This might not be the best moment to post this story because a) it's not Christmassy in the least and b) kak0094 has posted a story with similar content only a few hours ago. I have spoken to her and she assured me that it was fine to post my story so soon after she has posted hers. I strongly encourage you to read her story because it's lovely.
Those of you who do not want to be spoilt for the Christmas Special (even if this fic is mere speculation) should not read any further.
Together
It wasn't the sound of splintering glass that caused Elsie Carson to drop her wooden spoon into the pot of stew she had been stirring.
After all, it wasn't the first bottle of wine he had dropped in recent weeks. She had even teased him about it at one point. Her comment of 'dropping standards' had been met with such an endearing look of affront on his face that she had been unable to stop laughing for minutes.
No. What caused her to hastily make her way into their dining room was the roar of outrage that had followed the crashing wine bottle. His loss of composure so uncharacteristic that it had propelled her into motion immediately.
She found him on his knees in the dining room, hastily picking up all the splinters he could find.
She wordlessly kneeled down to assist him – her eyes invariably drawn to his hands. The visible tremor in the right one causing her chest to tighten painfully.
For too long she had been trying to convince herself that it was simply exhaustion due to Lady Edith's elaborate wedding plans that had caused him to become clumsy. That it had been his upset over Mr. Molesley serving the wrong wine for the first course that had caused him to drop the correct bottle for Mrs. Patmore's famous glazed duck.
She closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath. Then she leant forward and reached out towards him.
"Give them to me," she told him quietly, her hands trying to grasp his so that she could remove the pieces of broken glass.
"No!"
She had expected his stubborn defiance. She had not expected his right hand to convulsively close around the shards of glass nor the hiss of pain that escaped him as the broken glass pierced his hand.
He sank sideways until his weight rested on his right thigh. His knees no longer able to support his weight.
She scrambled closer and gently took his large paw into her much smaller hands. Prising his fists open, she tenderly began to pick at the little pieces of glass stuck in his palm before she wrapped the clean dish towel she had brought to wipe up the spillage around his hand. Her dress by now having effectively wiped up the claret he had spilled on the stone floor.
For a moment neither of them spoke, the only sounds in their cottage that of the stew bubbling in the background and his heavy breathing.
While still pressing the towel against his injured palm with her right hand, her left one reached out and gently cupped his cheek.
For the first time since she had entered the dining room he looked up at her, the pain in his dark eyes almost too much for her to bear.
"Maybe we should go and talk to Dr Clarkson," she suggested calmly.
He lowered his eyes again; fixed them on his right hand. A look of contempt on his face. "I don't need a doctor," he pressed out.
"I really think you should…," she began but he interrupted her.
"You misunderstand me. I don't need a doctor because I already know what he is going to say," Charles explained flatly. "It's Shaking Palsy."
Elsie removed her hand from his cheek, grasped his left hand instead. "You don't know that."
He looked up again, studied her with sad eyes. "But I do, you see. It runs in the family. My father… my father had it."
She gasped softly. Charles Carson had never spoken much about his parents. All she knew was that he had come from a loving home; that he had grown up in a strict but supportive environment.
"He was diagnosed when he was quite a bit younger than I am now and ended up bedridden and helpless before he had even reached my age."
She squeezed his hand in silent support, afraid to interrupt him while he was opening up about this painful part of his past. He turned his left hand and interlaced his fingers with hers.
"My mother took care of him devotedly but the illness changed him. Confused him, I suppose. The final year was the worst.
And when he died, my mother died not shortly after – having spent herself taking care of him." His breath shuddered when he exhaled but his eyes were dry.
Elsie simply ran her thumb over his fingers, hoping that her mere presence brought him some comfort. For she knew that there were no words able to adequately convey her sympathy or to sooth the pain his memories brought.
"So, as it turns out your fears of last Christmas were unfounded." His chuckle was filled with bitter resignation. "I will never be stuck with you. Instead, it seems that you are stuck with me."
His morose conclusion brought tears to her eyes. She tugged at his hand until he looked at her again.
"But that's the point. I do want to be stuck with you!" she replied – her voice firm, unwavering. Not reflecting the myriads of emotions chasing through her mind and body.
"It's not fair," he whispered, his hand tightening its hold on hers.
"No, it is not," she agreed quietly; her heart breaking for the kind man in front of her. A man who had spent his life looking after others and who would most certainly have deserved a carefree and healthy retirement.
"You shouldn't have to deal with this. Not after you've spent all your life caring for your sister." He took a deep breath before continuing. His eyes boring into hers. "If it turns out that I have Parkinson, I want you to know that I will not hold you to your…"
"Charles Carson, you will not finish that sentence if you know what's good for you!" Her voice had taken on a hard edge, all traces of gentle understanding gone as she returned his gaze. Her chin raised defiantly, she dared him to continue.
He shook his head in mild amusement, once again marvelling at the woman kneeling in front of him. No, he thought fondly, his wife certainly didn't suffer fools gladly. Even when she was married to one.
He decided to keep silent. The thought of losing her, even if it meant that she'd be spared pain, was too painful to consider – at least for the moment.
"What are we going to do now?" he asked softly.
"For starters I think it might be a good idea to get up from the floor," she replied, wincing slightly as she tried to shift her weight so that she might pull her legs out from under her.
She watched her husband rising with little difficulty. When he held his uninjured hand out to her, she grasped it lightly.
With a gentle tug he helped her to her feet. She carefully removed the dishtowel from his right hand and inspected his palm – grateful to find the cuts superficial and already not bleeding anymore.
"This is going to smart for a while. You should let Mr. Molesley and Mr. Barrow serve tomorrow."
He nodded in acquiescence.
"We are getting ahead of ourselves. Tomorrow morning we will make an appointment with Dr Clarkson and listen to what he has to say. If your fears turn out to be true, we will deal with the situation as we've dealt with every crisis we've ever encountered – one step at a time, together."
For the first time that evening he felt his own eyes filling with tears – her determination, the lack of doubt in her voice overwhelming him. Not for the first time he wondered what he had done to deserve the love of the strong woman standing in front of him.
"Now sit down while I get our dinner! I'm afraid it's already going to be as tough as leather." She stepped away but before she could turn back towards the kitchen, he grasped her hand and pulled her back to him.
Enveloping her in his arms he cradled her to him, pressing a reverent kiss to the top of her head.
She pulled back slightly, her arms still encircling his waist. A single tear escaped her left eye as she looked at him. "In sickness and in health. Until death do us part – and don't you forget it, Charles," she reaffirmed.
He reached out and gently wiped the tear from her cheek before allowing her to make her way into the kitchen.
By the time she returned with the stew, he had picked up the last shards of glass and discarded them in the rubbish.
She handed him a plate and he carefully took it with his right hand.
"How is your hand?"
"Steady," he rumbled, "but then you promised that you'd always hold my hand if I needed to feel steady."
Her eyes widened as she realized that those daring words spoken on a sunny Brighton beach took on a whole new meaning in light of recent events and not for the first time in her life she wondered about providence and fate.
"This is good," her husband interrupted her musings. She took a bite of the stew and he watched in amusement as she tried – and failed – to hide her disgust with the rubbery meat.
When she started eying her napkin speculatively, he began laughing – a full, uninhibited laugh that soon brought tears to his eyes.
It took her only a moment before she joined him. She watched him get up and head into the kitchen, rummaging around their cold box for something that might make a passable dinner.
Yes, she thought, as she reached for her glass of water to wash down the last bit of meat, they would be alright. They always were.
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