Chapter Text
The first thing Bertie was aware of was a persistent throbbing in his head, like someone was using his forehead as a drum. The next thing he noticed was that his mouth was bone-dry and sore, and his eyes were glued shut. Shifting slightly, he subsequently discovered that he was aching all over, limbs stiff and uncooperative.
Blast it all to hell, Bertie thought miserably, before a sudden wave of nausea swept over him. He sat up groggily, swaying, peeling open his eyes as he looked around in a panic for somewhere to be sick—
he heaved and retched the entire contents of his stomach out all over the duvet. The smell was instantly awful, an acrid odour that hung in the air and burned the back of Bertie’s throat. His nose was completely blocked, so he drew in harsh breaths through the mouth: every gasp recalled the foul taste of acidic bile.
Unfurling himself from how he had doubled over, feeling momentarily relieved, he blinked blearily around him. The room was cast in shadows, damp with cool bluish light that betrayed the fact that it was very early morning. He hadn’t remembered yesterday being cold in the slightest, and yet he was shivering uncontrollably now. A frozen sheen of sweat lay on his skin and his pyjamas were clinging to him. Great pools of water had developed under his armpits overnight.
He supposed that this rum sitch might have been an obvious one, what with the persistent scratching of his throat the entirety of the previous day, and the weights which had attached themselves to his limbs and clouded his mind. Bertie hadn’t thought past the symptoms, continuing to throw himself whole-heartedly into the usual activities, and he was now paying the price.
There was nothing for it: he needed to wake Jeeves. He couldn’t go back to sleep now: the stench of sick was almost enough to make him start throwing up again. He was sure that this time he would begin hacking up his stomach lining.
Bertie pushed the duvet slowly off to the side, and the rush of air against his body caused him to tremble, harsh tremors wracking his body at the scalding cold.
Dangling his feet over the edge, he weakly rocked himself forward to a standing position; the momentum propelled him further than he expected which led him to stumble, not unlike a new-born foal, and almost careen sideways back onto the sick-covered bed. Steadying himself, with one hand pressed to his forehead in a doomed effort to quell the pounding, he began to make his way to Jeeves.
Time passed through the proverbial hour-glass in a delirious manner. He felt with his hand along the walls of the rooms slowly, as if moving through a viscous liquid, almost tripping once or twice from a carelessly placed table leg or arm chair. His legs wobbled, struggling to support the rest of his body.
It was with a sudden pulse of anxiety that Bertie found himself standing outside the door to Jeeves’ quarters. He paused.
It really was awful of him to be waking Jeeves up at such an ungodly hour. Jeeves had to get up early anyhow, to prepare breakfast and do all the rest of those magical valet things which Bertie never saw. It was against the Wooster Code to be so inconsiderate, especially towards his marvel of a valet. Jeeves deserved no less than a perfect night’s sleep.
But the fact remained that he needed Jeeves’ help very badly. It wouldn’t do to surprise Jeeves with a bed of vomit in the morning, but perhaps he would appreciate Bertie for notifying him early. Perhaps the sheets could be saved yet.
Bertie tussled with this conundrum for a few minutes, just breathing in the dark and leaning hard against the wall. Silence lay across everything in the flat just as a blanket would, and words suddenly caught in his throat. The task of calling for Jeeves seemed gargantuan: it seemed impossible to disturb the stillness which had settled into the very bones of the flat.
He swallowed and battled against a growing sense of nausea building up again in his guts. If he threw up outside Jeeves door before waking him, that would be even more awful. He needed to bite the bullet.
Cheek pressed against the cool grit of the wallpaper, Bertie lifted a fist and let it drop weakly against the wood of Jeeves’ door. He breathed for a few moments, then repeated the action.
“Jeeves.” He croaked, his voice thin and reedy, barely there.
Bertie could feel himself grow weaker, even from simply murmuring Jeeves’ name. The silence remained thick and heavy, a palpable thing which surged up against the senses immediately after he had spoken, like a fallout from an explosion a mile away.
“Jeeves.” He whispered again, hardly mustering up the strength to speak at all. Bertie closed his eyes against the dim lights which were pushing their way insistently into his skull and making it ache. Blood rushed in his ears. He was beginning to consider attempting to knock again, through the woozy, exhausted tangle of his mind, when there was a snick of the lock.
“Sir?”
Bertie’s eyes slid open, to the heavenly sight of Jeeves in the doorway. He was hardly able to stand for the flood of relief that rushed through him. Jeeves had evidently just woken up – he was wearing pyjamas, instead of his usual valet togs. Bertie supposed this was a fairly obvious thing to have expected, but in his fever-addled state he couldn’t help but be entirely taken aback.
He didn’t say anything in response, just blinked dumbly at Jeeves, quailing at the slight irritation and bewilderment he imagined he had detected in his expression.
“What’s wrong, sir?”
Jeeves’ voice was rough from sleep, with a delightful burn which would’ve made Bertie shiver in different circumstances. In these rummy circs, however, Bertie was shivering but for an entirely different reason. He dazedly watched a rare crease form between Jeeves’ eyebrows, and noted distractedly that Jeeves’ hair was tousled, entirely free of brilliantine, hanging loosely down over his forehead.
“Jeeves.” He said shamefully, for the third time in a row, feeling hot and cold all over, “I’ve been sick.”
“Oh, sir.” Jeeves sighed, eyebrows drooping.
Then he slowly emerged from the doorway to gently take hold of his arm, inviting Bertie to lean on him for support instead of the wall, which had been taking the full weight of one Bertram Wilberforce Wooster. Jeeves was a perfect support, sturdy and solid as any good rock. Bertie supposed it was due to all that fishing he did: or perhaps he was always awfully strong. He did have naturally broad shoulders, he mused absent-mindedly.
“I’m terribly sorry, old thing.” Bertie rasped, only semi-aware that Jeeves was now guiding him slowly into the living room.
“It’s perfectly all right, sir.” He soothed, softer than usual, “I will take care of the sheets, if you would rest here for just a moment.”
Bertie registered the sofa only as he was being gently deposited onto it. The haze of his mind obscured the passing of time like a cloud passing over the moon, so it seemed to him only two seconds flat before Jeeves returned. He appeared in front of him as if he had teleported there, and supported him in going back into his own bedroom.
The soiled sheets were nowhere Bertie could see them, having been vanished or perhaps miracled away. Jeeves had also somehow bunged him into fresh pyjamas, which still stuck to his skin lightly, without his knowledge. They felt far better than the soaked fabric of his favourite heliotrope pyjamas, which had also disappeared from his sight, having faded into the ether.
When Bertie was successfully tucked back in his own bed, stomach roiling unpleasantly, he felt the back of a hand press to his scalding forehead for a few long moments. It felt dreadfully wonderful. Eyes shut.
A small exhalation of breath. The hand smoothed back the curls sticking damply to his temples. Then the absence of the hand. The absence of Jeeves. Eyes open. A distantly running tap. The return of Jeeves.
“This may help, sir. Be careful not to drink too much.”
Bertie found himself drinking hesitantly from a tall glass of water, held to his lips by Jeevesian hands. He felt very much like a newly born lamb being hand-fed milk from a bottle.
Afterwards, Bertie dropped his head back into the plush pile of cushions, which did nothing much to quell the raw headache that was causing his eyes to un-focus and slide shut without his permission.
“If you experience the urge to be sick, there is a bowl right here, sir.” A hand lifted Bertie’s hand, guiding it over to rest on the rim of the mixing bowl, which sat next to him on the bed, like a companionable animal would. It was all he could do to nod.
“Try and sleep, sir. The more rest you get, the quicker you will recover, sir.” Jeeves slid around the edge of the bed, “If you need me, just call and I will be here.”
Bertie hummed weakly in understanding. The moment Jeeves left the room, his stomach gave an awful lurch. Twisting to hunch over the bowl, he threw up the water which he had only just drank, heaving wetly. And he continued heaving until there wasn’t anything left, until wet heaving became dry heaving as he gagged over the bowl, frustrated tears pricking his eyes.
After a minute of clutching the edges of the bowl, paralysed with fear he would be sick again, Bertie sat back miserably against the pillows. The room had begun to lighten, the morning sun straining against the curtains. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate Jeeves, his abilities, his Jeeves-ness… Then he turned his head away from the window, and proceeded to sink into a dark, fitful sleep.