Stay With Me

A/N: Set during Series Two when the Spanish flu first hits Downton. Carson is ill and Mrs. Hughes is determined to see him through the crisis, no matter what it takes.

Rated: T

She'd helped him climb all those stairs, one by one, step by step, floor by floor until they had reached the servants corridor. He had apologized with almost every other step, trying to reassure her that her assistance was not necessary, though the weight he was shifting into her arms with each increasing set of stairs was unmistakable. But, this was not a task she would trust to anyone else. She would not impugn his honor, damage his reputation. She would protect his dignity with every ounce of her being.

To say she had been startled when she'd entered his pantry with some tea and a snack was an understatement. It was clear from the moment she laid eyes on him that something was amiss, something was very wrong. He was pale as a sheet with a thin layer of perspiration on his brow. What alarmed her most, however, was the great effort it took for him to merely stand on his own two feet. That was when she knew he was seriously ill. Brave face or not, it was time she took charge, took care of him when he was unwilling to do it himself.

She had waited outside his bedroom door until he had changed into his pyjamas and crawled into bed, albeit with some difficulty. He softly called out to her that he was in bed and had done so without collapsing, so she entered his room.

With quick strides, she was at his side tucking the blankets firmly around him and giving him strict orders that he was not to leave that bedroom until she was able to return. Being in no fit state to argue with her, he acquiesced, giving her only the briefest instructions regarding the dinner service and the remainder of the tasks he needed to complete that day. He could see by the look on her face that he had no other option but to obey, and quite honestly, had hadn't the strength to even try to challenge her.

It was now much later than she'd anticipated, much later than she'd intended to wait. She had wanted desperately to check on him, if for no other reason than to reassure herself that he was fine, resting comfortable, and to see if he needed anything. But, regardless of the hour, she was determined to peek in on him, hoping to find him resting comfortably.

Ever so quietly, Elsie eased open the door with the intention of only sticking her head inside, giving him a glance, then backing out and going to her own room for the evening. Unfortunately, the sight that met her eyes caused her heart to leap into her throat, all thoughts of retiring to her own room banished in an instant.

Charles Carson was ill, seriously ill. His face was flushed and the thin sheet of perspiration was now a drenching sweat. He had kicked off his blankets apparently in a flush of fever, yet she could just make out the slight shivers of a chill. If she didn't act quickly, he would no doubt be in a much worst state by morning, if that were even possible to become much worse.

As quietly as she could, she slipped into the room and eased the door shut behind her then crossed to his side.

"Mr. Carson, can you hear me? It's Mrs. Hughes." She received no response other than a soft groan, as if he were in some amount of pain. "We need to get you back under the blankets. It won't do for you to catch a chill. We'll never break your fever this way," she said rather more to herself than to him.

Tenderly, she raised the blankets from beneath his legs. The pyjama bottoms were damp from his sweat, reaffirming her fears that his fever had risen. He felt warm to the touch, even with the thin layer of fabric between his skin and her cooler fingertips. She had no way of changing his bedding or helping him into fresh clothing, nor did she think it wise to subject him to the night air. He was already chilled and moving the sheet and blankets about any more than necessary would not help him. Instead, she made certain he was completely covered, from his feet all the way to his chin. She paused a moment, then added another blanket just for safe measures.

Softly, she pressed the palm of her hand across his forehead, moving the errant lock of his hair out of the way. He was burning up with fever. She paused a moment to chide herself for not checking on him earlier, for not realizing just how ill he was until now. There would be time for remorse later. Now, her main task was to see that he wasn't left alone, to see that his fever broke, or at the very least, to be there if he woke and needed something, anything,

She checked the water basin in the corner of his room, It was empty. That would never do. He had no water in the small carafe by his bedside, either. And he most certainly could benefit from a Beecham's powder, but that was back in her sitting room.

Once more, as quietly as before, she slipped from his room, carrying the pitcher and the carafe, retracing her steps back downstairs. After filling both items with water, she stopped by her office for a powder and then in the linen cupboard for a few fresh flannels. She had a feeling she'd need all of them by morning, given the way he was sweating.

Once back inside his room, she took one look at him and her decision was made for her. She took the liberty of removing her shoes and retrieving another blanket from his linen chest. It was highly inappropriate for her to remain in his room, but if anyone asked, she would simply remind them that it was her duty to oversee the welfare of the staff and the butler was no exception. If he woke in the night, she'd be there for him. She'd hold his head while he drank cool water to quench his thirst, to mop his brow with the damp flannel to try to squelch his fever, to see that he took the powder in the hopes of easing his aches and pains.

In truth, though, he was more than a butler to her. He was her best friend. He was the one she shared her evenings with, her deepest thoughts, the pieces of her heart that she'd shared with no other. She liked to believe he felt the same about her. Otherwise, he wouldn't have listened to her problems and offered to help. He wouldn't have offered her a shoulder and an understanding ear when Joe Burns had returned. He wouldn't seek her company when he was having a particularly troubling day or he needed a second opinion. He wouldn't trust her enough to share some of the things he heard upstairs, during tense dinners or in conversations with his Lordship, even the Dowager Countess.

No, if there was ever anyone living under the Downton Abbey roof that warranted her attention and protection, it was most certainly Charles Carson. He looked after the family. She looked after him.

She lowered the lamp in his room just enough to cast long shadows on the wall. She could still make out the features of his face, see the slight creases in his forehead from time to time, and she could easily make out the water glass, the flannels, his blankets should he begin to kick them once more. Satisfied with her surroundings, she sat in the chair by his bed wishing she had thought to bring a pillow but unwilling to leave him again. She watched him sleeping, concentrating on the rise and fall of his chest, his labored breathing until her eyes closed shut in a restless sleep.

She woke suddenly to the sound of a loud moan and agitated movements in the bed beside her. Immediately, she was on her feet and by his side. He struggled with his bedding, as if fending off an attacker.

"Mr. Carson … sssh, please, calm down. I'm here. It's Mrs. Hughes … it's Elsie." Her voice was soft and seemed to make some slight impact on him, for he settled a bit. She touched the back of her hand to his cheek. He was burning up. Quickly, she poured a generous amount of water into the basin and soaked one of the flannels, then pressed it gently to his head, his cheeks, his throat. She spoke soft, soothing words to him, reassuring him she was still there and that everything would be fine. Despite his calmed state, his fever raged on and Elsie seriously considered calling for help, but she squelched that idea almost as soon as it was born. He was a dignified man and would not want anyone to see him in such a state, so she would take care of him, no matter what that meant.

Wetting another cloth, she bathed his hands. Taking his right hand in hers, she marveled at how strong his hands felt even now, how easy it was to hold his hand in hers, how soft his hand felt against her skin. She gently ran the cooling rag over the back of his hand, around his wrist, down the palm of his hand, and around each fingertip before doing the same with his left hand. She watched his face as she did so, watching for any sign that her actions might be helping and she was rewarded for her efforts.

His body stilled at her tender touch, her softly spoken words, her mere presence by his bed. This did not go unnoticed, though Elsie brushed it aside as being more of a reaction to the cooling cloth against his heated skin.

As she studied his hands and his face, Charles began to mumble in his fevered sleep. Words strung together with no meaning, no relevance to what was happening slipped past his parched lips.

She dipped her fingertip into a small amount of water then every so lightly, she traced the outline of his lips, wetting them, cooling them, offering him some small measure of comfort. His lips parted and a deep breath rushed past them and warming her finger. Sensing the relief that gave him and seeing how the muscles in his jaw relaxed, she did it once more, letting a little drop of water slip from her finger onto his tongue.

His eyes fluttered open. They were clouded with fever but he recognized her, for which she was grateful. "You … shouldn't … be … here," he struggled to say. His voice was weak. There was no conviction behind his words, no real desire to see her leave him.

"And where else would I be? You're very ill and someone needs to look after you. Who better than me, I'd like you to tell me," she challenged. Her voice had changed, too, though. There was no irritation or animosity in her voice, only concern and a hint of something more, something neither of them yet realized.

"You might … become ill, yourself," he managed to say before a coughing fit gripped him.

She tossed the cloth onto his bedside table and helped him to sit up a little bit in the bed, then rushed around the end of the bed for the glass of water. "Here, slowly now. Don't gulp it." She cradled his back, letting him lean against her one arm while she covered his hand holding the glass with her own much smaller hand.

Being this close to him, hugging his body to hers, she could feel that his fever was still strong, though perhaps not as strong as it had been earlier in the night. "I want you to take this powder, then you're going to go back to sleep. You need your rest."

"I could say the same about you, Elsie." The glass of water had soothed his sore throat, giving him a respite from at least one of his ailments. "You cannot be comfortable in that chair."

"Comfortable enough and at least this way, I'll get a little sleep, If I'm in my own room … well, I can't hear you if you should need something or if your fever worsens." She handed him the powder and motioned for him to take it, which he did with no argument. "There, that should help a little."

He sighed and leaned back against the headboard. His head was pounding and every muscle in his body throbbed with every beat of his heart. He couldn't tell her that, though. She'd only worry more than she was already. And it was worry he could see her in eyes. "I'm sure I'll be fine by morning and …"

"Charles Carson, it is morning, though very early still. Daisy probably won't be awake for another two hours. And you're still very warm, much too warm to be fanning about in the morning, most assuredly."

Charles raised his hand to his cheek, his forehead, his throat. He had to admit, he felt as warm on the outside as he did on the inside. "Very well. You win, but there's really no need for you to stay with me. I'll be fine."

"I'm sure you will, and I intend to stay until I'm sure you're well enough to physically remove me from your rooms." Her own cheeks flushed as the impact of her words hit her. Now was not the time to ponder on such thoughts. No, those were reserved for her own bedroom, her own dreams, her own secret corners of her heart.

"Your cheeks seem a little pink to me. Are you sure you're not coming down with a fever as well?" She shook her head and tried to brush aside his comment. "Come here and let me see," he asked softly, holding out his hand to her once more.

She stepped closer and leaned over him, letting him touch her cheek and her forehead before he took her hand in his. "You don't feel very warm at all. In fact, your hands feel soft and cool. I must have been dreaming earlier. I felt something cool against my skin and my hands."

"No, it was me," she answered softly. "You were restless and I thought it might calm you down if I could make you just a wee bit cooler. It worked, too, because you relaxed and drifted back to sleep."

It was Charles' turn to flush, though Elsie would never be able to tell since his cheeks were already pink tinged. He'd been dreaming of Elsie and a lakeside picnic. They were on a blanket and her cool fingertips were ghosting over his face and down his arms while his head rested in her lap. She had traced the outline of his lips before she'd leaned down and gently kissed him. And then he'd opened his eyes to find her standing over him, caring for him. He cleared his throat and tried to regain control of his thoughts.

"It's so very hot in here. Can't we remove a blanket or two from the bed, please? I'm burning up."

Elsie shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not. Your fever won't break if you give in now. You might as well settle down and try to sleep. I'll wake you before I leave to freshen up and then I'll bring you some tea and porridge later." She pressed her hand against his shoulder, urging him to settle back in his bed, though she could still feel the warmth seeping through his damp shirt.

She thought for a moment, going back and forth with her own common sense and what she felt was best for him. Her compassionate side won the argument and before she could second guess herslf, the words were tumbling from her lips. "Would you rest better with a fresh shirt? This one seems damp with sweat."

Charles looked up sharply. Had he heard her correctly? She had said she wasn't leaving him yet she was contemplating letting him change at least his shirt. "I … I might feel a bit better. I'll not lie."

She nodded her head and crossed to his dresser. "Pyjamas in the …"

"Second drawer from the bottom. The blue shirt would be nice." He watched as she bent over, rummaging around the drawer until she found the shirt he'd wanted. He expected her to hand him the shirt then leave the room but what she did next surprised him.

Elsie felt bolder somehow, almost as if she had a right to take care of him. She'd watched over him for the better part of the night, and she would not back down now. He needed her, and she needed to take care of him.

Her hands were steady as he sat down on the bed beside him and reached for the first button of his shirt. Her eyes locked with his, seeking any indication of hesitation or some sign that she had truly crossed a line.

He inhaled sharply when she perched herself on the edge of his bed. His mind must have been muddled because he was sure he saw something in her eyes as she stared at him. When her fingers unfastened the first of the buttons on his shirt, he convinced himself he was dreaming again. He must have fallen asleep, and this was some wonderful dream.

Button after button, she slowly unfastened them all. He felt a rush of cool air hit him as his damp skin was exposed to the night air, shocking him back to reality. This wasn't a dream nor was it anything more than the housekeeper tending to an ill member of the staff. He mustn't let his baser emotions take over.

Elsie watched him carefully as she opened his shirt one button at a time. With each button came newly exposed skin and despite herself, she felt her own body warming. When she reached the last button, she paused for a moment before peeling back both sides, revealing his broad chest and that small patch of hair in the center of it. She'd often thought of this moment, seeing him for the first time, helping him undress in the middle of the night, though the circumstances were much different. Still, the situation at hand didn't stop her mind from flooding with all those images.

Shaking herself mentally, she stood and helped him out of his shirt. His skin was damp, glistening in the light. "Here, let's see if we can't make you feel a bit better." She poured a small amount of water on a fresh flannel and returned to his side. "Get you freshened up and perhaps you'll sleep better, hmm?"

Without waiting for a response, Elsie began to ease the cloth over his shoulders, along his throat. He sighed softly, letting his head fall back as the coolness of the water and the gentleness of her movements washed over him, lulling him towards sleep.

She watched her own hand as she guided the cloth over his chest. She had not envisioned this happening when she'd first decided to stay with him during the night. He was far too sick and she was letting the lateness of the hour coupled with her long held desires take control of her thoughts. Still, she might not be a woman of the world, but she didn't live in a sack. She could appreciate a fine form and Charles Carson certainly had a fine one, very fine indeed.

The flannel slipped slower, across his chest then down over his torso, around his belly, then back up to the shoulders only to glide down each arm to the tips of his fingertips.

"Sit up a little for me, please." Her voice was a little hoarse, though she hoped he wouldn't notice. This little sponge bath was having more of an effect on her than she'd care to admit, though it would most certainly provide her with many images to use during future lonely nights.

He did as she asked, leaning over as far as he dared. Then, he felt the softness of the material against his back, then her bare hand was on his shoulder, urging him to sit back once more. Before he would second guess himself, he captured her hand and brought it to his lips.

Elsie gasped softly as his warm lips pressed against the inside of her wrist, lingering there. One kiss. Two, Feather light and warm. His breath creating a little fever of its own. And then his lips were gone just as quickly as they arrived. But before she could say anything more, they were back only this time they were pressed against her palm, ghosting over the pads of her fingers. She moaned softly, unable to control herself any longer.

"Elsie."

His voice brought her fantasy world crashing down around her and she suddenly remembered where she was and her reason, her very serious reason, for being in his room. She had allowed her emotions to take hold of her in a moment of weakness, as she began to realize that she might lose him if his sickness worsened.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. I should never have …"

Her words were cut short by one simple action. He took her hand and placed it against his chest, her palm covering the expanse of skin above his heart. "I'm in no fit state to make declarations this evening, Elsie, but this, here, in my heart, is where you belong. I've known it for quite some time but never dared speak of it" He saw her eyes widen and a smile curl about her lips. "When I'm well again, I'd like the chance to walk you to the village, to take tea in a little shop I know of in Ripon. I want there to be no more men like Joe Burns to swoop into town and set their cap, or their eyes either for that matter, on you." His fingers caressed the back of her hand which had started to lightly stroke his chest. "We'll take things slowly, if you'd like, but Elsie, I think you know how I feel."

She smiled and slipped her hand over his chest, along his throat, and up to his cheek, cupping it. Her thumb brushed across his lips. "And I'm fairly certain you know how I feel about you, though perhaps I should make myself clear." She slowly closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his in a first real kiss. There was nothing deep or powerful about it, just a simple sign of love, some moment in time to be cherished for the rest of their lives. When she pulled back, she could feel the warmth in her cheeks and see how his had reddened a little more, though not from a fever spike this time.

"Let's get you clothed again before you catch your death of this cold and then I'd be left with a broken heart and nobody to take me to tea in Ripon."

He chuckled and helped her to help him into his fresh shirt. "Stay with me … please?" He knew it sounded childish, weak even, but after everything, he didn't think he could bear to see her leave him, not just yet.

"Mr. Carson … Charles, did I not tell you that I wouldn't leave you? You'll have to be able to physically remove me from your room."

He wiggled his eyebrows at her and grinned like a devilish little lad. "Give me a few weeks to regain my strength and then ask me to prove my physical strength. But for now, would you please hold my hand, just so I'll know you're near me?"

She kissed him once more on the lips, then each cheek, and finally his forehead. "Gladly and I'm sure we'll both rest much easier now." She moved her chair against his bed and propped her legs on his bed before closing her hand around his.

"Sleep well, Charles, and if you need me, I'll be right here. I promise."

"Sweet dreams, Elsie. Dream of walks to the village, trips to tea shops, and lazy summer picnics. That's what I'll be dreaming of and when I'm well, we'll make all those dreams come true."

Elsie woke the next morning with her hand still firmly encased in his. He'd turned onto his side during the night, facing her and his free hand rested heavily on the upper portion of her leg. She could easily get used to this feeling, waking happy and feeling very much loved. She'd make sure Charles took better care of himself. She'd see him through this crisis, and the next one, and the next one. They'd face whatever life had to toss at them, only this time they'd do it together, just as it was meant to be.

The End.

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