A/N: These two are ruining my life. They will not leave me alone with their sad, beautiful restraint. Might be a one-shot, might have more. We'll see what the voices say.

He wasn't quite sure when it happened.

After the war, certainly, but the seeds were there before.

It probably started when she'd talked to him about Joe Burns. That was the first time he'd realized how much he cared. They'd worked together for years by then — he was already Butler when she came to Downton as head housemaid, and then a few years later she stepped into the role of housekeeper as smoothly as if she'd been a Mrs. all her life. They were perfectly in sync, from day one, but he'd not given it much of a thought until she told him about her former suitor.

He remembered saying something like "What would be the point of living if we didn't let life change us?" But what he really remembered was thinking, she's staying, she's staying with us, and that was the thought that brought a spring to his step.

But that wasn't when he'd fallen in love with her. No. Even then she was still… what? She was always more than a co-worker, but 'friend' wasn't quite the right word either. Nor was 'sisterly', or anything else too familial. He'd always been fond of her and, he thought, she of him. They were equals in every way. She was marvellously intelligent, as organized as he was. She was a better manager of people, both firm and gentle with their downstairs charges. There had always been mutual respect and affection, but they had also never been afraid of disagreement. They disagreed; they worked it out. Friends, then. Or maybe... successful business partners? It still seemed to diminish their relationship, but maybe that was the best he could do for a label.

So when had this happened? When had he started to find himself mesmerized by the way she moved, by the subtle expressions of her eyes? When had her smile started to make him catch his breath?

He sat back in his chair in the servant's hall, eyes closed while the worker bees swirled around him. He thought back to when he'd almost left for Haxby.

"Don't tell me you'll miss me", he'd said with a self-deprecating smile.

"I will, Mr. Carson. Very much. And it costs me nothing to say it."

No, not then either, though it's true he'd been deeply moved. Not even when she'd nursed him through exhaustion and Spanish Flu during the war. Not even when they'd consoled one another over wine after the loss of young William Mason.

"The music is gone, Mr. Carson. And I feel tonight as though it may never return. I will miss that dear boy."

"There will always be music, Mrs. Hughes, as long as we remember him."

She had smiled at him then, the tears not quite spilling over. "Yes. Yes, you're right. I'll remember the music, then." He recalled that he'd briefly thought he'd like to wipe those unshed tears from her eyes. He'd handed her his handkerchief. Poured them both another glass of wine.

But no, still not even then.

It was definitely after the war. It was quiet downstairs now, late evening. He was doing a final check before retiring to his pantry for an hour and then to bed.

Her cancer scare had probably been the thing that had made him look at her closely. Really look at her this time. Notice the lines in her face and the silver in her hair. Notice the way she held herself tall and maintained the highest standards even when she was privately falling apart.

Noticed the fear that clenched at his heart at the thought of her not being at his side.

She'd become bolder. Such fighting spirit. She taunted him and rolled her eyes at him and defied him and no longer made apologies. She'd come through the war, then the fear of death and the relief of life and it was as though she'd rediscovered something deep inside that made her even stronger. That deep-seated dislike he'd always felt in her for the class system that defined their lives was coming out more these days. But she had always had it. The Dowager Countess had always been "The old bat". She hadn't batted an eyelash at Lady Sybil in the kitchen with Daisy and Mrs. Patmore. She had always, always been fond of Tom - Mr. - Branson and his revolutionary tendencies.

And then there was Ethel. She'd put the girl out of the house herself, but then went out of her way to help her despite it.

Maybe she could stand the constant reminder of what Ethel had become, but he could not. She wouldn't know the feeling of having fallen so low as to pay some desperate creature to serve you in that way; that was a man's prerogative. Then came the shame that followed from taking what you needed — but never what you really wanted — from a poor, destitute thing (not 'girls', not 'women', no, they could not be thought of as that, it would be too close to the girls and women one counted as family, colleagues, friends) who would warm your bed for the cost of a meal. He'd only reached that level of need a handful of times in his life; last addressed it on a half-day off during the Season in London some years ago, where anonymity and no complications were assured. He never stayed longer than he had to, was always kind and gentle, always gave them extra, always paid for a room for a whole night and told them they could stay after he left, be warm and safe for a bit. But how could he ever look Ethel in the eyes again when she could have been any one of those lost souls? No. He could acknowledge the hypocrisy, but could not stare it in the eye and welcome it in to the house for tea and a chat.

But her…. she saw the wrongness and the hypocrisy in the system that she was required to live within and then did what she could to help mend it, even at risk to herself, while he simply stood by and watched, out of shame, out of fear of change.

If anything, they were becoming even less alike than they ever had been, and yet it felt as though the more it happened, the further he fell. When she'd come to him that devastating night of Lady Sybil's death, it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and breathe her in, her warmth, her life.

He hadn't dared. The sudden need had almost overwhelmed him and he knew then. Knew what was happening to his heart, knew that surely it would never have been enough.

He was outside her parlour now. He stopped, leaned back against the wall of the hallway near her door, closed his eyes and remembered once more.

She'd taken his hands and he'd taken hers, held on to them for dear life, and they'd shed tears together for the loss of one of their charges — for they were all, upstairs and down, "their" charges. No wine that night. No words. Their eyes did not meet. Just tears and the touch of hands.

Somewhere in these last few months it had happened. And now? Now he was lost. She had only to enter the room and he was mesmerized. He hid it well, he thought, behind curmudgeonly bluster, gentle and (he winced at the thought) not-so-gentle rebukes and stubborn persistence, lest he slip and give himself away. They'd been this… whatever it was… for so long, and it was comfortable. So easy. He couldn't risk losing that.

Could he?

It was as though, in her own awakening, she had awoken something in him as well. Something he'd thought he'd lost, gotten over, left behind with his old life before Downton. Something that had until now been sated by this comfortable, platonic partnership.

He wanted.

Wanted to fall apart in her arms, under her touch. Wanted to hear her whisper, plead, cry, beg for him.

Wanted to beg himself.

Wanted to kiss her until she couldn't stand, and then sweep her up and carry her off. Wanted her to tell him what she wanted, what to do. To serve and adore her, worship her, rest his head at her breast. To have her sit at his right hand as she always had, but with the knowledge that they were one, and always would be. Wanted to tell her she was right, damn her, about the times changing, about Ethel, about everything, but by God he was right too — it was changing too fast and they needed to slow it down, lest they all lose themselves in the tidal wave.

Wanted to let it all go, let them navigate this strange and wonderful new thing together, and all the things to come.

God, how he wanted.

"Did you want something, Mr. Carson?"

Her voice. His eyes snapped open. She was… well, of course she was here. He was still leaning against the wall outside her parlour door as if he'd been waiting for her.

"I… Mrs. Hughes. My apologies. I was just… resting my eyes while I waited for you."

Her brow arched and her (lovely, sweet mercy, so lovely) mouth curled up in what he knew was prelude to jest. "Resting your eyes. Of course. Is the constant brightness of the electric lights still that tiring for you? I'd have thought you'd long since adjusted to it. Would you like a headache powder?"

"Wretched woman with your mocking," he said, but he was smiling at her, and her own smile widened until the dimples appeared. He straightened, looked away from her to recover himself before he lost his train of thought completely.

"I wanted to let you know I've finished locking up, and to see if there was anything else you needed before I turn in for the night." He stifled a yawn.

"Thank you, but no. I think everything is as ready for tomorrow as it'll ever be." She sounded tired herself.

He nodded, finally meeting her eyes again. She was beginning to blink sleepily. It had been a long day. "Very well, then. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, Mr. Carson."

Silence. And yet, neither turned away. They remained there, unmoving, two sleepy people in a dark hallway, standing just that much closer than might be considered entirely proper.

Slowly, quietly, drowning in one another's eyes.

Did she know how deliriously lovely she was?

What would she do, he wondered, if he reached out right now and caressed that stunning streak of silver in her hair that fascinated him? If he leaned down right now, placed a palm against her perfect, sleepy face and kissed her?

He clenched his hand at his side to keep from reaching for her. A moment later she yawned, and the spell was broken.

And then his knees nearly gave way as she reached out and put a hand on his forearm, giving it a gentle rub.

"Sleep well."

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes." Her hand slid down his arm and reached his own, and he returned the light squeeze before they both let go. She turned and entered her parlour; he turned and walked back down the hall.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would kiss her goodnight, and damn the consequences. But for tonight; her eyes, her smile, her touch… this would be enough.

Tomorrow.