This started out as a tumblr rambling about that forehead kiss, in which I imagined that her hands might be clasped uncomfortably at her waist. Then I decided it should be a ficlet instead. I hope you enjoy it. Xox
Two weeks they've been engaged and the only nod to their changed status is that she's begun bringing her paperwork to his pantry. They work after luncheon, she at his table and he at his desk, each glad for the quiet presence of the other. For years she's been vaguely aware that he makes little hums as he writes; now she hears it every day. It's both slightly annoying and completely endearing.
Sometimes he'll grumble quietly and she'll turn her head and smile at him. She thinks he doesn't see it.
Sometimes he feels like his heart might jump out of his chest when she looks at him like that. He never looks up until she's looked away again, back to her ledger where she can't see the tenderness in his gaze. He keeps his eyes on his own ledger to avoid doing something that might embarrass him or, heaven forbid, frighten her.
Because you see, they haven't managed to discuss it. Engaged to be married, yes, but at their age what does that even mean? They both sit alone and wonder. It's a marvel they get anything done at all.
She presses pen to paper and works through her stacks of bills. She sits up, unaware of his eyes on her as she rubs the back of her neck. She closes her eyes, irritated because rubbing one's own neck is always unsatisfying and yet she's never had anyone else do it and now she's trying not to imagine that it's his hands instead. She wonders if he'll ever hold her, whether he even wants to. He was so deeply moved when she accepted him, but in the weeks since then, he's never once touched her and she hasn't quite dared reach for him.
She tells herself that's absurd. She asks herself why she should feel uncertain now of all times, for heaven's sake.
And if he does hold her, she wonders if he'll speak and whether she'll be able to feel that big voice. She doesn't let herself think about the skin beneath the layers of clothing, nor does she venture a guess as to whether he might moan deep in his chest if he ever presses her body to his.
He buries himself in his figures to avoid the thought of burying his nose in her hair. He doesn't dare think of the way her cheek might feel against his lips, let alone the way she might press against him if they were ever to lie down together. They haven't even discussed their future living arrangements and here he is fretting about that.
He's learned that she sometimes gives little sighs as she works. He'd like to know why. Wildly, he wishes she weren't quite so good with numbers, so that she might ask for his help. He's imagined leaning over her with one hand on the back of her chair, running a finger down the neat columns, helping her find the mistake. Ah, but she doesn't need his help; it's silly to imagine it like that. And good god, he can't just go over there and lean in. What would she think? What would she say? He fears that she might shrink herself to avoid his touch. That this strong, lovely, exquisitely good woman might be repulsed by his advances. Wouldn't she? She probably would. Yes. Certainly she would. She deserves better than that. And so he does nothing.
She hears him release a long-held breath and dares look up at him.
"Mr Carson?"
Caught, he clears his throat.
This is so stupid, he tells himself, but that only makes it worse. Of course.
She's looking a bit concerned, so he gives a little dismissive wave. His voice doesn't make it through half of what he attempts to say.
"It's nothing."
Ah. This, she can deal with. She turns more fully to face him, tucking her chin under and telling him with her expression that she doesn't believe a word of it.
He fumbles a bit, held in place by her eyes.
"Er..."
She raises an eyebrow at him and waits. But he's not relaxing, the poor man, and now she stands up to approach him, to get a closer look. The notion that he might be as nervous as she is, about the same thing, flits through her mind and leaves again post-haste. Good riddance, she tells herself, because she's got work to do and all of this twitterpated nonsense will get her no closer to the freedom of their evening sherry after their honest day's work, nor to the well-earned sleep that comes almost as soon as her head hits the pillow.
...Usually.
It's been a bit difficult sleeping lately, but no matter.
He automatically stands in response to her movement, but he ends up retreating around the other side of his desk as she advances on him. He's narrowly escaped her this time but now he's sure he's about to fall apart anyway, because she's stopped by the corner of his desk and is clasping her hands together, looking nervous.
He stands there facing her, flexing his hands and trying to breathe.
When she speaks it's soft and full (do not think about her voice, Charlie, don't) and kind.
"Mr Carson, are you alright?"
"Ah, Mrs Hughes," he manages, trying to sound relaxed. As if the two of them chasing each other around his pantry were an everyday occurrence.
She takes a step toward him and he forces himself to stay where he is. She's looking at him expectantly now, no doubt wondering whether he's got more to say or if he's just going to say her name and then stand there looking like the fish they're having for dinner tonight. He saw it in the kitchen, a massive thing with bulbous eyes and a gaping, stupid maw, and that thought makes him shut his mouth and swallow hard.
She glances at the doors. For several reasons, none of which he is prepared to name, he thinks no, you must not do that. But she does it, damn it, how can she do this to him; she goes to the one that still stands open and she quickly and quietly closes it. She has to pass him to do it and he forces himself not to inhale as she goes by. He knows her scent as well as he knows anything and it would be most improper to make a fuss about it. She might hear it if he does and that brings consequences he can't afford to imagine — but he can't help catching a bit of it anyway as she glides past him and he closes his eyes (only for a second, only until he hears her coming back and then he snaps them open again, no need to frighten her with his very un-English longing).
She turns around and sees him standing there stiffly with his fists clenched at his sides. There's nothing for it but to go back to where she'd been standing, so she does, and he lets out the breath he'd been holding.
She stands there and they avoid each other's eyes.
He decides it's safe to look at her hands, then regrets the decision because she's holding so tightly that her knuckles are turning white and he's afraid. Dear god, if she is this nervous, where does that leave him?
He takes his courage in his hands, though, thinking maybe, just maybe he can actually help her. Her hands ...might be cold? It certainly doesn't look very comfortable, what she's doing. He's done that before too and it's not much fun clutching wine carafes until they leave dents in your fingers, but that was years ago when he was a silly young footman.
Grimacing, he uncurls his fingers. He didn't realize he'd been balling his fists at his sides. Absurdly, he looks down at his palms and sees the four angry half-moons he's pressed into them.
She sees him looking down at his hands and ventures a glance — yes indeed, there they are, those marks. She bites her lip and glances up at him. She knows he clenches his fists when he's nervous, but heavens, he must be in quite a state to do that to himself. She wants to kiss his palms and soothe those big lovely hands she longs to feel on her body — but she very quickly tamps that thought down. She can see him struggling and thinks she's fairly certain what this whole ridiculous dance is all about.
But before she can do anything to help them along, he gathers up his courage and lays a hand over hers that are clinging to one another at her waist. It feels terribly forward, especially when he hears her inhale sharply. Embarrassed, he pulls back, but she shakes her head.
"I've been wondering, Mr Carson..."
"Hmm?" He sounds both distracted and intense. It's strange to her. Is he flustered?
...well. Clearly he's flustered, but she's not entirely sure why. The possible reasons are all screaming in her mind but they mean such opposite things that it's impossible to sort it.
"I wonder..."
She trails off because he's staring at her lips. He looks tormented. She immediately changes her approach.
"Will you not tell me what's troubling you?"
Her question echoes through his head and he wants to deny it, turn away, and somehow gently banish her from his pantry. A horrid thought, he knows. It would be cruel.
He takes a shaky breath.
"It's just that I'm not certain what to do."
She watches him as he tries to control ... whatever it is.
"What to do?" she repeats, a gentle question in her voice. She's avoiding it, in a way. She's as nervous as he is. Maybe, she thinks. Almost. Poor dear.
But putting the question to him keeps the focus away from the confusion inside her, so she presses on. She knows it's not strictly fair, but there seems to be nothing else for it.
He drops his hand from hers; that touch seemed dangerously intimate. But that allows her to step closer and as that softness in her eyes does away with his last shred of resistance, he brings his hands up to cup her face. He feels so huge next to her — even more so now that he's touching her. His hands could span her whole head; his fingers could dig into her perfect hair (tidy, she'd said once and he will certainly not muss her hair. Not today, anyway, an impatient little voice whispers inside him, but he pushes it away.)
When he touches her face, her eyes go wide and she blinks rapidly as she absorbs the rush of sensation. She sways toward him, her eyes sliding closed. It's an invitation he can finally recognize and accept.
She is surprised to feel the tension in her jaw dissipating under the warmth of his hands. They're standing so close now, his body brushing against her hands that now finally loosen their grip on each other. He pulls her gently toward him. She tilts her head back and comes along willingly with a growing smile he can actually feel against the palms of his hands.
He closes his eyes with a tiny smile on his lips, and as he presses his lips to her forehead he can feel her relax against him. She presses closer and he lets himself do the same. He tries not to think about how close his forearms are to her chest. He doesn't dare curve his fingers against her hair.
They both linger there for a moment. When he pulls back and looks into her eyes, he sees two tears that have just spilled onto her cheeks. With his thumbs he wipes them away. He's astonished that she leans her cheek into his touch — and he gasps softly at the intimacy of it — but then, oh god, she's looking up at him, pulling away just enough to extract her hands from one another.
"Thank heaven," she breathes, giving him a brilliant smile.
She reaches up between them to put her arms around him. It's awkward but necessary; he bends down to hug her around the waist and for a moment they just stand together.
He turns to whisper in her ear — long-overdue words of love that make heat rush through her. She holds him tight and returns his words to him, quiet and insistent in his ear. Pulling back, she finds his cheek with her hand and seeks his lips with hers and they kiss — shy, sweet, and clumsy. They lean foreheads together and smile, embarrassed, holding their breath. Eventually they dare look at each other again — but only just. He asks permission with his eyes and she gives him a tiny nod and they kiss again, tender and demanding and promising, and some deity must be smiling on them because they are granted several minutes of this and they've already pulled apart and caught their breath by the time someone knocks on the bloody door.