To look at yourself as you do at foreign things
A/N: I've been prompted to write a one-shot explaining all the father-daughter vibes between Carson and Mary we've been getting hinted at a lot lately. So here goes. I'd appreciate your feedback, since this is a completely foreign territory for me. Thanks for reading!
She dreams the same dream, ever since she's been a little girl. Her three-year-old self is peeking around a doorframe, intently watching a woman in eggshell dress and a man in black having a conversation.
"What if it's a boy?" the man says, wringing his hands together.
"He'll think the first time was a bad fluke."
"And if it's a girl again?"
"He'll think that's what it's meant to be."
The man lets out a long, heavy breath, and nods. "So we're safe?"
The three-year-old Mary cannot say, but her older self knows that the woman flinches, almost imperceptibly, and looks away.
"Of course we are."
In the first year of her marriage, she wakes up with the same feeling she'd had when she went to bed.
Inadequacy.
She's never good enough. Not for her parents-in-law, not for her new husband, not for his sister, always watching her attentively down the rather impressive length of her nose.
Never good enough.
Title-hunter, whose fortune was oh so gracefully accepted, and yet still held against her. Foreigner whose manner of speaking, acting, breathing, even, made it so difficult for everyone to truly embrace her, welcome her into the family.
She's not family. Perhaps she never will be.
Yet there are people who never cease to treat her as if it was a matter long since accomplished.
"Tea, milady?"
She likes his voice, this prim and proper under-butler whose dark, attentive eyes shine ever so slightly when he sees her. "Thank you, Carson."
He leans over her, tall and looming, smelling of cheap cologne she finds strangely familiar. It's the smell of people who aren't the Crawleys. It's the smell of belonging. It's the solid, trustworthy aroma of duty and sadness.
He's not exactly on her side, but at least he's not one of them, always against her.
She becomes aware of the unusual stillness of the house around them; naturally, it's always still at this time of day, with her husband in London and his parents being entertained by one of their many friends. She'd got used to that quite early on—perhaps this is why she is now an expert in catching the barely audible murmurs of maids tiptoeing down the corridors, the soft touches of feather dusters against the leather spines of books. "Where is everyone?"
He continues to pour the tea, always the unmovable statue of polite indifference—yet still a warm, breathing person, a heartbeat in a snowstorm.
"They've gone down to the fair in the village, milady, seeing that most of the family are away."
So she's keeping him here, prisoner to her whims—what an adventurous thought! "I'm sorry for making you stay, Carson." I'm sure you'd rather join them than serve the woman who doesn't even deserve to be served.
"On the contrary, milady. I have no interest in fairs."
She sips on her tea, turning away from him and towards the window. "Is that an indirect way of saying that dancing is not one of your specialties?"
He stiffens behind her, straightening to all of his impressive height. "I have had enough of dancing in my time, milady. Nowadays, I believe I can find better ways to employ my skills."
Such as pouring tea and warming up the scones?, she wants to ask, but bites her lip before the words have a chance to break out of her throat. It's no use bringing her own bitterness into this. "Even so, I feel responsible for your missing all the fun."
"Please don't say that, milady," he protests in a surprisingly soft voice, wringing his hands together. "I—I find it soothing to work in peace and quiet."
"I envy you," she whispers, looking down. "I cannot stand the silence."
"Why haven't you gone with Lord and Lady Grantham, if you don't mind my asking, milady?"
"They wouldn't appreciate that," she tells her hands, clenched desperately in her lap. "My presence was not required, anyway." She lifts her head, turning towards the window again. "I wish I could drop the pretence and join the fair. Be among people."
"Do you enjoy dancing?"
She smiles at the air. "I used to. Long ago."
His hesitation is almost palpable, a wall of half-transparent warmth pressing gently against her back. "I'd hate to impose, but—"
She turns to him, wide-eyed and unblinking. "You're not."
She might be imagining this, but his ears seem to be turning the slightest shade of pink. Wincing uneasily, he extends a hand. "If I may be so forward, milady?"
Had he asked her this when she was still Cora Levinson, she wouldn't have hesitated one second. As Cora Crawley, she has so many things to think about: uncomfortable, unpleasant things, twisting within her like worms. The thought strikes her, hard and hot, and she blinks rapidly, before accepting his offer, and resting her smaller hand in his. "You may."
He pulls her up, his palm wide and reassuring as his fingers close around hers. He reaches for her waist, shyly and reverently, and she's suddenly reminded of the fact that she's wearing her afternoon dress, loose and corset-less; it should make her feel vulnerable and exposed, but the way he looks at her—calm and respectful and a little concerned—banishes such feelings straight from her mind.
This is the most inappropriate thing she could have done, by this family's standard.
She's not a part of it.
This is why she doesn't oppose when the serious and quiet under-butler touches her waist, gently, as if she was a porcelain figurine ready to be smashed into pieces under the slightest touch. His arm encompasses her, cradles her, anchors her to this house, this reality, this life. To him, being a part of it all and standing completely apart at the same time.
As he sways gently, leading her through a few steps of a simple, slow waltz, she knows without as much as a second glance that one wince, one purse of her lips would be enough to make him let go of her. He's here for her, and he will only do what she allows him to.
He shall serve her. He'll do as she pleases.
What does she please?
She's lonely. She's heartbroken. She's cold.
He's warm, and caring, and apparently willing, giving the ever so slight change in the rhythm of his breathing as he catches the scent of her hair, and his finger curl into her side with sudden possessiveness.
Would it still be taking advantage, she wonders as she raises her face to look him in the eye. Yes, she decides, it would, and she mustn't, and they better stop right here, right now…
He takes a breath, as if preparing himself for a plunge into the dark, icy cold waters of an unknown ocean, and kisses her.
The sensation is absolutely overwhelming. She's long forgotten the feel of any other lips but her husband's against her own, and the taste and smell of another man make her head swim. In this, he is the master and commander: he sets the pace, gentle, but firm, parting her lips with his tongue and tasting her as if she was an ancient wine, having rested in a dark cellar for years before he finally was allowed to try it. She thinks that yes, perhaps she was.
Soon, the touch of lips and tongues and the scraping of impatient teeth is not enough (was it ever? She surrendered herself to him completely, whether she likes to admit it or not), and he raises his head, eyes dark and inquisitive, and Cora gets the feeling hers lips must be equally red and bruised as his are. The 'what now?' hangs in the air between them, heavy and panting like an animal in heat, and she regains some of her mental composure by stepping out of the circle of his shoulders, and smoothing her dress over her hips—a movement he follows with unabashed hunger in his eyes.
"Come with me, Carson," she says, loudly and firmly, for the sake of absent servants and watchful ghosts of this house. She sets up the boundaries, she stakes her claim. She turns towards the door.
"Yes, milady," comes from behind her back, polite and respectful as always to a stranger's ear, but underlaced with a multitude of meanings to hers. Stopping at the threshold, she places one hand on the doorframe, fingers spread wide, and turns just so, enough for him to catch her profile, the smirk playing in the corner of her mouth.
"Bring your white gloves."
The material is harsh against the taut flesh of her nipple, as she gasps, throwing her head back in abandonment, resting it against his shoulder as he mouths at her neck, insistent but gentle, careful not to leave any marks. He brands her inside, he writes his name all over her skin with each touch, but it would have to be enough.
That's alright, she thinks, biting her lip to stifle a moan as she hears the shuffle of clothing being pushed aside, buttons coming undone. This is not something she's used to: standing at the foot of her bed, barely clothed, grasping at the wooden pillar and arching her back into a man's touch—a man who is not her husband, but perhaps in a way possesses her in many more ways than Robert Crawley does, even if only on this single day.
His hands travel up and down her stomach, higher and wider apart to cup her breasts, the white material cutting off sharply against her flushed skin, the moisture from where he sucked on the cotton fingertips (where she bit into them, lapping and purring like a content cat, wondering idly whether he would be able to discern her smell next time he wore them) cooling off on hot skin, leaving trails of goose bumps in its wake.
She reaches behind her, blindly, her head falling forward on a swan-like neck, exposing more of her nape and upper back to his ministrations. He shoves her hands away, none too gently. "Patience, milady," he all but laughs in her ear and she's half-mad with frenzy, with need to feel him against her, hot and breathing and oh so alive. And then one of his hands slides lower, to the apex of her thighs, and oh yes, this is going to linger on his gloves until he washes them, soapy fingers sliding across the material, stroking and kneading much like he does now, with her all too willing flesh.
"Do not make me wait," she warns him, hoping that a growl would emerge from between the gasps and the moans, and finding herself utterly disappointed on this account. He chuckles into her hair, traces her earlobe with his tongue.
"Or you'll do what, milady?" (This is a game, a power-play, and oh is she happy to be losing at it.) "Punish me?"
She opens her mouth to answer, but that's precisely when he slides into her, hot and hard and filling her up to the point where there's no place for words anymore, expect for ones that form his name and her pleading, and a name of a deity that is most probably frowning down at her this very moment.
She doesn't care, gripping the bedpost and arching back wantonly, all pretence of nobility long forgotten. She's not an aristocrat now. She's not a wife, or an heiress to a fortune, or a countess in the making. She's a woman, filled with want and need and heat. And he, he is not a quiet, faithful servant, first and foremost staying loyal to this family—not her family—he's a man, the man, one she needs so desperately she can no longer tell where she ends and he begins.
It's unwise. It's reckless. It won't happen ever again, she's sure of it even as she climbs up, trusting in his gloved hands to hold her down when she needs him to, but today, in the dull light of a cold and lonely afternoon, it's what she requires from him. The one service he cannot refuse.
The ending, the climax, is unexpected and hot, and they both breathe out barely discernable words. Not his name on her lips, not hers on his. This is not how it's done.
They rest, still joined, and his hands leave her body (already aching, despite still being filled) to cover hers, still closed tightly around the mahogany pole. "Will there be anything else, milady?"
It should sound strange and foreign, the way he asks her this just like that, as if nothing happened between them, but this is the way it should be, and she's never been more grateful for his understanding. Nothing can ever become of it.
As she shifts and lets him slip out of her body, shaking her head no (she cannot simply say 'thank you' to him, that wouldn't be right), she's left feeling fulfilled and complete rather than empty and desolate. It is a good feeling.
He straightens up his clothes as she collects herself, wrapping a robe around her, closing her eyes when the fabric shimmers over still sensitive flesh. "Perhaps one day we'll dance together again, Carson," she tells him when he pushes down the doorknob, but doesn't turn to look at him. Not now. Not yet. "Your skills are rather impressive for a man of your position."
She hopes he knows what she meant, and he doesn't disappoint. "I'm sure we will, milady."
A pause. "And thank you."
The doors close without as much as a sound.
When Robert comes back from his London holiday, almost three weeks later, she's smiling at him with warm affection. "I have missed you," she tells him, and from a spark previously absent in his gaze she knows that, surprisingly, so did he.
She takes him to her bed that night, opens herself to his touch, and tries not to remember.
She will have plenty of opportunities to.
She already knows.
Another fortnight added for good measure, and she asks for the doctor to be brought in.
End