A one-shot for the lovely Jenny, from a long-ago request of this same title - one that I think we both forgot about until recently. With very best wishes for peace, love, and magic on this next spin around the sun.
xxx,
CSotA
The night grows dark, and Charles sighs as he looks around his office. Several weeks in London, another Season gone, and he wonders if it's the last he'll be spending there with the family. Lady Rose's coming out ball was a huge success thanks to the swift arrival of Mrs. Hughes; together, they managed to avoid disaster on multiple occasions despite the seeming insistence of Denker to provide it, and the family were more than pleased with the outcome on all fronts.
Now, as he sits in his Downton lair, surrounded by all of its familiarity, comforts, and organization, Charles wonders if he's ever felt so alone. His fingers drum on the desktop, and his meandering gaze lands on an object tucked behind a book on his shelf. With a tired groan, he forces himself from the chair and retrieves it, sitting again and holding it up before him.
Alice's face stares off into the distance, beautiful in that frozen moment of her youth, but it gives him little pleasure, for the memory of her that lived for so very long in his heart has been ousted by much more recent, more pleasant memories … memories of events spread out over decades, moments in time that have been stitched together with words both kind and harsh, with a soft touch here or a nudge there, experiences shared between solitary individuals who have been stitching a life together without even realizing it.
Or, perhaps more accurately, he didn't realize it. He wonders quite belatedly if that's always been the case, if he's been the one slowest to arrive at what seems to him now, after a glorious afternoon in Brighton, to have been an inevitable destination.
His finger rubs over the edge of the silver frame, dearer to him by far than the photograph it contains. It had resided on his desk for exactly one week before being relegated to the recesses of the shelf, so that the silver would glint at him from time to time whilst the photograph it was meant to show off was hidden away by books.
Her footfalls in the corridor are soft, the click of her heels indicative of a tiredness in her gait that mirrors the exhaustion he feels in himself after the long journey home. But now the family is unpacked and asleep, the cook gone to bed, and the house is quiet. She doesn't need to knock, for he's left the door ajar, and so she simply nudges it open and peeks in, her hand resting on the door jamb as she stands half in, half out of his office.
"Are you going up?"
He lifts his head and begins to rise, but she waves him back into his seat and proceeds in through the door. His eyes are drawn to her, and the brilliant blue in her own eyes shines in the lamplight. He furrows his brow a bit, questioning her presence here – it's late, after all.
She notices the frame in his hand. "I wondered where that'd disappeared to," she whispers.
Charles stands finally, laying the frame down on its face, Alice hidden away once again. He moves around the desk, his exhaustion making him feel a bit bolder and less inhibited, much as she'd clearly appeared to have felt hours earlier when they'd paddled in the cold ocean water. Her slight gasp echoes in his ears and he pauses, but then she smiles softly and draws her lip beneath her teeth, waiting …
… and, finally, he arrives.
Charles reaches slowly for her face, tenderly freeing her lip with the tip of his thumb.
"You really shouldn't worry that lip so much, Mrs. Hughes." The words are spoken softly, a hint of gentleness in the man who was known for his commanding, booming presence, and the significance is not lost on either of them; something inside of him had come to life that day, something she had unlocked with a soft hand and teasing words.
He waits for her to back away, but she surprises him by resting her cheek in his palm as her eyes flutter closed, a sense of utter calm descending around them. He lays his free hand atop her shoulder, pulls her gently forward, and brushes his lips against her cheek.
"How risqué, Mr. Carson," she whispers, and it takes him by such surprise that he chuckles into the stillness of the room. And then, before he can reply, she stands up on her tiptoes and presses her lips firmly to his, reaching for his lapel and clasping it tightly as she holds him close.
When they break apart, she backs away a step, but he reaches for her hand and squeezes it before she can completely escape.
"Please …" His voice quiets, but he cannot put words to the rest of his thoughts.
"It's late, Mr. Carson," she says, a quiver in her voice.
He nods. "I know. But … tomorrow. And the days after that … you won't forget?"
She smiles up at him, her eyes brimming with tears, and she shakes her head firmly.
"No, Mr. Carson," she whispers. "And now that you're finally here with me – truly here with me – I won't let you forget, either." She tugs on his hand, pulling him toward the door.
He reaches up to extinguish the lamp, and – together – they head for the stairs. They walk up hand-in-hand, separating at the dividing door.
"Good night, Mrs. Hughes," he says to her.
She simply nods, then turns and passes through the door, locking it from the other side.
His heart fills as he watches her walk away, knowing for the first time that he'll never, ever feel alone again.
Reviews always welcome. Thanks so much for reading. *hugs*