Jeeves and the Meddlesome Medium, Part Twelve

[toodlepipsigner.livejournal.com]

Oh, I say, remember me?
Here it is. For those of you who haven't entirely forgotten it.
Title: Jeeves and the Meddlesome Medium
Chapter: 12/12
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster, OC,
Warnings: A wee bit of angst!Bertie sailing your way.
Chapter Rating: NC-17
Summary: Bertie meets a mysterious medium and acquires the power to read minds, resulting in misgivings and misunderstandings from all parties, particularly one amorous manservant. Based on a prompt by mutant_biscuits 

Previous installments:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven

This can also be found in four parts at my LJ.

No luggage missing, no portmanteau packed, no note of explanation, the small lamp-light left on. Mr Wooster had not intended to be gone for long; that much was obvious. It was as if he had simply disappeared in the night, or more like he had never existed. My confusion was profound.

The events immediately following my waking did nothing to ease this disquieting disturbance. Nobody knew where my employer was; all were even further baffled by my own lack of understanding.

“He’s gone off his rocker. It’s finally happened.” Miss Glossop complained; the young Mr Worthing tailed her about the house, maligning my master and hinting none too subtly at his own capability of replacing Mr Wooster.

“The lunatic up and left in the dead of night!” The head of the house shouted the moment I turned up in the dining room, where a general discussion was being held over an early breakfast. His temper (and, if his face be any indicator, his blood pressure) was rising in steep intervals. “Leaves all his things, all his clothes… his manservant, for goodness’ sake! What if he turns up somewhere in Geneva after they’ve married? I won’t have it! I won’t have it! My daughter will NOT be abandoned!” I brought my fist to my mouth, and coughed during a pause in his vindicated fury. Sir Roderick met my eye.

“Sir, shall I attempt to recover him?” I asked, knowing the answer.

He was trying to keep a level temper with me. “If it pleases you; but don’t bother bringing him back! I’ll not have that man dare show his face again! And while you go… take his things.”

“Oh, Jeeves, why didn’t you stop him!” Lady Glossop called as I turned to leave, flapping her hands about her face in distress.

I had to clear my throat again, although my presence was already known. “I did not know, myself,” I maintained stoically, and as I turned, added to no one but myself, “else I would gladly have accompanied him.”

I packed Mr Wooster’s things, all the while being assured by the myriad of guests that if Mr Wooster should be found, they would very much appreciate my battering him about the head with the nearest heavy object. I naturally would never do such a thing; but I confess in my own abandoned, self-pitying state I felt the penalty a perfectly reasonable and apt one.

The last guest to come to me was the dreamy-eyed Mrs Featherstone, carrying a well-worn book under her arm such that I could not see its title.

“Curtain Road.” She said simply. I raised my eyebrows, imploring her to elaborate. “Go down Great Eastern Street, turn on Curtain Road. There’s a little road off of it that doesn’t lead anywhere— Hewett Street. If you’re looking for him, you’ll find him. That’s where he’ll be. And here,” she handed me the book, subduing the visceral instinct to let my jaw drop. The Courtship of Lord Strathmorlick, by Rosie M. Banks. “You remind me of her, you know—the protagonist. I don’t suppose you’ve read…”

“Yes, I’ve read…” I replied simply, without knowing why. I reason myself it was because I felt as though, somehow, she already knew the answer. I did not look at her; but she knew. She knew far too much, and was far too kind about it.

“Well, good luck, Jeeves. Remember; Great Eastern—”

“Curtain, Hewett; I remember. Thank you, Misses.”

And she was gone.


As I departed I happened upon young master Worthing and young Miss Glossop in a rather tighter embrace than I myself might have deemed appropriate for the publicity of a smoking room. “Such a prude…” I could quite nearly hear Mr Wooster say.

But by whatever means, the engagement was broken; Mr Wooster a man free of his bride, just as he wished.

Perhaps, I thought as I took my seat beside Jonas in the four-wheeler, he also wished to be free of me.


I took Mrs Featherstone’s advice to note, and here I stood now. Mr Wooster was in sight. I waited a pause, coughed again into my fist, then was called to enter by the woman with the flowing curls. “Jeeves, old top!” Mr Wooster stood to greet me, his arms raising in welcome. “Good evening, sir.” I managed to croak brokenly. I confess I had not completely found my voice since the shock I’d had that morning. Yet a grin was plastered on his sunny face upon that spoke to me that all was well, that he was not abandoning or running from me, and that he knew perfectly well just how much explaining he had to do.

The woman he introduced to me as “Cassy” hinted that she had a prearranged appointment due to arrive, but this may have been more of a courtesy granting the two of us permission to leave—and, consequently, a level of privacy which I had longed for.

She bid him a fond farewell, and he her, as we set out for the car.

“Only trouble, Jeeves,” he said, lifting the third portmanteau off the pavement, “is that I can’t quite remember where I parked the damned thing.”

“Sir, I believe I remember seeing it at the intersection of Curtain Road and Luke Street.”

“Heavens and Hell, Jeeves.” He shook his head, grinning. “Lead on, my man.” Then, more quietly, he said, “A more familiar kind of magic.”

We made our way towards Luke Street in relative silence, though it was a silence thick with whirring thoughts and things-left-unsaid; as we neared the car, he opened his mouth. And closed it again. He continued to gape in this manner, and then said cryptically, “I don’t need to ask how you found me, Jeeves.”

I waited a pause, wondering how he intended me to respond to this remark. “I would imagine not, sir. I suppose you deduced that someone knew of your location. I only wish, sir, you had the courtesy to make sure it was me.”

“Jeeves, before you give me hell,” he started defensively, as though he’d been waiting for this moment of criticism and wanted to get it out of the way, “lend me the chance to explain. Your ears, if you will, Jeeves. It’s a deuce of a tale…”

“We will have time enough at home, sir.” I assured him. “As nobody has been residing there since last I arranged everything, I doubt there will be much to do other than unpack.”

His face contorted; he did not want to be alone with me just yet. “Well, to Ditteridge first, no?”
I gave him a look that I hope conveyed my acknowledgement of his discomfort. I cannot pretend it was a warm one. “Sir, if we were returning to Ditteridge, why would I have packed and brought all of our possessions?”

He did not meet my eye, but stared at the car door. “Ah.” He packed the back seat with our luggage sombrely. Then, suddenly, seemed to perk. “Jeeves… are you implying that my engagement to the Glossop menace has been broken at long last?”

I smiled in spite of myself, “Yes, sir. I have reason to believe we will soon receive news that she has turned her marital intentions upon the young Mr Worthing.”

“Well, if ever there was a tick for her to marry, it’s Worthing. How did you pull it off this time, Jeeves?” He asked, oblivious to my continued disapproval. I sighed, and climbed into the passenger seat resignedly. “Actually, sir, it was you who broke the engagement without even being present. One has a sense of admiration for the feat.”

“I say. They didn’t all wake up, did they?”

“Yes, sir. The house was roused rather early by Miss Misselane. Apparently she’d discovered a mouse in her room and ran the entire way to Mr Fittleworth’s room rather than calling upon the servants.”

“Screaming all the way?”

“Screaming all the way, sir. At the finish of which nobody knew where the rodent had gone to and Miss Misselane and Mr Fittleworth were ordered to leave the house before sundown.”

“Why old Boko?”

“One cannot be discovered with an unwed young lady in one’s chambers, sir, without some form of punition.”

He nodded sagely, then put the car in reverse, and pulled onto the road. We drove a little while west, towards Picadilly, resuming the silence we’d abandoned. Once returned to our more familiar surroundings, he began to strike up further evasive conversation.

“No, sir, I do not suppose it will rain today. No, sir, nor hail, nor snow, nor ice storm. No I do not anticipate solar flares; and, if I may express my humble opinion, sir, I wish you would stop avoiding the most pressing matter of our future.”
He parked the car outside the flat, and Mr Jarvis duly bounded up to meet us. “Lovely mornin’, sirs! Let me assist you with your luggage…” I nearly cursed the man under my breath; as it was, I pretended not to hear Mr Wooster as he said, “A tenner, Jeeves! A tenner—that’s a fiver…” And showed Mr Jarvis, looking utterly disappointed, out the front door.

“I say, Jeeves! What’s the matter with you, man? You’re positively… positively…”

“Dejected, sir? Fatigued? Worn of all my patience and ill of your nonsensical evasions? Yes, sir. I dare say I am. And if it causes me to be sharp, sir, I only ask of you to look at your actions and know that you are the reason for all of it. Perhaps, sir, you will empathise with me then.” I picked up the two trunks. “Or, perhaps, you will continue to ignore my every word; you will fall asleep in that armchair, you will wake in the morning and ask me what the weather will be like. All of this, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. And I, sir, shall wither and waste in this unrequited hell-pit you’ve thrown me into.”

I left him there to gape at me, and when I had finished unpacking his things and returned to the sitting room, surely enough, he was asleep in the armchair. I approached him, and cringed at the sight of the red tear-tracks on his gentle face. He had meant none of it. And neither, I realised, had I.

I did not take my portmanteau into my room at first—perhaps some sick, unwanted desire still told me there was a chance I would be allowed to bring it into his chamber. I quashed this with a last look at my master, curled on the chair like a lonely child, and decided not to unpack my things, at all.

I awoke on my bed, opened my eyes, and immediately shut them tight again. They were stinging most dreadfully, but flew open again at the sound of a creaking floorboard. Though I stared into the pillow, I could see in my mind’s eye Mr Wooster standing at the foot of my bed, his own eyes unbearably red, crushing me with a cold stare and ordering me out of his home, out of his sight, out of his mind.

But I knew he could not be ordered out of my heart.

He was still standing there, at the foot of my bed. Why wouldn’t he say anything?

“Either you’re not dreaming, or it’s gone.”

This took my by some surprise, I confess. The meaning of his words was lost on me—an occurrence, I realised, that had become more and more frequent in days recently passed. It was true he had not been quite himself of late.

“Sir?” I sat up slowly, keeping my eyes fixed on the pillow, the sheets, the bedpost—anything but his face.

“Jeeves, think of something. Anything.” His voice was suddenly upbeat. Had he forgotten all that I’d said? Worse, was all that I’d prophesised coming to pass? Was he indeed going to forget it all, and try to go back to the way things were, despite all that he knew I felt? All the guard I’d lost?

If I was cold to him now, as he tried to brighten himself and return to his former comfortable life, I could blame it on deprivation of the restful sleep that I knew I would never again have if he walked away. “As I believe I’ve mentioned to you, sir, my mind is seldom void. Particularly,” I could not stop myself from adding, “at such a time as this.”

“Of course not.” He whispered; and though I wished to know from his expressive face how he felt, I dared not look, for fear of what I’d see.

“Jeeves, I was hoping… I was hoping today wouldn’t happen the way it…happened.”
I raised an eyebrow, but kept my head determinedly downcast, expecting him to continue. He did not, but instead sat on the corner of my bed, and sighed deeply. His silence spake all the words he could not grasp.
I was not giving him a chance.

I was slow to move, but surely enough came to kneel behind him, my head rested so near his own my lips touched the skin on the back of his neck. For the first time since the previous night, I was warm, and I endeavoured to be warm to him. In due course he melted against me, leaning his head back ever so slightly. Tentatively, my arms came around him; one of his hands was upon my face, stroking along the line from my jaw to the crown of my head. I leaned into it, kissed his palm, and prayed for what was to come.

“Sir,” I whispered to him, but words failed me thereafter. How to ask? Could I ask? After all I had said?

He appeared not to hear me.

“Jeeves, it’s all gone rotten, and it’s my bloody fault.” He said dejectedly.
“Nothing is rotten in this state, sir.” I tried to wrap my arms about him.

“Really? I could have sworn it smelled like brainless Bertie muddling things up again.”

“Sir, please stop this. Nothing is wrong that cannot be put right.” Perhaps, indeed, I was saying this only to quell my own fears.

“I’ve gone and lost what’s most important to me, Jeeves!”

“Was Miss Glossop really so significant, sir?” I tried to make light, as he would; to show him not all was doomed, that he still had me when all other suns around him set. It only agitated him, enough so that he stood, and began pacing the room, shouting at the walls. “No, Jeeves! I’ve lost you! I’ve lost your affection, your respect, your love, your trust! You’ll never trust me again, and the worst part, is that I don’t blame you!” He gesticulated madly as he spoke, all but choking on his words and drowning in his thoughts. After a motionless pause, his eyes met mine. “I wouldn’t trust me again either…”

I paused as well, then said carefully, “Yes, you would. I know you, Mr Wooster. I know your past. I love your present. And I want to be part of your future. What I said earlier was… frustration that you did not trust me, sir. I felt as though you had seen need to deceive me.”

“Jeeves,” he broke in, raising a hand to silence me, “if I hadn’t deceived you, you’d have long ago let Sir Roderick throw me into Colney Hatch. What I’ve been through…”

“And you still insist on avoiding the words! You refuse to tell me what it is you’ve been through! Why can I not know? You are openly admitting you do not trust me!”

I stood now mere inches from him, refusing to let our eye contact—and our friendship—break. He seemed to be considering something—if I calculated correctly, seeing truth in my words.

“Jeeves,” he said at length, “I’ll take your word for it, if you can prove to me you really do trust me. And then I’ll spill everything. No rock unturned. I wasn’t made for this deception business.”

~~POV

I kissed him then, to seal my promises as one might seal the wedding vows. In his reciprocation he ensured his half of the bargain. “I shall show you, sir. To the best of my abilities I’ll show you.” He took my hands in his, and pressed them against his rumpled shirtfront. I took the hint, and began unbuttoning to reveal what treasure had been given me as if myrrh, gold and frankincense lay beneath the imperfect cotton. But his ivory skin was a finer gift, and a higher value could not have been given to so low a bidder. All he asked for was truth and love, and this was all I had of any real value to offer.

He was beautiful as he sighed, shivered with pleasure, as he panted for release. I don’t remember Jeeves ever being so warm, so welcoming. I remember him being stunned, amazed, and loving. But never so trusting as he was now, when all was laid upon the table to be acknowledged and forgotten.

What Jeeves does best, my fair readers, is prove his point. He does it without falter; he had proven his mental prowess, his knack, his discontentment in my eccentric dress and my eccentric fiancées in the past. He had proven me right to trust him in the past; and now, he succeeded in proving that he trusted me.

When all was said and done we lay spent and sated in one another’s arms—no unspeakable horrors of marriage looming over us, and no unbidden thoughts to drill into my unwilling skull. We breathed our love rather than said it, and when the time came for me to fulfil my end of our bargain, I steeled myself, collected my thoughts, and waited his invitation to elabo-whatsit. I did not need to wait long.

“Sir, back at Ditteridge, when we…” He blushed, and faltered.

“Made love?” I supplied, touching his jaw tenderly.

“I suppose one could call it such. But no mention of love was made, sir. This, above all else, is my greatest point of contention.”

“Jeeves,” I interjected, “never because I was unsure how I felt. Only because I knew how you felt.”

He looked at me unbelievingly—and who wouldn’t? You didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know what he was asking.
How?

“I had… I don’t know what to call it Jeeves. It was an awful experience, and one I’m dashed sure you’re great, logical, marvellous brain wouldn’t for a moment allow you to believe. The whole bally thing makes for a rum tale.” I was babbling again. I was empty-headed, bumbling, at a loss for words. It was good to be home in my own old bean again.

Jeeves agreed with a silently stunning kiss that dashed well knocked the wind right out of the Wooster lungs.

“Do tell, sir.”