Again, this is more so about exploring ideas and writing practice than any real plot. This is slightly M rated, but nothing too graphic. Chapter 3 may be the last chapter for this fic, as I have no more ideas for it. But who knows what the future holds.

Carson House

He was thinner than before: far from the same stature he was in his youth, but noticeably different. His stomach was less bulgy, his legs were smaller, his entire body changed—and yet it all felt so... correct. Becoming a father at an age where death seemed more likely no doubt contributed to his morphing features. He had not quite made peace with himself yet, though he was sure eventually he would. Rather, he chose to ignore it, the parts of himself that had changed, that no longer worked in the way he wanted them to. His reflection showed only glimpses of the man he was before. Before Calum, everything seemed jumbled together. Life as a hall boy clashed with his youth and his footman years, and his years as a footman merged with his years as Valet and Butler. And then that life, his life, split into two: before baby, and after him.

Elsie entered their room rubbing her hip. Her hand fell to her side when they caught a glimpse of each other in the mirror. He was drying his wet hair with his towel, because after giving baby his bath he had his own.

"Baby's asleep," she said, and Carson nodded. "I assume Mr. Barrow has everything in order for their arrival."

Carson scoffed. "Not likely. Lady Mary says..." He stopped when he saw the smirk on her face. "Well, it doesn't matter what she says, does it?" They weren't in charge. Not anymore. That was what he kept having to tell himself. Her hand rubbed his arm. "I'm sure everything will be in order by next week—Mr. Bates mentioned something about the King's Page of the Backstairs assisting them..."

"Whatever that means," said Elsie.

"It means," he said, and he paused to place a gentle kiss on her lips, "I hardly think Mr. Barrow has control over anything at this point. I don't think any of them do—Mrs. Patmore spoke of them bringing in their own chef. And housekeeper."

He thought she might stir at the mentioning of a housekeeper invading her land, but she didn't. She didn't seem to care at all. "It does all sound quite unusual," she admitted, "but I suppose that's just how things are with the royal family." She crossed to the dresser to retrieve a pair of pants for his nighttime wear. "Life isn't as it was thirty years ago, is it?"

"No," Carson agreed, recalling that lavish life of the Victorian age, and the number of servants under his charge. Long before the war. Long before Calum. It all seemed like a dazed dream at this stage in his life. He exchanged his damp towel for the pair of clean white pants she had pulled from the dresser, and sat on the bed to pull them on. "No, it certainly is different."

Elsie turned to her vanity and began undoing her hair. He settled in bed and watched her contently. "The Smiths settle in all right?" he asked after a long moment of silence between them. Her hair was fully down and tied in a loose braid. She stood from her chair to begin unbuttoning her dress.

"Oh, yes, they've settled fine," Elsie said softly, though she had a look on her face that told him otherwise. She frowned and avoided his eyes. Her dress slid down onto the floor below her as she worked to untie her corset and remove her drawers.

"But..." Carson said with hesitancy. Dressed only in his pants, bare chested and utterly vulnerable to the outside world, he was in no state for conflict. But he would if he must.

She finally looked at him again, trying to smile but failing miserably. "But nothing, Charlie," assured Elsie. She removed her chemise and kicked her dress aside. "They are perfectly kind—your old wife is only irked because she was called grandmother today." Quietly, she sat on the bed to remove her garters and stockings.

"When?" he asked, recalling the couple's arrival. Baby had yet to wake from his nap, but Elsie and the wife seemed to exchange words without any complications—that was his assumption, at least. And the husband seemed shy, but not impolite. Being called grandmother didn't seem unkind in Carson's eyes. Though, he understood her point completely; he knew he would hate it if someone called him grandfather.

Elsie shook her head and stood. "Calum and I were delivering extra towels to their room," she said, grabbing her dress and hanging it up. She then tossed her other attire onto a pile of their dirty clothes in the corner. "Mrs. Smith opened the door, saw baby with the towels and made some silly remark about him helping grandmother with her duties..."

"Did you correct her?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, of course not."

"It's an honest mistake," he said delicately, because he knew how fragile she could be about the topic.

"Yes, an honest mistake many mothers never have to encounter in their life, except pray us very few." She made her way to her side of the bed and let out a soft sigh. Elsie had changed little since their days at Downton: her hips had widened from the pregnancy and birth—and a long fading scar, where they had cut her open to retrieve baby, permanently changed how her stomach looked—and her breasts hung a bit lower than before, but otherwise she still looked the same; she still looked like his Elsie. Her body still worked as it did before; she had aged some, and she was perhaps a bit more bumpy in places she hadn't been before, but still looked beautiful and delicious in all the same places. "Oh, hear me moan," she mumbled, lifting the sheet and slipping in beside him. "There are other things to worry about, I know..."

"You're being perfectly reasonable," he told her. His hand caressed her cheek, his lips found her own. "Besides, I like to hear you moan." She allowed another kiss, let it linger so the wine on her lips tasted sweet on his tongue. He hoped for a good night. But when he moved on top of her, nothing awoke. He felt her hesitate beneath him when he moved to kiss her cheek, then her chin, working his way down to tease her breasts. Her hand moved to rest on his shoulder.

"I... wish you would speak with Dr. Clarkson," she told him softly. Carson halted at her words, and after a moment, he rolled off of her.

"Elsie, I don't..." he turned from her, lifting the sheet to cover his arms and chest from the hot air. "I don't want to talk about it."

He heard her sigh and felt her hand begin to rub his back. Carson could lie and say it did not bring him comfort, but her touch always comforted him. His fingers and tongue could fill her effortlessly; it was his body that caused issue. Mornings worked best for his body, when he could rise with the sun—but once baby learned to climb out of his cot, their morning romps proved meager and lame. He blamed fatigue for too long—the stress of the day causing limpness at night—and soon his own incompetence caught up with his excuses and lies. He felt ashamed, too embarrassed to speak about it to anyone, much less Dr. Clarkson. But as long as he could still please her, as long as he could still hear her moan, his own release mattered little.

Whatever they might have said—or argued about—next became forgotten, unimportant to them when Calum's cries from the other room grabbed their immediate attention. "I'll go," Carson told her before she could climb out of bed, but baby had already entered their bedroom.

With tears in his eyes and face red like a tomato, he looked on at his parents in need of cuddles and kisses. "Mumbuh," he continuously whimpered to them, and Elsie sprung to her feet to scoop him up into her arms.

"Whatever is the matter, dear boy?" said Elsie as she settled back in bed with him in her arms. The back of her hand found his forehead, and then his cheek to check his temperature. Carson sat up, preparing to fetch a glass of water or a bin to catch vomit, whatever baby needed. Calum said nothing audible. "He feels a bit warm, Charlie," Elsie told him.

Carson stood to fetch the bin and medicine, ignoring the tiredness he felt pass his entire body and settle on his aching feet. "Should I call Dr. Clarkson?"

"I don't think we should concern him quite yet," she said as he entered the bathroom to don his blue robe and search for his slippers. "But if he's no better by morning, we'll see what he has to say."

He nodded, already mentally preparing for a restless night with baby in their bed, tangled sheets and bare feet in odd places, and a possible wet bed come morning. Carson knew he was far from the man he used to be, but the person he saw in the mirror, even with all his flaws, had become far more correct to him than anything he had known before.