Flush
vi. (of a person's skin or face) become red and hot, typically as the result of illness or strong emotion.
vi. glow or cause to glow with warm color or light.
n. a sudden rush of intense emotion.
n. a sudden abundance or spate of something.
n. a period when something is new or particularly fresh and vigorous.
adj. completely level or even with another surface.
...
Tralala, thanks, Google, for the flush of definitions.
...Here are more of my pre-Episode 1 speculations on the s6 spoilers. It's a way it could have gone — more or less continuing from Dubious and Edifice.
"...so I told him I'd ask you."
She stares in alarm at Mrs Patmore, then she gives a little huff, trying to mask her nerves with mock irritation.
"I suppose it's good one of us isn't feeling as awkward as the last time we spoke of it."
Mrs Patmore gives her a sympathetic little smile. She wanted to raise this question yesterday when she relayed the message from Mr Carson, but time didn't allow and now here they are, hiding in Mrs Hughes's bedroom again.
"But what on earth are you worried about? He cares about you. He loves you! After all these years, Mrs Hughes. I'm happy for you!"
"I know he said he — he loves me, Mrs Patmore. I just..."
Mrs Patmore furrows her brow, waiting. Her friend looks up at her with such pain and fear in her face, it makes her own heart clench. She waits, not wanting to press the poor woman.
"I just don't know how he can be so sure."
"I see," Mrs Patmore says then, nodding slowly. "Well —" she has to tread lightly here; it's such a delicate subject, but there is perhaps only one place to start. "Have you considered, that is, do you know what exactly it is that you want?"
Mrs Hughes bites her lip with tears in her eyes. "No," she says with a laugh that's half sob. "I'm just so —"
Terrified.
"...old."
And she shakes her head against Mrs Patmore's protests, holds her breath, bites her lip again. She refuses to go into hysterics now; it's no use anyway.
Mrs Patmore's words keep echoing through her mind.
"I said I would ask you for him."
He probably thinks she doesn't want him. Doesn't actually love him. Oh dear lord, he might even think she's only agreed to marry him for the money. What a horrible thought.
She cries in her bed, weeping at the thought of him believing that. She imagines his pain, takes it into herself, and doesn't know how to assure him that yes, she wants that too and yes, she's terribly afraid that he won't actually want what she has to offer. She's afraid of things hurting, of things not working, of the intimacy of living with this man and having all her silly little secrets laid bare for his disapproval.
He knows the one big secret and has taken her on despite it. Or perhaps because of it.
It does not occur to her that the sentence "he's taken her on" makes her sound like a burden; nor does she consider how vehemently he might reject that notion.
It's very hard to reconcile the financial realities with the memory of Christmas Eve, of his eyes filling with tears after she'd told him she'd marry him — and the relief on his face when she'd called him an old booby, for heaven's sake. Years ago he would have shouted at her for calling him such a thing. Not that she ever would have done. But on that night he seemed to wear that loving epithet with pride.
It's very hard to imagine being intimate with him, but then she's never been intimate with anybody.
In the morning she's even more exhausted than when she went to bed.
He's noticed her gloomy mood and it makes him hurt, a sharp weeping pain behind his breastbone.
She barely looks at him during dinner, and all he wants to do is take her into his arms and comfort her. But he remembers his doubts and the little worm of suspicion grows in his heart. Why did she accept him? He doesn't want to believe that she would agree to be his wife unless she loved him.
You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady.
He gives himself a little shake.
Enough.
He's got to talk with her.
"Mrs Hughes?"
Startled, she spins around in her chair to see him in her doorway, wine and two glasses in hand. She'd been planning her escape, trying to avoid a confrontation because she is not ready for this.
"Might I have a word?"
There's no way to avoid him without being rude. She nods wearily and he steps into her sitting room. When he closes and locks the door (oh dear lord), he looks at her a moment before settling into his usual seat at her little table. He pours them both a glass and she knows she should get up and join him at the table, but she feels rooted to the spot.
To top all of this nonsense, there's the fact that she will be giving up all of her rights. It's an unappealing prospect and it's certainly part of why she turned down Joe. Twice. But now it's him, and them, and it's all terribly important, so horribly real and with such high stakes.
She loves him. And her heart hurts. She sits in her desk chair feeling as if she were stuck in a naked nightmare.
He looks at her and tries to read her mind. She stares back, wondering. Then she gives a start as the beginning of his question comes out aggressively fast.
"Mrs Hughes, why —" He can see he's frightened her so he slows down, trying to gentle his desperate question. "...why did you say yes?"
Lord, please no. She begins weakly, "Why did I..."
"To my proposal. Why did you accept?"
She's got tears in her eyes and that pains him, but he's got to know.
He goes on, "Because if it's just friendship you want, just a way to retire in safety, then I'm afraid I can't —"
He holds his breath. Oh but this is so heartless; how could he possibly do this to her? What of it, if she wants his companionship but not his love? ...Ah, but no, this is not heartless at all. No, quite the contrary. If he lives with her and she doesn't want his love, then all of the seams she stitched in his heart will break open one by one, and he will bleed out every day from wanting her, from knowing she's just there but he can never touch her.
"No," she gasps, and he doesn't know which kind of 'no' it is. Which direction does it go? He can't read her. She's just shaking her head, repeating herself, and he cannot just sit there and watch her suffer.
"Elsie." She startles at the use of her name, and he holds her gaze as steadily as he can.
Then he takes a big risk — so many risks he's taken; he feels so exposed, but what's one more step? It can't get any worse, can it? He needs some clarity, for God's sake, so he takes a deep breath and speaks.
"Mrs Patmore will have told you how I feel about you, no doubt."
She nods. She feels like words are stuck in her teeth, in her throat. Whole minutes seem to go by as they watch each other.
All at once she cannot stand to see his wounded expression anymore so she somehow manages to speak. Fortunately, this time the most important words are just the ones that come tumbling out first.
"I love you too," she chokes out, and after half a second of stunned silence (crumbling relief joy everything), he stands up, crosses to her in a few long steps, takes her hand and pulls her gently to her feet.
She blinks and the tears spill over, rushing down her cheeks as he pulls her into his arms. The dizzying reality of her body pressed so close to his is as strange as it is erotic, as momentous as it is joyful.
"Oh, my darling," he murmurs, sending a thrill through her to match the rumbling of his voice against her chest.
She pulls back to look at him, her beautiful man in white tie. Someday she'd like to see him in something more comfortable, she thinks. And then she bites her lip, embarrassed at having imagined that when she will have the chance to see him wearing everything... and nothing. And everything in between. And he'll see her too. She flinches as the phrase 'various states of undress' floats through her mind.
He takes her face in his hands and kisses her softly, right on the lips. She startles and he immediately pulls back, no part of him touching her except his fingertips on her cheeks. These too he pulls away, afraid her prolonged silence might mean something other than surprise and joy.
"Mr Carson, I —"
He never intended to interrupt her, but she's paused at just the right moment — he asks her to call him Charlie instead.
She snaps her eyes up to his with a little smile. Her eyes sparkle. This, this is more familiar ground. They'll have to go back to discussing the other, but not just yet.
"Not Charles?"
"I was always Charlie to my friends."
She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. Her heart is beating so hard, she thinks wildly that he can probably hear it.
"But you don't want us to be friends."
It's an honest question, despite the shaky little smile on her face. They both tremble and try to find the courage to speak about this silliness.
He takes her hands, finding himself unable to be without her touch.
"I... I'd like us to be friends and more."
"As Mrs Patmore told me."
"Ah," he replies, but he thinks please say something more, are you disgusted are you offended do you still love me do you even like me after I said that to her —
"I'm an old woman, Mr Carson."
He tilts his head to look at her in confusion. She sounds so ... Desolate. Miserable. What could it possibly matter that she's not twenty years old anymore? Neither one of them is. He's so baffled he can only manage a weak response:
"Wh- what?"
"I'm — " She frees her hands and gestures helplessly, then folds her hands together at her waist.
She's biting her lip again, looking up at him with big eyes that are filling with tears again and finally he sees that she too is scared; she is so very frightened but he doesn't fully understand why. She's stunning, so beautiful that the sight of her makes his heart pound and his...ahem, he's feeling something stirring slightly and it's terribly inappropriate, so he vehemently shuts out the thoughts of what he'd like them to do together.
"I just —" She looks away. "You said you want to be stuck with me, but I'm not sure you'll like—" she almost stops right there but manages in a whisper, "...what you'll see."
His eyes go wide. He's shaking his head, squeezing her hands, furrowing his brow, and he speaks a simple word.
"No."
"What?"
"I don't think you could disappoint me if you tried."
Her sad little smirk gets his attention. He looks quizzical.
"What is it?" he asks her gently.
She shakes her head. "Just — it's silly, really. You've told me before you're 'disappointed' in me."
Those breathtaking eyes of hers are full of pain and they pin him in place as she looks back up at him.
"Oh." He's got to say more; he can't leave her wondering, but what the hell does he say?
That he only said that because he was trying not to tell her he adores her? Bah. That's certainly true, but can he utter it?
Can he tell her that he wants to wrap her up and keep her safe, close to his body where nothing can hurt her? He wants her so close that they never have to disagree. And with something so dear to his heart as the memorial, he'd wanted her support.
"I'm sorry I said that," he tells her at last.
Maybe he'll write her a letter, tell her the things he can't say aloud. Yet.
But she's standing in front of him with tears streaming down her face and he can at least wipe them away.
She turns her face to his hand, her lips just touching his palm. But her tears don't stop, and he steps closer and pulls her toward him and she doesn't resist. It's lovely and awful that she falls into his arms like that. Awful, because he's never seen her so defeated.
"I love you," he whispers. She shudders, leaning against him for support.
Then his voice rumbles through her. "And I would never press you. You do know that…?"
"I know," she replies, her voice muffled by his jacket. She can feel him slump a little and she pulls back, looking up at him with concern.
Oh for heaven's sake, he looks so defeated again; what will it take to reassure him?
"But Miste— er, that is, Charlie," and she's got the most beautiful smile he's ever seen — "I —"
She raises her eyebrows helplessly in a mixture of surprise, desperation, and amusement.
"I can't say it!" She bites her lip, smiling, eyes shining. Her cheeks are bright pink and all he can think is how very happy he is to have put that color there.
He's got a little growing smile and as she looks up at him, she gets the ridiculous notion that maybe she could whisper it in his ear, so she pulls at him and he bends down. And she says something in his ear that makes him gasp. Before she can get embarrassed at her candor, he actually catches her around the waist, pulls her flush against him, and lifts her a tiny bit off the ground before setting her down again, taking her face in his hands, and kissing her.
It'll be time to go to bed soon — separately, but they're both filled with trembling joy at the certainty that it won't be that way for much longer. So they break apart to catch their breath, then sit and drink their wine together, holding hands across the table.
cinnamon rolls, amirite?
Also, let it be known that the author does not share the characters' viewpoints on "hysterics." It's just big feelings, people! It's okay! I just wanna hug poor Elsie. (And Charlie too). They'd be horrified if I hugged them, but whatever. It's okay; they're fictional characters.
i hope you enjoyed this little take on how it could've gone. (i wrote it before the episode s6e1 aired, so it's clearly not a fic of That Scene that we all adore. I'll have one of those... or more than one; we'll see. but that is not this. obviously.)
:)
ffffllluuuuuussshhh
you can't spell "flush" without "lush" - lots of wine, or also just how lush these two are. luscious. yasss