Chapter 4

Just Out of Reach

A/N: One of the things I was thinking about this weekend as I contemplated the next few chapters is something pretty fundamental about the human experience (not for all, but for most): the physical touch of other people. When we're having a hard time, either because of life's slings and arrows, or with each other, oftentimes, a signal that things are going to be better, going to be okay, is soothing physical contact: from "kissing a boo boo" to "hugging it out" to "make up sex". Right?

Well…what if that wasn't a socially acceptable option?

What do you do?

This chapter is his, the next is hers.

It was late, and he was exhausted. He hated to admit that, even to himself, but he was. He poured himself a half-glass of Margaux, trying to ignore the fact that he was waiting. Waiting for a certain tempo of footsteps in the hallway beyond, a certain staccato knock on his door. But…certainly, she must have retired by now? Even the sounds from the kitchen were muted, and he pictured Beryl Patmore, or Daisy, solitary, finishing the final tasks of the evening before heading off to bed.

He closed his eyes, tipped his head backwards a little, trying not to get too comfortable; he knew himself, and these days, he could nod off and awaken several hours later. His mind was as sharp as ever, but his body wasn't always so reliable. He thought back to earlier today, when she'd asked him about the war memorial.

He knew, all along, he was breaking some unspoken rule of theirs, by confessing his unease at being at odds with her on it: he was admitting how much her opinion, how much she, mattered to him. His initial chastisement had shifted into something else, something that put them on equal emotional footing - something neither of them quite knew how to navigate.

And he had been convinced by his and Lord Grantham's exchange with mother and son, he hadn't lied. But the relief he felt was entirely due to the fact they were finally aligned again. It seemed more important than it should, but he held on to it tightly.

She had been flirting with him, he knew, and he had responded in kind. She had looked entirely discomfited, but not at all displeased, and he couldn't stop going back to the moment, right before blasted Thomas Barrow had interrupted them, and blasted Sgt. Willis had elbowed his way in, because not only had the moment slipped away; it seemed entirely erased, as if it had never happened.

Though he didn't understand why, by the time the policeman had left, she was distant, tense and distracted. He was missing something, he knew, but he couldn't determine what it was. He knew she cared about the Bateses, especially Anna, but he felt there was something more to this story, something she knew that she wasn't saying – or couldn't.

He was drifting off, her troubled face clear in his mind, and then, it came: the knock he'd been waiting for.

"Come in," he sat up, straightened his vest, which has gone askew.

She opened the door, stood there, her face tired but smiling at him. She didn't come in, but stayed where she was, her small, tidy figure framed by the doorway.

"Daisy told me you were still in here, I hardly believed it."

"I suppose it is rather late…the day just got away from me, Mrs. Hughes."

"Well, hopefully I've saved you from falling asleep in your chair, Mr. Carson," she teased, but yes – her eyes were distracted, far away. He stood and walked towards her, almost without thinking. In any case, he really ought to be retiring. He could at least admit he simply had hoped to see her again tonight, before he did.

"You tend to make a habit of rescuing us all, when we least expect it. Or even realize we need rescuing, Mrs. Hughes," he lifted an eyebrow at her, and because he was tired, and so was she, he could tell, once again, what had begun as teasing on his part had landed firmly in utter sincerity.

She smiled up at him again, and he recognized the look on her face, because he'd seen it this afternoon: uncomfortable, flattered, happy, nervous.

"This is hardly the same man who chastised me about my opinion about a certain garden of remembrance, Mr. Carson," she retorted, shaking her head, her eyes everywhere but on him. There was no scheming under butler, no bumbling but diligent police officer, or even an errant staff member to interrupt them. He could feel it, and he knew she could as well.

They were here, on their own. The only boundaries, the only limitations, were the ones they had tacitly agreed upon between themselves, all of these long years. He could feel the radiant warmth of her body, so very close to his, but still as far away as ever. How to close that gap? What could be done?

"I know better than to chastise you, Mrs. Hughes," he responded, and now they were both standing in the doorway, the nighttime sounds of the great house above and around them, settling in for sleep.

"Do you, now?" She finally caught his eye, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That must have been a lesson you learned whilst I wasn't paying attention, Mr. Carson."

"Aren't you always paying attention, Mrs. Hughes?" Ah, there it was again. This would never do. A truth disguised as flirting was, in the end, just the truth. And it was late, and they were as truly alone as they ever were, their affection for each other was bare, like an unwrapped gift sitting under the Christmas tree. Neither of them were sure quite how to handle, for fear it would break, but nor were they inclined to wrap it back in its tissue, tuck it back into the box.

"Aye, I suppose I am," she said simply, and shrugged, and he realized with a start she was very close to tears, this woman he so rarely saw overwrought. His mind held his exhausted heart and body in check, as they both desperately wanted to reach out and pull her towards him. He almost could feel the slight weight of her pressing against him, her head falling to his chest, when, in reality, they weren't touching at all.

She was still looking at him, and he noticed her hand was reaching out towards him. Then she tucked it back, close to her middle, holding it still with the other. They both stared at each other for a moment, and his eyes flickered towards her hand again, held neatly against her body. It was like a bird that had escaped its cage, nearly, before being recaptured.

There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to do. Little of it seemed possible, not here, not now. He opened his mouth, not entirely sure of what was going to come out.

"Can I help?"

She looked startled, her hand flew to her mouth. "I…I don't rightly know, Mr. Carson." She shook her head, as if to clear it. When she caught his eye again, her face was composed, and the worry had been tucked away somewhere.

"We best be off to bed, before it gets any later, wouldn't you agree?" And her voice was pleasant and composed and friendly, and she was, once again, completely out of his reach. "I was just stopping in my office to get my book, I'll not delay you any longer. Good night, Mr. Carson." And she was gone, closing her door softly behind her.

He stood there for several long moments, deciding, his heart pounding in his throat. He knew she wouldn't come back out until she was certain he had gone. But…could he go to her? She needed…what, exactly? His body wouldn't leave his mind be. The only thing that kept running through his head was what it would feel like to wrap his arms around her, place one hand on her head, the weight of it against his chest. What a comfort that would be. What a relief.

He knew something, maybe more than one thing, was troubling her. And the friendship they had enjoyed for years, decades, was no longer a solace to her, or to him. It simply wasn't enough. How had he gotten to this empty, quiet hallway, twenty feet from the woman he loved, wanting desperately to comfort her, but without recourse?

This, this was the other side of taking her hand, happy and nervous, on the beach last year. That moment had changed him. And now, he realized, he wanted to hold her hand in the sunshine, and to hold her close in the middle of the night. Without the rules, established for them by society, and by them, between themselves, complicit, until they were so tangled in them they could barely move towards each other.

There was only one solution to this loneliness, to this new understanding that their friendship was no longer enough:

If she'd have him, he must marry Elsie Hughes.