indeedsir_backup | Angst short fic.

The first installment of my "Falling Farther In" series.
Title: Three
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves-ish-ish-ish
Summary: In which most everything comes in threes except characters and good ideas.
Rating: G
Words: Eight hundred some?
Disclaimer: Totally not my characters. But I can dream, can't I?

Feedback is necissary.
:)

Bertie sighed, a sigh he saved for this particular date. A sigh he never expressed, but for this one day of each year. It was on this day each year that he was forced to recognize his parents’ deaths, an event he tried all other of the three hundred and sixty four days in each year, to forget. But this day commemorated that occasion, that blasted, be-damned occasion. And so, Bertie sighed.

But it was also on this day, he realized that he was forced to deal with Jeeves’ departure. The man had warned him, but in a foolish and futile attempt to ‘show who’s master’, Bertie received Jeeves’ notice for the second time in their otherwise somewhat jolly relationship.

Feudal, employer-employee, master-servant relationship, Bertie reminded himself, trying to ease the sharp twisting in his stomach to some dull ache that he could will away with a few spirits later on. It, somehow, only made it worse.

Jeeves trickled in, late, but never too, to the room. He was somewhat startled—as startled as Jeeves can be—but not overly surprised to see his former young master awake somewhat earlier than usual.

Perhaps he has learned, Jeeves thought with a glimmer of hope, that I have always held his interest uppermost. That I acted for the better. Perhaps he will apologize...

At least beg me to stay.

At least make me stay.

“Morning, Jeeves.” Bertie feigned a sleepy grin, one that he might give Jeeves if he were awake somewhat earlier than usual on any other day. “You, er, didn’t have to bring me tea this morning, old top.” But that you did has made everything a thousand times better.

“I merely wished to prolong the routine schedule until the inevitable moment of my departure, sir. This way, I fancy, when your new man arrives it will not cause you too much inconvenience.” And I wanted to see your smile in the morning light one last time.

“Jeeves, do you...” He took the tea tray from Jeeves, wishing he could bring himself to ‘accidentally’ brush his hand against the man’s one last time. He had to tell someone. None of his chums would want to hear for the twentieth time how much Bertie missed his parents.

And it was something he had never thought to tell Jeeves of.

“Jeeves, do you know what day it is?” He tried again, attempting a smile as he said it, but instead hiding behind the teacup. As best a chap his size could hide behind a teacup, that is.

“Tuesday, the eighth of November, sir.”

“True, Jeeves, true.” He gave a nervous, stupid laugh, the one that gave Sir Roderick Glossop thoughts of Colney Hatch and Aunt Agatha thoughts of throwing small kittens on funeral pyres.

“It’s... er... also...” How to put it? Today is the anniversary of my parents’ death. I was eight years old. I miss them terribly. No, Jeeves would think it some kind of ploy; a guilt trip to make him stay. But if he stayed, could it really be a bad thing? Perhaps he’d think it improper altogether and leave anyway. At least I’ll have said it aloud. No matter what, this will be the last thing you say before ‘Here’s your reference, goodbye.

Why not just make it ‘I love you’.

The words took both of them by surprise. Jeeves particularly, for he was expecting a reassurance of his order to leave, and a reminder that today was the anniversary of Mr Wooster’s parents’ death.

There had been numerous occasions when, on this exact date, Mr Wooster had stumbled home late after having a long night with his friends at his club. Hiccoughing and slurring, he had told Jeeves of the reason he had been so dashed sombre and isolated most of the day, and why he was so deep in his cups at this hour of the night. He would sob his troubles into the crook of Jeeves’ neck as he was put to bed, leaving his burdens in a small puddle on his valet’s jacket for him to forget until the same time next year.

But Jeeves, who, upon the second repeat of this occurrence had realized that the pattern of the date was by no means the result of drunken insincerity or a fond memory brought up at the Drones, but was a significant aspect of his master’s unhappiness, had not forgotten.

Still, he had not brought it up, not wishing to cause the young master any extra pain.

And, it was not his place to speak until spoken to.

But this was no time for propriety. Mr Wooster? Love him? Perhaps, Jeeves thought, Bertram was delusional.

He had read numerous accounts about individuals who, upon receiving unpleasant news regarding the loss of a loved one, had conducted many forms of bizarre or frantic behaviour. Perhaps he was succumbing under the pressure from repressing his pain...

But what could Jeeves do but stand there, staring.

Finally, Bertie’s feigned grin that he had assumed after uttering his fate just loud enough not to be ignored was broken.

The half-empty teacup fell to the blanket with a soft, muffled thud, as Bertie’s soft face crumpled into that of a child who misses his parents, of a schoolboy who has been humiliated, of a man who has known what it is to love and have lost. Bertie buried his face in his hands--hands Jeeves had always admired--and shook with sobs. Still, what was there Jeeves could do?

What can a servant whose master is ill do?

What can a friend, an admirer whose beloved is heartsick do?

He didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean he loves you. Clearly, this was something that Jeeves, marvel of marvels and paragon among men, could not solve.

The clock struck ten thirty eight, and Jeeves silently swept down the corridor with his bags. Once in the lift, away from the eyes and ears of his hapless young master, Jeeves turned to face the wall and allowed one, two, three tears. For the child who missed his parents, for the young man who had been humiliated, and for himself. He then turned back around as the lift reached ground level, excused himself, gathered his composure and his bags.

The clock struck ten thirty nine, and Jeeves was gone.

Fix it! Fix it!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

princesshannah4.livejournal.com

HEART. IS. BROKEN. NOW.

My only major feedback is that, despite telling the story in the third person, you still keep switching POVs and it's probably best to stick with just one. Or at least make a most distinct transition.

HEART. IS. STILL. BROKEN.

MAKE-UP SEQUEL PLEASE???

toodlepipsigner.livejournal.com

Aw, damn! Was trying to go for omniscient POV. Thanks for the heads up though, will keep that in mind when writing make-up sequel :)
(I've never written Jooster-y angst before, hence a little bit of confusion)

There, there. *hands tissues* It'll get better.