Right, the idea for this story came from an in-joke that My Madness and I have, hence its slight oddness; nothing that can't be followed though. She wrote some of the dialogue too. No time frame, doesn't have to be a oneshot if anyone has any particularly vehement feelings on the subject.
Why on earth they'd seen fit to paint the kitchen wall at one o'clock in the afternoon was quite beyond her. She had been informed- several times- that, as the kitchen wouldn't be in use again until that evening, it meant the paint would have time to dry without anyone accidentally leaving prints in it. Either that or it would have to be done at night, and the footmen had well nigh flatly declined to do it then. But this arrangement meant that, at quarter to two, she and Mr Carson were sitting silently side by side on the kitchen table, making sure that no one was clumsy enough to go and stand up against it. Well, she was sitting right on the table, while his feet were still touching the floor and he was still taller than her. Bristling a little at the obvious disadvantage nature had afforded her, she drew herself up to the full height she could achieve in this position. This was a fine afternoon's employment, she thought bitterly.
"It's a horrible colour," she remarked blandly- wanting to break the silence and hardly able to remark on the weather as they were inside.
Her statement brought him out of apparently deep- or absent-minded, at any rate- thought. He frowned a little, considering it.
"Do you think so?" he enquired after a moment.
"It's brown," she pointed out rather stupidly, "Horrid and murky. And too dark by far; we won't be able to see what we're doing in here of an evening."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I rather like it," he told her, "At least I don't find it as unpleasant as you seem to."
"Then you have rather an unusual taste in decorations, if you don't mind me saying so," she responded, with half a laugh, "Any particular reason you like it so much?"
"It reminds me of your eyes," he admitted shyly, "They go that colour when you're very surprised. Or very cross with me," he added with a small smile.
She didn't quite know what to say to that. Quite incredulous, she turned to him, mouth slightly open trying not to laugh.
"Just like that," he told her, inspecting the offending area of her face with the satisfied air of someone being proved right.
"You make it sound as if you quite enjoy it when I'm angry with you," she countered, nearly keeping the amusement out of her tone.
He seemed to take a beat to consider his response.
"I suppose I rather do," he conceded, "It's more just that I'm with you than you being cross though."
For such a quiet man, sometimes she couldn't quite believe some of the things he said. It occurred to her for a moment to simply fall off the table- so stunned she was-, but, she reminded herself, she was more in control of herself than that. But really, how was she supposed to respond to a remark like that? She felt really rather flustered.
"It's still an awful colour," she protested firmly.
"It suits eyes much better than it does walls," he agreed solemnly.
"Charles!" she exclaimed quite shrilly, and was moderately perturbed to see him grinning out of the corner of her eye. She fervently hoped that no one was standing outside listening to them.
"Sorry," he apologised, seeming to be momentarily humbled by the hysterical extent to which he appeared to be pushing her. He was still smiling though, she noticed irritably.
They were quiet for a few moments and remained perched on the table .
"Do you mean it?" she asked seriously after a while.
"What? Yes, your eyes are exactly the colour of that wall."
"No," she corrected hastily, "Did you really mean that you enjoy... being with me? Even when I'm cross with you?"
"Especially when you're cross with me," he told her.
She laughed in something like disbelief.
"That makes no sense," she told him, "None of this makes sense. Even that we're spending the best part of an afternoon watching paint dry makes no sense at all!"
"You make it sound as if you're not enjoying it," he told her levelly.
She glanced at him to gage his expression. Although the comment was made lightly, she could feel there was a greater meaning in it. His eyebrows were raised playfully, but not without the tinniest hint of hurt there too. She felt her own shoulders stoop as she sighed.
"I wouldn't quite go that far," she told him, with a small smile.
It was true, sitting here bickering with him about paint and eye colour was really quite diverting. It wouldn't do any harm, she thought, to spend a few more afternoons like this. But she was damned if she was going to say that.
They had reached a dead end, that much was apparent. They had said things that they would never have normally dared to and they weren't quite sure where to go to from there. The smell of the paint must have made them delirious, she concluded, then realised that she hadn't been able to smell it for quite some time now. She could feel his eyes on her and looked at her knees.
"Do you think it's dry yet?" he asked casually, in a faltering return to something approaching his usual manner.
"I don't expect so," she conjectured, "But go and dab at it with your handkerchief if you think it is."
He got up and approached the wall gingerly. As she had predicted, the paint wasn't dry and the pressure of his hand left a mark in the smooth colour. He turned to look apologetically at her, almost as if he hoped she hadn't noticed. She rolled her eyes at him.
"It doesn't matter," she told him, jumping down from her perch, "I think they left the paint here, we can cover it up easily enough; that spot will just take a bit longer."
She heaved the tub of paint out of the sink; why on earth they were storing it there was quite beyond her. With a strength that surprised even her, she thumped it down onto the table.
"I can manage," she told him, as he approached in a chivalrous attempt to help her, helping herself to a paint brush, "I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman but it was you who messed it up in the first place, so I'll do it."
However, she had apparently overloaded the paintbrush a little. Paint flicked in all directions as she tried to apply it.
"Be careful!" he exclaimed, not able to stop himself darting forward, "Otherwise you're nose'll be that colour as well as your eyes."
She was about to stoutly assert that she was more than capable of the task and, judging by what he had been saying, he could have no objections to her nose matching her eyes for a while, when she realised that in his sudden movement he had grabbed her hand and they were no effectively standing holding hands against the wall. He seemed to realise too and, maintaining contact for a moment longer, let go of her hand clearing his throat. Turning determinedly away from him, she set about righting the spot on the wall with great concentration. Once she had done so, however, there was nothing she could do to further put off turning round to him.
Although she had resolved not to look at his face she did. And laughed.
"You've got paint on your face," she said by way of explanation.
His eyes, she noticed, were also remarkably fine as crossness passed briefly over them.
"Let me," she offered as he tried in vain to locate the mark.
She held her breath as she stood on her tip toes to wipe away the smudge with his handkerchief.
Sitting back down where they had been before, he examined the brown stains now etched onto his handkerchief.
"It's a very pretty brown," he remarked carefully.
Although she bit her lip to try to stop it, it wobbled into a grin that couldn't be suppressed.
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