Fic: Oceans part 17

[hazeltea.livejournal.com]

Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not profit from the lovely works of Wodehouse.

part 16 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/804475.html#cutid1
part 15 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/750867.html#cutid1
part 14 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/743385.html#cutid1
part 13 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/741218.html#cutid1
part 12 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/727612.html#cutid1
part 11 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/723716.html#cutid1
part 10 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/722065.html#cutid1
part 9 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/715646.html#cutid1
part 8 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/709635.html#cutid1
part 7 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/707880.html#cutid1
part 6 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/704354.html#cutid1
part 5 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/701596.html#cutid1
part 4 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/695505.html#cutid1
part 3 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/693063.html#cutid1
part 2 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/689461.html#cutid1
part 1 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/687730.html#cutid1



It was late afternoon, and Mr. Wooster and I walked through the old, rough neighborhood he had called home during our separation. Our pressed, tailored garments, while far from our finest, stood out in stark contrast to the working classes that wove about the street around us. They are usually too absorbed in their own affairs to spare us any notice, although the women are quite often swayed by Mr. Wooster’s elegance. I stayed close, watching the inhabitants with perhaps a bit more suspicion than they deserved, for it was not yet dark. Mr. Wooster, however, moved with a casual, but marked purpose; his hands in his pockets, his shoulders bent slightly forward, showing no fear or unease in these surroundings. He had promised me that he would not venture to this part of town alone. Once I had agreed to accompany him, he began to request these outings perhaps more frequently than I would like.

I gave him a despairing, pleading look as he ducked into a grimy pub and gestured for me to follow. Refusing to let him out of my sight for even a moment, I obeyed, and was relieved to find that the filth stopped in the coatroom, revealing a spacious, dimly lit interior that was cozy and dry. “Trust me, Jeeves.” He smiled, and of course, I would do anything for that.

We were met by the proprietor, who declared Mr. Wooster a “big man, now”, and when he answered to the name John, I felt myself wince. Drinks were placed before us, and once again the odd isolation of the place engulfed us. Dim lights, high backed wooden booths, and the distant din of a hundred voices in conversation created the illusion of solitude, the solitude of self absorption. Mr. Wooster, who had been grinning at me over his tankard, frowned. “Jeeves, what is it, old thing? The soupiness has left your voice and has risen clear up to your eyeballs. Whatever it is, I’ll get rid of it right now. Is it the tie, perhaps? Or maybe the hat?”

There was playfulness in his voice, yes, but also worry. I could not allow him to be troubled. I should not have allowed him to sense my own discomfort. “It will pass directly, sir.” I managed. “I am not accustomed to this neighborhood, and I worry.”

“It’s quite a safe street.” He assured me.

I nodded. I knew that I was formidable enough that most thieves would think twice before confronting us, but I did not know how to tell him what I truly dreaded, that we would meet someone from his past, someone, or something, that would draw him back into this cesspool, and away from me. It was at this time when I realized that Mr. Wooster’s hands were clasped around my own. I drew mine back, as though it had been in scalding water.

“No one cares here.” He said, quietly. “Not about something that small, anyway. It’s so dark and loud, and everyone so drunk…” he coughed, slightly embarrassed. “They say families start here, sometimes. So I’d jolly well like to hold your hand. Under the table, even.”
I relented, slipping my hand out of sight. His fingers twined in mine, and squeezed lightly. “I want you to know everything about me, Jeeves. I want you to see this, too. No one else knows quite where I was all that time.”

I rubbed my thumb soothingly over his hand. “You have a brave, strong soul, sir.”

He laughed, bitterly. How I hated that laugh, the laugh that comes from John’s throat. How I wanted him to perish, and leave me my innocent Bertram. “I was always terrified, Jeeves. I was always wishing for my savior.”

With those words, the mask was thrown to the ground, and my sweet Bertram remained, the man who lived so strictly by his self enforced Code that he would endure anything, all the while trusting that the world held justice that would prevail in the end if only one acted nobly.

“Sir…”

“My savior came for me.” He whispered, thickly.

I felt my face turning the brightest red, and once more, I gripped his fingers.
“I want to take you away from here, sir. It feels like a nightmare that I will lose you to.” The words where difficult, like passing gravel through my throat. Mr. Wooster grew quiet, so long that I thought he was upset.

“I think I’m ready to go, old thing.” He replied, at last. “I’ll follow you anywhere, from now on, what?”

I must confess that I was not expecting the surge of possessiveness that shook through me at his words. Finally, I had wrenched him free; I would draw him back into my world, and anchor him so securely that he would never drift again.