AN: So here it is, my first fic after NaNoWriMo. It was wonderful to write something without the pressure and to have it beta'ed (thank you, Dee!). Now, before you start reading, you must know that I don't think Elsie Hughes pines for Charles Carson. So when you get to the part of this fic where Elsie asks something of Father Christmas, please keep in mind that it is not a serious thing. Good, now I've gotten that off my chest, I can safely wish you all a happy read and a fantastic start of the festive season! Enjoy and don't hesitate to let me know what you think!

He is making his last rounds for the night - they've all just returned from the Midnight Service and he's shooed every last of them up to bed. Nobody has protested much (there were half-hearted offers of help), except for Mrs Hughes, who was adamant she'd help him close up, but after some stern words (at which she rolled her eyes in that particular way of hers that makes him go a little weak in the knees) she followed Mrs Patmore up the stairs. He listened until he heard the metallic click of the key being turned in the lock.

There wasn't much to do: only locking the doors and checking the grates and maybe emptying a wastepaper basket or two so there won't be any apple cores or half-eaten mince pies inviting the mice in. He walks through the rooms, admires the tree in the hall (elaborately decorated, but he still prefers the small one in the Servants' Hall with the decorations the maids make themselves each year by sewing together popped corn and by cutting out little birds from thick paper) and goes downstairs to check her parlour.

Not that she's ever gone out without checking her fire, but she too is only human and he would never tell her if anything were not quite right. And he would never forgive himself if something were wrong. He enters her almost personal domain; her parlour is decorated sparsely, but does he does feel warmer here, welcome. The bin in the corner has three scrunched up balls of writing paper. He picks them up and puts them on her desk, there is no need to take the whole bin for so few bits that need to be thrown out.

He picks up the first wad of paper and he makes out the first line of a letter and he is quite surprised it's in her hand:

"Dear Father Christmas,

I cannot claim to have been solely good this year. My temper remains short, my curiosity big and I still get easily distracted when I am supposed to listen to the reverend's sermon on chilly Sunday mornings."

The letter ends there and he frowns. What a very peculiar thing for Mrs Hughes to be doing: writing to Father Christmas is rather a child's pastime. He picks up the second piece of paper and reads the passage on there:

"Dear Father Christmas,

Like every year I have tried to be more patient (and failed), tried to keep my curiosity in check (and failed) and tried to listen to Mr Travis drone on about charity and chastity every Sunday (and failed that most spectacularly) and I know that perhaps I could have tried a bit harder. I understand that with such flaws it really doesn't do to ask you any favours, but you see, there's this one thing that I wish for this Christmas.

Every year the young ones hang a sprig of mistletoe over the Servants' Hall entrance and in the spirit of Christmas, I allow them to leave it up.

If I promise to be good, would it be possible if Mr Carson would find me standing under the mistletoe? And maybe kiss me?

I am aware it is a rather large gift to ask, especially from such an ill-behaved old woman, but I promise to be good. I solemnly promise.

Please give my love to Mrs Claus - I can imagine she is very busy this time of year, trying to keep things organised in your home whilst you work so hard - and to your loyal reindeer and elves. You know how to help yourself to some milk and biscuits in the kitchen and I won't tell if you sample some of his Lordship's fine Scotch: your travels are cold after all.

Love,

Elsie Hughes, 59 and two-thirds"

Colour is rising to his cheeks and he coughs at his own train of thought (kissing Mrs Hughes, kissing Elsie Hughes, kissing Elsie) and crumples the sheet of paper up again. He looks at the final sheet of paper.

It's a shopping list - filled with presents for all the staff and the children. Every single one of them has been remembered, ideas behind their names, some crossed out. There's a pair of fine gloves for Daisy, a bottle of scent for Miss Baxter. A lighter for Mr Barrow, a stuffed toy for Miss Marigold, a book from a writer he's never heard of for Mr Molesley.

His name is missing from the list.

He clears his throat again, knowing his gift for her is safely stowed away in his wardrobe (he's not gotten the others anything - he never does - but there are some toys for the children in there - a little wind-up car, a doll's dress, building blocks). He picks up the wads of paper and takes them with him to the big bin in the kitchen. Puts them in there: he doubts she would want anyone reading her personal letters.

He shakes his head. It was quite wrong of him to read it. Very wrong indeed. He is as curious as she is - although he would never call it curiosity on her part, but rather a keen interest in her fellow man. He would call her temperamental, but only because he is so often on the receiving end of her outbursts (and he doesn't mind it much, thinks she is beautiful when passionately speaking to him). And Mr Travis does drone on very boringly every Sunday and he has been recycling his sermons since the war ended. He doesn't blame her for getting distracted.

These days he finds he only goes to church for the singing.

Because she sings so beautifully.

In fact, everything about her is very beautiful. From her slim ankles to her deep dark hair. He'll never say it out loud, but her face is an artist's dream - with her finely drawn lips and vibrant eyes, her high cheekbones and expressive eyebrows.

He shakes himself out mentally. It's time for bed, not for musing about Mrs Hughes's fine ankles or enticing curves. He turns out the lights and ascends the stairs, one step by one until he reaches the sanctuary of his bedroom, where he changes into his pyjamas, cleans his teeth and combs his hair.

Before he falls asleep though, he comes up with a plan. A good plan. A plan he's had since his bout of Spanish 'flu. And it's time to put it into action.