A/N: After at least one year of obsessively reading and re-reading all the CarsonxHughes fics I could find, I've now gotten the courage to post one of my own. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; apologies if I've copied any of these wonderful authors too closely. Thanks to the lovely and generous Kouw who took a look at the rough draft and gave me some much needed feedback and encouragement. I should also add that I do not own these characters. If I did, they would get up to all kinds of shenanigans. Thanks and I hope you enjoy it!

Doors

The morning is crisp and clear as Mr. and Mrs. Carson make their way to their new cottage, leisurely, almost reluctantly. Mrs. Carson, Elsie thinks. That will take some getting used to. Of course they've been lumped together for years, treated as a de facto couple, but this new arrangement won't feel comfortable right away. They've always had their separate spaces, their own private retreats. Now they will have to learn to live together. Her face heats as she thinks how closely they will have to live together. The cottage has only one bedroom, only one bed. During their brief courtship, she put all thoughts of that bed out of her mind. She is a farm girl, so she knows. Of course she knows. She has lived her life as she is certain he has lived his. But. The two of them, together. Her arm, threaded through his, tightens against him reflexively, and he glances down at her, a question in his eyes.

"Everything alright, Mrs. Carson?" It rolls so smoothly off his tongue. Of course he would have no trouble adapting to her new status. He is, after all, attenuated to status, to the vagaries of rank and position. Well, two could play at that game.

"Of course, Mr. Carson. And why wouldn't it be?" This won't do at all. Now she is arch, sarcastic. She must try to soften, to dull the sharp edge of her tongue if they are to live together reasonably happily. She shakes herself. Looks up at him and smooths her face into a gentle smile. "Why wouldn't it be?"

He grunts in response, not unkindly, and lengthens their stride along the path.

*CE*

They enter the cottage, and it feels strange, alien. They've been here many times over the few weeks leading up to their marriage. There were trips to supervise the cleaning, to stock the kitchen. They had been asked to select a few pieces from storage and those had to be arranged and re-arranged to suit. Their few personal belongings had to be carried over. It's not as if they'd never seen the place. But it is uncomfortable, awkward. It's not home yet. Perhaps it never will be. Charles removes his coat, goes to hang it up, stops to take hers as well.

"Tea, Mr. Carson?" Tea will give her something to do with her hands.

"Yes, please," he calls from the other room. "And you really must try to call me Charles."

She has no answer for that.

This is ridiculous, she thinks. I'm a grown woman, more than a grown woman, very nearly an old woman. I've spent the better part of my life with this man. This will be no different. Yet she fumbles around the kitchen, banging drawers and slamming cabinets. Nervous, antsy, impatient. What if? What if he reaches for me? What if he doesn't?

Charles spends an inordinate amount of time tending to their coats. Shaking each one thoroughly, to remove any wrinkles. Putting his coat away first, then putting hers ahead, then behind. He lets out a long sigh. This isn't what he had imagined. He had imagined, very possibly foolishly imagined, that she would lean into him a bit, that she would return his kiss at the ceremony's end eagerly. Decorously, of course, but that there would be, within that kiss, a hint of things to come. Another sigh, deeper still. He is not a romantic man, he did not believe her to be marrying him for any other reason than companionship, but. But. She had not balked at the sight of the double bed he had chosen for them, his own embarrassed longings hidden beneath that façade of implacability. But now, she is awkward and prickly, obviously uncomfortable. My God, the look in her eyes as they were walking along the path. He had seen, then, that she was anxious. And what was he to do about it?

*CE*

He rounds the corner as she is bringing out the tea tray. He wants to put her at ease, so he reaches for the tray. The cups rattle in their saucers. The sound is deafening against the quiet.

"Careful, then!" Too sharp, much too sharp. He smiles down at her, calm, and gently tugs the tray out of her hands and sets it on the table. He nods for her to sit as he begins to pour for them. "I could," she fumbles, tries to soften. "You really don't have to."

"Nonsense," Charles says, briskly. "We've had a busy morning." He smiles at her again, and the kindness in his eyes nearly undoes her. She sits, waits for him to hand her a cup.

He busies himself with the preparation of their tea, focuses on the placement of the cups, the precise filling of each, then the accoutrements of each. She, naturally, takes hers plain, with just the slightest hint of lemon. His is more complicated, definitely sweeter. After an age, it seems, he finishes their tea, hands her the cup. He sits next to her in an awkward, uncomfortable silence. They glance at one another, sometimes furtively, sometimes they catch one another. They sip their tea.

Elsie's cup rattles in her saucer and she lets out an exasperated sigh. "This is ridiculous!" She puts her cup down on the side table, hard, and takes the tea cup from Charles' hand, places it roughly on the table. "We'll never be able to be easy with one another if we don't. "

Charles is confused, anxious. "I..what? If we don't what?" Elsie sighs, moves in closer, takes his face in her hands and kisses him. Softly at first, so softly he could almost believe it to be a dream. He reaches for her, tightens his grip to assure himself of her presence. She pulls back, frees herself from his grasp and stands. Charles is scarlet with embarrassment, believing he has frightened her, believing that she has seen his need and been repulsed by it. She reaches out a hand.

"Come along then." Her brogue is thick, thicker than he's heard in years, since she first came to Downton, and the look in her eyes is a curious mix of bravado and reticence. He takes her hand and she pulls him up, leading him to their bedroom.

*CE*

Now he is well and truly nervous. What should he do? Should he take charge of this? Should he be in control? Shouldn't he be in control? He watches her in helpless confusion. Her back is to him as she turns the counterpane down. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had made plans, careful plans, worked and reworked each night as he lay in bed imagining what their first hours as a married couple would be. She would prepare a simple tea, perhaps they would eat another slice or three of wedding cake, then a nice leisurely afternoon. He would read the paper; she would read a novel, knit. After a light supper, he would take her by the elbow and gently, tenderly escort her to their room. She would be nervous and he would be gallant, courtly. He would wait patiently as she changed into her nightclothes. It would be he who initiated…she turns toward him abruptly.

"What, what are you doing?" Maddening. Infuriating. Why must he act like an inexperienced schoolboy?

"I'm turning down the bedclothes."

"But it's the middle of the day." He's a damned fool to protest. He wants her, of course he wants her, but this is not how he imagined it, not how he planned it.

She takes a step towards him. "I know that, Mr. Carson." She stands before him, the lift of her chin giving lie to the apprehension in her eyes. She begins to unbutton her dress.

"But, we can't…not now," he sputters, "not in the middle of the day." Why am I still talking?

She sighs. "Of course we can, Mr. Carson. We can do whatever we like. We're married now. And retired," she adds, as an afterthought. She takes a step closer and reaches for his hand.

*CE*

Her cheeks are burning, burning because of her boldness, her cheapness, her mother would say. Cheap married or not. She can't make herself care enough about propriety to stop, though. There's always been attraction between them, if she's honest. Hidden, unspoken, but there nonetheless. Only a whisper from either of them and it could have gone this way years before. In the months since her illness, he had not shied away from her touch, allowing her to reach for his hand, to place a hand on his arm. And he had been less reluctant to touch her. It seemed as though he looked for excuses to touch her. His proposal of marriage had been a bit dry, yes; he'd fumbled on about retiring, caring for one another, their great friendship. He seemed almost surprised when she accepted. And yet, once they'd decided to marry, she had seen some spark, some need in his eyes when they parted of an evening. They'd only had to wait three weeks for the banns; barely enough time for them to sort out the end one life and the beginning of a new one. There had been nothing untoward, improper between them during those weeks, not even close. The tension of waiting for him to approach her became nearly unbearable. But now, there's no reason to wait a moment longer, particularly when waiting is no longer necessary.

Suddenly it is quiet, so very, very quiet. He's not breathing and he can't hear her breathing. The blood is rushing in his ears, obscenely loud against the silence. She's taken his hand to her mouth and kissed it. She looks up at him, and the fear and longing in her eyes electrifies him. He gathers her tightly in his arms and kisses her hard and fierce. He knows he should be gentle, he knows he is pressing her too tightly, too close, but just one more minute. One minute more and he will release her, but her arms are wound around his neck and she is pressing herself to him just as tightly as he is pulling her in. He breaks away, just for a moment, to see her face. She is smiling, almost laughing, lit up with joy because she knows, now, she knows exactly how he feels and it is bubbling out of her. Soon he is laughing with her, fumbling with her buttons, letting her ease his suit coat off.

"Your hair," he says, "will you?" He trails off, embarrassed to ask her to take her hair down. She looks at him with a knowing, teasing glance, surprising him, Has she done this before?, and she begins to pull the pins out of her hair, slowly, almost seductively. The beautiful long length of her hair coming down out of its tight knot arouses him and for the first time he thinks he won't be able to last. This will all be over too quickly. He thinks of church, the time he was so ill with the flu, he tries to say the alphabet backwards. Nothing helps. He reaches out to finger a lock. He smells something fresh and clean: lavender, lemons? He kisses her again, slowly, tenderly.

They make short work of the rest of their clothes. She unbuttons his shirt, smooths his vest up and over his chest and head. He has trouble with her corset, the ribbons, the tiny eyelets. She helps him, eases out of her corset, lets it fall to the floor. Now she's in her shift; he's in his trousers. She sits on the bed and tugs at the laces of her boots. He kicks his shoes off and unbuttons his pants. She focuses on her boots, loosening the knots, easing her feet out, looking anywhere else. Why has she gone shy all of a sudden? She's no young lass. Of course, she's not a woman of the world, either. Look up. Look at him, you stupid cow! She finishes fussing with her boots and eases herself back into the bed, careful to leave enough room for him, careful not to make eye contact. He climbs in after her and lets out a long, shuddering breath. She turns to look at him and she is surprised to see love and need and fear in his eyes. This, it seems, is what she's been waiting for. She presses herself against him. He rolls on top of her.

There is a knock at the door.

*CE*

They spring apart, electric.

"Who could that be?" Elsie hisses. Gods damn whoever it is straight to hell, even if it is a Sunday.

Charles is skittish, fumbling around for his shorts.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm getting out of bed to answer the door."

Elsie is rigid with disbelief. "You're what?" Another knock at the door: louder, more insistent. Charles rolls out of bed.

"I'm going to answer the door. " He manages to look every inch Charles Carson, butler, in spite of standing in his shorts attempting to hop into his pants.

"You can't answer the door right now. We were…it was…you cannot answer the door."

Now the façade is cracking. "I must answer the door, Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Carson." He grimaces, angry with himself for the mistake. "If I don't, they'll wonder what we're doing."

"Let them wonder," Elsie snorts. "We are married, after all."

"But it's the middle of the day. It's..it's...," he tugs at his ear, searching for the one word that will convey his embarrassment at being caught out like this with Elsie without angering her so much that he will never be caught out like this with her again.

"Yes?" She draws the word out as long as possible.

"I don't know," he barks. "It's not dignified."

She rares back, ready to argue. "Hallooo," a familiar voice rings out. "Anybody home?"

"Molesley," Charles hisses.

*CE*

"Whatever he's after can wait," Elsie says firmly. Charles continues to struggle into his pants. "Charles," she says, in that voice that brooks no opposition, "Charles, Mr. Molesley can wait." He grunts, looking for his vest. Molesley knocks again.

"Very well; I'll tend to him myself." Elsie shoves the bedclothes over, gets out of bed and walks to the wardrobe.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm getting my dressing gown, Mr. Carson. I am going to take care of Mr. Molesley."

"What do you mean? You're not going to the door in your…you can't, you musn't," Charles splutters.

"Mr. Carson," she turns and gives him that look, that arch, imperious, stern look that he never knows how to return. Only now, of all things, he finds himself aroused. This is the least appropriate time, with Molesley outside, gods damn the man and his wretched timing. Elsie's voice breaks into his thoughts. "Either you get back in bed or I go to the door in my dressing gown."

He stares at her for a long, hard moment. She looks so lovely with her hair down and there is a high color in her cheeks , color he likes to think he put there. What had she said before? They were married now. And retired. He drops his pants, kicks them to the side and takes a step toward her.

"Whatever he's after can wait, Mrs. Carson." He takes her in his arms and smiles. "All of it can wait."

*CE*

They lay together in a happy, tangled heap.

"Everything alright, Mrs. Carson?"

"Of course, Mr. Carson. Why wouldn't it be?"