A/N: set in series 3, around the time of the cancer scare
The way the sunlight filters through the window and touches her hair makes him pause.
She is sitting at the servant's table, likely believing she is alone, savoring a blessed moment of peace before the day begins. But he is there, and because he is, and because they are both still, as they so rarely are in the harsh light of day, he can see the shadows that have pooled beneath her eyes, and he wonders when she last slept soundly.
He frowns.
He notices her worrying her lower lip with extra vigor, knotting and unknotting her fingers on her lap. He thinks that if he walked in now, if he called her name and her eyes met his, he'd see that hers were filled with tears.
He bites the inside of his own cheek in hurt and dismay. He wishes she would speak to him, though he knows exactly why she won't. He is painfully aware of the image he projects. He understands acutely that his behavior reads as cold, hard, and closed-minded.
Even to her.
Even to her, he thinks, because she knows the reasons for his cool exterior. She knows his insecurities, knows he hides them with decorum, knows he puts his self-worth in his position. He knows she knows. But he also knows that she knows that he won't change, not even for her. Or at least, that must be how it appears. How many times had they toed that particular line? He thinks by now it must be threadbare.
He bites his cheek harder as her shoulders begin to shake. It's plain to see that she is scared, but he has rebuffed her emotions so many times before, how can he go to her now? How could he envelop her in his arms and whisper soothing words, when in the past he's always met her attempts at friendship with such resistance?
He looks at her, trembling there, so different from the woman he sees every day, and he realizes what a terribly selfish fool he's been. How selectively he's loved her. For there is no other word for what he feels for this fiery, clever, quick-witted, stubborn woman. And she loves him too, he thinks. How deeply, he isn't sure.
What he does know is that he has not been fair to her; he has not been good; he does not deserve her. He has taken all she has offered, and only given what he felt like. He has withheld his support, his emotions, his friendship from her all in the name of reputation, in the name of seemliness. Hadn't he always come to her in moments of doubt, hesitation, sadness, and even fear? And hadn't she always been there? Ready and willing to give, to help, to heal in whatever way she could?
He swallows thickly as he stands there, immobile, watching her suffer alone.
He could not say 'to hell' with propriety, and he knows she'd never ask him to—neither of them are as modern as all that—but maybe the rules can be bent, just a little, for a friend in need.
He regards her for a few more moments in silence, and feels his heart thud against his ribs. His time is running short. The others will be up soon.
With a quick breath to steady himself, Mr. Carson steps out from the shadows and into the early morning light.
Mrs. Hughes startles, but remains where she is. She holds his eyes, makes no attempt to hide her tears. There is a tense moment, filled with questions and answers unspoken, and then he goes to her. He takes her in his arms, and lets her cry against his chest while he makes gentle patterns with his hand across her back.
When they part, he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. He hopes in that soft flex of muscles he conveys how things have changed. She will not have to suffer alone.
Not anymore.