For some inexplicable reason, you are drawn to the cliff tonight, the why ceases to matter as soon as you see him. Your master is there, standing on the very edge of the cliff, looking calmer now than you've ever seen him. Unease coils in your gut, something is wrong but you daren't move closer.

"Sir," you say.

He looks around, smiling a sad little smile. "What-ho, Jeeves," he greets, but it's lacking its usual cheer and your gut coils tighter and you open your mouth but cannot make a sound. He turns back, moonlight reflecting off his golden curls, "Do you ever think about it, Jeeves?"

You swallow, "Think about what, sir?"

"Suicide," he shrugs, "kicking the bucket, all those sorts of things."

You're struggling to breathe now, "Sir, please, come away from there."

A tiny little laugh that's nothing like his usual one, "Scared I'm going to jump, Jeeves?"

"Yes," you surprise yourself with your honesty, but he doesn't even blink.

"It would be so easy, Jeeves," he tells you, so quietly that you have to strain to hear him. "All I'd have to do is step off here, or buy some laudanum. Everything would go to you, of course, old thing. That's been sorted for a long time."

It might be sorted but nothing is right, Bertie Wooster did not contemplate killing himself. He was your enthusiastic, mentally negligible, childlike, happy young master; not a depressed, morose person who looked to be seriously considering jumping off a cliff.

Something in you snaps and you stride forward, take hold of his hand and pull him roughly away from the edge, all sense of propriety abandoned. You don't stop until you both are far, far away from the dreaded edge and you look at your young master.

He is shivering, in just pyjamas and a thin jacket with bare feet, lips blue and eyes full of hurt. You carry on staring, chest heaving with the adrenalin coursing through your system, until you pull him into a hug, long past caring if your actions put you back in unemployment. He stiffens before relaxing into your embrace, sagging slightly which only makes you grip tighter.

"I wasn't going to jump," he murmurs, but you both know that's not true.