This whole story will probably seem horrifically out of character by definition; just try to think of it on the basis- my favourite basis- that war-related stress does funny things to people, particularly housekeepers and butlers.

There was a curious silence about the servants' quarters that evening, Charles Carson observed. No one seemed to be about; everything seemed remarkably still. But then, he thought sadly, this was increasingly common these days: nothing like a war to diminish hustle and bustle around a house. The air was drearily cold even for January. What he wanted, he did not mind admitting to himself, was some company and he knew where he was likely to find it. Increasing his pace down the corridor, he reached the housekeeper's sitting room.

Although he was by far the most frequent visitor to the room, apart of course from Elsie herself, his manners compelled him to knock. He did so quietly, the hush over the corridor making him particularly conscious of the sound. No response came; which was decidedly odd as light seeped out from under the door and it was most unlike Elsie to leave the light on while she wasn't in the room. He gave it a moment and then knocked again, more loudly this time and clearing his throat as he did so. Much to his surprise the response he received was a single hiccup.

Unsure as to whether the sound was a call of admittance, he entered the room cautiously, peering his head round the door before fully stepping in. The sight that met him was the last he had expected: Elsie sat slumped in her arm chair in what seemed to be a rather sleepy state, a glass in her hand. A bottle of whiskey, minus a rather generous measure, sat by her feet. As his eyes swept over her she seemed to realise that someone else was present: looking up in what seemed to be confusion. Realising it was him, however, she gave another loud hiccup and sank still further into the armchair.

"Charles," she murmured, a lazy smile creeping onto her face.

He felt a pang of relief that at least she wasn't so drunk she couldn't tell who he was.

"What on Earth have you been up to, Elsie?" he asked quietly.

He had meant to do so rhetorically, but received an answer anyway.

"I should have thought," she supplied with an air of feigned slurring superior intellect, "That it was quite obvious."

With that, she moved the glass in her hand back towards her face for another drink but, never quite off duty as a butler, he managed to manoeuvre himself swiftly enough to be able to take the glass off her before she was able to take one.

"I think you've had quite enough of that," he admonished gently.

Unless he was seeing things- unlikely as it was her would had been swigging down neat whiskey- she pouted at him in reproach.

"Bloody spoil sport," he heard her mutter, scowling.

Her childish demeanour almost caused him to chuckle out loud, but stopped himself. The degree of hell that there would be to pay if any of the staff saw her like this was a very sobering thought.

"Elsie," he began, "We should probably see about getting you into bed."

The look of startled horror she gave him seemed somewhat uncalled for and he wondered what he could have said to offend her.

"How dare you proposition me!"

It came out very loudly and he was instantly thankful that there was no one else on the ground floor.

"No, Elsie," he told her hurriedly, "That's not what I meant; I'm not trying to sleep with you, I only-..."

"Why?" she demanded, all thoughts of her previous exclamation seeming to have vanished, "Aren't I good enough for you?"

Oh good Lord, he thought, she was adorable when she was drunk. Eyes shining like great brownish fires, a beguiling tone in her face and her pale skin slightly more coloured than normal. Then, good heavens man, this isn't the time!

"Quite the contrary," he told her softly, hoping to placate her, "But Elsie, I think what you need is-..."

"You!"

The force and speed with which she threw herself out of her chair and towards him caught him off guard and he was just in time to catch her. That was nothing, however, to the effect of the word she had cried as she did so.

"S-sorry?" he stammered, noticing how she was pressing herself to him despite his arms trying to hold her firmly upright.

"It's you I want, Charles!" her face ablaze with alcoholic passion. Heavens, she was beautiful.

"I think you ought to sit down," he told her shakily.

At his words she descended swiftly onto the settee, though he had a suspicion that she would have done so regardless of whether or not there was a chair there.

"Where are you going?" she demanded as he hurried towards the door.

"To get you some coffee," he replied, "For heavens sake, stay there!"

She nodded with unnecessary vigour and then vanished from view behind the back of the settee. He rather got the impression that she was lying down flat on her back, but now wasn't the time to be dwelling on the ladylike attributes of her sitting position. Speed was of the essence as he boiled the kettle to make her some coffee, anxious that someone might return to the servants' floor and discover her. Happily though, she lay undisturbed and seemingly asleep when he returned to her sitting room. It was only when he had poured the coffee into a cup at the table and returned to her side that he noticed a tear trickling from under her eyelid.

"Elsie?" he asked cautiously.

She opened one eye and took in who it was.

"Oh." It came out half way between a murmur and a sob. She continued to lie, there both eyes, open quietly crying until he helped her sit up and carefully let her hold the cup of coffee.

"Whatever's the matter?" he asked gently, not only referring to her tears: something must have happened to induce her to start drinking in the first place.

She took a gulp of coffee and was silent again for a moment. Then:

"It's my birthday today."

"Oh."

He had known it too, only he had forgotten amid everything that had been going on recently. Suddenly, he felt a great surge of responsibility for her state: if only he had remembered she might not have begun.

"Fifty-five years old," she was saying, dabbing at her left eye with her sleeve with the coffee teetered precariously in her right hand.

"Here," he said, hurriedly removing the coffee and placing it on the table before handing her a handkerchief.

"Fifty-five," she repeated in case he hadn't heard the last time, "It's a fine old age."

"Less of that, thank you," he replied, "There's some of us older than that."

She snorted.

"You're a butler, you're allowed to be old."

Of all the odd things to say... But he didn't get a chance to comment on it before her sobs seemed to renew.

"Fifty-five, Charles," her eyes were streaming now, "And we use to be so young!"

"People do get old," he told her softly.

She sat there a while crying while he sat there unsure of the best course of action to take. Luckily though, she solved that problem for him.

"Hold me," she half-whispered, half-hiccuped , but amazingly managed to remain audible.

There was nothing he could do but obligingly wrap an arm around her shoulder. It seemed however, that she wasn't able to put up much resistance to the force and seemed to keel over rest her head on his body. If she hadn't been inebriated and crying he would have felt elated at the way she possessively draped her arm around him. So content he was to just sit there and act as a pillow for her that it took him a while to realise that she had fallen asleep on him.

Drowsy now himself, it took him a while to summon the will to move but at last he managed to shift her head away from his chest and stand. Gathering her up in his arms and trying not to wake her, he gradually shifted them across the room and began to ascend the stairs.

Once in the servants' corridor he shuffled quietly toward her room; the last thing he needed was for someone to come across him bundling them both in there. He managed it though, clicking the door safely shut and lying her at last on the bed. She wasn't heavy at all but it was nevertheless a relief to deposit her onto the sheets. He couldn't possibly remove her clothes, she would just have to sort herself out when morning came and he checked to make sure that there was a spare dress in the wardrobe. As he moved to lave the room there was a shuffling from the bed and what seemd to be a sigh and then:

"Charles..."

He thought he must have misheard, but it came again, she murmured his name quite clearly, turning over in bed. Taking a few steps back towards the bed he saw that her face carried a blissful smile. Oh to lie beside her and hold her! Just for a moment. But of course it was out of the question, she would have enough to come to terms with the next day without finding out that he had taken advantage and lain beside her. Pulling the blanket further over her and brushing the hair off her face, he moved himself back to the door.

Don't tell me I'm too ridiculous. A morning-after chapter? Please review!