A/N: A little M language in this chapter. Someone had a bad day.
August 1990
She fiddled with the dial, trying to catch the news report. She didn't register driving the rest of the way home until she was in the apartment lot complex. She shut the engine off, but continued listening until the news was over and a commercial began.
Sending troops to the Persian Gulf? What is the world coming to?
She got out of the car and headed up the sidewalk, her mind full of wars and politicians, and stupidity. A horrible end to another trying week. She knew in the grand scheme of things the threat of war superseded office politics and stubborn bosses, but until Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, she had never heard of the country. She wished she could say the same for Mary Crawley. Mr. Carson had caught her that week saying something less than stellar about the blessed child to Mrs. Patmore, and publicly called her out on it. It opened an old wound again.
When she unlocked the front door the stench of a backlogged toilet hit her full in the face. She forgot everything else.
"Damn!" she cried, throwing her purse onto the couch and running into the bathroom. Water on the floor. Not again. This place is a broken down piece of-
The phone rang. Swearing, she splashed out of the bathroom and grabbed it from the wall.
"Hello? Elsie? I had to stay a bit late at work, but I'll be leaving in a few minutes. Meet you at the restaurant?" On an ordinary Friday night, Beryl's voice would be welcome.
"I don't think I can make it," she snapped, stretching the phone cord around the corner, back to the bathroom. "My toilet's backed up again, I need to call maintenance-"
"Again?" Beryl asked, indignation in her voice. "Els, you need to move out of there! The landlord's a lazy arse, maintenance doesn't do their job, and I don't think your upstairs neighbor smokes tobacco, if you know what I mean!"
"Yes, well, I'm working on that. But at the moment-"
"Don't you dare back out of dinner! You'll need a proper drink after the week you've had! Call maintenance, then come meet me. See you there." Beryl hung up.
More like the summer I've had. Elsie huffed for a moment, hung the phone up, then called maintenance. She rolled her eyes when Alan said he'd be over in half an hour. She waited forty-five minutes, then left to meet Beryl, her temper in full force.
"Thank God for half-priced drinks," she said as she finished her fourth-or was it her fifth? Budweiser. "Trying to save for a down payment is no fun. At. All."
"You've done well," Beryl said, nursing her drink. "You've got more discipline than most people."
"Fuck discipline," Elsie growled. "Fuck down payments. And landlords. And shitty plumbing."
"You know that's what it's for, right?" Beryl asked, pretending to be in pain when Elsie elbowed her. They turned when the DJ in the corner started playing the music.
"They have dancing here?" Elsie asked, her voice raised.
"Yeah," Beryl called. "On Friday nights, that's why I wanted to get a table early, they clear part of the room for the dance floor."
"I used to like to dance," Elsie said. "It's all techno now, though, and boy bands who can't sing."
"The good thing about music today, though, is you don't need someone to dance with," Beryl said, knocking back the rest of her drink. "While we're waiting for our food, I might as well have fun." She got up and tilted her head at the growing crowd on the floor. "Want to come?"
Elsie shook her head. "I'll need more liquid courage before I get out there. And motivation. If you see any good-looking men, wave me over." Beryl laughed.
"I'll do that, if there's more than one." She joined the group and within five minutes was dancing with Jos Tufton. Elsie shook her head, mouthing at her friend. Be careful.
She polished off her drink and ordered another, this time whiskey. She hadn't indulged like this in years, but the circumstances seemed to warrant it.
Ever since she'd had the run-in with Robert Crawley's hellion daughter, the air seemed to be strained with Mr. Carson. Oh, he had apologized. But what she couldn't get over was the way he'd immediately believed that lying child over her. She knew she should let it go, but it stayed under her skin, like an old scab that itched. She sipped the whiskey, relishing the burn in her throat.
She glanced at the dance floor and stood up. She felt more limber, as though the weight of her burdens was finally dissipating. She knew it was most likely the alcohol, but she didn't care. She enjoyed the sensation of dancing again. She twirled toward the middle of the crowd, finding it impossible to move without accidently bumping into others. She was moving in a small corner when someone solid knocked into her, making her fall. She pulled her hair out of her face and took his hand to help her up.
"I'm so sorry," he bellowed over the heavy beat. "I didn't see you-"
She dropped his hand as though it burned her. Of all the places to meet Mr. Carson, in the middle of the dance floor while Janet Jackson's "Escapade" blared was the last place she expected. From his expression, he felt the same.
"I didn't know you danced," she finally yelled after they'd stood frozen for several seconds. How had she worked for him for months without realizing how tall he was? And broad. His black hair carried a few grays, and it was very tempting to reach up and touch it. Leave it, Elsie. You're drunk. So he's good-looking. He's also your boss.
You don't want to lose your job, do you?
"I don't. Not to this music. I was just looking for an empty table and took a shortcut." The music ended abruptly before he finished speaking, making his usually booming voice even louder.
"Why don't you sit with us?" she asked, glad to speak in a more regular volume. She pointed toward her table. It wouldn't hurt to be friendly.
He stared at her. She sounded as though she had had a few drinks already. He had never heard her accent so pronounced, or maybe it had always been like that and he never noticed. He did not expect such friendliness from her, not after the way he'd behaved earlier in the summer. "I don't want to disturb your evening," he said, looking desperately around the room for an empty table. He couldn't see one.
"Nonsense, it's just me and Beryl," she lead him to a seat, stumbling against a chair. "Here you go."
He failed miserably keeping his eyesight from lingering on her fitted skirt. He sat down, relieved when a waitress asked him what he wanted to drink. Beryl joined them a few minutes later, red-faced. She blinked rapidly when she saw him sitting there.
"Well, Charlie, this is a surprise!" She punched him on the arm. "I thought you'd rather endure the Black Death before coming here on a Friday night!"
She was already fairly well gone, but he'd seen worse. He shrugged. "I was looking for a change of pace, I guess," He wouldn't admit it, but he had completely forgotten that there was dancing tonight. Otherwise he would have gone to one of his other regular places.
Their food arrived, and the women ate while he drank a lager.
"So, Mr. Carson, what kind of music do you dance to?" The room made him feel warm, or maybe it was the lager. Definitely the lager. Not the Scottish accent, and the way she sounded saying his name.
He tapped a finger on his glass. "Swing. Jazz. Frank Sinatra." He looked at the office manager, who raised her eyebrows.
"Really?" She shook her head and laughed, covering her pretty smile with her hand. "You are old-fashioned."
"Oh, don't get him started," Beryl sighed, rolling her eyes at him. "He thinks all music performed after 1950 is Satan's handmaiden."
"Well, what do you call this?" he gestured to the DJ.
"'Nothing Compares 2 U, by Sinead O'Connor,'" Elsie said. "It may not be what you're used to, Mr. Carson, but the world moves on." She drank more of her whiskey.
"That is exactly what I'm afraid of," he said, crossing his arms. For some reason, her words galled him. "Why does everything have to change?" he asked. "Sometimes things are better kept the same."
"And sometimes not," Elsie fired back. "Change can show us where we've lost our way, help us to improve ourselves."
Beryl groaned. "If the two of you are going to have a philosophical discussion, I'll leave you to it." She got up. "You know where to find me." She waltzed over to the bar and started chatting with a man sitting there.
"What do you want to change, Mrs. Hughes?" Charles asked. He gestured for the waitress to bring him another drink.
She slumped back in her chair. "Right now? Where I live. My landlord doesn't fix anything. Besides that…I have a hard time letting go of some things. If I could change anything, that would be it." She swallowed the last of the whiskey, and sipped some water. She was starting to feel drunk, which meant she had long since passed the legal limit.
"Ironic, that someone who likes change can't let go. What can't you let go?" he asked suddenly.
Shit. You walked right into that. On the other hand, if you wanted to let him know how you really felt, now's the time. She was just intoxicated enough to still have her head, and also not to care.
"I don't like how you took Mary's side over mine," she said in a rush, so quickly he had to lean over to hear her. "That day, when she was in my office." She pressed her lips together, an angry gleam in her eyes. "I would never hit a child, even a liar like her! I know she apologized, as did you, but it was very humiliating for you to take the word of a child over mine!"
She immediately felt horror, and wished she still had a drink. What was that earlier about keeping your job?
He felt as though she'd slapped him in the face. Guilt stabbed at his heart. During the months since she had become the office manager, he and Robert had learned to trust her implicitly. Nearly all of the attorneys liked her; there had not been a single complaint brought to him about her being unprofessional. The complaints among the staff had dwindled to nothing, which meant she had things well in hand. No small feat for a manager younger than more than half of their current staff. Of course O'Brien didn't like her, but O'Brien would have hated any office manager that wasn't her.
His natural affection for Mary demanded he defend her. Mrs. Hughes didn't understand. Mary was like his daughter, how could he assume the worst in her? But she was wrong that day. She lied.
You were wrong.
"I am very sorry for that," he said haltingly. "I…I was wrong to take her side." She kept her gaze on the table, the flush evident on her face even in the dim light. He tried again. "I trust you, as a professional. I do," he said, as she continued to look skeptical. "My instinct was to defend Mary. She's very dear to me."
"As anyone could see," she said quietly, sipping more water. "I didn't know you were her godfather until that day."
"I was surprised when Robert and Cora asked me, before she was born," he said. "The first time I held her…" he trailed off, his gaze far away.
"She found the center of your heart," she said. He looked up. To her surprise, he was blushing.
"I should not have said that to you, it was patronizing," he mumbled into his lager.
"Yes it was," she said baldly. "But as of now, I don't know how it feels, to care for a child in that way. I can't say I won't feel the same when I've yet to feel it."
They fell silent as Paula Abdul sang in the background. He kept his eyes on his drink, but could think of nothing except the woman across the table. Surely she'll marry again, have children. Any man would be lucky to have a woman like her.
But not someone like you. She's much too independent.
She drank her water until it was gone, and waved off the waitress when she came by. Why did she let him discomfit her? First at her interview, talking about her ex, now admitting her humiliation. She should have simply let it go, and said nothing. But he apologized. He even had the grace to look guilty. Maybe you were right to say something. It's better to be honest.
Elsie was pulled from her thoughts when she heard Beryl laughing at the bar. She got up and joined her, noticing immediately her friends unfocused expression.
"Don't you think you've had enough?" she asked. I certainly have. Speaking my mind to the boss. And thinking risqué thoughts. Don't think about the way his shirt is a little tight.
Beryl shook her head. "No," she said, twirling in a circle on her stool. "I'm just getting warmed up!"
"You've had enough," Elsie said firmly. Her friend was going to regret the amount she'd already had, not to mention any more. She grabbed her by the wrist and got her back to the table.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Neither one of us is in any shape to drive home, and-"
"I'll take you to Beryl's, it's no problem," Charles said, getting up. Before she could protest, he went to the bar and paid for all three of their orders. He then helped her get Beryl to his car. While she was helping her friend into the backseat (made more difficult by the high-spirited redhead wanting to dance to the beat of the music inside), he parked both of their cars in a corner of the lot.
The drive was uncomfortable. Elsie had a heightened awareness of his close proximity, and was sure he had lost all respect for her. Before they had driven a mile, Beryl was sick out the window. To Elsie's surprise, the managing partner barely batted an eye. He merely rolled his window down, directed Elsie to do the same with hers, and commented that he had planned on washing his car the next day anyway.
"I'll just be sure to do some extra cleaning," he said. He even had a small smile on his face. "She'll apologize tomorrow, and I'll remind her that she helped sober me up after I passed the bar."
"Oh God," moaned the backseat. "I wish I were dead."
"No you don't," Elsie said, peering behind her seat. She put a hand to her pounding forehead, wincing. "I don't wish I were dead, but I'm going to have a horrible headache tomorrow."
She got Beryl in the house, depositing her in the bathroom. She came back to the living room and found Mr. Carson still standing on the mat outside the front door.
"Thank you," she said, leaning against the door frame. "For driving us." Her face was aflame. "I don't usually drink that much-"
"Please, Mrs. Hughes," he held up his hands. "Don't trouble yourself. We all have bad days and need extra fortification accordingly. I only regret that I have caused some of your frustration. I hope I can spare you that in the future."
Her face felt like it was going to melt off. "Thank you," she repeated, not sure she could say anything else.
"Oh, before I forget," he reached into his wallet. "You said you were looking to move from your apartment? This is the card of a friend of mine. He's a local real estate agent, and is very fair. Give him a call, if you like." He shuffled his feet, looking down for a moment. "Good night, Mrs. Hughes. I'll see you on Monday."
While she never developed the same admiration for Mary as he did, they did manage to avert any major confrontations for the next decade. He never berated her in public again, and could always be counted on as an ally whenever a problem threatened to boil over.
She saw more than thirty properties with the agent before deciding on one. It was in a brand-new development. The view was excellent, and the price was unbeatable.
She lived there for over twenty years.
000000000000000000
March 2016
Text from Charles Carson to Elsie Hughes, 5:07 pm
How is it? All well?
Elsie Hughes to Charles Carson, 5:09 pm
Done and done. They have the keys. I don't have a condo anymore, but I do have money…
EH to CC, 5:09 pm
What do you say we forget the big wedding and go to Vegas?
CC to EH, 5:10 pm
Hmm, tempting. But it would be a shame not to have the reception.
EH to CC, 5:11 pm
True!
EH to CC, 5:11 pm
I talked to the DJ earlier today. I told him your request.
CC to EH, 5:13 pm
I hope he listened. I was completely serious. If he plays The Chicken Dance, I'm leaving immediately. You'll find me at the hotel, watching "Law and Order". Da dunk.
EH to CC, 5:14 pm
LOL, yes, he listened. No Chicken Dance, Hokey Pokey, or Macarena. MAYBE It's Raining Men. If Thomas begs. Or Beryl.
They met for dinner to celebrate the sale of the condo at a local, favorite pizza restaurant. Charles sipped from his white wine. "Thank you for indulging me. It may seem silly, but the dollar dance is a fun custom. And the money won't be for us, remember. It was your brilliant idea to have it donated to Becky's home."
"I don't mind that much," Elsie protested. She picked at the remains of her salad. "I do like to dance." She grinned at him as their waiter brought their pizza. "But I do want to stick to the plan, and leave by 9:30. I don't want to be too…tired."
He put on his most innocent face. "Why, Mrs. Hughes, whatever could you mean by that? Is there some aspect of marriage that you're insinuating may require physical activity?" She dissolved into giggles.
"Yes, I think you've got it now," she hiccupped, taking a sip of water. He laughed, placing a slice of pizza on her plate. They ate, occasionally breaking into laughter.
"The waiter must think we've gone batty," Charles said, holding his napkin by his mouth. "Look at us, laughing like hyenas-"
She choked again and wiped tears from her eyes. "It's just happiness, you know. Giddiness. Bubbling over," she reached across the table and slid her hand into his waiting one.
"Mmmm. That must be why my tummy feels like I've swallowed butterflies instead of pizza and salad." He squeezed her hand. "I'm so glad you sold the condo. Now we can start looking for a house together."
"I'd like to wait until after the wedding. Just concentrate on that," she said. "I just finished going through a move, I wouldn't mind waiting a few months."
"I suppose so," he said as the waiter brought their check. "My house will do for the time being. But I do want us to have a proper home, a place that we both choose. And we need a place with an extra bedroom too, so we can have Becky spend the night."
"I can't tell you how much it means to me, that you care for her so," she said softly.
"I do, very much so," he said as they got up to leave. "I never had a sister before. I want her to be happy." They walked out to the car, the rain having ended. He started the car and they headed home.
"It's strange," she said, smiling. "It's because of you I bought the condo in the first place, and it's because of you that I sold it!" She reached over and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Are you saying it's all my fault?" he laughed. "I take full credit then." She kissed him on the cheek.
"Yes, it is your fault, and I couldn't be more delighted."
"I'm surprised that you haven't asked about the honeymoon," he joked as they pulled into the driveway. She blew air out through her mouth.
"Pffffffftttt. After the first five times I asked, and you kept refusing to tell me anything, I figured why bother?"
"Surely you're curious as to where we're going," he said, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter. "Don't you want a hint?" She turned, her eyes wide.
"You want to tell me! After you going on and on about it being a surprise, now you're offering to tell me?" She moved to sit down on the couch, but he caught her hand and pulled her closer.
"I'm not going to tell you," he murmured, leaving feather-light kisses on her forehead. "I said I'd give you a hint. IF you want one."
"Yes, I would like a hint," she said, rubbing his back. "Beryl keeps saying things about sunscreen and bikinis. She doesn't know where we're going, does she?" She pulled back, looking up at him.
"No one knows, certainly not Beryl Mason," he said seriously, before leaving a long kiss on her lips. "A friend of a friend gave me the idea. I hope you like it."
"Now I do want a hint," she growled. "Are we going someplace warm? I know by the end of next month, the weather will be fairly pleasant here. I assume we're not staying here," she said, a question in her eyes.
"No," he said. "You know our wedding night will be spent at the most luxurious hotel in the city. We will also spend the next night there, before leaving the following morning. An airplane ride will be required."
"Charles Carson, where are you taking me?" His expression was inscrutable. She abandoned all pretense. "Mexico? Hawaii? Majorca? Fiji?" His body vibrated as he started to laugh.
"Fiji!? Does that sound like us?" He gave her a hug.
"No," she admitted, laughing. "Although I would be happy with almost anywhere, as long as I was with you."
"That's sweet of you," he said. "I knew you'd like Orlando!"
There was a sudden silence.
"Orlando-"
"I'm not serious, we're not going there!" he said quickly at the look on her face. She relaxed and patted his face.
"Good. But don't joke about things like that," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Or I might have to go bridezilla on you."
"We can't have that," he said, slowly moving his hands over her back and around her waist. She hummed into his mouth in reply.
00000000000000000
A/N: Blame deeedeee for the delay. I had half of this chapter written, then she asked for a fuller explanation of the whole Charles/Elsie/Mary being a brat story. So along came another flashback. Sigh. I love you all, but I'm beginning to think people give me ideas so this story will never end! And CERTAIN PICTURES on Tumblr destroyed any semblance of writing yesterday. Not that I'm complaining…
Oh, and the Chicken Dance/hotel/Law and Order comment was literally said by Mr. Meetme before we got married. The DJ was very understanding. :)