In Response To Guest Reviewers: To dsky, I really do love writing up these "hidden moments" –– they're so much fun! I'm happy to hear you love them, too!

Author's Note: Since our dear housekeeper held the reins for the last chapter, it seems only fair to let the butler take over for Part 2!

Also! Heads up: canon dialogue will be altered. There's just certain lines that no longer work with this AU premise.

Spoilers for Series 4, Episode 2.

Despite the housekeeper's earlier remarks hitting home –– her speech had resembled of his conversation with Lady Mary, eerily so –– Charles Carson still found Mrs. Hughes to be quite confusing.

At least, he found her to be confusing when it came to the subject of Charlie Grigg.

He had wanted to keep going during their last conversation, the time where she was so obviously sleep-addled. But it had felt like he'd be taking advantage of her condition, something he never wanted to do. And then, of course, she'd regained enough sleep to be back to normal. Which meant he was on his own when it came to figuring out the mystery of Elsie Hughes's interfering concern.

Now, Charles knew better than to assume her interference stemmed from malicious intentions: that wasn't who she was. She was a plotter when she wanted to be, but she wasn't cruel.

But why go to such lengths?

Retrieving that letter, visiting Grigg, dragging Mrs. Crawley into this –– surely, there was more to this than her explanation that, "You were bothered by it, Mr. Carson. You were bothered by it and so I was bothered by it."

He'd been bothered by plenty of things over the years. He'd never felt the urge to take matters into his own hands, not like this.

Of course, his mind beckoned him back to 1920, there was that one time. The time wherein she'd had a health scare, the time wherein he felt he had to do everything in his power to find out the truth and help her.

But that was entirely different!

… Wasn't it?

_._

Charles remained bothered by it all. The problem was, he no longer knew if he was beyond reproach. Not when it came to avoiding Charlie Grigg –– he was more than certain he was in the right about that. Rather, when it came to his frustration with Mrs. Hughes.

After all, in 1920, he'd been so bothered by her mysterious ailment he'd gone to rather dubious methods to figure out what was going on. He hadn't stooped as low as going into her own wastepaper basket to find out her diagnosis. But it might have been a bit devious to trick Mrs. Patmore into sharing what little information she had.

Necessary, most certainly necessary.

But also a bit devious.

Still, he would've never gone through her letters. And he hadn't gone out of his way to talk to anyone behind her back–– well, no, that wasn't true. Mrs. Patmore aside, he had interrogated Doctor Clarkson on the subject.

But that was because her health was at stake. As for his own health, it wasn't even a factor here! This was entirely a matter she shouldn't have involved herself in. Except she had. And now he couldn't help but wonder why.

Really, at this rate, he'd end up going in circles for hours on end! He would have to drop the matter of the housekeeper's confusing behaviour. It was proving to be far too much of a headache.

"Oh, heavens,"

Speaking of Mrs. Hughes, it seemed the woman had received something in the morning post. Well, he wouldn't press her for more information. She would have to tell him on her own because he was not about to go scouring through her private life.

Problem was, it looked like she would be doing just that, "It's from Gwen. She's married."

At the sound of that rebellious whippersnapper's change in marital status, Charles felt it best to silently return to his breakfast. He was in no mood to discuss someone who felt it necessary to leave service in order to become a secretary. Nor was he particularly interested in discussing marriage, certainly not with Mrs. Hughes.

Charles did his best to tune out the rest of that brief conversation, only looking up when Miss Braithwaite appeared to be giving the housekeeper a rather hard time. But once that was settled, he went right back to his meal.

Or, at least he tried. But at the sound of illness being brought up, 1920 came snaking back into his mind –– his thoughts going back round to the very headache they'd hoped to avoid. Needless to say, the butler was more than grateful when the bell to the back door had rung. Ordering James around was something that would distract him, if only for a time.

Of course, being ordered around did nothing to quell the footman's arrogant interest in the mysterious package, "What do you think's in it?"

As if you have the right to know.

"I cannot say, James." Really, why did Mrs. Hughes always have to be so curious, sneaking round him in an effort to glean the package's contents? Hadn't she learned not to interfere when it came to the post? At least he hid his exasperation well enough. "It's addressed to Lady Mary, so perhaps you could question her later."

That put James in his place. As for Mrs. Hughes, well, that was another story, "Mr. Carson."

Was she now hoping to intercede on Lady Mary's behalf?

Well, there was no point in avoiding her. He'd learnt that years ago.

Pivoting around to follow the housekeeper, doing his best to listen impartially, Charles waited for her to continue. Well aware she'd been given the floor for the moment, "You see the box has been delivered from the late Mr. Crawley's office?"

"Yes."

"Well, ought we to give it straight to Lady Mary?" She may have a point here, if he understood her right. "Shouldn't someone else see it first in case there's something in it to make her cry?"

Yes, the housekeeper had made quite the point here. The last thing they wanted was for Lady Mary to be sent back a dozen paces when she'd only just taken her first steps into the land of the living, "You may be right. I'll take it to his Lordship and he can decide."

He watched Mrs. Hughes nod in agreement, surprised by how worried she looked. She looked to be genuinely concerned about Lady Mary. And Lady Mary was someone the housekeeper has never claimed to be a fan of.

"I best leave you to it then."

Her back may have been turned to him, but that didn't stop him from pondering the moment. Maybe he ought to actually talk to her and find out why she'd done what she'd done when it came to Grigg. Really get into it instead of beating around the bush.

On second thought, better not risk it. He always did better managing on his own.

_._

So much for managing on his own. Not that he wasn't managing just fine. Only that even when she had left him well alone, she still lingered in that box.

There had been a great deal more flyers and adverts than he'd anticipated. Scraps of a world he could recall in an instant, these were. And with every scrap of paper came old lyrics, ridiculous acts that tumbling back into his mind.

But it hadn't just been an act, had it? He was loathed to say it, but it was unfortunately true. There were happier times buried beneath all this rubble. Not with Grigg, never with Grigg. But there had been times when he might've had a life with Alice. Where he'd spent hours upon hours wondering what he really wanted for himself.

So, he couldn't have possibly thrown her away, not after all this time. She'd treated him shabbily, that was true enough. But he couldn't toss her aside, even after that.

"What are you doing?"

Charles should never have left the door open.

He could only be grateful it was her looking in and not Thomas.

Gaudy foolishness was replaced with more innocuous pieces, things that wouldn't draw nearly as much attention, "I'm just sorting some old papers. I haven't looked at these in years."

"Why are you looking now?"

God only knows. Just because Charlie had come back into his life didn't mean Alice ever would. But mentioning that didn't seem appropriate. In fact, it would only incite more curiosity –– of that he had no doubt. "No particular reason."

But before she could say anything else, she was looking at him for the first time in twenty-five years.

"Ah!" Because if he was being forced to think about Charlie Grigg, the least he could do was reminiscence on Alice Neal. "I knew I hadn't thrown it away."

Mrs. Hughes remained strangely silent, so opposed to her natural tendency to question him. Didn't she have questions aplenty? Who was she, Mr. Carson? What was she called? Was she the reason your time on the stage came to an end?

Now he was being childish. The housekeeper may be many things –– stubborn, willful, prone to more plotting than was good for her –– but she was not cruel. After all, she hadn't asked him any questions after the debacle from 1912. His shame had been on display for all to see and she'd had a front-row seat. And, still, she kept from asking a thing.

Truth be told, he'd expected an interrogation for days to come. But nothing had. Days had turned into weeks without a word exchanged. Weeks had slipped into months in silence. And months had faded into years, until he thought the matter resolved.

But, apparently, it never resolved itself, not really. His shame had come back full-force, and this time he couldn't escape it.

Which made it even more meaningful she kept from asking about it today.

"Well," That was the tone of someone who felt it best to leave things well alone. No doubt, the housekeeper was seconds from excusing herself, quite possibly understanding some of the finer details before you.

Was her understanding the reason he suddenly felt comfortable? "If you must know,"

"Oh, Mr. Carson, I can assure you, it's not necessary––"

"If you must know, she was a friend." Charles finished the statement quietly, distracted once more. As much as he had wished for more than friendship with Alice Neal, that was all it could have been.

Alice had been well-meaning, gentle even. But she never thought of him. Smiled at him when it suited her, laughed and walked alongside him when she liked. But she hadn't gone out of her way to be with him. She wouldn't have pried into his wastepaper basket. She would have left the whole thing well alone. It might not have even occurred to her to worry about it.

And yet he remained fond of her.

Or, at least, he couldn't bring himself to be rid of her.

"Well," Mrs. Hughes softly repeated that word, her keys silent, her curiosity withdrawn, "I should leave you to it."

Should you?

But she was gone before he would ever think to ask.

_._

It bothered Charles that he hadn't been able to throw out her picture. He'd tried ever since he found it again, desperate to finally be rid of her. It would have been simple enough, the wastepaper basket was literally inches away.

But he couldn't. And no matter what he did to distract himself, no matter what task he went on to complete, she persisted in his thoughts. This was to the point where, when it was clear someone was at the door, a wild notion sprung to life:

If Charlie Grigg could so easily waltz back into his life, why couldn't she?

"Mrs. Crawley?" Honestly, how foolish was he? Alice Neal hadn't been around for twenty-five years, that wasn't likely to change anytime soon.

Awkwardly waiting for the woman to step in, doing his best to keep from revealing too much of his inner thoughts, the butler resumed his post with as much dignity as he could, "We weren't expecting you. Her Ladyship is lunching with Lady Ingram, his Lordship is walking, Lady Mary's at the Dower House and Lady Edith is in London."

"As a matter of fact," Why didn't he like the sound of this? "It's you I came to see."

It was worse than he thought.

"To talk about Charles Grigg."

Oh, it was even worse than his initial assessment. The woman wasn't giving him the courtesy of vague allusions. She'd gone so far as to approach him in his domain without warning. Yes, well, tilting his gaze away would have to suffice. He did not want to show too much displeasure over this unwarranted attack.

Then again, he didn't mind revealing some of his distaste.

Mrs. Crawley mercilessly continued, ignoring his wariness, "You know he's got a job at the Opera House in Belfast?"

He hadn't known that. No doubt that came from the woman's overly generous work, work a layabout like Charlie Grigg didn't deserve.

Despite his silence, an obvious sign of disinterest, she quickly carried on, "He's so anxious to talk to you before he goes."

Is he now? "Then he is in for a disappointment."

Why did Mrs. Crawley persist in this matter? It was a moot point after all this time. "He says he is resolved to put his dishonesty behind him."

"Is he now?" That's nice. If only it were true.

"I know it's more than that." The butler didn't like how misty her eyes had gotten, how somber her face was. He especially didn't like the fact that it looked like she pitied him. He would've bristled at it if he hadn't trained himself to remain composed. "He told me he caused you great unhappiness, but he said it was not his fault."

Yes, well, the day Charlie Grigg became responsible for his actions was the day he got rid of that blasted photo. And the fact that his supposed friend was daring to bring in the sympathies of those undeserving –– it was unspeakable.

Charles didn't quite growl at it all but it was a near thing, "He was always a liar."

"I see." What a relief: she was beginning to see the truth. He knew Mrs. Crawley meant well, but she had no real comprehension of the situation. And, no, no matter how many times she blinked, that lack of comprehension wasn't going to change.

But this was Mrs. Crawley. So in spite of her being almost out the door –– some might say because she was almost out the door –– the woman simply had to speak up one last time.

"It seems a pity not to take the chance to end a quarrel." I didn't realise we were in the midst of a 'quarrel'. "Isn't it better than to let things fester?"

This had gone on long enough, "I don't mean to speak out of turn, Mrs. Crawley, but you will, I think, accept that any difference between Mr. Grigg and me is my concern."

"Of course it is." At least that seemed to ring true in her eyes. There she went with that blinking again. He wouldn't pretend to be oblivious to her feelings on the matter, they weren't exactly subtle. But he would not also pretend–– "I'm sorry."

Carson took that as his cue to show her the way out, unwilling to speak on the matter. Once again, he was most sincerely not in the mood for pity or an apology.

"Thank you, Carson. Good day."

Firmly shutting the door behind her, Charles slowly exhaled. He was not apologetic when it came to his actions. He also did not think she had the right to interfere. Nor was he willing to concede her points.

But after several years of living alongside one Elsie Hughes, he was willing to consider them.

Not that he would ever admit to such a thing.

_._

In his eyes, James Kent was far luckier than he had ever been. He would never have been allowed to take anyone to the theatre –– something he would have, of course, never wanted to do, given his past.

Nevertheless, the lad was irritatingly lucky in this regard. And the worst part was that he knew it.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson." As though he had a real hand in it. And that was another piece of luck James Kent had going for him: Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore had become quite involved in this affair.

And, of course, because the two women couldn't be left alone without chattering away, "I hope he doesn't break her heart."

Charles stiffened, keeping his eyes on the door. He didn't think Mrs. Patmore knew anything of his past, but he didn't like where this was leading. It was bad enough he had to openly discuss the theatre with a footman, now they were going on about heartbreak?

"We must all have our hearts broken once or twice before we're done." Really? Must you go there? He might've harrumphed at that, if it wasn't guaranteed to set both women off.

"True enough, Mrs. Hughes." But before he could lecture the cook she was closing the nearest door and leaving them well alone. And, yes, he had spotted the glance the housekeeper sent him. She looked just as bothered as before, a sure sign she would be speaking her mind.

But she remained silent.

And all he could think of was that sweet girl from decades ago.

"Strange to think of what was once part of my life." What was he doing, prattling on like that? She'd think him sentimental and that was the last thing he wanted.

"Yours and so many others." Not you, too. After all the times they'd avoided properly speaking on the matter, after all he'd been put through, couldn't she have granted him this? "You know he's going to work in Belfast?"

Had Mrs. Crawley been speaking to her? The butler didn't approve of such a transaction, not in the least. "I had heard."

Mrs. Hughes didn't look deterred by his disapproving grumble, "He's leaving the village in the morning. The eleven o'clock train."

"What's that to me?" Hadn't they agreed they would be leaving this alone? Wasn't that the unspoken promise they'd made all those years ago?

Charles was distracted by her approach, the woman far closer than she'd been in some time. The image of Alice Neal threatened to vanish as Mrs. Hughes drew closer into sight, staring right at him, "I'll tell you what it is."

Oh, you will, will–– "It's an open wound."

The butler unwillingly shut up, despising his foolish reaction. The matter should have been long since resolved, it was entirely in the past –– why on earth did it continue to clang about?

"I don't know why,"

"Yes, you do." Now why did he have to go and blurt that out? They could have let all that go unspoken as planned if he had only kept his mouth shut.

Mrs. Hughes glared at him, looking entirely crossed with the interruption. Perhaps, if their roles were reversed, he would be in a similar position. Oh, there was no perhaps-ing about it: he would have been quite upset with her for bringing up such a sore subject, especially after so many years of silence.

"No, Mr. Carson, I don't know why." She repeated, daring him to contradict her. He didn't. "But I don't need to know why and you certainly don't need to tell me."

And why's that? Didn't she want to know? Hadn't she been wondering all this time?

"Because," Mrs. Hughes went on to explain herself as though he'd officially spoken up, "It doesn't matter what I know. It's not my past, it's not my wound to manage."

He would've opened his mouth to protest, only she was in no mood to be trifled with, "And because it's not mine to manage, it's easy enough for me to tell you what to do. But it's you who decides what happens from here on out, not me."

"And if you were to tell me what to do?" His timbre had lowered to an icy volume, a defensive steel taking hold of the words. "Don't tell me: I ought to 'stitch it up'?"

"Yes." The woman matched the tautness of his tone but her frost held far less bite. "Let it heal and stop it from defining your future."

'Stop it from defining my future'? 'Let it heal'? There was no healing to be done! And he hardly let it define his future! He'd gotten as far away from that life as he possibly could! How on earth did it define his––

Charles didn't acknowledge the realisations that now trickled through him.

But he could no longer meet her gaze.

_._

He hardly talked to her at dinner. He did his best not to think of her afterwards.

They didn't share in a nightcap, something that suited him perfectly fine. He didn't need any more of her prodding and he couldn't stand the thought of another well-meaning metaphor.

But he couldn't get rid of her words. Much like the image before him, these were things that refused to leave –– whether he acknowledged them or not.

_._

The wooden bench of the waiting room creaked under his weight, protesting the man's presence. Truth be told, he agreed with the bench: this wasn't the best use of his time. He would have much rather preferred to let eleven o'clock roll by unannounced.

But every time he contemplated doing just that, her voice put an end to it.

Of course, he knew very well she would never be pleased if he'd done this for her. She might very well smack him if he did this for anyone other than himself. He may still be at a loss when it comes to understanding her, but he knew that much.

The good news, if it could be considered that, was that he hadn't done it for her. He didn't know who he was doing this for –– he'd yet to figure out if this was something that truly needed to be done –– but he was here and there was the train, screeching toward the station.

Grating squeals of an overworked engine greeted his reverie, pushing him onwards. Building steam threatened to overtake the platform, giving him one last chance for escape.

Charles pushed through the heat and the steam with an air of indifference, tipping his hat as though this were an ordinary occasion. If only it were ordinary, then it'd be infinitely easier to manage.

"Good morning, Carson."

Could it be classified as such? His questionable nod begged to differ, the man rather ill at ease when it came to be hearing such a phrase. "I hope I'm not in the way."

"Not a bit." Mrs. Crawley's warmth was more sweltering than the train's steam. "You remember Mr. Grigg."

Finally turning his gaze in that direction, he could confess one thing: this wasn't the Charlie Grigg he knew. The Charlie Grigg he knew would've been swaggering up to the platform, an oily grin pasted across his face, eyes darting about in search of opportunity. That did not match the haggard image limping toward him, the one beaten down by wartime and misfortune.

"Hello, Charlie." There was a defeated quality that hadn't been there before, prompting the man to recall Mrs. Hughes' talk of the workhouse. But he refused to be moved by anything, not even this. "Good of you to come."

Charles silently gestured for the man to keep walking, bemused. Something his former partner took as a chance to speak, much to his irritation.

"I didn't realise it all still bothered you," Grigg began, to which he opted for a dark stare. If his former partner remained that obtuse all this time, was there a point to this conversation?

"Of course it bothered me." He eventually muttered, irritated.

"It's just, I would've thought with Elsie––" Charles stiffened, incensed by that slip. The supposed theatre pal hastened on, fully aware he was in treacherous waters, "Mrs. Hughes, that is–– well, I just thought you'd moved past everything."

The way he'd said the housekeeper's name spoke of implications. Implications the butler didn't care for. And the fact that he thought it was so easy to just move on was frankly ridiculous. But that was just Charlie Grigg being Charlie Grigg. He couldn't get caught up in that now. He had to respond to that idiotic statement, "And just how could I have done that?"

They'd been the ones to run off, after all.

Charles had begun to wonder about the Cheerful Charlies' future, having noticed Grigg's attention toward Alice. It was difficult to remain quite so cheerful after that. But what could he say, what did he want to say, about the subject?

Then one day, he'd found out she shared Grigg's feelings.

There would have been something to be said, if the couple hadn't vanished days later. His soon-to-be-former partner had gotten caught up with the authorities. Which meant the pair had disappeared with nothing more than a pathetic note promising to catch up sometime in the future.

So, truly, had he been given much of a chance to move on?

No, not really.

Charlie Grigg wisely ignored that last question, well aware it was more rhetorical than not. "But why did you never speak of Alice when we last met, before the war?"

This was rather easy to answer, laughably so:

"What was the point? She chose you all those years ago, and that was it." Or so he liked to pretend. "Why bring it up?"

"Because that wasn't 'it'." What? "She chose me, but it never worked."

He might've given money to hear that twenty-five years ago. Today, it merely echoed across the station, its value long gone.

"She's dead now, anyway." Now that couldn't be true. In his world, Alice Neal had never died. She could be happy with Grigg, she could even regret the past, but she never died. "But it was never 'it'."

The compartment door lurked just out of sight, giving them a chance to put an end to this conversation. But he couldn't let Grigg walk away on that note, "I didn't know she was dead."

"Five year ago." She'd passed away during the war. How could he have not known by now? "We'd separated long before, but I went to see her in St. Thomas's. Do you know what she said?"

Charles remained fixed on the St. Thomas's bit but he managed to keep on listening, no longer sure of anything. Luckily, for once, Grigg got straight to the point:

"She said, 'Charlie Carson was the better man. I could have loved him. I did love him, really. But I was a fool and couldn't see it.'"

If his former partner dared to lie after everything he'd put him through, he would walk away right now. "Did she say that? Honestly?"

"That she loved you?" Charlie Grigg never looked so solemn, not as much as he did now. "Aye, she did."

I see.

"And she wanted me to tell you if I saw you again." Her image came back to him, blocking Grigg from his sight. She was standing before him, that gentle smile of hers captivating him just as it always did.

"There we are."

"We could have made a go of it, you know." Those grey eyes, eyes he'd spent hours tracing in his mind, carried more torment than they ever had in the flesh. He didn't like the thought of that. Didn't care for the fact that he might have been a part of that torment in the end.

"As long as you know that it were her choice. I never set out to take her off you."

For once, Charles believed him.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I think you must get aboard." Oddly enough, he was grateful for Mrs. Crawley's interruption.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am, Mrs. Crawley." The butler wanted to point out that Charlie couldn't be grateful if his life depended on it, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He could only silently observe the exchange.

"Very good luck." She gracefully returned the gratitude, giving the man's hand a good shake.

"Thank you." Charles wanted to believe that to be the end of it, but his former friend had second thoughts. "I doubt we'll meet again, but can we shake on it?"

Shake on never meeting again? Gladly. But he knew better than to assume that, letting the man speak his piece.

"We've known some ups and downs together, it's true, but if this is goodbye, let's part as friends, eh?"

He could do that. He would be doing it for himself and not Grigg or their old friendship or even Alice. But he could do that.

"All right." And making sure to look him dead in the eye, "I wish you well."

"Likewise," At least he seemed to mean it. "Charlie."

Charlie Grigg always had to have the last word, didn't he?

Charles dismissed that irritation at once, not in the mood to let that overtake him. The former partner was seconds from being permanently out of his life, that had to count for something?

Turning to watch the train, the butler made sure to maintain his composure as he fixed his attention to the one unresolved issue: "Mrs. Crawley, I should be grateful if you would let me know any expense you have been put to on Mr. Grigg's behalf during his stay with you."

"Oh, no, that's completely unnecessary––"

He wasn't in the mood for such generosity. Nor did he think it appropriate, given the circumstances, "I should be grateful."

She took the hint, "Very well, Carson. I shall do that."

Tipping his hat as was custom, Charles bade her a good day and began to take his leave. It was time to take some time for himself, to think this morning through. But grey eyes followed his thoughts from the start, pushing him to walk past the rest of the group, even her –– especially her.

Mrs. Hughes always meant well, but he didn't know if meaning well was enough in this instance.

What a strange world they lived in. You could go twenty-five years thinking you knew everything there was to know about people and in twenty-five seconds you could find out you've never been more wrong in your life.

Charlie Grigg, solemn. Alice Neal, dead. What else had he been wrong about?

"Mr. Carson?" That was a surprise. He'd expected her to leave him well alone, something she'd managed to do for the most part. "Shall we walk back together?"

'Walk back together'? It wasn't what he had in mind. But he found himself acquiescing, even as he kept his distance.

"We needn't talk," The housekeeper's manner remained quiet, the woman speaking up only once they were out of the station, "Only, well,"

"It's all right, Mrs. Hughes." He couldn't confess to wanting to converse. But he knew his disinterest had little to do with her and more with his foolish assumptions of the world. So, in the grand scheme of things, "It's all right."

Author's Note: My head canon for this is that he'll want to visit Alice's grave and pay his respects when he can. And one day, years later, he'll ask Elsie to come with. She won't have pressed beforehand, wanting to respect his wishes. But it turns out this is something he wishes to do.

In any case, I do hope you enjoyed that. Moreover, I hope you have a lovely day! 'Till next time.