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Title: Christmas Traditions
Author: Cicero
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jeeves is not a merry person, but he does enjoy some festive traditions.
Email Address: Cicerothewriter@livejournal.com
Categories: Drama, Music
Feedback notes: Any kind of feedback will be appreciated, even if you just write me a one-line email telling me that you've read the story, and I will be happy.
Warnings: Overly romantic, sappy slash. I needed something to cheer myself up.
Notes: I had been thinking about writing a J/W fic based on period music and Wooster's piano playing. When I heard this song by George Gershwin, I instantly thought of Jeeves & Wooster. It's perfect, especially since there's no need to fudge pronouns. The second song is just as good. Music: "He Love and She Loves" and "For You, For Me, Forevermore", both sung by Rod McKuen
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Wodehouse does. I am writing this for fun, not profit.

It was the eve of Christmas, and Mr. Wooster and I had just returned rather hastily from the wedding of two of Mrs. Travers' acquaintances, the apex of an overly long and drawn out engagement during which several times it looked as though the bride was going to back out and choose my employer instead. It was not the most relaxing stay, but I was relieved at the diminution of another potential rival.

I must admit that I have taken no small joy in Mr. Wooster's marital-less state. His previous protestations of a lack of desire to so engage himself in matters matrimonial had left me hopeful that even if I never found the courage or opportunity to admit my feelings to him - should I ever perceive that he would be agreeable - I would still remain in his employment for as long as I was alive.

Intermittently I had found myself looking for signs that his feelings for me might have undergone significant change, but after ten years I had stopped hoping for requite and contented myself with his company and his friendship, and I took great joy - more so than the usual feeling of a job well done - in securing his happiness and removing problems when they occurred.

One thing I have never quite reconciled myself to in respect to my employer is his choice of music. Whenever I read about the melodic songbirds of poetry, I often feel that they could have been referring to Mr. Wooster. He possesses an excellent ear for music, a pleasant singing voice, and plays the piano with professional skill. If only he would choose less... colloquial songs. I have been fortunate to hear him play Beethoven and Brahms, and the peace I felt in my soul - the type one experiences when one listens to a symphony - lasted well past bedtime.

I was still affected by melancholy when we returned to the flat on that Christmas Eve. This season was never a time of great happiness in my youthful years. My sister had invited me to visit her family for the holiday, but I was loath to leave Mr. Wooster, since he was quite alone and inclined to be less cheerful than was his usual habit during this time.

I had never before engaged in gift giving with an employer under any circumstances, but it was Mr. Wooster's habit to do so on birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases, and any other day when the mood struck him. I had chanced upon this knowledge very fortuitously before my first Christmas with my new employer when I walked into Mr. Wooster's bedroom to find him hiding an already wrapped parcel.

"Jeeves!" he said, hiding the package behind his back as he turned toward me.

"Sir?" I asked, confused as to why my employer did not wish for me to see an already wrapped gift.

"Your present, Jeeves! You can't see your present before Christmas. You will take one look at it, and instantly divine the contents in toto."

"Very good, sir," I said, still shocked that he felt the need to buy me anything.

The next morning, while Mr. Wooster was at his club, I went to his tailor in search of something appropriate for my employer. I was unsure what I should get him, and had even resorted to finding and shaking his gift for some hint, but could not ascertain what was underneath the bright wrapper. After much deliberation I bought him a very tasteful tie, one which would set off his eyes nicely.

On that first Christmas he gave me a copy of the assorted dialogues of Plato in the original Greek.

"The seller up at the front told me some of the brainy stuff you pleasure read, Jeeves, so I picked using his advice. You don't have this one yet, do you?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Jolly good." He smiled brightly and looked very pleased with himself.

"Thank you, sir," I replied. "Here is your gift."

His mouth gaped open, and it was apparent that he was not expecting anything from me. "Jeeves? You didn't have to buy me anything."

"I realize that, sir, but I felt it necessary to reciprocate your kindness."

A shadow passed over his eyes, and I realized then how my explanation must sound to him: I was reciprocating because of a sense of obligation rather than affection or respect. Before I could correct my statement, his countenance brightened considerably, and he ripped off the paper.

He held out the tie, his full lips drawn together in a gentle curve, which I found unusually distracting.

The tie was a deep blue, with hints of gray highlighting it wherever the lamplight struck the fabric. As he held it closer for inspection, I noticed that the color and shades matched uncannily his diversely hued eyes.

It was then I realized that I was in love with my employer.

He still has the tie, and many other items which I have given to him over the years, such as books (both edifying and his favored mystery novels), articles of clothing, and cuff links. For his birthday this year I gifted him with a painting that I had worked on at a friend's studio. I wished the author of the piece to remain anonymous - since it was a highly personal and honest portrait of Mr. Wooster made partly from my own memory and partly from the photo I keep in my wallet - so I invented a false signature. Mr. Wooster was astonished to say the least, and he pressed me for more information. I merely told him that I had commissioned the work a few months before. He stared at it for several moments before requesting that it be hung on the wall behind the couch.

On this Christmas Eve Mr. Wooster returned from his club after only an hour's absence, with no explanation and in a considerable state of nerves. He settled in the kitchen while I was busy preparing the food for tonight and tomorrow - Mr. Wooster was having a Christmas celebration with his sister, her children, and the Glossops: Hildebrand and Angela, who had celebrated their two year anniversary this August.

Mr. Wooster kept a constant stream of chatter, and I was satisfied with listening and adding comments if I deemed them appropriate. After dinner he went into the sitting room and began to play aimless chords on the piano.

I came out of the kitchen, content to watch him. My reverie lasted for several minutes until Mr. Wooster looked over at me and started. "Jeeves, I didn't see you there. You move too quietly sometimes."

"I apologize, sir. I did not wish to disturb you."

He stared at me for a moment before saying, "Come here, Jeeves."

"Sir?" I said, tilting my head in question.

"I want you to hear something," he said, searching through a small collection of sheet music. When he found it, he smiled brightly and opened it to the first page. I stifled a sigh as I stood next to him, awaiting some latest piece from the Drones about a far-away place and some highly improper imagery.

"Now don't pull a face, Jeeves. You'll like this. I got it from a friend of Barmy's. It's one of your Christmas presents."

"Yes, sir," I said, bracing myself.

As soon as he began to play, I realized that this was a song much different than his usual musical hall genre. The melody was soft and gentle, and when Mr. Wooster began to sing, the notes complimented his voice so perfectly that I felt myself become slightly dizzy from the pleasure of it.

He loves, and she loves,
And they love
so why can't you love,
and I love, too?
Birds love, and bees love,
And whispering trees love,
And that's what we both should do.

He looked up at me as he sang the next stanza. His eyes were a clear blue, seemingly bottomless, and with no hint of guile. He was baring his soul to me.

Oh I always knew someday you'd come along.
We'll make a twosome that just can't go wrong.
Hear me, he loves and she loves
And they love so won't you
Love me as I love you?

He looked down to play the musical bridge, the notes becoming more complicated, layering on top of each other. I watched his long fingers run gracefully over the ivory and black.

I always knew someday you'd come along.
We'll make a twosome that just can't go wrong.
He loves and she loves
And they love so why can't you
Love and I love, too?

The last note faded away. He sat there, waiting for my response.

I turned away from him. I had guarded for so long my romantic feelings for my employer, like Beowulf's dragon had guarded its treasure, that it was something of a shock to discover that I no longer had to do so.

He let out a small, sad sigh. "You don't like it."

I tried to exhale calmly; it echoed through the room.

"On the contrary, sir, I am... quite moved."

He turned back to the piano and started playing the song again. His breath hitched as he sang, "That's what we both should do."

I walked behind him. He was still singing, but there was a scattering of tears on his cheeks. I put my hands on his shoulders, bent down, and kissed his hair.

Mr. Wooster continued singing, but his hesitant voice turned his lyrical statement into a question. "I always knew someday you'd come along. We'll make a twosome that just can't go wrong?"

With my cheek pressed against the top of his head, I nodded.

I felt and heard his sigh of relief. His playing became stronger and his voice hopeful. The final refrain ended, the piano continued through the last few seconds of music. Its echo drifted through the room and seemed to linger in the air.

He attempted to turn, but I held his shoulders still.

"Please play some more, sir," I said.

He answered by placing his hands on the keys and playing a soft melody about paradise together. His fingers and voice trembled slightly as I kissed him behind his ear, but he continued, tilting his head in encouragement wherever my lips fell.

I stroked my hands up his arms, feeling the muscles in his arms stretch and contract as he struck the keys. My fingers found their way to his cheeks and brushed away the remnants of his sadness.

The song ended. He sat back into my arms. Then he turned and kissed me. I eased him down to lie prone on the piano bench.

On Christmas Day, when my eyes happened to fall on that piano bench, I would feel a faint heat in my cheeks. Mr. Wooster merely smiled, radiating happiness.

It quickly became the focal point of another Christmas tradition in our home.



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