Author's Note: I think the inspiration for today is self-explanatory (though there is still a quotation down below!).

Also! Whether you've celebrated Thanksgiving or not, I hope you've had a lovely week.

Enjoy!

Spoilers for Series 3, Episode 7

"How did he rearrange the spoons?"

Charles Carson inwardly rolled his eyes at the question. Sarah O'Brien really could be quite the child when she wished. Putting forth inquiries that were undoubtedly up to no good, always the image of innocence –– she really was something else.

"He put them right on the edge of my plate. I'm not saying it was deliberate," Alfred could be equally childish at times. This time, however, the butler felt the boy's attitude was rightfully so. James's clear disdain for the rules had done him little favours tonight.

"I hope you're not," Charles turned to James, thinking the circumstance over. What about Alfred made James so irritatingly jealous, he couldn't help but wonder. It seemed everywhere he turned, the footmen were trailing after one another, locked in a sibling rivalry of sorts. Sibling rivalry, what a thought. "'Cause I was trying to help."

I'm sure you were. A likely story indeed. "Well, I think Alfred can manage without your help in the future, James. And next time, will you wait to be asked before you take charge?"

"Are you still here?" The butler glanced in the direction of the cook, putting aside any outlandish notions of sibling rivalry. In any case, even if there were indeed a rivalry, it looked like it was James who remained jealous of Alfred. A small consolation, all things considered, but a consolation nevertheless.

Yes, well, it was time to put aside that consolation and speak on a different matter, "Perhaps Alfred no longer wants to go to the pictures. He may want to ponder his mistakes instead."

"Of course they're going!" Mrs. Hughes–– the thought cut itself off before it could go any further, the man affronted by her tone. She should not be encouraging them, not when she was supposed to set the example.

So much for setting an example. Ivy looked positively bashful as she stepped into sight, "Are we?"

What are we, your parents? He felt as though he were a father being asked to hand over a daughter to a potential suitor. Only if any of them were to be considered his daughter, it would certainly not be Ivy.

Of course, speaking of parenting, would that make Mrs. Hughes his––

Don't go there. Do not go there.

Unable to keep from gazing at the housekeeper, Charles realised he had yet to give an answer. Bent on rectifying the situation and getting away from those ridiculous thoughts, he hastened on to speak, "Yes, you can go. I will not withdraw my permission."

Truly, was this what it was like to raise children? No, now was not the time to question such things. Now was the time for stern reminders and discipline.

"But as you walk," If it were up to him set the examples, then he accepted that responsibility gladly. Besides, Charles would never have been allowed a trip to the pictures, not when he was a footman. As such, it was essential that everyone understood the privilege at hand."You might contemplate what it is to waste a chance when it is given."

It didn't seem like the lecture took, more's the pity. But there wasn't time to bemoan the circumstances, not when he had to get back to his pantry.

If only the housekeeper didn't seem determined to trail after him, swiftly getting to her feet. The man knew at once he would not be having the last word about this. How could he, when she was leaning in, not-so-subtly looking in Alfred's direction before turning back to remark, "I suppose you never wasted a chance."

That chance is something I look at almost every minute of every day. But I know better than to take it. "Well if I did, I learned from it and that's all I'm asking from him."

"That and some ritual humiliation."

Right. They were the parents of the downstairs, there was no mistaking it. He didn't want to think about it, not when it came with such distracting images it did, but here they were.

_._

Sometimes she wondered about when their roles had shifted. When exactly had their authority traipsed into a parental realm?

She really mustn't spend this much time with Mr. Carson, not when this was the result. She never would have used words such as 'traipse' and 'parental realm'. And she certainly wouldn't have dared to step into his pantry as though it were her sitting room. Yet here she was, initially brought in by some trivial matter and now caught up in curiosity. "Mr. Barrow looks very grim-faced."

"Never mind him." Why did the butler look to be shocked by the subject, shaken even? Whatever was the matter? "Human nature's a funny business, isn't it?"

Well, if he was going to be cryptic, she wouldn't interfere. But his attitude wouldn't stop her from a quip or two, not one bit, "Now why didn't the poets come to you, Mr. Carson? They'd have saved themselves a lot of time and trouble."

The butler looked to be even more troubled by her remark, "Was there something you wanted, Mrs. Hughes?"

"If there was, I can't remember it." Maybe it was time to ask the man if he was all right. Then again, she'd been asking that for quite some time and it was never to any avail.

Perfectly fine, Mrs. Hughes, why do you ask?

Everything is well in hand, Mrs. Hughes, there's nothing to worry about.

I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Hughes, are you sure you are all right?

Pick any of those phrases, add a curmudgeonly tone, and it summed up every experience she had when it came to asking Charles Carson about his feelings. Or his day. Or anything that could possibly link him to the human race, for that matter.

"Well, I best be off, then." If he wasn't going to be forthcoming, there was no need to linger. And, yes, he did look as though he wanted to protest her leaving. But surely, with such a cryptic attitude before her, her leaving was for the best?

Only, she paused in the doorway, a peculiar realisation striking the woman.

"Is everything all right, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Perfectly fine, Mr. Carson." She didn't dare to turn around, not when her face would give away the lie. It wasn't as though things weren't all right, it was simply that she'd come to face a question she'd never considered before.

If our authority is 'traipsing into a parental realm', really, she wouldn't be able to keep a straight face if she kept referring to it as that, I don't suppose that means we're marri––

No. Don't go anywhere near those thoughts.

"If you're sure?"

"What?" He couldn't possibly want to be married to her, that wasn't possible. How had he even picked up on that? The man was hopelessly daft. And even if he weren't, he wouldn't never be interested in––

"Only, if there was something else, I could spare a moment."

Oh. That's right. He only wants to make sure all was well in the house. She did her best not to shake her head, mentally swatting all traitorous thoughts away, "No, Mr. Carson, there's nothing else. I'll leave you to it."

In seconds, she was out of his pantry and thoroughly invested in never going down that path again. She would have to find something to busy herself with for as long as it took to be rid of those ridiculous notions and that foolish, impossible path.

"Thank you for speaking to Mr. Carson about the pictures," Elsie could always rely on Beryl to distract her. She gave a small smile in the direction of her friend, desperate for a change in subject, "We all know you've got him wrapped 'round your little finger, but it's always nice to be reminded of that. All the better you never had to marry the man to do it!"

So much for that.

Today's Inspiration: "They're totally the parents of the downstairs! I mean, we already knew that, but this episode just proves it!"

Author's Note: Aren't they just precious?

Normally, I'd leave it here and bid you a lovely day. But if we're going to officially liken them to the parents of the downstairs, we might as well have a little bonus scene while we're at it….

Enjoy!

An Alternative (because why not?):

Charles should have known they would be revisiting this subject. He'd tried to meaningfully look at her when he'd responded earlier, wanting to allude to the truth without being too obvious. But if her pointed look told him anything, it was that his allusion had done little to nothing.

A firm knock at the door sounded, a sure sign he was seconds from being lectured. Well, less of a lecture, more of a tease if he knew the woman at all.

Truly, did he deserve such treatment? Not in his opinion.

Was that likely to stop her?

Not in the least.

"So," The door blithely swung open, revealing a countenance dripping in mirth, "You've learned from your wasted chances, have you?"

Fixing his wife a very displeased looked, Charles resisted the urge to grumble out this next bit, "Oh, get over here, you."

At least if she was over here, he might be able to distract her from finishing out this tease of hers. She may be his wife, but there really was no need for such cheeky treatment.

Elsie only chuckled at his gruffness, blue eyes snickering along with the rest of her, "I don't suppose you'd care to talk about this 'wasted chance' you learned from? Or did it also involve some ritual humiliation?"

"Well," It looked like he'd have to take matters into his own hands. Getting to his feet, Charles reveled in the fact that lowering his timbre still had that marvelous effect on her after all these years, "That all depends on your definition of 'ritual humiliation'..."

Their courtship had been filled with some rather fascinating moments, after all. Taking her to the pictures may have been out of the question, but that hadn't stopped them from enjoying themselves. Problem was, they hadn't always managed to be discreet. And though Charles was loathed to remember the ritual humiliation Mr. Vance had put him through, it was worth it to do so–– especially when he recalled what had prompted such a response.

Quite some time later, when her teasing had come to an end and he had desisted in demonstrating Memory Lane, "Charlie, why does it feel as though we're responsible for them? As though we're their parents?"

"Elsie, that is a question I ask myself everyday."