At first, there are no changes.
Over the rim of his teacup, he watches her speak a strand of words, a run-on sentence, but not rambling. In the evening light, the room is bathed in weak, golden candlelight, and their shadows are cast oblong against the opposite wall. Outside, snowflakes align themselves into an endless white blanket, a virgin sheet, untouched, and will announce itself officially in the morning like the announcement of the birth of a child. She talks, and he listens, as he always has.
Right now, it's something along the lines of Daisy's future on the farm. To his dismay, he's starting to become accustomed to the idea- accustomed, not eager- because he's seen the passion the girl (a woman, now- when did he miss that?) shows for her studies and is honestly astonished to see how quick she is with her mathematics. A tool, Mrs. Hughes would call it. A weapon, he'd say.
To his shame, he's been a horrible listener this evening, but for all that is good in the world, her words fly right over his head and he instead becomes engrossed in negligible things, as if he's measuring the distance between the soup spoon and the plate; he supposes he'll always be like that, for the rest of his life- fixated on tiny details. Her posture, for instance: perfect, straight as a rail, but she's leaning slightly towards him as she speaks. Is this new? An unspoken rule she has bent, that she is now permitted to be more engaged in conversation now that she herself is engaged? Or has he just never noticed- chosen not to notice- and now given himself subconscious permission to drop all pretenses and actually look at her, shamelessly?
Shamelessly, but not without propriety.
She stops talking and it draws his attention, "You've been awfully quiet, Mr. Carson."
"I was merely thinking, Mrs. Hughes," He responds easily because it is true.
A sip from her tea, and she sets it down with a soft clink. "About what, might I ask?"
"Nothing in particular," He says, letting out a deep sigh. His gaze turns towards his tea cup, still relatively full, the last curls of steam long gone, fleeting. But tea is still tea, still appetizing, and so he takes a drink from it, just as she has done. She's watching him with eyes beneath sleepy lids, and he can sense her eyes on him, but it is something that he has grown to not mind. Her eyes are welcome, and he has discovered that is a pleasure to just look at her. Allowances he has given himself.
Mrs. Hughes gives him a knowing smile- she's been in sync with him for long enough that she can read him like the book he is- but she's clever enough to know to drop it. Neither of them are sentimental- at least, not enough to turn emotion into sentiment.
"Well, I'd advise you to finish your tea before it freezes over," For her cheerful admonishing, he adores her. That hasn't changed, either.
Has anything changed, in reality? It's possible that he's just imagining all these indulgences they've made- those nuances that make his heart thump wildly in his chest. (Which has happened frequently as of late. His heart, to his dismay, begs to be heard.) Rather, the way she looks at him and the feelings she stirs in him- dislodging the sediment of sentiment, covered for decades by a depth of placid water- feels so raw and new, but something tells him that it's been like that for several years now.
"Frozen, boiling- it is no matter," Mr. Carson returns the content smile, and he finds that he has always wanted someone to look at him this way, and desperately, subconsciously, always desired to be able to pore over someone- no, not someone: her.
She's his best friend.
For whom else would he stay up into the late hours, for no other reason than to talk?
But that's what's changed: now he allows it, no longer concocts ridiculous excuses to turn to her during crisis, to crave her voice, those brief moments when they touch.
No one had to give him permission but himself.
"My, it's nearing midnight; I'm afraid we'd best be off to bed if we want to function tomorrow," Mrs. Hughes gives a resounding, tired, cheerful sigh, and he has to stifle the yawn he nearly catches.
"Quite right," He agrees, and he joins her as she stands up, but pauses.
From all corners of the room, memories seem to sprout from the shadows like ivy curling its way about the branches of time. His pantry is no different than it was decades ago, save the telephone and a few other details. It makes something turn within him; his stomach does a small flip.
"You're going to miss this house," Mrs. Hughes states, but does not ask, because there is no question about it and no point in denying it.
He swallows thickly and gives a curt nod as she continues, "I can't say I have as many ties to the family as you do, but I'd be lying if I said I had no fond memories here." Her eyes are soft, not with pity, but with sympathy to his grievance, and it is she who melts his heart, reminds him that he is leaving this place for somewhere far better- it wouldn't matter where, as long as she accompanied him. If only the rest of the world could face the world so bravely, with such consideration of others as she did. If only he could.
"There's many-" Mr. Carson stops, his sentence killed in mid-breath, for he is once without words, but it's been quite some time since words were the only medium in which they could speak; she extends a hand to him and he accepts graciously.
"I know, Mr. Carson," She says softly, nearly inaudible. Her other hand graces the back of his neck and she draws him near, places her lips on his cheek for the shortest, longest second of his life. She allows him to stand straight once more, and her lips remain parted for a moment longer, as if she is about to speak. She does: "And I love you for it."
His vision of her figure goes blurry in the wake of tears he did not mean to cry, but he is exhausted from pretending that life has no room for sentiments, even if he is not innately sentimental.
Their hands still intertwined, she turns off the remaining, golden light, and together they travel upstairs- soon, only a few weeks more, they won't have any need for parting ways at the corridor, the keys whispering like Christmas bells when she turns them for one of the last times in her life.
Things like that are hard to change. Habits: keys, ledgers, wine, gongs, dinner, Sherries, late nights, them.
He should have known that not even he could avoid the oncoming change, even if it didn't come in the way he had anticipated. But this change was not unlike the new fashions, the changing classes, the Labor Government, because as much as it pains him to admit the former were true- both were a long time coming.
Things have changed- warped into almost unrecognizable figures- but that doesn't mean some of the changes- one, in particular- won't be embraced with open arms.
Quite literally.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I've never done Downton fan fiction, but I've always wanted to, and to be honest, it's kind of a tricky fandom to write in. If you've got a moment, please leave a review because feedback helps astronomically with motivation and improving my skills. The title, in case you were wondering, is a reference to Mr. Carson's quote in Season 5, Episode 1.