A/N Thanks for the love and for reading. This one is a little long, but there was a lot to say (not say).

She waited for him to respond. This wasn't exactly how she had envisioned them professing their feelings, but now that it had happened, the how and why didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was, she was holding him and he was letting her. She knew that was finally a reality. She knew or cared for little else.

She always imagined that she would have to be the one to speak first. She'd never imagined a scenario where he confessed his love and it was only left for her to accept it and return it.

But he hadn't really said The Words, had he? He'd confessed...what had he confessed? That he was willing to let her leave Downton if it would make her happy? Was that supposed to make her feel better? And he hadn't even looked her in the eye yet. He could still try to shrug it off later. Fear gripped her heart and her pulse began to race.

Stop thinking, Elsie. The night is still young. She remembered something he'd said only a few days ago. Well, it's not old.

She longed to see his face, longed to read his mood that she might know how she could reassure him of her affection and be reassured of his.

After almost a full minute, he stood and turned slowly to face her. She was forced to release him, but kept her hands up, touching his chest after he had turned. She held her breath yet again. Why could she never breathe naturally around this man?

Wordlessly, he guided her to sit on the bench that was pressing against her knee. Her hands fell into her lap.

She watched patiently as he walked to the far side of the courtyard; back to the rain barrel. He took a handful of water and splashed his face, rubbing it with both hands then running those hands back through his hair; water soaking the front of his shirt and his waistcoat. This seemed to rejuvenate him a bit.

As he was walking back to her, he stooped to pick something up in the middle of the courtyard. She saw that it was the near empty bottle of alcohol. She could see now that it was gin; the cheap kind that her mother had warned her about.

She was tempted to ask him what he was thinking; she had a very fine Brandy in the bottom drawer of her desk if he needed a drink. She thought she could do with a drink herself. But there was a spell over the courtyard that she could not bring herself to break. They were somehow beyond speech. She was afraid any sound would spook him, like a skittish animal. She remained seated in silence watching his measured movements.

He took his handkerchief from his pants pocket. He poured some of the gin onto the handkerchief. When he reached her, he set the bottle on the table next to her shoulder and sat himself down next to her. He took her chin gently in his left hand and lifted her face up, angled slightly away from him as he raised the alcohol soaked cotton cloth to the minute cut on her cheek.

She watched him with a sidelong glance as he gently wiped the dried blood off her cheek. The alcohol stung her briefly, but she did not flinch. When he was satisfied with the result he brought her chin back front and center. He gave her a weary look. There was a deep sadness there. She understood that tonight had almost been too much for him.

If that bullet had been even a foot lower... she shuddered imperceptibly. She could be dead. Charles would have killed Mr. Molesley; she had no doubt of this. Then Charles would have hung, if he had lasted that long. 3 more lives destroyed.

But there was something else in his eyes; not just grief; not just helplessness. There was a promise in his look. A look of deep devotion that had always been there. His loyalty to duty was so familiar and dear to her. And now, he had admitted that all of this meant nothing to him if anything were to happen to her.

He was laying his devotion at her feet. It was hers first and foremost, before King, before country; before Downton, even. He was her Charles Carson. He wanted her to know that he would always take care of her. Cleansing her cheek with cheap gin was the only way his traumatized mind could think to show her. For now, for him, there were no words.

She understood and she silently returned his promise with her eyes as she smiled up at him. She reached to take the handkerchief from his hand. The nick on his chin was small and had clotted quickly, but there was a small trail of blood down his neck. Her eyes followed the progress of a single drop of water as it ran from an unruly lock of his hair down the side of his beautiful face and neck and down beyond his damp and disheveled collar. She took the bottle of gin from the table and wet the handkerchief again.

He winced slightly as she dabbed the alcohol soaked handkerchief on the cut on his chin.

When the cut was clean, she worked her way down his neck, forcing her fingers to stop at his collar. There were still globs of shaving cream lather around his ears and under his chin, but there was only so much she could do with that little handkerchief. She folded the soft, wet cotton square into a tiny triangle and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. She then returned her gaze to his; their ritual complete. All the anger and fear around them had dissipated into the night like the fumes of cheap alcohol. Now there was just this lingering sadness to banish.

Both her hands were now resting on his face.

She knew how he felt; had known for years. He had been a little slower on the uptake, she thought, but on some level, he knew.

Not that those feelings had ever became action. They'd both dreamed of their retirement together, only forgetting the minor step of discussing it with each other. Some how, planning to live together in their golden years was appropriate. Speaking of it was not. Thank goodness times were changing. Could he finally change with them, she wondered? For the first time, she truly believed it was possible that he could; believed it rather than just hoped it.

She smiled at him, testing his mood. The right hand corner of his mouth twitched and his right eye squinted a bit. She recognized this as his attempt at a smile.

"You were quite a sight, Mr. Carson;" she began cautiously, "half shaven, your hair run amok, blood on your chin and foam all over your face." Her fingers caressed his face absently while she spoke.

His mouth twitched again.

"I believe," she continued, more boldly now, "we are very lucky that poor Mr. Molesley only vomited. I was quite worried that he might soil himself.

"I don't envy Alfred and Jimmy. Or Mr. Molesley; he will be having quite vivid nightmares for a few days to go with that headache." She smiled more openly now; hoping that he would join the teasing. Willing him to chase the sadness away with her.

She tried again, "And that will certainly teach me not to eavesdrop." At this comment, his brow knit in painful remembrance and his grip on her arm tightened.

"It's okay, Charles, I'm okay. I'm not going anywhere." she whisper was so low she almost couldn't hear herself.

His features shifted again and he seemed to be carefully considering something. This seemed like progress. She waited. When he began to speak, his words were hesitant.

"Just for the record, Mrs. Hughes," he offered, "I am not entirely sure, that Mr. Molesley did not soil himself."

Now he did smile; broadly, almost stupidly. She gaped up at him in wonder. It was at once so like him and so unlike him. She brought her hands to her own face, trying to contain the sudden, hysterical laughter.

He gathered her to him as their tension released itself in their shared laughter. It rose in intensity until they sounded quite mad. They clung to each other, gasping for air between the laughter.

How long this hysteria lasted, neither of them could ever say, but ,slowly, they began to recover their senses.

As the laughter softened into breathless chuckling and the hiccups subsided, he drew her closer. He touched his forehead lightly to hers while smiling deeply at her.

"I love you, Elsie Hughes."

He teased her nose briefly with his own before leaning down to kiss her mouth as it rose to meet his.

Now they were together, the way they always should have been, she thought.

Finally, they were together, the way they always had been.

CE-

It was not a gasping, passionate kiss. Neither of them was made breathless. Quite the opposite. Their breathing was rhythmic and synchronized. As she breathed out, he breathed in. As she breathed in, he breathed out. And with each exchange of breath, they drew strength and comfort from each other. Each breath made them bolder and more confident. There was no more fatigue. The day's sorrows were momentarily forgotten.

As Charles breathed her in, his Elsie, his hands caressed all the feminine contours of her body that she had forgotten she had. His fingers reminded her.

As Elsie breathed him in, her Charles, she filled the fingers of one hand with his hair and traced the outline of his ear and jaw with the fingertips of the other. Minutes passed, each moment bringing a new sensation; a new taste of her; a new thrill under the pressure of his hands.

She'd always heard desire described like a fire; something that burned, consumed and destroyed. There had been times when her feelings for him had seemed destructive, even painful. But this embrace was like rain falling on a parched and thirsty land, bringing life and hope and joy.

Her fingers had left his hair and were now tracing his moist collar. They brushed lightly across a scratchy patch of stubble on his cheek, bringing her mind back to the reality of the past few hours. Reminding her of the obligations of the next few days.

Reluctantly, Elsie pulled away from him. Charles followed, leaning over her slightly. Even more reluctantly, she pushed him gently away. He obeyed her touch.

Now that they were separated, her breathing became irregular. She longed to lean in and catch her breath from his mouth, but one of them must keep their head, for now. She placed one gentle finger under his lips, he crinkled his nose in an exaggerated expression that showed her that he knew she'd found his weak spot.

"I love you too, Charles Carson.

"And as much as I would love to continue this..." she searched for the perfect word, but it did not come so she said simply, "...this," gesturing in a general way that took in the whole situation.

"It might still be possible for each of us to get a bit of sleep before breakfast and be functional for the rest of the day."

"Alas, Elsie, you are as pragmatic as you are beautiful." His hand reluctantly left her waist and covered her hand on his still rough cheek.

"And I believe we've a little matter of a shave to finish." He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

She was worried that he seemed much more interested in the shave than the sleep, though she expected his fatigue would return and she did not expect him to be awake for long once he was back in his armchair. It was no matter if he did doze off again. She knew there would be other shaves. And she would never again need an excuse to touch him.

"Shall we?" she asked him.

He nodded so her finger tickled him again. He took a deep breath and looked around the courtyard, as though committing the moment to memory; the position of the stars, the angle of the moonlight. He caught sight of the gun where it lay forgotten. A shadow passed over his face. He kissed her finger tip before he rose and walked over to the tiny, deadly object. With one fluid movement, he lifted the gun as he disengaged the cylinder and emptied the remaining bullets into his hand.

He placed the bullets in his waistcoat pocket with their handkerchief.

He stooped again. She could not see what he'd found until he brought it back for her inspection. It was the empty shell of the bullet that could have ended both their lives.

She took the casing, stood up, turned and threw it over the courtyard wall.

"We'll not think of what might have been, Charles. Only of what will be." She laced the fingers of both her small hands through those of his large left hand and began to lead him back into the house. He hesitated just before they reached the backdoor. She turned back to him.

"But there is something that I regret, Mrs. Hughes."

"What's that, Mr. Carson?" She looked up at him expectantly; matching his use of their more formal mode of address.

"I have missed a rare opportunity to say something that badly needs to be said."

There was something in the way he spoke. She very much suspected that he was teasing her. What more could he need to say to her? And how had he missed the opportunity? She was still right here.

His eyes sparkled as he cocked an eyebrow conspiratorially at her. His grin was childlike and pure.

"I really should have told Mr. Molesley that he's rubbish at cricket."

A/N Not much longer now...I promise this story will wrap by the weekend. Happy belated Canada day. Happy 4th of July.