A/N: Thanks to YOU ALL who made your wishes know about the "M" stuff. Clearly, there was a rousing (see what I did there?) response in one particular direction, and I aim to please. Anyway, with respects to some of the more eye-rolling and/or OOC plot devices used in Season 6, I've decided to begin addressing Elsie's paralyzing embarrassment over the sexual aspects of her impending marriage in the next few chapters. I don't know if I feel that her embarrassment is OOC, per se; I DO feel that the HUGE time jump (3 months or so, I think?) between the proposal and the start of Season 6 is VERY unrealistic, in that they WOULD HAVE AND SHOULD HAVE had the "sex talk" much sooner, even if was through Patmore at first.

And, in exploring these in-canon actions and feelings, I've made a definitive choice in this chapter, and the next: the first time with see C&H kiss on-screen is NOT their first kiss. It's their second (and what that "second" kiss means will be delved into as well a few chapters from now). ~ CeeCee

January Embers

Charles stood just outside the grand front door of Downton with Andrew and Mr. Molesley as two cars pulled away down the drive: one, carrying Lady Edith, on her way to London and Lady Rosamund for several weeks, and her sister and parents gone only for the day to visit with Mrs. Crawley and the Dowager.

"That's them settled for the day through dinnertime, and Lady Edith until mid-February, Mr. Carson?"

"Correct, Mr. Molesley," he responded as they went back inside. It was one of those biting, winding grey days that settled on one's bones and stayed there. "It should be rather quiet here today, certainly, at the very least, especially given that Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie are gone." He wouldn't mourn Tom Branson, per se, though he grudgingly respected and liked the man, but he would miss his daughter, who reminded him so much of her mother's bright, kind soul.

"She's a sweet tyke, isn't she, Miss Sybbie?" Andrew piped in, smiling. "I'd like to have a handful of my own, someday, give 'em the best, things I never had," he continued.

"Speaking of which, Mr. Carson, is it still alright for me to take Daisy for a few hours to study?" Mr. Molesley asked as they went down the stairs. "Andrew has kindly offered to take care of everything that needs attention this afternoon."

"Not at all, Mr. Molesley," he responded, "Mrs. Patmore has the day off, so Daisy will have to prepare the servants' tea, but you two can use the servants' hall until then."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson, that's very good of you," Mr. Molesley replied, but, while he didn't object, Charles' acquiescence wasn't purely altruistic. His generosity stemmed from a growing certainty that this afternoon very well might allow him to spend more than five interrupted minutes with Downton's housekeeper. Through a combination of good timing, a fair amount of luck, and, of course, what he was best at – finessed planning – the family of the house, save for Master George and Miss Marigold, were gone until at least after dinner time, and most of the staff were off or busy with time-consuming tasks that didn't require his or Mrs. Hughes' assistance.

He bid farewell to the footmen and went into the kitchen, where Daisy was hovering over a small tray laden with edibles and potables.

"Ah, Daisy, thank you very much, especially given that Mrs. Patmore's not here today," he looked down at the platter and noticed the sandwiches had been cut into hearts. He glanced back up at her, wavering between being annoyed and touched. He settled for raising an eyebrow at her and saying, "It looks quite nice, thank you."

"'Twasn't a problem a'tall, Mr. Carson. Was a nice idea to make a tray up for Mrs. Hughes, special-like," she smiled down at her handiwork. "It's all rather romantic, isn't it?" She turned her smile on him.

"Well, I am sure," he replied, noncommittally. "Off you go now, Mr. Molesley is waiting for you in the servants' hall to go over your studies together."

The cooking assistant left with another grin and nod, and he looked back down at the tray. Heart sandwiches, he thought, and, because no one was around to see him, he grinned broadly at them.

oooOOOooo

He rapped on her door and went in, proceeded by the laden-down tray. Her head was bent over her ledgers, and the swirls of her pinned-up hair sent swirls through him, in all different directions. That…part of things…well, if he started thinking on it, he'd never get a day's work done until his wedding night; his brain and body would be in utter tumult.

"Good morning," he said as he shut the door.

"Aye, to you too. I'll not be long, just finishing up some numbers," Elsie didn't look up, and continued writing, and he just enjoyed watching her, at an everyday task, unobserved.

When he had loved Alice, it had been a love borne out of physical attraction and infatuation, at first. There was certainly nothing wrong with that, it was the way of the young. But Charles Carson wasn't a young man anymore. And the desire he felt for the woman sitting unassumingly before him, calculating sums, was something more complicated. He wanted her, oh yes. But it wasn't that simple rush of desire anymore, was it? Or rather, it wasn't only that rush of desire. After so many years, decades, building step by step, layer by layer, professional respect, then personal admiration, then friendly camaraderie, then lasting friendship, then deep love, always with an undercurrent of wanting, of yearning for physical closeness.

He, a man who lived by rules, by propriety, wanted so desperately to sweep her into his arms and lavish her face and neck with kisses. There was just…so much ground to cover. Both of them, living their tidily, asexual, proper existence for so long.

It would take time. It would take patience. Oh, yes, he wanted her; but the feeling must be requited.

However…a man could hope for a kiss from his betrothed, could he not? He fervently hoped so. Chances like this, a day like this, didn't reveal themselves too often, not without a lot of luck and perseverance.

She finally put her pen down, closed her ledger. Looked up at him, her eyes widening. "My, my, how lovely. Is that all for us?"

"Indeed it is, thought I am afraid Daisy went a bit beyond my specifications without Mrs. Patmore's guiding hand," he set the tray on her desk and began laying things out at her side table. "She and Mr. Molesley have taken over most of the table in the servants' hall for her scholastic endeavors until the servants' tea later this afternoon."

"Well, that was kind of you, and of her," she rose from her chair and stood next to him, waiting for her tea. She was very close, or at least it felt that way to him. He felt every movement each of them made in excruciating, wonderful detail.

He breathed a little easier once they were seated across from each other. This was a distance he could handle; he'd sat across from her dozens and dozens of time over the years, probably hundreds.

She took a sip of her tea; then her eye caught on the sandwiches Daisy had prepared and he saw her choke back laughter. "I suppose this is what you meant by her 'going beyond your specifications'"?" She held the small heart up, then bit into it.

"She claimed it was 'romantic,'" he replied, raising his eyebrow at her. He only wished he could settle himself better. His heart was racing, every smile, every glance, sent zipping lines of heat and light through his entire body. It was wonderful; it was terribly distracting, however.

"Aye, I suppose it is, at that," she finished her heart, wiped her mouth with a napkin. "As was orchestrating a nearly work-free day for the two of us, without ever having to leave Downton." At this she flushed, her cheeks going pink. This wasn't helping his cause; he could hardly sit still for what she was doing to him unknowingly.

"I suppose the pair of us are entitled to a few hours without constant running around or rapping on one of our doors," he replied, and he stood, completely full of pent-up energy, walked over to where she had a few family pictures displayed. He thought she would speak, but she didn't. And though his back was to her, he felt that string, up under his chest, the string Charlotte Bronte had written about, connecting two people in love, as he always did these days. Going about the day's business, he would often wonder where she was, and his heart's string would pull tight, trying to locate her.

His eyes caught one photo, that of a woman of about fifty. Though she was well into middle age, she wore her hair pulled up at the sides, with the rest flowing down her back, like a young girl. Her face was all innocence, her slightly crossed eyes free of guile. Freckles dotted her broad nose.

"That's Becky," Elsie said softly, and he started a little. She had quietly come to his side, took the picture down from its place. She smiled at it in a way that broke his heart, and made him ashamed of himself all over again. She placed the picture down and went back to the table. He sat across from her, considering, then said,

"Tell me about her," he said, nearly in a whisper.

She gasped, and he saw tears in her eyes. She swiped them away and reached her hand across the table towards him. He grabbed it in both of his, and he could feel her pulse racing. He wasn't the only unsure, nervous person in this room.

And she began speaking slowly, as her pulse quieted, slowly, telling him about the girl she had been and the baby that had come so late in her parents' lives, and had shown up wrong. She spoke of how much she loved her sister, but with the love also came the burden of her. And then she smiled and laughed, remembering the joys of being around someone so eternally innocent and child-like. Her words finally tapered off and she reached her other hand out, placed in on the pile they had created.

"Now it's your turn. Tell me about Alice." He jumped a little at the request, unsure of how to proceed.

"Don't worry, Mr. Carson, I'm not jealous of Alice," her eyes twinkled. "I like to think of we two as the only members of an exclusive club."

He paused, then began. "I first saw Alice in profile, her face lit by a stage lamp, her lace collar glittering at her neck. I was done for," he thought she would dislike him speaking of another woman, but her face was warm and interested. And so he kept talking, even telling her a little of the friendship he shared with Charlie Grigg, something he almost always felt should be left in the past.

They both kept speaking and listening, and a true miracle occurred: no one interrupted them. He wasn't sure he'd ever had a private conversation with her that was remotely as long as this one. He was almost dizzy on the abundance of it.

But time ran out, as it always does. He had come here in the hopes of physical confirmation of his fiancé's affection for him, and they had whiled away the time talking. Where had the time gone? She stood, clearing their dishes and cups, tidying the tray that Daisy had made for them.

"I suppose that's it then, our day off," once again, she wasn't looking at him, but focused on her task, and he was, once again, flooded with desire. "I must thank you, Mr. Carson, for such a lovely –"

"Elsie," he breathed. It felt good to call her by her name again, after all of these years.

He heard her breath catch, and she slowly turned to him. She looked up at him. "Charlie."

Oh, to hear his name on her lips. "I would like to kiss you, if I may?"

She was still looking up at him, and her face was absolutely still. He wasn't sure she was ever going to answer him, and worried that he'd offended her, ruined the lovely time they had spent today. But then, she stepped towards him, just a little.

"Yes, you may," her voice was barely audible. He stepped closer to her, realizing their bodies were nearly touching. He placed his hand on her cheek, and it was soft, so soft. She leaned her head a little into his palm, and he could feel her racing pulse in her neck. His own heart raced in time with hers.

He leaned forward and oh, so gently, placed his lips on hers. At first it was nearly like kissing a statue: she was so tense and taut, made of stone. He nearly backed away, but then: she completely softened under his hand, his mouth. Her hand found his lapel, clutched at it. He sighed, and so did she.

When they broke apart, he folded her into his arms, stroked the swirls of her hairdo, placed his cheek on her head, and enjoyed a few more interrupted moments, just they two.