Hey everyone and welcome to my first ever story on here. It was supposed to start out as a quick drabble, but somehow it got longer and longer and now here we are. This will be published in multiple chapters, possibly about 4 or 5 in total.
Thank you to all the lovely people from tumblr who encouraged me to publish my silly little writings on here - I hope you do enjoy them.
This little whatever this is is set in season 5. I did use some lines from the series, which obviously don´t belong to me, but Julian Fellowes. I just thought I´d come on here and add some sort of background to the actual scenes we got. Without further ado - here we go :)
Golly, what a night, pt. 1
He was tired and had rather a headache. To say he was looking forward to getting back home and falling asleep in his bed next to his darling wife instead of staying with all these old codgers who only ever talked about times long gone would have been a terrible understatement. Already in a foul mood after having to strike up conversation after conversation with no real chance of getting out anytime soon, he took the first and only opportunity he was granted. Apparently, his reluctance in answering during their rather brief conversation after dinner had alarmed the host, who asked him if he had been feeling unwell. Luckily, not soon after that he found himself on the back seat of the motor as they had started to make their way back to the home that was so dear to him, and more importantly to his beloved wife, his darling Cora.
Now, going up the wooden steps as Carson closed the doors, he was nothing short of relieved to finally be home. Even more so because his butler had informed him that Cora should still be awake. He could not wait to tell her how much he would have preferred being home for dinner, exchanging glances across the table, to whatever this whole evening had turned out to be. The dinner he had had to endure had been nothing but pointless palaver that seemingly dragged on forever. He could not wait to kiss his wife hello and goodnight and fall asleep with her in his arms. Robert was sure that his headache would reduce significantly and his mood would brighten the instant he would be laying his blue eyes on her. Would she still be sitting at her vanity or would she be in bed already, a book in her lap as usual? Would she be as pleasantly surprised by his appearance as he hoped she would? Well, there was only one way to find out.
"I'm glad you´re still awake."
That's what he said, his voice sounding tired, but just as soon as the words had left his mouth, he regretted having uttered them. The anticipation that had been filling his head and heart was immediately replaced by emotions only too familiar to him - first confusion and then rage. He couldn't help the blinding rage starting to bubble up inside him upon seeing him here. What was he even doing here, in their bedroom, dressed in only his dressing gown no less. And he was standing so close to her - way too close to her for his liking, and possibly hers as well, judging by how uncomfortable she looked.
Robert knew she did not like it when he was angry, and he also knew that it was not proper at all for an earl to lose his temper, least of all because of and in front of a house guest, and so he tried his best to stay calm. But that ghastly man made it so very difficult - and there was only so much even an earl could do when provoked. So, before the art historian even knew what was happening, he was on the floor after having made the acquaintance of Robert´s quite forceful right hand, which had subconsciously balled into a tight fist as Bricker was standing directly in front of him, talking about how he had been mistreating his wife, sneering at him. Robert knew he shouldn't have let his temper get the better of him and he had tried his best, even if just for her sake, but how dare he? How dare he use her first name like it was a daily occurrence for him and how dare he tell him he had been ignoring his wife, while standing in her bedroom, the one she shared with him, her husband, every night, in the house the art historian was merely a guest in, a highly unwelcome one at that?
No, enough was enough. He had let this foul man get away with all of this for far too long. He heard his wife´s shouts, but he was blinded by the rage coursing through him and did not hear the words she kept repeating over and over. Instead he kept going, punching him again and again, rolling on the floor like a drunkard in a pub brawl. Bricker was tall, slightly taller than him, but Robert had the advantage of muscle on his side - and he had got the first punch in. Quickly, he had wrestled him down and was about to land yet another throw to his smug face when there was a knock at the bedroom door.
Instead of possibly breaking his nose with this next punch, Robert now made sure that he stayed where he was and kept silent as Cora went to the door to answer their daughter. He knew his face was bright red, his veins probably bulging on his forehead and neck, his usually rather relaxed features contorted into a menacing grimace. Inwardly, he was daring the man writhing beneath him to move just an inch out of turn, still grabbing him by the lapels of his dressing gown, letting his light blue eyes stare straight into his relentlessly.
Robert did not want to let go of him and he so desperately wanted to throw that last punch, but he decided against it. The knock had brought him back closer to the reality of all of this, which was that they were not alone in the vast house and he was sure Cora would not be able to just smile and charm her way out their daughter´s inquiries a second time. So he let him go, albeit begrudgingly and with a huff.
He got up, catching his breath while leaning on the chair he occupied every night. He waited for his wife to come back and close the door behind her, his head now throbbing with pain as he waited for her to explain or at least try to excuse what he had come home to.
But instead, all she said was: "Golly, what a night."
It felt as if he had been stabbed upon entering the room, and now, whoever had stabbed him, was twisting the knife again and again. She didn't deny or excuse, or try to explain, or anything for that matter.
Just Golly, what a night.
He had to get out of there. He could not stay in this room and look at her, let alone sleep next to her, not after this.
Still panting, he turned his head slightly to her without looking at her, and said lowly, his voice rumbling in his chest: "I'll sleep in my dressing room." This was all he could say while still keeping his temper in check. He had lost it once this evening, improper as it had been, and he would not lose it again. Least of all to his wife.
It wasn´t until much later, when Bates had left again after getting him out of his uniform and into his night clothes, and he was lying in the small bed he always kept made up in the room adjacent to hers, that he started to notice the pain in his hand.
He was lying on his back, bringing the hand in question up closer to his face so that he could examine it in the soft glow of his bedside lamp, but he couldn't really make out anything apart from some light discoloration on his knuckles in the dim lights. With a sigh, he turned the lamp off and turned on his left side, his back now facing the door to his wife´s room.
At first, it had been just a rather dull, throbbing pain, but the more he calmed down, the sharper it became. Robert hoped that he had not broken anything in the process of getting rid of him and he made a mental note to ask Bates to bring him something to alleviate at least some of the pain in the morning. The only solace he found in any of this was that the ghastly art dealer must be hurting just as badly, too. If he was not mistaken, and he was sure he wasn't this time around, he had landed quite a few good punches before they were interrupted. Robert wasn't a vengeful person, but that man had had it coming for a while now and he had to admit, it had felt so good.
The pain he felt in his hand and behind his forehead would, hopefully, subside soon enough, he told himself, but he fell asleep with a confused and maybe more than slightly broken heart and he was not sure what to make of that. Yet, despite all of this, he smiled grimly, falling asleep in the narrow bed that was rarely ever used, as the branches of the trees outside painted shadows on the walls of his dressing room, knowing that he had been right about the sleazebag all along.