Fic: The Beginning, Chapter One
Sep. 20th, 2010 08:57 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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indeedsir_backupSo, here it is. I really must say, by the way, that ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
onedergirl29 beta'd this for me and was incredibly helpful. I might have tweaked it a little since then, but she really was fantastic in pointing out the things that weren't working and offering suggestions to help the whole piece.
Here are links to all six chapters of What Aunt Dahlia Saw (because after all this time I'm guessing it's not going to be at the top of people's minds):
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Title: - The Beginning: Chapter One - Autumn on 6th Avenue
Author: bertiebwriting
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2654
Warnings: Slash
Summary: A prequel to my 'What Aunt Dahlia Saw' series. Bertie is living in New York, and experiences a traumatic event.
It all began in New York, one night in late October.
It had been a rather dreary, drizzly day, and the night that followed was equally unpleasant. A cold, chilling, biting fog hung in the air, the kind that grabs you by the throat if you take too deep a breath. Not that Bertie minded: he had been out on the town with his friend Corky, who just succeeded in persuading the New Yorker magazine to print a cartoon he’d submitted to them, and he and Bertie were celebrating at La Rue’s on Park Avenue.
Bertie was in a merry mood when he and Corky finally parted around midnight. He saw his friend into a cab bound for Washington Square and then—his own apartment being only a twenty minute walk away—began to stroll along 59th Street towards Central Park. He ambled along at a reasonable pace; he was enjoying the night air, the smell of autumn, and, he felt, there’s always something pleasant about walking through the streets when the few drinks you’ve imbibed earlier are buzzing happily around in the old lemon, bringing about a warm, generous, rosy outlook towards one’s fellow man.
However, he didn’t plan on lingering in the streets. Jeeves had—not promised, exactly, but implied that he would still be awake to greet the young master, provided that the hour was not beyond one in the am, and Bertie rather hoped to catch him before he retired. Not for any particular reason; he simply liked to end his day exchanging a few words with the man, that was all. He smiled slightly, thinking somewhat wistfully of arriving at his apartment and seeing Jeeves there, ready to take his hat and coat and ask him how the evening had progressed. Dear old Jeeves. The evening’s festivities had put Bertie in an affectionate and sentimental mood, and not for the first time, he wished he could give the fellow a hug without fear of making him shy like a startled mustang. He recalled, rather painfully, the one occasion he’d almost done it—fired up by gratitude and perhaps a couple of cocktails, he’d laid a hand on Jeeves’s shoulder and squeezed zealously. The man had frozen at the touch like an iceberg.
These reflections might have set Bertie, briefly, down another path of thinking—but if so, he made a hasty retreat. He had occasionally tiptoed there before—but it was not something he cared to admit to, and he was certainly in no mood now for confusing ideas that were likely to make him stammer in the man’s presence. He beat the thoughts down determinedly, as one might, with a shudder, brush away creeping insects.
Bertie whistled a tune as he walked, twirling the whangee and contemplating instead the possibility of a hot scotch and water with a spot of lemon in it to end the evening.
It was just after he had turned down 6th Avenue that he heard a hoarse voice calling to him. He turned, and there, standing in the entrance of a narrow alley was a youngish man in a shabby suit.
‘Buddy. Hey, buddy. Can I bum a smoke?’
The man looked apologetic and rather desperate. He’d obviously fallen on hard times, Bertie thought. Well, he was prepared to help out. Nothing worse than wanting a cigarette when you can’t get one, as he knew from bitter experience.
He approached, smiling. ‘Of course.’
He pulled out his cigarette case, opened it, and held it out. The man retreated backwards into the shadows for some reason, as though he thought Bertie might instead be pulling out a weapon.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘Here.’
‘Gee. Thanks, pal.’
‘Take an extra for later, why don’t you?’
‘You mean it? Thanks, good buddy.’ The man put one cigarette in his mouth and the other behind his ear, and without turning away, began to shuffle deeper into the alley, nodding his thanks and attempting to light his cigarette as he went. ‘I really appreciate this, pal,’ he added though his unmoving lips.
‘Oh, not at all.’ Bertie put his cigarettes away, preparing to bid the fellow adieu. But the man was shaking his head vehemently, still talking.
‘No, no, I mean it. Most people would just walk on by, y’know?’
‘Don’t mention it. Only too glad,’ Bertie said, dithering. He didn’t want to be rude, but he was eager to get back onto the street and out of this dark hole in the wall. He couldn’t think why this fellow seemed to like it so much—it didn’t look as though it led anywhere. He found himself wondering, with some concern, if the man was planning on spending the night here.
‘Are you—ah—are you going to be all right, now?’
The man said something incoherent in reply, but he was moving to walk away again, returning to the task of lighting his cigarette as he did so. He seemed to be struggling with that lighter.
‘I tell you, I’ve been dying for a smoke all day,’ he called, still trying to get his cigarette lit.
‘Really?’ Bertie said, glancing over his shoulder to the street. ‘Well, I think I’ll, er—’
‘Yeah, I’ve been going through a rough patch lately.’
‘Oh. Awfully sorry to hear that.’
‘Jeez. This goddamn lighter! I think it’s busted.’
‘Oh—is it?’
‘Yep. Hell, nothin’s going right for me today! You gotta light?’
‘Eh? Oh. Of course.’
The man was a few yards away now. Bertie glanced over his shoulder again. He felt uneasy about going deeper into that alley, though he couldn’t say why, unless it was because it had that aroma of drunks and disorderlies that he usually associated with a police station prison cell. But the man was standing there with the cigarette in his mouth, waiting, and it seemed silly to be afraid to go and light some poor bloke’s cigarette, so he approached, pulling out his lighter.
The man grinned gratefully. ‘You’re a lifesaver, pal,’ he said. ‘Sorry to put you to the trouble.’
Bertie opened his lighter and held the flame out, sheltering it carefully in his hands. The man leaned in with his cigarette; and it was then that Bertie felt something hard suddenly pressed against the back of his head, and a voice behind him hissed, ‘Very nice, pal. Now hand the fancy lighter over and keep your hands where we can see ‘em.’
Bertie straightened, almost dropping the lighter in his surprise. He looked at his companion with the cigarette—but the fellow’s face had grown cold, and he was holding out his hand for the lighter, holding up his lighted cigarette in a manner that could only be described as unnecessarily threatening. He shrugged, and gave that same apologetic smile that had touched Bertie at their meeting.
‘Better do as he says, pal.’
Bertie put the lighter in the man’s hand. The second man whirled him around, and the first thing he saw was the gun, inches from his face. He shook his head dumbly. Roderick Spode had pointed a shotgun at him once, but that seemed positively comical now compared to the menace of this—the small pistol, ready to fire a bullet into his head in a dark, grimy alley.
He swallowed, and found himself wishing fervently that Jeeves was with him. ‘I say—’
‘British guy, huh?’ This second man wore a wide brimmed hat that shadowed his face, and a sweater that was drawn up past his chin. All Bertie could tell was that the man was maybe twenty or so. ‘Well, you ain’t in Buckingham Palace anymore, pal,’ the man continued.
‘What do you mean?’ Bertie stammered. ‘I’m—I’m from Mayfair.’
They laughed. The first man pulled a comical pop-eyed face. ‘”Wot doo yoo mean, oim from Mayfeh!”’ he sang in a bad parody of the English accent.
‘Come on, let’s move,’ the second man ordered. ‘Back up, now. Down here.’
The first man’s hand fell on his collar, pulling him further into the darkness of the alley, and at that moment, he began to feel real fear. Not just of these men, and what they might be planning, but of the alley itself—it was dark, dank, eerily quiet in contrast to the foggy street just yards away, and something seemed to whisper to him that something dreadful awaited him in its depths.
‘Wait,’ he gasped, struggling a little. ‘Look here. There’s no need for this. I’ve got money, you can have it. There’s no need for any trouble.’
They laughed. ‘Gotta love that accent,’ said the second man.
‘No, look, it’s fine. My pocket-book’s in my left pocket. Why don’t you just take it?’
‘Thanks, pal,’ said the second man, nudging him forward, ‘but I think we’re gonna do things our way, if it’s all the same. Don’t want to upset any passing citizens, do we?’
Bertie looked round at the first man, half-hoping that maybe he might be appealed to—but the man shook his head, smiling that apologetic smile once more. ‘It’s just tidier this way, buddy,’ he said. ‘No offense, huh?’
‘Come on,’ said the second man, with slight impatience. ‘We’re gonna go round this corner here. In a minute this’ll all be over, okay?’ He waved the gun at Bertie’s chest. ‘Come on.’
But Bertie was frozen to the spot.
‘Don’t,’ he whispered, his mouth dry. ‘Don’t do anything. I won’t tell anyone anything.’
‘That’s right—you won’t,’ the second man said, poking the gun into his ribs.
Panic coursed through him. They were going to kill him. They were going to rob him and murder him here in this alley—not three blocks from his own apartment, where Jeeves was waiting; perhaps reading his Spinoza, or perhaps—Bertie imagined it briefly, wistfully—looking at his watch, wondering where the young master had got to.
The thought of Jeeves stirred him into action, and he pulled away, shoving the second man as hard as he could and dashing towards the mouth of this foul cave. But he was far from fast enough. He made three paces before they grabbed him and began pulling him back.
‘No—no,’ he gasped, struggling frantically. ‘Jeeves!’ he yelled towards the street. ‘Somebody, help!’
A hand clapped over his mouth; they half-dragged, half-carried him back.
‘Stupid—goddamn—limey!’ gasped the first man. ‘Couldn’t follow simple instructions, could you?’
Bertie thought, fleetingly, that they were right—he was stupid. Jeeves, certainly, would have handled the situation better. The second man was now holding the gun upside-down, as though he was planning to use it as a cosh, and it seemed obvious now that they had no intention of killing him at all. A bit of roughness and a few threats was likely all he’d have had to endure.
But it was too late, now. The men were no longer relaxed and cheerful in their task—his call for help had made them nervous and grim. They dragged him into a dark area hidden from the street, lined with dustbins, and pushed him up against a wall. Bertie had a brief, desperate fantasy that Jeeves would suddenly appear; a dark figure emerging out of the fog, armed with a weapon of his own, perhaps, ordering them, in a cold, authoritative voice to release his master immediately.
But Jeeves didn’t appear. The second man punched him hard in the stomach. Bertie crumpled and would have fallen, but the first man pinned him against the wall while the second emptied out his pockets, taking his pocket-book and cigarette case. They took his coat, his hat, his gloves and his pocket watch; then, finding nothing else of value, they shoved him to the ground.
‘You had to learn it the hard way, pal,’ panted the first man, ‘but you’ll know better next time, huh? Next time, you’ll just put up your hands and follow instructions. Makes it easier for everyone, see?’
A kick landed in his face, making his nose bleed; he raised a hand to protect himself and felt a sharp pain as a boot collided with his outstretched fingers. It occurred to him, dimly, to wonder if this level of violence was really necessary—perhaps it was his attempt to make a getaway that had driven them to it, or possibly his being from Mayfair had infuriated them—however, there were other considerations preventing his pondering the problem to any great extent. Not wanting a repeat of the blow to the face, he tried to get to his feet, but of course, the attempt was fruitless. His knees had turned to jelly and besides, it seemed that they hadn’t finished with him yet—another kick made him gasp, followed by another, and with sickening dismay he saw that there was nothing he could do but pray for it to be over soon.
As he lay there, bleeding, waiting for the abuse to end, thoughts of Jeeves once again entered his mind. It was not intentional—indeed, something whispered to him that it was not safe—but at that moment, everything became a soothing waltz, slowing time to a crawl. Before he could stop himself, his thoughts began to drift, as though caught in a current; before he knew he was allowing it, they were swept down that path, the path he’d earlier been so careful to avoid—the path he’d never dared ask himself where it might lead. A kick landed in his stomach, and thoughts bubbled up in his mind that he usually permitted only when alone and on the verge of sleep, when his defenses were down and there was no fear of having his thoughts detected. A boot struck him in the solar plexus, and he saw Jeeves’s hypnotic eyes and finely chiselled features; a kick smacked into his knee, and the eyes were looking at him with tenderness. Pain and fear temporarily melted away. He was reaching for him, touching the broad shoulders, and Jeeves was embracing him in return. He drifted on, hearing the firm yet gentle voice, very close, confessing something that he couldn’t quite dare to imagine, something that made him tremble… he recalled the strong, capable hands as they assisted him with his jackets and ties, and felt those same hands on his bare skin—
The sound of laughter snuffed out the vision; and then, he remembered. Jeeves wasn’t his lover, or his guardian angel, or his protector—he was his valet.
The sounds of the city returned, along with pain, and the dreadful realisation of where his thoughts had been drawing him to. The men were laughing at his two or three seconds of motionless stupour; and in this horribly real context, away from the private comfort of his bed, the reason behind all those secret imaginings became starkly clear. A dreadful sense of doom and dismay fell on him, and the boots kicking him seemed now to be a part of this first full acknowledgement of his unorthodox feelings. How could ever look at Jeeves again, now that he’d finally realised? How could he live?
A boot landed sharply in his groin, causing a wave of nausea and making him gasp, but he no longer resisted the punishment. These men who had seemed so vile and criminal had shown him the truth; they, not Jeeves, were the angels watching over him. He belonged here in this urban cave with them; this was his welcome to the underworld.
A final kick to his lower chest drove all the air out of him. He gasped for breath, coughing, clawing at the gravel on which he lay. One of the men took his shoes, the other brought the butt of his pistol down on his head, and for a while, all was black.
It began to rain.
----------------------------------------------------------
End of Chapter One.
Chapter Two this Way...
Thanks totenisunoelito for kicking me up the backside and getting me back here, and again a huge thanks to onedergirl29 my beta reader.
onedergirl29 beta'd this for me and was incredibly helpful. I might have tweaked it a little since then, but she really was fantastic in pointing out the things that weren't working and offering suggestions to help the whole piece. Here are links to all six chapters of What Aunt Dahlia Saw (because after all this time I'm guessing it's not going to be at the top of people's minds):
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Title: - The Beginning: Chapter One - Autumn on 6th Avenue
Author: bertiebwriting
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2654
Warnings: Slash
Summary: A prequel to my 'What Aunt Dahlia Saw' series. Bertie is living in New York, and experiences a traumatic event.
The Beginning: Chapter One
Autumn on 6th Avenue
It all began in New York, one night in late October.
It had been a rather dreary, drizzly day, and the night that followed was equally unpleasant. A cold, chilling, biting fog hung in the air, the kind that grabs you by the throat if you take too deep a breath. Not that Bertie minded: he had been out on the town with his friend Corky, who just succeeded in persuading the New Yorker magazine to print a cartoon he’d submitted to them, and he and Bertie were celebrating at La Rue’s on Park Avenue.
Bertie was in a merry mood when he and Corky finally parted around midnight. He saw his friend into a cab bound for Washington Square and then—his own apartment being only a twenty minute walk away—began to stroll along 59th Street towards Central Park. He ambled along at a reasonable pace; he was enjoying the night air, the smell of autumn, and, he felt, there’s always something pleasant about walking through the streets when the few drinks you’ve imbibed earlier are buzzing happily around in the old lemon, bringing about a warm, generous, rosy outlook towards one’s fellow man.
However, he didn’t plan on lingering in the streets. Jeeves had—not promised, exactly, but implied that he would still be awake to greet the young master, provided that the hour was not beyond one in the am, and Bertie rather hoped to catch him before he retired. Not for any particular reason; he simply liked to end his day exchanging a few words with the man, that was all. He smiled slightly, thinking somewhat wistfully of arriving at his apartment and seeing Jeeves there, ready to take his hat and coat and ask him how the evening had progressed. Dear old Jeeves. The evening’s festivities had put Bertie in an affectionate and sentimental mood, and not for the first time, he wished he could give the fellow a hug without fear of making him shy like a startled mustang. He recalled, rather painfully, the one occasion he’d almost done it—fired up by gratitude and perhaps a couple of cocktails, he’d laid a hand on Jeeves’s shoulder and squeezed zealously. The man had frozen at the touch like an iceberg.
These reflections might have set Bertie, briefly, down another path of thinking—but if so, he made a hasty retreat. He had occasionally tiptoed there before—but it was not something he cared to admit to, and he was certainly in no mood now for confusing ideas that were likely to make him stammer in the man’s presence. He beat the thoughts down determinedly, as one might, with a shudder, brush away creeping insects.
Bertie whistled a tune as he walked, twirling the whangee and contemplating instead the possibility of a hot scotch and water with a spot of lemon in it to end the evening.
It was just after he had turned down 6th Avenue that he heard a hoarse voice calling to him. He turned, and there, standing in the entrance of a narrow alley was a youngish man in a shabby suit.
‘Buddy. Hey, buddy. Can I bum a smoke?’
The man looked apologetic and rather desperate. He’d obviously fallen on hard times, Bertie thought. Well, he was prepared to help out. Nothing worse than wanting a cigarette when you can’t get one, as he knew from bitter experience.
He approached, smiling. ‘Of course.’
He pulled out his cigarette case, opened it, and held it out. The man retreated backwards into the shadows for some reason, as though he thought Bertie might instead be pulling out a weapon.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘Here.’
‘Gee. Thanks, pal.’
‘Take an extra for later, why don’t you?’
‘You mean it? Thanks, good buddy.’ The man put one cigarette in his mouth and the other behind his ear, and without turning away, began to shuffle deeper into the alley, nodding his thanks and attempting to light his cigarette as he went. ‘I really appreciate this, pal,’ he added though his unmoving lips.
‘Oh, not at all.’ Bertie put his cigarettes away, preparing to bid the fellow adieu. But the man was shaking his head vehemently, still talking.
‘No, no, I mean it. Most people would just walk on by, y’know?’
‘Don’t mention it. Only too glad,’ Bertie said, dithering. He didn’t want to be rude, but he was eager to get back onto the street and out of this dark hole in the wall. He couldn’t think why this fellow seemed to like it so much—it didn’t look as though it led anywhere. He found himself wondering, with some concern, if the man was planning on spending the night here.
‘Are you—ah—are you going to be all right, now?’
The man said something incoherent in reply, but he was moving to walk away again, returning to the task of lighting his cigarette as he did so. He seemed to be struggling with that lighter.
‘I tell you, I’ve been dying for a smoke all day,’ he called, still trying to get his cigarette lit.
‘Really?’ Bertie said, glancing over his shoulder to the street. ‘Well, I think I’ll, er—’
‘Yeah, I’ve been going through a rough patch lately.’
‘Oh. Awfully sorry to hear that.’
‘Jeez. This goddamn lighter! I think it’s busted.’
‘Oh—is it?’
‘Yep. Hell, nothin’s going right for me today! You gotta light?’
‘Eh? Oh. Of course.’
The man was a few yards away now. Bertie glanced over his shoulder again. He felt uneasy about going deeper into that alley, though he couldn’t say why, unless it was because it had that aroma of drunks and disorderlies that he usually associated with a police station prison cell. But the man was standing there with the cigarette in his mouth, waiting, and it seemed silly to be afraid to go and light some poor bloke’s cigarette, so he approached, pulling out his lighter.
The man grinned gratefully. ‘You’re a lifesaver, pal,’ he said. ‘Sorry to put you to the trouble.’
Bertie opened his lighter and held the flame out, sheltering it carefully in his hands. The man leaned in with his cigarette; and it was then that Bertie felt something hard suddenly pressed against the back of his head, and a voice behind him hissed, ‘Very nice, pal. Now hand the fancy lighter over and keep your hands where we can see ‘em.’
Bertie straightened, almost dropping the lighter in his surprise. He looked at his companion with the cigarette—but the fellow’s face had grown cold, and he was holding out his hand for the lighter, holding up his lighted cigarette in a manner that could only be described as unnecessarily threatening. He shrugged, and gave that same apologetic smile that had touched Bertie at their meeting.
‘Better do as he says, pal.’
Bertie put the lighter in the man’s hand. The second man whirled him around, and the first thing he saw was the gun, inches from his face. He shook his head dumbly. Roderick Spode had pointed a shotgun at him once, but that seemed positively comical now compared to the menace of this—the small pistol, ready to fire a bullet into his head in a dark, grimy alley.
He swallowed, and found himself wishing fervently that Jeeves was with him. ‘I say—’
‘British guy, huh?’ This second man wore a wide brimmed hat that shadowed his face, and a sweater that was drawn up past his chin. All Bertie could tell was that the man was maybe twenty or so. ‘Well, you ain’t in Buckingham Palace anymore, pal,’ the man continued.
‘What do you mean?’ Bertie stammered. ‘I’m—I’m from Mayfair.’
They laughed. The first man pulled a comical pop-eyed face. ‘”Wot doo yoo mean, oim from Mayfeh!”’ he sang in a bad parody of the English accent.
‘Come on, let’s move,’ the second man ordered. ‘Back up, now. Down here.’
The first man’s hand fell on his collar, pulling him further into the darkness of the alley, and at that moment, he began to feel real fear. Not just of these men, and what they might be planning, but of the alley itself—it was dark, dank, eerily quiet in contrast to the foggy street just yards away, and something seemed to whisper to him that something dreadful awaited him in its depths.
‘Wait,’ he gasped, struggling a little. ‘Look here. There’s no need for this. I’ve got money, you can have it. There’s no need for any trouble.’
They laughed. ‘Gotta love that accent,’ said the second man.
‘No, look, it’s fine. My pocket-book’s in my left pocket. Why don’t you just take it?’
‘Thanks, pal,’ said the second man, nudging him forward, ‘but I think we’re gonna do things our way, if it’s all the same. Don’t want to upset any passing citizens, do we?’
Bertie looked round at the first man, half-hoping that maybe he might be appealed to—but the man shook his head, smiling that apologetic smile once more. ‘It’s just tidier this way, buddy,’ he said. ‘No offense, huh?’
‘Come on,’ said the second man, with slight impatience. ‘We’re gonna go round this corner here. In a minute this’ll all be over, okay?’ He waved the gun at Bertie’s chest. ‘Come on.’
But Bertie was frozen to the spot.
‘Don’t,’ he whispered, his mouth dry. ‘Don’t do anything. I won’t tell anyone anything.’
‘That’s right—you won’t,’ the second man said, poking the gun into his ribs.
Panic coursed through him. They were going to kill him. They were going to rob him and murder him here in this alley—not three blocks from his own apartment, where Jeeves was waiting; perhaps reading his Spinoza, or perhaps—Bertie imagined it briefly, wistfully—looking at his watch, wondering where the young master had got to.
The thought of Jeeves stirred him into action, and he pulled away, shoving the second man as hard as he could and dashing towards the mouth of this foul cave. But he was far from fast enough. He made three paces before they grabbed him and began pulling him back.
‘No—no,’ he gasped, struggling frantically. ‘Jeeves!’ he yelled towards the street. ‘Somebody, help!’
A hand clapped over his mouth; they half-dragged, half-carried him back.
‘Stupid—goddamn—limey!’ gasped the first man. ‘Couldn’t follow simple instructions, could you?’
Bertie thought, fleetingly, that they were right—he was stupid. Jeeves, certainly, would have handled the situation better. The second man was now holding the gun upside-down, as though he was planning to use it as a cosh, and it seemed obvious now that they had no intention of killing him at all. A bit of roughness and a few threats was likely all he’d have had to endure.
But it was too late, now. The men were no longer relaxed and cheerful in their task—his call for help had made them nervous and grim. They dragged him into a dark area hidden from the street, lined with dustbins, and pushed him up against a wall. Bertie had a brief, desperate fantasy that Jeeves would suddenly appear; a dark figure emerging out of the fog, armed with a weapon of his own, perhaps, ordering them, in a cold, authoritative voice to release his master immediately.
But Jeeves didn’t appear. The second man punched him hard in the stomach. Bertie crumpled and would have fallen, but the first man pinned him against the wall while the second emptied out his pockets, taking his pocket-book and cigarette case. They took his coat, his hat, his gloves and his pocket watch; then, finding nothing else of value, they shoved him to the ground.
‘You had to learn it the hard way, pal,’ panted the first man, ‘but you’ll know better next time, huh? Next time, you’ll just put up your hands and follow instructions. Makes it easier for everyone, see?’
A kick landed in his face, making his nose bleed; he raised a hand to protect himself and felt a sharp pain as a boot collided with his outstretched fingers. It occurred to him, dimly, to wonder if this level of violence was really necessary—perhaps it was his attempt to make a getaway that had driven them to it, or possibly his being from Mayfair had infuriated them—however, there were other considerations preventing his pondering the problem to any great extent. Not wanting a repeat of the blow to the face, he tried to get to his feet, but of course, the attempt was fruitless. His knees had turned to jelly and besides, it seemed that they hadn’t finished with him yet—another kick made him gasp, followed by another, and with sickening dismay he saw that there was nothing he could do but pray for it to be over soon.
As he lay there, bleeding, waiting for the abuse to end, thoughts of Jeeves once again entered his mind. It was not intentional—indeed, something whispered to him that it was not safe—but at that moment, everything became a soothing waltz, slowing time to a crawl. Before he could stop himself, his thoughts began to drift, as though caught in a current; before he knew he was allowing it, they were swept down that path, the path he’d earlier been so careful to avoid—the path he’d never dared ask himself where it might lead. A kick landed in his stomach, and thoughts bubbled up in his mind that he usually permitted only when alone and on the verge of sleep, when his defenses were down and there was no fear of having his thoughts detected. A boot struck him in the solar plexus, and he saw Jeeves’s hypnotic eyes and finely chiselled features; a kick smacked into his knee, and the eyes were looking at him with tenderness. Pain and fear temporarily melted away. He was reaching for him, touching the broad shoulders, and Jeeves was embracing him in return. He drifted on, hearing the firm yet gentle voice, very close, confessing something that he couldn’t quite dare to imagine, something that made him tremble… he recalled the strong, capable hands as they assisted him with his jackets and ties, and felt those same hands on his bare skin—
The sound of laughter snuffed out the vision; and then, he remembered. Jeeves wasn’t his lover, or his guardian angel, or his protector—he was his valet.
The sounds of the city returned, along with pain, and the dreadful realisation of where his thoughts had been drawing him to. The men were laughing at his two or three seconds of motionless stupour; and in this horribly real context, away from the private comfort of his bed, the reason behind all those secret imaginings became starkly clear. A dreadful sense of doom and dismay fell on him, and the boots kicking him seemed now to be a part of this first full acknowledgement of his unorthodox feelings. How could ever look at Jeeves again, now that he’d finally realised? How could he live?
A boot landed sharply in his groin, causing a wave of nausea and making him gasp, but he no longer resisted the punishment. These men who had seemed so vile and criminal had shown him the truth; they, not Jeeves, were the angels watching over him. He belonged here in this urban cave with them; this was his welcome to the underworld.
A final kick to his lower chest drove all the air out of him. He gasped for breath, coughing, clawing at the gravel on which he lay. One of the men took his shoes, the other brought the butt of his pistol down on his head, and for a while, all was black.
It began to rain.
----------------------------------------------------------
End of Chapter One.
Chapter Two this Way...
Thanks to
tenisunoelito for kicking me up the backside and getting me back here, and again a huge thanks to onedergirl29 my beta reader.
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