A/N: This is the next-to-last chapter of this fic. I'm sorry it took so long to get it out to you, but life has been quite full lately and both the ability and the time to write have been elusive.

No song for this chapter, but the end contains a quotation that I set aside when I first started researching this story. It's from Vera Brittain, a young nurse who served during WWI who lost her fiance, her brother, and several close friends in the war. It really spoke to me and I wanted to share it; I'm sure several of you are familiar with it, but I'd never seen it before.

In my mind, this story was always Charles's story in so many ways. However, like most of my stories, it has become just as much Elsie's story - and then, of course, a harmonizing at the end, akin to "The Butler and the Housekeeper" on the soundtrack for the show.

Epilogue/final chapter to come in a week or two. Thanks again to all of you for indulging my wild AU.

xxx,

CSotA

P.S. Apologies to the reviewer who doesn't think the "M" rating is warranted. I did have this chapter in mind when I assigned it, along with the PTSD references, war injury information, and general setting of the front lines. I'm not a particularly smutty writer - there are plenty of other people for that sort of thing - but I also don't wish to under-rate stories containing intimate scenes. x

May, 1919

Charles rolls onto his side in their bed, his hand flush against his wife's rib cage, thumb brushing gently over her nipple. He feels a surge of desire course through his body as she gasps and shifts, enabling him to fully cup her breast in his hand. He spends several silent moments contemplating her as the warmth of her body flows into his palm, content with the comfortable intimacy they have found so easily with one another.

After a time, however, Elsie becomes impatient. She says nothing, does nothing, but he can sense it nonetheless. These precious days away from their usual lives have served their purpose, he thinks, showing them both that a love they thought couldn't possibly root more deeply and blossom more brightly can, in fact, do both daily. It happens in the smallest brushes of a finger, or with a laugh or the simple kindness of buttoning the other's cuff - even in the pouring of a cup of tea.

A cup of tea …

Lifting himself up, Charles leans over his wife, smiling down at her as his arms settle into a comfortable place on either side of her shoulders. He's pleasantly surprised as he feels her legs snake up behind his calves, and then he closes his eyes and inhales deeply, his senses full in every way of his lovely wife: the sight of her lying uncovered in the bed moments ago; the simple sounds of his skin brushing against hers mixed with the soft, approving noises emitted from her mouth; the scent of her, something he will never have a word for; the feel of her - all warmth (and softness, he thinks, and he smiles) …

… and the taste of her, something he only discovered the night before as they overcame nearly all of their inhibitions, aided no doubt by the healthy amount of brandy they'd enjoyed after their dinner. He feels his cheeks redden now with only the thought of it, but she notices, questions him with a flicker of her eyes, and he dips his head to whisper in her ear the words that he still cannot bring himself to say aloud - loving, longing words about that most personal of experiences.

"Later," she promises in a whisper of her own, reaching for him and pulling him even closer to her body. Elsie, herself, has no words to adequately describe the sensations that his words ignited in her. Their honeymoon has been full of so many things she hoped for, mixed in with these precious intimacies that she never would have dreamed existed. But she feels she must slow it all down now, moderate things in a way, in preparation for the long train ride back to a life to which neither of them are particularly anxious to return.

Their lovemaking is powerful, the result of a husband who's realized his desires will not break his wife, and of a wife who's learned a great deal about how to communicate and prioritize her own needs on an equal par to her those of her husband. She cries out as her body seizes and pulses around his, and she knows the powerful grasp she has on his back will likely leave marks.

He manages to keep himself balanced, leaning down to seek her lips with his. Feeling her hands come up, her fingers trailing through the damp hair at his temples, he smiles into their kiss.

"I love you," he says simply, moving off of her and lying flush against her body, his arm over her head in wait.

Elsie moves the sheet discreetly over his chest before resting her head on it and allowing him to pull her into his embrace. They're warm, and the cool sheet is a welcome, dry barrier between them.

"I love you, too," she murmurs. She cannot seem to stop touching him, and it's one of the things she is most concerned with regarding their return to what they've been calling their 'normal lives.' "I'll need to stop reaching for you all the time, Charlie."

"What do you mean?"

"Reaching for your hand as we have tea," she explains patiently. "Or for the small of your back as I pass behind you. A kiss to your shoulder when you're seated before me. I'm not sure how I'll manage it."

He moves his head back and his eyes find hers. "Truly?"

She nods, sheepish. "Truly." Her lip disappears under her teeth as she searches for more words that do not come easily. "I feel … I feel as though I've been waiting for this for such a long time, starved for this type of …" Her voice dies.

"Love," he supplies simply, and she smiles.

"Love," she whispers. "Yes. But more than that. This type of connection to another person, to want to be with you always. I can't bear the thought of the days you'll spend at the cottage whilst I'm at work."

He laughs, the sound rumbling in her ear as it rests flush on his chest. "You'll be running to the Abbey before long, I'll wager. I don't think I'll be easy to live with."

"I've managed thus far," she tells him.

"Yes," he says gently, reaching to tap her lovingly on the tip of her nose. "But the honeymoon won't last forever. We've both seen too much of life to think otherwise."

She processes his words, and the old fear clenches her heart once again. It's not as powerful, but it isn't truly gone, either.

"You may go off me," she says, the levity in her voice belying the underlying worry.

"Never," he reassures instantly, squeezing her. "In fact, I worry you have that backwards."

"How's that?" She's truly astonished. They've spent the better part of these past few days in bed, after all.

"You'll be working a full day," he reasons. "And you'll hardly want to come home and … entertain a husband every night. And that's fine - I won't expect it. But I worry you'll not miss it." There. He's said it, although he almost did not.

Elsie is quiet, thoughtful. He knows she's not nodded off and gives her time to mull it over as he glances out the window at the sun shining brightly in the morning sky.

"You're right." She nods gently against his breast. "I'm exhausted at the end of the day, every day. And Lord knows it'll only get worse as the young ladies are married and there are babies about and the tone of the house shifts from entertaining suitors to entertaining more family. But that's not my home, Charles. They aren't my family." She leans her head back in order to look up at him. "You are. And I'll not forget that. Not even after the honeymoon is over."

She lays her head back down. "But I'll never go off you," she adds, her voice quieter. "You've healed things in me that I didn't even know were wounded. You must promise me that even if we're having a row, when we don't see eye to eye for days on end, that you'll always hold me at night and allow me to do the same for you. At the end of every day, I want us always to remember this."

He squeezes her and drops a kiss to her head.

"I shall," he promises. "Do you know what I was thinking of earlier?"

"I believe you alluded to it as you whispered in my ear," she replies with a nervous chuckle.

"Not that," he chides gently. "I was thinking of tea."

"Of tea?"

Her arm is tingling, not happy with how she's lying on it. She sits up, turns and faces him, the sheet drawn up around her chest as she peers at his face. He reaches for her hand, and she grasps his fingers.

"We set forth on a path toward marriage over the sharing of tea," he observes. "It's how we began each day. I rather enjoyed that, and I'd like to continue it. Unless one of us is ill, or we're otherwise … detained," he explains, waggling his eyebrows and making her giggle, "I want to always share a cup of tea with you in the morning."

"Those will be early mornings," she says, still smiling.

"I don't care. It's important to me."

"Daft man," she whispers. "Of course we can. It'll be a lovely thing to look forward to as I drift off at night." She brushes her fingers over his chin. "You need to shave."

"I do."

"And I need a bath."

He sits up beside her. "I'll wash your hair if you like."

It's not at all what she expected him to say.

"I would, Mr. Carson. Very much."

And, just like that, everything blossoms anew.

oOoOoOo

"The curtains really are lovely."

They're standing in the doorway of the bedroom, having recently unpacked. Elsie has set their things out to air, hanging them by the open window, and Charles has put together a small plate of sandwiches and fruit from the basket that awaited their return to the cottage.

"Let's go down," Elsie says, and she passes by him and leads the way back to the kitchen - and their food, which her growling stomach is very grateful for.

"It's a far cry from our honeymoon dinner," he says sheepishly, reflecting on the generous gift from Lord Grantham as he and Elsie sit at their own table. The restaurant chosen by his Lordship had served the Carsons the finest dinner they'd ever had, although in hindsight Charles feels he much prefers the quiet closeness they can enjoy at home.

His wife agrees. "This is much more us, though," she soothes. "You do quite well in the kitchen, don't you?"

"Well," he says, sipping at the wine he chose for their evening, "sandwiches are easy. But yes, I often had to make do, living relatively alone. The cloisters had a cook, but I didn't always live in community." He smiles. "I can scramble eggs quite well, and I can manage a few simple stews. Can't bake sweets, though. A horrible irony, if you ask me."

"Well, they're about the only thing I can cook," she admits. "So we'll sort it out as we go."

They talk more about the house over their meal, and when the empty plates are set on the table, they take up the wine and head for the settee in the parlour, where Charles draws his wife close to his side as they watch the setting sun.

"Elsie?"

"Hm?"

He takes a deep breath. "Have you ever thought about your life in retirement?"

"Every day," is her quick reply. "Why?"

"Well, have you ever given any thought as to the when?"

She nods slowly. "Yes and no. Not until recently, because I had no choice."

His heart sinks a little. "Of course. I'm so sorry. That was careless and callous of me."

"It wasn't," she tells him. "It's alright. But since then … yes, I have." She smiles up at him. "Since this time five months ago, or thereabouts. Retirement means more when you've someone to share it with."

"Hm. Just so."

"Still ... I'd like to work for quite a while longer, contribute to our financial situation."

"We've discussed that -"

She doesn't allow him to finish. "I know we have, and I know we'd get by and that the cottage is no burden on our finances. But …" She sighs. "I've always depended upon myself, Charlie. It's difficult to shift that way of thinking."

"I think I understand. And I didn't mean anytime soon; I couldn't abandon my own post so soon after accepting it."

"It may very well take at least three years just for you to teach Mr. Barrow all he needs to know," she teases, eliciting a laugh from Charles.

"That it may," he agrees.

They rise and bring their glasses and plates to the sink.

"I've got these," Elsie says. "You go on up and have your bath. I know you've been dreaming of it since being crammed into that overbooked train."

She smiles as he places a hand on her hip and a kiss to her temple. "You are absolutely correct. See you in a little bit."

"Our first night together in our home," she muses.

The sound of his footsteps echoes through the house as he leaves her and heads upstairs. Elsie takes her time in the kitchen, her natural need for cleanliness overtaking her for a few quiet moments. She contemplates their conversation from earlier, mentally calculating how much she can put by over the next ten years. She'll be nearly sixty-five then, Charles about seventy. Young enough to travel, she thinks … and then she remembers his palsy and calculates once again, halving the figure to get her to sixty.

She wipes her hands and lays the towel over the faucet to dry. Double-checking the locks on the doors, she lights a candle to illuminate her way up the stairs, noticing that Charles did leave a light on for her but that it's dark enough now that it's not quite sufficient.

Getting used to a new home for him, too, she thinks.

He's still in the bath, and while she'd originally thought to peek in on him, she lets him be. They really do need to remember what it's like to spend some time apart, and for all the love and need she has for him she recognizes a need to be alone with her own thoughts at times, as she is so used to being, and she knows it'll be the same for her husband. She turns the bed down and then undresses and brushes her hair out, and that's how Charles finds her when he emerges from the bathroom.

"Elsie?"

She's been staring off into space and shakes her head, bemused.

"With the fairies," she says. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He pulls his pajamas from the wardrobe as she ducks into the bathroom to brush her teeth and use the loo.

When she returns, Charles is waiting for her, a sweet smile on his face. "I'm positively exhausted," he admits, holding up a slightly trembling hand, "although this hasn't happened for a few days, for which I am grateful, indeed."

Elsie climbs in beside him and takes his afflicted hand between her own. "Ten years, perhaps five," she informs him. "The retirement question you asked of me earlier." She furrows her brow at that and adds, "Why did you ask me that? We're both still quite young, you know."

He just raises an eyebrow at her.

"Well," she amends, "we're not old."

He squeezes her hand and then slides down in the bed, resting his head on her lap and wrapping his arm loosely around her waist as he looks up at her.

"I never really had reason to dream about the future," he says, "and now I do."

"Oh."

The fabric of her nightgown is soft on his cheek.

"I wish I'd met your sister," he says. "I like to think we'd have gotten on."

"Oh, aye. You would have at that." She loops a lock of his still-damp hair over her finger, twisting and twirling it. "Becky was the sweetest soul on this earth. And she'd surely have seen the sweetness in you."

He laughs. "I don't often exude sweetness."

"Well," Elsie replies, shifting down in their bed to face him, "you do for me."

Their foreheads touch, and Charles yawns widely.

"Sleep, love," Elsie tells him, moving slightly to kiss his chin. "Early morning ahead."

"And I'm behind on my rest," he teases.

"I'm not sorry about that."

He chuckles. "Neither am I."

Elsie listens to his breathing as it shifts, becoming deeper and steadier as he falls into a slumber. The trembling of his hand has subsided, and the room is full of love and a sense of peace that falls all around her.

Home, she thinks. It's the feeling of finally being home.

A smile comes to the housekeeper's lips as she thinks that regardless of how surprised - pleasantly surprised - she's been by the passion contained within the former priest, the sense of peace that she so often feels in his presence was wholly expected. It's a holiness of a different type, this love they share. Charles was right; she knows that now. The beginning of their love was fraught with death and despair, open wounds and frenetic attacks and salvaging what they could of both supplies and of men, day in and day out.

But the forging of their relationship was done with teacups, folding chairs, and precious quiet moments as the sun rose over a foreign horizon.

If she could go back, she'd not do it any other way, and she reckons her big bear of a man feels the same.

I found in you a holy place apart,

Sublime endurance,

God in man revealed,

Where mending broken bodies slowly healed

My broken heart.

"Epitaph On My Days in Hospital," Vera Brittain

I'd love a review if you're so inclined. Thanks so much for reading! x