A/N: This is a modern AU crossover fic: Downton Abbey and A Fine Romance. For quite some time, I've longed for a reboot of AFR starring Jim and Phyllis. I can easily imagine them in the roles of Mike and Laura, with all their prickly awkwardness and, let's admit it (even if Phyllis won't), their smoking chemistry. I have taken many liberties with both shows. I feel a bit bad for Dr. Clarkson here, especially after reading and thoroughly enjoying Shock and Aftershock (wonderful, wonderful fic!), but he was a necessary sacrifice to the gods of fanfic. Reviews are always wonderful and help me improve. Feel free to suggest plot bunnies. Unlike Doors, I have an idea as to where this is going, but I never mind taking scenic side trips. As has often been said before by better authors than I, these two are killing me with their tender and achingly beautiful restraint.

Chapter 1

The café was clean and spacious. The two front panes of glass were always scrupulously clean and let in beautiful shafts of light when they were fortunate enough to get sun. The food was good, excellent, really, and quite reasonable. It was also almost exactly halfway to university, which some might consider merely an added bonus, but was the reason he'd chosen this cafe in the first place. Order, predictability, routine. Such things were important, perhaps even more so in these unsettled times. And Charles Edward Carson was nothing if not predictable, reliable. If he'd had many friends, they might have referred to him as dependable, rigid, perhaps, in his desire for order and precision. His life had a very stable rhythm that suited him.

He'd come to the café on a rainy Saturday last October. He'd been having a bit of trouble finding his way around this unfamiliar city and had taken to walking his neighborhood to prevent further embarrassments related to getting lost. He never liked being in the dark, not knowing. When it was necessary or when something interested him, nothing less than expertise was tolerable. Accepting a teaching post at a more prestigious school in London was a gratifying way to round out his career, but the feeling of unease the city gave him was decidedly not. So he gave himself assignments, much as he did his students. Right, then. Walk the neighborhood until you know it like the back of your hand. So he had, and he'd stumbled onto Beryl's café, rain-soaked, a little worse for wear, but welcome.

He'd hesitated at the door, unsure of his reception.

"It's raining buckets out there," a strident, but somehow friendly voice called to him. "Well, come in then, have a cuppa."

And that was how it started. Charles smiled at the memory.

He has his own spot now. He was such a constant presence that Beryl had given him his favorite table, the one in the corner opposite the door. That way he could observe (he did dearly love to watch people) without drawing attention to himself.

"Charles," she'd said (cornered him more like) "I've decided something."

"Yes?" he'd murmured tentatively. Wouldn't do to get on the bad side of the woman who cooked his breakfast to perfection.

"I'm going to set aside this table for you."

"This table? What do you mean?"

"I mean that you come in here every day save Sunday, rain or shine, at precisely 8:30, order coffee, black, eggs over easy, crispy toast and tender bacon, eat your meal, read your paper, leave a generous tip. Every day. So I thought I should reward you, being my best customer and all.

"Oh, Beryl, really." He was starting to become uncomfortable.

"No I mean it. This is your table. See? I've even made up a sign." She held up a red sign with white letters reading RESERVED.

"I don't know what to say."

"Just say "Thanks, Beryl" and have done with it."

"Thanks Beryl," he replies sheepishly.

Every morning after that, he'd seen the little sign on his table and it gave him a bit of a lift. He had few friends, really, but he counted Beryl as one. She was right, too. He probably was her best customer. Every morning, 8:30 without fail. Most days he ate his breakfast, paid his bill (always leaving a generous tip), then straight to the university, no shilly shallying. But Wednesdays were different; he tended to linger, then. She nearly always came in for a cuppa on Wednesday mornings around 9.

He knows a good bit about her. He knows, for instance, that her favorite tea is Orange Pekoe, loose leaf, that Beryl keeps in especially for her. She takes it black with just a splash of milk. He knows that she will protest against Beryl's weekly offer of a fry-up, opting instead for a porridge and egg white omelette. Rarely, very rarely, she'll have bacon or a bit of sausage if Beryl wheedles her enough. He also knows she is very health conscious, always fretting about the odd stone she needs to lose. Women are always fretting about weight it seems, and many with good reason, but he can't understand why this particular woman does. She dresses very smartly (or so he thinks, anyway) and her figure is very good. Very good indeed. Not that he makes a point of observing her in particular. No, he's just one of Beryl's regulars; the only regular with his own table. How can he help but notice another very regular patron? He sees that they are close, she and Beryl. He knows her name, too. Elsie. One day he was very lucky and overheard Beryl fuss at her. "Elsie Hughes," she had said. "Elsie Hughes you never did." Or some such. Beryl was always going on about something or other. He seldom tuned in, unless it was to do with Elsie.

She is an attractive woman, he muses. She has a lovely smile and a deep throaty laugh, when he's fortunate enough to hear it. And that Scottish brogue of hers. He makes certain to have the paper on Wednesdays, something to occupy his hands (to hide behind, more like). It's not as though he's a stalker or anything. What harm can there be in admiring an attractive woman? None. None whatsoever. It's nothing to her, at any rate. She seldom glances in his direction. Once, she turned quickly and found his eyes on her, but she just gave him a nervous smile and craned her neck toward the door, as though she were expecting someone. He's checked her ring finger: bare. And no one has ever come with her to the café. Of course that doesn't mean a thing. A woman like her is bound to be spoken for. And anyway, he'd never get up the courage to talk to her. It's not as though he could make idle chitchat with her. "Oh, I see you like porridge. I prefer eggs and sausage myself." Bah. No, it was best not to think of that. He had his own life, he was quite content, really. Quite content. There was just something about her, that's all. Something kind. But. Time to be on the move at any rate. It's not Wednesday after all.

*CE*

Another rainy evening, Elsie bursts through the door, turning to shake her umbrella out the door. "It's cats and dogs out there my dears and no mistake."

"Come through the back Els; we're in the kitchen."

Elsie smiles, shakes some of the damp from her hair, gingerly takes off her wet coat and hangs it on the rack, smooths her hair again, squares her shoulders, then sighs as they sag. Oh, she just wanted to turn around and go right home. She hadn't thought Beryl would do this to her again. She groaned inwardly. Beryl was relentless in her search for the perfect bloke for Elsie. Lord knows where she meets these poor fellows; what a parade of them over the years. And Elsie had never wanted any of them, never really hit it off with any of them. Of course Beryl thought she was too selective, too set in her ways. Richard was a subject they tread lightly around. Beryl had no love for the man whom she blamed for Elsie's single status for the past, well never mind how many years. Beryl didn't understand, couldn't understand. She'd met the love of her life when she was a teenager, for heaven's sake. She and Bill were made for one another, and their young William had recently married his Daisy, making Beryl all the more intrepid in her desire to marry off Elsie. Of course her relationship with Richard, if you could even call it a relationship, she thinks darkly, isn't perfect, but when it was good, it was so much better than anything she'd ever experienced. It was hard to let go of something like that. When they were together, it was, well, perfect, in its way, and when they weren't together, she managed. Managed quite well, in fact. She didn't need Richard; she didn't need anybody. She sighed again. Best to go in the kitchen and get it over with. She squared her shoulders again and walked determinedly towards the kitchen. It was going to be a long night. She could feel it.

*CE*

Elsie was doing the washing up, Beryl drying. Elsie always tried to help out with the clearing up, felt better about making some small payment towards every sublime meal. She didn't let herself go often (Richard had complimented her figure many times, he liked her as slender as possible), but occasionally at Beryl's she would eat seconds and dessert. It was just too tempting. Beryl was always trying to feed her up, bloody nuisance, Elsie thinks with a smile.

"So," begins Beryl.

"So," drawls Elsie. She knows what Beryl wants, but she won't make it easy on her.

"So, what did you think?" Beryl always was too eager for her own good.

"I thought the food was delicious. Your Victoria sponge is quite possibly my favorite dessert, besides chocolate. I always did love chocolate."

"You know what I mean, Elsie lass," insists Beryl tartly. "What did you think of Mike?"

"Oh, what did I think of Mike? Well, I thought he was a nice man, very nice indeed."

Beryl's eyes lit up. "So you think so, eh? I've always thought him a nice bloke meself."

"Don't let Bill hear you. Unless you want Mike and I'll just take Bill. Handy that."

"Oh, go on with you. So, you think you'll give him a ring, then?"

"I don't think so, Beryl."

Beryl groans in frustration. "Whyever not?"

Elsie shrugs her shoulders. "It's complicated."

"It's complicated," Beryl mimics acidly. "It's Richard, is what it is. When are you ever going to give up on that bloody git? It makes me so mad!"

Elsie shrugs again. "It's-

Beryl breaks in. "It's complicated, I know." She throws down her dishtowel in frustration. "Elsie, that man has stolen the better part of twenty years of your life. That's two decades. You could have-"

"Don't," says Elsie shortly.

Beryl puts her hands in the air, placating Elsie. "Alright, we won't talk about him anymore." She smiles wickedly. "Let's talk about Mike. What did you like about him?"

"He's very kind, Beryl, really. He's just not-"

"Richard," Beryl finishes. "Well, at least have a cuppa before you're off."

"Who said anything about leaving?"

"I know you, Elsie Hughes. You can't wait to leave after we've had a guest for dinner. I'm sorry, love, I really am. Bill tells me to lay off you. I just can't help it. Friends again?"

"Always." Elsie smiles, wipes her hands on the dishtowel and gives Beryl a hug. "But I think I'll get on. It's getting late."

"Alright, Els. See you Wednesday?"

"Of course. Say goodbye for me, will you? I'll just let myself out. Ta."

"Ta, love."

Beryl shakes her head as she hears the front door close. That bloody bugger Richard bloody Clarkson, she thinks acidly. He's ruined her. Plain ruined her and he gets to live his life, his nice life with his nice wife and beautiful children. Oh she knows. She's made it her business to know. Meanwhile, Elsie turns down every legitimate opportunity to meet a nice available bloke because of that, well she's got no more words to describe Clarkson.

It's not until much later, as she's readying for bed that the idea comes to her. Of course. Of course! She'll have a party for her customers, particularly her most loyal customers. A devious smile played across her lips. This might just be her best plan yet.