Bertie - A Study.
Hi all :)
Not much going on at the mo' I'm afraid. I'm just so unbelievably overjoyed that this dashed week is finally over...It's kind of weird that time seems to run slower on some days than on others. Someone's clock is going wonky, lol.
Anyway, the main reason for this post - such as it is - is to put up my new Jooster fic (x-posted to
indeedsir ). Truthfully, it's not actually new - I wrote another fic called Jeeves - A Study a while ago and was encouraged to write a partner fic from Jeeves' point of view. Anyway, I immediately set out to do just that, but it was a stop-start job. It took forever to get the bones down, took forever to edit, took forever for me to actually like the bally thing and today I decided to dash it all and post the bloody thing...It's been too long since I've written anything, let alone anything I enjoy, so I figured that fic is the best (and easiest) way to get the cogs turning again.
So, without further ado (for those who are interested, of course, and for those who haven't read it yet, lol) I give you Bertie - A Study.
It is almost what my employer deems to be a reasonable hour and so I enter his bedchamber silently, tea tray in hand and pause in the doorway. Mr. Wooster won’t wake until I place the tray on his bedside table.
Each morning I stand noiselessly and waste a few moments studying Mr. Wooster. He is, thankfully, unaware of this particular ritual and I could not bear it if he should he wake and react unfavourably. I cannot help but admire him, both his physical form and his, as he calls it, “sunny disposish”. One must allow oneself a few small freedoms, though it is unfortunate that my admiration must take place in the quietude of the morning and in the absence of consciousness on my employer’s part.
The air is calm and the light rays of sunshine that strip through the curtains fall on the bed in which my employer is sleeping. His hair absorbs the sunlight and seems to luminesce of its own accord. Mr. Wooster’s sandy coloured hair is unruly and thick with waves and disobedient cowlicks. One wonders how he can brook these follicular difficulties; even with the application of Macassar oil his hair seems to have a mind of its own. I wish for nothing more than to cord the wayward locks through my fingers and am sometimes tempted to do so while my master sleeps.
Shadows play over his face adding depth and shade, accentuating my favourite lines; the fine jaw and high cheekbones, the deliriously deep philtrum in which I long to rest a finger, and his often attractively furrowed brow. What is often referred to as “the Wooster map” is relaxed, a soft smile on the lips that hide the kisses I wish I could have. His striking eyes are closed, naturally, concealing a shade of blue that is incomparable to any other. My employer’s face is always remarkably open with his emotions patent upon it; he is very bad at trying to shroud his feelings and it is his face that always gives him away.
The sheets are wrapped about my master’s body and I can see the contours of his frame despite the fact that he is wearing pyjamas. “The Wooster corpus”, a phrase that brings a smile to my lips each time I hear it, is deceptive. One might not have guessed at his physique - Mr. Wooster’s frame, though thin, is wiry and tightly muscled. Rather helpful, I assume, for evading policemen and absconding with articles that do not belong to him. A silver, bovine shaped creamer comes immediately to mind. My employer’s legs are almost impossibly long and I try to dress them in elegant pinstripes as often as I can. Navy blue, though, works best to accentuate his fine shoulders and long arms (I must find him a navy pinstriped suit) in which I would love to be enveloped.
My gaze lingers, as it often does, on Mr. Wooster’s hands. His left is curled beneath his chin and the right is latched gently onto his spare pillow. It is not just here that my gaze falls on his hands, but when he plays the piano - as he does so deftly - and when he is talking. I sometimes wonder if my master would fall mute if his hands were tied, a thought that rolls a shiver down my spine, for they allow him to express himself. Once Mr. Wooster told me that his hands allow him to show all of the extraneous emotion that he can’t convey verbally. Even if the activity does cause him to knock over lamps, or tea cups, or chairs occasionally.
I have to force myself to stop thinking along this vein, especially about my master’s hands. I have seen him washing himself, his long-fingered hands soapy and strolling along the lengths of his arms and legs. I see them, all the time, casually lighting cigarettes and carelessly flicking ash into readily waiting ashtrays. I fantasise, sometimes, Mr. Wooster will wake and react favourably to my studying him. In my more private moments, I fantasise that with those very hands he will not just wake, but draw back the covers of his large bed and invite me in.
There is a break in my train of thought when I detect a strange, quiet clattering sound. I peer around the room but come to realise that I am holding the tea tray too tightly, causing it to rattle. Mr. Wooster has yet to wake and I am grateful. I am not sure that I could conceal my longing were I caught off-guard and I am not prepared to jeopardise my employment and friendship with my master.
I force myself to settle, breathe deeply two or three times and approach my employer’s bedside. I clear my throat gently, ‘Good morning, sir. I am pleased to see that you have survived these past eight hours.’ Mr. Wooster pulls himself upright, ‘More than survived, Jeeves, I feel positively energised.’ ‘I am pleased to hear so, sir.’ I pass him the still-hot tea which he stirs thoughtfully and then goes on to sip. ‘So, Jeeves, what’s the good word on the weather today?’ I turn my back to my employer and attend to the window, ‘Clement, sir. Not a cloud to be seen.’ I hear him placing the cup and saucer on the tray and arranging the bedclothes.
‘Well then, Jeeves, mustn’t waste a day.’ my master says chirpily, ‘has anybody ‘phoned this morning? Nobody called past yet?’ ‘No, sir. All quiet this morning.’ ‘Perhaps we just might waste a day, then. Would you be a chap and run a bath for me?’ ‘Absolutely, sir. I shall be with you momentarily.’ Mr. Wooster enters the bathroom to perform his morning ablutions before I run his bath which gives me time to clear away his tea tray.
Another morning spent watching him sleep. Another handful of moments wasted hurting myself by studying what I can never have. Ironic that the most perfect seconds of each day, the only truly private minutes, are the ones that cause the most pain. My hands shake as I rinse out the teacup and promptly break the fine china saucer in the sink. ‘Jeeves?’ Mr. Wooster has come to investigate, ‘is something the matter? Are you all right?’ The note of worry in his voice makes my heart thrash against my ribcage as a terrified bird might, ‘Yes, sir’ I assure him, ‘merely clumsiness. There is nothing to worry about. Shall I attend to your bath, sir?’ My employer gifts me with a bright smile which, coupled with his sleep mussed hair, cheers me somewhat and I follow his path to the bathroom.
My master is in the bathtub, coated in soap, clouded by bubbles, and accompanied by his rubber duck, of course, and I am laying out his clothing for the day; incidentally, an attractive pinstriped suit. Mr. Wooster calls out from the bathroom, ‘Jeeves?’ ‘Sir?’ ‘Have you ever had the feeling that someone is watching you?’ ‘I can’t say that I have, sir,’ my heart has lost its place in my chest and has made a new home in my throat. ‘Oh. Well, it must have been a dream, then. Never mind, Jeeves.’ ‘No, sir.’
“Never mind, Jeeves,” indeed.
Not much going on at the mo' I'm afraid. I'm just so unbelievably overjoyed that this dashed week is finally over...It's kind of weird that time seems to run slower on some days than on others. Someone's clock is going wonky, lol.
Anyway, the main reason for this post - such as it is - is to put up my new Jooster fic (x-posted to
indeedsir ). Truthfully, it's not actually new - I wrote another fic called Jeeves - A Study a while ago and was encouraged to write a partner fic from Jeeves' point of view. Anyway, I immediately set out to do just that, but it was a stop-start job. It took forever to get the bones down, took forever to edit, took forever for me to actually like the bally thing and today I decided to dash it all and post the bloody thing...It's been too long since I've written anything, let alone anything I enjoy, so I figured that fic is the best (and easiest) way to get the cogs turning again.So, without further ado (for those who are interested, of course, and for those who haven't read it yet, lol) I give you Bertie - A Study.
It is almost what my employer deems to be a reasonable hour and so I enter his bedchamber silently, tea tray in hand and pause in the doorway. Mr. Wooster won’t wake until I place the tray on his bedside table.
Each morning I stand noiselessly and waste a few moments studying Mr. Wooster. He is, thankfully, unaware of this particular ritual and I could not bear it if he should he wake and react unfavourably. I cannot help but admire him, both his physical form and his, as he calls it, “sunny disposish”. One must allow oneself a few small freedoms, though it is unfortunate that my admiration must take place in the quietude of the morning and in the absence of consciousness on my employer’s part.
The air is calm and the light rays of sunshine that strip through the curtains fall on the bed in which my employer is sleeping. His hair absorbs the sunlight and seems to luminesce of its own accord. Mr. Wooster’s sandy coloured hair is unruly and thick with waves and disobedient cowlicks. One wonders how he can brook these follicular difficulties; even with the application of Macassar oil his hair seems to have a mind of its own. I wish for nothing more than to cord the wayward locks through my fingers and am sometimes tempted to do so while my master sleeps.
Shadows play over his face adding depth and shade, accentuating my favourite lines; the fine jaw and high cheekbones, the deliriously deep philtrum in which I long to rest a finger, and his often attractively furrowed brow. What is often referred to as “the Wooster map” is relaxed, a soft smile on the lips that hide the kisses I wish I could have. His striking eyes are closed, naturally, concealing a shade of blue that is incomparable to any other. My employer’s face is always remarkably open with his emotions patent upon it; he is very bad at trying to shroud his feelings and it is his face that always gives him away.
The sheets are wrapped about my master’s body and I can see the contours of his frame despite the fact that he is wearing pyjamas. “The Wooster corpus”, a phrase that brings a smile to my lips each time I hear it, is deceptive. One might not have guessed at his physique - Mr. Wooster’s frame, though thin, is wiry and tightly muscled. Rather helpful, I assume, for evading policemen and absconding with articles that do not belong to him. A silver, bovine shaped creamer comes immediately to mind. My employer’s legs are almost impossibly long and I try to dress them in elegant pinstripes as often as I can. Navy blue, though, works best to accentuate his fine shoulders and long arms (I must find him a navy pinstriped suit) in which I would love to be enveloped.
My gaze lingers, as it often does, on Mr. Wooster’s hands. His left is curled beneath his chin and the right is latched gently onto his spare pillow. It is not just here that my gaze falls on his hands, but when he plays the piano - as he does so deftly - and when he is talking. I sometimes wonder if my master would fall mute if his hands were tied, a thought that rolls a shiver down my spine, for they allow him to express himself. Once Mr. Wooster told me that his hands allow him to show all of the extraneous emotion that he can’t convey verbally. Even if the activity does cause him to knock over lamps, or tea cups, or chairs occasionally.
I have to force myself to stop thinking along this vein, especially about my master’s hands. I have seen him washing himself, his long-fingered hands soapy and strolling along the lengths of his arms and legs. I see them, all the time, casually lighting cigarettes and carelessly flicking ash into readily waiting ashtrays. I fantasise, sometimes, Mr. Wooster will wake and react favourably to my studying him. In my more private moments, I fantasise that with those very hands he will not just wake, but draw back the covers of his large bed and invite me in.
There is a break in my train of thought when I detect a strange, quiet clattering sound. I peer around the room but come to realise that I am holding the tea tray too tightly, causing it to rattle. Mr. Wooster has yet to wake and I am grateful. I am not sure that I could conceal my longing were I caught off-guard and I am not prepared to jeopardise my employment and friendship with my master.
I force myself to settle, breathe deeply two or three times and approach my employer’s bedside. I clear my throat gently, ‘Good morning, sir. I am pleased to see that you have survived these past eight hours.’ Mr. Wooster pulls himself upright, ‘More than survived, Jeeves, I feel positively energised.’ ‘I am pleased to hear so, sir.’ I pass him the still-hot tea which he stirs thoughtfully and then goes on to sip. ‘So, Jeeves, what’s the good word on the weather today?’ I turn my back to my employer and attend to the window, ‘Clement, sir. Not a cloud to be seen.’ I hear him placing the cup and saucer on the tray and arranging the bedclothes.
‘Well then, Jeeves, mustn’t waste a day.’ my master says chirpily, ‘has anybody ‘phoned this morning? Nobody called past yet?’ ‘No, sir. All quiet this morning.’ ‘Perhaps we just might waste a day, then. Would you be a chap and run a bath for me?’ ‘Absolutely, sir. I shall be with you momentarily.’ Mr. Wooster enters the bathroom to perform his morning ablutions before I run his bath which gives me time to clear away his tea tray.
Another morning spent watching him sleep. Another handful of moments wasted hurting myself by studying what I can never have. Ironic that the most perfect seconds of each day, the only truly private minutes, are the ones that cause the most pain. My hands shake as I rinse out the teacup and promptly break the fine china saucer in the sink. ‘Jeeves?’ Mr. Wooster has come to investigate, ‘is something the matter? Are you all right?’ The note of worry in his voice makes my heart thrash against my ribcage as a terrified bird might, ‘Yes, sir’ I assure him, ‘merely clumsiness. There is nothing to worry about. Shall I attend to your bath, sir?’ My employer gifts me with a bright smile which, coupled with his sleep mussed hair, cheers me somewhat and I follow his path to the bathroom.
My master is in the bathtub, coated in soap, clouded by bubbles, and accompanied by his rubber duck, of course, and I am laying out his clothing for the day; incidentally, an attractive pinstriped suit. Mr. Wooster calls out from the bathroom, ‘Jeeves?’ ‘Sir?’ ‘Have you ever had the feeling that someone is watching you?’ ‘I can’t say that I have, sir,’ my heart has lost its place in my chest and has made a new home in my throat. ‘Oh. Well, it must have been a dream, then. Never mind, Jeeves.’ ‘No, sir.’
“Never mind, Jeeves,” indeed.