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Title: Bertie Muses on De Profundis
Author: Youofwales
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Bertie muses on De Profundis
Email Address: Please email me feedback for this story, and I shall forward it to Youofwales
Categories: Drama
Feedback notes: Feeback is love.
Warnings: Oscar Wilde references. If this cliche gets your goat, then do not read.
Notes: A continuation of Jeeves Muses on De Profundis
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Wodehouse does. I am writing this for fun, not profit.

I had noticed of late that Jeeves was somewhat bereft of his usual vim. Jeeves is not the sort to become easily excitable, or indeed, excitable at all, but he seemed not to be thoroughly engaged in his usual manner. I had asked him if anything was the matter, but he had denied it, and when a cove like Jeeves says nothing is wrong, he will never retract his statement. Sharks could be feasting upon his lower extremities, and Jeeves would keep the stiff upper l. to the last.

Still, I was beginning to worry. I caught him, once or twice, paused in the middle of his duties, no doubt thinking of something profound. It is generally quite difficult to discern Jeeves's mood from his facial expressions, but I did catch a glimpse of his profile in one of these instances, and he seemed almost sad.

Some fellows would inquire no further into the state of mind of their valets, but Jeeves had been rather more to me than an ordinary valet. I was determined to discover the cause of his melancholy, although it would require exploring avenues alternative to simply asking him what was the matter.

I began to review those instances in which I had seen him appear distracted, and in several of those instances, I recalled that I had seen a small book nearby. Perhaps the book was the instrument of Jeeves's preoccupation. I have certainly become distrait about books before--there was one rather moving story about a faithful dog that, upon reading, brought a suspicious amount of moisture to the eyes. Perhaps Jeeves had read some deeply emotional narrative and had become exercised on behalf of the characters within.

I did not want to sneak into Jeeves's room to look for the book; nor did I want to show that I was looking for it while Jeeves was present. With his great brain, undoubtedly he would have determined my motives at the first available instant and closed like a clam. Or is it an oyster?

I waited instead until he had gone safely away to market, and then made a thorough search of all the rooms both Jeeves and I were known to frequent. The volume in question was resting on the kitchen counter. I regarded it with some wariness; if someone as preternaturally calm as Jeeves had found it distressing to read, it might be quite overwhelming to me.

I stood there a moment, letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would," as Jeeves has informed me cats do in adages, before my desire to understand what was bothering Jeeves overwhelmed me and I picked up the book.

After examining the first few pages of "De Profundis," as the book was called, I came to the conclusion that the author, whoever he was, had been imprisoned because of something to do with this so-called friend of his, the friend to whom he was writing this letter. The reason for his imprisonment was unclear to me, although it seemed to have something to do with his friend's father.

The author's pain was stamped more indelibly on the pages than any of the words. He mentioned many things that his friend had done to injure him, but beneath it all, there was the hurt of a man who still loves what can only wound him. I felt my heart clench in sympathy for the author, and wondered who he was and what had happened to him. Had he been freed from prison, or was he still there?

Perhaps Jeeves had known him, although I did not consider it likely. Jeeves knows about many authors and many books, despite having a somewhat limited circle of acquaintances outside the Junior Ganymede. His knowledge of the world comes from enormous brain-power and from his attention to nearly everything. He could certainly have become interested in a book without knowing its author.

The second reason for Jeeves's preoccupation provided by Bertram's brain was that perhaps Jeeves had been hurt in the same way as the letter's author. This seemed more likely, although I did not like to think of Jeeves concealing so deep and lasting a pain. This is the fellow who, when he is most bothered and horrified by the current turn of events, says, "Most disturbing, sir." In the past, it has been both a source of comfort and agitation for me that Jeeves is relentlessly calm, whatever the circumstances.

It disturbed me greatly to think of the poor fellow hiding a bleeding heart beneath his benign exterior, with no one the wiser. Although we Woosters are generally men of steel, I must admit that I melt rather quickly at the prospect of someone in great pain, and if I had melted any further at the thought of Jeeves in pain, I would have begun to enter a gaseous state. I resolved to do whatever I must to help Jeeves through his pain, and if I could lessen it to any degree, I would do so at the first available instance.

I quickly replaced the book when I heard the door to the flat open, scurrying out of the kitchen.

"Good afternoon, sir," Jeeves said.

"Afternoon, Jeeves," I said, trying not to look as if I knew his secret. "Did you have a good time?"

Jeeves looked slightly amused at the question, though the amusement was only about the eyes, and had nothing at all to do with the mouth. "My errands proceeded in a highly satisfactory manner, sir."

"Good, Jeeves," I said. "Good."

Jeeves nodded to me and proceeded toward the kitchen.

"Jeeves?" I said, feeling the need to say something more, something to begin to help him cheer up.

Jeeves turned to face me. "Yes, sir?"

"You are a good man," I said firmly, "and anyone who cannot see that is not worthy of you."

Jeeves blinked at me, and something indescribable flickered in his eyes before becoming hidden again. I wish I knew what it was.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

I nodded. "You're entirely welcome, Jeeves."

Jeeves proceeded into the kitchen with his parcels, and I sat on the sofa, watching the kitchen door. It might take quite a long time, but I was determined to wipe the past pain from Jeeves's mind. Or, barring that, I would let him know that I was his friend, and would not take his kindnesses for granted.

At least he would know someone cared for him, even if it was not the someone he wanted.



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