Love Me: A fluffy drabble about our characters.

I did not expect so many touching responses to the last chapter, thank you all so much. I don't deserve you people. It strikes me now that the last three chapters could conceivably exist in the same timeline forming a little trilogy. The pattern breaks here though; I'll not be imposing my artistic interpretation of Charles and Elsie in life after death on you.

Instead, a version of the first 'I love you.' Enjoy.


Breakfast, in Mr. Carson's opinion, ought to be a rather quiet affair. It was a gentle, dignified activity designed to prepare one for the day ahead and nothing else. This was the impression he'd hoped to make on the new head housemaid they'd hired to officially fill Anna's old role. Thankfully the rest of the staff, unbeknownst to them, co-operated with this objective and everyone that morning was fairly reserved. He hadn't needed to do anything to ensure the new girl got the right idea about how things were done at Downton. Which was a relief, he felt a headache coming on and was not in the mood for giving a lecture on orderly behavior.

To his right, Mrs. Hughes held up the pot of tea questioningly at him. He hadn't even realized his cup was empty. He nodded to her and she poured in silence. Mrs. Hughes was never particularly talkative at breakfast. Perhaps the new maid was looking to her as the example.

He watched her as she spooned in a bit of sugar and pushed the cup towards him. It was terrible he knew, but Mr. Carson couldn't remember the day she'd come to Downton as head housemaid. He thought he should, surely the arrival of Elsie Hughes was something of significance. Her influence over the house and over his heart in the two decades since could not be more profound. He racked his brains trying to remember. The head housemaid before her…Clara her name was? Or maybe it had been Hannah? Whatever she'd been called, she'd left to be married, and they'd had to search outside to fill the position. He hadn't been part of the interview process; that was for the housekeeper at the time to sort out, and she had not shared her thoughts with him. The result though had been Miss Elsie Hughes. He didn't even remember being introduced to her, though presumably he was.

The earliest memory he could think of was of her voice. It was evening and he'd gone out in search of Andrew, a hall boy at the time. He'd sent the lad out for a bucket of coal (rather angrily, he recalled) and was growing quite irritated when it had not appeared.

He remembered it as clearly as if it were yesterday. He was standing in the back entrance when he heard her voice carrying across the yard. She was talking to someone in a soft soothing tone. It was Andrew, who had apparently upturned the bucket of coal, and was now covered head to toe in soot. He was crying over how upset Mr. Carson would be and how all he wanted was to go home.

He'd stood there frozen, listening to her comfort the lad. Reassuring him that Mr. Carson was not actually the ogre the boy had built him up to be, and that it was all right to be a little homesick once in a while. She managed to make the boy feel better without lying to him and without undermining Mr. Carson. He was impressed, and more than a little enchanted by her musical voice. He heard them moving away from the coal bin and he'd hurried back inside, lest they see him. He had no desire to undo her hard work. It may not have been the first time he'd ever seen her, but he was sure it was the first time something stirred in his heart. He'd felt a pull of affection for how caring and how capable this woman was.

Over the years that affection had grown. He soon discovered that she was kind and quick witted, not to mention the only person downstairs that shared his taste in novels. She worked hard and had a natural flair for managing staff and household affairs. Her promotion to housekeeper could be seen a mile away, but she never took it for granted. She could be strict, particularly during her first few years in the post, when she was only marginally older than the staff she managed, but she was always fair. He admired that. His life had become considerably less lonely after her promotion, for as peers they were free to spend their leisure time in the evenings together and they often chose to. In her, he found the truest friend he'd ever had.

They shared stories and worries, great and small. They trusted their greatest joys and sorrows only to each other. It was only natural then that he cared for her, and that he felt a little protective of her. He had been so jealous of Joe Burns. He didn't feel justified in being so, but he couldn't help it. Joe, who was free to declare his affection for her in a way he never would be; who might have taken her away from Downton and away from him. His irrational anger at the man surprised him, and his relief when she turned him down was far too great to be ignored. Even if he did have the words to describe how he felt, he wouldn't have been able to say them to her. So he let it pass, as he would many more moments in the future.

It would be several years before the right words were stitched together. The night Mr. Matthew had proposed, Lady Mary had appeared at his door to tell him the news herself. The words were barely out of the girl's mouth before she was hugging him, her delight overpowering her sense of decorum. He had returned her embrace affectionately.

"I knew everything would turn out in the end, milady," he'd told her.

"Yes," she'd whispered into his jacket. "I love him." She'd pulled away and looked at him pensively. "It's always been him, Carson. Through everything else that's happened…I don't think I ever stopped loving him."

"I'm happy for you milady. You cannot know how much."

Lady Mary had left him a very happy and very thoughtful man that night. Her certainty in her decision was profound and all rooted in a very basic concept. She loved him. In the end that's all there was to it.

He'd thought of Mrs. Hughes and he knew, irrefutably now, that he loved her. Maybe it was not in the same dramatic or tumultuous romantic fashion that Lady Mary loved Mr. Matthew, but with absolutely the same feeling of certainty. It was a relief to finally put proper words to it, even if it made things more complicated. He contemplated all the ways that he might tell her, knowing he never would. Three simple words: 'I love you'. Simple, and yet somehow the most dangerous words imaginable. After that night, they were spoken thousands of times in his mind, but never out loud. He wasn't sure what they would accomplish and he was happy to carry on as they were. His love for her was not a secret exactly; it was just not ever a topic of conversation either. It was best this way, or so he thought.

She tested him, on occasion. Roundabout conversations about how their lives would be different if they hadn't chosen the path they had were tinged with an edge of longing. Discussions of previous loves lost had a decidedly hopeful quality to them. But their true feelings stayed buried in layer upon layer of subtext, allowing them to grow closer without ever explicitly acknowledging why. At times it made everything easier, and at times it was impossibly difficult. When his attraction to her took on a less intellectual form, his frustration with their circumstances deepened some. There was no doubt she was attractive, but he tried to forbid himself from thinking about her in that way. He succeeded in disciplining his thoughts for the most part, but every once in a while he would slip. The day he saw her schooling the maids on how to beat carpets properly in the summer sun, with her hair slipping out of its bun and beads of sweat dripping down her neck. The day she'd been caught in the rain on her way home from the village and he'd opened the back door to find her soaked to the skin. The day she'd sat at his bedside when he was delirious with fever, mopping his forehead with a damp cloth. Any day he was fortunate and unfortunate enough to walk behind her up the stairs.

Right now, when she nudged his knee under the breakfast table by accident, breaking him out of his reverie. She smiled apologetically at him, her eyes twinkling.

Quite a lot of slip ups really. He coughed, and returned to his newspaper but his head ached and he couldn't focus on the words. He rubbed his temples and she looked at him curiously.

"I'll be in my pantry if you need me," he said before standing and excusing himself. She watched him as he went. Quickly she finished her own breakfast and followed him out of the servant's hall.


He was sitting with his head in his hands, trying to muster the energy to look at the delivery schedule in front of him. She walked in silently with a glass of water, a spoon and a packet of headache powder. She placed them on the desk beside him.

"For you," she said softly.

He looked at the gift gratefully and let out a small sigh. "I love you."

She gave a start. "You what?"

He froze. In the years to come he would swear that he'd only said it in his mind, but sure enough the words had escaped aloud, forever into the realm of reality.

"Mr. Carson?" she prompted, not entirely sure she wasn't hearing things.

He was never going to explain his way out of this one, and his head hurt far too much to try. "Um, I meant thank you… and also, it may interest you to know, that I love you."

She stared at him in disbelief. As his sincerity sunk in, her hand covered her mouth, and she turned away from him. His heart plummeted when he saw her shoulders shaking. He was a bit stunned to be honest. He'd assumed if these words ever shattered their friendship he would be on the receiving end of her angry words, not her tears. "Mrs. Hughes, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry. Please, that was careless of me. We'll forget I ever said anything."

Her hand fell away from her mouth and she let out a strangled sound that gave way to peals of laughter. He froze, confused. What on earth had just happened?

"Oh, for heaven sakes!" she managed, "Twenty years…I've wanted to hear you say that for twenty odd years and you say it over a HEADACHE powder?" She broke down into hysterics again at his confused face. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she was forced to pull out her handkerchief.

He gazed at her in wonderment. "You have?"

She wiped her face and composed herself somewhat. "Yes. I have." She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What's brought this on?

"I…I don't know. It just sort of…happened all of a sudden."

"You decided you love me all of a sudden?"

"No," he said rather forcefully, before realizing that she was teasing him. He was already so flustered and she was making it worse. He stared at her, as she bit back a smile.

"You knew," he accused, crossing his arms.

She took a step closer to him and put a hand gently on his shoulder. "Mr. Carson. I will admit I suspected. Hoped, certainly. But even if I had been absolutely sure, it is something else entirely to hear you say it."

"Why is that?"

"Because it gives me permission to say it back," she said, looking up at him fondly. "I love you."

The way she looked at him took his breath away. His heart hammered in his chest. He should be afraid, of all this sudden unexpected change, of the destruction of a boundary he'd thought so clear, but he wasn't. The way she looked at him made him feel absolutely sure that he'd done the right thing.

Even if only accidentally.

He cupped her chin and ran his thumb across her lower lip. "Does that give me permission to do this?" he asked, leaning in.

"Yes," she murmured, rising up onto the balls of her feet to close the distance between them. He caught her in a dizzying kiss, and she felt his arms wrap around her, steadying her. The room disappeared as they lost themselves momentarily in each other, delighting in the new sensation.

When they finally broke apart she looked at him carefully. "What happened to your headache?"

"A kind woman offered me a cure," he smiled, kissing her quickly on the cheek. His head still ached, but it had fallen very far down on his list of priorities.

She smiled, but extracted herself from his embrace. "You still have it," she observed, picking up the glass from the table and mixing in the powder. "Distractions notwithstanding."

He took it from her gratefully. "Will I ever be able to deceive you?"

"Apparently not," she laughed, "But that's alright. I've discovered I'm very fond of you telling me the truth."

He gulped the liquid down quickly. "Well, then come here," he said, setting the glass down with a flourish. "Because I have every intention of telling you the truth again."

And so he did, repeatedly. A truth Mrs. Hughes would never, ever grow tired of hearing.


Next Up: Mourn Me. That's right, back to angst.