They fall with an undignified bang. Elsie bangs her chin against Charles' shoulder; his head knocks painfully against the headboard. They both let out grunts of surprise. She doesn't open her eyes; she doesn't have to. The bed is broken. She has broken a bed. She and her husband have broken a bed while…during… Of all things to happen! Why oh why couldn't she just have rolled over and gone to sleep? Why did she have to…and then the…and now the bed is. Oh gods. Oh gods damn. She'll have to face Moira. And Donal. And Tavey and Janet. Oh gods damn it all. It's a wonder they haven't knocked on the door after all that commotion. And she can't even blame Charles. He tried to dissuade her, tried to put her off and she… Well, and what must he think? Oh gods damn damn damn.

"Are you hurt, Elsie?" he whispers gently. "Are you alright?" His hands have already begun stroking her back and arms, cradling her head.

"No, I don't think so," she mumbles into his shoulder. She can't look at him, not yet. Can't look him in the eye. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I don't think so. Do you think you could…" he asks tentatively.

"Oh, oh yes. Certainly." She grabs the counterpane and scrabbles backwards until her feet hit the floor and she can stand and cover herself. Oh gods damn. The bed is a wreck. Charles is struggling to get free of the mattress, the twisted sheet.

"Do you think… could I have a hand, Els?"

"Of course, of course." She goes to him, dragging the wretched counterpane along behind her, trying to wind it up enough to keep her covered and allow her to help Charles out of the bed.

"Just, just give me a minute to find my nightgown. I'll never be able to help you in this," she gestures with disdain at the counterpane. She feels around beneath her. Surely her nightgown is here somewhere. Her hand lands on fabric and she grabs at it, hastily attempts to put it on only to discover that it's the top to Charles' pajamas. Well, never mind that now. We can get the clothes sorted later. Now I've got to get him out of that bed.

She walks over to him and extends her hands to him. She braces herself as he struggles to work his way out of the wreckage.

He brings the sheet with him as he stands, wobbling a bit as he covers himself. Oh gods damn! His left hip has gone a bit wonky; he needs to give the muscle time to relax, but he needs to get the bed back together sooner, if that's even possible. Of all things to happen! He steals a glance at Elsie, who dropped his hand as soon as he was free of the bed. She is staring at the opposite wall; he sees her face in profile and her lips are moving, though no sound is coming out. Oh my dear girl, he thinks. She stiffens suddenly.

"Elsie?"

"Shhh," she hisses. It's quiet for the moment. She relaxes, but only just. "I was listening for anyone who might come to check on us. Maybe they didn't hear anything," she says hopefully.

"Perhaps," says Charles dubiously.

Whatever she thought she heard has broken her reverie; she turns to look at the bed. She shifts the mattress to survey the damage. The three of the four inner slats are broken.

"Oh, Charles," she covers her face in her hands. "We'll never be able to face them come morning. What must they think?" She turns on him, fierce. "You." She jabs him with her finger. "I told you there was to be no, no, (she drops her voice even lower) making love while we were here."

Charles steps back, aghast. "You can't blame this entirely on me! You were the one who said we could be quick and quiet. We were quick about it at least. Can't be past more than 11 o'clock." A grin threatens to spill over.

"Charles Carson this isn't funny! What are we going to do?" She nearly wails and Charles realizes that she's as close to hysterical as he's ever seen her. Will ever see her, probably. He hobbles over to her, his hip is nearly right as rain now, and rubs her back, tries to get her to lean into him. She backs away from him. "Oh no you don't. That's how we got into this trouble in the first place."

"Elsie," he says in his most stern and dignified manner (even without clothes and whispering, he is still a commanding presence). "Calm down." She draws a breath, starts to speak, but he holds up his hand. "Calm down." He smiles at her: a loving, gentle smile. Her wearing nothing but his pajama top and an inexorably stern look on her face is another image he thinks he will remember always. "First, I need my pajama bottoms. Then we can see about repairing the bed."

She fixes him with that imperious gaze (less so, as she is still clad only in his pajama top) and flounces around to retrieve his bottoms.

"I'll need a bit of help to step into them, Els." She allows him to lean on her as he lifts one foot, then the other, easy does it, then she helps him slide them up. "There now." He turns her in his arms. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" She looks away from him, stubbornly refuses to answer. "Let's take a look at the bed."

"There's no fixing it; not tonight at least."

"Well then, why don't we just pull the mattress off the bed and sleep on the floor?" He tries to sound as cheerful as possible, though how he'll ever manage to get down onto the floor, much less back up again, is beyond him.

"On the floor?" She draws the word out for as many syllables as possible. "Even if we can get down, it's unlikely we'll be able to get back up again. Not without help, at least," she mutters darkly.

At this, Charles can no longer keep his temper in check. "Well, woman, what do you propose to do?" he hisses. "You say we can't fix the bed tonight, you say we can't sleep on the mattress tonight. What can we do?"

"Well, you can sleep on the sofa while I sort this mess out," she snaps.

He draws himself up coldly. "Certainly, Mrs. Carson. I'll be happy to sleep on the sofa. I'll only need a blanket. And my pajama top."