A/N: And we've come to the end once again. Thank you so much for everyone who has stuck by this andfor all of your kind words and excitement about each universe. I hope you all had a fantastic Christmas and I wish you all a brilliant New Year.

One: Mrs Carson (née Hughes)

She put a tree up in their sitting room this morning. A small thing, branches bent at wild angles, needles falling out all over the place {she has swept the floor three times already today, she will be glad when the last of the presents are wrapped; with them stacked beneath the tree they should hide the little green piles from sight} and a crooked top she suspects will have their Angel looking a little tipsy when they place her there.

It is, she thinks, the best Christmas tree she has ever seen.

On the table beside the settee, she has cleared away his book and glasses, and spread out the colourful paper strips to make the chains for the ceiling. Little Lizzie Bates stayed with them while her parents took a trip into York for the weekend, and although some of the chains are a little twisted and there is a chance the glue was spread on more than just the paper {the carpet by the dresser for example}, neither she nor Mr Carson could have enjoyed creating the decorations half as much as they did with the curious little girl at their knees. {Lizzie Bates is the closest they'll have to a grandchild, she and Mr Carson the closest the wee thing will have to Grandparents. They perhaps spoil her more than they should when they see her.}

The chains are still to be hung, the unused paper to be put away until next year but for now the little table is full of colour and mess, a half finished glass of sweet blackcurrant juice standing somewhere in amongst it.

The fire in the grate crackles cheerfully, but low and soon they'll need another log if they want it to keep burning.

The fireplace hosts a spray of Christmas cards from family and friends; servants and the Granthams {he had looked so pleased of the one from Ladies Mary and Edith, His Lordship and Her Ladyship and the children but she had felt her heart jump when he placed it to one side, settled the card from Mrs Patmore on the mantle first. Even the one from Mr Barrow has a better position than the Grantham's, flung out at the far end and half-hidden behind a little wooden reindeer as it is}.

The air in the cottage smells of roast chicken {their dinner, eaten now and the dishes washed and cleared away} and spiced ginger {a Christmas treat she has promised him, a recipe she has learnt from Mrs Patmore; the gingerbread biscuits he never could get enough of each December}. It smells like Christmas to her, but beneath it she can pick out the pomade he puts in his hair, the after shave cologne he wears rarely, but that lingers pleasantly in a room when he does, and then it smells like home.

Between the cards a small clock chimes {a gift for their wedding from the Dowager - or for their retirement they can't be sure and feel it rude to ask}, ten o'clock and the downstairs rooms are empty tonight. Lizzie has left safely with her parents, her presents hidden in a case for 'Father Christmas' to deliver with the others three nights from now.

They still need to hang the paper chains, to unwrap the decorations from their boxes and place them about the tree.

There are still gifts to wrap, ribbons to tie. She has promised to take a bottle of Mrs Patmore's favourite up to her cottage tomorrow and she hasn't yet taken it from their modest collection. She must write a card for the paper boy tomorrow, he'll be by to collect payment and she wants to give him a little extra for his trouble {Mr Carson is never to know that he receives his paper before His Lordship, but she has always known how he read the headlines as he ironed it and she hated the thought that he would know these things second now to Mr Barrow, even if it will never come up}.

She'll need to give the banister a wipe down before they hang a chain from it {Mr Carson was a surprise with the paper, though she supposes she should have expected it; he is very good with his hands. They have chains enough to decorate their cottage and two more while they're at it, but it was a day filled with laughter and so she thinks it will be worth the grumbles she will hear each time Mr Carson walks into one of the chains}.

The light in his study is on; a rare occurrence as he is usually so careful to turn it off when he leaves. The door is open a little too, and if anyone were to peak inside, they would find paper and ribbon scattered over his desk, a pile of unwrapped gifts in her armchair. She has been forbidden from joining him in his study this week; where usually she sits with a book while he works on their accounts and those for the village council, this week she has taken to sitting beside the fire downstairs, a cup of tea at her elbow and a throw tucked up around her knees. She cannot wait until he has finished wrapping; it has only been a few months, but she finds she cannot concentrate as well alone as she does with his mutterings in her ear and the scrape of his pen against the books.

The pictures hung on the wall they picked up on their trip to London after they married, a honeymoon she supposes, 'though they never called it that outright. On their bedroom door he has hung two small plaques, gifts from Mr Branson and Miss Sybbie sent over from Boston.

Mr Carson
Butler

Mrs Carson
Housekeeper

But behind the door she isn't thinking about any of this. Not the bottle of sherry he opened for them to share that they haven't touched a drop of, not the scrap of chicken she meant to put out for the little cat she is quietly determined to coax into the cottage one day and not the list of things she must do before the week is out of they are to have a proper first Christmas together this year.

Instead, in the brief moments that she can think at all, it is of his hand against her neck, how soft his fingers feel against her skin as the slip down to her waist, brush across her stomach. How his mouth burns her, a trail of heat from her collar to her chest as he kisses her, a pattern to his actions her body is beginning to recognise, to prepare for.

How he still asks permission to touch her there, as though she would ever refuse him when he must be able to tell how she wants him.

{The first time he seemed as nervous as she was, his fingers shook as he reached for her, his breath bellowed out if him like steam from a train. But they had settled together, they'd time to take, no one to hurry them along and when they lay bare beside each other and he had reached to stroke a line from her shoulder to her hip, his hand had been as steady as anything.}

The night swallows their whispers, the promises he makes to her.

But her laughter, when it comes, is loud and bright and even though only they hear her response to him, he laughs too and so it must be good.

End.

through the years we all will be together
if the fates allow

If you're not bored with these universes yet, please keep an eye out. A few of them will be revisted in their own little stories soon.