A/N: Aww, I've missed you guys! I thought I'd do a 25 Days of Chelsie prompt of sorts. . .though I started early because I had more prompts than there were days until Christmas. . .ha. If anyone wants the prompt list I made I'll happily share! It's lyrics from various holiday carols, hymns, etc. Most of these are already written and they'll vary in length, but I hope I can post one (or two) a day between now and the holiday! However, next week I will be in NYC so I may get a little behind (Steph and I are going to the Downton event — with Jim and Phyllis, gah! And then the next day I'm meeting with publishers so that's terribly exciting). I have to say, I was recently on bedrest for two weeks and I really enjoyed catching up on all the fics here — you guys are all amazingly talented and weave such amazing stories for these two! Even with Downton ending I feel like so long as I have these fics to come back to, it won't be quite so bad. Also, thank you to Steph for beta'ing these chapters — and sorry I added some to this without telling you.

i. a star, a star dancing in the night

Snow fell silently around them as they walked back to their cottage, big wet flakes that gave the illusion of being inside a shaken snow globe. Elsie looked up at the night sky — so vast above her head that she nearly felt as though she were spinning. She slipped a bit — a patch of ice beneath the powdery snow — and Charles reached for her, pulling her upright.

"Careful, pet."

She cocked her head slightly, reaching up to straighten her hat, "Have you given me a little term of endearment, Charles Carson?"

He squinted at her in the darkness, "I — what did I say?"

"If I am to believe my ears, I think you called me pet."

"Oh, well I—" he sputtered, his breath a plume of smoke before his face, "—I was afraid you were going to fall — slip on the ice and — I suppose it just slipped —"

"You needn't apologize. I thought it was charming. I think I should like it if you slipped more often."

He smiled, shaking his head lightly. A sudden giddiness rose up in her and she paused, reaching down to run her gloved fingers through the powdery snow. She was delighted to find that it was fresh and a bit sticky. He had continued lumbering up the path ahead of her, and just as he turned round to wonder where she'd disappeared to, she stood up, hiding her hands behind her back.

"Are you alright?" he frowned.

"Yes," she said evenly, biting her lip, "I've only — I've got to lace up my boot."

He nodded, coughing slightly, and turned to face away from her down the path — as though the slight lifting of her skirt was scandalous! Daft, wonderful man she thought as she molded a snowball into her palm. She stared at it a moment before allowing a sudden childish provocation to overtake her — and she sent the snowball sailing down the path straight into the back of his coat.

He turned in one, swift motion upon his heels, his hands curling slightly at his sides. She pressed her lips together tightly and raised her eyebrows at him.

"I would have expected better from you," he frowned, taking a step toward her. She wilted, her smile falling. As he drew closer still, his breath puffing out in a white plume in front of his face, she started to apologize, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed his lips to hers. She gasped when he pulled back, his eyes sparkling, "That was a pitiable excuse for a snowball."

She stared at him a moment and then exhaled a sharp laugh as a playful wickedness flashed in his eyes. He knelt down (albeit slowly on creaking knees) and began to run his gloved hands through the snow. She knelt down too, paying no mind to her skirts, and gathered up the snow in order that she might beat him to the pass.

He stood up and she looked up at him, her hair coming lose from beneath her hat and falling in long strands in front of her face.

"I'll give you a running start," he teased, tossing not one or two — but three snowballs into the air, juggling them with care. She marveled a moment at his display, but then stood unsteadily, her eyes pleading.

"Have mercy on me, Mr Carson—" she said, biting back a laugh.

"Well!" he huffed, " 'twas you that started it!" he said, a snowball falling from his hand and plopping unceremoniously onto the ground.

She was trapped now — but she was suddenly struck by a brilliant stratagem, "Those look perfect," she said slowly, "There's an art to it, I'm sure — how did you manage to get them so perfectly formed?"

Chuffed, he puffed out his chest, inspecting the snowballs carefully, "Well," he began, "It's all about the state of the snow — too much slush and it will turn to ice, too powdery and it will fall apart —"

As soon as he'd begun his litany, she took the opportunity to pick up her skirts and run by him down the path, skidding slightly as she did. He turned, raising his arm so that he might send the snowball flying down at the path at her back.

"Very cheeky!" he called, doubling his steps to catch up with her.

She whirled around, her hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. She wasn't young and did she ever feel the weight of her age as her steps slowed. Panting, she put her hands on her hips and waited for him to reach her.

"You didn't even try!" she called.

When he was just a few feet from her he waggled his eyebrows, "Never waste a perfect snowball on a moving target," he said, and with one graceful motion, he pelted her straight in the chest.

Mouth agape, she looked down to where the snow speckled her coat and scarf. When she looked up at him — his boyish, lopsided grin sparkling in the moonlight, she couldn't help but guffaw, throwing her head back and pressing her hand to her belly. Charles Carson was not a playful man as a rule — and seeing this side of him filled her with a new kind of love.

Letting their breathing settling, they meandered on toward their cottage — in their sights now, even as snow drifted in the path before them, their boots crunching against the ice beneath. As they reached the front door, he shoved his gloved hands into his pockets, struggling for the key. She turned from him to look up at the tremendous, dark sky above them. The north star shone brightly, winking down at her from somewhere she supposed might be heaven.

"Star of wonder, star of night," she sang, her voice rolling thick around the r, swaying a bit as the snow fell down around her, "Star with royal beauty bright. . ."

"Westward leading, still proceeding — ah ha!" he sung, fishing the key out of his pocket at last. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open, stomping snow off his boots and gesturing for her to go through, "After you. Go stand by the fire—your poor hands must be frozen."