a/n: Wow, it has been a while and I apologize profusely for my absence! Many months ago, I came up with this story that's loosely based off of a book titled Good Night, Mr. Tom. Wonderful, phenomenal book. If you've read it, you'll know where this is headed (insert SHAMELESS excuse to give our heroes a child here).
While this story is of an AU variety, I hope to keep it as close to the show as I can. I'm sure I've taken a couple of liberties, and I can only hope they're not too intolerable. We start off in the summer of 1939. Charles and Elsie are retired, have been married nearly a year and are about the age they would be at the end of Season 5.
Obviously, no spoilers what-so-ever. If you happen to have an opinion about this story, and think I should continue or trash it, please let me know!
"Charles,"
She is chewing on her bottom lip as she mumbles his name while reading the paper. He's learned her tones now, learned how to decipher her mood from just a couple of words, the lilt of her voice. He likes that he doesn't need to see her face to know what she's thinking, how she's feeling.
He grunts his reply, knowing she is distracted by something.
A silence fills the air, one that he's surprisingly unfamiliar with. They've become so familiar with their new life – although, truth be told, it wasn't all that new. Her last name was new, eating her cooking was new. Taking care of a small garden, polishing his own silver, sharing a bed; all new adventures that had been successfully absorbed into daily routine. They still quarreled; it was in their nature to do so; but never heated arguments. Not like they used to have at Downton. He has become more agreeable in retirement; although perhaps, he thinks to himself, it's she who has made him this way.
She's taking her time, carefully considering her words. It's unusual for her to take so long to find her reply. Elsie was never prone to blurting her thoughts aloud, but then again, she rarely took this long to find her voice. He thinks back suddenly to all the times she's said things that he only thought. Things he never had the courage to say aloud. She was bold, is bold; much more than he.
It was she that said it was okay to live a little; who had offered her hand to him. She, who had first moved past simply holding hands. She leant forward and kissed him, one night in his pantry, and let out the first soft moan. Perhaps their relationship wasn't precisely modeled from those in romantic novels, but it was how they operated. He wouldn't have it any other way.
Elsie had admitted soon after their marriage that she had been terribly nervous when she offered her hand. One of their first nights alone in their new house, while she was snuggled into his chest, she quietly laughed and confessed to him how her heart pounded as she uttered the words. How her hand was slightly clammy – though, he replied, he hadn't noticed. She had slipped a button on his pajama top then; her fingers gently resting on his stomach. I was so afraid of your response. He tightened his grip then, the sudden thought seizing his heart; they would not be lying together at that moment, if not for her courage.
He isn't sure if he should remind her that he is still awaiting her reply, or if he should let her find her own. Rushing things had never been an asset of his. In fact, his grandmother had often told him that nothing good came of a quick response. While he may have lived a bit faster in his youth, he had most certainly slowed, especially once meeting Elsie. He decided very early on that he wanted to appreciate every minute detail of Elsie Hughes. Every laugh. Every look. Every touch. Every argument. She was held in the highest regard, no other woman ever came close.
When he had kissed her, there was no rushing to tear each other's clothes off. Well, he muses, at least not from him. She had divested him of his livery with such speed and dexterity that he wanted to ask her how she was proficient in such a manner. But then she started doing such wonderful things with her mouth that he nearly forgot how to breathe.
He smiles at the memory. The paper besides him rustles. She's folding it in an untidy fashion, placing it in front of him, resting it gently on his half eaten sandwich.
She's still chewing that lip as his eyes lock on to hers, questioning. Silently asking whatever could be the matter.
She points to an illustration.
'WOMEN WANTED FOR EVACUATION SERVICE. OFFER YOUR SERVICES TO YOUR LOCAL COUNCIL.'
He returns his gaze to her, eyes wide. Her bottom lip is practically white with the pressure of her teeth. The fear, the hesitancy is evident in her eyes. She appears almost guilty at what she's presented to him. He opens his mouth to quip his reply, but closes it quickly. Better to read on, to try to understand what she's asking.
Though, he knows. He knows exactly what she's asking and why she's asking it. He's seen it advertised in the paper now for over a month, has seen her expression of longing whenever an advertisement caught her eye.
'Due to the inevitable declaration of war, children living in the southern and eastern cities of England will soon be evacuated to the countryside. Citizens of rural England are being asked to do their part – for the war effort!'
He stares dumbly at the paper. She had asked him about 'going another way' once. Of course he had thought about it, and she freely admitted that she did. Sometimes. He has a feeling that she's thought about it much more than he's ever allowed himself. The discussion of children was a different matter. They had talked about it three times. Twice, she only remarked that it would have been nice, a small smile gracing her features. The third time happened late at night, while they were sitting side by side on the settee. He was reading and she was knitting some small thing for one of Anna's children. It was nearly time to retire for the night, when he suddenly felt her shoulders shake. Heard a small sniffle.
She was staring into the fire with glassy eyes, hands still knitting away as if they were completely unaware that their owner was in turmoil. He stilled her hands, gently taking the slightly damp needles and yarn, and laid them on the floor. A sob escaped her and his arms were immediately around her, bringing her to his chest.
It's not fair. She had cried, over and over. It was the first time he had truly seen her cry. She cried on their wedding day, and a few other times, over deaths or births. But, there were never many tears. Those cries weren't of a dramatic fashion. This was different. He had never seen her cry for herself. For him. For what could never be.
The fire in the hearth was nothing more than glowing embers when her crying finally subsided to hiccups. She was clinging to his shirt so tightly, so child-like and suddenly, he had to know, wanted to know everything. He asked her what she would have wanted. A boy, she answered nasally. A boy named… she trailed off. Said she didn't know because she wanted his opinion. The rest of the night was all about soothing her. They decided to choose a name. She'd laugh at some of his suggestions, and his brows would furrow together when she'd suggest a Gaelic name that he couldn't properly pronounce.
They settled on Benjamin – though it was quite the fight. She only settled if his middle names could be Finlay Charles.
He would have had your hair.
Only if he had your nose.
Her audible swallow brings him back to the present, and he risks a glance. Her hands are loosely clasped together now, her finger slowly tracing her wedding ring. He inhales sharply, lips drawing together in anticipation of an answer, a frown gracing his features. He may be able to read her, but she's been able to read him long before. She's had decades to perfect it. So, she knows what he's about to say and does her best to defend her position.
"I know it's not our idea of retirement, but it is for the war effort. And I'm sure the child wouldn't stay for very long."
"You forget how long the last war was."
"Yes, but once we have the Germans on retreat, I'm sure it would be safe for the evacuated children to return to their families."
He cocks an eyebrow at her and she averts her gaze. She's being submissive, and he doesn't like it. She's never acted this way before and it's troubling him; more than he's willing to acknowledge. He's used to her constantly challenging him, undermining him in some instances. Used to her being short with him, giving him the silent treatment if she deemed it necessary. He finds himself missing her temper – at least there he would know what to expect, how to react.
"We're not exactly young, Elsie," he tries, gently.
She raises her gaze to meet his, lets out a shaky breath.
"I know."
"What if the child's parents died in a bombing? What if we get the child who doesn't have any family left once the war's over? We'll be dead before it reaches adulthood."
"Don't speak like that."
"Perhaps you won't, but I certainly would be. You're quite a few years younger than me, you know."
She flinches and he knows she's chewed too hard on her lip.
"And then there's the cost. We'd have to buy a bed, clothes, toys. What do children even play with now-a-days? We don't know where to start with a child. I can hardly even remember being a child."
She's staring hard at her sandwich now, blinking rather rapidly and it's slowly torturing him inside. He doesn't want to tell her 'no.' He made a silent vow when he married her to never tell her 'no' again. If she wanted a camel, he'd find a way. A dog or a cat. He had been expecting her to ask for a pet, especially after her breakdown, but it never came. Elsie rarely asked for anything and even then, nothing out of the ordinary. What he wanted for a meal. If he'd fancy a walk. If he was ready for bed, with that lovely look on her face…
"Elsie, it can't replace the one we'll never have."
He regrets it the minute it's spoken. It's too harsh, too devastating, and she's already so disappointed at his initial reaction. He waits for her response; a tongue lashing, a sob, a smack to his face – he deserves it all. Instead he is rewarded with cold silence. He watches as she slowly scoots her chair back, walks out of the kitchen. Listens as her footsteps grow softer until he hears the click of the bedroom door.
His head falls into his hands, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.
