Title: Jeeves and the Christmas Cottage
Author: Sky Blue Reverie skyblue_reverie
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Word Count: Approximately 6,000
Summary: Jeeves and Bertie escape to a country cottage for the holidays. Set in my J/W 'verse - these will make much more sense if you read them in order, starting here. (Links to sequels are at the bottom of each story.)
Warnings: EXTREME, TOOTH-ROTTING, DIABETIC-COMA INDUCING FLUFF. NO PLOT WHATSOEVER.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, more's the pity.
Author's Notes: Written for my darling ennui_blue_lite, to go with her adorable J/W Christmas fanart (see below). Utterly invaluable beta work by the absolutely amazing Essie. Love, kisses, and boundless gratitude to you both!
Feedback: Is the best Christmas gift I could possibly receive.
Generally the approach of December leaves Bertram rather glum and gloomy. While all the rest of the world is exchanging glad greetings, I am more likely to be holed up at home with a "bah humbug" for anyone who tries to foist upon me the joy of the season. Jeeves has never been one for merrily ringing out the bells either - not that he ever would do such an undignified thing, no matter what the month, of course, but he's even more reserved than usual round the holidays. We both lost our parents at this time of the year, you see, and it leaves us rather in a blue funk, or perhaps a brown study - one of those sadly coloured moods, at any rate. Jeeves ensures that we observe the necessary proprieties - a few sprigs of green stuff strewn about the place and whatnot, but you see my point - neither of us is much for the Yuletide spirit.
Nevertheless, now that Jeeves and I had exchanged our conjugal vows, I felt the sudden desire to do up the holidays in style. I had the urge to revisit some of the traditions of my boyhood - decking the halls, donning the gay apparel, and tra-la-la-ing the carols. I also wanted to get out of the metrop. to someplace we could celebrate cosily together. I had never been the sort of chap who longs for solitude, but I'd discovered that when solitude included Jeeves, somehow that was a different kettle of fish altogether. When I broached the subj. of a holiday escape, Jeeves was not averse, and he assured me that he would make all the necessary arrangements.
Cheerfully leaving it in the capable hands of my valet, I made a few surreptitious purchases and tucked the resulting parcel away in the bottom of the luggage. I turned down two invitations to spend the holidays with relations - sending a brief note that Bertram would be incommunicado for the foreseeable future in answer to an imperious summons from my dread-inducing Aunt Agatha, and shooting off a regretful well-wish in response to the affectionate offer from my good and worthy Aunt Dahlia. While the reader may understandably be shocked that I was willing to forego an opportunity to get at Anatole's masterful cooking, I wanted to have a chance to be alone with Jeeves - we'd hardly had any length of time to ourselves since our honeymoon, and I'd rather missed it. Besides that, while Jeeves is no Anatole, he's certainly no duffer with the pots and pans, and when he puts his mind to it, he can create culinary masterpieces that any right-thinking Englishman would salivate over.
Finally, the day of our departure arrived and Jeeves and I took a cab to the train station. We endured a tedious train voyage, and an even more tedious lorry trip up the side of a mountain, which ended when we were unceremoniously deposited in front of a squat stone structure which looked solid enough to withstand the worst that Mother Nature could dish out - I wasn't sure if I should feel reassured that the place was so bally sturdy, or worried that apparently the builder believed the sturdiness would be required. In any event, it was dashed cold, so we hurried inside.
While Jeeves ensured that the kitchen was in working order and conjured up some refreshment, I investigated the cottage that would be our domicile for the next several days. It was used as one of those hunting lodges upon occasion throughout the year, and as such contained a rather sinister profusion of antlered heads and bearskin rugs, but at least it was well-appointed and snug.
Initial explorations completed for the nonce, I took the opportunity, while Jeeves was otherwise occupied, to abstract the package that I had secretly slipped into the luggage. It contained a couple of Yuletide tokens I had purchased for Jeeves, but there was also a rather sprightly hat that I had been unable to resist: a fuzzy red cone-shaped affair with white trim and a bit of white fluff at the apex - the sort of thing that Father Christmas wears in all of his portraits. The new reader may be wondering why I had so carefully hidden this particular chapeau, but those who have been following my memoirs for some time will be sagely nodding their heads. You see, Jeeves would not approve of this hat. I usually defer to his sartorial wisdom, but I couldn't see the harm in a bit of Father Christmas-esque headgear, to be worn at a remote cottage where none of the cognoscenti would catch a glimpse of old Bertram's top storey. Accordingly, I parked the new lid on top of the Wooster lemon, hid the rest of the contents of the package underneath the bed, and went off in search of my valet and the promised refreshments.
When I found him, he took in my new accessory with a single glance and favoured me with a look that pledged retribution, but he made no comment. I shivered pleasurably. I then dove into the tea and cakes that he'd produced - I knew that look of his, and I knew I'd better keep my strength up.
After tea, we made an expedition to the wooded area surrounding the place and picked out a handsome fir tree, lopped the thing down, and hauled it back to our GHQ. Jeeves got it set up in the front room, and then we passed an agreeable hour or two decorating the thing with strings of popcorn he'd popped and holly berries from a shrub outside. Or, rather, Jeeves plied a needle and strung the popcorn and berries while I snatched kernels of popcorn from the bowl and tossed them in my mouth under Jeeves's indulgent eye. After the thing was properly trimmed, I went back to our room and fetched Jeeves's gifts, shoving them under the tree. Jeeves made no remark, but from the way the left side of his mouth lifted a fraction, I could tell he was pleased. Jeeves then made his own excursion to the room and a similar set of packages appeared for me. I was astonished.
"Jeeves!" I exclaimed. "You didn't have to... well, you didn't have to get me anything."
"An exchange of gifts between loved ones is customary on occasions such as Christmas, sir, and I wished to bestow the items."
"Oh, well, thanks awfully, then," I said, flushing with pleasure. I couldn't remember the last time I'd received a Christmas gift. "I'm sure I'll love whatever it is."
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly, and the night passed even more pleasantly, Jeeves extracting the promised revenge. Suffice it to say that my valet and I had come to an understanding regarding my more adventurous wardrobe selections that was dashed agreeable to us both. Jeeves seemed to feel somewhat liberated by the remoteness of our location, and wrung from me howls that would have put to shame those of a werewolf baying at the full moon. He covered my neck and jaw with love-bites, and covered certain other portions of my anatomy with, er, a rather different sort of mark of possession. I was going to have a devil of a time sitting on the morrow - not that I was complaining, you understand. At the end of it all we collapsed, sticky and sated, into each other's arms and slept the sleep of the just.
It was an altogether gratified and rejuvenated Bertram who revived the next morning, albeit quite a chilly Bertram. I'd awoken before Jeeves, a minor miracle. I pulled on the aubergine pyjamas Jeeves had laid out the evening before, which I'd never quite got around to wearing, and dropped the hard-earned bit of millinery back atop my rather tousled locks, then went to the window and peered out. By this time, Jeeves had arisen, donned his own dark blue sleepwear, and joined me at the window. He swept me in for a lingering kiss, murmuring "Good morning, sir," just before his lips met my own. When he released me, I blinked, rather dazed. Sometime during the l. k., my Father Christmas topper must have fallen off, because suddenly the Wooster onion was bare. I looked around and couldn't locate the thing, then I discovered that it was in Jeeves's grasp. The man was a marvel - even in the midst of a romantic interlude, he managed to save my headgear from a fatal plunge.
A picturesque layer of snow had fallen overnight, and I had a sudden fancy to go out and romp in the stuff. When I expressed this desire to Jeeves, he quirked his mouth at me, very-good-sir-ed, and got me breakfasted, bathed, and dressed in record time. After reclaiming my prize - it had somehow got stowed in the back of the wardrobe - and perching the thing back in its rightful place atop the Wooster brow, I strode forth, Jeeves at my side.
While Jeeves stood, looking on fondly, I cavorted as I had not done since I was a lad in ringlets and sailor suits, not that my nannie would have tolerated my being outside in this weather in a sailor suit. In fact, I rather fancy that Nannie would have approved of the way Jeeves had bundled me to the eye-teeth in layer upon layer of warm, if deucedly scratchy wool.
Difficult as it was to move my limbs, swathed as they were in said d. s. w., I nevertheless managed to roll up a couple of largish spheres of snow and bung one on top of the other. Jeeves evaporated momentarily, and when he had rematerialised, I saw that he held in his gloved hands a few finishing touches - another plaid wool scarf that he had somehow neglected to wind round my own neck, a bit of carrot, a couple turnips, and a few extra holly berries. While Jeeves fitted the snowman with the scarf, I stuck the vegetation into the third, smaller sphere of snow which made up the chap's head, giving him a good-natured, if rather plain, countenance.
Jeeves and I stood back to survey our handiwork. "Not bad, eh, Jeeves?" I asked.
"Indeed, sir," he said, stepping forward and making a final adjustment to the fellow's scarf.
"As a matter of fact, it may surprise you to hear this, Jeeves, but I'm something of an expert on the subj. of snow-sculpture. In my day, I was the creator of not a few highly regarded examples of the breed. Of course, the last time I've seen such a fine specimen was when I was at school, and Bingo, Gussie and I combined our efforts to create - " I never got the chance to describe the triumphant success of young Bertram, because at that moment I felt something impact between my shoulder blades. I looked beside me to ask Jeeves what had happened, but he was no longer there. I turned around just in time to catch a second snow missile square in the chest. I spluttered and looked in amazement at Jeeves, standing twenty feet from me, looking as if the thought of chucking a snowball at the young master had never crossed his mind. The white powdery residue on his dark gloves, not to mention the slightly devilish twinkle in his eye, told a different story, however.
"Oi! Jeeves!" I protested. "Is this the proper feudal spirit? Not to mention, it's not quite sporting to lob missiles at a fellow's back without a word of warning, you know."
As I delivered the final words of my remonstration, another projectile exploded against my left shoulder, spraying snow into the Wooster map and leaving me spluttering once more. When I had wiped my eyes and looked around, Jeeves was nowhere to be seen. This, of course, meant war.
"Of course you know, Jeeves, this means war!" I called. The only response was another snowball, catching me in the, er, trouser seat. I spun around and glimpsed Jeeves ducking behind some shrubbery. I quickly dove behind another nearby shrub, gathering up an armful of snow and forming some ammunition of my own.
For the next half hour or so, we battled fiercely, flinging missiles in high arcs into each other's encampments, and making daring sallies which were enthusiastically repelled. I was in my element - at school, Bertram Wooster had been the first pick to have at one's side in a snowball fight. Finally, I decided to end the conflict once and for all with a tactic which had proved its worth many a time at Eton. Granted, I had no comrades-in-arms to create a diversion, as I had then, but one worked with the materials one was given. After launching a particularly concentrated offensive flurry, using up my entire stock of ordnance, I stealthily began to creep round behind Jeeves's entrenched position. I calculated that I had a few moments - Jeeves would assume that I was forming new munitions.
Hardly daring to breathe, I approached Jeeves from the back, scooping up a handful of snow with the intention of shoving the lot down the back of his neck. It had always been the uncontested stroke of victory in our skirmishes at school. Jeeves was crouching, looking out toward my abandoned position. As I leaned over him to deliver the coup de grace, however, he whirled round and pulled my ankles out from under me, quicker than a snake, if snakes could pull ankles, that is. I tumbled into his waiting arms, dropping my handful of snow. I blinked up at him in confusion, the sudden change in posish having knocked me somewhat off-kilter.
"Good Lord, Jeeves," I managed, somewhat breathless. "You're a sneaky one. You knew I was coming, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir," he admitted.
"Well, I'm blowed," I said. "I was always the quietest chap in sneaking up on other chaps with a measure of the white stuff back in school. How did you know I was there?"
"I am always aware of your presence, sir," he said, looking down at me with those intensely blue eyes of his. I gave a little shiver which had nothing to do with the cold, and everything to do with those words and the manner in which they had been delivered. I saw aforementioned i. b. e.'s dip toward my lips. I divined his thoughts instantly, and since his intentions were entirely agreeable to self, I closed my own eyes and pursed the lips expectantly. When no kiss was forthcoming, however, I blinked up at him, to find him still gazing at me intently.
"Perhaps, sir, we should go indoors."
"Topping idea, old thing," I said eagerly.
As we were heading for the cottage, a sudden notion sprang into the old bean. I backtracked to the snowman and gave him one final touch - I popped my bright red Father Christmas headpiece right on top of his coconut, weighing it down with the addition of a couple of pebbles. It was the perfect festive finisher for the old fellow. I looked across at Jeeves, who was watching me with a slightly quizzical expression. "I don't think I'll be needing it anymore," I said by way of explanation, causing his mouth to quirk upward slightly at the corner, and his eyes to shine with what might be termed the "light of love." It was a subtle shine, easily missed - this was still Jeeves, after all - but nevertheless, it was unmistakable. That alone was worth the sacrifice of the hat, and I hastened my steps as Jeeves opened the door.
I stood inside the doorway, shivering and stamping my feet while Jeeves closed the door behind me, then quickly shed his gloves, scarf, and overcoat. Next, he unwound me from my prison of wool, which was a blessed relief, but also meant I was suddenly even more frigid. Somehow the snow must have got even under the multitude of layers Jeeves had insisted upon, because my apparel was rather waterlogged. Jeeves inspected me with concern and disapproval and said, "Please remove your wet clothing, sir, while I fetch you some blankets."
The place had two bedrooms - Jeeves always insists upon observing these proprieties for the sake of appearances, even though there was no one else for miles around. I'd thought it deuced silly at the beginning. Now I was grateful, though, as it meant that there was an extra set of bedding which wasn't in use - Jeeves simply scooped it all up, down comforter, pillows, and all, and bunged it down on top of the rather alarming bearskin rug in front of the fireplace, hiding the blasted thing and creating a dashed cosy little nest.
While I stripped off my soggy garments, Jeeves built up the fire until it was doing that roaring and crackling bit for which fires are known. Once I'd shed my vestments, I dove into the pile of bedding and shivered a bit more, waiting for the heat of the fire to thaw the Bertram-shaped icicle I seemed to have become.
Jeeves, having got the fire going, gathered up my discarded clothing and made to shimmer off, and I voiced a protest. "Jeeves, aren't you going to, well, join me? You must be frightfully uncomfortable in your damp clothes," I said hopefully.
He lowered his eyelids for just a fraction of a second in a way which, all by itself, heated me up a good ten degrees and said, "I shall join you shortly, sir. I had thought to make some hot cocoa."
"Oh, right-ho; jolly good idea," I said enthusiastically. Jeeves's hot cocoa is a work of art. Not the kind to share with the kiddies, since he bungs in some sort of rather potent spirits, but just the sort of thing to top off an apres-snowball-fight fireside lounge with the obj. of one's affection.
In short order, Jeeves streamed back in, bearing two vessels full of the aforementioned h. c. I took them both from his hands, looking at him with anticipation. In the time it took me to recover from another of his lowered-eyelid glances, he had neatly laid aside his own raiment and joined me in the makeshift bed in front of the fire. He took back one of the cups and sipped at it. The sight of my usually impeccably groomed valet, naked, hair still disordered and slightly damp from our recent skirmish, sitting on the floor drinking hot cocoa, somehow tickled me and I let out a rather unmanly giggle, which I quickly stifled by turning my attention to my own cocoa. I hoped he'd let it pass by unremarked - I didn't want to offend the fellow, after all - but I ought to have known better.
"Something amuses you, sir?" he asked mildly.
"No, no, Jeeves," I said. "Merely a passing fancy."
He flickered an eyebrow at me promptingly, if that's a word. Jeeves would know. "Is 'promptingly' a word, Jeeves?" I asked.
"No, sir. Perhaps 'expectantly' would convey your meaning?"
"Ah, thank you, Jeeves, much better. I was just musing on the expressiveness of your left eyebrow, you see."
"Indeed, sir," he said gravely. "Was that the thought which elicited your chuckle?" I thought it was jolly decent of him to characterize the laugh which had recently been emitted by the young master as a chuckle, as it had been rather more high-pitched than that. I certainly wasn't going to correct him, at any rate.
"No, Jeeves, the mirth to which you allude was merely an expression of my continuing surprise and delight at being permitted to witness you in your less-than-guarded moments. It is both a privilege and an honour, old thing."
He looked gratified at this, and I thanked my lucky stars for my unwonted burst of eloquence. I smiled happily at him, and he replied with a frankly seductive gaze that thrilled me to my fingertips. Then he set our cocoa out of the range of my soon-to-be-flailing limbs - Jeeves is always on top of any situation.
I scooted closer to him and he responded, as I had hoped he would, by drawing me into his arms and kissing me. I'm not one of those poet fellows who can gush forth with flowery language about the meeting of lips and tongue, so I shall have to content myself with assuring the reader that Jeeves is as brilliant in the use of his lips and tongue as he is in everything else he does. In short order, he had reduced this Wooster to a quivering, moaning wreck. My bones appeared to have dissolved entirely, and I clutched at Jeeves to keep myself from melting completely into a puddle of Bertram.
Jeeves took pity on my boneless state and laid me down on my back, addressing the aforementioned brilliant l.'s and t. to the rest of my frame. I stroked what parts of him I could reach, when I could spare a thought for the task. Mostly, it must be confessed, I writhed and whimpered helplessly while Jeeves covered every inch of me with what Rosie M. Banks would doubtless call "burning kisses."
Finally he paused, looking nearly as breathless as I was. He rolled me over onto my side so I was facing the fire, and settled himself behind me.
There was a short pause and a few small rustling noises as Jeeves opened the bottle of oil that he keeps for this purpose and spread some of the stuff on his fingers. I had no bally clue where he had been keeping it, but I wasn't about to start asking questions right now. After what felt like a dozen years, he slid his arm underneath my neck and head so that I was using his arm as a pillow, and with his other hand he started doing delightfully unmentionable things to my hindquarter region. His fingers were still slightly cold and the sensation was quite unexpected, but not unpleasant. I wriggled happily as he prepared me, and I threw in a few more whimpers for good measure.
After a moment, I felt the fingers withdraw, and a rather larger and blunter object took their place at my opening. As Jeeves began to push inside of me, I voiced my approval in an enthusiastic if slightly colourful manner. I soon found, though, that matters weren't progressing as quickly as I would have liked. I decided that I would have to help speed things up a bit.
I attempted to push back into him, but he clamped his hand on my hip and kept us to a maddeningly unhurried pace. He hadn't gone this slowly since our very first time together, and while I had appreciated his forbearance then, I certainly didn't appreciate it now.
"Jee-eeeeves," I complained breathily.
He chuckled softly. "Have patience, sir," he said.
I resigned myself to my fate and subsided. He resumed his glacial forward progress, until his entire frame was pressed against my own, his length fully inside of me. Then he wrapped his arm around my hips and pulled me to him tightly, causing him to sink just a fraction deeper. I let out a loud gasp and called his name, hearing him groan behind me. For some moments we merely lay together, the fire warming up the front half of yours truly, and Jeeves warming up the other half.
Finally, he began to move, still with the speed of an especially lethargic tortoise. He kept his hand firmly on the Wooster hip to prevent any assistance on my part as he set a tempo which would have tried the restraint of one of those Buddhist fellows who sit around all day contemplating the infinite. Still, it wasn't altogether unenjoyable. Rather the opposite, in fact. I relaxed into a blissful torpor as I felt Jeeves sliding in and out, causing a cascade of sensation that was positively delish.
Eventually, I found myself desiring some additional, er, stimulation. Generally Jeeves reaches around to help me out a bit, if you see what I mean, but it seemed to have slipped his mind on this occ. After a fairish interval, not wanting to distract his attention from what he was doing, I decided to take matters into my own hands. As soon as I did, though, I felt Jeeves’s hand on my own, guiding it away and back onto my hip, trapping it there underneath his own rather large extremity. He then shifted his position somehow, causing a new angle to his thrusts, and suddenly things became rather more urgent.
"Ah! Jeeves, yes!" I cried out as each of his strokes seemed to trip some sort of electrifying switch deep inside. Helping hand or no helping h., I wasn't going to last much longer if Jeeves kept this up. Judging from the heaviness of his breathing, Jeeves was rapidly reaching the p. of no r. as well. Still, he kept up the slow, deliberate pace he had established - the fellow has a will of pure steel. Just when I thought I would burst from combined frustration and pleasure, he moved our interlocked hands around to my front, and together our fingers caressed the most sensitive portion of the Wooster anatomy. This also meant that my hips were finally free, and I pushed back into him vigourously, causing him to unleash a moan that vibrated my very bones and spurred me to even greater efforts.
A few more frenzied seconds was all it took until I released with a resounding shout. I was rather impressed by the volume and timbre of my exclamation, in fact, until I realized that it had been Jeeves that I'd heard - he had reached the peak at nearly the same moment I had done. I shook in Jeeves's arms, wracked by tremors in the aftermath of our exertions, and he moved our intertwined digits around to my upper torso, holding me close to him in a rather moist and sticky but still marvellous embrace. After a few moments, he pulled out of me and turned me about so that we were facing one another, and I renewed my acquaintance with his talented mouth.
Finally, however, we broke away from our diversion. Neither of us was in quite our usual spruce and dapper state at this point, so Jeeves ran a bath, and we economised on both time and hot water by climbing in together. It was quite a challenging exercise, since we're both longish of limb, but on the whole, eminently enjoyable. Jeeves suggested, somewhat uncharacteristically, that we may as well both stay in our dressing gowns, rather than getting togged up in the full outer crust, since we weren't going to be venturing out again. I heartily seconded the suggestion, and the motion was carried unanimously.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent with a bite to eat and a couple of books, back in our cosy roost in front of the fire. I was reading a juicy murder-mystery novel, the latest by A. Christie. If only Florence Craye wrote books half so interesting, perhaps I would actually enjoy her company. Then again, perhaps not. Jeeves, naturally, had his nose buried in a weighty-looking tome of philosophy. I glanced at the thing and gave a shudder. Jeeves was the love of my life, of course, but I'd never understand the man's taste in reading material. He caught me looking at him and raised his eyebrow a precise fraction of an inch, whereupon I smiled at him and went back to the adventures of Hercule Poirot, the detective with the infamous "little grey cells." Personally, I'd wager on Jeeves's grey matter over Poirot's every day of the week and twice on Sunday - if the Christie woman were to bung Jeeves in her novel, the thing would be solved before the first chapter was out. Of course, that might render the book somewhat short and uninteresting, so on the whole I suppose it was better that she didn't.
During this entire time, I'd been darting little glances at the parcels under the tree - the neatly wrapped ones which were designated for self, rather than the ones that I'd somewhat haphazardly trussed up for Jeeves, you understand. Finally, I could stand the anticipation no longer.
"Jeeves, do you suppose we could, ah, get to the gift exchange part of the programme? It is, after all, Christmas Eve, and... well, I wouldn't like for you to suffer in suspense, old chap."
He quirked the corner of his mouth and laid his book aside. "Very good, sir."
I biffed over to the tree and gathered up the parcels, returning to our fireside nest. I then selected one of the two packages I'd purchased for Jeeves and thrust it at him. "You first, Jeeves."
He neatly untied the twine holding the patterned paper in place and set it aside, before removing the paper, equally neatly. I was vibrating with impatience, and as soon as he'd uncovered the thing, I said, "Do you like it, Jeeves?"
He held in his hands a collection of poetry I'd found at a local shop. I'd asked for something suitable for a romantic evening spent with one's love, but nothing too incomprehensible. The proprietor had assured me that this particular compendium was the real tabasco. Jeeves opened the volume, perused the table of contents for a moment, then flipped a few pages, cleared his throat and read aloud:
Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Futile the winds
To a heart in port,--
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!
These words, particularly the bit about 'mooring tonight in thee', spoken in Jeeves's deep, resonant tones, sent a pleasurable thrill shooting down the old Wooster spine, and it took me a moment to find my voice. "Golly, Jeeves, I had no idea that poetry could be so... stimulating. That poet johnnie has certainly lived, hasn't he?"
"The poem was written by Miss Emily Dickinson, sir," Jeeves informed me. "This particular work has always been a personal favourite."
"You do like the book, then, Jeeves?"
"Very much, sir. Thank you."
"I thought that perhaps we could read some of the poems together. You know, once in a while. Not every evening, of course - poetry is best reserved for special occasions, what?"
"As you say, sir," he replied with one of his almost-smiles.
I smiled in return and picked up the larger of the two packages intended for Bertram and promptly tore the paper off, opening the box within and flinging the lid to one side. Nestled in a bed of tissue-paper was a pair of silk pyjamas, in a shade I believe is termed cerulean. It was a perfectly spiffing set of sleepwear, and I wasted no time in telling Jeeves so.
"I believe, sir, that the colour of the material will set off your eyes to best advantage. I judge that the effect should be quite becoming." The look he gave me was enough to send another pleasurable thrill shooting down the s.
I offered Jeeves his remaining package, and once again he neatly removed the wrapping, setting it aside, before inspecting his gift. If I do say so myself, it was a topping item - a handsome burgundy leather-bound book with gilt trim. The catch was that all the pages were blank. I'd thought it a deuced odd item when I'd run across it in the shop - after all, what's the point of parting with the ready for a book you've got to write yourself? - but the fellow at the counter had assured me that such tomes were all the rage among your better class of journalers and memoirists. I usually scribbled my own reminiscences on whatever scraps of paper happened to be handy - I wrote up the bit about my Aunt Agatha's stolen pearls on the back of what Jeeves later informed me was our telephone bill, which he discovered when the chaps from the 'phone company started threatening to disconnect the thing - but since Jeeves had recently begun his own chronicles, I imagined he'd appreciate stationery with a touch more elegance.
He stroked the smooth leather of the cover, and flipped the pages, murmuring, "It is beautiful. Thank you, sir."
I flushed with pleasure. "Yes, well, Jeeves, that's not all there is to this gift. You see, I thought you might like to use this particular item to record our adventures while we're on that world cruise you've been itching to take."
By way of response, he drew me into his arms and delivered an ardent kiss, and I submitted to his attentions happily. Eventually he released me, and once I had recovered my wits, I picked up the last gift, a small cube-shaped item. I held it to my ear and shook it, but heard only a muffled rattle. Stymied, I tore off the wrapping, revealing a small velvet box. I flipped it open impatiently, and found within a positively stunning set of cuff links - certainly the finest I'd ever owned. They were silver, and featured a disc of some sort of shiny black stone - onyx, Jeeves informed me - inset with an elegant "BWW," again in silver.
"Jeeves," I breathed. "They're- well, they're absolutely corking. My appreciation knows no bounds, old thing. But - I don't quite understand; you don't like monogrammed items."
"But you do, sir," he said simply.
I blinked rapidly and swallowed once or twice before replying. Then I found that I was still at a loss for words, so I borrowed a page from Jeeves's book - not the real one I'd just given him, you understand, but the meta-whatsit one - I launched myself into his arms and covered his finely chiselled features with fervent kisses.
"Jeeves, this is, without doubt, the best Christmas I've ever had."
"It isn't Christmas yet, sir."
"Well, yes, Jeeves, but I've got everything a chap could wish for. My cup runneth over, so to speak. What more could tomorrow bring that I haven't got already?"
He cleared his throat delicately. "Well, sir, you did once express a desire to engage in a certain form of intimacy on birthdays and major holidays. I believe that Christmas would qualify in that category."
I closed my eyes briefly as Jeeves's meaning hit me with the force of the express train to London. I believe I may have emitted a gargle as well. When I re-opened my eyes, I found Jeeves watching me with faint amusement.
"There will also be roast goose with stuffing, potatoes with gravy, and Christmas pudding tomorrow, sir."
"Jeeves, I think I could die right now a happy man."
"Of course, on the whole, I'd just as soon wait until after tomorrow to do it. Preferably long after tomorrow, in fact."
"I am glad to hear it, sir."
I nestled myself into Jeeves's broad chest and felt his arms surround me. I was full to the brim with joy, goodwill to man, and all the glad tidings of the season.
"Happy Christmas, Jeeves."
"Happy Christmas, sir."
Artwork by the lovely ennui_blue_lite
On to a standalone fic I wrote for Yuletide? (A first time, not part of this J/W timeline.)
Or, feel like a naughty little J/W PWP sequel action?