Fic: The Beginning, Chapter Two
Oct. 27th, 2010 12:37 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
closetofheroes.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
indeedsir_backupThis is a short chapter, and not a particularly eventful one, but hey, after the drama of chapter one we can all do with a breather.
Title's a bit over the top, I know. Feel free to suggest a better one.
Links to past chapters:
What Aunt Dahlia Saw:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
The Beginning:
Chapter One
Title: - The Beginning: Chapter Two - The Aftermath
Author: bertiebwriting
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1133
Warnings: Slash
Summary: Chapter Two of the prequel to my 'What Aunt Dahlia Saw' series. Bertie wakes up in the alley.
Bertie woke in a puddle, his head throbbing, a cold rain falling on his face. When he listened, he heard nothing, nothing but the patter of rain and the rumble of traffic from the street. He lifted his head, clutching the side of his forehead, and looked around blearily.
The men had gone. He was all alone.
Bertie heaved a breathless sigh and let his head lay back on the ground, shaking with relief. It was over. It had been a frightful ordeal—but it was all over. True, he'd awoken in more pleasant places than this, but he was still alive, and still himself.
Already he was feeling dreadfully foolish, but he allowed himself to hope that he had only to pick himself up and dust himself off, and things would return to normal. He began to consider doing just that, in fact; but it seemed that no-one had seen him lying there, or were expecting him to move, and he was, for the moment, numbly comfortable. So he lay there a few moments more, looking up at the buildings and the wet sky from the new and odd angle.
The thought then occurred to him that he was probably in shock.
As he lay there, half-waiting for his old self to return to him, half-expecting some public-spirited person to run up and assist him, the memory of his earlier epiphany surfaced. He could not help but recall the despair and self-disgust he’d felt as he lay on the ground earlier, and the unmentionable thoughts he’d had about Jeeves.
For a moment, his heart was heavy with dismay. But he had, over the years, developed a swift ability in filing foolish, fleeting notions away to a little used portion of his mind. This episode had, of course, been far from fleeting—on the contrary, it had been devastating—but it had now been succeeded by a tremendous relief in finding himself alive and relatively intact, and the old instinct to dismiss the whole thing as silly arose automatically. It was nothing, he told himself. It was a bad dream, nothing more than that. Ridiculous, the things that pop into the old onion in times of stress. A daft thing to get worked up over at a time when someone is busy beating you to a jelly, at least.
In any case he didn’t want to think about it. Just one of those silly ideas one gets from time to time. Everyone takes it into their head, on occasion, to consider committing some unthinkably blithering act, like yelling “fire!” in a crowded theatre, or suddenly kissing the girl who happens to be sitting next to you, even though she’s a perfect blister. This was just such an idiotic short-circuit of the brain—in the extremity of the situation, he’d dwelt on it more intensely than was healthy, and it had temporarily unnerved him, that was all. He might even have uttered a laugh, had the fear of several moments ago not still been rattling him.
He heaved a deep sigh. The sigh unfortunately triggered a stab of pain in his chest, and the surprise of it, combined with the continuing ecstasy knowing that he was still alive, made him giggle. The sharp pain increased as a result, and ironically, this made him want to giggle more. He panted for a moment as he struggled to breathe evenly again.
Up until this moment he had been quite numb; now this new found pain made him sensible of a dull ache in his right side and a general soreness about the limbs. Using the wall for support, he managed to stagger into an upright position, and he stood there for a while, shivering.
Now that he was upright, his present predicament began to dawn on him, and he found himself quailing more than a little. The situation could have been worse, but it was still not good. He was alone in the city in the middle of the night, bruised and bleeding, with a cold October rain washing down on him—and he had no coat, no shoes and no money. With fingers that were painful and swollen he felt gingerly in the pockets of his jacket for his cigarettes, feeling the need for a soothing smoke, before he remembered that those were gone too. This seemed to be the final straw, and for a moment he was overwhelmed with misery. Avoiding the impassioned desperation for Jeeves that he’d felt earlier, he allowed himself to acknowledge that he had never been more in need of his valet’s help than now.
He eventually recovered himself from this temporary despair, however. If he needed Jeeves’s help, then somehow or other he was going to have to limp home. He reminded himself that it was only a few blocks, and that Jeeves would be there to assist him at the end of them. Armed with this knowledge, he slowly made his way back on to the street. Here it was brighter, noisier, and seemed like a different planet from the alley just a few yards away. For a moment he was quiet disorientated—he pulled himself together, however, and started walking.
It was a difficult walk. His shoeless feet hurt on the pavement, and though he passed a number of people, they seemed anxious to avoid him rather than offer assistance. He actually considered asking someone if they might provide him with a cigarette, before he remembered precisely how he’d been approached by his assailants in the first place. Surely no-one else out here would be idiotic enough to allow themselves to be waylaid as he had been.
His head ached horribly, making it hard to think clearly. Fortunately the route to his apartment was an easy one, and as his feet trudged on their definite course his mind was free to wander. Predictably, they consisted primarily of the attack he’d been subjected to. He thought about how very close to death he had come, and how foolishly he’d behaved—not to mention what an utter chump he had been for stopping to chat to that fellow in the first place. As he recalled their laughter, their glee in mocking his English accent, he felt for the first time the unfriendliness of the city. As a visiting foreigner he’d drifted about Manhattan as he’d pleased, not seeing anything but what he’d wanted to see—now, it was as though the city was punishing him for having the audacity to believe that he could be absorbed into it without paying a price. He felt humiliated and ashamed, like a child who has run away on an adventure only to find himself lost.
His thoughts after that were less coherent. The pain in his head half-blinded him, his raw feet splashed painfully through the soaked streets, and in the end, it was only by fixing his mind on Jeeves that he was able to keep moving.
Jeeves; he had to reach Jeeves.
----------------------------------------------------------
End of Chapter Two.
Chapter Three this way...
Thanks again to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
onedergirl29 my beta reader!
Title's a bit over the top, I know. Feel free to suggest a better one.
Links to past chapters:
What Aunt Dahlia Saw:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
The Beginning:
Chapter One
Title: - The Beginning: Chapter Two - The Aftermath
Author: bertiebwriting
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1133
Warnings: Slash
Summary: Chapter Two of the prequel to my 'What Aunt Dahlia Saw' series. Bertie wakes up in the alley.
The Beginning: Chapter Two
The Aftermath
Bertie woke in a puddle, his head throbbing, a cold rain falling on his face. When he listened, he heard nothing, nothing but the patter of rain and the rumble of traffic from the street. He lifted his head, clutching the side of his forehead, and looked around blearily.
The men had gone. He was all alone.
Bertie heaved a breathless sigh and let his head lay back on the ground, shaking with relief. It was over. It had been a frightful ordeal—but it was all over. True, he'd awoken in more pleasant places than this, but he was still alive, and still himself.
Already he was feeling dreadfully foolish, but he allowed himself to hope that he had only to pick himself up and dust himself off, and things would return to normal. He began to consider doing just that, in fact; but it seemed that no-one had seen him lying there, or were expecting him to move, and he was, for the moment, numbly comfortable. So he lay there a few moments more, looking up at the buildings and the wet sky from the new and odd angle.
The thought then occurred to him that he was probably in shock.
As he lay there, half-waiting for his old self to return to him, half-expecting some public-spirited person to run up and assist him, the memory of his earlier epiphany surfaced. He could not help but recall the despair and self-disgust he’d felt as he lay on the ground earlier, and the unmentionable thoughts he’d had about Jeeves.
For a moment, his heart was heavy with dismay. But he had, over the years, developed a swift ability in filing foolish, fleeting notions away to a little used portion of his mind. This episode had, of course, been far from fleeting—on the contrary, it had been devastating—but it had now been succeeded by a tremendous relief in finding himself alive and relatively intact, and the old instinct to dismiss the whole thing as silly arose automatically. It was nothing, he told himself. It was a bad dream, nothing more than that. Ridiculous, the things that pop into the old onion in times of stress. A daft thing to get worked up over at a time when someone is busy beating you to a jelly, at least.
In any case he didn’t want to think about it. Just one of those silly ideas one gets from time to time. Everyone takes it into their head, on occasion, to consider committing some unthinkably blithering act, like yelling “fire!” in a crowded theatre, or suddenly kissing the girl who happens to be sitting next to you, even though she’s a perfect blister. This was just such an idiotic short-circuit of the brain—in the extremity of the situation, he’d dwelt on it more intensely than was healthy, and it had temporarily unnerved him, that was all. He might even have uttered a laugh, had the fear of several moments ago not still been rattling him.
He heaved a deep sigh. The sigh unfortunately triggered a stab of pain in his chest, and the surprise of it, combined with the continuing ecstasy knowing that he was still alive, made him giggle. The sharp pain increased as a result, and ironically, this made him want to giggle more. He panted for a moment as he struggled to breathe evenly again.
Up until this moment he had been quite numb; now this new found pain made him sensible of a dull ache in his right side and a general soreness about the limbs. Using the wall for support, he managed to stagger into an upright position, and he stood there for a while, shivering.
Now that he was upright, his present predicament began to dawn on him, and he found himself quailing more than a little. The situation could have been worse, but it was still not good. He was alone in the city in the middle of the night, bruised and bleeding, with a cold October rain washing down on him—and he had no coat, no shoes and no money. With fingers that were painful and swollen he felt gingerly in the pockets of his jacket for his cigarettes, feeling the need for a soothing smoke, before he remembered that those were gone too. This seemed to be the final straw, and for a moment he was overwhelmed with misery. Avoiding the impassioned desperation for Jeeves that he’d felt earlier, he allowed himself to acknowledge that he had never been more in need of his valet’s help than now.
He eventually recovered himself from this temporary despair, however. If he needed Jeeves’s help, then somehow or other he was going to have to limp home. He reminded himself that it was only a few blocks, and that Jeeves would be there to assist him at the end of them. Armed with this knowledge, he slowly made his way back on to the street. Here it was brighter, noisier, and seemed like a different planet from the alley just a few yards away. For a moment he was quiet disorientated—he pulled himself together, however, and started walking.
It was a difficult walk. His shoeless feet hurt on the pavement, and though he passed a number of people, they seemed anxious to avoid him rather than offer assistance. He actually considered asking someone if they might provide him with a cigarette, before he remembered precisely how he’d been approached by his assailants in the first place. Surely no-one else out here would be idiotic enough to allow themselves to be waylaid as he had been.
His head ached horribly, making it hard to think clearly. Fortunately the route to his apartment was an easy one, and as his feet trudged on their definite course his mind was free to wander. Predictably, they consisted primarily of the attack he’d been subjected to. He thought about how very close to death he had come, and how foolishly he’d behaved—not to mention what an utter chump he had been for stopping to chat to that fellow in the first place. As he recalled their laughter, their glee in mocking his English accent, he felt for the first time the unfriendliness of the city. As a visiting foreigner he’d drifted about Manhattan as he’d pleased, not seeing anything but what he’d wanted to see—now, it was as though the city was punishing him for having the audacity to believe that he could be absorbed into it without paying a price. He felt humiliated and ashamed, like a child who has run away on an adventure only to find himself lost.
His thoughts after that were less coherent. The pain in his head half-blinded him, his raw feet splashed painfully through the soaked streets, and in the end, it was only by fixing his mind on Jeeves that he was able to keep moving.
Jeeves; he had to reach Jeeves.
----------------------------------------------------------
End of Chapter Two.
Chapter Three this way...
Thanks again to
onedergirl29 my beta reader!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-10-27 06:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-04 08:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-27 06:48 am (UTC)I hope you'll have time and energy to offer a new chapter soon. I'd really love to see what happens next. I dearly hope it involves a hug. ;)
no subject
Date: 2010-10-27 12:11 pm (UTC)Oh, it's you again with the Wooster-abuse! *beats you with a stick*
...
Naaaah, I'm kidding. It's heartbreak-y goodness!! Do please go on, so I can stop crying! *blows nose with last tissue*
no subject
Date: 2010-10-27 01:27 pm (UTC)I love this! It has definite potential to become my new J/W drug. =D
no subject
Date: 2010-10-27 09:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-27 11:46 pm (UTC)(Very well done, obviously. Loving this series!)
no subject
Date: 2010-10-28 12:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-28 11:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-29 03:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-30 10:38 am (UTC)