Author's notes: Sorry it's taken me so long to update. I have been working on this little fic, but I'm pretty slow at making progress because I edit to high heaven!

Elsie's reflection straightened in the looking glass, running a steadying hand over her stomach and hips. She didn't usually have time to afford herself a second glance in the mornings – let alone an extra five minutes – but she had woken earlier than usual and had found herself strangely incapable of drifting back to sleep.

Today she was determined not to leave breakfast before he did. They had to get over this… little hiccup at some point and she preferred sooner rather than later – before anyone noticed that the Butler and Housekeeper had developed a sudden aversion to being in the same room. Yesterday Anna had arrived outside her sitting room bearing the wine ledger and a note from Mr. Carson, explaining his selections for the next month. Elsie had been… surprised; they usually went over the wine list together. It was one of her favourite monthly duties in fact, though perhaps duty was not quite the right word.

Mr Carson was an expert sommelier. He had no need for her uneducated palate or indeed a second opinion but towards the end of every month, just when the staff were starting to turn in for the night, he would invite her into his pantry and open a few small sample bottles for them to taste. He seemed to take great pleasure in describing the expected character, nose, and body of the wines – almost as much as she enjoyed their slow burn down to her stomach and the dark glow of his eyes in the dim light.

Anna had tactfully refrained from comment when handing over the wine ledger, but Elsie could tell that she was curious about this change of routine – something in the way the younger woman had looked at her out of the corner of her eye.

Elsie's hands dropped to her sides. Today would be different. Today she would be unflappable and things would get back to normal. It was the only possible outcome. Satisfied with her appearance Mrs Hughes left her room to start the day, tucking Elsie securely away in her secret heart.

She was one of the first to sit down for breakfast and that was the way she liked it. Being early gave her a chance to watch the younger staff members waiting impatiently for the table to fill up. Alfred was the worst, tapping out random patterns on his knees until James inevitably elbowed him in the ribs, initiating the footmen's early-morning squabble. Amusing as their little ritual was, Alfred had due cause to fidget. His growling stomach was audible from a distance of five seats.

The more experienced servants arrived just that little bit later, O'Brien, The Bates', and Mosley, knuckling sleep out of their eyes and trying to appear as wide eyed and bushy tailed as the younglings-

"Good morning," boomed a deep voice from the doorway.

With the scraping of a dozen chairs, the gathering stood. The footmen moved so fast they looked like they were about to sprain something. Mrs. Hughes smothered a smile. After a few moments adjusting his spoon's distance from his bowl Mr Carson took his seat, nodding his permission for the rest of the servants to follow. Daisy appeared at the head of the table, directing several kitchen maids as hot toast and porridge flowed down the ranks until everyone had something warm in front of them.

When the tea had finally been poured, steam lazily winding towards the ceiling, Mrs. Hughes took a deep breath and made her move.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson. I trust you slept well."

It wasn't a particularly original opening, but an opening nonetheless it was.

He took a long time to finish his mouthful of porridge. "Thank you, Mrs Hughes, I did."

Elsie noticed that he didn't quite look her in the eye when he said this. And was it just her imagination or was the man sitting further away from the table, further away from her, than was normal? She hurriedly distracted herself with a mouthful of toast, worried that she'd discover some other change in his behavior if she kept looking.

Of all the questions…! Charles fought the urge to pull at his collar (tight, suddenly much too tight about his neck), certain that any sign of discomfort would give him away. He had had an unusual night's rest – if you could call it that. After a lengthy session of tossing and turning, he had eventually dropped off, only to have the most inappro-

"Are the family expecting visitors today, Mr. Carson?"

Charles turned. To his left Mrs. O'Brien was viciously buttering a second round of toast and eyeing him warily.

"No one that has made themselves known."

"Good," she nodded. "Lady Grantham needs her rest."

"I dare say they all do," he responded, drizzling an extra teaspoon of honey onto his porridge. To his right, Mrs Hughes continued breakfasting in silence. He wondered what she was thinking. Usually they made conversation as they ate but he didn't know how to talk to her now, or what to say.

She should say something to break the odd silence hanging between them. He certainly wasn't going to do it. She'd seen the way he'd practically jumped out of his skin when Mrs O'Brien had asked him a simple question. So, ever the pragmatic, Mrs. Hughes drained her cup and tried again.

"I think there are more smiles this morning, don't you?"

Mr. Carson nodded, eyes fixed on his porridge. "Life marches on."

There was an awkward pause. Elsie fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth. "And how are the family? You see them more than I…"

"As can be expected."

"And yourself?"

"Fine."

She nodded, pulling away. He didn't want to talk. Perhaps he was embarrassed, or ashamed for letting her see beneath his livery, for crying in front of her. Returning her gaze to the table, she settled for pushing crumbs around her plate instead of chatting with her… friend? Colleague? She wasn't quite sure anymore.

After a few moments the bell to the Master Bedroom rang. Unusually, Mrs Crawly was ready before the men were down. O'Brien rose, cramming one last slice of toast into her mouth. Mrs. Hughes watched her leave in her peripheral vision, wishing she could let herself follow.

As Mrs O'Brien left, Charles allowed himself to cast a careful eye over Mrs Hughes. Something was wrong. He could see it in her lowered eyes, in the slight changes to her usually immaculate posture. Her shoulders had slumped – not enough to be of notice to anyone else, but enough to be picked up by someone who had spent most of his adult life documenting her movements. Something was definitely wrong. He wanted to talk to her, to lift her mood, but he felt too raw, too exposed, after their near… mishap in his pantry.

Perhaps there was another way.

She was picking pieces of invisible lint from her skirts when she heard it. Charles Carson – dignified Butler of Downton Abbey – was humming. Glancing around, Mrs Hughes could see that she wasn't the only person within earshot. On the other side of the table James and Alfred had paused in conversation, ears visibly straining to hear the low rumble. Thomas started tapping out a steady beat on his palm with a spoon. There was something familiar about the tune (something about a smoothing iron?) but she couldn't quite place it…

Sipping at a cup of tea long drunk, Mrs. Hughes willed herself to stay seated. But, oh, he was making it difficult for her, caressing the edge of his bowl with his thumb and humming in that low pitch. She bit her lip, toes curling against the bottom of her shoes. She needed to leave, right now, leave and run up all those flights of stairs to the attics, run until she was out of breath and couldn't think about the evening Lady Sybil had died and they had held hands. She didn't know why her brain was so fixated on that one small moment.

But she did.

Elsie couldn't remember the last time someone had touched her, skin to skin, for longer than a few hurried heartbeats. Lord Grantham had held her hand during their dance at the Servant's Ball, almost ten full months ago now, but she had been wearing gloves – worried that skin rough from a hard day's work would chafe against his Lordship's like sandpaper across silk. She had hugged Anna and Daisy recently of course, felt their smooth young cheeks brush against hers. James' fingers had nudged hers a few days ago when he had handed over a bunch of white lilies sent for the family by Sir Strallen.

That was it. She could count the number of indiscretions on one hand, keeping what Mr. Carson referred to when training new footmen as a 'dignified distance' between her and any other living creature. Sometimes she was convinced that Elsie had already faded away, that all that remained of her was the jangling of house keys and an empty black dress. And yet… Twenty minutes of touching another's hands, his hands, had reminded her that she was human, made of flesh and blood, hopes and dreams. Needs. Desires.

He had called her by Christian name.

Mrs. Hughes shifted uncomfortably. She needed to go, right now. She needed to make her excuses, get up, and find something particularly tiring to do. Scrubbing floors would do, though her knees would likely-

Another bell started ringing. The Morning Room. The men were down.

Thomas rose directly and proceeded to the kitchen to receive the last minute tray of hots. Swallowing one final spoonful of porridge, Mr. Carson stood to his feet.

"The forecast says the temperature won't reach double figures today," he announced, drawing the attention of the staff. Then, turning to look at her: "Perhaps when not in front of the family you might consider a shawl." And with that little titbit of advice, the butler of Downton Abbey turned smartly on his heel and left.

Elsie blinked. Consider a - ?! The Dowager Countess was seventy eight this year and she didn't wear a shawl…

"Don't worry," Mosley reassured, leaning towards her with porridge stuck to the side of his face. "I don't think Mr. Carson meant to suggest that you are getting on in- Ouch!"

Under the table, Anna retracted her foot. James choked on his tea.

"You are right, Mr. Mosley," Elsie heard herself reply, placing her cup back onto its saucer with care. "I'm sure he didn't mean to suggest anything of the sort."

Then, forcing a smile, she made her excuses and left.