Jooster multi-chapter series: The Long Road, Chapter 10

[triedunture]

Title: The Long Road, Chapter 10
[Previous parts: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine]
Rating: PG13? I feel very silly giving this a rating. Just make up your own minds!
Beta: the ever-so British hwshipper
Length: 4000
Warnings: Angst, violence, general dark themes.
Summary: A very bad thing happens. And then we must go on.

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'Stay still, dash it,' Bertie whispered, willing his hands to remain steady as a fine tremor threatened to throw him off. 'There we are.' He leaned closer and held his breath, drawing the blade carefully down the damask cheek. 'Really, Jeeves. You aren't going to be serving a house party anytime soon; why you must remain cleanshaven is beyond me.'

Jeeves waited for the straight razor to make its pass at the corner of his mouth before answering: 'I find any facial hair to be both physically irritating and uncouth in appearance, sir. Thank you for indulging me in this small comfort, though I would be more than happy to undertake the task myself.'

Bertie waggled the razor in a threatening manner, causing a bit of shaving cream to plop onto the protective toweling below. He had figured out very quickly that he needed to lay down several layers of towels in order to shave Jeeves while the man sat up in bed; Bertie was a passable barber but he was apt to make a mess with the foam and the warm water sloshing everywhere.

'You'll do no such thing,' he admonished. 'The doctor warned you not to jar your rib. Now do this.' Bertie stretched his jaw down and gestured to the skin underneath his own nose, which was stretched tight.

Jeeves aped his master's movements, and Bertie began the delicate work of scraping away the stubble on Jeeves' upper lip. Then Bertie wiped his razor blade on a clean towel and examined Jeeves' face for any patches he might have missed, turning Jeeves' head this way and that with a gentle grip on his chin. 'Final verdict, Jeeves?' Bertie held up a hand mirror for his manservant's own inspection.

Jeeves nodded, satisfied. 'Very thorough, sir.'

'Excellent.' Bertie poured some aftershave from a blue bottle into his hand and rubbed it between his palms before applying them to Jeeves' smooth cheeks. 'Would you like me to comb your hair back? It's in your eyes again.'

'That would be most welcome, sir.'

Bertie hopped from his perch on the edge of the mattress and began collecting his shaving tools. 'Just a moment, I think I left my brushes in the—'

The bedroom door opened and Jeeves' father stepped in. Bertie turned to give him a cheery morning yodel, but his face fell when he saw what Mr Jeeves was wearing: his travelling coat and hat.

'Oh,' Bertie said with a heroic attempt to keep his brow from furrowing. 'I didn't realise you were leaving so soon, Mr Jeeves.'

'It's been two weeks since my father first arrived, sir,' Jeeves pointed out. He turned back to his pater. 'Are you leaving on the 9.25 from Kings Cross?'

'Yes, yes,' Jeeves Senior said gruffly. 'Wish I could stay until you're back on your feet completely, Reg.'

'It is enough that you've used your entire annual vacation to visit. And I am feeling stronger every day.' He held out his hand, and Mr Jeeves strode forward to shake it. 'Thank you, Father. It was good to have you here.'

'I'll call, shall I?' Mr Jeeves said, not letting go of his son's hand. 'I want to be sure you boys are getting on.'

'Absolutely,' Bertie piped up. 'You have the number, what?'

Mr Jeeves nodded tightly, his lips pressed together into a thin line of contained emotion. He looked down at his son, propped up on a mound of pillows, and he bent suddenly to clasp him in a careful embrace. 'You'll always be my darling boy, Reggie,' he said into Jeeves' ear.

Jeeves brought his arms round his father's broad back, his eyes meeting Bertie's over the giant's shoulder. Bertie was glad to see two spots of colour appear on Jeeves' cheeks, the badge of honour for embarrassed children everywhere.

'I know, Father,' Jeeves murmured, averting his eyes from Bertie's laughing gaze.

'I'm just so thankful that you're going to be fine,' Mr Jeeves whispered. 'I love you so much.'

'I—' Jeeves looked up searchingly at Bertie, who gave a small, encouraging nod in his direction. 'I love you too, Father.'

Mr Jeeves levered himself upright with a steam-engine sigh, and he turned to Bertie. 'Mr Wooster, I must thank you for allowing me to stay with my son for these past weeks.'

'Oh, rather.' Bertie offered his hand, but Mr Jeeves batted it away in favour of catching him up in a bone-crushing bear hug. Bertie gave a shocked squeak and saw, where his eyes peeked over the pater's shoulder, Jeeves smirking at the turnabout.

'You must send me word if you need anything, anything at all,' Mr Jeeves said. 'I owe you much, Mr Wooster.'

'Think nothing of it,' Bertie said. Or tried to say; muffled against the shoulder of the larger man, it actually sounded like tink nuffin o' fit.

With one last squeeze of the Wooster frame, Mr Jeeves stepped back and, with goodbyes flying all round, he left. Bertie closed the front door behind him. Suddenly, the flat seemed far less jolly.

'I suppose I don't have anyone to take over the daytime watch now, what?' Bertie said when he returned to Jeeves' bedside.

'Sir, you needn't continue the practise of sitting at my sickbed all day and night. Mrs Fennaweave has already said that the worst of the danger is past. Perhaps you will take this opportunity to rest yourself?'

Bertie bit his lip, not wishing to say how the small comforts of Jeeves' bed were now greatly diminished. The particular valet smell of the bed linens had dissipated with time and use; even the fresh sheets did not carry Jeeves' scent, what with all the washings Mrs Fennaweave had done to prevent the spread of germs. No, Bertie felt more easy within range of Jeeves, where he could smell and hear and feel that the man was alive and breathing.

It seemed ridiculous to need this affirmation; Jeeves was now able to sit up without help and even walk to the bathroom and the kitchen. His wound was very nearly healed and the doctor, pleased with his progress, had proposed to take the stitches out in a few days. The broken rib was also on the mend and the searing pain had, Jeeves assured him, become a dull throb at the very worst. By all accounts, Jeeves was healing fantastically and would be back to normal in no time at all.

But what would normal be, Bertie wondered. Surely he couldn't expect this man, whose wounds he'd cleaned and whose bandages he'd changed, to slide right back into the role of servant as if nothing had happened. And Bertie didn't think he could continue to give orders as he had only weeks ago and expect them to be carried out with all the magical efficiency that characterised Jeeves. It was this new fear, of not knowing what tomorrow would look like, that now had Bertie peering over his shoulder.

'Why don't I fix us some breakfast?' Bertie said instead, and bustled out of the room before Jeeves could protest.

The day passed by slowly: Mrs Fennaweave took the last of the bindings and bandages from Jeeves' torso, declaring him fit for continuing without. Bertie concocted several exemplary meals, and Jeeves noted his young master's increasing skill in the kitchen. The dinner, in particular, was a coup as it featured fresh chicken (though slightly singed). In the evening, Bertie read the paper aloud to Jeeves, taking care to skip the more sensationalist stories of crime and violence. A family of kittens had been saved from a tree: that sort of thing.

Night fell and still Bertie lingered at Jeeves' bedside after Mrs Fennaweave had retired. 'Sir, I would be more comfortable if you spent the night in bed,' Jeeves said as he arranged his pillows in readiness for sleep. 'Unless I am mistaken, you have not had a moment's rest for over twenty-four hours.'

'Tosh,' Bertie said through a yawn. 'I'll be just fine. If need be, I can shut the peepers and snooze for a minute or so here.' He indicated the stuffed armchair where he sat stationed at Jeeves' bedside.

Jeeves looked hard into Bertie's face, and Bertie knew he was taking stock of every dark circle under the Wooster eyes, every wrinkle of hardship on his forehead, every cloud of tiredness on his visage. 'I really must disagree, sir,' he said.

Bertie shook his head and flicked off the bedside lamp. 'I will not be moved. Goodnight, Jeeves.'

'Goodnight, sir,' Jeeves said into the gloom.

As was usual, Bertie listened to the quiet sounds of Jeeves' breathing, his small shifts and adjustments under the sheets, until all was still and Jeeves was fast asleep. Bertie reached up and unknotted his tie and loosened a few buttons at his throat; he'd been wearing the same clothes for several days, and he resolved to change into something fresh the next morning before Jeeves could politely cough and suggest it himself.

His eyes slipped shut once, then twice. Bertie fought to keep them open, but he felt the bone-level tiredness in his limbs and the churning exhaustion in his mind and knew the battle wouldn't last long. He finally succumbed to sleep, curling his body into a tight ball in the armchair and resting his head against the velvety wing.

Bertie dreamt.

The alley again. It was long and dusty, mottled by puddles and pools of filth. It stretched out before Bertie for miles and miles. At the very end of the alley, framed in sunlight, a dark shadow of a man bowed and disappeared. On the ground in his wake: an unmoving shape.

'Jeeves,' Bertie whispered.

Bertie ran as fast as he could towards the end of the alley, but he could get no closer. A thin ribbon of blood flowed from the body past Bertie's quagmired feet, and this ribbon became a river, and this river became a flood, and this flood became a meadow.

Green grass waving waist-high. Buzzing insects in Bertie's ears. He panted, spinning round to get his bearings. 'Jeeves?' he called.

'The billfold,' the insects whispered. 'Give it here.'

Something gave a loud, equine snort behind Bertie, and he turned to see a bay mare, attired in saddle and bridle, striding riderless towards him. The horse passed Bertie with a shake of its monstrous head, and Bertie watched it plod slowly away. He looked down the path that the beast had made, parted oceans of grass leading beyond his vision.

He followed the hoofprints to their origin. 'Hello?' he shouted, but received no answer.

A glint of sunlight caught his eye and he looked down to find viscous red blood forming a horseshoe round the toe of his boot. His eyes tracked along the ground, and Bertie saw a shock of blonde hair peeking from the grass, the locks tangled in the flora. Bertie stood, staring, his heart in his throat.

There was a loud whooshing noise and Bertie clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. When the racket had passed, he found himself in his father's old study. Leatherbound volumes lined the walls, and over in the corner, amid the sweet scent of a discarded cigar, a man was bent over the baby grand. His fingers were drawing a beautiful song from the piano, something languid and full of grace.

The man turned, and Bertie stared at his own face, or very nearly his own. His father smiled.

'There you are, son of mine. Now, why so pale? You look like you've run across the county.'

Bertie stood gaping, his eyes widening in horror.

His father turned to look out the French doors. 'Where's your Mama? She should be back by now.'

'I'm sorry,' Bertie choked out, feelings hot tears run down his face. 'I'm sorry, Papa.'

Then, suddenly, Bertie was curled up in the dark, his knees hugged to his chest. He could hear footsteps above him; his old hiding place below the stairs. The murmur of the maids' voices reached his ears, the gaggle of women all speaking at once: 'He's gone mad, he has. His heart's been broke. Hasn't moved from his bed in days. Poor wretched soul.'

A heavier tread on the stair silenced them. Bertie peeked upwards through the cracks of the floorboards. The butler's voice, deep yet quiet, rolled through the wood: 'You will not accuse Mr Wooster of madness. If I hear another such statement, so help me—'

'Mr Wentworth, sir!' A page boy clattered up the stairs, panting hard. 'Come quick, sir! There's been an accident!'

'What sort of accident?' the butler asked, but Bertie knew.

He slipped from his hiding hole and ran to his father's bedroom. It was empty, the room where his father had lain in bed, unmoving, speaking only gibberish and, in his more lucid moments, baseless accusations. The bedclothes were in disarray. The gilt picture frames, which held the lithographs of Bertie, his sister, his mother, their family portraits, had all been smashed on the floor.

'This way!' he heard the page boy shout in the corridor. 'In the gun room.'

Bertie walked slowly, one foot in front of the other. The entire household was there. He watched the servants' mouths moving but heard no sound, no shouts of terror, no weeping of the maids and cooks. Just silence as he walked down the hall. Silence as he passed the butler, Wentworth, shaking in the corner. Silence as he pushed through the crowd of footmen in the doorway of the gun room. Silence as he saw his father on the carpet.

Silence.

The click of a gun. The muzzle against the back of his head.

'Have you got the time?' the gunman whispered in his ear.

Bertie struck out blindly, kicking and beating his fists in the now-complete darkness. He screamed at the top of his lungs, angry shouts, pleas to spare his life, curses and unintelligible epitaphs.

'Stop! Stop it!' the gunman yelled in his face, his hot breath passing over Bertie in a wave.

'No, no, no!' Bertie struggled in an iron grip, thrashing wildly.

'Sir! Wake up!'

Bertie's eyes snapped open. He felt himself returning to the waking world as realisation dawned: it had been a dream, and now he was awake. He slumped against Jeeves bonelessly, inhaling his scent, burying his face in that paragon's shoulder, letting his tears soak into thin nightshirt cotton.

'Oh, God,' Bertie sobbed. 'Oh, God, Jeeves, oh, Lord.'

'It was only a nightmare, sir.' Jeeves allowed Bertie to cling, limpet-like, as he rubbed a soothing hand over Bertie's heaving back. 'Only a nightmare.'

Slowly, Bertie noticed that they were sitting on the floor in the corner of the bedroom, wedged between the wall and the dressing table. 'How did I get here?' he asked in a tight voice.

'You fell from your chair while in the throes of your dream, sir,' Jeeves said, not ceasing his rubbing. 'I heard the thump and awoke. I attempted to wake you, but—'

'Good God, man, what are you doing out of bed!?' Bertie pushed himself away from Jeeves' arms and dashed a hand across his tear-stained map. 'You could have been hurt, Jeeves, what with all my kicking and such! You shouldn't have put yourself in harm's way like that. What in the world were you thinking?'

Jeeves tucked his chin to his chest and gazed at the carpet. 'I admit my thoughts were not focused on my safety, sir, but your own. You sounded as if you were in great pain, sir.'

'Well, dreams can't hurt you, Jeeves, but a jab to your injured side will. You mustn't do anything so dashed foolish ever again.'

'Sir—'

'Now, let's get you back to bed.' Bertie attempted to rise, but Jeeves grabbed hold of his wrist and held him still.

'Sir, you called out for your father,' he said softly.

Bertie felt his lip quiver. He swallowed. 'Did I?' he said airily.

'You must tell me what plagues you,' Jeeves insisted. 'Please, sir.'

'Why?' Bertie sniffed defiantly. 'It's only a dream. You had one not too long ago, if you recall.'

'Yes, but yours are getting worse. You cannot even close your eyes, sir, without being dogged by some nightmare. Soon you will not be able to function, and I—'

'I can bloody well function!' Bertie roared. 'I've been taking care of this household all by myself, in case you've forgotten.'

Jeeves waited in silence for a moment, watching Bertie in the dark. 'Sir,' he said in gentle tones, 'over the course of this ordeal, we have seen each other at our worst, but also at our best. I did not hide from you, sir, when I was at my worst; will you not extend the same courtesy to me?'

Bertie trembled against the wall. 'I—I don't—'

'Please.' Jeeves arranged his legs so that they stretched out before him, his back to the wall beside Bertie, their shoulders brushing. 'Start at the beginning.'

Bertie swallowed, and his voice cracked on the syllables. 'She died.'

'Your mother?'

Bertie nodded. 'She loved horses, but Papa didn't. He liked music, singing, indoor things.'

'Was he as talented as you in that regard, sir?'

A muffled wail into Jeeves' shoulder. 'I can't do this, Jeeves. I can't—'

'My apologies, sir. I am truly...pray, continue.' Jeeves' arm snaked round Bertie and held him close. After a moment, Bertie located his voice again.

'I found her. It was an accident, and I found her. And when I told him, Papa was so livid. I'd never seen him angry before, and it was frightening, how he changed. Then it passed and he was empty of anger, empty of everything.'

Jeeves merely hummed in understanding.

'They say he went mad. But no one was supposed to talk about it. My sister and I would sit by his bed and he wouldn't even look at us. Like he was in a dream, always gazing off at nothing.'

'Grief is often debilitating,' Jeeves murmured.

'They were going to take us away. My aunts, that is. They said it would be for just a bit. Until he got better.'

There was a pause. Jeeves prompted, 'And then, sir?'

'He had a whole collection of guns,' Bertie whispered. 'Family heirlooms. He'd hated hunting, but he kept them anyway. I was seven. My sister was almost ten. He—' Bertie sniffed against Jeeves' chest. 'He didn't leave a note. My aunts had it declared an accident because of that; said he'd been grief-stricken, confused, didn't know what he was doing.'

'Oh, sir...'

'I saw his eyes,' Bertie said with mounting bitterness. 'I saw him, stretched out on the carpet. He'd known exactly what he was doing.'

'Sir...'

'They watched me afterward, you know,' Bertie continued, 'in school, and even later at Oxford, for any signs, any clues. They'd whisper when they thought I couldn't hear: "Madness is in the blood." If I was too quiet, there would be a talk in the headmaster's room of the dangers of depression. So I...smiled. Even when I wanted to just cry and be done with it, I laughed and, and acted like an ass. I thought if I laughed enough, if I smiled enough, I would start to forget.' He sighed. 'I suppose it worked.'

Jeeves bent his head towards Bertie's. 'Sir, I had thought my own hardships were unbearable, but I see now that is not the case. What you have lived through...is truly awful. How strong you must have been, and at such a young age.'

Bertie snorted. 'I don't feel very strong at the mo'. I feel rather like an overcooked noodle.'

'A good night's rest should remedy that, sir,' Jeeves said. 'I hope you'll be able to sleep peacefully, now that your troubles have been shared.'

'Yes.' Bertie felt the knot in his chest loosen somewhat. 'I think I should try to lie down and close my eyes for a bit. But Jeeves, I'd hate to leave you alone. What if you were to need something?'

'I could ring the bell, sir.'

'Yes, but what if you couldn't ring the bell for some reason? What if your arms went numb or you couldn't see straight or—?'

'Sir. I will be all right.' Jeeves stood and offered Bertie a hand in gaining his feet. 'Please, avail yourself of my quarters.'

Bertie swayed slightly on his feet, light-headed from the sudden change in altitude. 'Right. Well...' The attack of dizziness caused him to stumble against Jeeves, who caught him against his broad chest. 'Oh, Lord, sorry, old thing.'

Jeeves frowned; Bertie could feel it, even in the dark. 'Perhaps you should rest here, sir. If you would take the bed...'

'But Jeeves, where would you sleep?' Bertie cried.

'I believe I still recall the way to my old room, sir. I shall sleep there.'

Bertie shook his head. 'As our American cousins say, nothing doing, Jeeves. Your mattress is as hard as a rock. I know this from experience. You should remain in my bed.'

'I must again protest, sir.'

'Well, we can't both sleep...' Bertie trailed off and he turned to examine the spacious bed, '...here.'

Jeeves met Bertie's eyes, glimmering with the question in the darkness. Jeeves seemed to mentally measure the mattress as well, and he coughed lightly into his fist. 'I believe, given the circumstances, the impropriety could be forgiven.'

Bertie felt a shiver go through his frame, and Jeeves held him more firmly by his upper arms. 'I suppose if you don't have any objections to it, then I'm on board.'

Jeeves gently guided Bertie to the mattress and pulled back the sheets for him. Bertie kicked off his shoes and climbed in. He wriggled over to the far right side, giving Jeeves plenty of space to slip in next to him. They lay there, side by side, staring up at the ceiling for a moment.

'Jeeves?' Bertie whispered.

'Yes, sir?'

Bertie paused, then said, 'You'll think I'm loony...'

'Not at all, sir. What is troubling you?'

'I worry,' Bertie gulped, 'that something might happen to you in the middle of the night if I fall asleep. If I can't see your chest rising and falling, I mean. What if I awoke and you were...?' He sighed. 'It's dashed silly, I know.'

Jeeves seemed to mull this over, because he suddenly said, 'If you would, sir, please exchange sides with me.'

'Eh? Right-ho.' Bertie climbed out of bed while Jeeves slid over, and then he walked round and re-entered on the left. 'What was that for, Jeeves?'

'Here, sir.' Jeeves reached his left arm out in welcome. 'Lay your ear over my heart. You'll be able to hear it satisfactorily, I think.'

Bertie hesitated. 'That's your injured side, Jeeves. What if I were to kick and scream in the night? I might...hurt you.'

'I am confident you will not, sir.' Jeeves didn't wait for any more arguments; he clasped his hand to Bertie's far shoulder and guided him to rest his head against his chest. Bertie settled himself, feeling Jeeves' chin rest in his hair. Under his ear, as clear as day, Jeeves' heart beat loud and steady. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump...

Not wanting his hands to be trapped between their bodies, Bertie rested one palm on Jeeves' sternum. He curved his spine to conform to Jeeves' solid shape, his chilled feet brushing Jeeves' briefly.

'Sorry, Jeeves,' he murmured into Jeeves' pyjama shirt.

'It's all right, sir,' he soothed. Bertie heard the rumble of his voice deep in his chest. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump...

'Good night,' Bertie said softly before his eyes drifted shut. 'And thank you, Jeeves.'

'My pleasure, sir.' Tha-thump. Tha-thump...

Bertie slept and didn't dream of anything at all.


Continue to Chapter 11.