A/N: Changing the rating to M for reasons. It's not too graphic, but it's just a little too adult now to be rated T.
The Next Step
Charlie held the reins in their marriage. There was no doubt about it. She recalled her own father being much the same; it was just the way of life: men taking charge, women following their orders. Most days she wished it wasn't, but there was little she could do about it. Dada was kind, though, keeping Mam company while she cooked or cleaned. Elsie remembered him praising her mother's skills in the kitchen, and always thanking her, and then God, for every meal they ate, then making sure Elsie and Becky did the same, especially when she attempted something new that wasn't quite up to par—he even helped her with the washing whenever Becky felt a bit overwhelmed by it all and needed her care. But her parents were young when they married, not quite youthful anymore once Elsie joined them, and then older than perhaps they should have been when Becky came along; their love had room for mistakes and time to grow. With Charlie, it seemed, each mistake meant—well, not quite the end, but they didn't exactly have their entire lives to figure it all out, did they?
She did not mind his controlling nature in the bedroom, however. Perhaps if she were a little more experienced in that area, she would—Charlie himself had said he was no expert either, though he certainly knew more about loving Elsie than she knew about loving him in that way. In truth, he surprised her with his passion. Else never felt more loved by him than when he was on top of her, face red and panting, whispering incoherent declarations of love for her. She had never known Mr. Carson to be so alluring, so vulnerable before. They had spent their first few weeks in the cottage much like they had spent it in Scarborough: tangled together in soft sheets, skin to skin, with his body over hers. But he had done something quite different their first night back. She thought something might have been wrong, the way he had stopped when her legs opened for him, almost hesitating, to examine her, like Dr. Clarkson might. But then he leaned down and his tongue licked her entrance instead of her lips. He was rough and sloppy at first, and she had to ask him to slow down a bit, but eventually it made her eyes roll back and her hips buck forward. He tasted sour afterwards, her odor lingering on his tongue, but he did not complain, nor did he show any signs of discomfort with it; only desire shone in his eyes. He had done it several times since—acting less and less like the dignified Butler each time—but never did he indicate he might want Elsie to do the same for him. Once, afterwards, she thought he might have been moving up towards her, but he had settled between her legs instead and the thought faded. She would have done it. She would have pleased him if he told her to, if he showed her how, her own embarrassment be damned.
Mrs. Patmore thought herself a great help among their pesky marital troubles. Perhaps she was, in her own quirky way. She suggested Elsie abstain from sex entirely, not just those moments he became too unbearable. She was too ashamed to admit to her dear friend how little power she felt she had in the bedroom. Not just because he was the one always in control—always the one on top, always the one initiating things—but also because she liked being with him too much to stay away. She enjoyed sex more than she thought she would, more than she was willing to admit to Mrs. Patmore, and to refrain from it entirely seemed silly at her age.
And then Mrs. Patmore suggested Elsie force him to do the work, which seemed cruel in the moment. She went along with it because she wanted him to understand how hard it was for a woman—a woman her age and status, mind—to maintain a home, and a small part of her did want to punish him for all his gripe those last few weeks. He cooked and cleaned, did everything Elsie had been doing—very clumsily, she might add—with very little complaining on both ends. She understood he wouldn't be the best, and hoped that empathy would transfer some to him. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow that night, poor thing, and he still had more to do the next morning. Still, part of her felt guilty for lying and she had made a miraculous recovery by the next evening. His punishment, as Mrs. Patmore called it, made him more understanding, but not quite entirely. He still seemed to think a woman should know better. But sometimes he would start to say something to her or clear his throat, think better of it when he saw her face, or her scowl, and move on.
The shift, however, remained ever so present in his demeanor. She would catch glimpses of it, of him acting not quite himself, always when they were alone. Sometimes he would hold onto her extra tightly. Sometimes he wouldn't hold her at all. It always happened in the moments of thought when silence and sleep loomed around them. She knew she loved him; that wasn't the issue, she was sure. And the moment would quickly fade before she could even think to say anything about it, and he would return to himself. Return to being her Charlie, acting as if he hadn't just forgotten himself for a moment.
