A/N: Um, hey there. So, just throwing this new little period/canon fic out there. It's been brewing in my head for a long time now, this idea that perhaps the development of "Chelsie" as we were allowed to see it happened more behind the television screen than on it. And in my head canon, it was officially "begun" at the end of S3, Ep 3. It's not a new idea, but I hope this will be a new take on it. It's a different style for me - short chapters, present tense, un-beta'd, glimpses in some regards with gaps for you to fill in on your own; the intention, overall, is to weave in what we've seen on our screens and add to it in a believable way. We'll see how that goes.

Until I finish After the Fall, this won't be updated swiftly. But give it a follow if you like it, please, and we'll see where we end up. The intention at this point is to have this story go from S3 Ep 3 to post-S6.

As I sometimes do, each chapter will open with a nod to a song, or perhaps a quote. A few come from the same one, but I don't think I'll identify them all yet. Take them as "inspirational quotes," and maybe as a little wave from me to those of you who are music and word lovers. At the culmination of the story, I'll publish an entire song and quote list and put a playlist on Spotify for you all.

If you can, drop me a wee review and let me know what you think! I've missed our period/canon Chelsie! Shout-out to mistressdickens for her tumblr post on missing the non-modern fics, which encouraged me to put this out there months ahead of when I'd intended to do so.

xx,

CSotA

When it rains, it pours

and opens doors

and floods the floors

we thought would always

keep us safe and dry ...

May, 1920

The housekeeper isn't sure she's ever felt so relieved in all her life. She just keeps walking down the path in a daze, with Mrs. Patmore by her side.

She thanks God for the cook, truly, for this friend in whom she's been able to confide, the one who has (mostly) kept her secret, and who has made sure she was cared for these past several weeks. Their friendship is a far cry from where they started so many years ago, and Mrs. Hughes knows she is lucky to have another woman she trusts in the downstairs realm. She told Mr. Carson that today's was an errand that she had to do for herself, but now she's sure she couldn't have done it alone.

"Your tests came back clear - it's not cancer, just a benign cyst."

More wonderful words have never tumbled from the lips of Dr. Clarkson; Mrs. Hughes is sure of very little these days, but she's sure of this.

Benign cyst. It is playing on an endless loop in her head, and she notices after a while that her footsteps are marching to the beat of the syllables … or her mind is matching them, anyhow. Be-nign-cyst ... Left-right-left ...

"Are you alright?" comes the voice by her side.

Mrs. Hughes turns swiftly to look at her friend. "Alright? I'm more than alright, Mrs. Patmore. Whyever wouldn't I be?"

"You seem … well, I'm not sure. Not as exuberant as I expect I would be in your shoes. That's all. It's nothing; don't mind me."

"I am sure that once I'm able to get a few good nights' sleep, I'll be jumping for joy. Until then, I'm focused on simply getting to the end of this day."

The cook nods, and they progress the rest of the way back to the Abbey in silence.

Once in the warmth of the kitchen, Mrs. Hughes can hear him immediately; he's tucked away in his pantry, and she can tell from the soft clang of the metal and the faint smell of the polish that he's working on the silver.

"He'll be happy to hear," Mrs. Patmore murmurs.

Mrs. Hughes pauses a moment, then whispers, "Why don't you go and speak with him, then?"

"Well, perhaps I shall at that," Mrs. Patmore replies, patting the housekeeper's clenched hands. "Oh, wait, here he comes …"

Mrs. Hughes ducks around the corner, narrowly missing the butler as he enters the kitchen, the swish of her coat undetected by him as his attention is focused on Mrs. Patmore.

"Well?" she hears Mr. Carson murmur, but she's tucked herself into the nearest doorway and misses the next bit ...

"Is it or isn't it?"

"It's not cancer, no. It's a benign … something or other, nothing more."

His sigh echoes through the kitchen.

"Don't mention that you've said anything. She doesn't know that I know."

"I won't say a word."

Mrs. Hughes hears his footsteps; she re-enters the kitchen as he's crossing to his pantry … A precarious dance that we're doing around this wall, she thinks, but there's nothing to be done about it.

"Well? Did you tell him?"

"I would prefer to say I put him out of his misery," the cook replies with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

Mrs. Hughes smiles, and it's time to make her way back to her sitting room, to do a few tasks before heading up to change her dress; the rest of the world isn't stopping just for her good fortune, and she's well aware of it. There's much to be done to prepare for the following -

Not four steps out into the corridor, she hears him again.

Is he … singing? Oh, surely not …

But he is, and she peers into his doorway to see him buffing a silver tray, his soft singing growing a bit louder and a bit higher as the words go on; the longer she listens, the deeper the sound of his voice travels into her heart, planting a seed of something she thought she'd given up on … and then her mind pays attention to the words themselves ...

"Dashing away with a smoothing iron, dashing away with a smoothing iron, dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away."

Mr. Carson places the tray in its rightful place; as he turns back, he sees something flicker out of the corner of his eye; he stops his humming immediately and looks through the doorway, and the polishing cloth slips from his hand. It falls onto the floor, an event which goes wholly unnoticed by him.

He's frozen in place, a flush creeping up his neck, and he can do nothing to stop it.

She moves from her spot in the corridor and steps into the room, lip still clenched between her teeth. Her eyes are shimmering, and he realizes at once that it is a combination of tears and mirth.

"Mrs. Hughes," he manages, attempting to swallow his embarrassment. "I assumed you'd gone up to change for the evening."

"Not yet," she acknowledges, her bottom lip now redder than the one above it, and slightly swollen.

That blasted lip again. I wonder … Does she even realize she does it? When she's concentrating, or worried, or confused by something. If only I could touch it, soothe it, perha-

"Mr. Carson?"

Her voice interrupts his thoughts and he feels the flush more strongly on his cheeks now, clearly brought on by unease and not the effort of the polishing; he is certain that, in this fleeting moment, it is clear to her, too.

She misses nothing, after all.

And neither does he - not where she's concerned. He can't help his eyes as they travel over her hat, her coat, the lovely pale green scarf with the faint print; her hair is slightly mussed under the hat, as though the wind were strong on their walk back to the Abbey -

"You were … singing, Mr. Carson."

Her words bring him back to the present. Her brilliant smile makes his breath catch, and he knows now that she really has heard him, has likely been listening.

"Well," he rumbles, clearing his throat, "I didn't realize anyone was there to hear it."

A loving kindness appears in her brilliant blue eyes and he almost crumbles on the spot, though from what he isn't exactly sure.

"I was." It's a whisper, so soft that she's not sure if she spoke the words aloud.

She licks her lip then, feels the sting on the small spot she's niggled open with her teeth; wonders, in the now very tense atmosphere that exists in the room, if the risk is truly worth the reward, or if she'd do better to just let it be. And just as she wonders it, she brushes the concern aside; letting things be isn't her forte, after all.

"Why?" she breathes.

He stands up a bit straighter, which she'd not have thought possible until he actually does it.

"I'm sorry?"

She inhales, then pauses ... and then tips the scales forever.

"Was it for me?"

Her blue eyes are piercing him now, and he is - all at once, and all over again for the millionth time - enraptured.

"Was what for you?" he whispers.

Mrs. Hughes would have rolled those piercing blue eyes if not for the almost pained look on his face. She can tell the man is at the brink of his emotional tolerance, and she can't bear to tease him - not now. So, instead, she opts for a different action: she takes another step forward, bends down to pick up the cloth, then stands and hands to him, allowing her fingers to brush his.

"The song, Mr. Carson."

Her voice is quiet - barely a murmur - and yet he can hear it echo loudly in his own mind and heart as though she's screamed the words into his ear.

His lips press together tightly. He moves to straighten his waistcoat, but then remembers he's wearing the blasted polishing apron. He takes a deep breath, and nods - one brief, curt nod, one that she might have missed had she blinked at the wrong time.

The relief she feels is overwhelming, and it washes over her like a sudden, torrential rain; the sense of acknowledgement, of affirmation, after all these years, that there truly is something hidden deep within the man, something for her that might even extend far beyond the friendship they've always had … something that is calling out to that same feeling she's kept buried in her own chest all these many years.

"Well, then," she says softly, a new smile playing about her lips, "I shall leave you to it."

She makes her way through the door, then rests her hand on the knob as she turns to face him once again, catching him out as he stares unabashedly at her, myriad emotions written all over his strong, beautiful face.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson."

He merely closes his eyes briefly and nods a second time; she turns once again to head up to her room and change into her evening dress.