A bit of an experiment. Carson/Hughes, dark-ish AU.

Warnings: brief mentions of suicide, character death.


At the funeral, they offer their condolences to him in soft whispers.

'I'm so sorry, Carson.'

It is worse because their pity is not his to accept. Not in the way it should have been, had he been a different man. A better man.

And how he longs – how wretchedly he longs – to mourn her that way, as her husband, her widower. Another pain by which to be consumed. She is gone and he wants only to grieve her in peace (to tear out his heart, his soul, to follow her) but he cannot, because he is being handed sympathy like delicate crystal as though he owns it. As though he is entitled to it.

The pain is unbearable, agonizing, intolerable – and it is good because he deserves it.

/*/

He opens his eyes.

She's dead, he thinks immediately. His chest caves in; his hands move over his heart but the action is useless. There is nothing to touch, nothing to be done with the crushing weight except to bear it.

He sits up. Pushes back the covers, squints in the morning light. Stands, heavy and lumbering. Leans back, feels the pull of old muscles. Reaches for his dressing gown.

She's dead, he thinks, and cannot stop thinking it, again and again as he brushes his teeth, combs his hair, dresses in his uniform, she's dead she's dead she's dead,as he goes downstairs to the servants' hall, sees that the breakfast is being prepared, the newspapers ironed.

Something light touches his hand and he jerks back. The cook looks up at him. Her eyes are rimmed with red and shining with unshod tears. Here is someone who mourns her, who grieves and weeps for her, who has just as much a right to condolences and sympathy as him. More of a right, perhaps.

She's dead, he thinks, and his chest collapses under the weight.

/*/

At the family's breakfast, he stands by the tea and sees the coffin in the ground.

He cannot bear to look at it nor to tear his eyes away; does not want to think of this wooden box in a black sea instead of blue eyes and amused smile and no-nonsense brows – but this is the last he will ever see of her, the closest he can be to her before she is buried in the ground, and he will not waste a second of it. Even grey and empty and numb though this moment is (no sherry, no warmth, no camaraderie) it a thousand times preferable to nothing.

And then she is lowered into the ground, buried in the dirt under the dry recitation of earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust and the eyes of God and the death of his fragile, sickly heart, and the moment is gone and nothing is waiting. His mouth opens; he must give some voice to the enormity of the emptiness inside him, must somehow express this great rending within him –

'Carson?'

He blinks. The room swims into view. 'My lady?'

'Might I have some tea, please, Carson?'

When he swallows, his mouth is dry. He pours the tea with shaking hands.

/*/

The green apron is tied around his waist with the barest sliver of hope that he can escape his thoughts for the duration of the task. That he can direct his focus to the silverware for just these few dozen minutes. The briefest of respites from the torture of every other moment.

He steps inside, reaches for the cloth –

'It's not cancer, no, it's a benign something-or-other, nothing more.'

And oh, God, the sheer relief – the overwhelming, sweeping, enormous relief – he can breathe properly for the first time in weeks. She's going to be fine, she's alive, she will live –

Something catches in his chest and he can't breathe, can't make his lungs take air, knocks the silver aside as he clutches at his chest.

'Mr. Carson, are you alright?'

Something clicks, and he draws a tiny, shallow breath. 'Anna.'

'Are you alright, Mr. Carson?'

It is so absurd – so utterly absurd – to think that he could possibly be alright that he feels almost hysterical for a moment. The pity in Anna's eyes impales him, and he hurries to his feet.

She's dead. 'Yes, quite alright.'

He takes off his apron, trying to slow the desperate, jumpy movements of his hands, and strides from the room. The hallway stretches before him, long and narrow.

His own voice echoes after him.

Dashing away the smoothing iron, she stole my heart away…

/*/

The chairs scrape as the staff stands. His head jerks, a feeble imitation of the authoritative nod he once gave, and they sit.

Can he do nothing without her?

Her empty chair screams beside him. He can feel it banging at the edge of his sight, feels it in his eyes and his temple and his jaw, the space she ought to be slamming into him, demanding attention.

He does not look at it, but eats his dinner and lets the low hum of other voices pass meaninglessly over him instead.

'– Mrs Hughes –'

It is all he hears but his head darts up and his eyes pierce them all, looking for the culprit. They are frozen, all of them, staring at their plates in horror – even the proud Mr. Bates, the impertinent Thomas – all of them deferential to his grief and his fury.

It is Molesley, of course, with wide, panicked eyes. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Carson –'

The horror remains but the anger floods out of him, pressing behind his eyes. He grits his teeth. 'Carry on.'

The wait until dinner is over is excruciating, but by the time he flees to his pantry (heart hammering, hands shaking) his eyes are dry and the tears are gone.

/*/

At night, he goes to sleep in his bed, exhausted and drained, just tired enough that he does not think what terrors await him in sleep. His mind, after all, cannot help but grasp his worst of memories on this, his worst of days.

I'm sorry, Mr. Carson…

Please – don't go – stay here, please stay –

So sorry…

Mrs. Hughes – Elsie – Elsie, please –

Hands come to pull him away; there is a horrible noise, deep, choked gasps and shallow breaths.

It's him, he thinks numbly. The sound of his breaking heart.

He awakes drenched in cold sweat, chest heaving, hands shaking – and he remembers the nightmare that is not a nightmare, the truth come to haunt his sleep. He bends in half, sobs tearing from his throat, hands clutching at his chest.

/*/

He is coming down the stairs when he hears his name.

'I don't understand,' the new maid is saying, speaking to someone he cannot see. 'They weren't married, were they?'

Something in his head reels; he clutches the banister with a white-knuckled grip.

'No,' replies Anna, her voice quiet. 'But they might have been, one day.'

The words tear through his flesh and his throat closes around the pain, the staircase spinning around him. Distantly, he hears the new maid mutter something about it being a shame, he could use a little softening up –

He barrels into the hallway where the two are talking, sees Anna's fierce, indignant face, pulls in a furious breath – and finds there is nothing within him to sustain the anger, no wood for the spark. 'Go,' he says to the girl, finding no satisfaction when she scurries fearfully away.

Anna's look is long and searching.

'Yes, Anna?'

A pause; she sighs. 'Nothing, Mr. Carson.'

At breakfast, he thinks how very right Anna was. There is nothing. Nothing is left for him.

/*/

Her Ladyship is in the library when she stops him, the midmorning sun falling across her face.

'Are you alright, Carson?'

His chest seizes. He cannot, cannot bear to discuss this. 'Of course, my lady,' he answers.

'I only want to ask if there's anything we can do to help,' Lady Grantham tells him, taking a small step toward him.

'I'm quite alright, my lady,' Carson answers stiffly, his heart pounding, praying wordlessly that her name will not be spoken, that he will be spared the agony of it all.

'I know you cared for Mrs. Hughes very much,' she says softly, her eyes blue and wide and wrong, all wrong, and how could he have let her go?

'Is that all, my lady?' Carson says, strangled and hoarse. When she sighs, gives him a nod, he flees to his pantry and leans against the door, taking deep, heaving breaths until the dizzying, consuming panic within him has quieted to a simmer.

/*/

In the middle of the night, he hears her voice.

Charles.

He bolts upright in bed, his heart thundering in his chest, throwing itself at his ribs like it knows she is out there.

But that isn't right, he thinks. She never called him Charles. He never gave her the chance.

/*/

'Mr. Carson,' says Mr. Bates in the hallway, 'I wonder if I can assist you with the silverware?'

Carson pauses. The memory of what happened before sweeps over him, drowning whatever remaining pride he has left. 'Yes,' he manages, his fist clenching behind his back. 'Thank you, Mr. Bates.'

He sees the look passed between Bates and Anna, who has appeared at her husband's shoulder – sees the wrinkled forehead, the raised brows, the tight lips – but he does not care. He doesn't see the point.

/*/

'…worried about him? He hasn't been himself at all.'

'I thought he would come out of it, to be honest. It's been weeks.'

'Robert, really. The poor man is heartbroken.'

'Perhaps he needs more time. Let's see how he gets on.'

'Oh, very well. But if he hasn't improved soon I think we should call Dr. Clarkson. He deserves our attention.'

Carson moves away from the door, his movements heavy. He adjusts his livery with trembling hands, fingers brushing against the weight on his crushed chest. It has not subsided. Pain persists even when he cannot.

She's dead, he thinks, mind flashing to the coffin being lowered into the ground. But it is different, this time – there is no rush of horror, no agony attached. There is only a whisper, a longing that he might know the inside of that coffin, too.

/*/

Her voice is a whisper in his ear.

Charles…

The dreams come every night, now, only ever his name, always her voice, soft in his ear. Sometimes he feels her breath ghosting over his cheek. He gets out of bed when this happens, rubs his face with large hands.

Shh, Charles…

He huffs a bitter, humourless laugh, wiping the sweat from his brow. His subconscious is too generous, he knows. He does not deserve to be soothed, even by a dream.

/*/

He sees His Lordship speaking quietly to Molesley shortly before dinner. He watches the exchange, watches Molesley's nod and the downward curve of Lord Grantham's mouth, and waits until His Lordship has moved off.

'Mr. Molesley,' he rumbles, stepping up behind the footman.

'Oh, Mr. Carson,' says Molesley breathlessly. 'His Lordship had a question about dinner.'

'What about it?' asks Carson.

Molesley is a terrible liar, worse even than Carson himself. His eyes widen. 'Just an inquiry about the wine, Mr. Carson.'

'What about the wine?' Carson asks, unable to put his usual force behind the question but angry nonetheless.

Molesley deflates. 'To check that you'd chosen the right one, Mr. Carson.'

Instead of shame or embarrassment, Carson feels quite calm. So this is it. The end of it all. There is nothing to be done with the pain except bear it, but he cannot do even that. That half-crazed thought from weeks before – he can do nothing without her.

He ought to have known all along.

/*/

He spends the evening alone with the last few drops of the sherry. Everything is in order by the time the moon rises.

He exits his panty, locks the door behind him, and turns around.

Mrs. Hughes smiles. 'Hello, Charles.'


TBC