For spokethewind, for the #chelsie holiday exchange

(It's still Christmas Day! Yay! I don't suck!)

It was akin to a holiday miracle that they had the time for a quiet tea break this close to Christmas, with so much work to be done, but when she had entered his pantry twenty minutes ago bearing a tea tray and a plate of Daisy's gingerbread, he'd made no protest beyond a raised eyebrow. She had merely tipped her head at him as if to say, Don't think I haven't noticed your eyes light up every time you catch smell of it, now hush and take a break. She had not, in fact, said a word. Still, he couldn't argue with the logic. He had closed the ledger he'd been poring over and moved to the chair on the same side of the desk as her without so much as a mild protest.

Twenty minutes later, the gingerbread was but a fond memory, and she was topping off their tea from the last dregs of the pot.

"So, Mr. Carson, I was wondering if you'd given much thought recently to your life in retirement?"

His eyebrow raised in silent question over the rim of his teacup.

"Fair is fair," she countered. "You did ask me first."

"As I recall, that was months ago, and you never actually answered me."

She looked down at her steaming tea with a demure expression. He sighed.

"I admit I have, some," he finally replied. "Obviously I'm not as averse to the idea as I once was. It's one thing to plan for the eventuality. But I'm afraid I still find it hard to picture sometimes. It's…" He searched for the words. "It's the prospect of so much solitude that unnerves me the most, I think."

He paused, but he clearly had more to say. She took a sip of her tea and waited.

"I find," he continued after a moment of thought, "that I'm uncomfortable with the thought of having that much time alone, all to myself. Of course, we cherish the time we have to ourselves now, when we could be interrupted at any moment. But to be truly alone, day and night? The prospect is rather unsettling, to be honest."

"Oh, come now," she protested. "You're well-respected in the village. I thought the memorial committee demonstrated that amply, in case you had any doubts. I'm sure you would make friends and be pressed into similar service on a regular basis. I expect your social calendar would be more full than you think."

"Ah, but it's still not the same. To eat in silence at a small table nearly every morning and evening? To have a nightcap by the fire, alone, every night? It might be pleasant for a week or two, but it's a dismal prospect in the long term."

She smiled indulgently. They had not spoken of any ultimate plans for the cottage they had talked of buying together; they still spoke of it purely as their 'business venture'. Privately, she thought he could go either way. She had long been resigned that he would either ask her to retire with him or he wouldn't, and only ever in his own time and way. Retirement was not imminent for either of them. The chance of him asking her to formalize that type of understanding this far in advance, even if he intended to eventually, was unlikely. Still, she supposed, he had surprised her in the past.

They had mostly finished their tea — miraculously, without interruption — and she stood, placing her empty cup on the tray next to his desk.

"I suppose it could be unsettling, yes," she acquiesced. "But I still think you would keep more than busy enough to make up for that. Besides, y-" Something on his desk caught her eye, and she didn't finish her thought.

Covering the lower half of Alice Neal's picture, tucked into the side of the frame, was… What on Earth?

"I've never seen- what is this?"

"Ah, that." He cleared his throat self-consciously. "It's just something from when Lady Mary was young. Apparently Mr. Branson recently found it tucked inside a book when he was reading to Miss Sybil."

"And they gave it to you?"

"Well, I…" He reddened slightly.

"May I?" He tipped his head to her silently, and she carefully removed the yellowing piece of paper from the edge of the frame to take a better look.

The sketch was almost childish in its simplicity, but it was definitely not the handiwork of a child. The lines were clean and practised, the four caricatures standing in a row easily identifiable.

Her eyes widened as realization dawned. "Just a moment. Is this your handiwork, Mr. Carson?"

The look on his face could only be described as sheepish.

The figure on the far left of the tableau was a frazzled-looking, middle-aged woman in apron and cap next to a pram — a nanny, clearly. At the far right stood a tall man in butler's livery with an enormous nose and ridiculously bushy eyebrows. Well, that was obvious enough. He held the hand of an angelic-faced child with a puckish expression who was dressed like a princess, tiara and all. The girl held the reins of a remarkably fat and silly-looking little pony, drawn complete with bulging, crossed eyes and bits of grass sticking out of its mouth, in addition to its tongue.

It was, frankly, adorable, a thought that she somehow managed to not say out loud.

Turning it over, she found a handwritten note on the back: "Remember Midnight? She was a good pony, if a little dim. I think she always liked you better than me. - M."

At this, Mrs. Hughes couldn't help the yelp laughter that escaped her. "Oh my goodness. Mr. Carson, I had no idea."

"A dubious talent from my youth." His eyes were, to her surprise, full of mirth. "Mostly unused since the young ladies were children. And even then, they were sworn to secrecy. Not all of my renderings of Nanny were as flattering."

"Oh dear." With a mischievous glint, she pressed on. "And now with Master George and Miss Sybil, should we expect an increase in your artistic output?"

Something about the way he quickly averted his glance to focus on a speck of dust on his sleeve tipped her off. "It's a good thing you're not a poker player. There's more to tell, isn't there?"

He sighed audibly.

"Best to be out with it, then," she said, ever-pragmatically. "Surely you know I won't rest until I find out now."

He straightened, steeling his features into a picture of apologetic penitence, and focused his gaze on a spot over her shoulder. "My, er, somewhat neglected skills were most recently put to use at the request of Mr. Branson and Lady Mary, in order to facilitate a game of 'Pinning-The-Tail-On-The-Donkey' between Miss Sybil and His Lordship. Apparently the title character was... quite a hit with the young lady."

At this revelation, Mrs. Hughes could simply no longer contain herself. Her tinkling laughter was contagious. Mr. Carson found himself smiling broadly, despite his best efforts to maintain the serious facade.

"You won't give me away, Mrs. Hughes? His Lordship remains unaware of my involvement. I'm not sure he would forgive me for the part I played in his acquiring that nickname."

"Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Carson," she reassured him, once she managed to compose herself.

He drummed his fingers lightly on his desk, seeming to consider the veracity of her promise. "Well, you are the one for a secret, it's true." He tipped his head at her in mock-acquiescence. "I suppose I shall simply have to trust you."

"Quite right," she replied with an enigmatic smile. "And just think, if you find yourself wanting for employment in retirement, you have a nearly untapped skill set to exploit."

"Impossible woman," he said kindly, with a shake of the head. "On that note, I suppose it's time I returned to the mystery of the wine ledger and Mr. Barrow's impenetrable handwriting."

"And I to my afternoon rounds." She turned her back to him as she puttered about, clearing the remnants of their tea. "You know, I'm quite certain you wouldn't have to be alone every night in your retirement if you didn't wish to be, Mr. Carson."

The implications of what she just said hit her almost as soon as the words left her mouth, and she spun around to face him, blushing prettily. "That is, I mean..." She didn't know what she meant. Or rather, she did, but she hadn't intended for it to come out quite like that. She could feel his eyes on her, yet found herself looking anywhere but directly at him.

"Are you?" His voice rumbled at the edge of a whisper. "Certain, that is."

"I am." She met his gaze again, finally, and nearly came undone at his amused smile and one raised eyebrow. Charles Carson, flirting. Heaven help me.

"Well then." He allowed himself a moment to appreciate the sight of an obviously flustered Elsie Hughes. "You've given me a lot to think about, Mrs. Hughes."

"It's all part of the service," she replied cheekily, relieved to have found her voice again, now that she had returned to the familiar ground of teasing him. "Although you do usually get there in the end."

She turned to the door, looking back over her shoulder at his quiet chuckle to find him shaking his head with amusement. "A wise man reminded me some time ago that we must always travel in hope. I've taken that advice to heart." With that parting volley, she sashayed out of his pantry.

Returning to his desk and the offending ledger, he was feeling remarkably pleased with himself. Tonight, he would add something extra to the tag he'd attached to her Christmas gift the previous evening. He thought he could just about get her hair right. Her eyes and her smile, though, he had no doubts.

Confession: The middle section is my attempt to work though a ridiculous headcanon that won't leave me alone, namely that Charles Carson is a bit of a doodler. If you want to read the rest of that headcanon, it's in the post at the link below (you'll have to put the link back together, as this site doesn't allow links in story posts). That post also includes links to drawings of a princess with an extraordinarily fat pony indeed, which are what I imagine Carson's little drawings to be similar to, and by extension, the donkey drawing that inspired Robert 'Donk' Crawley's nickname. (Or you can google 'Kate Beaton fat pony').

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