Chase You Like The Rain

A/N: It seems that my last C/H story, 'Inside, Outside, Under My Skin' begged for a sequel—so here it is, a little different from what you, my wonderful readers, asked for, but I hope you'll find it both believable and pleasurable a read all the same. I'd appreciate any feedback you're willing to provide, thanks!

PS. I would like to dedicate this story to Duda, who's been going through a rather rough time recently. Love you!

He can feel her eyes on him, watching his expression with closely hidden concern—that calm quietness could have fooled anyone, but not him. He knows what goes on in that busy head of hers, knows what is keeping her on her toes, metaphorically speaking, of course, since they are both sitting on hard, wooden seats of the third class train compartment, their bodies swaying gently from side to side as the black, iron monster hurries them through the black, rainy night.

She is worried. For him. About him. Because of him.

Obviously, she has no reason to. He didn't actually expect to win this thing anyway. Still, it's rather endearing to know she cares enough to let the slightest line appear on her forehead, her hands clasping the small, velvet purse with much more force than strictly necessary.

She looks beautiful, he thinks for the hundredth time today, taking in the deep, plush pink of her dress, now partly covered beneath a sand-coloured summer coat; he knows very well both garments are no more than hand-me-downs from her ladyship, but Miss Hughes looks as if she was born to wear clothes like this, with her high cheekbones and soft lips, and a remarkably slender neck he'd actually seen for the first time that very afternoon, when she slipped her coat and scarf off outside the cloakroom and turned to him, bright-eyed, waiting for him to say something—anything—acknowledge the change in her appearance.

He didn't say much, of course he didn't: that wouldn't have been appropriate, not given their professional relationship, or the friendship he hopes he's right to perceive growing between them. He commented on her choice of dress and hairstyle, because that's what a butler should do: appreciate the effort his staff put in to look more than adequate to every occasion they'd find themselves in.

But he didn't tell her how much he liked the way she let her hair touch the outline of her face a little softer, gentler than usual, while still keeping them tied back in a simple, elegant knot. Or how the skin of her neck and shoulders seemed to glow in the light filtering in through the windows as they walked into the ceremony hall, not touching, but together, so close to each other he could almost feel the physical connection.

Or how, when he leaned forward to hold out the chair for her, he couldn't separate the aroma of the single dark pink rose she'd pinned over her left breast from the smell of her skin, and tell which one was more intoxicating.

He'd poured her the wine and they talked, calm, hushed voices; she smiled at him and sipped from her glass, far more graceful and at ease than he would have expected it from a housemaid. Where she had ever learnt all that, he didn't know—but he admired her, and wanted to impress her, in a rather unprofessional a manner, if he were to be true to himself.

And so, for the first time since receiving the invitation to the ceremony, he started hoping that he would win the prize, if only to see Miss Hughes' eyes gleam with mirth and, yes, hopefully pride.

"Let's skip the dinner," she proposes, leaning a little closer to him to be heard over the rumble of chairs being pushed away from the tables and people breaking off into a lively chatter. "Let's go home, Mr. Carson."

He frowns, looking at her with concern. "Are you sure? I was hoping you'd get to enjoy this evening, despite the outcome…"

"I have enjoyed it," she interrupts him gently, yet decisively, giving him a small, encouraging smile. "But now I would rather catch the eight-thirty train to Downton, if you don't mind."

He lets his eyes wander away, slipping over the darkness behind the window, not really seeing anything, and thinks about the kindness and consideration she'd shown tonight. She didn't have to leave, she could have well stayed and enjoyed the dinner, the quality of the food much better than what they could expect at home, regardless of all the praises of Mrs. Patmore's cooking.

She could have stayed, and had fun: wasn't that the main purpose of tonight? Why he invited her to accompany him in the first place?

(No, it was not.)

And still, she chose to leave, seeing how uncomfortable he was after hearing the verdict, and—especially—its justification.

Because he knows, with alarming clarity, that if such are the criteria that make a man worth the Butler Of The Year Award, he can never hope to receive it.

It had never bothered him much, not until tonight, when he's sitting on a train, across from a woman who pretends not to shoot him a worried glance every now and then, biting her lower lip just so, making him want to reach out and cover her gloved hands with his.

Where do these feelings come from?, he wonders, and shuts his eyes, concentrating on the rhythmical sway of the carriage, the sound of the train wheels, the faint smell of smoke coming through the window. Is it regret that makes him feel that way? Disappointment? Bitter realization that, at least according to some standards (were they ever his own?), he'd made a mistake?

Was it a mistake? He'd always been happy with the life he chose. Why would that single evening spoil that for him?

"Mr. Carson? Are you quite alright?"

He opens his eyes and looks at her, belittling himself for making that single worry-line on her forehead a little too pronounced, all because of his selfish brooding. "I am. Thank you for your concern all the same, Miss Hughes."

She nods, but doesn't seem to be quite satisfied with his answer. She probably knows him too well already.

"If it is any consolation… I wished you had won, Mr. Carson. There are very few men who deserve it more than you do."

He chuckles mirthlessly, looks down at his ringless hands, the hat in his lap. "The jury seemed to disagree with you, Miss Hughes."

He can feel the definite, confident hardness of her voice, washing over him like a wave of hearth warmth as she speaks, "Then they were sadly mistaken."

"The award for the best butler of the year 1902 goes to Mr. Mattheus Fairfax of Shelby Hall, in appreciation of his highly admirable conduct and dignity, as well as the profound skills of keeping his personal and professional lives apart and continuing to provide excellent service to his employer, despite being a married man and a father. Mr. Fairfax, if you could kindly step forward…"

They all but run all the way to the house—most undignified a thing for a butler and a head housemaid to do, but it was either that or getting even more soaked, bone-chillingly cold and dishevelled—and when they finally reach Downton, she heads straight for the dark, empty kitchen, lighting a candle and putting the kettle on. He watches her from the hallway as he hangs his hat and coat up, the way the firelight touches her back (she slips her own coat off, throws it carelessly across the back of a chair), her neck (she reaches up to take two cups off a shelf above her head), her bare shoulders.

Is this how it feels, coming back home in the evening, to find a woman—your woman—waiting for you, making you a cup of tea?

He doesn't know. He never even knew he might have wanted that.

"Mr. Carson? You've gone away, again."

He focuses his gaze on her face, half-obscured with the shadows as she leans against the edge of the stove and takes her gloves off, warming her hands over the fire. "I beg you pardon, Miss Hughes. I haven't been the best company throughout the evening, have I? I apologize."

She pours the tea to the cups and hands him one with an expression of mild amusement. "You needn't apologize to me, Mr. Carson. After all, I told you what I thought."

"You did, and I value your opinion very much—it's just that I cannot help but wonder…"

"Mr. Carson," her voice takes on a touch of firmness he usually associated with women in charge, housekeepers and the likes, not housemaids—however extraordinary ones. "Sit down, please."

So he does, across from her, and watches her sip her tea, all the while keeping her eyes locked on his face. "I believe yours is the more difficult path," she says slowly, measuring out every word, gauging his reactions as if he were a wild animal ready to prance. (Perhaps he is, a little, tonight, with her.) "Where Mr. Fairfax has a stepping-stone and shelter that is a family of his own, you have only the family you serve—and you have given up so much to get to the point you are at now…"

"Yet I've never longed for a marriage, or a family of my own, Miss Hughes," he points out gently, sliding his fingers around the rim of the cup.

"This doesn't mean you couldn't have had all that," she says, and presses her fingertips against one temple, frowning slightly. "I'm not sure if I am making myself clear, Mr. Carson, but I do believe that we are shaped by every choice that we make. Sometimes we give something up without having as much as consciously considered it being an option we might have chosen. You chose to work for Lord Grantham, to serve his family while foregoing your own: and you do it with an integrity and strength I find much more admirable than those of Mr. Fairfax.

"You see, Mr. Carson—when problems arise, Mr. Fairfax has a family to go back to; he has somebody to take the burdens off his shoulders, even if for a while. Whereas you have devoted so much to your work, made so many sacrifices—and still, who would be there to help you, if such a need appears?"

He listens to the soft cadence of her voice, its lilting melody, and marvels at the fact that this woman—this extraordinary, kind, hardworking, beautiful woman—cares for him as much as she does, while never once overstepping the boundaries of their friendship. For, yes, a part of him would have liked to read more meaning, more significance into her words: but a bigger, stronger part knows that he should not do so, not if her praises of his professionalism, integrity, and sacrifice were to remain true.

He comes to realize that he appreciates her friendship, her respect, more than he would have ever guessed: and if there is a stirring of another, more powerful, more poignant, more dangerous feeling in the deepest part of his heart, it would have to wait for a better moment to make its presence known.

His gaze drops down to the material of her dress, soaked with the rain but drying slowly thanks to the vicinity of the stove, changing its colour back from dark grey to delicate pink: and thinks about a reserve process that had been involuntarily started in his mind, his soul, that is currently turning into a deeper, warmer shade as Miss Hughes' presence, her voice, the smell of her skin, the shape of her hands, slowly seep into it, saturating his heart with a need that, he hopes as much as he fears, would never quite go away.

"I should hope I'd have a friend or two to help me out in a moment of trouble, should such a situation arise, Miss Hughes," he answers softly, meeting her eyes with openness and sincerity he would have considered too risky for his own comfort, were she any other person in the world.

"I believe you shall, Mr. Carson," she says with a smile, and he knows that she understood everything he wanted to tell her: or perhaps almost everything, for what this new, curious feeling is, he cannot quite fathom yet himself. "And as your friend, I would now advise you to go to bed, and rest before a hard day's work. Give me your cup, please, I'll rinse it—"

"Thank you, Miss Hughes," he stops her hand with a short gesture and stands up, walking over to the sink and turning to face her, reaching out for her own cup. "I'll take care of that. You go upstairs."

They are rather close now, so close that he could probably count her eyelashes even in the low light of a candle, close enough for him to smell the rain on her hair, to notice the glint in her eye he cannot quite put a finger on.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she slips the saucer into his hand and takes a step back, her lips trembling just so as her gaze drops a fracture and slides over his face, his mouth, like a caress, a low-burning flame that never quite goes out. "I had the most pleasant time tonight. Thank you for inviting me to join you."

"The pleasure was all mine, Miss Hughes," and it was, it is, even though a small nagging voice in the back of his mind tells him some things have changed, and the balance have shifted, and everything will become a little more complicated—but it will be worth it, he knows that, worth every little sacrifice he shall (consciously) make henceforth.

There will be a time to let the clothes dry, and there will be one to pour the contents of his heart out, to take a step towards her and…

"Goodnight, Mr. Carson."

Her voice is warm and soft like the candlelight, and he wonders if he could make his sound the same, if he could let her know how he feels with these three simple words, the end and the beginning.

He's not sure.

But he will try nonetheless.

"Goodnight, Miss Hughes."

The End