, seemingly against my own volition, I’m thinking about his garments in an impractical way despite all my training which insists I do otherwise. But then, my training consists of a great many things. I know all the rules of course, I hardly have to be reminded anymore, and if there were a single infallible manual I would have memorized it. But knowing how to serve hot soup versus cold soup or indeed how to be the most voiceless of shadows, has only gotten me so far. I’m still thinking about him. And not as a valet should. Not about appointments or dinner menus. I can smell him on his clothes and my mind wanders, it wanders far from here, and I worry.
I have a choice whether to serve him, that is not in question, and I have no regrets. Despite it all there is no other place I’d rather be. There is no where I belong apart from at his side. And I’m satisfied with that. However my mind often travels down some impenetrable path or across some uncharitable sea, and the past, I’m afraid, as well as my choices made, are a common course.
You’d like to hear of my misspent youth I suppose, of how I learned to walk the straight and narrow, discarding a life of unruliness and wretchedness to don the attire of a meaningful life of respectful service. That’s one likely story. Another is that a person who has experienced an environment of sordidness and cruelty, let’s say an abusive father, would seek if not crave a life where they can feel that sense of inferiority in their day to day life, such treatment in their eyes registering as affection, the only kind they’ve known, to the point that abuse as a child can be the motivation behind their vocation, relationships, or even the working of their own heart.
This person might not love the same way you do.
The heart muscle may be stunted or scarred, mind you it still works somewhere between the barest sense of the word and impressively well, all depending of course on the person it belongs to.
I’ve no idea how my own heart is at this point, it has been a long and wearisome road thus far, and I avoid, if at all possible, the indulgence of self-examination or moreover self-pity. In any case, I severed connections with my past for a reason, several very good reasons actually, and I ran far enough and long enough to be virtually unrecognizable from whom I once was. And gladly so.
Being in Mr. Wooster's employ, tending to all his needs and wants, is in no way like my father’s actions towards me, I refuse to believe that. I don’t see the authority he has over me as degrading in any way, not really, I’m honored to serve him. I do my very best and he is grateful for my services. He need not know of my past, or the careless way my mind wanders, or indeed how I admire and care deeply for his wellbeing beyond studious attention to ties, waistcoats, and socks. I like how he sees me. And would he look upon me the same if he really knew me?
Save for the singular lamp I’m using and moonlight through the tall narrow windows, the apartment is quiet and dark. Just as I pricked my finger with the needle I heard a car outside, the rumble of its motor loud as if to clear its way of the night. My eyes dropped to the sock I was darning then shifted slowly up my exposed forearm, sleeves pushed up to work, and the scars seem brighter to me, more evident tonight, I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s the light.
The clothes, I digress, are of great import because they are simply his. They’re his because he’s worn them. Time, I’ve come to perceive, spent with his clothes is like time spent with him. Though I prefer being in his immediate company, sometimes this is all I have. It’s better this way though, such affection for one’s employer, when even the simplest attachments are discouraged, can only lead to bad things.
It is a world which I am only allowed to occupy to a designated point. A sort of everyday fixture dare I say as inconsequential as a coat-stand or a lamp, hardly worth noticing, unless of course absent, in which case I, and my kind, or keenly missed.
Suddenly I heard a knock, or what would seem like a knock if memory serves, at the front door. Waiting a moment, I deduced that the preceding knock had not been a knock but rather Mr. Wooster running into the door before recovering to open it properly.
I took a few breathes as I stood up, filling my lungs, trying to prepare myself for the unfortunate task at hand. I ran a quick palm over my hair, exhaling sharply and pushed through the door.
"Jeeves!" Mr. Wooster exclaimed from where he stood at the front door, startled maybe, or surprised, though it was hard to distinguish which since his mouth was already hanging open. He seemed to close it deliberately, rearranging his tongue with such concentration his eyes squeezed shut before saying in a very unclear way, "You are here . . . here," I doubt he knew he was swaying, "That’s . . . that’s good, good because, because . . . you’re here," his eyes opened and he gained footing enough to stand still for a moment, pointing one swaying finger to the ground in a determined way and stated, "Here," which caused a smile.
"I trust sir had an enjoyable evening?" I ventured, walking carefully to his side to retrieve his hat and gloves.
"Of course I did, of course I did, of course I did," he rolled his eyes, and I felt certain he’d say "of course I did" one more time, but he didn’t, in fact he’d stopped smiling, eyes that were normally the most beautiful shade of blue were darkened, downcast and red, "But still," he looked up at me and I was unsure whether I should meet his gaze which seemed as unsteady as he was, until, through what seem simple force of will he made them stop at mine, "I decided to make my way back here before I got too drunk."
"Sir has an excellent gage of self-condition," I said, making a movement for his coat.
His form grew suddenly rigid as my fingers brushed the cloth of his coat and for a moment, from somewhere in the dark corners of my mind, I thought he was going to strike me. I’ve never done well with unanticipated movements and tend to be very vigilant, particularly and especially when someone’s emotions are under the influence of alcohol. Of course there was no danger and, being as practiced as I am, the feeling dissipated quickly and without incident. I remained standing behind him, waiting perhaps for when he was ready to take the garment off, allowing him his own pace. I watched for nearly a minute as he attempted to shrug out of it himself, reaching for a wall to steady himself, but his arms were clumsy and uncoordinated and I was forced to assist again.
"I’ve got it, I got it—" he said weakly, a light sheen a sweat visible on his forehead as I drew the coat from his shoulders, "Go on, say it," he said as I hung up the coat which was in a somewhat malodorous condition, "I’m not, you know."
I turned back to him, straightening my spine, "Not a what, sir?"
His head rolled back impatiently, biting his lips as he did so, leaving it somewhat redder than it had been before as he sighed in irritation, "An imbecile," he slurred, "A moron, a pillock, I’m not an idiot."
"Such an utterance, sir, I assure you, has never left my lips."
"Oh really?" he retorted, smiling a rueful smile, giving a short bitter laugh, "Well, Jeeves, I hope you’re content on that island, all to yourself, population a grand total of one. Only one person on the whole dashed island where no one thinks Bertie Wooster is a git," his eyes darkened and his brow furrowed as he looked away from me, shaking his head slightly before running a hand across his clammy forehead and turning unsteadily to get to his bedroom.
As required, I followed. He’d dragged a hand over his collar, unfastening it so it stuck out to either side of his neck and was trying to get it all the way off but was for the most part unsuccessful. He’d stopped in the middle of his room, swaying, and when I moved to his side he was taking low, shallow breaths, eyes closed.
Inebriation is not an uncommon occurrence at this flat or in the owner thereof. At best, Mr. Wooster’s drunkenness can manifest itself as simply a higher ratio of laughs than words while engaged in pleasant conversation, and at worst, it’s near poisoning. Like someone’s poisoned him. The culprit, the dismal reality reluctantly admits, is only himself. This time is at the worse end of degrees. It pained me to see my master like this, cast so far from the luminescent center to the far reaches, and somewhere in the depths of my own heart rose a smoldering rage directed at all his so called friends who would allow this destruction of character. How dare they. They may do what they wish to their own wretched lives but leave this man out of it.
"Let me—" I started to say, again reaching my hands to help him, but before I could even say sir he slapped my hands away.
"Let you what? Undress me? I can do it my bloody self!"
"Sir," I nodded respectfully, turning to get his pajamas if in fact he intended to wear them, and set them on the bed.
"Damn it," I heard uttered in a frustrated voice, edged with anger, and looked to see him struggling, "Christ . . . I shouldn’t have drunk so much, I’m such a git," he ripped at his white waistcoat and I watched a button fall to the floor, the action followed by an angry, defeated exhale by Mr. Wooster. I stepped forward and let my fingers calmly undo the buttons, easing it over his shoulders.
"Comfort, sir, if my assurance means anything you’ll no doubt feel better in the morning."
"No I won’t," he said, standing utterly still as I folded the waistcoat, set it down, and reached for the next set of buttons, averting my eyes as I was supposed to.
"I wouldn’t say that," I said to him as quietly as I could, one of my fingertips accidentally brushing against the hot skin of his chest, "Things may appear darker now than they really are, sir, but that is what morning is indeed for."
"Bugger that," he said in a shaking voice, "And bugger morning . . . same problems will still be there, I’ll just be sober enough to care. And with a terrible headache. Retching my guts out" he brought a hand to his head, hindering my efforts, running fingers through his disheveled hair, "God . . . I can’t stand," he swayed to the side.
Hardly thinking I grabbed both his shoulders to steady him and at the same time he brought his hands to my arms, his weight dragging on me suddenly. He lost whatever footing he had and whether it was falling or stumbling or both he had collapsed in an almost clumsy way on my chest, arms moving around me in what would by definition be called an embrace. Suddenly Mr. Wooster’s hair was to the side of my nose, smelling of sweat, shampoo, and cigarette smoke, his scent lingering in my nostrils as in my ear he heaved several deep breaths characteristic of one in tears.
I stood stark still, unsure how to respond, as my master cried silently into my shoulder. His cheek was resting just on my collarbone, his body pressed so close I could feel his heartbeat against mine. Though there were no words, a slight shaking had begun somewhere across his shoulders and moved down his back. His arms tightened around me. Tentatively, because I do most things tentatively, I raised one of my hands to his back, wanting to hold him steady. My fingers curled somewhat into the cloth of his shirt as I rubbed his back gently.
"Mr. Wooster," I said softly, clearing my throat past a sudden choking sensation, words, words that I have always and fervently relied on, knowing them never to fail me, were suddenly gone. I licked my lips, mouth open but nothing came out.
"Jeeves," he said, standing back but not stepping back, his face, startlingly his eyes, now close enough to me that if they were separate seas of endless blue a sudden squall would be needless for want to drown in them would be contentment enough. "I’m sorry," he said, looking right at me, "You don’t deserve this. I’m so sorry," tears had made trails of shining light down his face, one in particular had caught my eye, traveling down his cheek to the corner of his mouth.
He’s never touched me in such a deliberate way. The breaching of physical boundaries upset my equilibrium in such a startling way that I was left completely unprepared how to respond. I’m not meant to be a physical form to him, I’m not a body in need of all that life requires, I have no needs. God forbid I sweat or cry or have goosebumps or be noticed. Does he notice me?
"No apology needed, sir," I was able to say.
A moment passed before he looked up, eyes fluttering slightly, pupils drawing into focus with a deep breath and consequent exhale, "Not needed?"
I didn’t divert my eyes, not even sure he’s fully aware of me or his current situation. They’re still full of tears, but a solemn light had fallen over them and for a moment he almost seemed himself. In an idling, almost unintentionaly slow way Mr. Wooster started to lean towards me. His eyes lowered to look at what I deduced were my lips, and in the next moment, Mr. Wooster’s eyes shut dreamily and he kissed me.
I didn’t move, I didn’t react, I kept perfectly still because I can’t kiss him! I can’t, it would be impossible, utterly and completely impossible! But oh, I hadn’t been kissed in a long, long time, intimacy of any sort a far and away experience that was now driving my heart into a state of pure and terrifying ecstasy. My consciousness, which I normally kept neatly removed and compartmentalized from my body was sent slamming back into the aching blood and flesh where it was intended though so infrequently allowed.
Like now, like when Mr. Wooster’s warm, wet, sweet lips are against mine and everything, absolutely everything was telling me to refuse them. He rose his hands to my face and dragged my head toward him, a soft moan rising from the back of his throat as his lips parted, tongue licking open my lips, the heat of which spread all the way from my cheeks which I knew were red to the pit of my stomach, to my groin. And God, I’m kissing back. My hands lowered and slid onto his body. Stop. Stop. My heart pounded, blood pumping, cock throbbing, hard, so sudden I gasped helplessly. Stop. He tasted so amazing, so so amazing. I suddenly fell backwards, in fact pushing him away, making Mr. Wooster jerked away from me.
He stared in shock at me for how long it took him to take five gasping breaths then his eyes look to the floor and he’s shaking his head, "I say, what happened?"
"Sir," I said, feeling myself almost shudder. What had I done?
"Well . . ." he said, breath suddenly catching in his throat, "I—"
God, he’s going to be sick. I had no time to fetch any kind of bowl or container so as to save the carpet before he suddenly doubled over and threw up all over the carpet. He fell to his knees, still gagging, breath like sobs.
I reacted as calmly as I could, something I’m rather good at most of the time, and reached for a towel beside his bed. Once he seemed sure he’d stopped retching he sat all the way on the carpet, struggling for breath, running a sleeve over his mouth.
Hesitant, I knelt next to him, offering him the towel. When he didn’t take it I cleared my throat, only glancing once at his face, his misery seemed to emanate from him.
And here, sitting on the floor next to my master, is a glaring example of what I do wrong, at least where Mr. Bertie Wooster is concerned. If another valet could see me now he’d take everything from my silver tray to my shoe polish and denounce what small title I have.
Actions, yes, are made pinnacle in our judgments of character but what a different world this would be if thoughts were the betrayer. It’s difficult to lie with one's thoughts though easy to lie through one's actions. My father told me that . . . he said no man can lie to himself forever. He was right. And my poor mother had said I was intelligent. God forbid she see me now. How disappointed she would be in me.
"Sir," I said to Mr. Wooster, watching in distress at his continuous use of his sleeve for wiping his mouth, "Perhaps a better rest can be achieved in clean clothes and a clean bed,"
His eyes are closed, mouth open as he took careful breathes. He had his forehead resting on the heel of his hand, elbow propped up on a knee, his other leg bent underneath him.
I watched him, waiting for at least a sign of consent, "Sir?" I asked.
He let his hand fall away from his forehead and his eyes opened but he didn’t look at me, a look of disgust passed over his face as he appeared to attempt swallowing away the bad taste in his mouth, his voice now quiet and ragged, "Don’t hate me," he said finally, taking a shuddering breath.
I almost nearly lost any composure I'd managed to regain, pausing before saying, "Impossible, sir," then moved to pull him to his feet.
I cleaned him up as best as I could, enough so he could sleep comfortably, though it would be more accurately called passing out. As soon as I got him in bed and pulled the sheets up he wasn’t conscious.
"Good night, sir," I said at the door. I hoped he wouldn’t remember. I didn’t want him to remember the pain, pain which by choice or design was graciously kept from his waking hours, and I didn’t want him to remember me, as I’d been then, in that of the sweetest and saddest moments that could never happen again. I’m charged with keeping him safe, after all, above all things.
no subject
And thanks for the link! I may post there as well . . .
no subject