Chapter 2/2.
Feb. 27th, 2009 07:23 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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indeedsir_backupTitle: The In-Laws, chapter 2/2
Rating: T, and T+ for a short bit at the end.
Summary: Bertie does his best to introduce Jeeves to his parents.
By the time Jeeves had made the hot tea, Bertie had wrapped himself up in the blanket from the back of the sofa. Jeeves started the fire, handed Bertie his drink, and sat on the couch beside him.
Bertie didn’t know where – or rather, how – to begin. Jeeves seemed willing to let him take his time. He took it, mulling things over in his head, trying to dig up the happy memories and knowing that the bad ones were just as important.
Finally, he took a sip of his drink and began.
“My father taught me to play the piano, but Mother was the one who encouraged me to keep at it. He gave me the lessons every day without fail, but I always had the distinct notion that he wouldn’t particularly mind if I failed to show up at the bench one day.
I tried to write a song, when I was seven or eight, for my mother. It was utter rubbish, but she clapped and said she loved it. I did the same for my father, after reflecting and realizing that it was a bit off to perform for one parent and not the other, especially when said other had taught me. I played my piece, and he smiled and said that it was good, but that I needed to work on my form.
I practiced it non-stop for a week – I thought my sister would kill me – and then performed it again. He said it was very good that time.”
Bertie paused, taking another drink and readjusting his position within the blanket. A thought struck him. “Cold, Jeeves?”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Right…” He set his tea on the table, leaned back, and began again.
“I made them cards – every Father’s Day, every Mother’s Day, their birthdays, their anniversary, when they were sick… The first time I made one for Father when I was old enough to actually write something on it, I decided I wanted to sign it properly. I was quite young, but Mother taught me how to write my name in script. I gave it to him at breakfast. He smiled and kissed the top of my head, and then folded it up and put it in his pocket. He…”
Bertie stopped, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of one hand. “Sorry… He gave it back to me, when he was d… when he was dying. I couldn’t believe he still had it.” He sniffed, and shook his head. “I looked at it, and I – I couldn’t even read the signature. He told me he’d always treasured it anyway. Something about me managing to love him.
My mother got pneumonia once. It didn’t kill her, but we thought it might. It was my fault. I was out playing during a rainstorm, and she came looking for me. She was dreadfully sick for… I don’t even remember how long it was. Scared the dickens out of me, I remember that.
I thought my father would beat the life out of me, but he never touched me. Only gave me some sort of lecture or other that I can’t truthfully be said to remember now.”
It seemed he had run out of things to say. He stared straight ahead, and he could practically feel the wheels and cogs turning in Jeeves’s head as he sat beside him.
“Sir…”
“I’m not answering to that.”
“Bertram, then. How did they die?” This was phrased gently, and not only by Jeeves’s standards.
Bertie swallowed. “I can’t… Jeeves, I – can’t…”
“Please. It will help.”
“Mother was always sickly…” Bertie was almost whispering. “It – it was a fever. She was horridly hot, but always moaning that she was freezing to death, and she was so pale and so weak and it was like she was just fading away, and – and –”
Bertie buried his face in the blanket. “Please don’t make me say any more about her…”
Jeeves’s hand was on his back, fingers tracing soothing circles. “I won’t, s – Bertram. What happened to your father?”
Bertie bit back a sob. “Jeeves, stop! Just let me stop!”
“I can’t do that. You have never worked through this, and you need to now. It provides clo–”
“Blast closure, Jeeves, and blast your psychology of the individual! I can’t do it!”
His shoulders were heaving as he struggled to swallow back his tears. Jeeves said nothing, leaving his hand where it was, and gradually Bertie managed to pull himself together.
“Sorry, Jeeves… I’ll – I’ll tell you… Of course I’ll tell you… You won’t like it.”
“It is hardly my opinion that matters here.”
Bertie looked Jeeves in the eye and said evenly, “He was shot by a butler.”
Bertie watched for the tell-tale raise of the eyebrow – and there it was.
“Indeed?”
“Yes. Our butler had gone on holiday, and my father caught his temporary replacement attempting to make off with some old jewelry of my mother’s. Naturally that didn’t go down very well… Chap must have been desperate for money, because he pulled a gun on him. I think it ought to be customary for replacement valets and butlers to be checked for weapons, don’t you?”
“It is a well-founded idea, sir.”
“Bertram.”
“I apologize. It is a hard habit to break.”
“I can imagine… This isn’t right.”
Bertie was able to imagine the quizzical look that didn’t actually cross Jeeves’s face.
“These are just memories, things that happened. It’s not who they were.”
“May I suggest that you list some smaller details, then? Favorite foods or colors, habits, what they looked like.”
“My mother’s favorite color was green." He gave a short laugh. "My sister used to stick her tongue out at me and say Mother liked her best, because she had green eyes and I had blue. My father…” Bertie’s eyes widened. “I never asked him. I don’t know. Jeeves, I don’t know what my father’s favorite color was!” Frantic, he stood up, throwing the blanket off and beginning to pace.
“There are so many things I don’t know about them – I don’t know father’s favorite color, his favorite food, or his favorite suit, or mother’s favorite hat, or – or how old they were when I was born, or anything! You don’t know my parents? I don’t bally know them!”
He stopped pacing, and stood in the middle of the floor. His breaths came out in huffs, as if he’d just got through sprinting. His entire form trembled, but the tears had gone. Panic had replaced grief.
Jeeves stood and picked Bertie’s drink up off of the table. He handed it to him without a word. Bertie took a drink without looking at it, in a daze.
Jeeves led him back to the couch, and he sat staring straight ahead. Jeeves sighed.
“Bertie…”
He whipped his head around. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Sorry about that…” He lapsed back into silence. He downed what was left of his tea, and then stood. “I’ll be right back, Jeeves…”
He headed off to his bedroom, from which there then came the sound of a drawer being pulled open and rummaged through. He returned a moment later with an envelope.
“I’ve only got the one picture. The rest are in boxes somewhere. I keep it in this so it doesn’t get ruined."
He handed the envelope to Jeeves, who carefully extracted the photograph. He got as close to gaping at something as he ever had – staring up at him were a man and a woman with hands intertwined. He saw Bertie everywhere – in their faces, in the way they stood… in his father’s tie, which managed to look offensive even in black and white.
“You look just like them.”
Bertie smiled. “Is that a compliment?”
“Indeed.”
“Well… Thank you for listening to me babble for God knows how long…”
“Not at all.”
“It did help.”
Jeeves allowed himself a smile. “I thought it would.”
Bertie yawned. “We should probably get to bed.”
“It would be a wise course of action. It is well after twelve o’clock.”
When day clothes had been shed and pajamas donned, Bertie paused at the edge of his bed.
“Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Will you take those off and do that thing with the tie again?”
A/N: I like to think Bertie called Dahlia up the next day, and that the conversation went like this:
"Greetings, aged relative."
"Hello to you too, you young blot. ...Is everything all right?"
"Oh yes, yes. Fine. Perfectly fine. I was just wondering - just, just occurred to me, out of nowhere, as it were -"
"For heaven's sake, spit it out, Bertie!"
"What was my father's favorite color?"
"...Blue. Anything else?"
"You wouldn't happen to know my mother's favorite hat, would you?"
And that's the end of that. I'm going to go write something happy to redeem myself.
~God Bless.
Rating: T, and T+ for a short bit at the end.
Summary: Bertie does his best to introduce Jeeves to his parents.
By the time Jeeves had made the hot tea, Bertie had wrapped himself up in the blanket from the back of the sofa. Jeeves started the fire, handed Bertie his drink, and sat on the couch beside him.
Bertie didn’t know where – or rather, how – to begin. Jeeves seemed willing to let him take his time. He took it, mulling things over in his head, trying to dig up the happy memories and knowing that the bad ones were just as important.
Finally, he took a sip of his drink and began.
“My father taught me to play the piano, but Mother was the one who encouraged me to keep at it. He gave me the lessons every day without fail, but I always had the distinct notion that he wouldn’t particularly mind if I failed to show up at the bench one day.
I tried to write a song, when I was seven or eight, for my mother. It was utter rubbish, but she clapped and said she loved it. I did the same for my father, after reflecting and realizing that it was a bit off to perform for one parent and not the other, especially when said other had taught me. I played my piece, and he smiled and said that it was good, but that I needed to work on my form.
I practiced it non-stop for a week – I thought my sister would kill me – and then performed it again. He said it was very good that time.”
Bertie paused, taking another drink and readjusting his position within the blanket. A thought struck him. “Cold, Jeeves?”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Right…” He set his tea on the table, leaned back, and began again.
“I made them cards – every Father’s Day, every Mother’s Day, their birthdays, their anniversary, when they were sick… The first time I made one for Father when I was old enough to actually write something on it, I decided I wanted to sign it properly. I was quite young, but Mother taught me how to write my name in script. I gave it to him at breakfast. He smiled and kissed the top of my head, and then folded it up and put it in his pocket. He…”
Bertie stopped, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of one hand. “Sorry… He gave it back to me, when he was d… when he was dying. I couldn’t believe he still had it.” He sniffed, and shook his head. “I looked at it, and I – I couldn’t even read the signature. He told me he’d always treasured it anyway. Something about me managing to love him.
My mother got pneumonia once. It didn’t kill her, but we thought it might. It was my fault. I was out playing during a rainstorm, and she came looking for me. She was dreadfully sick for… I don’t even remember how long it was. Scared the dickens out of me, I remember that.
I thought my father would beat the life out of me, but he never touched me. Only gave me some sort of lecture or other that I can’t truthfully be said to remember now.”
It seemed he had run out of things to say. He stared straight ahead, and he could practically feel the wheels and cogs turning in Jeeves’s head as he sat beside him.
“Sir…”
“I’m not answering to that.”
“Bertram, then. How did they die?” This was phrased gently, and not only by Jeeves’s standards.
Bertie swallowed. “I can’t… Jeeves, I – can’t…”
“Please. It will help.”
“Mother was always sickly…” Bertie was almost whispering. “It – it was a fever. She was horridly hot, but always moaning that she was freezing to death, and she was so pale and so weak and it was like she was just fading away, and – and –”
Bertie buried his face in the blanket. “Please don’t make me say any more about her…”
Jeeves’s hand was on his back, fingers tracing soothing circles. “I won’t, s – Bertram. What happened to your father?”
Bertie bit back a sob. “Jeeves, stop! Just let me stop!”
“I can’t do that. You have never worked through this, and you need to now. It provides clo–”
“Blast closure, Jeeves, and blast your psychology of the individual! I can’t do it!”
His shoulders were heaving as he struggled to swallow back his tears. Jeeves said nothing, leaving his hand where it was, and gradually Bertie managed to pull himself together.
“Sorry, Jeeves… I’ll – I’ll tell you… Of course I’ll tell you… You won’t like it.”
“It is hardly my opinion that matters here.”
Bertie looked Jeeves in the eye and said evenly, “He was shot by a butler.”
Bertie watched for the tell-tale raise of the eyebrow – and there it was.
“Indeed?”
“Yes. Our butler had gone on holiday, and my father caught his temporary replacement attempting to make off with some old jewelry of my mother’s. Naturally that didn’t go down very well… Chap must have been desperate for money, because he pulled a gun on him. I think it ought to be customary for replacement valets and butlers to be checked for weapons, don’t you?”
“It is a well-founded idea, sir.”
“Bertram.”
“I apologize. It is a hard habit to break.”
“I can imagine… This isn’t right.”
Bertie was able to imagine the quizzical look that didn’t actually cross Jeeves’s face.
“These are just memories, things that happened. It’s not who they were.”
“May I suggest that you list some smaller details, then? Favorite foods or colors, habits, what they looked like.”
“My mother’s favorite color was green." He gave a short laugh. "My sister used to stick her tongue out at me and say Mother liked her best, because she had green eyes and I had blue. My father…” Bertie’s eyes widened. “I never asked him. I don’t know. Jeeves, I don’t know what my father’s favorite color was!” Frantic, he stood up, throwing the blanket off and beginning to pace.
“There are so many things I don’t know about them – I don’t know father’s favorite color, his favorite food, or his favorite suit, or mother’s favorite hat, or – or how old they were when I was born, or anything! You don’t know my parents? I don’t bally know them!”
He stopped pacing, and stood in the middle of the floor. His breaths came out in huffs, as if he’d just got through sprinting. His entire form trembled, but the tears had gone. Panic had replaced grief.
Jeeves stood and picked Bertie’s drink up off of the table. He handed it to him without a word. Bertie took a drink without looking at it, in a daze.
Jeeves led him back to the couch, and he sat staring straight ahead. Jeeves sighed.
“Bertie…”
He whipped his head around. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Sorry about that…” He lapsed back into silence. He downed what was left of his tea, and then stood. “I’ll be right back, Jeeves…”
He headed off to his bedroom, from which there then came the sound of a drawer being pulled open and rummaged through. He returned a moment later with an envelope.
“I’ve only got the one picture. The rest are in boxes somewhere. I keep it in this so it doesn’t get ruined."
He handed the envelope to Jeeves, who carefully extracted the photograph. He got as close to gaping at something as he ever had – staring up at him were a man and a woman with hands intertwined. He saw Bertie everywhere – in their faces, in the way they stood… in his father’s tie, which managed to look offensive even in black and white.
“You look just like them.”
Bertie smiled. “Is that a compliment?”
“Indeed.”
“Well… Thank you for listening to me babble for God knows how long…”
“Not at all.”
“It did help.”
Jeeves allowed himself a smile. “I thought it would.”
Bertie yawned. “We should probably get to bed.”
“It would be a wise course of action. It is well after twelve o’clock.”
When day clothes had been shed and pajamas donned, Bertie paused at the edge of his bed.
“Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Will you take those off and do that thing with the tie again?”
A/N: I like to think Bertie called Dahlia up the next day, and that the conversation went like this:
"Greetings, aged relative."
"Hello to you too, you young blot. ...Is everything all right?"
"Oh yes, yes. Fine. Perfectly fine. I was just wondering - just, just occurred to me, out of nowhere, as it were -"
"For heaven's sake, spit it out, Bertie!"
"What was my father's favorite color?"
"...Blue. Anything else?"
"You wouldn't happen to know my mother's favorite hat, would you?"
And that's the end of that. I'm going to go write something happy to redeem myself.
~God Bless.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 02:02 am (UTC)You *could* write that little conversation out with some other little conversations...and...um...*shameless fic begging begins*
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Date: 2009-02-28 02:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 03:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 03:47 pm (UTC)The Lady 529
no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 04:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 04:49 pm (UTC)The Lady 529
no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 04:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 03:43 pm (UTC)You've made the backstory about Bertie's parents very believable.
<3
no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 04:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-01 04:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-01 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-03 10:24 pm (UTC)I liked the little hint of Aunt Dahlia conversation there in the a/n, too.
Feel free to write more along these lines, by all means. Add my wheedling to the rest! *grin*