A/N: All of you lovely, lovely readers. I am SO glad you enjoyed the wedding + honeymoon chapters, as much as I loved writing them. This next chapter picks up at the tail end of the show's run. I hemmed and hawed about including a chapter upon their return to Downton, but much of what was given to us in the show regarding their initial cohabitation was rather silly, in my humble opinion, and not very fair to the characters at all, excepting the Christmas Special, which is why I am picking up basically where the final scene leaves off.

I know you want to get to the story, and I am getting to it; bear with me, if you will. (Or, heck, skip my blathering and read the story, ahahahaha). I have ALWAYS felt that one of the characters that has wonderful, intricate potential who was flattened into a paper villain was Thomas. It was a bit too little, too late, waaaaay too rushed, but there was a bit of redemption for him in the end (both literally and in the development of the character). One of the things I've been thinking about as I write this is that once Charles retires, Elsie and Thomas will mirror the ages of Mrs. Davis and Charles at the beginning of my story. It's an interesting parallel I hope to explore a bit. Carson gets a visit from Mary, as well, but never fear - Chelsie is together at the end of the chapter, as we want them to be.

~CeeCee

In the early hours of 1926

She was tired, her heart was sore - as were her feet, frankly, from all of the running around the day had brought. But her heart was also grateful to be here, ringing in the New Year. Her life, Charlie's life, their life was going to change drastically in the next few months, again. Before they'd even gotten to celebrate their first wedding anniversary, but they would manage, together.

After she'd sung, he'd kissed her briefly again, and with a long look, moved away to socialize with the others, reassure them and himself that he was just fine, thank you very much. She knew his sorrow would unspool over the following days and weeks, the farewell he would make to his life's work, and, for many years, his life's purpose. He loved Downton in ways she never had; much of his self-worth was tied to his identity as the butler of this house and to his devotion to the Crawley family. She would have to remind him of how much more he was, and that the value of what he had done here wasn't erased the minute he left.

Aye, but the world really was changing, faster and faster, with each passing day. She looked around the servants' hall from her corner, and studied who was most important to her: the people she spent every day with, or nearly so. Daisy, whom she had worried would live her life in a perpetual girlhood, had taken a leap: she looked like a young starlet, chatting with Andy, not shying away as she'd done with other suitors who showed her any interest since William had died, finding ways to doggedly educate herself, or with the help of others, lapping up knowledge thirstily.

And watching Charlie chat with Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley, who was gaining confidence every time she saw him, Elsie wondered just how many weddings she might be attending in the New Year. Love is in the air, it seems. Or maybe, it's love AND change, together. Change making love possible for more people. She saw Mr. Mason and Beryl Patmore in deep conversation, observed Daisy grinning at them. Beryl caught Elsie looking, grew pink and then toasted her glass up at Elsie with a quick wink. Elsie grinned at her friend, returned the toast.

She thought of the wee Bates baby, so longed for, already so loved, on the first night of his life, hopefully slumbering peacefully in his mother's arms, in Lady Mary's grand bedroom above them. That sweet bairn had been born into a changing, exciting world. One moving from what they all knew into something new, different.

"Care for a little more, Mrs. Hughes?" Thomas was at her elbow and she turned to him. Now that things had settled down a little, she could see that the younger man was pale and tired-looking, as if he'd spent his time away from Downton in a sleepless daze. He was such a mass of contradictions: spiteful, troublesome and vindictive; and yet he looked at her now, with such hesitance and a desire to please. She remembered the day he left, when he was saying good-bye to the children. This man had a heart; he'd just wrapped so many barbs and thorns around it, you'd be sliced to ribbons trying to get to it.

Maybe he understood that now.

Maybe she could help him. She wanted to. She thought of all of the limitations she had on her life, for most of her life, as a woman, as a person without means. All of the things she could never do, or have. But she could, did have love, of all sorts, and a husband who held her close every night. Thomas couldn't have the latter, not really, not in the world as it was. He needed all of the understanding and care she could muster.

"Aye, yes please, Thomas - Mr. Barrow," she replied. "I don't know why I said that; you've been Mr. Barrow for some time now."

"That's quite alright, Mrs. Hughes. You called me by my Christian name for years, you did. It's rather a nice reminder of how long we've known each other," he smiled, so uncertain, waiting for her to respond scathingly, perhaps bitterly, to the man who'd stepped into her husband's position in the space of a conversation.

"We have, at that. Ye've learned a lot in those years, I'd like to think," she smiled gently at him, took the wine bottle. "You've worked very hard this evening, Mr. Barrow, on a night that you were supposed to be a guest. I'm grateful, and so is Mr. Carson." They both looked over at the man in question for a moment, then turned back to each other. She picked up an empty glass from the table, filled it, passed it to him. He took it, looking a bit nonplussed.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," he was visibly struggling to continue, and she put her hand on his arm.

"It's alright, Mr. Barrow. It's alright to be glad that you're back here, as it's where you belong. Your happiness doesn't change Mr. Carson's illness, or the facts of the matter. He'd have to...he'd have to step down, regardless," she could feel the tears burning the back of her eyes, her throat. Burning there for Charlie, for what he was losing, but she pressed on. "He's not glad to be going, but, mind me, I know he'll feel secure in the fact that someone who loves and knows Downton, as he does, will be taking his place."

She could see him fighting his own tears, and she knew they were tears of relief. He was a man who thought he'd run clear of chances, of anything resembling happiness. And then, in minutes, he was handed it again. And she was telling him it was alright, to be happy. Or at least trying to be.

Thomas looked down at his hands, then back up at her. A single tear had escaped, and was rolling down his cheek. He swiped at it, and a small smile appeared on his face.

"You're a good woman, Mrs. Hughes," he started, and she was reminded of when William Mason, dear, sweet, earnest William, had told her the same, solidifying her decision to stay at Downton, rather than take Joe Burns up on his renewed offer of marriage. "You're fair, but you take the time to try and understand us all, even when we don't understand ourselves."

She smiled a little at him in response, and they stood there for a moment without speaking. Her heart was still so very sad, but she now could see some good in the situation as well. The young man standing beside her had been so desolate, so alone, this summer, he'd tried to take his own life. Now, he was trying to take it back. It would be a challenge; he would have to open himself up to people, to kindness, to resolving conflicts with care and humanity. She hoped he could. She thought he could.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr. Barrow?"

"Will...will you help me? Once Mr. Carson is gone, for the most part, will you help me get it right?"

Her heart clenched. "Aye, Mr. Barrow, I will. Even though I don't get it right meself, sometimes. And keep in mind I asked Mr. Carson the same favor over thirty years ago, and look where it got us." She turned to Thomas, grinning, holding back laughter.

Now Downton's new butler really did smile at her, a genuine smile, and it changed his face entirely. "Well, Mrs. Hughes, I believe that, for a variety of reasons, we'll not repeat history on that particular point." And now she did laugh, and so did he.

"Happy New Year, Mrs. Hughes."

"Happy New Year, Mr. Barrow. And congratulations."

oooOOOooo

He looked across the servants' hall at Elsie, deep in conversation with Thomas Barrow. He searched inside of himself, trying to figure out how he felt about the man that would now replace him. He decided that it was appropriate to feel a little resentful of any man taking his place; no one could love Downton or the Crawleys, no one knew this house or the family the way that he did – how could he? But Thomas had shown, against all odds and despite personal quirks that made him, Charles, uncomfortable, how dedicated and attached he was to Downton as well. Not in the same way he was, but perhaps that was alright…the world was changing and so was the role of the butler of a grand house, whether he liked it or not.

He wasn't pleased to be passing Downton off to anyone, but he took some comfort that the younger man was deeply invested here, in the way someone new wouldn't be. And, if he was honest with himself, someone whom he had influence over, as he did with Thomas. As he watched, Elsie took the wine bottle from the younger man, poured him a glass. The man looked worried and tired, almost sick. Then his wife placed her hand on his sleeve, spoke briefly, and Thomas' face suddenly relaxed. They exchanged a few words and then they were both laughing.

How does she do it? He was nearly overwhelmed with love for his wife in this moment, with her ability to find the right thing to make someone feel safe, and understood. Even as she made it clear she'd brook no nonsense, thank you very much. She and Thomas had been joined by Daisy and Andy, and she glanced away from the younger folks' conversation to find him. She must have seen what he was feeling on his face, as she so often could, and responded with merely a look from across the room: her love, her concern, her understanding that this would not be easy for him, her own relief at the solution his lordship and Lady Mary had come to.

He'd hid the palsy from her for so long, too long, he now realized, but it was so wrapped up in shame and frustration and fear of getting old, he didn't want to admit it to himself, let alone his very new wife. This feeling of being obsolete. But now he understood none of those things really mattered to at least one person in the room, and he was endlessly grateful of that fact.

He had just turned back to the conversation with Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley, when Lady Mary appeared in the doorway, looking even more radiant than usual. She immediately quelled any offers of anything, and merely announced,

"I simply came down here again to wish you all a very Happy New Year, and to escort someone else down who certainly deserves a toast," and she turned and pulled John Bates into the room. The man looked tired and pleased and embarrassed all at once. There were cheers and shouts of congratulations.

"Thank you, m'lady," he smiled again as someone pressed a drink into his hand. "I'll not linger long, but Anna shooed me out of the room for a bit. Said I needed to stretch my legs a little."

"Does the wee bairn have a name, Mr. Bates?" Elsie walked up to him, kissed his cheek.

"That he does," John Bates grinned, and his face crinkled with happiness. "William John, he'll be."

"A fine name," Charles piped up. "To William John Bates!" And everyone else echoed his sentiment. He suddenly realized Lady Mary was at his side.

"Carson, might I see you in the hallway?" He looked down at her. She looked rather fragile, very unlike her usual self.

"Of course, m'lady," he left the servants' hall, feeling the weight of Elsie's gaze on the way out, her curiosity and concern.

"What can I do for you, m'lady?" He looked down at her, remembering her as a little girl, as a confident and beautiful young woman, resistant to any plans that would be made on her behalf, without her input. He remembered how soft she became once she allowed herself to love Matthew Crawley, and how destroyed she was by his death. How unsure she had seemed, and he for her, that she would ever find another husband worthy of her. Henry Talbot, car manufacturer and former race car driver, was about as far from what he's envisioned for the lady beside him, but even he could see how well-suited they were: she was softening again, and more people could see what he'd always seen in her.

He continued, "I know that this night has been peppered with inconveniences – the baby, and this…this…"he held up his shaking hand, utterly embarrassed and frustrated and angered.

"Nonsense," she replied smoothly. "I've seen Edith happily married today, which is a miracle in and of itself. Anna has the baby's she's been so longing for…and, and, my dear champion, Papa has found a solution to the problem of who will replace you – as if anyone really could – that makes everyone feel as best as they can in the circumstances."

She lifted her eyebrow, paused for a moment. "I also wanted to share one last piece of good news with you, before someone else does," she smiled, and her cheeks grew pink. "Baby Talbot will be in the nursery before summertime."

"That is wonderful news, m'lady, congratulations. I am truly delighted for you and Mr. Talbot," he was, and he could see how pleased she was, truly happy. It did his heart good.

"So, you see Carson, we'll need you here, helping Barrow out," she spoke lightly, but he swore he saw tears shining in her eyes. "We'll be hosting a grand christening and lawn party, and he'll need your guidance on how to do things properly."

Something in him softened and loosened, and he nearly began weeping. Lady Mary Talbot, composed and often aloof, was endeavoring to remind him of his value. And reassure herself that he wasn't going anywhere, not really.

oooOOOooo

It was late, and they were both very tired. They walked back to the cottage in near silence, in the wee hours of the morning. She didn't want to push him to speak, but she took his right hand, the traitorous one, and squeezed it gently in the near-dark. Clouds scuttled overhead, the midwinter stars gleaming down on them with their cold blue light.

Before they had left the celebration in the servants' hall, Thomas had assured her he would handle anything that needed handling in the morning, along with Mrs. Patmore, Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter, suggesting they take their time coming to work on New Year's Day, which notoriously had a late start most years, and would certainly after last night's revelry.

It was all too much to take in properly, this late, but she ached to reassure Charlie that things would be alright; not exactly as he had wanted, but that life still had opportunities and industriousness, and that Thomas taking over at Downton allowed him to still be a part of it all.

They started readying themselves for bed; there was an easy, comfortable routine of it, after a half a year of marriage. It was hard to believe, sometimes, she had lived any other way, and there was a dearness to these daily rituals, these mundane intimacies, that warmed her, made her feel complete. She was unpinning and brushing her hair when she heard a mournful sound behind her.

She turned from her vanity and saw him sitting in the chair by their bedroom window, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Her big, strong, proper, reserved, polished husband was sobbing like his heart would break. She walked over and placed her hands on his head, and he pulled her into his lap, buried his face in her neck.

That's it, my dear, let it all out, she thought, but didn't speak out loud. Sometimes, words were unnecessary; detrimental, even. There was nothing she could say to take this sadness away from him; she could only be here with him, to share it. He held her tightly around her waist, and finally looked up at her. She gently reached down and brushed the tears off his face, then bent and softly began kissing where they had dampened his cheeks. She felt him relax, then sigh.

His shaking hand alit in her hair, like a butterfly unsure of a flower's potency. She leaned into it, and he pulled her towards him, kissing her. He stood with her in his arms again, as he had on their wedding night, and she relished in his strength, in the proof of it, for her, and for him. He set her on top of the comforter, and she pulled him on top of her, the welcome, familiar weight of him, and let all of the things she had, beyond words, beyond logic or practicality, remind him of who he was and always would be: Charles Carson, much loved, always cherished, by her.