A/N: Hello, lovelies. Still working on my crossover fic with Hogwarts Duo, but this one-shot just wouldn't let me be. Set near the end of S6, Ep 8. It's a companion piece to my "Filling the Cracks," which is referenced within this story. It is not necessary to have read that one, however, to understand this.
Love to all, and thanks to dibdab4 for giving this a once-over and providing a fabulous suggestion, which I don't believe I incorporated nearly as well as she would have. xxx
CSotA
T/W for discussion of suicide attempt and the aftermath (not terribly graphic).
Mr. Carson has noticed it, but he's said nothing. He can't. Not really, anyhow. Not now.
Not without someone hearing him, anyhow, and she'd never forgive him that; then he'd have an even bigger catastrophe on his hands.
Instead of discussing what he's seen, other words fall from his lips. Something about how it's all in hand, how Dr. Clarkson has managed to stitch Mr. Barrow's wounds up at the Abbey and that no hospital stay will be required.
She murmurs a reply about checking in with Mr. Barrow after dinner, and she turns and leads the way into the servants' hall for dinner.
Everyone else is waiting, and while their presence diverts his attention, he's also watching the hem of his wife's dress to see whether or not anyone else will notice it.
The fabric is darker in one spot. It's wet, he realized a few moments ago.
He stifles a shudder when he realizes that he's not sure if the darker color is simply from the water or, perhaps, also from blood. He thinks it's just the water - hopes it is - and takes his seat just as Molesley asks about the doctor's presence.
"Mr. Barrow has been taken poorly," the butler replies.
The housekeeper's hand shakes slightly as she takes the plate upon which he's just placed some meat, and she passes the dish on down the line and holds her hand - now steadied - out for the next one.
No, he thinks. He's sure no one else has noticed the dress.
Dinner passes without further incident, although conversation is definitely not quite what he'd call lively.
It's not until they're about to leave that he thinks to ask about her visit upstairs to the men's quarters.
"Mrs. Hughes," he begins, but she holds up a hand to stop him.
"Not now, Mr. Carson. Please."
She turns and looks him in the eye and he's left speechless, standing there holding her coat and bowled over by the very faint grasp she currently has on her emotions.
He tilts his head in acquiescence and extends the coat, motioning for her to turn around so that he can help her into it.
She shudders when his hands land on her shoulders, squeezing them lightly, and she reaches back to touch him. She relishes the warmth of his hand underneath her cold fingers, and she sighs thankfully at the reminder that he's there just behind her - strong, sure, and silent - and she doesn't think she's ever appreciated him more.
They say their goodbyes in the kitchen, which now only holds Mrs. Patmore and Anna, and they're off for home. He reaches out and clasps her hand as soon as they hear the door close behind them, and he knows it's a start when she squeezes his fingers tightly - and, he thinks, perhaps gratefully.
The sun has descended, and given the gravity of the day's happenings, he's immediately reminded of another similar night not so very long ago. Being able to recall that walk home amazes him, given that he was in such a haze after his Lordship's ulcer incident (that's how he refers to it in his mind - the incident - because he has no other way to explain that horrible experience). Truth be told, he's surprised he remembers anything about that night. But he often thinks back on that walk and how he'd felt Elsie's warm hand squeezing his, keeping him connected to reality. He also has a vague recollection of getting undressed when they'd gotten back, and of her straddling his thighs in their bed, grasping his face in her hands and willing him to focus on something other than the sense of fear that had been gripping his heart.
She'd succeeded, he remembers with a sad sigh. He only hopes that he can return her love in kind … that what he has to offer will be enough to make a difference.
Elsie is grateful that his hand has found hers. It's like a tether to him, to her Charlie (for now that they've left the Abbey behind, he is Charlie and not Mr. Carson, and she's free to be Elsie again), to the supportive surety that he provides when she needs it most. She's walking quickly tonight and smiles a bit when he falls half a step behind behind; he always matches her gait by slowing himself down, but he's underestimated her this evening. They walk silently the entire way home, but the feel of his thumb caressing the back of her hand is all she needs. She's not ready to talk, not while she's outside where anyone could hear them.
Once they arrive at the cottage, he relinquishes her hand in order to open the door and holds it open for her to pass through.
Coats are shed, and Elsie appears to be at a loss. She's standing behind Charles as he gets the fire going, and when he turns he sees her wringing her hands before her waist - a habit of hers that he's long recognized as a method of steadying herself and trying to maintain a sense of propriety and calm … and decorum.
To hell with this, he thinks, and he approaches her and takes her hands in his own once again, prying her fingers apart and resting her hands by her side.
And then he grasps her face in his hands and pulls her to him, kissing her warmly - and, he'll think later, perhaps a bit fiercely.
She opens her mouth more in shock than anything, and before she knows it she's reaching up and clutching his shirt, squeezing the fabric in her hands as his lips and tongue move against hers. If she had to put a word later to how his actions felt, she'd have to call it possessive.
His hands have half unbuttoned her dress before she even realizes it, and she finally breaks away from him, her lips feeling dry and her chest flushed, her heart racing in her chest.
Alive, she thinks.
"Charlie," she whispers.
His hands still. "Do you want me to stop? I'm sorry if I-"
"No," she says, cutting him off. "No, I don't."
He has the wherewithal to get them to the bedroom, at least, before their clothing is shed in rapid measure onto the floor, where it will all lie uncharacteristically forgotten until morning.
oOoOoOoOo
She's breathless when her head hits the pillow, and she watches with a small smile as Charles nearly collapses beside her.
"Taking advantage of your wife's diminished capacity?" she manages to ask, and she waits for him to steady his breathing.
"Elsie," he says after a moment, taking her hand once again and resting them both on her stomach. "Don't do that."
"Don't do what?"
"You know what," he chides. "You're teasing. It's a diversion tactic." He props himself up on his elbow and kisses the tip of her nose. "And it doesn't work on me anymore."
She sobers instantly and nods. "I know."
Charles gets out of the bed and fetches two glasses of water, hands one to her, and climbs back in beside her.
"You need that. Drink."
She drinks.
"Thank you," she says, handing him the now-empty glass, which he places on the nightstand.
He draws her into his arms, and she rests her head on his chest.
"Now," Charles says, his voice soft and gentle despite the depth of it. "Talk to me, Elsie. Because you can't take all of what's in your head to sleep with you, and you definitely cannot take it back to work tomorrow."
She purses her lips before drawing one under her teeth, and her eyes fill with tears. Suddenly, she's not in their bed anymore, but she's transported back to the Abbey, to the God-awful scene …
"It was so red," she whispers eventually. Her voice is harsh, and he can feel the tears fall at last. They land hot and fast on the skin of his chest. "That's all I can see when I close my eyes - everything was just red. Even his shirt ... And I can't imagine how Miss Baxter dealt with it, because by the time I'd arrived, she'd already taken care of so much …"
He can picture it in his mind's eye - doesn't want to, but he can.
"The walls are bright red," he says suddenly. "In the men's, I mean." He doesn't even know why he's mentioned it, thinks perhaps he's trying to make it seem as though some of what she sees was normal ... to help her deal with it all, perhaps.
Even as he says it, he knows it's foolish.
"Yes. The women's isn't like that," she's telling him. "It's black and white in ours." A short laugh escapes her lips. "Funny; one would think the men's would be colored that way … like the livery. Anyhow, I suppose that it never mattered to me that they were different, but tonight it seemed to make it worse somehow, like we couldn't escape it. All the red, I mean." She's rambling, and she knows it, and claps her mouth shut to gather her thoughts again.
He lets her be for a bit, but he eventually has to ask the question that has been burning his mind all day.
"You pulled him out, didn't you?"
She looks up at him, shocked.
"How could you possibly know that?" she whispers.
He raises his eyebrows and smiles, but all she sees is the stark contrast between the curve of his lips and the sadness in his eyes. "Your dress was wet."
Her brow furrows. "What?"
"Your dress - the hem, specifically. When you came down to dinner. There was a patch that was darker than the rest, and I surmised that must be the reason."
"I see." She swallows hard.
"Elsie?"
Her eyes meet his. "I was going to say that I didn't realize you watched me that intently, that I'd not have expected you to notice something like that. But that's not the truth, not really."
"No. It's not."
"You didn't say anything earlier," she muses.
"I didn't think it would be a good idea," he allows. "And besides, even if I had, you don't keep a change of clothing at the Abbey anymore."
"I sent Miss Baxter up to change hers," Elsie says suddenly. "She'd ripped some of her skirts to … to bandage him. And I sent Andy to find a dry jacket as well. It was the three of us, you see, who got him out. And then the doctor arrived … well, you know the rest."
"I do."
She rests her head on him again, drawing her fingers up and down his torso, the sound of his heartbeat in her ear mixing with the soft warmth of his skin under her fingertips reminding her of how very much she is loved, cared for …
Safe.
"I don't think he ever felt safe," she says quietly. "Not really. Not safe to be who he is, at any rate."
"Did he tell you that? When you went to see him, I mean?"
"No, not in so many words. He was tired, and we didn't speak much." She hesitates, unwilling to give up anything specific that had been confided in her but still needing to share with Charlie, to find a way to unburden her heart a bit.
"Do you really believe he felt unsafe?" He can't fathom it, how someone could find Downton lacking in that way. "The family are good to their staff - and, I must say, they've been kinder to Thomas than he's deserved at times."
"Until letting him go, you mean."
The words are out before she can pull them back, and she pats his side. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I don't blame them," she clarifies instantly.
"No, of course not. You blame yourself."
"I do," she says instantly, and her voice cracks at the admission. "I do blame myself. It was to me to look after him, Charlie."
"I beg your pardon," he argues, albeit gently.
"You know what I mean," she says. "I know the men come under your purview. But I've always … well, understood him. You know that. You and I have discussed that … how he's not the first man I've known who has … well." She sniffles. "Clearly he was so very, very lonely and … hopeless."
Elsie sniffles again, and Charles squeezes her a bit tighter.
"When I saw him tonight, the pain in his eyes when he spoke …" she continues. "I know what it is to feel you've not got a soul in the world who understands you, who understands your life."
"Not even Miss Baxter saw this coming," Charles reminds his wife. "And she's known Thomas since he was a child. You could not have prevented this, love. You must stop berating yourself for not having predicted it. No one could have done so."
"I disagree."
He tips his head down a bit, burying his face in her hair, and kisses the top of her head.
"That's your prerogative," he allows hesitantly. "But that won't make this your fault."
Elsie doesn't speak. She's trying so very hard to believe him, but she can't quite get there.
And Charles is patient. He shifts down in the bed, wrapping his other arm around her, hoping that instead of breaking her completely with all his squeezing, perhaps he's filling her with some of his own strength.
"Well, I still love you," he says unnecessarily. "And I'm sure they all do, too."
She scoffs. "They don't love us, Charles." A pause, during which she really thinks about his words. "I can't even believe you said that."
"Well, I did." He smiles; she can feel it in the way his chin has moved against her head. "And you're half right there; they love you."
"They respect me, I think," she muses. "At least, I hope so."
"That they do," he agrees. "And I'd wager that most of them love you. You're like a mother to them, Elsie. You always have been. I'm not sure how you manage it, truth be told. And I know they don't feel the same about me."
"Nor would you want them to."
"No," he agrees instantly. "I wouldn't. It wouldn't be right."
"But it's right for me to be that way?"
He thinks for a minute. "It is," he says finally. "You're the one they go to with their homesickness and their questions. You're the one who provides the warm cuppa and the kind words, the encouragement. You're the one who remembers whose cousin has fallen ill and who needs an extra few days to learn a new task. And just like any other mother, you are not responsible for their decisions, and you are not to blame for their downfalls."
She relaxes into his body, and he can feel the tension leave her in waves.
"Thank you for that," she says, and her voice breaks once again.
Charles can count on one hand the amount of times he's seen his wife break down prior to this night. It's not her style; she's always the strong one, the sure one, the one who leads him through life's challenges.
But then he remembers something she told him on that other night, the night of the incident, and he repeats the words back to her now.
"We must never take this life for granted," he reminds her. "We must never take this love that we share for granted. Do you remember telling me that once? That this love we have is everything to you? And that it is enough?"
She nods against his body.
"Well," he murmurs, shifting them so that she's on her side and he's tucked in behind her, all the while keeping her wrapped securely in his arms. "It's the same for me. The right to care for you; it is everything. And I thank you for that."
And, for the first time, Elsie realizes that Charles needed her tonight just as much as she needed him.
"I love you too, you know," she whispers.
He leans over and kisses her temple.
"As it happens, I do."
The words still don't come easily, sometimes, even after a few months of marriage. But they're managing, day by day ...
… and it is enough.
End
Would love to know what you've thought. x