Redemption, part 2 (NC-17)
Aug. 8th, 2010 10:40 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
hazeltea.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
indeedsir_backupThis has been rattling around in my brain since I read Yours, Plum: The Letters of P.G. Wodehouse a few years ago.I wanted to try continuing the 1953 fanfic by J. Maclaren-Ross , which was lovingly trascribed here by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chaoticchaos13
Pairing:Jeeves/Bertie
Disclaimer: I make no profit from the lovely world of Wodehouse.
Part 1: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/849688.html#cutid1
I awoke with a frightful start to the shrill sound of the bedside alarm, and from that moment forward , that clock and I would be sworn enemies. The hands pointed to six, and only a faint glow of cold light from behind the drapes convinced me that any time had passed since putting my head to the pillow. I forced myself from the warmth and soft embrace of the bed, reminding myself that Jeeves needed me.
Jeeves had a modern flat, without a servant’s quarters, so I was to stay in the spare room. It was outfitted in good taste, of course, Jeeves knowing all when it comes to putting up a guest in ease. I drew my bath, and sighed gratefully as the warm water seeped a bit of life into my bones. On a good day, one could get hot water in spades at the Drones, but lately the good days were few and rather far between. Once I had washed, I contemplated the contents of the wardrobe. The evening before, Jeeves had made some ‘phone calls, and I’d watched as my room was stocked with what he saw fit to provide me with. I fingered a row of plain, drab suits, and chose the first one that came to hand. They were all so similar that it really wouldn’t matter which. I had to adjust my braces, for although Jeeves had somehow remembered every last one of my measurements, I had grown a bit scrawnier since the war. I puffed out my chest a bit to fill out the look, and was somewhat disappointed at the effect as I stared myself down in the mirror. I did not look noble or efficient, as Jeeves always had. I looked like a sickly man in fancy dress.
There wasn’t much to be done about this, however, so I did my best not to clomp my feet as old Meadows had, and found the kitchen. The old, thick book took pride of place on a shelf beside two handwritten books of recipes and notes, and I grabbed onto it like a life line. I poured over the tea-making section, determined to do my first task justice. The procedure was considerably more complicated than throwing a cheap bag in a chipped cup, as I had done for the past few years, and I followed the instructions to the bally letter. I heated water, warmed the pot, poured out the water, and boiled a new pot (for it does not do to boil water more than once, the book warned, and I was not about to take any chances, lest it bring a curse on the household or whatnot). I measured out spoonfuls, and gave the pot its own spoon, then stared intently at my watch for three minutes. It came to me then that was written that it should be served before five minutes, so I scrambled to gather a cup and saucer. I only spilled a little liquid as I dashed out of the kitchen, but I sopped it up with my handkerchief as I set down the tray. Jeeves was awake, sitting up in bed with a calculated, expectant look in his eyes as I set down the tray.
“Good morning, Wooster.” he greeted me.
“Er, Good morning, m’ lord! Spiffing day, what?” I poured his first cup and hastened to draw back the curtains. London sulked in a gray, soggy fog, and the damp chill seemed to seep through the glass panes.
“I admire your optimism.” he murmured, smiling slightly behind his cup- well, as much as he ever does, mind you. It was just a slight quirk of his lip, but one comes to understand the ways of one’s companion over time. Suddenly, he sputtered , setting down the cup and coughing into his hand.
“J-M’lord! Are you quite all right?” I rushed to his side, and was stricken with horror as I realized my mistake. I had forgotten the strainer! I mean to say, of all the rotten luck.
“I shall be better directly.” he assured me, but he set the tea aside all the same. I felt the great dismal grayish-ness outside complete its intrusion , settling over my chest.
“I’ll draw your bath.” I offered, for I knew that one often feels a world better after a bit of a soak. As the tub filled, I thought on how rum it was to see Jeeves in navy blue pajamas, and a sudden chill pierced my stomach as I realized that I was about to see him in the altogether. One simply doesn’t think of Jeeves in such a way, for though he’d been my closest friend and ally in years past, somehow, it was difficult to think of him as quite human. He always seems to be something more, if you get my meaning, a graceful figure who had come from his mother fully grown and impeccably dressed, like the gods in the old Greek myths.
I hadn’t time to mull this over before he joined me, and I busied myself with measuring scented salts as he stripped bare and stepped into the water. I sternly told myself to avert my eyes, but somehow they trailed over him regardless. Yes, he was human, every last bit of him. My eyes roved over him, settling for a moment between his legs. His cock was long and thickish, and I thought how I would like to suck it, as I’d often done for chaps through school and my miserable stint as secretary. Before my friends had left me to it, I could find solace in their visits, suckling them for comfort, the soft skin and firm flesh slipping over my tounge agreeably. Often they’d even leave me a bit of charity afterwards, but I suppose I became too much of a burden to bear over time. Remembering the letter accusing me of ‘aiding and abetting the devil’ made look away, a familiar pang of painful shame bringing me back to reality.
This was Jeeves, after all. I’d been mistaken, I chided myself. Even bare to the skin, he was more than just human. Lust was beneath him. I focused my gaze instead on a nasty looking scar, piercing the edge of his left nipple.
“They hurt you.” I was mildly surprised that anyone could hurt him, somehow, that he had not deflected the attack with the will of his mind, but of course , this was war.
“This is the exit wound.” he replied, pointing to another scar beneath his arm. “I was very fortunate.”
There was nothing I could think of to say after that, so I bowed, and went to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast. His fried egg broke, so I disguised it as scrambled. He didn’t seem to notice the slight deception as he ate, his eyes scanning the paper quickly, taking it in at a glance.
“I shall need tea at four o’clock. I am meeting with Sir Glossop in the office.”
“Ah, so you work here then?” Like Sherlock Holmes, I thought, thinking of the elite of Britain plying him with jeweled snuff boxes.
“Only when meeting certain people for specific reasons.” he replied. “I am going to be at the Ministry office until tea. You should greet the local grocers and advise them of your position in my household.” he handed me a list of names and addresses, and a five pound note. “Perhaps two chops for our dinner, and an improving book for yourself.” he advised.
I thanked him, and ushered him to the door with all the blithe enthusiasm of a newlywed housewife offered a trinket. The thought depressed me a bit. I wandered the flat aimlessly, and eventually, knowing that I couldn’t avoid it all day, I found an umbrella and set out upon the neighborhood. I greeted the shop keepers, and purchased two chops from the butcher’s. I found an Agatha Christie paperback to purchase, its bright orange cover cheering me considerably.
The rest of the day was regrettable. I served tea, this time with a strainer, to a pitying, condescending Sir Roderick, pricked my finger attempting to fix a lost button, and scorched the chops while somehow leaving them too pink on the inside. I waited until the house was dark and quiet to drink a glass of brandy and sob into my pillow, as quietly as I could manage.
chaoticchaos13 Pairing:Jeeves/Bertie
Disclaimer: I make no profit from the lovely world of Wodehouse.
Part 1: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/849688.html#cutid1
I awoke with a frightful start to the shrill sound of the bedside alarm, and from that moment forward , that clock and I would be sworn enemies. The hands pointed to six, and only a faint glow of cold light from behind the drapes convinced me that any time had passed since putting my head to the pillow. I forced myself from the warmth and soft embrace of the bed, reminding myself that Jeeves needed me.
Jeeves had a modern flat, without a servant’s quarters, so I was to stay in the spare room. It was outfitted in good taste, of course, Jeeves knowing all when it comes to putting up a guest in ease. I drew my bath, and sighed gratefully as the warm water seeped a bit of life into my bones. On a good day, one could get hot water in spades at the Drones, but lately the good days were few and rather far between. Once I had washed, I contemplated the contents of the wardrobe. The evening before, Jeeves had made some ‘phone calls, and I’d watched as my room was stocked with what he saw fit to provide me with. I fingered a row of plain, drab suits, and chose the first one that came to hand. They were all so similar that it really wouldn’t matter which. I had to adjust my braces, for although Jeeves had somehow remembered every last one of my measurements, I had grown a bit scrawnier since the war. I puffed out my chest a bit to fill out the look, and was somewhat disappointed at the effect as I stared myself down in the mirror. I did not look noble or efficient, as Jeeves always had. I looked like a sickly man in fancy dress.
There wasn’t much to be done about this, however, so I did my best not to clomp my feet as old Meadows had, and found the kitchen. The old, thick book took pride of place on a shelf beside two handwritten books of recipes and notes, and I grabbed onto it like a life line. I poured over the tea-making section, determined to do my first task justice. The procedure was considerably more complicated than throwing a cheap bag in a chipped cup, as I had done for the past few years, and I followed the instructions to the bally letter. I heated water, warmed the pot, poured out the water, and boiled a new pot (for it does not do to boil water more than once, the book warned, and I was not about to take any chances, lest it bring a curse on the household or whatnot). I measured out spoonfuls, and gave the pot its own spoon, then stared intently at my watch for three minutes. It came to me then that was written that it should be served before five minutes, so I scrambled to gather a cup and saucer. I only spilled a little liquid as I dashed out of the kitchen, but I sopped it up with my handkerchief as I set down the tray. Jeeves was awake, sitting up in bed with a calculated, expectant look in his eyes as I set down the tray.
“Good morning, Wooster.” he greeted me.
“Er, Good morning, m’ lord! Spiffing day, what?” I poured his first cup and hastened to draw back the curtains. London sulked in a gray, soggy fog, and the damp chill seemed to seep through the glass panes.
“I admire your optimism.” he murmured, smiling slightly behind his cup- well, as much as he ever does, mind you. It was just a slight quirk of his lip, but one comes to understand the ways of one’s companion over time. Suddenly, he sputtered , setting down the cup and coughing into his hand.
“J-M’lord! Are you quite all right?” I rushed to his side, and was stricken with horror as I realized my mistake. I had forgotten the strainer! I mean to say, of all the rotten luck.
“I shall be better directly.” he assured me, but he set the tea aside all the same. I felt the great dismal grayish-ness outside complete its intrusion , settling over my chest.
“I’ll draw your bath.” I offered, for I knew that one often feels a world better after a bit of a soak. As the tub filled, I thought on how rum it was to see Jeeves in navy blue pajamas, and a sudden chill pierced my stomach as I realized that I was about to see him in the altogether. One simply doesn’t think of Jeeves in such a way, for though he’d been my closest friend and ally in years past, somehow, it was difficult to think of him as quite human. He always seems to be something more, if you get my meaning, a graceful figure who had come from his mother fully grown and impeccably dressed, like the gods in the old Greek myths.
I hadn’t time to mull this over before he joined me, and I busied myself with measuring scented salts as he stripped bare and stepped into the water. I sternly told myself to avert my eyes, but somehow they trailed over him regardless. Yes, he was human, every last bit of him. My eyes roved over him, settling for a moment between his legs. His cock was long and thickish, and I thought how I would like to suck it, as I’d often done for chaps through school and my miserable stint as secretary. Before my friends had left me to it, I could find solace in their visits, suckling them for comfort, the soft skin and firm flesh slipping over my tounge agreeably. Often they’d even leave me a bit of charity afterwards, but I suppose I became too much of a burden to bear over time. Remembering the letter accusing me of ‘aiding and abetting the devil’ made look away, a familiar pang of painful shame bringing me back to reality.
This was Jeeves, after all. I’d been mistaken, I chided myself. Even bare to the skin, he was more than just human. Lust was beneath him. I focused my gaze instead on a nasty looking scar, piercing the edge of his left nipple.
“They hurt you.” I was mildly surprised that anyone could hurt him, somehow, that he had not deflected the attack with the will of his mind, but of course , this was war.
“This is the exit wound.” he replied, pointing to another scar beneath his arm. “I was very fortunate.”
There was nothing I could think of to say after that, so I bowed, and went to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast. His fried egg broke, so I disguised it as scrambled. He didn’t seem to notice the slight deception as he ate, his eyes scanning the paper quickly, taking it in at a glance.
“I shall need tea at four o’clock. I am meeting with Sir Glossop in the office.”
“Ah, so you work here then?” Like Sherlock Holmes, I thought, thinking of the elite of Britain plying him with jeweled snuff boxes.
“Only when meeting certain people for specific reasons.” he replied. “I am going to be at the Ministry office until tea. You should greet the local grocers and advise them of your position in my household.” he handed me a list of names and addresses, and a five pound note. “Perhaps two chops for our dinner, and an improving book for yourself.” he advised.
I thanked him, and ushered him to the door with all the blithe enthusiasm of a newlywed housewife offered a trinket. The thought depressed me a bit. I wandered the flat aimlessly, and eventually, knowing that I couldn’t avoid it all day, I found an umbrella and set out upon the neighborhood. I greeted the shop keepers, and purchased two chops from the butcher’s. I found an Agatha Christie paperback to purchase, its bright orange cover cheering me considerably.
The rest of the day was regrettable. I served tea, this time with a strainer, to a pitying, condescending Sir Roderick, pricked my finger attempting to fix a lost button, and scorched the chops while somehow leaving them too pink on the inside. I waited until the house was dark and quiet to drink a glass of brandy and sob into my pillow, as quietly as I could manage.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 03:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 03:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 03:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 03:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 07:16 am (UTC)This especially:
"I could find solace in their visits, suckling them for comfort, the soft skin and firm flesh slipping over my tounge agreeably"
was heart-rending... those people taking advantage of fragile beautiful bertie... there is something simultaneously child-like and world weary in bertie here that is so poignant...
Cannot wait to read more from you...
no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 07:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-10 02:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 06:55 pm (UTC)FOR FUCK'S SAKE JEEVES! STOP BEING SUCH A COLD BASTARD!! -drags Mr. High and Mighty out of his warm bed to force him to watch Bertie's crying- DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS! -locks door behind, marching away grumbling to self-
no subject
Date: 2010-08-10 02:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-10 02:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 09:08 pm (UTC)*wibble* This is just awful for poor Bertie! Can't something go right? Will there be light at the end of the tunnel that isn't an oncoming train? Will there be a tunnel instead of a splat into a painted brick wall?
Aside from my whinging, this is wonderfully written and I'm genuinely intrigued. Though, I'm still a total happy-ending junky, so I'm going to be hoping for one. Can't help myself.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-10 02:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-09 11:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-10 02:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-10 08:13 pm (UTC)Oh, you are hitting my angst buttons just right. Poor Bertie! I'm so glad that Jeeves found him, and has apparently decided to take care of him. Of course, he can't just pull him into his arms and carry him off to safety when the world has changed so much, though I do wish he could, because Bertie clearly needs rescuing.
Please update soon? Please?
no subject
Date: 2010-08-14 02:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-12 02:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-14 02:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-19 06:55 am (UTC)