A/N: Tumblr prompt from monajo7, who wanted me to write something a bit angsty "where Elsie just gives up because he gives her nothing." And "maybe when she lets go he finally gives in – but he has to fight for her." Inspired – for her – by the song "Sweet Nothing" by Calvin Harris and Florence Welch.

"So I put my faith in something unknown
I'm living on such sweet nothing
But I'm tired of hope with nothing to hold
I'm living on such sweet nothing"

Several months had passed since Mr. Crawley's death. The family began to heal, and life downstairs returned to some semblance of normal.

But, with this normality, Elsie began to lose hope. For Charles had indeed knocked on her door more than he ever had in the past, had relied on her to help him through, had started to have her visit his pantry nightly for tea or sherry or wine left from the family's dinners. And while they grew closer, she'd wondered. She wondered if he would ever realize – would ever show her – what she suspected was true: that he felt for her something more than friendship and mutual professional respect.

When he'd heard the news that her lump wasn't cancer, hadn't he been so overjoyed that he sang? Hadn't he held her hand when Lady Sybil died? Hadn't he seemed pleasantly surprised when she'd kissed him upon the cheek and head when he'd been upset over Lady Mary's loss?

Ever since that day, Elsie had waited. She hadn't kissed him again, or even so much as touched his hand, since then. She wanted to see if he would respond in kind. Their meetings pleased her; they were sweet and enjoyable. Sometimes she even caught him looking at her in a certain way, a way that gave her even more hope. Then, when she went to bed at night, she'd lie awake and think of what it would be like to have Charles kiss her. She believed that it would be marvelous.

Yet, he didn't kiss her. He treated her with kindness and respect – and that was it. Nothing else.

Elsie might have been content with that several years before, but now was different. With so much loss in the house, she kept thinking that time shouldn't be wasted. And she longed to have more with Charles than just so many sweet nothings.

But she also knew Charles very well. He wouldn't respond well if she made the first move. The kisses she'd given him before he'd written off as comfort, certainly. Otherwise…. Well, she didn't know anymore. All she knew was she couldn't sit sedately with him in his pantry and pretend she felt less for him than she did.

So, this particular night, when Charles smiled at her in the servants' hall, most of the others having gone to bed, and said, "Shall we, Mrs. Hughes?" Elsie shook her head.

"I believe I'll go to bed and read, Mr. Carson." She stood and pushed her chair under the table.

The disappointment crossing his countenance made her think twice, but he answered quickly, "Oh. Well, I suppose it's been a long day. Er, goodnight, Mrs. Hughes." He cleared his throat and left the room hurriedly.

Elsie went to her bedroom and undressed slowly, thinking.

The next evening, she did the same. This time, Charles looked not only disappointed but surprised. "If you'd rather, Mrs. Hughes. I – I – ahem. Goodnight." Again, he exited with haste.

That entire week, Elsie followed the same pattern. She continued to be pleasant to Charles and kept her door open to him when he sought her counsel, but she refused to join him in the evenings.

At the end of the week, Charles knocked on her sitting room door after luncheon. "Mrs. Hughes, may I have a word?"

"Certainly, Mr. Carson," she replied, putting down her pen and turning in her chair from the house ledgers with a smile.

Charles closed the door quietly behind him. "Have – have I offended you in some way, Mrs. Hughes?" he inquired in a low, nervous voice.

Elsie thought a few seconds. "No, you haven't. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you've avoided our nightly refreshments all week, and I can't think why unless I've done or said something to offend." He wrung his hands.

Sighing softly, Elsie fixed her eyes upon the floor. "I apologize if I've upset you or made you think you've caused offense, because you haven't. I simply see no point to our meeting that way anymore, as you seem better now after Mr. Crawley's passing." When she lifted her head, she saw that his face bore a hurt expression.

"I thought you enjoyed our evening chats, Mrs. Hughes."

Elsie saw that he still didn't understand. He could be singularly obtuse about certain things, and she apprehended that she would have to tell him something – at least give him some hint of her thinking. Taking a deep breath, she stood and looked at him directly. "To be honest, Mr. Carson, our evening chats had become very important to me. Rather too important. And that's why I've had to give them up."

If anything, he appeared even more confused than he had before. "Too important?"

She nodded. "Yes. Too important. And I can't see continuing them. They'll never become more, so far as I can tell." Elsie intoned this last sentence very softly, turning her head away from him.

"More?" Charles repeated, his brows drawn together.

Elsie sighed sadly, looking at him again. "I can see you still don't understand. I'm very sorry. More sorry than you know." She sat in her chair once more. "I should get back to work, Mr. Carson."

Charles, bewildered, walked to the door, realizing he'd been dismissed. "I'm sorry too," he said dejectedly, still unsure what she meant, but certainly sorry that she no longer wished to sit with him in the evening.

Once he got back to his pantry, he took up his place behind his desk. But instead of picking up his pen and going over the wine inventory, he put his head in his hands and contemplated his conversation with Elsie. They'll never become more, she'd said. His mind went back to their exchange from several months before, to how kind she'd been to him, to how she'd wrapped her hand around his wrist, how she'd kissed his cheek and then his temple, to how she'd offered her support to him – and how she'd delivered since then.

Did she not realize that having her there with him every evening meant the world to him? She was his best friend. He talked to no one like he did to her. Were they not important to her too? But no, she'd said they were – even that they'd become too important. He began to glimpse something, to perhaps see…. Does she care for me more than I recognize? he thought.

The question intrigued him. Instead of being embarrassed, the notion rather pleased him. Lifting his head from his hands, he stood. Retracing his steps, he stopped outside Elsie's door and rapped his knuckles upon it. "Mrs. Hughes? Might I trouble you a second time?"

At her consent, he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, standing against it. It was her turn to look confused. "Is something the matter, Mr. Carson? You appear to have a fever." She rose from her seat and crossed toward him, her hand poised as though she were about to check his forehead for a temperature.

Charles raised his hand, and she halted, cocking her head in puzzlement. "I've been thinking, and I do wish there was something I could do to convince you to let us reestablish our nightly chats. They're important to me too." His eyes beseeched her.

Elsie caught her breath. "I – I don't know. It's not that I don't want to have them. It's just that –" She bit her lip.

Taking a few more steps, so there were only a few paces between them now, Charles spread his hands helplessly out in front of him. "What can I do to persuade you?"

Blushing now, she drew herself up to her full height, her head still barely reaching his nose. "I don't know," she repeated in a near whisper. "I don't think it would take much."

Charles gazed upon her. Her bosom heaved and her eyes sparkled. Her cheeks were the most becoming shade of pink he'd ever seen, and her face was tilted up toward him, almost expectantly. Or perhaps it was completely expectantly. Something clicked in Charles' head at that moment, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her until they were both dizzy.

He closed the distance between them and, hesitantly, put a hand on her arm. "Elsie," he whispered, noting her soft gasp at his use of her first name. "I think I know what might persuade you."

Relishing the gentle pressure of his hand upon her arm, Elsie took a deep breath. "Charles," she whispered, "don't cross that line if you don't mean it. I'll come sit with you in the evening either way." She smiled warmly.

Drawing closer to her, he bent his head and said in a low voice, close to her ear, "But I do mean it. And I hope that you'll do more than sit with me." He grazed his lips across her cheek and looked down into her face with a grin.

Coloring even more, Elsie breathed harder. "Charles Carson! The very thought!"

Charles chuckled. "Haven't you thought of it? I have. I simply –" here he grew solemn, touching her cheek with his other hand – "I didn't know how you felt. I didn't want to lose your friendship."

"You won't." She leaned closer to him, her lips parting.

He couldn't help himself anymore. Charles bent his head again and touched his lips to hers, elated that they felt just as he'd expected.

Elsie thought her heart might fly out of her chest as she grasped the sleeve of his suit coat between her fingers, pulling him closer to her. She'd been kissed before, but it'd been so long ago, that she felt she might have forgotten how. His tender touch reminded her though, made her feel like that giddy girl she once was.

When he finally ended the kiss, Charles gazed at her, rubbing her cheek with his fingers. "Are you persuaded?"

"Yes," Elsie replied. "I am."

She looked forward to all the sweet nothings that were to come.