Author's Notes:

Set in S3 ep 5. Title comes from the common misquotation of Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part II, Act III, Scene I: 'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown' (not to argue with the bard himself but I'm a sucker for alliteration :D).

This story was inspired by my favourite Janeway/Chakotay fanfiction: Filling the Void by Spiletta42 [If you're interested, you can read that awesome story here: www dot spiletta dot com/void1 dot html ].

I may have smudged the timeline a bit in regards to when Ivy, James, and Alfred started working at Downton (Were they around in S3? I can't remember)?

I'm no Julian Fellowes, but I hope that the characters are, at least, recognizable.

Don't sue, yada, yada. Okay, enough rambling. Enjoy!

One o' clock never sat well with Elsie – when she was foolish enough to see it through. The stillness of the house made her restless, allowed her mind to wander onto topics usually kept off limits by the perpetually busy Mrs. Hughes. She had thought (hoped) that the bottle of red liquid secreted in her bedside cabinet would help numb her mind, ease her into the land of nod. It hadn't. If anything it had made her worse, broken down barriers that stood so tall and formidable during the day. Now she couldn't stop thinking about it- about him.

Pulling the sheets over her head Elsie let out a long, frustrated sigh. She could feel her mind re-winding, like a film reel, back through the last few awkward days of avoidance (on both their parts, if she wasn't mistaken), to one of the darkest days Downton had seen, the day they had almost... well.

After delivering the news, Mr. Carson had retreated to his pantry in silence. Elsie had followed. There was no one else to turn to. Sure, she could hug Daisy, console Anna, comfort the men with words like 'heaven' and 'faith', but none of them were permitted to do the same for her. It went against the chain of command somehow. As housekeeper, she had to be the pillar of strength- always Mrs. Hughes, always in control. So, when the initial shock had faded and the first wave of tears had dried, she left, slipping down the corridor and into his pantry.

There had been no need to knock. Mr. Carson had left the door open for her, as she would have for him. He must have heard the whisper of her skirts against the flooring though, because as she passed under the doorframe, he turned.

He had looked so broken, so completely lost in that moment that Elsie had found herself moving closer, reaching out to (heaven's forbid) touch him.

Warm. And smooth. Her hand had slid over the back of his with barely a hint of friction… it felt right there, resting on top of his. So she had been greedy – raising her other hand to join the first. Mr. Carson didn't seem to mind. Slowly, like the sinking sun, a large hand had settled on top of hers, curling their fingers together.

They stood like that for some time, his warmth seeping into her skin. No words were spoken; there was nothing to be said. Lady Sybil, sweet innocent Lady Sybil… gone to meet her Maker before her parents – before her grandmother even. It wasn't the natural order of things. It wasn't right.

Struggling against a sudden salt-water stinging in her eyes, Elsie bowed her head and tried to focus her blurring vision on something solid, dependable, on hands, his and hers, knitted together, clutched desperately tight. Despite her teasing when he needed to be taken down a peg or two (or three or four), despite his blustering and often insensitive remarks, their relationship always came back to this – they looked out for each other. It was a comforting (and terrifying) thought but she was starting to accept that it was just the way things were.

Mr. Carson's hand twitched, twice. And then he sniffled. And he swallowed. Elsie kept her gaze focused on their hands, his and hers, smoothing her thumb over his knuckles in a way that she hoped was soothing. She so rarely had skin to skin contact with another human being that she wasn't quite sure what to do. He had a small crescent shaped scar between his first and second knuckles. The tip of her finger ghosted over it, fascinated by the raised edge.

Mr. Carson sniffed again, wetly. He was shuddering, she knew, but she didn't dare look up. He'd never forgive himself for an emotional outburst. Sobs were forcing their way up her throat too, wracking her body, but Elsie stayed silent, staring at the scar hidden between his knuckles.

Lady Sybil had always been her favourite.

And then… tears – his, hers, she wasn't sure. But they were crying, both of them, sobbing quietly in the middle of his pantry over their clasped hands, because of the war, because of Lady Sybil, because of the waste...

Eventually, tears slowed. He regained composure first. Elsie shied away, couldn't stand to have Mr. Carson, impeccable Butler of Downton Abbey, look at her, all puffy red eyes and runny nose. Besides, what right did she have to cry when his time at Downton far surpassed hers, when he considered the Crawley's to be his surrogate family? She had felt foolish, tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let her, was stroking her hand like it was made of the finest china. How long had he been doing that?

"Mrs-" He swallowed thickly, deep baritone catching in his throat. "Elsie."

Nobody called her by that name that anymore. It was like a secret only she knew. Her eyes left their hands, travelling in inches over the buttons on his livery, past his collar, over the dip and swell of his Adam's apple, to meet his watery gaze. He raised a hand as if to wipe away the last of her traitorous tears. "May I?"

She hesitated then gave a small nod, trying not to lean into his touch as he smoothed the wet beads across her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"There," he rumbled, clasping her hands once more when he was finished.

Sure that he could feel her pulse pounding away under his thick fingers, Elsie bit her lip. "Thank you, Mr- Ch…"

She trailed off. He was staring at her mouth. She flushed, fingers involuntarily twitching against his. They were standing entirely too close for comfort, invading each other's personal space, practically breathing each other's air…

Footsteps in the corridor.

"Mr. Carson? Mrs. Hughes?"

Hands separated, snapping back to their sides. They stepped apart guiltily, like a pair of courting teenagers discovered without a chaperone. It was absurd, it was frustrating-

It was Thomas. They were needed in the kitchen.

Caught between bitter relief and sweet disappointment, Elise felt her spine straighten. Emotions were locked back into their tight little box, tear tracks re-wiped away. Beside her, Mr. Carson smoothed out the lines on his face. Duty called and they answered. Always.

Elsie rolled over, trying and failing to get comfortable. Her candle had burnt itself out but she could still reach out and touch the wall that separated her attic room from his. Cold. This late night was his fault. And the night before that. And the night before that. And the sherry. Elsie blamed Charles Carson and his damn hands. And the way he had murmured her name… Charles.

No. Not Charles. Mr. Carson. That was his name after all – not Charles, never Charles. Not to her. Not even alone, in her room, late at night, after a large sherry.

Mr. Carson.

It was all Mr. Carson's fault.