Summary: A series of 100-word stories depicting moments from the lives of our favorite "spot of trouble" valet and head housemaid turned lady's maid.
Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey or these characters.
A/N: I initially posted these on tumblr, but upon request, I have compiled them into one story. As I write more, I'll add additional chapters. They are in no particular order as to time period and run the range from fluff to angst. Thanks to awesomegreentie for the title and everyone on tumblr for the encouragement :)
Reviews are always appreciated.
Relief
He was supposed to return from London hours ago. She worried endlessly, returning downstairs at every opportunity to see if he'd come back yet.
Each time, Mrs. Hughes just shook her head.
He likely missed the last train to Downton. But why?
Nothing could be done until morning, so she walked to the cottage, alone. She did not sleep.
The next morning, he arrived on the milk train and met her at the house, an explanation on his lips. All that mattered was he was there. She did not care who watched as she threw her arms around him.
Mending
They knew how to sit together, quietly. The silences were comfortable.
He would read quietly as she did some mending for Lady Mary. Sometimes when he looked up, he would catch her smiling at him.
"What is it?" he'd ask.
"You."
His eyes would crinkle in embarrassed amusement as he smiled back at her. Just being in her presence lifted his spirits. That a woman like her would look at him at all, let alone with such an expression of tenderness, amazed him.
Somewhere deep inside him, another stitch was added to the slow healing fabric of his torn soul.
Argument
They had an argument. She could barely remember what it was about. The hotel, perhaps, and their future.
It didn't matter.
Her heart ached from the pain of it, from the words she'd said in anger.
"I love you," she wished she'd said to him.
Hours went by before he came home, the familiar tap of his cane on the steps bringing her downstairs.
"I just want us together-" he began as she came to meet him.
"I know," she readily agreed, "That's how I feel-"
But her words were cut off by the kiss of his lips on hers.
Picture
The cell was cold and dark, and it stank of fear.
He faced an uphill battle, proving he did not kill Vera. He wanted to have faith that the truth would set him free. But he had no such delusions about justice. Vera had put him in prison before.
At least Anna believed in him. He had her love to carry with him. They were now bound together as husband and wife. "For better or for worse," he said aloud, not adding, "til death do us part."
Death may part them too soon.
But at least he had her picture.
Poem
The slip of paper she found in her apron pocket contained his handwriting. A poem. Not his own words, but beautiful ones nevertheless. She read them in his voice, letting the ebb and flow of language carry her away with his deep, subtle tone.
She was called away for a task before she could finish, so she tucked the paper back into her pocket. Removing it in her spare moments, she re-read the lines over and over, bits and pieces in stolen moments, but never the whole.
At the end of the day, in the courtyard with none else but him, she pulled out the paper and handed it to him.
"I want to hear you read it," she said.
Grief
He sat with her after she got the telegram.
"Will you go to the funeral?" he asked after a time, interrupting the silence.
"Of course. She was my mother."
He could not offer to go with her. He did not have that right. But he held her hand just the same, and she smiled at him in thanks.
"She would have liked you."
"I doubt that." He was older, a felon, and not yet divorced.
"Not at first, perhaps. But.. she would have eventually. If she knew you the way I do."
He held her as she started to cry.
Suspicion
He knew she suspected him. But she never said a word.
It lay between them - a secret, yes, but until she asked he could not deny it, could not protest his innocence.
If he were innocent. That was a matter for debate.
They circled around it for months. He brooded and she fretted. Finally, it came to a head. She asked the question he'd been dreading.
"Were you the one who… ate the last of Mrs. Patmore's strawberry jam?"