A/N: I can't believe I actually wrote something! And it's safe for work too! Well I never. As always: reviews rock my socks, so don't hesitate!
The closer they get, the harsher his words are, the more she looks at him showing him she is taking none of his lip. When he said she was a disappointment, it was almost painful, like being tugged on the lip during a ferocious kiss. Painful and delightful at the same time. Sparring with Mr Carson is getting ready for a night of passion, of comfort, of gentle hands, pushing and pulling, lips on collarbone. He says she will never abandon him and she doesn't reply. They both know it is true, they both know she couldn't. They both know he is taking Lady Sybil's death hard, like all the other changes that are upon them, relentless in their upheaval.
When the night falls and she can hear his words reverberate in her mind, her ear, his voice carrying so deeply, she can almost touch it, she goes off to find him. He did not call on her this evening. There was no wine, there was no toast, only solitude and thoughts about how the world is changing, becoming less painful, allowing people to pick up where they left off before the war, before they fell. She has fallen. She has tried to deny it, but coming home to a man who sings when he is told you will not die tomorrow, next week, next month, is too much for a woman to hide away.
The keys softly jingle at her hip, her constant reminder she is forgetting herself, reminding her she is letting go, embracing the changes that are coming with this new age. The war is over, women are getting the vote, there's an electric toaster in her room. Women still die in childbirth. Her deep, sorrowful sigh echoes against the walls. She is not coping very well with the loss of Lady Sybil either, but she has to press on, has to remind herself that she is alive, that if she is to be worthy of that, she has to let go of thoughts, customs, traditions that she has lived with for decades.
She knocks on his door after unlocking the door between corridors. She is not supposed to do this, like she isn't supposed to be in love, like she isn't supposed to know lust or desire. There's no answer and she pushes the door ajar, peeks around the frame. He is reading. Dickens, no doubt. Dickens for when everybody knew where they stood. Housemaids did not fall and get picked up again. Aristocratic daughters didn't marry Irish rebels. There was only purity and honesty, hardship and how to overcome it.
Sentimentality.
He coughs and she whispers a kindness. She notices how he startles and turns, dropping the book on the floor. She hurries in and closes the door before picking it up, placing it on his nightstand. She takes off her robe and hangs it up next to his, pushes off her slippers, undoes the top two buttons of her nightgown and pushes aside the blankets from his form.
He is wearing the same pyjamas he wore when he was ill. Years have gone by and he has not bought himself a pair of new ones. His silence is deafening as she slides in with him, pushing him slightly to the side to give her enough space. She had expected him to be rigid, to vocalise his dismay, but he tangles his limbs with hers, puts his arm under her shoulders, pulls her to his chest. Her cheek and ear lay on the soft cotton, his heart is beating steadily, his breath is in her hair, his free hand is on her hip, making its way to her bottom.
It's so I won't fall out of bed, she thinks, steadying herself. Then she feels his lips on her hair, the hand firmly grasping her bottom, pulling her against him even more and she cannot help but smile.
"Goodnight." She says.
"Goodnight." He answers.
When she wakes up, the sun is in his room, she realizes he doesn't close his curtains before bed. She also realizes that her back is against his chest and his hand has found a way to her breast.
There are worse ways to wake up.