A/N: SPOILER ALERT! CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR S04E01!
Things would be easier if she could just let it rest. If she weren't so involved. If she could just cut it all loose and get on with her work. She has shooed Beryl up to bed, has turned off the lights in the Servants' Hall and she is just going to her sitting room to close the window and put away some things. There is no need to look in on him. He is upset - as is she, of course she is, how can he not understand why she has taken the letter from the wastepaper basket.
It's because she cares.
Too much.
With Mrs Crawley it's more that she saw an opportunity: a place for Charlie Grigg to stay and for Mrs Crawley to heal, if only a bit, if only to focus on something beside herself, to be someone, something, to find that not all is lost - even though she is certain it must feel that way, that there is nothing worse than to lose a child.
If only he would see it's an opportunity to let go of the past, to confront it, to come to terms with it and move on. To stop judging himself so harshly - because that is what it is, it's him not being able to forgive himself, that is why he cannot forgive Grigg, no matter how pathetic the sick man is - breathing in mold at the workhouse, slaving away over something she isn't quite sure of, potato or flour sacks or something else altogether.
Grigg had asked if he had sent her.
As if it had been in his power to send a woman. To send her.
She pulls up her shoulders until they click. She is tired. After a day like this - filled with uproar and upset, all she wants is her bed, even if it's only for a couple of hours.
She closes the window, pulls down the blind. Closes the cupboard, puts the last ledger in the drawer and closes that too. She shuts the door firmly behind her and moves deliberately through the hall towards the green baize door. Her bed is four flights of stairs up and she knows she'll make it, she has always made it so far, but it's like Everest to her now and she is distracted by the faint light that comes from under his door.
She takes a deep breath and knocks.
"Mr Carson?"
She pushes the door open. He is at his desk, his big hands pulling needle and thread through fabric and button, meticulous, precise, steady.
"Mrs Hughes."
He doesn't look up.
"I'll go up then." She says. Futile words. Inadequate.
"Goodnight, Mrs Hughes."
He still hasn't looked up, keeps running the needle through, lips perched, hunched over.
"You'll ruin your eyes." Why can't she leave him alone? She thinks. Why must she fill the silence with words he doesn't want to hear.
Why must she care so?
"I'm almost finished." He doesn't sound too put out. Not even enough to detect a hint of irritation.
"Goodnight then."
But she is too tired to move. Her neck is barely strong enough to hold her head up, she is sure her back will creak with every step she takes and she longs for him to look at her, to take some of her burden but she knows he won't.
He never will.
"I'll go with you." He then replies and she is startled somewhat and doesn't know what to say.
He gets up, takes his coat, places it over his arm and walks to her.
"You remember when I told you I was on your side?" He asks and she nods.
He hesitates. "I still am, you know."
He is close. Unbearably close. It must be the fatigue overwhelming her. She is unable to detect reality from dream. It cannot be that he lips brush against hers, that his hand comes to rest on her hip, his fingers gently pressing into her. She must be dreaming that she kisses him back, her mouth hungry, her breasts pressing up against his chest, her arms finding their way around his neck, the door a comfortable support.
Since it's not real, since she is hallucinating from exhaustion, it's quite alright to go along with it, to let herself be pushed against that door a tad firmer, to have his lips open against hers, their tongues seeking the other, his coat falls to the floor and she knows she is not dreaming, not hallucinating, that this is all real, that his hand is really wandering from her hip to her breast.
He'd never let his coat drop without picking it up - not in a dream, dreams follow reality more than you'd initially think.
He' s a wonderful kisser. She could have known. He is thorough in everything, why wouldn't he be a thorough kisser? He may be a stranger to romance now, but he wasn't always, didn't he tell her that? She doesn't want to think about the women he might have had, the things he might have been up to.
She whimpers slightly when his lips leave hers, but is instantly relieved as he plants tender kisses on her cheek, along her jaw and she tilts her head as he reaches the soft skin of her exposed neck. She curses her dress, her corset, her shift, anything that is in the way of his sure hands.
This is certainly not a dream. In her dreams he never goes past a chaste kiss goodnight - and she would never say 'no' to that, still has thoughts about the pair of them perhaps retiring together - and he is quite compos mentis as it seems.
Is he paying penance? Is he showing remorse over his harsh jibes at her. Remarks that have started coming out callously and sometimes even cruelly ever since the War and intensifying after the death of Lady Sybil?
She melts into his touch, tries to stifle the thoughts, the pondering, her hands finding their way to the buttons of his waistcoat, opening them quickly, then rubbing the palms of her hands downward, over the top of his thighs and she can feel the tightening of the fabric under her hands and it's thrilling to know he reacts to her so.
At their age too.
He pushes her back against the door again and his fingers fumble with the keys before finally managing to turn them. His weight against her is making her breath hitch in a way she hasn't experienced in years. Maybe ever. She clenches her thighs together, moaning. His hands are resting on her hips again, but not idle, pressing and rubbing and his leg is somehow moving between hers, prying them apart and the friction is both delicious and frightening.
She's not been with a man for a very long time. Probably longer than he has gone without a woman. Decades of Downton for her - Downton which has proven to be safe and secure, without worry and hurt and shame - but Grantham House every Season for him and London is filled with temptation and who knows what he gets up to, hasn't her mother told her that all men are the same?
He kisses her again, his arm snaking around, pulling her close to him. He is gentle, tender, kind and demanding at the same time.
She can feel him swallow hard, taking a deep breath.
"Do you... erm..." His words come out in strangled tones and breath.
"Yes." She whispers back. Because she may be scared, but she loves him and if this is the only chance she'll have, she'll have to grab it with both hands and not let go because a lack of courage. She is strong, stronger than most, she can take the blow when it falls. If it falls.
He nods, his cheek against hers, a faint stubble rasping against her skin.
"Not here." He gestures around them.
"Where?" It's her task to know which room isn't being used but she cannot think clearly and neither can he by the look of it. She takes his hand.
"Come."
They end up in the Blue Room - the room she knows is has been used for such trysts before and they undress each other slowly, carefully. His hands are soft, there is nothing of the force of first footmen, nothing of the cruelty of second sons.
Fingertips explore, lips and tongue run over her skin. He is beautiful, she finds. Strong and broad and silver chest hair curls under her cheek when she discovers him in turn.
Skin against skin, ragged breath, moans and he checks with a look if it's alright for him to take the next step. Slippery folds, new sensations, moaning, longing and still she cannot turn off her mind.
I know you don't understand why I do the things I do, she thinks, but I think you know I love you, even if you don't admit it to yourself. I know you are not against love, I know you would be capable to love in return if you'd forgive yourself for the mistakes you've made.
It's alright. It will be alright. This is not wrong, she knows it when he hovers over her, enters her and it's shocking even if expected and she has to wipe away a tear that has spilled onto her cheek. They move slowly, deliberately. This is not about instant satisfaction - like it has been before and never for her - it's about closeness and forgiveness and she gets it now.
"I love you..." She whispers, she doesn't know if he can hear it over the sound of the springs creaking, the heavy breathing and moaning. It doesn't matter. She only had to admit it to herself out loud and she has. She arches her back, taking his rhythm and speeding it up, her legs wrapped around him. She reaches up to him, cups his cheek, looks directly into his eyes and she knows he will never say it back, but she can see it there.
He may not understand but he loves her. In this moment, at least, if not always.
And it's enough.