Unorthodox Author's Note: This is the second of two updates for today. Therefore, IF YOU REMEMBER a mention of the children's film Chicken Run as well Grigg interrogating Charles, you are officially caught up.

But if none of that rings a bell, please, go back to the previous chapter, "13:29:87"! A lot happened, to the point where things will not make sense for this chapter.

Author's Note: I don't know if anyone's been paying attention to the chapter titles, but if you have you're about to get an answer in that regard.

Warning: Bottling up stress and tension for long periods of time can really mess with your body. It doesn't have to be the end of the world, but it is something to take seriously. You'll see what I mean soon enough.

London was… painful. Cold. Empty without her. Grand and glassy and incessantly tiring. As for the headquarters of Crawley Industries, the less said the better.

Charles went through the motions of existence, relieved it had been easy to travel by train. His car would have only proved a risk in the pedestrian-filled city, given how distracted he was.

Right. He had no plan for this. Three hours sat on two trains and one bus and nothing to show for it. No strategy for hunting down the recording, no tactics for managing familiar faces in a building he'd spent so many years avoiding.

In the end, he hadn't required a plan.

He couldn't remember how he wound up in the security office. Belatedly, the man wondered if he was out of luck when it came to finding this particular recording. Thirteen years was a long time for such a thing and––"Here it is! 11th of November, 2005."

Really? Was it truly that simple? Now that he'd gotten to this point, the whole thing felt lackadaisical––anticlimactic to say the least. A mystery that had been secretly building for years and years and years was going to be solved in less than five minutes.

Why on earth had he not thought of this sooner? And why did that particular thought sound more like his former fiancée than normal––"Do you know what you're looking for, sir? Time-wise, that is."

"Of course." Charles cleared his throat, concentrating on the few details he'd unearthed. She'd waited for him downstairs, wanting to meet with him for lunch. He'd been late. "Somewhere around 13:39."

"Right then." The guard gave a glance before bringing the recording on-screen. "Just so you know, we'll have to fast forward and that'll take a minute."

"That's fine."

But there appeared to be more to consider: "Oh, that's right," the guard added with a grimace, "The quality's not so great for this one. This was one of the recordings before 2013, after all."

"I see." Would this affair continue to try his patience?

8:07:57. 8:51:34. 9:12:23. The answer was yes: this affair would, in fact, continue to try his patience.

9:47:31. 10:27:92. 10:39:47. Why was this machine's inability to efficiently fast-forward vexing beyond belief?

10:58:17. 11:05:49. 11:22:53. Could he really do this? Could he learn the truth and actually begin to fix this?

11:49:28. Yes.

12:15:67. Yes, he could.

12:57:23. 13:03:41. 13:12:76. 13:15:47. 13:24:63. 13:29:87. Elsie had arrived. Elsie, looking paler than he thought possible. Waiting for him as patiently as she could. Fidgeting more than he ever did.

13:31:61. 13:33:02. 13:34:42. Who was going to reveal themselves at last?

13:35:13. 13:36:77. 13:37:9––

Oh.

"I should have known." Buttons were pushed. The recording was paused. Ire was not quite ignored. "Where is the audio for this?"

"Sorry, Mr. Carson, but we didn't do audio back in those days. This was––"

"Before 2013, so I see."

The silence that followed was a little unnerving, to be honest. The Executive Assistant had one of those if looks could kill faces mixed with I've had the biggest shock of my life posture. Not a reassuring sight for new security guards who very much wanted to keep their jobs and not get yelled at for hours on end.

"Do you need a chair, Mr. Carson?"

"No, I most certainly do not." What he needed was more answers.

And there was only one way he was going to get those answers.

_._

He'd left the office as soon as he possibly could. Kings Cross was efficient as always, a ticket available for the 16:48. Only one transfer would be required to get back to Downton and his car. The platform was decidedly emptier than normal, and––and why was he trying to distract himself with these menial details?

Right. He needed to ring her up again.

She answered.

He couldn't say a word.

"Am I to take it you were able to see that recording of yours?"

"Yes."

"I see."

He didn't elaborate.

She didn't berate herself. That was the only consolation in this whole affair.

"I need to see you." I need to know more. I need to hear your side. Your complete honesty. I need to fix this because to do otherwise would––

"If you're sure." Thank God. He couldn't have managed it if she'd dismissed this now. "How does Monday sound? Allison's done well enough we can cancel her lesson and send her downstairs to visit with Charlie and Alice."

"No. We'll not be cancelling." He needed to see his daughter, to clutch at normalcy for at least one hour this week. "But I will be coming in earlier."

"Don't you have a weekly meeting? One that goes well into the afternoon?"

"That meeting's been cancelled." He would be cancelling it the second he hung up.

"Oh. Well then,"

He stilled, needing her to get on with it. He loved her dearly. He always would. But he needed her to get on with it. She could reject his suggestion if she had to, but he needed an answer. Preferably within the next few minutes.

"I suppose it's best to get it over with."

Perfect. It was settled. He would drop by and they could finally get to the bottom of things and sort out this confusing mess.

_._

Charles arrived early. She read his anxious air at once, willing to get to the point. Surprisingly, he confessed he would need to ease into the conversation.

Seconds after that confession, however, "What did he say?"

Elsie did not scoff. Rather, she was concerned. "You know what he said––"

"But I don't."

"But he told me about your confession to him," she closed her eyes, willing her own pain to ease, "How you told him you wanted to call things off."

"I most certainly did not!" That was a downright lie. His ire threatened to return at the thought of it, the man wishing for a chance to interrogate the liar in question. But that was hardly advisable at this time.

"What do you mean?"

Right. If Elsie dared to dismiss this next assertion, he would truly be upset. He could not blame her for doubting him in the past. Today, however, he needed her to trust he was being absolutely candid.

"Minutes before your conversation," Charles straightened to his fullest height, "I had announced that Septimus Spratt would be taking my place instead. I had no desire to go on that trip. I was much more interested in finally planning my wedding."

She froze.

He continued, "Had you stayed just one more minute, you would have heard this news in person. Because that was the surprise I had wanted to share: I wanted to shock you with the fact that I absolutely did not want to spend another minute without you as my wife. I simply needed time to clear it with that liar. Who, I might mention, told me my decision was 'peculiar, but understandable.'"

Had it not been for their promise for honesty, she would have doubted him.

As it was––well, she finally believed him.

"Now, Elsie, please. Please, just tell me what he said."

But if he was being honest... that meant she had been utterly foolish. Allison might never have had to live a life without her father. There had been a chance for them to be a proper family. But now? To find out that her lack of faith in him was what had ruined the matter?

"Elsie, I can't pretend to understand why you've said nothing."

Said nothing. Once again, I've said nothing. How funny.

If she had only fought for herself one final time instead of staying stupidly silent, all of this could have been avoided. These thirteen years could have been far more pleasant and they might have very well had a real chance of marriage instead of this ridiculous mess that was probably destined to fail––

Pain shot down her back, her shoulders stinging. A gasp fell out of her, pinpricks forcing her a step back. The inexplicable tension of the last thirteen years was hellbent on ruining her composure.

"Elsie?" Her eyes were shut tight, her body trembling. She really should have seen a doctor for this, much like Alice used to suggest. But it had never been this bad before! Well, that wasn't entirely true. But it hadn't been this bad in years. She thought the worst was over and done with. "Elsie, love, what's wrong?"

"It's nothing!" Habit wheeled these words out, her eyes persistently closed. She had been managing this for the last decade or so. This was a simple flare up. She could breathe through it. There was no need to become concerned. "Just a little back pain."

"'Just a little back pain?'" In that moment, it became clear that he had two options: wrangle the truth out of the woman or help her. But there was no real question about it.

Elsie's eyes shot open at the sound of his approach, "I'm fine!"

Charles took a page out of Beryl Mason's book and put his hands on his hips, his disbelief jutting out as he waited for this ridiculous act to come to an end. When she obstinately met his gaze, he coldly questioned, "Really? You can honestly tell you're not in any pain?"

If she dared to nod or say yes, he would scoop her up and take her to hospital right now.

Luckily, she recognised that. She was even beginning to slump, "Oh, all right. But I might point out that I said I was fine, not that I wasn't in pain."

Charles didn't answer, guiding her to the sofa. He didn't trust himself to speak, not when his daft woman was being foolishly stubborn and absolutely ridiculous.

He gradually lowered her onto the cushions, testing out a theory, "Perhaps so. But just what was the cause of this 'little back pain,' do you suppose? Has it been brought on by the fact that we were coerced into separation more than a decade ago? By my employer, no less?"

"'Coerced?' I doubt it was anything like that. And what's with this 'we' busines––" Elsie hissed once more, grimacing. "Right. I only need to stop for a moment. Then we can talk properly. We'll need to, if we're to sort this out before Allie's lesson." She huffed out a dark laugh, "At this rate, we ought to just tell her everything,"

"We will, I promise." Would it be suitable to grab medicine or observe her to ascertain more facts? Right. Getting medicine would be far better than watching the pain worsen. "But we will discuss all those matters only once you've recovered."

Elsie scoffed, "'Recovered?' Charles, this is only a flare-up."

Only a flare-up? Did she really––oh, he was going to glare at her for as long he lived! That, and help her get seen to. People didn't collapse from a flare-up!

Breathe, Charles. Getting upset would only push her into proving she was perfectly fine. And if that wasn't the last thing in the world he wanted, well, then he was a giraffe!

"Regardless, you are in pain." When she tried to object, Charles put his attention toward fetching that medicine and water. "Here," He retrieved the items faster than she could deny their necessity. "Take this."

That Elsie did so without question spoke measures. But the medicine wouldn't have any effect for some time. Even then, it wasn't guaranteed to cure everything.

And still, she insisted on informing him, "I can assure you, I only need a few more minutes, and then we can carry on with our conversation."

"Right. When are we going to the doctor?"

"There's no need!" He stiffened as she continued, "They'll just tell me I'm fine––there's never anything to note."

"Oh, really? And when was the last time you went to a doctor for this?" Her silence told him everything. "What if something else happens? What if it gets worse?"

"It won't." As if she could reassure him, when she was sprawled out on the sofa, doing her best not to flinch at every breath. That was very consoling! "And even if it did, I won't have your guilt trap you here, not over this!"

"Do you still think guilt is only the reason I'm here?" As though he somehow deemed all of this to be a burden? A mistake? Charles had been tired of that assumption before, but now? It stung to know she might very well still feel that way. "As though there couldn't be any other reason why?"

Guilt had stopped guiding him a long time ago. There was regret over what he'd failed to do, as a fiancé and a father. But if she thought his sticking by her side was thanks to guilt...

"Well, I," She began to speak, hesitating. "I used to think that, back when this was starting up. But I'm no longer sure." She was biting her lip. It wasn't solely thanks to pain. "No, actually. I don't. I worry I might be wrong about that, mind. But I don't think guilt is the only reason why. I'm not even sure it's the real reas––"

She sucked in a breath, her hands curling from the pain. It wasn't a mistake to discuss this; they needed to talk things through if they were ever to have a real chance. But what she needed right now was to be seen to, not have it out with him.

"Well, now. I think it's getting easier," Elsie confessed, breathing out and opening her eyes. "Yes, I think the medicine's kicking in. I think we've been able to manage the worst of it."

Are you kidding me? Even if the medicine were indeed kicking in, that was no excuse. This has gone on long enough.

Right. If Elsie wasn't going to take care of herself for her own sake, there was only one thing for it: "Will Allison believe you, you think? When she comes home and sees you trapped on this sofa, do you really think she'll believe that everything's all right?"

She should have glared at him. He had no right to bring their daughter into this when––

Stupid, ridiculous pain!

"Right. That's it." Charles had been willing to wait for the medicine to kick in. Now, however, he was too worried to do any such thing.

"Charles?"

But he was already moving toward her, "Can you move on your own?"

"Of course I can––" Her infamous capability abandoned her, the woman wobbling back in the direction of the sofa. He was there to catch her. "Contrary to popular belief, I really can manage––"

This time, it was his glare that brought an end to that remark. That and, "I am this close to ringing up 999 and calling for an ambulance."

"You wouldn't dare."

But he would. And she knew it. Which meant it was time for Elsie to try another strategy, "What about Allison? Suppose she panics when she comes home to find we're not here? Suppose we terrify her for no good reason?"

"If you're suggesting you stay here and not go to hospital,"

"No," the mother knew she was out of luck when it came to that. "Only that you ought to take me in instead of calling for an ambulance. Besides, you don't know how long it'll take them to get here––you'll probably be faster."

"Fine. But you must promise to tell me if anything gets worse." Adjusting her so he could get his mobile out, "Or else I will be calling 999."

She frowned, "I still can't believe you finally got a mobile."

"Elsie."

Thankfully, she understood, "All right! I promise to tell you if anything gets worse."

"Good." He replaced his mobile in his pocket, taking a moment. Given the type of pain she was experiencing, heat might do her a world of good. But seeing as how he didn't dare to leave her unattended, that meant there was only one real option.

"What are you doing?" Elsie opened her eyes at the sudden and encompassing warmth, his soothing scent surrounding her. He had shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her, giving her pause for the most wonderful of reasons.

Charles didn't say a word. She was finally relaxing and he, for one, wasn't interested in ruining that. But when she let out a pained gasp, he spoke up at last, "How can I help?"

She paused. She bit her lip. She eventually spoke, "I might need your assistance, just until we get to the car."

He was beside her at once, carefully encircling her waist with one hand while the other rested near her shoulder. She continued to relax in his arms, leaning against him as they stepped toward the door.

They took their time with the stairs. They trudged by Alice's flat without interrogation, though that didn't stop his mobile from vibrating. No doubt the virtual assistant had somehow caught wind of this debacle and wanted the whole story.

Yes, well, he would update her the moment he could. Right now, his priority was seeing to Elsie.

Thirty minutes later, they were finally approaching the hospital and that was when he realised something very important, "What are we to say?"

She was already halfway out of her seat, "About what?"

He sped around the car at once, catching her before she stumbled, "About––"

But his car's alarm was incessant and loud, distracting them both. He'd forgotten to see to it, needing to double back and make sure everything had been turned off and all doors were properly closed. By the time he returned to her, she was leaning against a pole and practically shaking like a leaf.

"Right. Let's get you inside." Charles hastily took hold of Elsie, relieved she let him guide her inside the building. They were seconds away from the nearest entrance when a woman stepped ahead, opening the appropriate door.

"Please," The woman smiled as she gestured for them to go ahead, a determined glint in her brown eyes, "Allow me. You focus on taking care of your wife."

Charles stammered, old-fashioned gallantry and newfound concern demanding he protest the classification. Would it offend Elsie to be called his wife? Should he correct this stranger and risk causing some sort of scene? What was the right thing to do in this instance?

It was Elsie who spoke on their behalf, "Thank you. I'm afraid Charles is still adjusting to the twenty-first century: he forgets that anyone can hold the door these days."

The woman chuckled, waving them through with a dogged air.

He continued to stammer, only stopping when Elsie looked upward and leaned in, reclaiming his hand, "We've not all day, not if we're to see to this before Allie gets back. And I doubt we'll be seeing that woman again––there was no point in correcting her."

"I suppose not."

A few hours and tests later, two things became apparent. Firstly, nothing concrete could be determined today; they would have to wait for results. Secondly, if they wanted to keep Allison from getting worried, they would have to return sooner rather than later.

Elsie was relieved to be out of there in less than three hours. Charles, however, was unhappy. There didn't seem to be anything neurologically wrong. In fact, the doctor they'd seen was more curious than worried. She had recommended making an official appointment with a neurologist, but was happy to stick with a prescription for physiotherapy first.

Yes, well, while stretching and things of that nature would help, he wanted concrete information. Something tangible. Something they could properly manage.

So much for that.

It was with a resigned air that Charles drove them home. He had barely parked the car before a blur of panic and tears bolted forth, their girl only slowing down once she realised what she was doing.

Allison opened her mouth to say something polite, something excessively mature for her age. Elsie opened her arms, inviting their daughter in for a hug.

Luckily, the girl did not bother feigning indifference.

Charles tore his gaze away from the sight at the sound of a throat clearing. Alice Neal was striding toward them, her grey eyes welled with concern and irritation as she pushed Allison's homework into his hands, "Charles Carson, you owe me."

So it seemed. The woman had taken over today's tutoring session, none too pleased about the circumstances. Four hours, three pints of ice cream, two children's films, and one very large takeaway order later––all paid for by Charles, of course––Allison had finally fallen asleep at what was deemed to be only a mildly unreasonable hour.

But have no fear. All wasn't magically resolved. Alice was still deeply unimpressed with him for not bothering to send a text. Grigg and Becky were equally displeased, for that matter. Not to mention, despite agreeing it was better to wait before discussing everything with their bairn, both parents felt guilty over the obvious fear they'd put their girl through today.

Best of all, there was still one more problem.

_._

"Charles," Elsie gestured toward the way out, "You don't have to 'keep watch.'"

He shook his head, "The doctor did mention it was a good idea to monitor the situation,"

"She only suggested it––" Truly, it was unfair when her back threatened to flare up. It did not help prove her point.

Charles gestured for her to join him on the sofa, "You were saying?"

She approached, but didn't take the proferred place. "And just how do you intend to 'monitor the situation?'"

"Right. I was thinking I would spend the night on the sofa and stay nearby, just in case something changes."

Her amusement grew. As did her concern. "That hardly sounds comfortable. Not to mention effective, given that you've work in the morning."

"I've already called off. There really is no place I'd rather be."

She gaped out of habit, but… she wasn't as surprised as she probably ought to have been. As it happened, today had changed things. It wasn't only his declarations. Cliché though it was, it had been his actions. Shrugging off his coat as though Blackpool in spring were pleasant. Staying by her side all day, all too willing to ignore any business calls in favour of getting answers about her condition.

It was vastly different from she'd come to expect.

She remembered those last few years, right before the engagement faded into nothing. It had been constant late-night calls on his landline, dates cancelled more often than not in favour of business meetings and functions. And then the Crawley family dangled the thought of a real promotion in front of him, on condition he prove his worth to them.

He had accepted the challenge without question, toiling away for over a year and illustrating what a true workaholic looked like. He spoke of life after this promotion, life where they could finally start making real wedding preparations and the likes. She had wanted to believe him, but after several years of being relegated to the backburner… it had been hard.

Maybe that was why she'd been so quick to take the word of Patrick Crawley. But whatever the reason had been, she now knew without a shadow of a doubt that it would be a mistake to keep believing that horrid man.

"Elsie?"

She turned back to Charles, swatting all her thoughts away. Enough worrying about what had been. He hadn't left her side once today and she didn't want him to. Couldn't that be enough?

Elsie took her place on the sofa, "Thank you. For taking tomorrow off, that is."

"Of course." As though nothing else would have sufficed. It made her want to cry. Why was he so steadfast in spite of her doubts? What had she done to deserve this? "Unless, that is, you'd rather I leave––"

"No!" She sighed at her declaration, unused to such histrionics. My, my. Today certainly had proven to be quite an adventure, hadn't it? If nothing else, it told her what she really wanted. "No. If I must be entirely honest, that is the last thing I'd like."

He was silent. She kept her gaze lowered, suddenly terribly unsure of herself. Their so-called promise for honesty aside, perhaps she'd pushed her luck by confessing this. Admitting she initially thought that guilt had been the sole reason he'd come back, denying her back pain, surely she had pushed too much of the truth into the open?

"And if I am to be entirely honest,"

Perhaps his words were more powerful than she thought. For she found herself drawn back to reality at the sound of them, his tone more than enough of a reassurance.

He continued, "It just so happens to also be the last thing I'd like."

She breathed out. More reassurances came to mind. How he'd only had a fondness for her these days, not regret. That he'd been willing to cancel what was undoubtedly an important business meeting just to understand what'd happened in the lobby. That he'd never once complained of spending time with either Allison or her. That he was willing to watch a children's film when he could have cited work as a reason to leave.

He kept quiet, placing this moment entirely in her hands.

She knew what to do.

"Well then," Elsie released another breath, reaching out. Her eyes threatened to let both grief and relief slide down her cheeks as the tips of her fingers reached him, the woman proclaiming, "I suppose that there's only one thing for it,"

It was his turn to hold his breath, his turn to become hesitant. If only because it all seemed too good to be true. "And that is?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay." She offered this tease with more confidence than she thought possible. Said confidence wavered, her eyes widening as he started to lean in. What if this was a mistake? What if they weren't supposed to indulge in this life together?

But what he was offering was something she'd desperately wanted.

To be entirely honest, it was something they'd both quietly craved for years.

Author's Note: Sometimes it takes a lot to break our perception of the world. It can take even more to recognize what reality looks like, to understand what we actually want out of things. And even though there'll still be moments where it's hard for Elsie to stay steady (she has lived in this perception for 13+ years, after all)... well, now it's his turn to hold her hand.

Once again, we could theoretically call it there. But we've spent so much time in angst land, I think we ought to afford to indulge in something kinder. Not to mention, you probably want to know what was officially said in the lobby (as well as what Charles's response will be).

Backstory Explanation: Although I'm sure you guessed it by now, Series 6 has inspired this story. In Series 6, it felt like Charles was almost always choosing the family over Elsie. Let's call you Mrs. Hughes. The family thinks this is the way our wedding should be. So on and so forth.

Yes, he changed the wedding venue (which was honestly nice), but I can't deny this: the constant battle between choosing her versus serving the family on top of the food shenanigans was rather demoralizing.

Now, take that demoralizing vibe, add even more time to it, and that is the set-up for this story.

Also, no joke, Patrick Crawley is apparently the name of Robert Crawley's father. I genuinely thought I was misreading it (because isn't Patrick Crawley supposed to also be the name of the late heir?), but it turns out that JF's proclivity for the same three first names has struck again. The only thing I changed is that this Patrick Crawley is the Ninth Earl of Grantham (a change brought about purely because this is a Modern AU).

In any case, as always, I hope you enjoyed this and that you have a lovely day! 'Till next time :)