Updated A/N: This started as a one-shot fic for the lovely evitamockingbird on the event of her 2016 birthday. Well ... it's now her 2017 birthday, so it's being continued. (P.S. Charlie's birth date is a bit off - I'm usually a real stickler for those dates and details - but it's fiction, so hopefully you'll all forgive me this once.) x

September, 1906

Mr. Carson rose early that morning, as was his habit. He gathered his things and headed into the bathroom, and he could hear the maids and hall boys just beginning to scurry about as he was lathering his face. Looking in the mirror over the sink and drawing the pristine blade across his cheek, he took a moment to examine his features.

Regal, Alice had once told him.

Hardly, he thought.

He'd always been rather ashamed of his size - a head taller than all the other boys, his nose a bit too large for his face during that time when boys are growing all out of balance, his expressive eyebrows, his broad shoulders. Once his voice changed, however, he learned how to utilize all of that to appear in command; coupled with the now-booming voice, he supposed his physical appearance and presence had always served him well in his chosen profession.

He rinsed the blade and finished up before heading back to his room.

Not bad, old chap, he mused as he combed and styled his locks. Some more grey hairs, but dignified … dignified, yes.

As he donned his jacket, he gave one more look in the mirror, declaring himself ready to face the day.

Almost, he added, with a wistful glance at the object still residing atop his desk. But nothing to be done about that now.

He exited his room and closed the door behind himself before making his way down for the staff breakfast.

At least none of them know, he thought, smiling as he entered the servants' hall, the scraping of chairs and murmured "Good morning, Mr. Carson" the only acknowledgement he received on the morning of the day when he turned fifty years old.

He was a rather private man at heart, and it certainly wouldn't do to have the staff paying him attention with cakes and crackers and singing and - Heaven forbid - gifts.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Mrs. Hughes took her seat, side-eyeing the butler as he sipped at the tea she'd prepared for him. She'd glanced at him long enough on his way into the room to realize he'd not yet found his gift, for which she was grateful.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson," she'd greeted him cheerfully, and she'd been pleased to see him smile and return the sentiment in his usual, solemn tone - all propriety and style and grace, even in that.

He'll discover it soon enough, she thought as she bit down on her toast. One of the maids giggled at something Thomas said, and Mrs. Hughes shot a warning glance down the table, gift forgotten for the time being.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Mr. Carson sat down rather abruptly in his chair, flabbergasted. In his hand, he held an opened box.

He'd spied it upon his desk immediately upon entering his pantry, of course, something out of place in his domain. Having decided not to raise a booming enquiry out into the hall, he'd merely closed his door and picked the box up off of his desktop, removed its simple bow and unpatterned wrapping paper, and carefully lifted the lid.

The contents of the box had shifted a bit when he'd unceremoniously plopped down. He reached in and removed a thin-but-sturdy chain for his pocket watch, a new chain that would replace the one that had broken only last week, much to his consternation.

He expected the gentle knock on the door, but he also expected the door to then swing open, which it did not.

"Come in, Mrs. Hughes," he called, and even in his annoyance at the gift, he smirked at her timid expression when she entered the room - noting with a shake of his head that she closed the door behind herself again. She usually left it open, and so she must be expecting a dressing down.

"This," he said to her, raising the chain up and dangling it between his fingers, "deserves an explanation."

She stood before his desk, chin raised somewhat defiantly. "I've no idea what you mean, Mr. Carson."

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, I very much doubt that, Mrs. Hughes. Please," he added with a wave of his hand toward his chairs by the fire, "sit."

She pulled one over toward his desk and sat obediently, fully prepared for the deluge of words she was sure he'd be unleashing, words about privacy and rules and nosy housekeepers.

But she was rather taken aback when none of those words came.

"How did you know?" he whispered instead as he laid the box aside and ran the chain between his fingers.

"I noticed it gone last week," she admitted. "At first, I thought you'd simply forgotten to wear it."

She laughed, and he looked up at her, meeting her eyes and seeing a hint of her caring within them.

"I should have known better," she went on. "You'd never forget to wear it; it's too precious to you."

"What makes you say that?"

"You said that," she told him. "Quite a while back, now, perhaps. But you did."

He let his gaze drop from hers, his mind's eye traveling back over their myriad conversations since she'd become housekeeper … and even some from before that. He remembered them all, those blessed little moments of time that he managed to carve out for her in his life, moments when her grace and charm and beauty seemed to add a touch of loveliness to his otherwise very routine days and nights.

"Ohhh," he said, his voice rumbling as his eyes closed and he nodded slowly. "The Christmas when your mother was ill. I remember now." He looked up at her. "But I'm surprised you did. That was a very rough time for you."

A flicker of sadness appeared in her eyes, seen by him before she managed to whisk it away. "It was," Mrs. Hughes acknowledged, worrying her lip a bit as she spoke. "And your support that night meant a great deal to me, Mr. Carson. More than you know, I think."

"Hm." He looked at the chain again, remembering how they'd shared stories that night over a glass of port - stories of her mother, far away in Argyll and dying, with only a neighbor there to provide care; stories of his father, long-since gone, a gentle and kind man from whom Mr. Carson had learned much, not the least of which was how to be a good, kind man himself despite his seemingly harsh demeanor.

"But how did you know it was today?" he asked, still a bit mystified. They'd spoken of many things that night, but the day Charles Carson had come into the world was not one of them.

She chuckled. "I maintain the staff records," she reminded him. "I've known when your birthday was ever since I became housekeeper."

"And you've said nothing," he marveled. "I thank you for that."

"Of course not. You're a private man, Mr. Carson. There's nothing wrong with that."

They sat quietly for a moment, the din in the corridor reminding them that there was work to be done, that they needed to get moving soon enough.

"It snapped when I was tucking the watch in," he said suddenly. "I've no idea how old it was, but I knew it couldn't be repaired. No replacement link would have matched, not now. It had been my intention to replace it on my next half day, but that seems to keep getting delayed with all we've had going on."

She smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt, and the light from the fire in his hearth made her dark brown hair seem aflame with auburn - something he noticed frequently but never commented on. "Well, now you won't have to. I wish you a very Happy Birthday, Mr. Carson. And have no fear - the date of your birthday is still a secret which will remain safe with me."

He caught her gaze again, and she winked at him.

Winked.

For the first time in many, many years, Mr. Carson - imposing Butler of Downton Abbey - felt his heart flutter.

He tilted his head in thanks, unable to verbally speak all the words in his heart about his gratitude and caring for the woman seated before him.

But Mrs. Hughes, ever the attentive housekeeper, heard them anyway.