This is a birthday gift for the lovely manygreentrees. It is a small thank you for the incredible time and thought she puts into reviewing my work, and I'm ever-grateful for the wonderful conversations that have stemmed from those many messages. All the best, dear. X

CSotA

December 25, 1926

Very, very early in the morning …

It's late, and the glow emanating from the tree in the parlour is soft, cream-colored, highlighted by the flicker of the dying fire in the hearth. Elsie smiles softly as she pulls her robe more tightly around her waist, tying the sash in a perfect knot simply from habit alone. But then she sighs deeply, the smile melting away in her mild frustration. Like a young lass waiting for Father Christmas to deliver a gift, Elsie Carson finds herself unable to sleep.

Crossing the threshold, she approaches the fireplace and tosses another log on the embers. She grasps the mantle to steady herself, crouches down, and blows some air to encourage the fire to catch; when it does, a tiny branch sticking out of the log's side sizzles brightly, and Elsie is entranced by the flickering light. But by the time she straightens herself, all evidence of the brightly flaming pine sprig is gone.

A glance at the clock confirms her fears - four thirty. It's a bit too early still to justify staying up, but it's also a bit too late to go back to bed and get anything resembling a good night's sleep. She's not surprised to be awake, not really. Decades of being Downton's housekeeper mean she wakes frequently, even though a few months prior, the midnight sounds of the big house were traded for the whisperings of a smaller cottage, and the murmurings of maids in the next room over were exchanged for the soft snores of a husband.

Something in her chest catches as her mind glances over the word.

A husband.

She had stopped dreaming of having one ages ago. She remembers how, as a young girl, she had expectations of what marriage would be like. And while visions of children gathering at her knees as she kneaded dough for the morning's bread disappeared the day she entered service, the possibility that she might leave one day and pursue something different remained in her heart until the day her mother died. After that, Elsie thought her fate was sealed … so long as Becky was alive, at any rate. And so it wasn't that she didn't ever want a husband at all, not really, rather that it was simply not an option. She became accustomed to her life over the years at Downton. It was a good life, and she has nothing to complain about. But the years got away from her. She chuckles now at how she forgot the ways in which life seems to have a mind of its own.

The flames dance before Elsie's eyes as she sits and contemplates the life she has now. Still sleepy, her mind travels back in time a bit. Elsie knows she's still the same woman she always was in the ways that matter: organised, prepared, methodical, and hard-working. But underneath that, a glimmer of something that had lain dormant for years has bloomed anew: a small, sweet something she'd tucked deep down, a flicker of hope for something just a little bit more.

And she's got more now, indeed. More than she ever thought possible. Charles well and truly loves her, and she adores him. They're crafting a life together in their tidy cottage with its cozy fire, despite bumps and stumbles along the way.

As the fire flickers, Elsie's gaze lands upon the stockings hung from the mantle, and the smile reappears on her lips, broader now than it was before. The stockings aren't fancy; in fact, anyone visiting the cottage might see them as rather ratty and in need of replacement. But neither Elsie nor Charles would ever be able to part with them. Hers is dark green in colour, with white stitching all around and a small tear near the upper right-hand corner from the Christmas when Becky had gotten ahold of it and snagged it on a branch in the yard - a tear which Elsie's Mam never remembered to stitch, and which Elsie could never bring herself to repair now. And his, as if they'd planned to coordinate with one another decades ago, is deep red. It's in better condition, although it is knit and not fashioned from an old shirt of his father's as Elsie's is from hers, and a small, wooden trinket - a horse - hangs from the top edge of the fringe. The horse has seen better days, a small hoof broken off at some point Elsie hasn't gotten around to asking about, but it doesn't matter.

Charles must be halfway across the room before she hears the shuffling of his feet, a sign of how lost in her thoughts she was. Not bothering to turn, she merely tips her head backward over the edge of the sofa, knowing he'd approach her from behind, rest his hands on her shoulders, and drop a kiss to her forehead.

"Couldn't sleep?" he murmurs, his lips tickling her forehead, and she shakes her head slightly.

"Like a child," she replies, and he joins her where she sits, slipping the afghan from the arm of the neighboring chair to cover them both before draping an arm over her shoulders.

"Well, if you want Father Christmas to visit …" he teases, "then you know you'll have to go back to bed."

Elsie glances under the tree, spying the three boxes that she, herself, didn't place there the night before.

"It appears he's already been."

He squeezes her gently, bending to kiss her lips. "And I got everything I wanted last Christmas," he whispers.

Her eyes fill, the embarrassing side effect she's discovered that came along with being a wife, an overwhelming sensitivity to these sweet moments that her Charlie brings out at the most random times.

"I do love you," she whispers, reaching a hand up to caress his cheek. The words are hard for her after so many years spent hiding the majority of her emotions; he knows it, and tips his head so their foreheads are touching.

"And I, you. What were you thinking about when I came in? You were away with the fairies."

She shifts, looks at the fireplace, and his gaze follows hers. "I was contemplating our stockings, how very appropriate they are. I'm glad you didn't take the ones Lady Mary offered last week."

"Yes, well … sometimes new and fancy aren't really appropriate."

"No; not for us, anyhow. I was thinking of how the ones from our childhoods are just right. They're worn in spots, just like we are. But they're so full of love and of our own stories. I don't think I could bear to give them up. Sometimes I'm surprised they've lasted as long as they have."

"Sometimes I'm surprised I've lasted as long as I have," he chuckles.

"Agreed." She laughs, and shakes her head. "It's easier now though, isn't it? Together?"

"It certainly is."

He rises from the sofa and extends his hand to her. "Come on. Back to bed with you, little Elsie. Christmas morning will come soon enough."

"I'm glad we have the half-day to spend together," she tells him as she gets up and folds the afghan, placing it where she was sitting before turning and placing her hand back in his.

"As am I," he says cautiously. They've discussed retirement in broad terms and loose ideas, but he can tell that over the past few weeks it's been on her mind more. Charles doubts that, come next winter, she'll be as willing to trek the icy road to and from the Abbey on a daily basis anymore. But he won't press her, knowing she'll come to it on her own soon enough. And he's not really ready either, although the palsy is making him more and more certain that choice won't be his to make for much longer.

He leads her back to bed and watches her slip off her robe and discard it at the foot of the bed. But he's a bit shocked when she reaches for him as he lays beside her, when she trails her fingernails over his jaw and then moves those fingers to unbutton his pajama shirt.

"Someone still not sleepy?" he whispers, a bushy eyebrow raised in delight.

"Well … not yet," she whispers back, pulling him down.

And so it is, that among kisses both gentle and not, and with words whispered into the stillness of the room, the Carsons welcome their first Christmas dawn as husband and wife.