A/N: Well, here we go! My entries for tumblr's cheerfulchelsiechristmas prompt start today with A for "Angel." I have to thank nanokouw for her support as we leaned on one another through another NaNoWriMo project, and for her encouragement and shared laughter as we seemed to unwittingly incorporate a lot of similar themes into these stories.

These are also unseen by anyone else, so please excuse any random typos b/c I'm AWFUL at proofreading my own stuff.

Now sit back with a cup of cocoa and prepare for 26 days of fluff, with spoilers from the movie and a bit of sexy times tossed in the mix here and there.

Happy Chelsie Christmas, lovelies. xxx

CSotA

18th of December

The frost on the field glistens in the late-afternoon sunlight, and Elsie Carson stops beside the old fence and looks out over the land. All in her immediate surroundings is quiet and calm, standing in sharp contrast to the hustle and bustle of the house earlier that morning. With Christmas just one week away and all of the young children and their parents in residence, things have been very hectic. She breathes deeply through her nose, appreciating the crisp, clean scent that December brings. When she exhales, a puff of steam billows out before her lips before being whisked away in the wind.

Elsie tightens her scarf around her neck and walks on, suddenly impatient to be in the comfort of her own home with Charles fussing at her the moment she walks in the door. It has become his habit to do so these last couple of months; on days when his presence is not needed at the Abbey, he appears to spend his afternoons eagerly awaiting his wife's return. She often comes in and closes the door tightly behind herself, only to be greeted with a barrage of 'Welcome home!' and 'How was your day, love?', or perhaps a 'Have they all arrived yet?' More often than not, however, it's something like 'Did Mrs. Patmore send any biscuits along?'

If you'd asked her before she was married how she'd react to that type of behavior – particularly from him – Elsie would have huffed and rolled her eyes. She never could have envisioned him fawning over her, let alone how much she'd cherish being his wife. She put an end to his walking her to and from the Abbey on a daily basis, however, reminding him that there were other things he could be doing to keep busy and that the solitary walks often did her mind good. As the months wore on and he found ways to fill his time in retirement, that sorted itself out quite easily.

When she turns the corner, the cottage comes into view. Charles already has a soft light on in the window and it is casting a glow onto the sill.

"Hello?" She closes and locks the door behind herself, puzzled as to why her husband's deep voice isn't already filling the parlor. "Charlie?"

"Up here – just a moment!" His voice comes to her from the second floor, although it's so muffled that she wonders if perhaps he fell asleep for a bit only to be woken by her arrival. But when he descends the stairs, she understands: in his arms are two boxes, slightly dusty from sitting on the top shelf of the bedroom closet.

"Oooh, you've brought them down! Thank you, Mr. Carson." She hangs her coat, sets down her belongings, and places a kiss on his cheek when he deposits the boxes on the table.

"Your nose is cold," he observes, placing his fingertips on it for a few seconds to warm it.

"I can't imagine why," she quips.

Charles pulls his wife into a great hug, savoring the feeling of her arms wrapping around his waist and the scent of vanilla and the outdoors that permeate her hair.

"I peeked in the boxes and everything seems fine, mice be damned."

"Charles!"

He pulls away and looks at her, incredulous and hurt. "My stocking, Elsie. They chewed my Christmas stocking. I'll never forgive them."

"I'm working on the patch for that," she says, soothing him by rubbing her hand over his chest and hoping that he doesn't pick up on the lack of confidence she's sure is pouring off of her in waves. "Now, let's open those and finish this tree."

Charles obliges, lifting the tops off of both boxes and stepping aside as Elsie paws through the first one. They've done this once before, of course, and when their eyes meet over the table Elsie knows her husband's thoughts must reflect her own: a memory of decorating their first tree together, a process which was made much lengthier due to the telling of stories and simply learning how to enjoy being together away from the bustle of Christmas at Downton.

Learning how to be married, too, Elsie thinks, and she feels a warmth spread through her that has nothing to do with the fire in the hearth and everything to do with the man standing beside her.

They add the contents of that first box to the slender tree, then step back from it to admire their handiwork.

"It looks more beautiful than last year's," Charles declares. "Do you think it's because we've taken our time, dragged it out a bit over a few days?"

"I'm not sure." Elsie doesn't say what's on her mind, that she thinks Charlie can appreciate it more because his life is quieter now, more contemplative, since he's no longer working. She reaches out to adjust an ornament that is causing its branch to droop. "There."

The corner of Charles's mouth curves up. "I knew you'd move that. Now, the angel."

Elsie returns to the box and lifts it out. "It's not like the one at the big house, is it?" She feels her husband's hands land on her hips and she leans back against his chest.

"It's better than that one." He reaches around her and brushes a fingertip down a slightly-broken wing, noting the thin feathers where some had fallen out over the years. "This one has history – your history, and Becky's. It's a special thing, this heirloom that the two of you made. It makes me wonder about the time you spent on it, about happy Christmases afterwards when one or both of you would be bubbling over with excitement for a candy stick and an orange in your stockings."

The pain is still sharp in Elsie's breast from when they visited (and had to once again leave) Becky at the rest home last month. She'd been so frail and slow to recognize Elsie, and the Carsons wondered if it might be the last visit they'd have before losing Becky to age and infirmity. Charles senses it, feels her grow tense in his arms, and he leans down and rests his chin on her shoulder as the words tumble from his mouth in an attempt to soothe her aching heart.

"Tell me again."

Elsie closes her eyes, remembering, the angel still in her grasp. "It was an awful snowstorm the day we made this, one of the heavy ones where just opening the door to clear the path takes Herculean effort and a good deal of time. Mam asked me to keep Becky occupied with whatever we could find."

She tilts her head to the side, straining to see her husband who in turn moves a bit and places a kiss to the tip of her nose.

"Still cold," he whispers.

"Not as much," she counters, the corner of her mouth turning up. "So I found the old doll and some feathers from a split pillow, found another dress from a different doll … Da helped with a bit of paper cone, which he attached so that we could fit it over the treetop, and there we were with a new angel for the tree."

"The eyes aren't blue," he notices. "I'm not sure why I didn't see that last year. They're green."

"My Da's eyes were green," Elsie explains, "and Becky adored him so." She remembers something else, something she hadn't told Charles last year. "The day after we finished it and got it onto the tree, Da made enough headway in the snow that Becky and I could head out and make snow angels on the path. I remember telling her they were like the angel we'd made for the tree, and she didn't understand why we couldn't just scoop them up and bring them in the house, too. She tried, of course. But when the snow melted, she cried."

"Oh, the poor dear."

Elsie sighs. "Yes. But Mam reminded her that the angel on the tree wouldn't melt, and a few years later Becky made us promise to have it every Christmas. And so here it is." She looks up at her husband and smiles fondly. "I'm glad it has a tree to call home again. I never did keep one in my sitting room that was large enough to hold it."

"I'm glad, too," Charles replies quietly. "And very grateful to feel like I am, in a small way, a part of that tradition now."

Elsie's heart swells. "There's nothing small about the part you play in our family, Charles. Becky and I are all that remain of the Hughes component, so you make up a solid third of our family." She stands on her tiptoes and places a firm kiss to his lips. "Now, hold me steady so that we can put this up."

As her husband takes her hand, Elsie climbs onto the small step stool that's beside the Christmas tree. She leans forward a bit, feeling his strong, steady hands around her stomach and sides, his hold enabling her to reach with both hands for the tree itself and slide the angel over the branch at the top.

"There," she declares, stepping down again. "How does she look?"

Charles takes in the entire view: the tree with its varied collection of ornaments, some from their childhoods and others that had been gifts over the years (including one that Lady Mary had given them last year), the small electric light string they purchased two weeks ago, and the angel at the top that now completes the picture.

Well, almost, Charles thinks. There's still one more surprise - if it ever arrives.

"Wonderful. The entire tree is like a story of our lives, Elsie. I never had anything like this until we were married. Well, not since I was a very small boy, anyhow."

She doesn't have to ask what he means. Charles has told her his story in bits and bobs over the course of what they now referred to as their 'twenty-five year courtship,' and she knows his childhood wasn't nearly as happy or filled with love as hers. Scottish farm life had been difficult, in many ways more challenging than the life Charles and his parents had led, but Elsie had never wondered about the depth of her parents' love for her or for Becky, and their community had always supported them all. Charles, on the other hand, had been the son of a man who'd lost his family's home and been given a new lease on life as a groomsman in Downton's stables. He'd grown up knowing his father was somewhat of an outcast, and his mother harbored a great deal of animosity about it for the rest of her life.

"I brought biscuits home," she says suddenly. "Chocolate ones tonight, and she said she'll have fresh gingerbread soon, so you should come up for a visit with the staff."

They both know she means the children and not the staff, that she's referring to the afternoon when Mrs. Patmore will be baking all sorts of treats for the children to decorate for their parents and grandparents.

Charles raises a questioning eyebrow.

"Mr. Barrow agreed, just so you know," Elsie adds.

"Well, perhaps I will at that. Now, how about something to eat? I've got a stew in the oven. It won't be fancy, but it was easy and we had some things to use up."

Elsie's eyes light up. "I wondered what smelled so good, and I love it when you cook, Charlie." She pats his hand. "I'm sure it will be delicious."

"One way to find out." He steps back and packs up the boxes and paper as she heads into the kitchen to retrieve bowls, bread, and the stew from the oven.

But just before she passes through the doorway she pauses, turns, and looks up at the angel once again.

"Merry Christmas, Becky," she whispers into the empty room.

I'd love to know what you thought! Tomorrow is Chapter 2, "Bells." xx