Jooster multi-chapter series: The Long Road, Chapter 5

[triedunture]

Title: The Long Road (Chapter 5)
[Previous parts: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four]
Rating: PG13? I feel very silly giving this a rating. Just make up your own minds!
Beta: the ever-so British hwshipper
Length: 3800
Warnings: Angst, violence, general dark themes.
Summary: A very bad thing happens. And then we must go on.

<><><>

Bertie stared at the receiver a moment before replacing it in its cradle. Jeeves' father must have been in a rush indeed if he had ended the call so abruptly. Even the famous Jeesvesian manners had seemed to desert him for the moment; all very well, in Bertie's opinion. He could easily imagine himself reacting the same way if Jeeves were his son, and it comforted him to know that another person was as rattled as he was.

'Mr Wooster?'

Bertie looked up sharply; he had nearly forgotten the feminine presence of Mrs Fennaweave. The house was so dreadfully quiet.

The older woman rubbed a hand across her drooping face. 'I am quite tired. Waiting up all night isn't as easy for me as it once was,' she said.

'Of course, of course.' Bertie leapt right, then left, unsure of which direction the extra blankets and pillows were. 'The guest room is yours to sack out in. I just need to find the—'

'I believe the linens are in the linen closet, Mr Wooster,' Mrs Fennaweave said gravely. 'I will help myself to them, if that is agreeable to you.' She cleared her throat. 'You will have to stay at the patient's bedside and alert me if anything happens.'

'Certainly.'

'I gave him another injection to keep him sleeping. Please do not try to wake him. He needs his rest.'

'Quite.'

Mrs Fennaweave frowned at Bertie, tipping her head in a slow nod. 'If you're sure you can manage for a few hours, then.'

Bertie waved her in the direction of the guest room. 'I'm sure.'

The old woman bustled down the hall with a curt jut of her chin in Bertie's direction, her long black skirts swishing and swaying behind her. Bertie took a deep breath and toddled up to Jeeves' bedside, rubbing at his own bruised and tired eyes. In truth, he could have used a lie-down himself, having gotten almost no real sleep the night before. But if the frenetic dreams he'd had were any indication of what he had to look forward to when he next closed the Wooster blues, he was content to stay awake for the moment.

He entered the bedroom that held the slumbering valet. Mrs Fennaweave had exchanged the bloodied sheets for clean ones, and Jeeves lay wrapped in their crisp whiteness, his hair only slightly mussed by the nurse's prodding. Bertie listened to his deep breathing for a short time, then went to the window to close the curtains, as they were hanging open.

It was a cloudy, dark day outside, Bertie saw. In the distance, a flash of lightning crackled in the sky. The faraway sound of thunder rattled through the window, and Bertie shivered. Raindrops were just starting to patter against the glass as Bertie wrenched the curtains together.

Another bolt of lightning lit up the dark room, throwing the planes of Jeeves' pale face into stark relief. Bertie sighed and dropped into the chair so recently vacated by Mrs Fennaweave. He fidgeted with his hands in his lap. He wondered if he should grab a book to help pass the time, but he was unsure that he could read one word, as jittery as he was.

Bertie got up to check the lock on the front door; yes, it was still engaged.

He hurried back to Jeeves' bedside, muttering to himself. Well, to the sleeping man, really. 'It's like a scene out of one of those thriller stories I always read, Jeeves,' Bertie remarked. 'I'm afraid the thunderstorm and the driving rain are causing the old imagination to run rampant.'

He slid back into the armchair and ran a hand through his bedraggled fair hair. 'I'm afraid I can't stop wondering about that terrible man. He has the address of the flat, you know.' He looked over at Jeeves. Still sleeping, of course. Bertie gave a small puff of breath through his nose.

'I'm afraid I—' He swallowed. 'I'm afraid, Jeeves. I'm just plain afraid.'

Bertie made a cushion out of his forearms on the edge of the mattress and pillowed his head on them. 'Do you think it would be too unseemly to let loose a few tears right now, Jeeves?' Bertie asked, his words muffled by the sheets he spoke into. 'It feels like I've been awake for days, and my mind keeps going in circles, and the only thing I come back to in the end is that this is all my fault. If it weren't for me—'

Bertie bit down on his lip. His face was over-heated in the warm spot he'd made for himself on the bed, and he felt a drop of moisture sliding down his cheek before soaking into the coverlet below. He took a shuddering breath and felt another streak of wetness follow the first.

He desperately wished that Jeeves would open an eye, raise a hand, and run his fingers through Bertie's hair, or perhaps grasp his fingers, and tell him in that low, calm voice that everything would be fine soon. But Jeeves was deep in the grip of the morphine now, and he did nothing but lay there and breathe.

Bertie managed to pull himself together after a few moments; he was supposed to be watching Jeeves for any signs of distress, not wallowing in his own despair. He wiped his nose on his sleeve (he still couldn't find a handkerchief on his person) and swiped at the drops of tears that clung to his chin. Crying was always such a messy business, he thought with a sniff.

'Sir?' Jeeves murmured, his eyes still squeezed shut. His speech was slow and slurred.

'I'm right here, Jeeves,' Bertie said, manfully attempting to speak without a tremor in his voice. 'How do you feel?'

Jeeves sighed, a gesture that Bertie had never witnessed from his valet. 'I feel as if I'm underwater, sir. I cannot hold on to any of my thoughts.' His head dropped to the side against his pillow. 'They're rising away like air bubbles.'

'Probably the drugs,' Bertie posited. 'I can have Mrs Fennaweave come and—'

'No, sir.' Jeeves opened his eyes with what appeared to be great effort. 'I am grateful to the lady; I don't wish for you to be alone in the flat. But I find her ministrations to be less than pleasing.'

Despite himself, Bertie couldn't help but give a short laugh. 'Completely understandable, old thing. But Jeeves,' he said, 'I wouldn't be alone in the flat. You're here with me, what?'

'Oh. Yes.' Jeeves' eyes tracked along the bedspread with bleary slowness. 'I had forgotten.' He raised his gaze to meet Bertie's. 'Sir, your eyes are red.'

Bertie swallowed. 'Got some soap in them earlier.' He shrugged. 'I'm helpless without you, it seems.'

Jeeves gave a small half-smile at that, loosed by the drugs, no doubt. 'I wonder what comes next,' he murmured, his eyes tracking over Bertie's face.

Bertie quirked an eyebrow. 'What do you mean, Jeeves?'

'Now that I am dead,' Jeeves said with the smile still on his face, his eyes sliding closed again, 'I wonder what will happen to me. I should like to stay here, if I am able. It is a pleasant in-between place.'

'Jeeves?' Bertie blinked in confusion.

'There is still pain, so I know I'm not in Heaven. I never thought I'd be sent to Heaven, at any rate.' Jeeves' voice become quieter and softer. 'But surely this isn't Hell. Surely not...'

Bertie paled. 'You're talking rot, Jeeves. You're not dead; you're very much alive. You're just a bit out of sorts, is all,' he stammered.

'I wonder if you really are safe, Mr Wooster. I dreamt you were, but I have no way of knowing if that's true.' He sighed and forced his eyes open again. 'I'd like to think you are safe, and this is not just a dream.'

'I'm not a dream!' Bertie cried. 'I'm fine, and I'm real. Here!' He took Jeeves' heavy hand from where it lay on the coverlet, and he pressed it to his own fluttering heart. 'I'm flesh and blood, Jeeves. I'm alive, and so are you, dash it!'

Jeeves moved his hand over Bertie's chest, over the wrinkled shirt-front to the empty breast pocket of his suit coat. 'Your handkerchief is missing, sir,' he said.

'I told you,' Bertie choked out, 'I'm helpless without you.'

'I am so sorry,' Jeeves murmured, his hand still pressed to Bertie's heart. 'I taught you to rely on me, sir, and only me. Now that I am gone, what will happen to you? Who will make sure you dress appropriately, and who will bring you telegrams the way you like them brought?'

'You're not gone. You haven't been listening to me. You're going to be all right.'

'Yes.' Jeeves gave that strange half-smile, and though Bertie usually relished tiny hints of humour from his valet, this was a smile he never wanted to see again. 'Yes, I'm going to be just fine, sir. As long as I can stay here, and I'm not sent to Hell.'

'Jeeves—' Bertie protested.

'I'd like to continue speaking with you, sir, but I fear I am being dragged down into this awful sleep again. It overpowers me at the worst moments,' Jeeves said calmly. 'I think I shall shut my eyes, and when I awake, whatever comes next shall come. And I will not be afraid.'

'I'll be here,' Bertie said quickly. 'When you wake, I'll be here.' He felt new tears brimming on his eyelids, but they held their ground. 'You'll feel like such an ass, Jeeves, when you get better. You'll think of all this tosh you've been saying, and you'll be ever so embarrassed, mark my words.' He forced a laugh from his lips.

'It is kind of you to say so, sir.' Jeeves closed his eyes. 'But I am not afraid.' His hand slipped down Bertie's shirt to dangle from the edge of the bed.

'Jeeves?'

Bertie frantically pushed aside the bedsheets to uncover Jeeves' upper body. Jeeves' chest was still bare save for the fresh bandages. Bertie pressed an ear to his naked breastbone and nearly cried out in relief when he heard the steady beating of Jeeves' heart.

It was just the morphine confusing Jeeves' great brain, Bertie thought as he pulled the covers back into place. He wasn't dead; he wasn't going to die. He was fine. For now...

Bertie sat there for a long while, trying to catch his breath and calm himself. He was just beginning to inhale in the normal fashion when the doorbell rang. Bertie jumped about a foot from his seat cushion at the sound.

Lightning flashed through the curtains again. A crack of thunder rattled the picture frames on the walls. Bertie wondered if he should have Mrs Fennaweave answer the door, as it was obviously a murderer ringing the bell.

No, he thought, the Code of the Woosters doesn't allow for pushing old women into harm's way. So Bertie stood on his shaking stilts and made his way to the front door. He peeked carefully through the peephole and saw...

Well, just a lady. Not as young as the girls of Bertie's acquaintance, but not as old as Mrs Fennaweave. And she had not a pistol nor garrote in her hands. Instead, she held a piece of rain-soaked paper in one hand and a rained-soaked cone of flowers in the other.

Bertie unlocked the door and opened it with caution. 'Yes?' he said into the tiny crack between the door and its frame.

'Excuse me, sir. Perhaps I have the wrong address.' The woman looked at the damp slip of paper, an old envelope, it looked like. 'Is this Mr Wooster's residence?'

'I'm Wooster,' he said, still not opening the door any further.

'I'm Catherine Jacobs,' the woman offered.

Bertie stared at her silently.

'I'm Reginald's sister,' she elaborated. 'Father telephoned me and told me what happened. I came as soon as I could.'

'You're Jeeves' sister?' Bertie's mouth dropped open. 'Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. Here.' He flung the door wide. 'Jarvis told me you lived in Marylebone, but I had no idea how to get in touch with you. If I had just thought for a moment, I could have—'

'Please don't worry, Mr Wooster. I'm here now; that's all that matters.' She entered the flat and then engaged in a strange ballet with Bertie: he tried to alleviate her of her floral burden, but then he had to take her wet raincoat, so there was much juggling of both flowers and coat for a few moments. Finally, the coat hung on a peg, and Bertie held the flowers while Catherine smoothed her tweed skirt into place.

She was quite a tall woman, nearly as tall as Bertie's six-two, and she had the same raven-dark hair as Jeeves did, although hers was longer, of course. The slightly crooked nose, the dark blue eyes, the placid expression. Yes, Bertie knew if he had just studied her for a few seconds, the resemblance would have been clear.

Bertie looked down into the paper cone while he locked the door once more. 'Cheery bunch here,' he remarked. He unwrapped the newsprint, revealing bright, raindrop-dotted yellow petals. 'Shall I find a vase for them?'

'If you would, please,' Catherine said, clutching her pocketbook before her. 'Daffodils. They're Reginald's favourite.'

With a faint nod, Bertie slid into the kitchen. To think that Jeeves had a favourite flower. How odd. Now where, Bertie wondered, would vases be kept in one's kitchen?

He had been digging fruitlessly under the sink for some minutes when a soft cough sounded behind him. It sounded so like Jeeves' polite cough that Bertie hit his head on the underside of the cabinetry in his haste to extricate himself.

Catherine stood there, watching him. 'I think a vase might be found in the glassware cabinet. And if I remember Reginald's preferred way of organising a kitchen...' She counted the cabinet doors and opened the third one on the left.

Behold! her flourishing hand seemed to say. Highball glasses, stemware, and crystal vases, all artfully arranged on their shelves.

'That's absolutely uncanny,' Bertie murmured, fetching a vase from a high shelf.

'Thank you, Mr Wooster.' Her passive face wobbled for a moment, and Bertie detected a touch of sadness round her eyes. 'Would it be possible to see my brother now?' she asked.

'Yes, of course. So sorry,' Bertie babbled. He bunged the daffodils in the vase with a splash of water. 'This way, Mrs Jacobs.' He led her out of the kitchen and down the hall. 'Just to warn you, he'll probably be asleep for quite awhile. And if he wakes up and says strange things, well, please don't fret. I think the medicine is playing tricks on him.'

'Hmm. Even as a child, Reggie disliked taking any sort of medicine,' Catherine said as she followed him. 'He would have rather been sick to his stomach all day than take a drop of cod liver oil.' She looked up at Bertie as they reached the bedroom door. 'He can't stand not being in control, my baby brother.'

Bertie nodded. 'Yes, I know.' He opened the door and ushered Catherine into the dim room.

'Oh.' The woman approached the bed and smoothed a strand of wayward hair from Jeeves' brow. 'He's so pale,' she whispered.

'The doctor said he'd lost a great deal of blood,' Bertie said quietly. He placed the vase of flowers on the dresser, then decided they'd be better on the bedside table.

'Can you tell me what happened? Father didn't seem to know many details,' Catherine said, looking up at Bertie with round, lost eyes.

Bertie found himself relating the entire story again. He imagined he'd be doing this a lot for the next few weeks. Phrases like 'mad gunman' and 'daylight robbery' had become etched into his vocabulary, and each retelling seemed to grow more distant from the sharp memories that Bertie held locked in his mind. Soon, he thought, he'd have the whole thing down in under five minutes.

The key was to leave out as many details as possible. The sensation of the gun barrel on the back of his head, for example, could be left out entirely; Jeeves' sister surely wouldn't want to hear about that. And as for the way Jeeves had whispered to him incoherently about his soiled coat, that was unimportant to the task at hand. And the bit where Bertie's heart had stopped, when he thought Jeeves wasn't drawing breath? Best not to mention it at all.

'My goodness,' Catherine said when the tale was told. 'Sordid business.' Other than a little loss of colour in her cheeks, she didn't exhibit any signs of distress.

'Yes,' Bertie agreed. He vacillated between resuming his vigil at Jeeves' side and leaving the woman alone with her ailing brother. He was about to ask Catherine which she would prefer when his stomach made an embarrassingly loud growling noise.

'My word.' Catherine straightened and eyed Bertie with concern. 'Have you not eaten luncheon, Mr Wooster?'

'Ah, I'm afraid that, what with all that's been going on, I haven't. Actually, I haven't had breakfast either. Or last night's dinner. In fact, I suppose I haven't eaten since yesterday morning.' Bertie felt his face flush. 'Jeeves usually cooks, you see.'

'Sit,' Catherine commanded. Bertie immediately sat in the armchair. 'If I know Reginald, he'll have kept the larder well-stocked. I will return soon with some sustenance. You must eat, Mr Wooster, unless you wish to take to a sickbed as well.' And she marched towards the door.

'I say,' Bertie squeaked, 'you're not a tutor, by any chance?' His old Latin tutor, Mr Fillmore, had had much the same brusque attitude when it came to conjugating verbs.

Catherine regarded him haughtily over her shoulder. 'I am. And I hope you like sandwiches, because I'm no good at cooking anything complicated.' With that, she shimmered out of the bedroom just like a Jeeves. She appeared to be very glad to have a task to focus on, and Bertie didn't dare complain.

Bertie glanced down at the sleeping man in the bed. 'I suppose all the culinary abilities went to you, what?' he muttered, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees. He sat like that, watching Jeeves' chest rise and fall, until Catherine swept back in with sandwiches for herself and Bertie along with a plate of dry toast, which she placed on the dresser. 'For when Reg wakes up. He'll need to eat something,' she explained.

The sandwiches were shaved ham with toasted cheese and mustard. Bertie took a faint sniff of it before taking a bite and chewing carefully. He didn't feel very hungry despite his rumbly tummy, but he continued eating under Catherine's sharp eye. For Catherine's part, she perched on the edge of the bed while nibbling delicately at her own sandwich. The mustard was a tad on the spicy side, so much so that Bertie had to restrain from yelping when the sauce hit his tongue. His eyes watered, but he held it in so as not to insult Catherine.

'I wonder where you found this mustard,' Bertie said after a few swallows of the food. 'It doesn't taste like anything I've ever eaten. Are you sure it hasn't gone off?'

Catherine laughed. 'No, it's a brand Reg prefers. It's from Norfolk. He always keeps some on hand.'

Bertie chewed thoughtfully. 'Do you know, Mrs Jacobs, I've lived under this roof with Jeeves for years and I never knew he had a preferred mustard? Or a favourite flower? Or a father or a first name, for that matter.' He dabbed at his mouth with the provided serviette. 'I had considered myself very chummy with Jeeves, more so than any of my friends are with their own valets. But now I see how little I bothered to learn about him.' He looked up to see a blank mask on Catherine's face. 'You must think me an awful person,' he said.

'No, Mr Wooster,' Catherine sighed. 'Reginald was never very forthcoming, even as a young man. I'm certain you are as warm and friendly towards him as any employer could be. But Reggie wouldn't allow it to go any further than that. It's just his way.'

'I suppose you're right,' Bertie said, and finished his sandwich. The mustard, once you got used to it, was actually fairly delicious. It certainly cleared the sinuses.

They passed several hours together, chatting about this and that, mostly Jeeves of course. Bertie found Catherine to be quite intelligent, though that quality in a woman could sometimes be mistaken for coldness. Still, he enjoyed her company; it was preferable to the long hours sitting by Jeeves' side alone and going slowly mad. At one point, their talk turned to childhood pets. Jeeves had collected grasshoppers in jars, something Bertie couldn't begin to fathom.

'Thank you for the meal,' he told Catherine after a lull in their conversation. 'It seems I'm constantly relying on one Jeeves or another to keep me in good health.'

Catherine smiled at him, and Bertie got a glimpse of what Jeeves might look like if he ever chose to grin widely. 'I should be the one thanking you, Mr Wooster. You've given Reggie your room when he could be stuck in that awful hospital wing. I don't know if you've ever been, but it's not the sort of place I'd want my brother staying.'

Bertie said, 'To be honest, I have no notion of the current standards of hospitals. I know it sounds strange, but I feel as if I can't let Jeeves out of my sight. I was only being selfish when I forced the doctor to let him stay here.'

'I'm glad you did. Your instincts proved correct,' Catherine assured.

'Well, yes, but they don't always, do they?' Bertie said softly, thinking of how he'd stupidly stopped when that man in the alley called to him. He examined the pattern of crumbs on his empty plate, then stood abruptly. 'I'll just put this away, then.'

'Your presence is not unwelcome, Mr Wooster,' Catherine said, 'but if you would like, I could stay with Reggie while you get some rest.' She furrowed her brow, just as Jeeves did when he was deeply concerned. 'You look tired.'

'Me? Tired?' Bertie frowned as if the idea was foreign. 'No, no, I'm not tired in the least. I'll be back in a jiffy.' And with that, he excused himself.


Continue to Chapter 6.

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

I finally got up the courage to read through the harder bits of this. (I had such a hard time of it with Chapter One, and I took your warnings seriously, so I didn't pick it up again until you were nearly finished - and then I only backtracked until Chapter 8. I'm sadly lacking in the emotional fortitude it takes to watch our favorite boys go through this sort of thing. Anyway, back to the point..) The point being, of course, that this is amazing. Of course, incredibly upsetting. You had me crying and closing my laptop repeatedly. (Must remember the laptop is not a book. Must remember that it doesn't like being spontaneously slammed shut when I get to a passage I don't particularly like for what the characters are going through.) Really, I'm sorry I didn't read it straight through the first time, but now that I am reading all the bits I missed the first time I wanted to tell you what an impressive writer you are. I always look forward to new fic from you, especially in the Jooster arena, but I think you really outstripped yourself with this one.
And I just love Catherine. You write Jeeves' family just as I'd've imagined they'd be, if I'd ever sat down and thought about it. For me, your fic fits so well with the novels that I've read and with the Fry and Laurie series - I love that I don't have to create a new niche in my mind for these. Somehow, they just settle right in with it, and it all works together. You do work wonders with words. :)

[triedunture.livejournal.com]

Aw, shucks. Thank you so much for the kind words. I am both glad and sorry that it has affected you so much. I know how difficult this sort of material can be.

(btw, if you want to remain anon. to others, I can delete your signed comments if you like. Though I don't mind knowing! :))