A/N: Hi, all. Hope you've been well. It's been a bit since I've put anything out there, but this came out of nowhere. Hope you enjoy.
Sarah McLachlan - all the feels. Song is entitled "Hold On," and while this has a bit of angst, it's not precisely the same as the song.
My thanks to Hogwarts Duo for looking this over. (Shameless plug: Our joint fic "The Cursed Butler" is over 3/4 done, so stay tuned!)
xxx
CSotA
Hold on,
Hold on to yourself.
For this is gonna hurt like hell ...
The water is tepid as Elsie dips the flannel back into the basin. Swirling it around a bit, she flips it over and notices a tiny tear in one corner of the fabric, wondering if she should bring it up when the nurse returns.
Probably not.
Once she's squeezed the excess water out, she folds the cloth expertly into thirds. She's done the same thing more times than she can count over the years, minding what's seemed like a revolving door of maids, and in her thoughts she's miles away despite the precision with which she moves.
Beside her, Charles stirs, then coughs. She lays the flannel on his brow, resting her hand over it longer than is strictly necessary, and allows her fingertips to brush the stray hairs that have fallen out of their usual place.
"Elsie?"
She doesn't flinch, because she knows enough about how he sounds in his sleep to have divined that he'd begun to wake a few minutes before. But when his hand moves and the back of it grazes her hip, her breath hitches.
"You're still feverish," she mutters, pulling back a bit and clasping her hands in her lap.
Charles moves over a bit and pats the bed, encouraging her to sit more fully beside him instead of perching at the edge of the mattress; she obliges. After all, he's awake now.
"Oh, Els," he whispers, reaching up to brush a tear from her cheek. "What's all this?"
But she only shakes her head, remaining silent for the moment, and Charles reads in her face everything she cannot say: she is afraid, she is unable to discuss it at the moment, and he'd do well not to push her.
"It'll end up being nothing," he murmurs, laying his hand over hers. "It always does."
She doesn't reply, but the corners of her lips raise a bit when he pries her hands apart and lifts one of them to his lips, kissing her gently.
She hopes he's right.
oOoOoOo
My love
you know that you're my best friend.
You know that I'd do anything for you ...
It had been three months prior when Charles had fallen ill for the first time. It hadn't been a simple head cold or a flu - despite his frequent bluster about seemingly innocuous things, he rarely complained when ill - but an exhaustion that had completely overcome him. Along with it had been a slight fever after the second day, but nothing that seemed too terribly high. They'd called it a 'mystery illness' and moved on.
And then it came back again. And then a third time.
Tests were run, and Dr. Clarkson was mystified. Blood tests hadn't been indicative of anything out of the ordinary, and a physical exam seemed to indicate that it was simply a virus. After two months of going back and forth, the diagnosis had been simple: Charles Carson, formidable butler of Downton Abbey for four decades, needed to retire. Stress and age were ganging up on him, weakening his immune system, and he needed to slow down. The tremors that had begun long before only exacerbated the issue.
The news hadn't gone over well with the butler.
Elsie was beyond thankful for Mr. Barrow, for his understanding and for the gracious way he slid into his new position. He was accommodating of Charles's wishes, he noted the things that would need to change, and he paid attention to the suggestions he was given for maintaining as much of the status quo as possible.
To everyone's shock, and with very little push needed from the housekeeper, he instituted every single one of them.
Elsie needed time off in the beginning - two days in total - and Mr. Barrow managed to keep the place afloat. Even Charles had to acknowledge the younger man's willingness to succeed and his desire to do what was best not only for the house but also for the housekeeper, and Elsie would come to wonder if that was perhaps what kept her husband from completely falling to bits in those first few weeks.
The days came more quickly once things were settled, and she thought that would be the end of it. They had more free time with Charles's retirement, and he was exploring opportunities and leisure activities he'd never had a chance to even give a second glance before. Nights were spent sharing not only intimacies, but other things as well: reading aloud to one another after dinner, letters to and from Becky, photographs from their respective childhoods. Best friends for decades, getting to know each other even better than ever in their new life. Elsie had thought the illness was behind them.
She was wrong.
He fell ill again only a week ago, and this time it seemed to be making the tremor in his hand worse than usual. The fever was back, along with the cough, and while Charles insisted it was all coincidence, his wife was not convinced.
Elsie Carson, rational as the day was long, feared the worst. It was completely unlike her, and yet she couldn't help it. When she was able to sleep, flashbacks of Spanish flu filled her nightmares.
More tests were ordered, and as Charles's fever crept higher, the doctor insisted upon watching over him in hospital instead of at the cottage.
After two days, Elsie informed her Ladyship that she would be remaining at the hospital with Charles until they had more answers.
Lady Grantham, with a poorly-masked fear in her eyes, agreed.
oOoOoOo
So now you're sleeping ... peaceful.
I lie awake and pray
that you'll be strong tomorrow and we'll
see another day …
Elsie's mind plays a series of familiar words over and over as her hand absentmindedly brushes over her husband's, words that make up a prayer from her childhood, and it occurs to her that she'd not properly prayed in a long time. She's gone through the memorized ones well enough at church, of course, but she's not felt the need in a long while to formulate silent, personal pleas for loved ones ...
Or for herself.
But now everything is different, because now Elsie has a life outside of the house, someone to care for who is more than just a co-worker, friend, or employer. She has a beautiful life, a husband who adores her and a future with him by her side in a way she'd always hoped for but never dared dream would happen.
And she is terrified. Charles has been asleep more than he's been awake this last day and a half, and his tremor - which normally ceases in his sleep - has only become worse than it was before they went to the hospital. The doctor had prescribed some medication to ward off any underlying infection that may have gone undetected, and while Elsie knows that the tremor could be a side effect of the stress of Charles's being ill, she can't help the terror she feels.
It takes her aback, too, this fear. She thinks it may be worse even than the fear she'd had during her own cancer scare years ago. Then it had been her life, of course, and not his. The knowledge that over the years she'd pushed herself past the limits of what a body should accomplish in a day's time had enabled her to think that the lump in her breast was God's way of telling her to slow down.
Well, Charles had slowed down when he fell ill, too, but since then - after a short, blissful period of newlywed life - he had only gotten worse.
Her mind is full now of myriad images instead of prayers: a singing butler tossing a tray; the scent of white roses amongst heather; the sound of waves crashing in the distance as a gentle breeze blows in the window, ruffling the curtain; the soft whisper of her husband's voice in her ear; the feel of his bare chest on her own.
"Mrs. Carson?"
She flinches, startled, completely unaware that Dr. Clarkson had entered the room.
"I'm sorry," she tells him, her voice still sounding far away to her ears as she feels a warmth pink her cheeks. "I was off with the fairies, I think."
His smile is kind, understanding, and he nods. "You must be exhausted," he replies. "I think I would be." He points to the basin, where a newer, not-torn flannel now lies folded over the edge of the porcelain. "You know, we pay nurses to do that sort of thing."
Elsie raises an eyebrow, and he chuckles.
"It was worth a try," he says, his eyes alight with mirth. "But there's the Mrs. Carson I've come to know. Not taking cheek from the doctor just like she'd not be taking it from a maid."
Elsie can't help herself; she feels it bubble up inside of her, and a small laugh erupts from her lips.
"I suppose that's true," she acknowledges.
Just then, Charles mumbles in his sleep. It's unintelligible, but it draws their attention. Elsie watches in silence as the doctor lifts her husband's wrist and checks the clock on the wall above the bed, measuring Charles's pulse.
Charles's hand has stilled again, Elsie notes.
"His pulse is steadier than yesterday," he reassures her, gently placing Charles's hand back on the blanket. "He's in a very deep sleep, Mrs. Carson. You should go home, perhaps. Get some rest of your own."
Elsie rises from the bed and moves over to the arm chair that the nurse had brought in yesterday. She pulls it closer to the bed and sits, then looks up at the doctor.
"I'll be fine here," she insists, and the look in her eyes this time isn't one of mirth or chiding, but something entirely more personal.
"I'll fetch you the blanket from my office," Dr. Clarkson says softly. "It's soft, Scottish wool."
"Comforts of home," Elsie says, grateful, and he nods.
oOoOoOo
Am I in heaven here or am I in hell?
At the crossroads I am standing ...
Charles coughs. It's a deep, watery sound, and it startles his wife awake.
"Charles?"
She's up and by his side in a flash, ignoring the crick in her neck from the position in which she'd fallen asleep some hours before.
His eyes open; he's awake for the first time in nearly a day - fully awake, his eyes bright behind the tears the cough has brought, his cheeks flushed from the effort.
She hands him a handkerchief, and he sputters a bit into it before wiping at his mouth.
"Here," Elsie says, handing him a glass of tepid water. "Take a small sip if you can."
Charles obliges, and the concentration it requires distracts him momentarily, allowing him to calm a bit.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Elsie whispers, lovingly brushing the hair from his damp brow. "You seem cooler; I think your fever broke when you were asleep."
"I'm so tired," he replies, and his normally deep, loud rumble is weak and raspy.
Just then, a nurse comes in.
"I see you're awake, Mr. Carson. How are you feeling?"
"Weak," he replies honestly, much to the surprise of his wife. "Tired."
"Let's take your temperature," she answers, and the thermometer goes under his tongue.
"The fever seems to have gone in the night," Elsie informs her.
The nurse glances at his pajamas, which are damp. "Sweat out while you were asleep, most likely. You'll need a bath, Mr. Carson, once we're finished checking your vitals."
The look on his face is priceless, and his wife chuckles; the nurse can't be a day over twenty-five.
"I think I'll manage that myself," Elsie says to the young woman. The nurse just shakes her head, knowing by now that it is pointless to argue with her patient's wife.
"If you'd like."
She removes the thermometer after another minute and reads it. "Looks about perfect, Mr. Carson. I'd say you're on the mend. I'll send the doctor in to see you shortly."
"Are there any results from the testing?" Charles asks.
"I believe so."
Elsie and Charles both watch as the nurse leaves the room, and then Elsie turns back to her husband, gently takes his face in her hands, and bends to kiss him heartily on the lips.
"What was that for?" Charles asks, breathless, as Elsie touches her forehead to his.
"You daft man," she whispers, and Charles realises she seems to be holding back tears. "I was beginning to worry you'd never wake up!"
"Elsie, how long did I sleep?" he enquires.
"Nearly sixteen hours."
"What?"
Elsie stands up straight again before sitting on the edge of the bed. She reaches for his hand, which he gives her willingly. It's still not trembling, and she sends up a swift prayer of thanks.
"I've never known you to sleep that deeply," Elsie confides. "You barely moved, except to cough on occasion."
"Yes, well, this cough needs to go away," he grumbles. "I'm sorry that I frightened you. And I feel I could sleep another sixteen, by the way. I don't think I felt this way when I had the flu."
"Let's not revisit that, thank you," Elsie chides.
"No, definitely not," he agrees, and the flick of his bushy eyebrows warms her heart.
One step at a time, she thinks just as he squeezes her hand.
oOoOoOo
I love the light that brings a smile
across your face …
"But you said it wasn't pneumonia?" Charles asks as he watches Dr. Clarkson open his file and withdraw something.
"It didn't appear that it was, Mr. Carson," the doctor explains patiently. "The blood work and other symptoms did not indicate that type of infection. It was only upon taking the radiograph that we found it."
He clips the image to a light board and illuminates it. "Here … do you see?" he asks, indicating a shaded area on the picture of Charles's lungs. "This spot? It's indicative of a pneumonic infection. Your pneumonia was lying in wait for quite some time."
"Since he first came down with a cold?" Elsie asks, and the doctor nods.
"Yes. I'd wager that when you initially fell ill, Mr. Carson, you had a mild bronchitis. But the stress of work, combined with the emotional toll of leaving employment, must have weakened you just enough for the infection to flourish."
"But he felt fine in between bouts of feeling ill," Elsie says. "So I don't understand how that's possible."
"Pneumonia is tricky, Mrs. Carson. It needs just the right circumstances to erupt into a full-blown infection. And there are different types, which account for the initial confusion."
He turns to Charles before continuing. "The medication you've received here helped a small bit, but I've changed it now that we're certain you have pneumonia. Starting today, you'll be administered a serum. I could explain it in detail -"
"No, thank you," Charles interrupts, holding his hand up and waving it a bit and knowing that, if details are to be had, his wife will obtain them later. "When can I go home?"
"Should be within a few days."
"And the tremor?" Charles presses. "It's been so much worse."
"And it's fine now," Elsie reminds him, her eyes glancing at his hands, which are still.
"That was likely worse because of your anxiety and illness," Dr. Clarkson says. "Remember, the tremor will worsen over time as you age."
"We know," Elsie interjects. "But he can go home next week?"
"I don't see why not."
Charles looks up at Elsie. "That sounds just all right, then," he says, sighing happily.
oOoOoOo
My love,
let nothing come between us.
My love for you is strong and true.
Over the next month, Charles improves considerably, no doubt due in large part to the dedicated care of his wife.
"You've got to go to work," he tells her one morning, watching her from his chair at the table. "I'm fine. Truly."
But Elsie only shakes her head as she rinses a plate in the sink. "Ten o'clock, Charles. They can do without me until then, according to Mr. Barrow.
"Hmph."
She turns, wiping her hands on a dish cloth. "Really, Charles. He insisted! The family are down to only Lord and Lady Grantham now, most days, unless the Dowager is visiting. There simply isn't as much to be done. Anna and Miss Baxter are more than capable of handling it for a few extra hours in the morning." She pauses, then smirks at him. "It's like … practice."
Charles extends his arms to her, and she willingly steps into his embrace, draping her own arms over his shoulders and dropping a kiss to his head.
"It is," he agrees.
They stand like that for several minutes, with Charles holding his wife close, before her hands move back a bit, her fingers threading through the hair at the back of his head.
"Three months," she whispers, gazing down lovingly at him, her thumb brushing his cheek.
"Three months," he repeats. "And then forever."
A strange sadness flashes across her features, and his gaze becomes one of silent question.
Elsie shakes her head. "I thought … When you were in hospital," she begins, but her voice catches.
"Don't," he says, hugging her a bit more closely. "It was nothing. I'm nearly back to normal."
"It wasn't nothing," she argues gently.
"It wasn't fatal," he argues back. "I am better now."
"And if you weren't?"
Charles pulls on her arms, encouraging her to sit on his lap, and she obliges.
"But I am," he says, "thanks to your good care. I will be tip-top by the time you retire, and then every day can be filled with whatever we dream up."
"And the nights too?" she smirks, and he chuckles.
"Yes," he laughs. "Those, too. This old curmudgeon loves you, Elsie Carson. I hope you know."
She leans down and captures his lips with hers, a bit more insistently than he's used to.
"I do," she murmurs when they break apart. "And I love you just as much."
"I don't think that is possible," he whispers.
She leans back and looks at him sternly. "Don't argue with me, Mr. Carson."
He raises his eyebrows in earnest. "I wouldn't dream of it, love."
The End
Damn it, Jim, I'm a fanfic writer, not a doctor. Pneumonia treatment changed to penicillin around the mid 1940s, and along with that same timeframe came an awareness of "walking pneumonia." We're going to assume Charles was suffering from that, although treatment in the mid-20s was still antiserum fabricated from animals. Because #themoreyouknow. Thanks for reading, folks. I'd love a wee review if you're so inclined. xx