Chapter Text
This year, Jeeves and I are really together. Properly, entirely, not to be torn apart in any way whatsoever.
The lark was on the wing and the gay apparel donned, as we headed to Brinkley Court for Christmas. Dahlia, who I sometimes suspect loves Jeeves more than she loves me, would not take no for an answer over our plans, but my darling swore he did not mind skipping his own family’s table.
“Besides,” he said as we drove down, “they made me promise to bring you over on New Year's day; I believe there will be a swarm of family members who have long awaited introduction to the beloved Mr Wooster.”
“New Year's day? I’ll be in a right state- you know what the Drones parties are like, dear.”
“Very well. I shall have to do my very best between now and then to convince you to spend the night with me, sir.”
He punctuated that sir with a very mischievous kiss to the hand, the hand which really ought to be on the steering wheel. I silently abandoned all plans for the Drones, because who else would I get my New Year’s kiss from?
Aunt Dahlia held a very delightful Christmas this year. She always has a huge affair in early December, with all the trimmings of a truly good holiday bash, and spends the three days of Christmas with just the family. And even that is a selective process. Claude and Eustace have been denied since they were three years old. Uncle Tom loves the solitude, as you may imagine, and every year one poor soul must be sacrificed to spend hours and hours listening to his tour of silverware. I vowed to protect my precious love from such a torment for this first year at least.
The crowd at Brinkley was very thin. Only Aunt D, Uncle T, dearest cousin Angela and her pool-throwing husband Tuppy, little Bonzo, Jeeves, and I would be gracing the table. Dahlia’s very particular about these things; she has a special room solely for Christmas dinners, one with a small table that she sets and decorates alone. All the servants are given Christmas off once the cooking is prepared the night before, and while Dahlia gets to carve the turkey and serve the foodstuff, Angela and I have been on dish-washing duty for nearly two decades now. As is the way of a Brinkley Christmas.
Because the house was family only, Jeeves and I were granted the rare luxury of sleeping in the same bed. I can’t express the pure joy of waking up snug and warm in my darling’s arms on that chilly December morning, knowing the whole day was ours just as the morning was.
I had but a moment to stare at the beautiful form of Jeeves asleep before Aunt D’s footsteps stormed through the house like she was auditioning to replace a stampede of buffalo. Even on Christmas, she does not a lie-in allow. Jeeves’s eyes fluttered open quite quickly.
“Good morning,” I whispered.
“Good morning, and merry Christmas, my dear.”
I knew from experience that my favourite Aunt has a rigorous schedule for the morning that must be strictly followed, down to who opens their presents in what order. So I pressed a kiss to Jeeves’s still sleepy brow and crawled from the sheets, ransacking my suitcase for the little red box I carefully packed the day before.
Finding it, I climbed back into bed where Jeeves was now sitting up, allowing me a wonderful view of his dishevelled dark hair and imperfect pyjamas. I rested my head on his sturdy shoulder and placed the box in his lap.
“For you, my love. Although Aunt D’s probably got you a mansion wrapped up downstairs, I wanted to keep you all to myself for this.”
He smiled at me softly before opening the paper. He still unwraps presents with the delicacy of years before; he told me once on his birthday it’s because he doesn’t want to damage the devotion I put in. I called him a sap, but the tears did pool.
The top lifted to reveal a silver pocket-watch, intricately detailed with flowers.
“Is this…?” he asked, glancing toward me.
I waggled the eyebrows. “Pop it open.”
He did. The inside face shone with the recognisable quartz, and the silver interior was engraved with R.J. & B.W.
“I have no words,” he said, running a thumb across the initials.
I leaned over to my bedside table and fetched my own pocket-watch, still as brilliant as the day he gifted it to me. “Just you wait,” and I opened the lid.
B.W. & R.J.
“It seemed only fitting, what.”
His smile threatened to blind me, and he kissed me gently with a hand under the chin. “You are the most thoughtful and considerate man I have ever met, my dear, and I will cherish this gift forever.”
“Good,” I grinned. “Our love is etched eternally in silver, because what use have I for time if you aren’t here to spend it with me?”
“How poetic of you, sir.”
“Hm. You said something about inspiring poetry on Christmas last year, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.”
“You needn’t bother,” and he silenced my thoughts with a kiss.
We spent the next ten minutes doing some very agreeable smooching and cuddling, only to be interrupted once again by aged A. D. shouting about breakfast.
“You know, darling,” I said as the darling in question picked out an appropriately festive necktie for me to rock, “it seems every Christmas we are doomed to be disturbed by some relative or other, what. It’s enough to make any mortal man churn out a ‘bah humbug.’”
“I believe that is the spirit of the season, Bertram.”
I let the thought roll around my head like a lost pearl.
“Yes, I suppose it is. Right as always, my dear.”
“Thank you kindly. Shall we join the family for breakfast now?”
He offered me his arm, and I happily took it. I’m very glad that it is always Jeeves I am interrupted with at Christmas.