Downton Abbey 1. Chapter One

**A/N: **Yes, it's me again. This one, well this one is special and different. I suspect it's going to be quite a long-ish ride, although I'm aiming for this sort of chapter size quite regularly. It's a Modern AU with all of our characters, Elsie Hughes and Charles Carson being the central focus, but with a familiar ensemble of people. Set in a fictional (Downton) university and...oh, enough from me, I just hope you enjoy it! Rating will change in the future.

_In which Elsie Hughes prepares for the new Term and the author sets the scene._

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

"Malteser?"

Elsie Hughes jumps as the small chocolate ball is thrust in front of her, almost colliding with her nose. She stares at it a moment, going cross-eyed and then turns to the woman next to her; Beryl Patmore; a food critic in a past life and purveyor of chocolate confections in this one. And Head of Food Tech. "No thank you." She whispers; they're not so far away from the front table and the row of Downton Board members that they might not be overheard.

"What? You're not still on that diet, are you? Go on, one little bit of chocolate won't hurt." The malteser, melting now between Beryl's thumb and finger, waves about in front of her. "They're more air than anything. You've seen the advert, where they blow at them through straws."

"I- no, no. And I'm not 'still on that diet', thank you. I gave it up as soon as I'd lost that bit of holiday weight, didn't I."

Beryl takes the malteser back, popping it into her mouth and sucking the melted chocolate off her fingers. "Pff. Holiday weight; your clothes still fit, didn't they? No buttons popping off, your seams didn't burst."

Mr Spratt snickers beside her and even as she turns to glare at him, she can still feel herself flushing.

She nudges Beryl with her elbow and points to the front where Professor Carson has just stood to address the Board. Her friend hums - and how a single noise can sound so knowing Elsie isn't sure, but somehow it does.

"Alright, alright I'll hush up. But only because he'll have a right sore thumb if he finds out you've not listened to him."

Elsie supposes that Charles beginning to speak is as good a reason as any for why she has nothing to say to that.

**-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-**

The Humanities lounge is practically empty when she eventually pulls herself away from her marking to grab a cup of tea. The meeting this morning put her behind and with the students returning for the Summer Term tomorrow, she really needs to get their essays marked and graded.

She surveys the room as she waits for the kettle to boil but there's only Anna and John Bates huddled over in the corner, balls of paper scattered around their feet and an iPad propped up between them. She smiles in sympathy and pulls down two more mugs from the cupboard, drops an extra teabag in the pot; at least she got her lesson plans out of the way at the start of the holiday. She had to really, to have time to go over every other plan her department Professor's sent her. It was the essays she put off as long as she could; there's always that moment as she reads them where she loses all hope for ever getting anything through her student's' over-primped heads and she hadn't wanted the disappointment to sour her holiday.

Not that she had much of a holiday to sour; getting through three books by George R.R. Martin might be an accomplishment, but she thinks it says a little too much about the amount of time she spent alone in her rooms to want to brag about it.

The kettle clicks off and she fills the teapot, swirls the water around a few times before replacing the lid and letting it rest.

Of course there was that day out in London, that was nice. Being dragged around the V&A by Charles Carson is not exactly everyone's idea of a good time, but she loves to see his passion, the joy on his face as he points out the exhibits to her. He's better than any museum guide or booklet, cheaper too.

She knows more now about Victorian-period dress than she could ever have thought she would, or wanted to honestly. But she's an academic and can appreciate learning for learning's sake and some of it _was_ quite interesting. Some of it, well, Charles enjoyed himself so there's that.

She takes the milk from the fridge, gives it a bit of a sniff before pouring a few drops in each mug. It's not cheese yet, so it'll do for now but she'll try to remember to pick up a few pints in the morning; it won't do to run out tomorrow, not on the first day of the Term.

Topping each mug up with the tea, she stirs a couple of artificial sweeteners into Anna's cup, two heaped tea spoons of real sugar into John's and then uses the spoon to stir her own.

She hovers by the Bates' table for a moment, trying to find a safe place to put their mugs before spotting a tiny section of table under only a single layer of paper. There's already a tea ring on it so she supposes it'll do fine.

Neither of them look up and she chuckles beneath her breath as Anna reaches for the mug as soon as it's been put down.

Grabbing her own mug she blows across the surface of it, the steam wafting up and away and heads back to her office and the last of the Essays. They're her second year Journalism ones and somewhere in there is Edith Crawley's so there's at least some promise of light at the end of an otherwise dismal tunnel.

She nods as she passes Joseph Molesley and Phyllis Baxter having a heated conversation in the corridor. Phyllis has her hand on his arm, squeezing and they're closer together than usual. Elsie bites her cheek and rounds the corner; she'd known it was only a matter of time, Charles owes her a bottle of Glenlivet for that.

There's already an email from John Bates in her inbox when she gets back to her office, thanking her for the tea.

She sends a quick _'you're welcome' _back with a smile and slips her reading glasses on.

Sipping at the hot tea as she flips open the next essay, she picks up her red pen and feels her muscles tensing up in anticipation. The heat of the tea steams up her lenses and she shrugs; they're not quite rose-tinted but it might help anyway.

'_Journalism is an important media for freedom of speech because, like, if someone's caught lying, someone famous, then the papers should be able to print the truth and not be gagged because like-_'

She groans; or not.

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><p><em><strong>(If you have time, please let me know what you think!)<strong>_

_Also key for those who need it:  
><em>malteser _- chocolate coated malt flavoured honeycomb ball thing**  
><strong>_the V&A_ - the Victoria and Albert Museum; an art and design museum which in this instance was showcasing period wear._


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N: Wow, I am blown away by the enthusiasm for this new story. So much so I've written a little more. Thank you!**

_In which Charles Carson's Molesley limits are pushed and all he wants is to take Elsie to lunch before Beryl ruins it._

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

Charles finds himself held up no less than five times between his office and Elsie's; a journey that should take no more than five minutes takes almost half an hour and by the time he reaches her door he feels like his blood pressure has risen another couple of pegs. At this rate he'll work himself into that heart attack she's always warning him about, before he's sixty. And there aren't even any students about yet. He isn't sure he's ready for the break to end yet, he hardly feels like he's had any time to relax at all. Except for that day in London, that was truly a highlight of the holidays.

Huffing he tugs at his cardigan, straightens out the pockets of his trousers and raises his hand to rap his knuckles against her door.

He steps through before she calls out to him - as he has since her first day; it's become a bit of a tradition now - and stops short a foot into the empty room.

"Blast." He mutters, one hand clenching into a fist, the other still curled around the door handle.

Damn Joseph Molesley and his incessant questions anyway; twice he caught him in the history block. Charles isn't even sure how the man got ahead of him to catch him the second time, he's sure he walked off the other way.

The worst part though is that all of his questions will be covered in tomorrow's morning meeting, if he could have just waited. And now he's managed to miss Elsie.

He'd hoped to be in time to invite her to lunch before Beryl did; there's a new bistro opened up in the village and he wants to try it before the picky cook ruins it for him. He can't even look at a Wetherspoons without the things she told him coming to mind and putting him off his dinner.

But he seems to have been picked at the post. "Damn."

"Such strong language, Charles Carson. I'm shocked!" He jumps at her voice behind him and spins around to face her. Elsie stands in the doorway, a stack of papers held up to her chest and her glasses perched on her nose. Somehow even with her head tipped up to look at him, she still manages to peer over the rims. He swallows, his heart pounding at the surprise of her presence, his palms clamming up.

"You're here." He states dumbly.

She raises a delicate eyebrow and makes a production of glancing at her name plate on the door. "Is there somewhere else I should be?"

On the familiar ground of her teasing he clears his throat with a cough. "I came to invite you to lunch, I thought I'd missed you."

"Ah, I see. Is it that time already?" She sidles past him and drops the papers onto the edge of her desk, a tower of files wobbles alarmingly before steadying again.

He checks his watch; half-one. "Passed it, actually. I'm afraid I got held up on the way over."

"Well, whoever they were, they did you a favour. You'd have been standing here like a lemon if you'd come any earlier. I've been fighting with the copier for the last half hour."

Ah, _the copier_. He doesn't envy her, he lost one of his better ties to that last December. "I see."

"Of course if someone would stop arguing against the university adopting a completely electronic resources system, I wouldn't need to copy anything at all and we could just chuck the old thing away."

He shifts uncomfortably under her glare; all the more terrifying for coming from behind those wire-rimmed glasses. Sometimes she reminds him of the Librarian of his own school-days, always glaring at him for whispering too loudly or humming while he studied. "Yes, well, let's not rehash that argument."

"Hmm, perhaps not. You're looking harried enough already." She slips her glasses off and folds the arms carefully, tucks them into their case on the desk. "Do you even have time for lunch now? Don't you have a meeting with our esteemed Dean this afternoon?"

"Yes, but not until half two." He answers while she slips her jacket on over her jumper, picks up her bag from the bottom drawer of her desk.

"Oh I see." She says, turning back to him and reaching up a hand to flick her hair out from where it's caught up in her collar. "So a short lunch then. Did you have somewhere in mind?"

He holds the door open for her as she steps through, his hand hovering for a moment at the small of her back, before he lets it fall with a mental sigh.

"A new place has just opened up on Willow Street, next to the bookshop. I thought we might give it a try."

She catches his eye as they walk side-by-side along the corridor, smirks knowingly. "I see, and Beryl hasn't had a chance to rate it yet, I suppose?"

"No, for the moment it remains unsullied by her words and horror stories."

Her laugh echoes off the walls. "Very well, I'll give it a try. But be warned Charles Carson; if I come down with a case of food poisoning again, you can be the one to explain to Crawley why he's down an English professor on the first day of Term."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Consider me warned." He takes a couple more steps before adding thoughtfully; "Perhaps I'll mention it to him in our meeting later, lay some groundwork just in case."

She stops suddenly and stares at him. "Well thank you Professor Optimism; now I'm just full of confidence in the place."

"It'll be fine, Elsie. Of course it will." He says, waving a hand to gee her back into moving.

"Hmm. Well, never mind. So long as they have tea; I've some news for you about my Miss Baxter and your Mr Molesley."

He groans and pushes the call button for the lift. "He is not _my_ anything." And he has had quite enough of that man for one day.

She eyes him as the lift doors open and they step in. "There's a new story to that groan." She says, pressing the button for the ground floor. "You can tell me over lunch."

_Great_, he thinks as the doors close and they start to descend, _won't this be a fun lunch now._

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><p><em>Meet Carson; Professor Grouch.<em>

_Key:  
><em>Wetherspoons - _a chain of pubs that serve cheap and mostly reheated food. I have nothing against them, they were a staple of my own Uni days, but Mrs Patmore would not approve in any universe and could probably come up with some gruesome stories._


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N: **Well I _am_ glad you're all onboard for this ride, please keep your arms and legs inside the carriage at all times (unless there's call for flailing, then please flail) it might be a bumpy one!

_In which Elsie Hughes is a Baxley shipper and Charles Carson can ruin a mood with a single sentence._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

"It was delicious, thank you." She says as the waiter clears the table, she offers him a smile and searches her memory for his name; she's sure the lad took one of her classes last year. He's probably from one of the Media courses; they usually like to bulk up their class lists with one from the English department at least once during their stay at Downton.

"Do you want any more tea, Professor?" Andy, was it? It could have been. He looks like an Andy.

She looks over at Charles and he shakes his head, his eyes on the clock over the bar. Their lunch has taken a little longer than they thought, in the end. "No thank you, just the bill please."

Andy - she's sure it _is_ Andy - smiles with a nod and disappears out the back with their plates, Elsie turns her attention back to the man across from her.

"So, I think that's worth the bottle, don't you?" She says, continuing on from where they left off.

"I don't know." He frowns, his impressive eyebrows pulling together. "I'd hardly say that spotting them standing close together is conclusive evidence, Elsie."

"She was holding his hand." She points out, fiddles with the napkin on her lap with one hand while the other gestures, one finger pressing down on the tablecloth as she adds; "that tells me they're closer than they were before the Easter break."

"Ah, no." He waggles a finger at her, his lips turning up into a smug little smile and her heart gives a quick jolt in her chest; a result of all the caffeine she's consumed so far today, she's sure. "You said she had her hand on his _arm_."

She frowns herself, thinking over the scene in the corridor. "Hand. Arm. There's not a lot of difference in it, only a few centimetres or so."

"And a bottle of single malt. No I'm sorry Professor Hughes, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to call this one for the undecided's due to a lack of conclusive evidence."

"I suspect it has more to do with you not wanting to fork out the thirty pounds for the scotch."

Andy drops their bill on the table and after checking it she pulls out a ten and some loose pounds to cover her half, Charles doing the same. "Now that's hardly fair, Elsie. You know I'd honour our wager if it came to it." He smirks as he tucks his note in with hers and piles the coins up on the little plastic dish. "It's just that it never has."

"Yet, Charles Carson. It hasn't come to it _yet_. You might have been right about Mary Crawley and that dropout from the Geography students last year; what was his name? Patrick-something. Anyway, I'll admit you had it right about them, but I know I'm right this time."

She slips her arms into her jacket and settles the straps of her bag over her shoulder, dropping her napkin onto the table as she stands.

"So you keep saying, but I haven't seen anything to indicate it myself." He holds the door open for her after they've weaved their way through the tables and she imagines she feels his hand hesitate at her back as they walk, but of course as always, when she looks at him, both hands are at his sides and nowhere near her.

She looks away, takes a couple of sideways steps to avoid colliding with a little girl riding her bike along the pavement. "Perhaps that's because every time Joseph Molesley comes near you, you run a mile."

She can sense him blustering up beside her. "I do not _'run a mile'_ when I see him. I haven't run at all since 1992, as you well know." The gravel of the wide drive up to the University crunches beneath their feet.

She smiles, shakes her head and turns to pat his arm in faux sympathy. "Ah yes, the marathon. But you know I didn't mean that literally." She adds when she catches him looking a little too pleased with himself. "If you spent time with the man you might see that he's crazy about her."

"I don't know that I would. I spend enough time with Molesley as it is, and he's never mentioned Miss Baxter once." She finds herself pressed up against him as they squeeze through the small crowd outside the Admissions office. A frazzled head peaks out from behind the counter and Elsie waves at Ethel. Poor thing, she can't be getting much more peace at home with the little one; he must be starting to teeth by now.

"Surely that can't be true?" She knows she isn't inventing this in her head. Every conversation she has with Molesley at least starts or ends with some mention of her Language professor. She can't believe he only does that with her. Although, she _is_ Phyllis's Department Head...no, no Charles is wrong. There is definitely something there. "You have to at least admit that he's been meeting her for lunch more regularly recently."

She tries for one last push at convincing him as they approach the lifts.

He presses the button and turns to her with an eyebrow already raised. "Need I remind you that we have just had lunch together for the second time since Wednesday? We've been meeting regularly like this for years, but that doesn't mean there is anything more than friendship between us, does it?"

That should not hurt anymore. Not since she told herself during the third year of knowing him, that she would be his friend and only his friend, that she _could_ be that, if it was all he wanted. But for all that it shouldn't hurt, that she should be used to him saying such things by now, somehow of course it still does.

"No, of course not." She swallows, turns her lips up in a smile. "You're right, it is inconclusive, but I will prove you wrong one day." The lift doors open and she backs away from them even as he steps inside.

"Aren't you coming up?"

She waves off his question, points her thumb back the way they came. "We need milk in the Lounge. I meant to pick some up on the way in."

Charles looks unconvinced, so she smiles again - "Let me know how the meeting goes" - and could almost kiss young Gregson for stepping into the lift beside him, because it stops him from saying anything else.

The lift doors close and she breathes in deeply, one hand rising up to rub at her chest.

"We're running low in the Math Lounge, too." Mr Spratt says from her shoulder and glaring at him she drops her hand. He always seems to be just _there_.

"You'd best go out and get some then; we wouldn't want you to have to rely on the mercy of the other Departments tomorrow, would we?" She turns on her heel and heads for the doors. "Lord knows the last thing the rest of us need is the lot of you darkening our doorsteps first thing in the morning." She mutters beneath her breath, stepping back out onto the old drive.

Milk, right. Well, it'll save her the trip to the Co-op in the morning at any rate.

* * *

><p><em>Ah Mr Spratt, what a good villian you would make - but not in <em>this_ story.  
><em>

_Key:  
><em>

Co-op:_ the colloquial term for _The Co-operative_, an established co-operative company in the UK that umbrellas a variety of different Co-op businesses from funeral services to banking to food. Here it's referenced as the local Co-op corner-shop/newsagents (which is how you'll find the term used most often and is, I think I'm right in saying, the most common Co-op business to be found in the high street)._


	4. Chapter Four

**A/N: **Thank you everyone! And especially my Guest reviewers, because I never have a chance to reply to you personally. Some of you; Tori and LC; you've been with through all my stories, so thank you. This one is a little shorter but there was a natural breaking point. The next chapter will be longer.

_In which Robert Crawley is a cowardly lion and Charles must take one for the team._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

"And so you see Carson, mother, that is; _Lady Grantham_ feels that we might better spend the money some other way. Perhaps repainting Lecture Hall Two? After all, the copiers do work and I've always found them to be up to the job. There's no need to upgrade now if we can wait a few more years. Who knows what improvements might be made in that time?"

Charles nods his head; it won't matter what technological advancements are made, no doubt they'll still end up with an old model anyway. Not of course that he minds that; it took him long enough as it was to work out which buttons did what on the last lot of new copiers five years ago. Elsie mentioned last month that there are ones that will collate and staple the copies for you now. Even folding the pages if need be. The mere idea of it, of the number of options and buttons - although of course it would be a touch-screen wouldn't it? - had given him a small headache.

He does admire how easily his friend can adapt in this modern world, but that doesn't make him any more inclined to welcoming all these new-fangled contraptions into his working life. Or his personal life; he has the iPod that Elsie gifted him for Christmas a few years ago, the digital camera from Beryl and a reasonably sized television. And the laptop, but really that's for work more than anything. Elsie tried to sell him on that Kindle thing too but a line must be drawn somewhere. He'll stick to his good old paper books; she couldn't convince him that a small glass screen could ever beat the smell of time-aged pages or that 'new book' smell that wafts up the first time you open a cover.

"And is the Board in agreement with Lady Grantham?"

"They are. There was some discussion of course, it seems Mrs Crawley is surprisingly well informed about the problems some of the staff have been having, but in the end they voted in the majority."

"Very well, Sir. I'll let my Department Heads know."

Perhaps he should leave it until later, when the no doubt copious emails he'll receive in response can be ignored until tomorrow morning and then largely forgotten amongst the overnight junk mail.

"If you could, Carson. Is there anything else? Only I have another appointment at four."

"No, that's all, Sir." It's the first opportunity Charles has had to look at his watch since sitting down and he grimaces. He's been here almost an hour and a half and he still isn't entirely sure why the meeting was called at all. Most of what he's been told could just as easily have been placed in a memo and emailed to him.

"Oh, if you wouldn't mind Carson, could you let Professor Hughes know that her visit to Westminster won't be going ahead? The Board feels the students' time could be better spent in June focussing on their end of year exams. I have to say I do agree with them, it isn't as though it's even for one of her formal classes after all."

Robert Crawley keeps his eyes on his desk, shuffling about a small stack of papers and Charles knows this isn't some last minute request. Crawley had likely planned to ask this favour of him from the start; too afraid of the immediate backlash against him should he tell the Head of English in person. If he were feeling at all gracious Charles might admit that he can't blame him.

"Professor Carson?" The Dean does look up then, pinning him with narrowed eyes. "I trust you have no problem passing the message along?"

"No, of course not."

"Well then, good luck tomorrow." Charles turns and leaves, shuts the office door behind him with a definite click and for a moment considers leaning back against the thick mahogany like a heroine from a silent movie.

He rather feels like he is to be tied to a set of train tracks any moment now, sacrificed to the steam train that will be Elsie Hughes' ire.

"Goodness, whatever's the matter with you?" He looks across the reception room to where Beryl sits, waiting in the visitor's seats. "You look as though you've just been handed your marching orders!"

Taking a deep breath, he pulls himself together with a sharp tug to each sleeve of his cardigan, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt beneath until they lay just right. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more."

He leaves her looking both amused and a little concerned and heads back to his office. Maybe if he places it as a sort of personal footnote at the end of the copier email? The split focus of her anger might just save him.

* * *

><p><em>And do we think Carson's right? Or being a bit naive?<br>_

_Key:  
><em>Once more unto the breach_: From Shakespeare's _The Life of King Henry the Fifth.


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N: **Oh I have _loved_ reading all of your reactions. There really is no good way for Mr Carson to pass on Robert's message, but of course there is a _wrong _way and this is Mr Carson we're talking about...**  
><strong>

_In which Elsie is in a mood and all Beryl Patmore's hard work is ruined with an email._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

"Here." A steaming mug slides between her arm and the laptop and Elsie turns a questioning eye on her friend, slips her glasses off. "You're in a mood, I'm hoping to curb it before it takes too firm a hold."

"I am not in a _mood_."

Beryl huffs and drops down into the soft chair in the corner. "Then Google must've done something awful with the way you were just glaring at it."

Well, perhaps she is in a mood. Not a big one, mind but she's not feeling exactly bright and cheerful. It is the end of the holiday though; she thinks she's allowed to be a little despondent.

"Thank you." She says, picking up the mug and lazily toasting with it. She takes a sip and wrinkles her nose.

Beryl rolls her eyes. "It's chai."

Elsie sniffs it, blinks at the strong scent.

"It's relaxing."

"I don't need to relax, thank you very much." She pushes the mug to the edge of the desk.

"Anna says you're the one that filled the fridge with milk." Beryl holds her mug between her palms, talks over the rim. "Enough to last us into May, she said."

"Anna talks too much."

Beryl splutters, laughing into her tea. "That'll be the day!"

"What were you doing in our Lounge anyway? You've got your own downstairs."

The other woman swirls her mug and Elsie considers her own. Maybe she should give it another go? It could be like olives and wine; an acquired taste and it might not hurt to relax a little before she leaves for the day. She'll never sleep if she's wound up.

It isn't so much what Charles said, as it is that she still allows it to affect her like this. She shouldn't, she knows she shouldn't; she hasn't been pining away for him like some pathetic waif in a Mills & Boon, after all. She loves him, yes; and it would be nice if he were to suddenly find that his own feelings for her go deeper than friendship, but it isn't as though she fails to see just how special what they _do_ have is. Which is why it annoys her so much that his words can still hurt her. She should be passed it.

"I was hoping you'd still have a few of those shortbreads left."

"You realise it's bad form to love your own cooking so much?"

She drags her mug back in front of her and takes a breath before lifting it, she suspects it will go better the second time if she keeps herself from smelling it as she drinks.

"Oh _pfft_. Everyone knows you never trust a thin cook. And what would you know about it anyway. You couldn't even keep the eggnog from curdling."

Elsie stops with the mug at her lips, eyes snapping over to her smirking friend. "That was months ago. Besides, you told me to stir: I stirred. You didn't say anything about not letting it get too hot."

"It was egg and milk! Of course you don't let it get too hot. I left you alone for five minutes to find that rum, even my nephew couldn't have ruined it in that time."

"Archie's a child."

Beryl nods. "Exactly."

Huffing and turning her head away to take another non-tea contaminated breath of air, she finally takes a second sip of the chai. Better, but it still tastes how she imagines the wooden spice rack in her kitchen does. "You know, I'm not sure how we ever got onto this topic."

"We were just about to start talking about Charles Carson and you changed the subject."

She eyes the other woman. "We were not talking about Charles. You were telling me how I need to relax."

"Because our Cheerful Charlie said something that wound you up good and tight."

She could deny it, but Beryl knows her too well for that. "You know he hates it when you call him that."

"Oh, I know. That's half the fun. Right then." Beryl tips her head back, drains her mug. "Drink up, we're leaving early."

By only about an hour really, but still; she isn't sure she wants to go home just yet, to sit in with her easy-to-cook dinner and a glass of wine and something mind-numbing on the telly. "I can't, I still have these to mark." She points to a short stack of papers, turned upside down so the evidence in red pen of her blatant lying can't be seen.

"No you don't." Beryl sniffs as she takes the mostly full mug right out of Elsie's hand and replaces it with her jacket. "I checked the records before I came over, you uploaded the last grades an hour ago."

Buttoning up, she can't even drum up an ounce of surprise. "I've told you to stop cyber-stalking me."

"Ha! Like I'd waste the effort on you. There's nothing _to_ stalk. Come on, you're coming back to mine. I've half a wellington going begging. No arguments."

Elsie knows better than to argue with that tone, anyway. Beryl's using her favourites against her and that'll only get worse the more she turns her down. She might as well give in now while she still has some pride left. "Alright, just let me check my emails before we go." She wiggles the mouse to wake her laptop back up and clicks on the Outlook icon. "I'm still waiting for final approval on the uh, the trip... to...to...he _didn't_?!"

Beryl presses up beside her, leans in to read the screen. "_Who_ didn't do _what_?"

"Read that." She shoves back from the desk letting Beryl have better access. "That, that _coward_."

"Hmm, I can see why you'd say that, but which one of 'em are you aiming it at?" She's still staring at the laptop so Elsie lets her face fold into exasperated disbelief. "I can see you." Beryl taps the screen before turning around, leaning back against the desk. Elsie isn't a bit sorry. "Of course I think they're both cowards, but then looking at you, I'm not surprised they didn't want to tell you to your face."

"Yes well; I'd expect it from Robert Crawley, but _Charles_? In a _footnote_. _'Oh by the way Elsie, the Board has cancelled the Westminster trip, I trust you'll call everyone and explain that a bunch of over-the-hill money pinching-'_"

She stops as a hand is laid on her shoulder, she can see the amusement Beryl's trying to hide. "It never says that! Stop exaggerating and grab your bag. We're going now."

"Not until I've replied, we're not." She reaches for the laptop and only just avoids catching her fingers in the lid as it slams down over the keys.

"Oh no you don't. As your friend, and the unfortunate soul who's gonna have to listen to the two of you moping about for weeks if you send him what you're thinking right now, I'm cutting you off. We're going back to mine, having dinner and you're going to finish off that bottle of Shiraz. Tomorrow when you've had time to think, you can email him back and let him have it."

She hates it when Beryl becomes the voice of reason between them. As much as she would really love to give Charles a piece of her mind right now, she'd only regret it in the morning. Still, it would feel good. Maybe she won't bother with an email; she could take the high road and actually talk to him in person during the day.

She picks up her bag, tucks her phone into it and pulls out her keys. Swings it over her shoulder as Beryl switches off the lights.

"You saw that bit about the copiers too?" She locks her office door, slips the keys into her pocket where they jingle a little before settling. "Crawley can't have photocopied more than three things in as many years. I've a good mind to pour yellow ink powder all over _his_ trousers and see whether he thinks they're a _'small inconvenience'_ then."

They head towards the stairs, bypassing the lifts in silent agreement. "We'd best stop off at Tesco on the way, pick up some more wine."

Elsie thinks back to the email and grinds her teeth. "And chocolate, the darker the better."

She isn't thinking about her 'feelings' anymore, so she supposes she can thank the Board for that, at least. Oddly enough, it does very little to improve her mood.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<br>_Mills & Boon:_ Also known as _Bodice-rippers_; usually cheap to buy, there's a heroine, a dashing man, often there are pirates and kidknappings and falling for the dark and brooding and dangerous man, or women who are waiting around and pining expressively over a man. Eventually, of course, there is quite literal bodice ripping. (Think of it as how the fairytale chapter of my Lady Elizabeth story would have been, if I'd continued to follow them all the way to France.)  
><em>

Wellington:_ Meat (usually - and indeed the original choice- beef __filet steak) coated with pâté and duxelles, which is then wrapped in puff pastry and baked._

Tesco: _Supermarket._

_Also, the Eggnog thing? Happened to me, only I was the one that went to get the rum and left my brother in charge. Although here Elsie isn't a good cook, my brother is a sort of amateur chef so...aside from us missing out on the traditional eggnogg this year, I haven't let him forget it for the sheer fact that it was _he_ who curdled it. _


	6. Chapter Six

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed! I've loved reading your comments and I have been trying to respond individually as much as possible, but thank you. **

_In which blinking lights are scary and Professor Carson has a past._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six <strong>

Charles spots the light on his phone flashing as he shuts his front door. Balancing his laptop bag and briefcase he drops his keys onto the little dish on the hall table, one eye watching the blinking red light warily.

Leaning both bags up against the door, he settles on the padded cushion of his boot box to remove his shoes.

He had been sure when there was no immediate response to his email, that Elsie was giving him a night's reprieve. And that _is_ what it feels like; as though he has received a death row pardon. But perhaps she simply felt an email couldn't do justice to her anger. If she has left him a message he can at least be grateful he's avoided a face-to-face confrontation.

He shakes his head at himself and rises to tuck his shoes into the box. He wiggles his socked toes against the carpet. It's no good delaying it, he'll only make up worse things in his mind if he leaves the message un-played.

Pressing play he picks up his bags as the electronic voice tells him the time of the call; it's after he sent the email and he stops at the end of the hall to listen. But it is not his friend's voice he hears after the elongated beep, just another recorded voice offering him a free upgrade for a boiler he doesn't have.

Though he feels like a coward, he breathes a small sigh of relief when the machine announces that to be the end of the messages.

By tomorrow he knows she'll be angrier than tonight, but it should be focussed on the Dean and Board members and hopefully, not on him. Although he does anticipate some words about his way of passing the news on.

He leaves his bags on the desk in the living room and heads through the arch to the kitchen, feet slipping a little on the wood.

Pulling out some chives from the bottom tray of the fridge, he checks the look of the remaining salmon fillet through the side of its Tupperware box. It should be okay, he only bought them Saturday. Grabbing a recently-opened bottle of white wine he sets it under his arm and takes out a tub of single cream.

There's some plain white rice in the cupboard that'll go well with the fish and just before closing the fridge door he nabs a couple of green beans; if he leaves cooking them until the last few minutes they'll add a delicious crunch to the whole thing.

Pilling the whole lot onto the counter he switches on the oven and steps back into the lounge to get his iPod from the laptop bag. Unwrapping the earphone cable from around it, he pulls out the little plug and drops them back into the front pocket of his bag; a knotted little bundle he'll fight with tomorrow.

He scrolls through his playlists on the way back to the kitchen. The little speakers sit on the windowsill and he clips his iPod in, selecting a song to start with and then flicking the mains switch on.

_'You are nobody 'til someday loves you, you are nobody 'til somebody cares.'_

He hums along at first and by the time he has the chives chopped and mixed with the wine and cream in a bowl he has begun singing in earnest.

_'The world still is the same. You'll never change it, as sure as the stars shine above.'_

He downloaded this one by mistake; not the song itself of course but this particular version of it; with the slow crooning female vocals. He has a better grip on iTunes now, but occasionally in those early days of discovery he would find that when he expected the familiar sounds of Dean Martin or Glen Miller, he would instead be greeted by something else entirely. He finds he prefers the alternatives for some of them, and some, well, there is an entire collection of songs on there he never plays.

The song ends just as he takes the salmon from its plastic box, the click of the lid opening perfectly in time with the last note. He smiles; he would never let on but he does that on purpose, a hold over from his brief stint working the pub circuit he supposes; when he would tap and ting and crash whatever was around him to the beat in his head and the words coming out of his mouth and Grigg's.

He grimaces at the thought and runs the knife in quick sharp lines along the fillet. Sprinkles over with salt.

He sears it quickly in a pan on the hob while the song switches again and he tries to push all thoughts of Charlie Grigg from his mind before they can settle in too deep.

Tearing off a strip of tin foil he plops the fish in the middle and dribbles the sauce over it, tucking the foil ends up and over it when he's done.

Switching it to a baking tray he checks the oven and then slides the tray in.

Clearing everything but the beans away, he fills a wine glass with a little of the white and leans back against the counter to drink.

His ankles crossed, his left foot taps along to the music. This is one of Elsie's favourites; he found quite a few albums on the iPod when he switched it on for the first time. _'To get you started.'_ she'd written on the little yellow post-it stuck to the back. Beneath the note he'd found a quote engraved; _'Music is the literature of the heart; it commences where speech ends.'_ with the capital letter and full stop because Elsie is never not a true English Professor when it comes to punctuation.

He'd recognised the album titles from the CDs he's seen stacked up by her stereo, some of the songs he knew from hearing them around her rooms; although of course they are a _lot_ more familiar to him now.

He's adopted a few of them as favourites of his own, others he listens to because they bring to mind specific moments and memories where he had hardly noticed they were playing in the background.

He hadn't been sure what to make of the gift originally, coming so close after Grigg had shown up with that blasted flyer and almost made a public spectacle of the both of them. Thankfully only Beryl and Elsie were witness to the bawdy tales of his misspent youth in the end; although it's harder to be thankful in Beryl's case than Elsie's. They both had rather different ways of accepting the news and moving on; for Beryl this seems to be teasingly reminding him of it constantly and Elsie, well, there was the iPod, which is at least a far gentler reminder and something that he cannot contemplate not owning now.

The track changes again and he rests his glass back on the counter, bends down to dig out saucepans for the rice and beans.

He really hopes she isn't too upset with him over the trip. It isn't his fault the Board won't approve it, but he feels callous now for not telling her properly. She has put so much work into it already and they didn't even give her the chance to argue her case. Maybe there's still something he can do; Mary Crawley will be in his 18th Century England lecture tomorrow, after their seminar he might be able to talk to her.

He just hopes Elsie had the good sense not to email the Dean yet either.

* * *

><p><em>Ah all hope is not yet lost for our dear History Professor's survival.<em>

_Key:_Tupperware - _airtight plastic containers that keep food fresh_.

Tin Foil - _silver foil._

Post-It_ - little bits of (usually brightly coloured) paper with a line of light adhesive on the back._

'Music is the literature of the heart...'_ - quote by Alphonse de Lamartine  
><em>

And finally, the version of _"You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You"_ that I imagine him listening to is from the soundtrack from _Last Vegas_ sung wonderfully by Mary Steenbergen.


	7. Chapter Seven

**A/N: **Oh, I don't think I got around to personally replying to anyone's reviews yesterday. My only excuse is that work was manic and I focused on writing chapter 7 when the day was done. I didn't get far before falling asleep. I want you to know that I devoured each and every comment and review and thank you so very much for them! Today was far less stressful and I managed to write quite a bit, so as long as I wake up at a reasonable time in the morning, I will give you Chapter 8 as an apology. For now, I hope you enjoy!

_In which Beryl is a worry wart and Elsie needs a plan. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

Elsie leaves when the chocolate is gone but before they finish the wine. It's a night for self control after all.

Beryl lives outside of the university in a little cottage she purchased a few years ago, so it's a bit of a walk but nothing she isn't used to. Still she isn't at all surprised when Beryl opens her mouth at the door.

"Text me when you get in, I don't want to be imagining you in a gutter all night."

"If I am, I'll be looking at the stars." She wraps a borrowed scarf around her neck. It's not that cold out, but she only has her jacket and it isn't summer yet.

"Oh shove off." Receiving a quite literal shove from her friend, she laughs and grabs her bag.

"I'll see you tomorrow." She's already thanked Beryl for the food and company and they're far past the time where it's necessary to do either more than once.

"If you're not dead." Beryl's eyes narrow. "Text me."

"I'll text you." She agrees and kisses her friend's cheek.

Downton isn't a hotbed of crime of course, but it's as dangerous at night as any small village and Beryl worries.

Elsie thinks she's more likely to be accosted by drunk students looking for a last minute extension for their coursework, than anything else, but it never hurts to be cautious.

She waves from the end of the path and hears the thud of the door shutting when she's just past the cottage's fence line.

Digging around in her bag she pulls out her phone and has only just got it upright in her palm when it vibrates with a text.

She laughs and rolls her eyes, tapping at Beryl's name with her thumb.

_'ill wait up til u do'_

Of course she'll text, she always does and Beryl will be asleep with her phone in her hand as she always is. She'll get a garbled jumble of letters in reply that are supposed to be some kind of 'goodnight' and no matter what she might write back, Beryl won't respond at all until tomorrow morning.

Tucking her phone into her jacket pocket she crosses the street. It's not so late yet that the street lights have been turned off, but the university still seems to glow brighter up the lane.

There are only one or two lights on in the windows; a few offices and corridors. The residential rooms are around the back; upstairs in the attics or in the basement where Charles tells her the kitchens and servants' areas were.

The students that are lucky enough to live on this site are all up in the attic rooms, with the staff housing downstairs. She doesn't mind it; she only pays utilities and she gets an extra half-hour in bed each morning with the time saved on travel.

Charles sometimes talks about wanting to invest in somewhere himself, more frequently since Beryl bought her place, but he doesn't seem to have got further than just talking about it. Perhaps he isn't so sure that's what he wants now. Of course, he could just be attempting some sensitivity; he likely knows how much of her wages go to pay for Becky's home and how unlikely it is that Elsie could ever purchase a place for herself. Rent; yes, but never buy.

She smiles fondly; that's likely the real reason he hasn't mentioned it. For all that he can be so blind to some things, he can be overly cautious when it comes to others.

"Evening, Professor."

She jerks her head to the left and spots the glowing ends of two cigarettes in the dark, and she knows who's there even before her eyes adjust to the shadows of the courtyard.

"Thomas, Miss O'Brien; good evening." She adjusts her bag and keeps walking. They're often out here, one or both of them leaning up against the Abbey walls and smoking. She'll stop for a moment or two if it's just Thomas, but she finds that Sarah O'Brien puts a caustic damper on any conversation.

She can hear them chattering away behind her and she makes an effort not to speed up; they'll be watching. Not that it really matters what they think or say, they've known her long enough now to know anything they might think she's been up to will be complete fantasy. She supposes other Professors return this late because they've been meeting someone for dinner, sneaking back in before Thomas locks the gates.

_But not Elsie Hughes, _she thinks. It's a wonder Sarah and Thomas can find enough inspiration to fabricate _anything_ about her.

Pulling her keys from her pocket she presses her code in and unlocks the heavy wooden door.

This is what she loves most about being in residence at Downton; the incongruous mix between past and present that surrounds her constantly. The doors and building itself are the same wood and stone put in somewhere around the 18th Century and then she'll step into a room and find a projector hanging from the ceiling, or a bank of computers along the wall. Or an electronic code lock on the door.

Charles bemoans what he sees as a desecration of an antique beauty, but Elsie likes it. That she can sense what the world might have been like then, for someone living in such a grand estate house, without sacrificing the modern conveniences she rather takes for granted.

Of course, she thinks; taking the steps down to her rooms, she'd likely have been down here as a maid anyway.

She passes Charles's door but hardly spares it a glance as she turns to unlock her own.

She'll see him in his office tomorrow. She has calmed down some now; it's not really Charles she's angry at. Oh she'll still read him the riot act over the footnote; that was too cowardly to ignore, but it's their 'honourable' Dean she really needs words with.

Dropping her bag by the sofa, she picks up the TV remote and switches the screen on, hanging her jacket and scarf up on the hooks by the door. She texts Beryl, the standard; _'Not in a ditch. Goodnight.' _and chucks her phone onto the coffee table. Slumping down into the sofa cushions she kicks off her shoes and flicks through the channels.

All that work, all those calls to their MP to have the visit arranged, the tickets for the Eye and the riverboat cruise she thought might fill some time. All wasted if she can't get the Board to change their mind. And the students; only two of them know what she was planning, but she hasn't seen Tom that fired up since he first came to her debate club.

She'll have to think of something. This is too important to just rant and rave impotently over.

Leaning back further, she curls her legs up beside her. Thank goodness Beryl was there tonight to stop her doing something foolish.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<br>_I'll be looking at the stars - _in conjunction with Beryl's comment about Elsie ending up in a gutter, this is in reference to the line from Oscar Wilde's **Lady Windermere's Fan**: 'we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars'.  
><em>

hotbed_ - an environment that's overrun with something unpleasant. _

MP_ - Member of Parliament, the elected Council member for a particular constituency. To get a proper visit to Parliament, a guided inside, you have to appeal to your MP and they will be there when you visit. My mother books yearly visits for her school council children._

The Eye_ - The London Eye, situated on the South Bank in London. That giant ferris wheel we had erected as part of our millenium celebrations._

River Cruise_ - I say cruise, because this is what it'll be for them, but of course the boats are often just another way to get from one part of London to another. They work just like trains or buses along the Thames River._

_Finally, the reference to the _street lights going out_. This does happen in quite a few areas in England now; at 12am the streetlights are turned off and they come back on again at 5am. It's an energy reduction scheme. I checked and parts of Yorkshire are already under this scheme so I've made Downton part of it too._


	8. Chapter Eight

**A/N: As promised, please find chapter 8 below. I hope you aren't disappointed by their meeting. Thank you everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter (which I'll admit was rather a filler to flesh out this world a bit). Please enjoy!**

_In which Charles already has a plan and Elsie is no James Bond._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

"I must say this is an unusual request coming from you, Professor."

Charles resists the urge to look down and away. The Dean has told them all to treat his daughters as regular students, and for the most part the Professors do. But Charles finds it hard, particularly when it comes to Mary Crawley.

Oh he likes the girl, he has since the first time she wandered into his lecture on the Victorian class system and its lasting effects and despite hardly being tall enough to see over the podium, had told him that his last point was quite correct and would he mind starting over so that she could hear the things she had missed? Her mother had come to find her before it became necessary for him to turn her down, but she had negotiated a promise from him to give her his lecture notes so that she could learn it herself, before following her mother and sister out of the room. She had appeared several more times over the years before she was old enough to attend as a student and so yes, he does like her; more than some other Professor's he could mention, but she has always seemed to him to have such a firm grasp of her place as the Dean's daughter, and as _Lady_ Grantham's granddaughter, that he can't help but respond to it.

"It is, but I really do think it's important." He stands with his back to the half-open office door, hands clasped behind him when he isn't using them to gesture.

"Oh I realise that, Professor; you wouldn't have asked for my help if it wasn't. Although I'm not sure quite _why_ it's important to you, but I'm sure you have your reasons."

Mary looks to the side and he can almost see the wheels turning in her head as she thinks. "It's a shame Sybil isn't here yet; this kind of trip would be just her thing." She rolls her eyes and he nods; he had heard from Elsie that the youngest Crawley sister has been bitten by the political bug again. And who of them will ever forget the sight of the then sixteen-year-old chained up outside the library, protesting the deficit of feminist values in the Literature syllabus? He and Beryl had hardly managed to keep Elsie from joining in and chaining herself up beside the girl.

"I don't believe Professor Hughes would turn your sister away should she want to be part of the trip."

Mary meets his eye again. "No, and Sybil is nearly eighteen." She pauses and then sneers; "She wants to cavort about Europe for a year, she and Papa haven't stopped fighting about it for weeks. Perhaps if he thought this might change her mind, make her rethink..."

Mary trails off and he tries not to look too eager. This is truly what he had hoped for; Mary Crawley with a plan is a force to be reckoned with he finds.

"Leave it with me, Professor and I'll speak to Papa. Could you tell Professor Hughes to talk to Sybil? No doubt she'll see my sister before I will."

He agrees and thanks her, follows her to his door. She stops just before she leaves, her voice rising a little louder; "I hope the Professor appreciates what you're trying to do for her."

"Oh I do, Miss Crawley." Elsie appears between the door and jam, an eyebrow raised. "And I'll have that word with Sybil this afternoon."

Mary leaves and Charles turns to his friend as she enters his office properly, takes a seat in one of the visitors' chairs. "You'd make a terrible spy Elsie."

"Oh I don't know, I think it's just that your Mary Crawley would make a better one." He leans back against his desk as she smiles almost coyly. "_You_ didn't know I was there after all."

He huffs and isn't sure what to say to that; true as it is.

The clock above his door tells him he only has half an hour before his next seminar. Just about enough time for her to tear him down over yesterday.

He thinks it might help his case if he brings it up first.

"Yes, well, you didn't come here just to eavesdrop."

He thinks she might be slightly impressed with him, grabbing the bull by the horns as he is. Not that Elsie is a bull, of course, far from it.

"No I didn't." She agrees, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. It means she has to tip her head even further back to look up at him, but that doesn't seem to diminish a bit of the power in the glare she turns on him. "A footnote Charles?" He grimaces, tightens the knot of his fingers behind his back. "A personal postscript would have been bad enough, but you hid it right there at the bottom with all that gumph about the copiers and the change in parking permits."

He opens his mouth but she holds up a hand, silencing him. "No, no. I'm aware that the cancellation wasn't your fault, and I _do_ appreciate what I just heard, Charles, you know I do." Her hand turns palm up, held out between them for another moment before it drops to her lap. "I was ready yesterday to shout at you, I was so angry. And this morning I was so sure I'd see you and the anger would come back full force but all I can think instead is how terrible I must seem to you, that you couldn't have the decency to tell me to my face. The most honourable man I know. Do I scare you _that_ much?"

He has hurt her, he realises then. She _is_ angry at him but not for the act itself, rather for what it implies about herself and their friendship and that hurts her.

_Blast it_.

"Of course you scare me, Elsie. You scare _everyone_ when something's got you riled up and you relish that. Don't forget; I know how much you enjoy being the Scottish Dragon."

He smirks, pointing a finger at her and she smiles slightly as he intended.

"I also know how much time you've spent planning that trip. I didn't want to be the one to tell you it was all for nothing, but of course I had to. For what it's worth, I did regret that email almost as soon as it was sent. You deserved better than that."

She narrows her eyes knowingly, the small smile still on her face. "I'll bet you did."

"I thought you'd send one right back, or burst in here to have at me in person." He admits, taking a seat opposite her now that he's said his piece, the atmosphere between them shifting.

Her smile turns sheepish. "I would have, but Beryl slammed my laptop closed and dragged me back to hers for the evening."

He laughs at the image; that sounds about right; he's been on the end of such a Beryl Patmore intervention more than once himself.

"So you've not spoken to the Dean yet then either?" He feels even more hopeful of their chances of success now, if they don't have to retract anything Elsie's already said.

"I haven't had time. That damn copier ate my course outline this morning so I spent the gap between classes trying to reprint the thing."

She glares again but he holds up _his_ hand this time. "Let's fight one battle at a time, Elsie."

He stands and she follows, heading for the door. "Hmm, yes, since you _are_ recognising that this is war, Charles." She points at him, wiggles her finger between them before hooking her thumb up to point at some vague area behind her. "Us against them."

He rolls his eyes at her. "You know I meant that as a figure of speech. You take things far too literally for an English Professor."

"And for such a devoted Professor of History, you have a peculiar aversion to confrontation." She quips and disappears out the door before he can respond. He knows though that he has been forgiven, _this_ time.

Turning to his bookcase he pulls down the folder for his next lecture, rifles through it to remove his notes. That went better than he could have imagined and he suspects they both might owe Beryl a meal for it.

He'll just have to be sure to pick some place he has no interest in returning to. He'll talk to Elsie again at lunch.

He doesn't notice the smile on his face until he sees it reflected back at him in the lift walls and even then it takes a few seconds and great effort before it drops away completely.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<br>_

_Huh, I don't think I actually have anything to provide a key for here. But do let me know if there is!_


	9. Chapter Nine

**A/N: **Thank you so much all of you! I'm so glad you enjoyed the actual confrontation between Elsie and Charles. They have been friends a long time, I'm hoping that's showing.

_In which Elsie splits a custard tart and Sybil Crawley has a crush._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

Elsie looks up from her desk at the light rap of knuckles on the door. Charles leans against the frame, two paper bags in one hand and a little cardboard tray of drinks in the other. She leaves her door open between lectures; unofficial office hours when any of the students can drop in on her for advice without making a proper appointment.

"It cannot be lunchtime already." But a quick check of her watch says it is; as though Charles's presence wasn't already proof enough.

She turns her chair around completely, removing her glasses and rubbing at the bridge of her nose.

"I'm starting to worry about your time keeping." Charles settles into his usual chair and starts pulling out their sandwiches onto the low coffee table. "I got you the BLT."

He shrugs out of his jacket and she takes it from him, shuts the door and hangs the brown tweed up on the hook nailed to the back; _he is such a historian_, she thinks with more than a little fondness.

She accepts the sandwich from him, her stomach grumbling as soon as she peels the paper back and the scent hits her. "That's fine, thank you. And it's not my time keeping." She adds, after taking a bite, washing it down with the tea he pushes across the table towards her. "The hours are getting shorter, I'm sure of it."

He takes his own bite of sandwich; cheese and pickle as always - she can see the stains of it against the paper, before answering.

"I'm not a scientist, but I'm certain hours are just as long as they've always been."

She hums, smiles as she chews. "I'll believe you when you've a PHD in physics; until then I maintain that they're shortening, by the hour."

He groans. "That was awful. I'm afraid that doesn't even deserve the recognition of being a pun. I hope you were much more eloquent in your newspaper days."

Her hunger appeased with the first half of her sandwich, she stands to gather the napkins and little packets of wet-wipes she keeps in her top drawer. "You tell me; you researched me when I started, after all."

She drops the napkins onto the table and takes in his surprise. Have they really never had this conversation before? She thinks back and realises that no, they haven't. She's mentioned her past work of course, just as he has, but neither of them have ever acknowledged that he has _read_ her articles.

"How do you know that?"

She smirks, picks up her tea. "How does anyone know anything here? Miss-"

"-O'Brien." He finishes. She nods. "It's how _she_ knows everything that's the question. She's a one woman gossip rag."

Elsie can't help but laugh at his grumbling, allows herself to be pulled off topic for now. "I suppose it's all that loitering around office doors; she hears things she shouldn't."

Charles's left eyebrow rises almost to his hair line. "That's bold coming from you Miss Pot."

She glares at him. "That was once and I had a reason to be there, I was waiting for you to finish up with your Mary."

"Once? Elsie Hughes; if I had a pound for every time you've overheard something _you_ shouldn't, I'd be a rich man."

"And if I'd a pound for every time you've sat right there," She points a finger at him, "and begged me to tell you what I know about so-and-so, _I'd_ be able to retire right now."

"So we're both pots?" He asks after a moment. She nods, reaches for the second paper bag.

"I can live with that." She pulls out the little apple turnover and the custard tart and smiles. "Oh they had them today, thank you."

Rising again she grabs the letter opener from her desk and uses it to cut the two pastries in half. Scooping out the tart from its silver case first.

Charles frowns at her, sending a second scowl to the letter opener for good measure in case, she supposes, she has forgotten after the last fifteen years how unhygienic he thinks that is. Never mind that she washes the little knife every day and hasn't used it to open a letter in as many years.

As usual he hesitates only briefly before taking the other half of the tart.

"Now," she says, brushing at the crumbs that have fallen onto her skirt. "You were going to tell me what you thought of my writing."

Some days she lives for that rabbit in the headlights look. She knows it's perhaps not charitable of her at all to tease him, but he can do with a good scare every once in a while.

"I was most certainly _not_." He emphasises the last with a shake of his head, takes a mulish bite of custard and short-crust. "I've braved your temper once already today, Elsie."

She fights a smile, forces her lips into a stern line. "So you didn't like it then? If you're afraid you'll offend me."

"I didn't, that wasn't..." He starts but she can't control her laughter and it bursts out of her. He narrows his eyes and huffs. Puffing himself up. "I'm disappointed in you Professor Hughes."

She leans across the table and pats his arm. "I'll survive and you deserved that. Don't ever break news like that to me in an email again."

"Never." He agrees and she squeezes his arm once.

"Good, then I'll say no more about it and hopefully this idea of your protégée's will work." She hands him half of the turnover and a napkin. "And one day you really will have to tell me what you thought of those articles."

He waits until he has swallowed before answering. "And you'll have to tell me what you thought of my books."

She chokes on pastry, flakes of it getting caught in her throat at her sharp inhale.

She can feel herself flushing as she tries to chase them down with more tea. Oh, he knows her far too well sometimes.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"So this is Mary's idea?" Sybil is sprawled in Elsie's desk chair, her college books spread out over the usual plans and files.

"Not the trip, that's been in the works for a while. But this plan to change your father's mind? Yes that was your sister's. Charles's too, I suppose. He set her up with it."

"_Did_ he?" The young girl smiles coyly, pushes off the floor with her foot to wiggle the chair as she says it. Elsie reaches out and stills her.

"Yes, and there's none of that."

"None of what?" Sybil's blue eyes are wide and innocent and if she didn't know better, Elsie might believe it. "I haven't said anything about the way he looks at you, or how he's always doing nice things for you."

"You're obsessed." Elsie sighs and pushes at the arm of the chair, sending the girl spinning. "We're friends, nothing more. You might not see it now, but two people can be friends without it being anything more."

"Oh no, don't get all wise on me. I can't stand it." Elsie waits while Sybil crab-walks the chair back around to face her again. "So you want me to tell Papa I was going on your trip?"

"I'm not asking you to lie. You and I both know you'd have worked your way on it, or we'd have found you already waiting for us in Westminster."

"Well, we'll never know now will we, because you told me exactly _nothing_ about it."

"Don't act hard done by, it doesn't suit you." Sybil's face instantly transforms from a pout back to her usual bright smile. "I hardly told anyone, I didn't want to raise hopes if I couldn't get the idea off the ground."

A valid concern as it turned out. If only she had controlled her own hopes quite so carefully. "Edith knew because she was helping me with some of the planning and Tom, well..." Actually, she doesn't have an answer for that, except that she thought the distraction of it might curb the lad's more demonstrative urges. She has nothing against a good protest, especially one that's well thought out, but she will never condone violence or property damage and she had seen signs of that in some of Tom's passion.

"Tom _Branson_ is going?"

"_Was_ going, as far as we're concerned the trip isn't going ahead."

Sybil flaps her hand, brushes Elsie's words aside. "Yes, I know, and I'll be sure to not let on to Papa, but it is Tom _Branson_?"

Oh, oh she hadn't foreseen that. She should have perhaps, with the number of times Sybil has sat in on the debate class, or been around Elsie's office when Tom has 'dropped by'. And she supposes the young man is quite handsome; even if they all look far too young to her.

"It is, yes."

Sybil jumps up from the chair, sending it rolling backwards a few feet. "I'll talk to Papa."

Elsie clasps her by her jacket as she moves past her. "Not yet you won't. Your sister has it in hand and you have coursework to at least pack away if you're not going to work on it." She points to the text books and notes covering her desk. "So, _Tom Branson_?"

"It's nothing." Sybil sits back down, flushing. Shuffles some of the papers around and picks up her pen. "Now hush, I'm working."

Elsie laughs and squeezes the girl's shoulder, twists a lock of her dark hair. "Of course. But do be careful, won't you?"

Sybil turns her head to the side, looks up through her eyelashes; "Like you are." Her tone isn't sarcastic or mean; she doesn't think the youngest Crawley sister has an ounce of malice in her, but Elsie feels the hit all the same.

She squeezes her shoulder again and heads back to the visitor's chair where her lecture notes for later balance precariously on the arm. "Sometimes the risk isn't worth it."

She hears Sybil's pen scratch across her notebook, the page of a textbook being turned. "But sometimes it might be."

She'll keep an eye on it, have a quiet word with Tom too. Perhaps nothing will come of it at all; she can't imagine that Tom is unpopular with the young ladies his own age.

She settles her glasses back on her nose; Sybil is right, what would she know about risk when she hasn't looked further than a dear friend who doesn't see her that way?

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

BLT - _bacon, lettuce and tomato._

Cheese and pickle_ - classic English sandwhich. Thick slices of cheese (usually mature cheddar) and pickle; a sort of chutney, not the green pickled vegetable. _

Miss Pot - _reference to _'the pot calling the kettle black'_ a colloqualism used when someone is acting or speaking hypercritically._

Apple Turnover_ - baked apple pastry_

hard done by_ - to mean feeling left out or let down or even just always on the poor end treatment-wise._


	10. Chapter Ten

**A/N: Oh you wonderful, wonderful people. I adore each and every one of you! Thank you so much for all of your comments and compliments, I'm so glad you're enjoying this as much as I am. **

_In which Charles and Beryl have dinner and bad decisions are made._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

"This is nice."

"Is it?" Charles looks around, he can't see any obvious problems; of course he couldn't see anything amiss at the Slug and Lettuce either and how wrong he had been.

"It is." Beryl nods and smiles. "I've not tried the food yet, mind."

"Of course." It's not time to relax, not until their meal has been served.

He has learnt over the years that although he might feel a little nauseous after, it's best to eat as much as he can before Beryl passes judgement. He might not want to come back again, but at least he isn't left hungry _and_ disgusted. Elsie, of course, can ignore her friend's words and carry on enjoying her food. But then she hardly cooks herself, so he supposes she must eat far worse in all of those quick cook meals of hers.

"I'm surprised Elsie didn't join us." He chooses to ignore her tone, reaching out and straightening his fork against the table cloth.

"She's visiting her sister, she said she'd 'make it up to you' another time." And she had seemed far too gleeful at the idea of he and Beryl eating alone. If he didn't know how much Elsie looks forward to her weekly visits with Becky, he would half-expect to find her hiding behind a menu a few tables back.

"Of course she is, I forgot. We could have done this another time, I'm sure."

"Am I not good enough company alone?" He lowers his voice, raises an eyebrow.

"Oh hush up, you old fool." Beryl smacks at the air, the table between them too wide for her to hit his arm, he supposes. "You know what I meant."

"Elsie and I do spend time apart, we aren't joined at the hip." He reaches over to top up her glass.

"Much as you might like to be, eh?"

He is incredibly proud that not a drop of wine spills from the bottle as he pulls it back sharply.

"I don't..."

"If you say you don't know what I mean I'll club you with this napkin." She holds it up threateningly.

He frowns, feels the tips of his ears heat. "I think I'll put the whole thing down to to much of this." Shaking the wine bottle pointedly he tops up his own glass and returns it to the cooler in the centre of the table, takes a large sip.

"If you must."

He spots the waiter then, their meals in hand and barely contains a sigh of relief.

At least now Beryl will be distracted away from talking about he and Elsie. He doesn't think he can take another night of her prodding. "I must."

She opens her mouth but is interrupted by the arrival of their food before she can say a word.

After the usual rigmarole of having black pepper ground over his risotto from an oversized pepper mill, he takes his first bite and smiles. Well, if her steak pie is as well flavoured then he might just be able to enjoy this meal without Beryl looking for reasons to turn him off it.

They eat in silence for a while, experience tells him that she is taking each bite carefully, separating her vegetables and mash up, and then combining them with the pie. With crust, without crust, stabbing her fork at the meat and eating it with no accompaniment at all. She approaches a new dish the way she did as a critic and after all these years he has long given up thinking she might grow out of it.

But he does know not to engage with her at this initial phase; until her mind is entirely made up he wants to hear nothing. She'll give him her assessment whether he wants it or not, best to just enjoy his own food while he can and let her get on with it.

"Have you thought about what I said?" He jerks in surprise and looks up; she never speaks to him this early in the game.

"What you said?" He spears an asparagus tip with his fork, the texture perfect between his teeth.

Beryl rolls her eyes, gathering carrot, potato and pie crust onto her own fork. "About Elsie's birthday. The party?"

Oh yes, _the party_. "I think she'll like it, if you can keep it from her."

"That'll be the hardest part, but everyone's so chuffed about it, they're determined not to let on, but-"

"But this is Elsie Hughes we're talking about." He finishes.

Beryl nods. "'Course, if she does find out we'll never know, but I think we might do it this time. Leaving it to the last minute's the key."

He nods, continues on with his risotto. Beryl goes back to her pie, a small smile on her face.

"So you'll keep her out?" She asks a few minutes later. "Get her back to her rooms when I text we're ready?"

Charles swallows awkwardly, rice sticking to his throat. He coughs, takes a large sip of wine and chases a pea around his bowl. Somehow he'd hoped to avoid this, although he can't remember how he thought he might.

"I'm afraid I won't be available."

There is silence, filled with the clinking of cutlery from those around them and the oppressive disbelief coming from the other side of the table.

"You won't...if you've something planned, cancel it! This is Elsie's birthday, you can't miss it."

But he can, and he will. "I'll see her before of course, give her her gift. But I won't be at the party."

He looks up when her hand thumps against the table, rattling the glasses and dishes. Beryl points her fork at him threateningly. "You'd better have a damned good reason, Charles Carson."

He thinks he does, the awkwardness of making small talk with the people he works with, who he never says a word to _at_ work, the way he always seems to monopolize Elsie's company at any social event, keeping her away from her other friends. And from the stories he has heard when he hasn't been present, he's fairly certain they'll all have a much better time without him; which is what she deserves. To enjoy herself without worrying that he's having fun too.

"I'm busy, Beryl. I'll talk to Elsie after, she'll understand." Of course she will, she's always had to convince him to attend any 'gathering', she knows his reasons as well as he does for wanting to avoid them.

He can't meet his friends eyes as she lowers her fork. "I hope you're right, Charlie, because I think you're gonna regret it."

His heart gives an odd jump at her words, the warning in her tone, but he ignores it, takes another sip of wine. Elsie will understand. She always has before.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

Slug and Lettuce - _a brand of bistro restuarants around the Country._

rigmarole - _a lengthy and complicated procedure; usually used when something seems to take way more time and fuss than necessary._

chuffed -_ really happy, enthusiastic._

_Also, one missing key from the last chapter; in the UK, the term **'college'** is used for the period of schooling between the ages of 16 and 18. Children remain in schooling until the age of 18 now, either in a college (academic or vocational) or a sixth form within their secondary (high) school. Sybil is completing her last year of college before moving on to University. She's applied already because that has to be done early, but she's now considering deferring for a year. I also noticed a missing word from chapter 8; Mary was supposed to say that Sybil is "almost" 18. So I've gone back to fix that._


	11. Chapter Eleven

**A/N: Wow, thank you for all your comments. I love reading what you're all thinking and your reactions to Charles's idiocy in the last chapter. This one was hard, I'm not entirely sure why, but I finally just thought; if I don't post it now I'll probably keep going over and over it all week and never get any further. I hope you enjoy!**

_In which Elsie is still a journalist at heart and knows almost everything._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<strong>

"Oh, I almost forgot, Becky wanted me to give you this." Elsie reaches into her bag and pulls out the folded sheet of paper, Charles's name on the front half, all swirling letters in pale blue pencil.

He smiles, genuinely she can tell, as he takes the picture and she can't help the way her chest warms. Becky adores Charles, or her Mr Carson as she calls him, and always mentions him when she visits her alone.

"Open it!" She says as Charles tucks the picture beneath his arm and turns to leave. She blushes at his raised eyebrow. "She made me promise not to look at it."

His smile turns mischievous and she crosses her arms, she knows how this will go. "Then I'll definitely save it for later."

"Charles-"

"No, no. Obviously it's private, I'm afraid you're simply going to have to live with not knowing everything, this once."

She reaches for it regardless, opens her mouth to argue but a sharp knock on her door interrupts her.

She closes her eyes as Charles backs away, his eyes sparkling with repressed laughter.

Her door creaks open and he greets Michael Gregson, brushes off the lad's apologies for interrupting them.

"No, I was just leaving. Professor Hughes is right in here." He's gone before she can say anything to him and when she opens her eyes, Michael stands by the chairs, a lost confused look on his face.

"Well then." She says with a deep breath, moving to stand beside the post-grad. "What have you got for me?"

Michael sets about pulling out the mock-ups for this month's paper and she pushes over her desk chair.

She will find out what Becky drew; if Charles won't tell her, she'll send Beryl to snoop. She's not going to chance being caught herself, not after yesterday, but she wants to know what her sister is up to; she had a particularly cheeky look on her face when she passed over the picture, one that Elsie doesn't see often, thank goodness. But one that she has learnt to be wary of. That smile is what led to Charles awkwardly kissing her beneath the mistletoe at the Home's party two Christmases back. No, she will find out what her little sister is up to and then she might have a chance to prevent it spiralling out of control.

Charles will be no help; Becky is one Hughes he seems incapable of saying no to.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

Edith Crawley sighs, overdramatically in Elsie's opinion but she'll not say a word about it now, not when she's close to getting the lass's agreement. It's becoming quite a bad habit; relying on the Crawley girls for help, but this time it has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the best interests of one of her students. Well, two of them she supposes; Edith has been struggling for something to make her final year stand out, if she finds the paper to be as good a fit as Elsie suspects then that will be one more problem solved.

"He did ask for you specifically." Which is mostly true, he hadn't said Edith's name, but he had asked after her top students.

"Did he?" She can see excitement now, flickering in the girl's eyes although of course, none of it shows on her face. She is such a solemn thing.

"He did. He wants the best Downton has to offer and that's you, Edith. You have a gift and it's time more people than just me read your articles." And Charles, and Beryl and Isobel Crawley; some of them truly have been too good to keep to herself.

"Will it take up much of my time?" She can see in the way Edith leans forward - hands tightly clenched together, her thin fingers turning white - that she does want this, only she needs to be talked into it; as though it isn't _enough_ to want it.

That's okay, Elsie remembers that feeling.

"How many articles do you write a week?" Edith's eyes widen. "Three, four? You research them, perhaps even do a little investigating." _Snooping_ Charles calls it, but every journalist worth their salt is inherently curious about the people around them. "And then you write them up, pretend you're doing it for different papers, maybe even a magazine every now and again."

Edith's mouth has dropped open a little and she leans even further forward, almost as if trying to get closer to Elsie's words.

Elsie dips her head, meets Edith's eyes. "The only difference now is that you _would _be writing for a paper."

She waits while the girl thinks it over, turns her chair around and fiddles with some of the files on her desk. Sorts her in-tray into piles _'important',_ _'not quite so important'_ and _'read it when I'm really bored'_.

"Okay." She startles a little at the voice, looks over her shoulder.

"You'll do it?" Biting down on her cheek keeps the smile from her face. This will be a good match, she's sure of it. Michael needs a new writer and Edith simply _needs_ this.

The girl nods, wrings her fingers as she stands but she does look pleased. "I'll do it."

"Wonderful!" Gathering up a few sheets of paper on the edge of her desk, Elsie hands them over. "Michael's number and email address, and his class schedule." Edith takes them, tucks them into her bag. "Just let him know a few times you're free this week and set up a meeting." She reaches out and squeezes Edith's arm gently. "This'll be good for you."

Edith smiles. "I hope so. Thank you Professor. Now I just need to tell Papa."

Elsie holds in the snicker until Edith is far enough away she won't hear it. She seems to be becoming quite the thorn in Robert Crawley's life as of late.

Clapping her hands together sharply, she picks up her mug from the desk. Tea, she thinks and a little investigating of her own. If she wants to enlist Beryl's help with the picture, she'll need to be convincing, offer her a good reason.

Of course alternatively, she could just ask after Beryl's plans for Saturday. Her friend will agree to just about anything if she thinks it'll stop her from finding out about the party.

* * *

><p><em>No key this chapter, I don't think. This is what happens when there's no food in a chapter!<br>_

_Edit: There was a key! _

snickers - _here it's used not to denote the chocolate bar, but in terms of giggles, the type you sort of snort because you're trying not to laugh.  
><em>


	12. Chapter Twelve

**A/N:** Oh I loved every comment, thank you so much! (And I aim to try and reply to as many as I can today, but the mobile version of this site is not a friend when it comes to that). Our favourite little non-couple will have a nice cup-of-tea-based scene together in the next chapter, and there's one chapter coming up I think you'll all love a little too. But first, Beryl pops in for a visit.

_In which Beryl is a worse spy than Elsie {in fact she doesn't even try to be good} and Charles keeps his secret._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twelve<strong>

Charles waits until he has a free gap between seminars before pulling the picture out from his top drawer.

Becky's pictures are always best enjoyed when he doesn't have to rush away. She is a talented artist, abstract on occasion perhaps but while her developmental age seems that of a young child, her art does not. He has seen things come out of the Art Department which represent their subjects with less accuracy than Becky's drawings.

Settled in his chair, he reads his name again on the paper and smiles.

It's even odds as to whether this'll be a picture taken from her favourite film of the moment, or if it'll be a picture of he and Elsie. He has in his small collection quite a mix of both.

He opens it and laughs, even as he feels his cheeks flushing. It could be from a film of course, but he would recognise those exaggerated eyebrows anywhere.

"What've you got there?"

He startles at Beryl's voice close to his ear and slams his hands together, closing the picture up between them.

"Don't you ever knock?"

She scoffs, pulls a chair up close beside him. "Twenty years, Charlie Carson. I'm not about to start knocking now."

He scowls, it isn't as though he hasn't _tried_ to get her to knock over the years. The most annoying thing about it is that she'll do it for Elsie, only Elsie has told her not to bother when Beryl knows she's free.

They're infuriating.

Beryl reaches out and tugs at a corner of the picture. "So, what _have_ you got?"

Carefully he pulls the picture out of her reach again, lays it on the desk with his palm down flat on top. He eyes her, the fidgeting, the way she can't look at him for long.

"You already know what it is." She flinches. "I cannot _believe_ that woman." Elsie actually sent a spy.

"I just popped in to ask if you've changed your mind about Saturday."

He raises an eyebrow and watches with some amusement as she seems to shrink under it. Usually Beryl leaves the lying to Elsie; she's much better at it. "That's not why you're here and we both know it. Elsie sent you to look at the picture." He turns his eyes to his closed door. "Is she waiting outside for you to report back?"

Beryl hesitates only a moment before collapsing with a sigh, her body folding back into the chair. She waves a loose hand at him. "Alright, alright, you win. She's not outside, no, but she did send me."

He shakes his head at the both of them. "And what did she offer you in return for this little bit of espionage?"

He watches as she comes to a realisation, her forehead scrunching up. "Nothing, she- actually she…didn't...that that _plotter_."

He chuckles, he's called Elsie that himself before.

Beryl looks at him with wide eyes. "She asked if I'd come look or ask you direct and I told her I couldn't of course, that I wouldn't break your trust like that."

"Of course." He agrees with a smirk, not buying a word of it. Beryl would have said no, true enough, but she'll have said it because she knows he always catches her out even when she has better days than this.

"And then she started asking about Saturday and if I had any plans, that there was a poetry bash in the village and she thought she might go down there for the night. She was talking about buying tickets and reserving a table for dinner and I panicked."

He laughs, a low burst of it. "And you told her you'd come search my office now, just to stop her from talking?"

Beryl nods, shaking her head and rubbing at her eyes. "You know what this means? She knows "

"Of course she knows! She always knows."

"Hmmm, but this time she doesn't care that we know she knows."

It takes him just a second to untangle that one. "I think she just cares more about finding out what Becky drew and less about pretending to be surprised."

"And you're _not_ going to tell me?" He has to give it to her, Beryl does look a little optimistic; it's a wonder she still has that in her, surrounding herself with people like he and Elsie as she does.

"No. But you can tell Elsie that I'm impressed she took it this far." It's the first time she's actually sent someone else to do her dirty work. He wonders if it has anything to do with their conversation yesterday about certain black pots.

"I don't know why she doesn't just look at the thing before she gives it to you. Save us all the trouble." Beryl rises from her chair, grumbling and he follows her up.

"Becky makes her promise, and you know how Elsie is about promises."

"Still..._you_ could save us the bother if you'd just tell her what her sister draws."

He nods as he opens his door for her. "I could, but it's more entertaining this way; when does Elsie ever _not_ know something?"

He expects Beryl to laugh, to agree that their friend can do with having some things kept from her. Instead she turns to him as she steps into the corridor, her face serious. "She doesn't know you plan to skip her birthday."

He sighs, feels that familiar knot forming; the one he gets whenever he thinks of the party and his decision. The one he has no logical reason for. She _will_ understand. It's not the first social gathering he's missed that she might have expected him at. "Just her party, I'm not missing her _birthday_. I'll drop her present in to her, wish her a good day."

Beryl sighs, shakes her head again. Her finger pokes his chest, wrinkling his shirt. She opens her mouth and he waits for the warning he received yesterday, the threat that will convince him to change his mind, but after a moment she just sighs again and steps away.

He watches her make her way down the corridor to the lifts and for a moment he considers that she might be right, but he shakes his own head and closes the door.

Becky's picture still rests on the desk and he picks it up, flips it open.

If he ignores the church setting, the vicar and congregation. If he looks past the dark grey suit and white dress then he can see them there, a moment of their friendship captured on the page. Her laugh and his smile. Her attention on him, excluding everyone else, even as the Becky on the page pulls at her hand.

No, he decides, folding the paper again and tucking it into his briefcase to take home, he's right this time. She _should_ enjoy herself at the party, spend time with her other friends. And she won't miss him, not for just one night; friends like they are, they don't have to spent every moment together.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

poetry bash_ - a place or event where poets gather to...well, not so much _read_ as recite their poetry. _

_I'm not going to explain _plotter _because that's canon. ;)_


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N: Thank you so much for all your reviews! So many of them and I adored each and every one. I'll try to actually reply to some today; I have the most boring day planned at work, so I can see myself trying to take every tea break I can imagine and I'll use those times to write and reply! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy.**

_In which Elsie snaps and Charles makes everyone in the Humanities Lounge a cup of tea._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen<strong>

"I think we can cross off 'M' as a future job title."

She jumps at his voice, Charles slipping into the seat beside her, a china cup in each hand. He slides one over to her and she smiles, toasts with it in thanks. "Sorry?"

He takes a sip, speaks from behind the rim. "Beryl; your latest recruit. She makes a worse spy than you do. If you've ever thought to take over at MI5, I wouldn't get my hopes up."

She wrinkles her nose at his smirk, fights the urge to stick her tongue out at him; she's not _actually_ ten-years old and she doesn't particularly want any of the other staff in the Lounge to question that.

"Yes, fine. It wasn't my best plan, I'll admit but I'd run out of options. Don't I at least get points for originality?"

He chuckles. "Because no one in their right mind has ever considered sending Beryl Patmore in to spy?" He tilts his head in thought and she waits. "Yes, I suppose you get a few points for that. If she wasn't so abysmal at it, I certainly wouldn't have suspected her."

"Yes." She takes a large gulp of her tea, breathes in the wisps of steam across the top and feels herself relaxing. She hadn't realised how tense she's been the last hour or so. She wonders if she might be picking up on the tension from the Bateses; the couple huddled together again in the corner - only the one file in front of them this time. It could be that, or it could be the agreement she just made with her third-years.

"Of course nothing beats you pretending to be Becky herself and calling to ask if your sister _Elsie_ had given me the 'right picture'."

Some days she wishes he didn't have such a good memory. Then again, he never was likely to forget that, the amount of laughing he did at her over it.

"You promised not to mention that again."

She tries to stare him down, but he shakes off her look. "I did no such thing." Well, it was worth a try, she thinks.

"Well you should."

Charles huffs, leaning back in his chair. "I won't."

She rolls her eyes, reaches to push her glasses up a little higher on her nose. "Well, thank you for the tea, Professor Carson, but as you can see; I'm busy." She gestures a hand at the open folders and notebooks spread over the table.

Charles leans forward again, drags one of the notebooks closer. "Are you writing again?"

Pen in hand she waves it at him. "I'm trying to."

He turns a blank look on her, raises an eyebrow and she gives in with a sigh.

"Yes, I am. Just the one article, mind, for the Chronicle." His other eyebrow rises; she watches it in fascination. Like a little pair of furry caterpillars chasing each other up his face. She drops her pen again and rubs at the skin beneath her eyes, knuckles knocking into the frames of her glasses; she obviously needs a break.

"Our Chronicle?"

"No the Yorkshire Chronicle." She glares at him. "Yes _our_ Chronicle."

"That's a student paper, I thought you said staff weren't to write for it?"

This steel-trap mind of his is why he makes such a good historian and a _great_ Professor. If only he used such powers for good and not for remembering _every little thing_ she says just to argue back at her with it.

She realises, even as she opens her mouth, that she's getting defensive. It has a little to do with the questions, with the fact that _yes_, she is going back on her word and will probably have to defend that decision to high Heaven for the next few days. But it's also been a long time since she wrote anything more than student reports and online book reviews. She's nervous and that always makes her irritable.

She's also starting to worry about Anna and John and the little looks they keep sending her.

"They're not, Charles. And if you don't let me get on I won't be writing for it either."

He moves back from the table almost as though she struck him, and although she's been sharper with him before, has been on the end of such a tone from him many times, she still feels awful as soon as she's done.

"Wait, ignore that, I didn't mean a word of it." She catches his wrist with her hand, folds her fingers around his and squeezes. "I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that. "

He peers at her. "Are you okay, Elsie?"

She smiles grimly, removes her glasses and swings them by one of the arms; a nervous habit she thought she'd grown out of. "I haven't written one of these for years, Charles. What if I'm not as good as I remember? Or I've lost the knack? You know what they say, those who can: _do_, those who _can't_: teach."

He turns his hand over in hers, grips back as hard as she is. "That's utter tosh and you know it."

"Is it? Do I?" He tugs at their hands, scowls at her. She finds her lips turning up of their own accord at the ferocity in his expression.

"Yes." He stares at her until she nods and then releases her hand.

She looks down at it; he hasn't held her hand since that trip to Brighton when he almost lost his footing tramping over the rocks along the breaker.

"So, why _are_ you writing for the student paper?"

She sighs, her hand falling into her lap, fingers curling into a fist. When she looks up he is already back to flipping through her notebook. "I made a deal with my third years. You know I've been having trouble convincing some of them that their style is still wrong for newspaper journalism?" He nods somewhat absently; she wonders what bit of research he's stumbled upon that's taking his attention. "Well, one or two of them challenged my assertion that anyone could tell the difference between a professional article and theirs."

He looks up then, smiles sympathetically. "Edna?"

She nods; "_Edna_ and Gwen, surprisingly."

That's why she gave in, really. To have one of her better students question her took a little of the wind from her sails. No doubt Edna had been at fault there too but, still, Gwen had supported the challenge and well, it isn't all about professional pride, but that certainly doesn't help.

Charles frowns down at something in her book and she makes a quick note of how far into it he's got, so that she can try and track what he's looking at later. It's her ideas notebook he's holding, then one she has been filling up for years every time she sees or thinks of something that she might have written about it in the past. She's hoping something in there might still be relevant enough to be useful, because she can't seem to drum up an ounce of inspiration this afternoon.

"So you'll publish something and then…?"

"I'll publish something, we'll put in a couple of the student articles as well and run a focus group on a couple of classes throughout the University. All departments. And at the end, well, the plan is that I'm right."

Charles closes the notebook and drops it back on the table. "There's no worry there then, Elsie. I've found that one of the more annoying things about you is your propensity for being right so much of the time."

She raises an eyebrow, leans an elbow on the table and rests her chin in the palm of her hand.

"_One_ of my _more_ annoying characteristics, Charles?" She sees that headlight look again, can imagine the scampering his brain is doing to come up with a safe way out of this trap. "I'm rather intrigued to know what the others are."

For a moment she thinks he might actually bolt from the table, his body tensing and turning as though to make a quick getaway, but then his eyes fall on their abandoned tea cups and light up.

"Tea?" He says the word loudly enough that even John and Anna look over to him. He holds one of the cups up and wiggles it, opens the question up to the rest of the Lounge. "Would anyone like a tea?"

She chuckles as the orders fly at him, everyone taking advantage of Charles's unusual offer. She leans back in her chair to watch while he sets about refilling the kettle and laying mugs out in a line across the counter. He looks altogether too pleased with himself as he drops several tea bags into the tea pot. He thinks he's escaped her, the poor man. She bites her lip to control her smirk; he should know better than that by now.

She turns back to her blank page while the kettle boils; forces down a sigh. She has a few weeks to get this right; plenty of time. Certainly far more time than she ever had at the Standard. If only she could settle on an idea.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<br>_

M - _Reference to the James Bond series; _M _is the name given to the head of MI6 in the book/film series; for all of the 21st Century movies, this role has been played by Dame Judi Dench. Later Charles talks about Elsie taking over at _MI5 _that's not a typo; MI6 is foreign intelligence, MI5 is domestic._

steel-trap mind - _the kind of mind/memory where _nothing_ is forgotten. Obviously, Charles does forget things, but it's used as hyperbole all the time for someone who remembers little annoyingly inconvenient things that other people might have said._

High Heaven - _more hyperbole, this time to say that she thinks she'll be defending herself to everyone._

knack - _the ability, the ease._

tosh - _rubbish, completely untrue and silly._

tramping - _something between trampling over the coast and walking; no real aim in mind when you set out._

breaker - _the piles of purposely placed rocks that stretch out to sea from the coast and are aimed to slow the damage to land by waves, but having them crash and break against the rocks further out at sea first._

wind from her sails - _confidence in what you're saying._

_I think that's everything, but let me know if I've missed something!_


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**A/N: I'm glad you're all enjoying the teasing. I love that about their relationship on the show (and I'm hoping for more of that next series, now they're more settled as to how the other feels) and I'm so happy you think I'm replicating that okay in this. Thank you for all of your kind words, and to everyone who keeps coming back to read this every chapter!**

_In which Charles is a grump and Beryl's persistence might just pay off._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen<strong>

"Professor Carson, can I- do you have a moment?"

Charles closes his eyes, his back to Joseph Molesley and counts to ten. Does it again before he feels ready to turn around and face the man.

"My day is made up of many 'moments', Mr Molesley; fortunately for you I have a few to spare. But be quick about it."

He gestures with his hand to get the man speaking, he could do without the usual lead up; if he would just get to the point from the start, these little 'talks' wouldn't be so annoying. Or take up so much time.

"I was wondering- Beryl Patmore sent an email, and Phyllis; that is Miss Baxter in the English department? She really wants to go, and we couldn't without taking something. But I don't know what the Professor might like, you see and we don't want to insult her, or give her something she'll never use. She's been so helpful to Phyllis, and you know of course the support she gave my application and we owe her so much. But women can be funny about things like this, would she actually _like_ the fuss, should we-"

Charles holds up a hand, the other gripping his papers tight enough to crease the edges.

"For goodness sake man, you're rambling. What is it that you want?"

Molesley takes a deep breath, meets Charles's eye again. "Phyllis Baxter and I were thinking to buy Professor Hughes a present, for her birthday and I'm asking for your advice on what to get."

Oh he hates this time of year. He has enough trouble coming up with his own gift for the woman, and then all and sundry start asking for his suggestions. How is _he_ supposed to know what Elsie will and won't like? She's polite enough that she'll act delighted to receive just about anything from anyone, likely actually _is_ genuinely delighted. If ever there were a person that best represents _'it's the thought that counts'_ it's Elsie Hughes. Her face when he gave her that toaster last year is proof enough of that; anyone would think she'd never seen one before, the way she acted.

"I'm sure chocolates would go over well, Molesley. Or if you really want to show your appreciation, then she favours single malts."

There, that should do. He nods, turns and starts to walk away before the man can remember something else he needs to ask. Elsie will have a hard time keeping a straight face if Molesley and Miss Baxter turn up with a bottle of scotch, given their bet. He has to admit, if the two are buying birthday gifts together then it's looking more likely that he'll have to pay up a bottle himself after all. Then again, his last argument stands; he and Elsie often buy gifts between them for their colleagues.

"Thank you Professor, I'll speak to Phyllis and get back to you!"

He escapes into his office and closes the door. Why do they need a Modern History course anyway? Not a day goes by where there isn't some documentary about the 20th Century on the telly. If people want to study the 'great' wars they should just watch those and then he wouldn't have to put up with Joseph Molesley cluttering up the department.

Dropping his notes onto the desk, he shrugs out of his jacket, hangs it up on the coat rack in the corner. He's in a mood, as Beryl would say. It started before bumping into Molesley; his tea break with Elsie most likely.

She'd put him on the spot, twisting his words like that. _'Most annoying traits'_; she knows as well as he does that she isn't perfect. He should have just left instead of making that ridiculous offer of tea. He was stuck there for half an hour refilling the teapot to accommodate all the orders. Even Beryl had stuck her head in by the end and requested a cuppa for her trouble. _Her_ trouble. Elsie had a good laugh at that.

He smiles, settling into his desk chair. She'd cheered up while he made the teas, she hadn't written anything that he could tell, but she had looked happier. Less like things were starting to weigh her down.

She brings it on herself; accepting challenges from students. Her pride must have been tweaked, that's the only thing he can think of that would have her throw out her common sense long enough to agree to the demonstration. He gives her credit though, for having the whole thing thought through so fast. She'd only had her third-year seminar a few hours before he found her, and already she'd come up with a plan and got the student paper on board.

He opens his laptop up, logging into the school server and waits for his emails to load, the little text at the bottom of the screen telling him he has almost three-hundred to download. Excellent.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"Would you at least consider stopping in for a bit?" He walks a little faster, hoping it will stop Beryl from talking while she chases after him. What they must look like; him striding between the stacks and Beryl following behind practically jogging at his heels. He chances a quick look around the library; no one seems to be watching them, but then he can't spot Miss O'Brien at her desk, so they're probably not entirely unobserved.

Silence falls and a quick look behind gives him reason to sigh in relief. He's lost her. Or more likely Beryl has finally got the message that he doesn't want to talk about the blasted birthday party anymore.

"She's going to know you're home. Your rooms are next door...she can _hear_ when you're in."

He startles as she pops up around the next corner, having somehow anticipated where he was heading and looping the other way.

"Good Lord woman! Won't you just leave me alone?"

Miss O'Brien appears then with her customary scowl, pressing a finger to her lips and shushing him. "This is a library, Professors, if you hadn't noticed."

Beryl pulls a face at her as she leaves and lowers her voice to a whisper. "I'll leave you alone when you stop acting like an idiot."

He scowls at her, crossing his arms over his chest. "I am _not_ an idiot."

Beryl leans back against one of the bookcases, above her head he sees the Taming of The Shrew half-hanging off the shelf. If only that were possible, he thinks. "Why are you so against this party? I've never known you to dig your heels in like this."

"Why are you so insistent on my presence? It's not _your_ birthday and it's not the first party I've stayed away from."

Beryl's eyes rise to the ceiling, apparently seeking something from the rafters. Patience perhaps? Or if he's lucky, some sense.

"No, it's not my birthday, it's _Elsie's_. The woman you insist is your dearest friend."

"She is my dearest friend."

"And the rest." She waves a hand at him as he goes to argue. "Never mind that, we don't have time for that, I've a Prep class in 15 minutes. So, this is your friend's birthday party and you think she's not going to mind that _her_ dearest friend is missing it? What a wonderful fantasy world you must live in Charles Carson."

Of course he does expect that Elsie will mind a little, he just knows she'll have a good enough time that she'll understand his reasons for staying away. He's doing her a _favour_. And with the amount of sideways looks they've both been getting lately, and this irritating increase in insinuation from Beryl, it'll do everyone some good to see that he and Elsie _do_ spend time apart. A _boyfriend_ or partner would have to be there, but a friend does not.

But it looks as though he'll get no peace from _this_ friend if he doesn't at least agree to show his face for a few minutes. "Fine, fine. You win. I'll come in for a drink. One drink." Beryl claps her hands, earning another _'shush'_ from Miss O'Brien over behind her counter. "But you'll see that I'm right and then next time you'll leave me alone." He adds, holding his hand out to her.

Beryl rolls her eyes at him, but nods, takes his hand and gives it one strong shake. "Alright. But if I'm right then I want you to agree not to be such a wally about it in future and we'll not have to go through this again next year."

He doesn't have much choice, having already shaken on it, but he's not concerned.

Beryl heads off to her class and he goes back to his search, squinting at the tiny labels on the shelves. He swears the librarian changes the placements every term just for the sadistic joy she takes in watching them all hunt around like headless chickens.

Stepping around the corner, he tries his luck in the next row. He'll keep his promise to show up at Elsie's party, but he'll go an hour or so after it starts. And if it sounds too rowdy, well, she wouldn't miss him then anyway.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

all and sundry - _everyone, just...everyone._

'it's the thought that counts' - _common saying, usually when a gift is...not what you would actually want, but the sentiment behind it is honest and lovely._

telly - _television._

cuppa - _cup of tea, very British way of saying it. If he were from London, it'd be a 'cup of rosie-lee' (rhyming slang)._

Taming of The Shrew - _Shakespeare. Here I'm making a play on the title, _shrew_ is used to name a woman who is being annoying, persistent and just generally irritating._

dig your heels in - _stubbornly decide against something, and be continually unmoved by suggestions that you change your mind. _

Prep class - _food preparation class._

wally - _foolish idiot._

headless chickens - _no sense of direction, running around pointlessly. As, apparently, chickens do when they've lost their heads._

rowdy - _loud, noisy, exciting. You know, not a quite little evening where everyone sits around playing cards. ;)_

_Also, thanks for KLSWhite for fixing my key last chapter! You know what you did._


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**A/N: Ah, you're all so pleased Charles has finally decided to come to the party. Thank you for all of your comments, they're making me smile (and laugh). Now, I'm off to the hairdressers, so please, enjoy:**

_In which Elsie has two very different conversations, that isn't a birthday card and she's really very happy for everyone._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen<strong>

"Well you're not looking your usual chipper self this morning."

Elsie holds a hand up to her mouth to cover a yawn and adds another sugar to her tea. She'll need the rush today, she can tell.

"Late night." Leaning against the counter she looks Beryl up and down; takes in the red blouse and light skirt. "So, Mr Mason's around today I see."

The other woman flushes, which is always a delight given how rare it is that Elsie gets to do the teasing between them.

"He's taking me to lunch."

Elsie smiles at the joy in the sentence. She's so happy for Beryl. Everything she and Bill have been through, with William's illness and Bill taking in Daisy; and yet a simple lunch can still make the woman this happy. They've never made anything formal between them, but it's only a matter of time now, she's sure.

Reaching out she squeezes Beryl's arm. "You look lovely."

"'You sure; it's not too much?" Beryl runs a hand down her front, fiddles with a button and Elsie rolls her eyes, clasps her friend's hands and holds them still.

"You look lovely." She repeats and tugs on their hands. "He won't be able to keep his eyes off you."

Beryl smiles, blush deepening and Elsie lets her hands go, picks up her tea.

Beryl picks up her own take-away cup and raises an eyebrow. "So what were _you_ up to last night that kept you awake?"

Elsie laughs, waves a hand. "Nothing exciting."

Beryl narrows her eyes. "You were watching telly, weren't you?"

This is the problem with having friends that know you so well; they know you so well.

"Oh, look at the time," she says, avoiding the question entirely and looking at her watch; "I have a lecture."

Beryl shakes her head but Elsie's already turning away, she really does have a lecture.

She checks her pigeonhole on the way out of the Lounge and tucks the few letters there under her arm. Bills mostly, and a handwritten envelope. Probably a birthday card.

She passes Anna in the corridor, the girl looks white as a sheet as she ducks into her office. She hopes it's not a bug going around; those things spread like wild fire through the university if they're not lucky.

With another gulp of tea, she takes the back stairs down a floor, heads over to Lecture Hall 1. She can already see a few of her students loitering about outside; they look how she feels, all glazed eyes and slow movements. She'll break them in easy this morning, they won't take anything in for the first fifteen minutes anyway. After that the caffeine and sugar should have kicked in and she'll feel more alert herself too.

Pushing at the big oak door she leans against it to keep it open, letters in hand she gestures for her students to enter. "Come on, come in. Learning awaits."

Not one of them rolls their eyes at her; she'll make sure her lecture notes go up on the server this afternoon. Some of this will come up in their end of year exam and she doesn't think much of it is going to seep in this morning. They're all still adjusting to the holidays being over.

Besides, they were probably watching the same _Game of Thrones_ marathon she was last night.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"Okay," she says, pulling out a chair and taking a seat between John and Anna; "that's the fifth time you've eyed me since I walked in. Either something's wrong with this skirt and jumper, or you've something you want to share."

She hopes it's the latter, they're not new clothes and it's nowhere near the first time she's worn this combination of them.

Anna stares at her and Elsie thinks she sees the girl tremble. It makes her heart jump. She's not as close to Anna as she used to be, the lass married John and inevitably, more time was spent with her husband than with Elsie. She doesn't resent it, she knows just how in love the two are, and it hasn't stopped her caring for the girl.

John reaches across her for his wife's hand, squeezes it and Elsie feels as though she's at the edge of a cliff just waiting for the final push over the edge when Anna meets his eyes and nods. John turns back to face her; _here it is_.

"We do have some news; we weren't going to tell anyone, but Anna says that you're likely to guess anyway and she'd like us to tell you ourselves; we've been trying to find a good time."

"Now, Mr Bates. Now is definitely a good time." John smiles at her, which at least makes her think the news isn't too terrible. Perhaps they've found new jobs.

John looks at his wife again, and Elsie leans back, flicks her eyes between the two of them, catches the little twitch of Anna's free hand to her stomach.

_Oh_. Not terrible news at all then.

She already has a smile on her face by the time John actually says "we're pregnant" and is already moving forward to hug Anna.

"Congratulations. Oh, Anna, I'm so happy for you." Anna laughs wetly in her ear.

"We hoped you would be."

Pulling back, she tries for a stern look but can't keep the smile off her face. "Of course I am, you daft thing." She turns to John, who has that particular look of pride on his face as he stares at his wife. She missed it before; he's always looked proud of Anna. "Congratulations to you too." She pulls him in for a hug, smiles twice as much at the stiff way he wraps his arms around her back. She's surrounded by men who have no idea what to do with physical contact when it's offered freely.

She pulls away and takes them both in again, they're grinning at each other. Silly, soppy smiles she hasn't seen the likes of since they first got engaged. She clasps her hands together in her lap to stop herself from clapping like a seal at them. A baby Bates. The child is going to be spoilt rotten, already she's imagining trips to baby stores, picking out brightly painted wooden toys and cute little baby grows.

"You'll keep this to yourself, won't you?" Anna's question pulls her from the image of Charles holding up a tiny pink dress to his chest and frowning quizzically at the size of it, and Elsie shakes her head.

"What? Oh, of course I will! I'm so glad you told me. Now, tell me everything, start at the beginning." Both John and Anna blush and she adds quickly; "Not _that_ beginning."

A baby. Her heart gives another little jolt. She's happy for them, she's really very happy.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<br>_

chipper - _happy, energetic, usually someone who's that way first thing in the morning or still that way in the afternoon when everyone else is starting to flag {slow down and get drowsy, less energetic}.  
><em>

pigeonhole - _basically a little slot on a wall of __them where mail or memos are left for staff._

baby grows - _um...rompers? The little all-in-one outfits babies have. _Onesies _as my lovely readers have informed me (thank you!). I wondered, but...we call the adult versions that so I wasn't sure. Now I know. ;)_


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**A/N: You guys...you wonderful, talented, charming people. Thank you for every one of your reviews last chapter. I've cherished them. This is a modest chapter, but the next two will possibly be quite long so I hope you'll forgive me. Please, please enjoy!**

_In which Charles goes present shopping and Beryl has probably got the wrong idea about the gift._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Sixteen<strong>

If there is one thing that Charles hates more than parties, it's shopping for gifts for the subject of those parties, one subject in particular. Somehow, even though she really is excellent at faking enthusiasm and _does_ value the thought more than the gift itself, shopping for Elsie Hughes twice a year has become one of those things he dreads. Like doctor's appointments and the annual Downton Cricket match; the University keeps losing to the village team, frankly it's getting embarrasing.

Beryl is easy to buy for; any of the unusual spice racks from BHS or a new fondue set. Recipe books she doesn't yet own, the latest DVD release from Gordon Ramsay because she has an unhealthy obsession with the man she once flamed in perhaps her most famous review. Easy.

For Elsie he spends hours tracking back over their conversations, trying to find some glimmer of an idea. Did she say she'd finished her latest box-set or that she's looking _forward_ to finishing it? Was she complaining that the battery on her Kindle no longer charges as well as it used to or that she's reading so much she keeps draining it? When she spoke of the new show opening up in the West End, did she want to go or was it just conversation?

It's maddening and inevitably he finds himself standing in any number of shops, staring at the shelves and panicking. Worse this year is that he's left feeling some empathy with_ Joseph Molesley_.

He's aware that she needs a new Hoover, but knows that would be a terrible gift. As would a gift certificate.

Elsie is unsurpassed at choosing gifts. She always seems to hit that delicate balance between useful and desirable. It's why he usually lets her do the picking, even when they're out shopping together. She tries to explain her reasoning as they go, but he suspects it might be one of those things some people are good at and others just never achieve at all. His talents lie elsewhere he supposes.

He's been staring at a top-of-the-range crêpe pan for ten minutes when he pulls out his phone and calls Beryl.

"Step away from the kitchen goods, Charlie." She says when she picks up and he looks around him quickly; it wouldn't be the first time she's stalked him around the shops. "You're looking for me aren't you?"

He grumbles and shoves a hand into his coat pocket. She's not here then. "How did you know where I was?"

If eye rolling had a sound, it would be the little huffing sigh and rustle of clothing that he hears now. "You're always there when you call me; Elsie's birthday and Christmas, every year. Except for last year and we know what a mistake that was."

"She _loved_ that toaster."

"Of course she did." He swears he hears a muttered _'men'_ and a low chuckle. Ah, Bill Mason was taking her out to lunch today, wasn't he? Charles checks his watch; 4:15. Quite a long lunch.

"Well, what have _you _got her?"

He moves away from the kitchen equipment, skips a few aisles and goes down to the little electronics corner.

"Doesn't matter, does it? This is about you."

Books then, probably one for fun and another to encourage Elsie to cook. It might actually be a good idea that he keep away from anything to do with the kitchen then, too many gifts like that and she'll take offence.

He leans forward and squints at a label, a bright yellow promotional sticker at the corner. "Does she need a new router?"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Charles. You're about as much use as a fish bicycle sometimes. If this were you, what would you like Elsie to buy you?"

"Well, I am running low on socks."

"Charles Carson!" He jumps, pulls the phone away from his ear so the volume of Beryl's voice won't deafen him. "If you buy her socks I'll wallop you."

Right, no socks. He doesn't know _why_; Elsie bought _him_ the pair he's wearing, along with a few ties over the years. He's never been offended by it.

"Although underwear does have some merit if you're thinking to make a move finally. I'd suggest the lingerie department for that."

He hears another low chuckle along with Beryl's cackle and flushes even though they can't actually see him. "Have you been drinking?"

"Perhaps a glass or two. That's got nothing to do with anything, has it. I'm just saying-"

"I know what you're saying." He interrupts. "And I'm saying, _stop it_. If you haven't got any serious suggestions I'll hang up now."

"No, no. That was serious, it was, but I'll move on. What if I said jewellery?"

"A brooch perhaps?" That sounds good, she'd been quite pleased with the one he gave her years ago. Wore it almost weekly at first. He wonders what she did with it, he hasn't seen it on her in quite some time.

"Well, yeah, or a necklace, maybe a nice silver bracelet."

His palm heats up, going clammy and he swaps his phone to the other hand. "That's a bit much, I think. I wouldn't want to give the wrong impression."

"Oh no, we wouldn't want that. It doesn't have to be an extravagant piece, Charles, just a little something that you think she'd like."

He hums absent mindedly, spots another display and takes a closer look. It's a little more money than he usually spends but he doesn't mind that. Not if she'll like it. "You might actually have helped." He lifts one of the boxes up and tucks it beneath his arm, turns towards the registers.

"You needn't say it with so much disbelief."

"Of course, thank you Beryl. I think Elsie is going to love it."

"Well, I won't say I'm not surprised, I didn't think I'd talk you 'round that quickly. Don't tell me what it is, I want to wait 'til you've given it her. She'll be right excited."

He frowns a little, strange woman; he doesn't think he'll ever understand her.

He hangs up a minute later while he joins the small queue, looks down at the box. He can't believe he didn't think of this sooner, it's so obvious with all the telly she watches, the films and shows. He remembers her saying her screen was that new HD thing, but that she hardly noticed a difference still using an old DVD player.

He smiles as he places the blu-ray player on the counter and reaches for his wallet. She's going to love this.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

BHS - British Home Stores_; a chain of department stores in the UK which sells pretty much everything from clothes to gadgets, electronics and christmas gift sets. They also do jewellery and perfumes/cosmetics. If you're not sure what to get someone, somewhere like BHS is a good place to start because there's so much under one roof. The stores are usually found on the High Street or in Shopping Centres._

Gordon Ramsay - _British Chef and restaurateur, whose restuarants have been awarded 15 Michelin in total. Rather infamous for swearing and being quite mean-spirited towards his staff while working under pressure. Had a show called_ Hell's Kitchen _showing this._

Hoover - _vacuum. It is a make of vaccum but has since become the term simply used instead. You hoover the house, even if you're actually using a Dyson._

router - _little magical box for the internet that we all love and hate in equal measure because you can guarantee it'll kick you offline exactly when you most need to be connect._

lingerie - _fancy knickers (panties - urg, I hate that word, lol) and bras and those delightful silk, satin and lace corsets..._

registers - _till or check-out._

_(I'm glad so many of you are enjoying the key! Let me know if I've missed anything.)_


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**A/N: Oh you excitable people you, aren't you all just darling. I'm so glad you're enjoying this so much! And I am trying to reply to as many people as I can. Sorry this one is coming out so late today. It's work; it screws up my schedule. Please enjoy. **

_In which the not-birthday card is revealed and teenagers don't always bring the best of news._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen<strong>

Elsie watches Beryl's face as she reads the letter. She's always thought her friend has an exceptionally expressive face and she is certainly cycling through a range of them at the moment.

"So?"

Beryl peers up from behind her glasses, the chains hooked over her ears rattling when she moves. "Well, you know him better than I do."

Elsie scoffs, leaning back against her desk. "I _knew_ him, fifteen years ago."

"Knew him pretty well by all accounts."

"It was a long time ago." She repeats. "Who knows what's happened to him since then."

"He got married, had a boy, lost his wife and moved into;" Beryl looks back down, eyes flicking over the letter, "organic farming."

Leaning over, Elsie snatches the paper from her hand. "Okay, so I know what he's been up to. What do you think he wants?"

Beryl takes her glasses off and Elsie watches as they bounce on her chest a few times before settling. "I think he wants to meet you for dinner to catch up. But that's obviously not what _you_ think he's after."

She sighs, takes another look at the letter, the still familiar signature at the bottom. Joe always did prefer writing to picking up a phone. "I wasn't the first woman he proposed to and by the sounds of it, he didn't wait too long after I left to ask someone else." She folds the letter and slips it back into the envelope. A birthday card would have been so much easier to deal with. "He wants a wife, Beryl. He wants a step mother for his son and a wife."

"You got that from a two page letter from a man you haven't spoken to in fifteen years?"

"And the four years of knowing him 'pretty well'. I doubt Joe's changed much since then." She pinches the top of her nose. "He's not a man prone to nostalgia and he doesn't like to be alone."

"Who does?" Elsie glares at the pointed tone and Beryl adds; "Present company excepted and all that."

"Hmm. What should I do?" She's torn. Not about her feelings for Joe; her heart was turned away from him a long time ago, but would it help anything to drag up the past?

"Meet him. If he's just after catching up then you've got yourself a friend back, if he's after more, well there's nothing that says you have to date the man, or marry him if it comes to that."

Elsie stares down at the envelope. Brushes a finger across the front. "He did make me laugh, you know."

"Well then. Call him, it won't hurt anything and it'll stop you thinking about a certain historian and his birthday gift."

"A birthday gift I _wouldn't_ have been thinking about if you'd kept your mouth shut." It's too good to be true, so Elsie suspects it isn't; Charles Carson wouldn't buy her jewellery. "And I'm still convinced you got that wrong."

"Tell yourself that, love. But I saw that smile before you shut it down. Just wait and see. And call your Farmer Joe, maybe he's aged better than you think."

She rolls her eyes at Beryl's wink. Points a finger at her.

"Enough about me; you were about to tell me what sort of lunch takes four hours and leaves you looking this happy the next day."

_Wait and see. _That sounds awfully familiar.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"I'm so sorry Professor. Papa did try, but Granny wouldn't budge."

Elsie smiles at the girl. Sybil looks more heartbroken than she should about the trip and Elsie makes a mental note to speak to Tom Branson sooner rather than later.

"Don't worry, Sybil. It's not your fault. I'm sure you and your sister tried your best." Bloody Lady Grantham. The woman never even went to university and when it's time to buy new books for the library or better lab equipment for the Chemistry Department, the old bat couldn't care less about 'the good of the students'.

Elsie bets Isobel was fighting her corner, that would have done it. The old witch can't stand to be on the same side as her cousin in anything. That's probably why the Board keep deciding against the new copiers too. Next time Elsie will be more careful what she says at their book club.

"We did. Mary kept telling Papa how good it is that I'm showing an interest in Uni and Mama said it sounded like fun. We didn't think Granny would say no to him."

No, she doesn't suppose they did.

She reaches out and pulls the lass in for a hug, Sybil comes willingly, her bag thumping against Elsie's side.

"Not to worry. It was worth a try." She pulls back and knocks Sybil's ponytail back over her shoulder. "We'll give it a go again next year."

"It'll be too late then!"

Elsie raises an eyebrow, leans back against the wall. "What'll be too late then? Westminster will still be there, the Government will still be running and if it isn't, then I think we'll all have bigger fish to fry than this trip."

Sybil blushes, crumples the handle of her satchel between her fingers. _Ah_.

"I'm sure even Tom will be there."

The girl nibbles at her lip, the way she used to when she was much younger and couldn't decide if she should tell Elsie what her sisters had been up to in the computer lab. "What is it?"

"I don't think he will be, here I mean."

"Why ever not?" The lad's marks are as good as ever, he's in no danger of losing his student loan payments and he's always been so sure he wanted his degree first, before setting out to right the world.

"He thinks he could do more to change people's views if he starts now. He's been reading about all of these people who have gone on to fight against inequality, they all left school and didn't even think about getting a degree. They just got out there."

Elsie purses her lips. So she better have that talk really soon. She'd been afraid of this at the beginning, before Tom seemed to settle down, but things had been going better lately or at least she _thought_ they were. Now though...and she doesn't like the little light in Sybil's eyes.

Reaching out she squeezes the girl's shoulder. "Don't worry about it Sybil. Let me have a word with him. I won't tell him you said anything." Elsie adds quickly when the Sybil opens her mouth. "But leave it to me."

Sybil nods and then hoists her bag up higher on her shoulder. "Thanks. I've gotta go; Mama's waiting for me." She hurries off down the corridor for the stairs, waves to Miss Baxter on the way. Only the Crawley sisters ever venture down to the residences; the students all know they're out of bounds.

Elsie shakes her head. Tonight is a microwave cake night, she thinks and pushes open her front door. At least Sybil's visit will keep her mind off of Joe's letter for a while.

* * *

><p><em>Please remember the story summary and then look at the characterpairing tags for this fic and trust me. Joe had to come up, didn't he, but I promise that whatever you're thinking, that's not the plan. ;) _

_Key:_  
>organic farming - <em>farming without the use of pesticides etc.<em>

bigger fish to fry - _much more important matters to attend to_.

microwave cake night - _that chocolate cake recipe that circulated a few years ago...where milk, egg, flour and hot chocolate powder are just put in a mug and then put in the microwave...you get the stodgiest mug-cake ever but with a little bit of cream or ice cream...oh it is the easiest way to have some comfort cake._


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**A/N: Ahh, you made my evening and morning an absolute delight. Thank you for your comments and reviews. I hope you enjoy this little bit of insight into their friendship as payment. :) They don't discuss Joe...but they will.**

_In which Elsie is the Wicked Witch of the West and Charles doesn't have angels falling from the sky for him._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen<strong>

Charles is just passing Elsie's door, carrier bags knocking into his left knee every other step, when he hears the loud _whine-bang_ and jerks to a stop.

He waits, listens for anything more and then carries on to his own door. They have a rule, it's unspoken but rather diligently upheld, that although they are neighbours and their doors are often unlocked when they're home, they don't disturb each other without calling first or unless there's something particularly urgent happening.

Beryl was right when she said the walls are thin. If he rushed over every time he thought he heard something odd coming from her rooms, he'd have worn out his welcome years ago; sometimes it's hard to tell whether _she's_ making the noise or it's just another film on her telly. Most of the time he hopes that it's the television.

He'll ask her about the bang tomorrow.

Shifting his bags to one hand he rifles in his pocket for his keys and just closes his fingers around them when Elsie's door opens and she appears, a small cloud of smoke and the smell of burning plastic following out behind her.

"Elsie!"

She jumps and spins around, eyes wide as they land on him. One hand goes to her chest, the other flailing about at her side.

"Charles. You gave me a scare."

Dropping his bags he moves to her door and peers inside. He doesn't see any flames and she isn't exactly panicking, so there's no need for him to either; if his heart would just stop pounding. "You appear in the hall like the Wicked Witch of the West, and _I_ gave _you_ a scare?"

"Huh!" She exclaims, bouncing a little on her socked feet. "I _knew_ you enjoyed that film." Her finger pokes him in the chest.

"I _remember_ that film, there's a difference and we're getting off point." He pushes her finger away. The woman is exasperating sometimes; something in her rooms is on fire and she's more interested in proving a point about a film she made him sit through years ago. _Singing munchkins_. He hadn't been able to get '_ding dong, the witch is dead_' out of his head for days. "What happened?"

He watches a flush rise up over her cheeks as she bites her lip. He raises an eyebrow and she sighs.

"The microwave exploded."

He blinks. Then blinks again and leans forward as though that might help the words make more sense. "I'm sorry?"

She glares at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "You heard me."

"Your microwave _exploded_?"

"Well, it didn't actually explode, there were some sparks-"

"And a loud bang." He interrupts.

"-and a loud bang and it sort of...it started smoking so I unplugged it."

For a moment he can't do anything but look at her and watches as she straightens her back under his gaze. He's really glad he didn't go for that crêpe pan.

"I'm assuming whatever it is you were microwaving was to be your dinner?"

She wobbles her head from side-to-side. "It was cake, but I wasn't going to cook anything else tonight, so I suppose so."

"Good God woman, no wonder Beryl drags you to hers so often."

"And here I thought it was because she enjoyed my company." Elsie's arms tighten across her chest and she arches an eyebrow, but she just blew up her microwave making cake, so he feels unusually steady on the high ground this evening.

"I've no doubt it is; but she's obviously got her work cut out for her if she wants to keep you healthy enough to _keep_ being good company." He has enough pasta for the both of them, it wouldn't take any more effort to make her some as well. It'd be nice to spend some time with her; it's been a long week.

"Oh hush up Charles and invite me in for dinner."

"How did you-" No, he won't go there. He bends at the waist, one hand behind his back. "Won't you please come to dinner Miss Hughes?"

"I don't know, Mr Carson, what're your intentions?"

Her eyes crinkle at the corners with laughter and he shakes his head. "Go make sure your kitchen isn't going to burn down and then come round."

She disappears back inside her rooms and he bends to pick up his bags, unlocks his door. He should do a salad just to spite her, but he's been looking forward to the pasta all day and she'll only complain. Besides, something must be upsetting her if she went for the microwave cake first.

He leaves the shopping bags on the counter and opens the fridge, plucks out an unopened bottle of the Pinot she likes. Hopefully that should do in place of the cake.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"That was delicious, Charles."

He smiles at her, curled up at the other end of his sofa, mostly-empty glass of wine resting on her raised knee. "So you've said."

"Well, it costs me nothing to say it again and it was certainly worthy of the praise."

"Then thank you, again."

He looks back to the TV where young, beautiful women are prancing about in skimpy underwear and angel wings.

"Does that ever happen to you?"

He starts, cuts another look to her, she has her lip curled up in an almost-smile. "What?"

She sips at her wine and he does the same, she's in a teasing mood tonight; he much prefers it over the brooding expression she had on while he cooked.

She points to the screen with a loose hand. "Women falling from the sky."

He frowns; they still haven't finished the one bottle yet, so unless Elsie started drinking in her own rooms first, she should be making more sense than this. Perhaps _he_ has had enough for the night.

"Why would it?"

She tips the last of the wine into her mouth. "Well, you use Lynx, don't you?"

He rolls his eyes at her, he's starting to get it now; for someone who built a rather successful career in the media, she has an over exaggerated hatred of advertising. He takes another gulp of wine.

"Its just an advert Elsie." He shoots a look back at the telly. "I don't think they have to be realistic."

"No, they should be though. It would make it more accurate."

"Boring too I'd imagine."

She leans further back against the cushions, slumping across the middle. "They're adverts; they're all boring."

He smiles, he can't help it, he has always found her grumbling entertaining. She complains about so few things; oh she has strong opinions and numerous issues regarding the University and certain Board members, but generally he finds Elsie to be quite an upbeat person, rather accepting of just about everything. Until she drinks wine. He suspects if she ever let herself drink too much of it, she'd get quite maudlin.

"I have this at home, you know. Die Another Day. All of them actually, except the last one."

That surprises him; she's never offered them up as options when he's been there.

"You do?" It makes him wonder why they're bothering with ITV and its numerous adverts if they could have just popped a DVD into the player.

"Mmm, Book Club secret Santa last year. Isobel got it for me."

"_Secret_ Santa?"

She laughs, looking so comfortable that he lets himself relax into the sofa too, props his feet up on the little ottoman.

"They're Blu-Rays. Isobel Crawley's the only one who doesn't know I don't have the right player for them so;" she shrugs, "process of elimination."

His heart thumps in his chest. "Why haven't you sold them, or bought a player since?" He tries for nonchalant, isn't sure if he manages it.

Elsie waves the question away. "I'm sure I'll get one at some point." She meets his eyes and shrugs, her head almost on his shoulder. "Maybe the English department'll have thrown their money in together and got me one for my birthday."

The ridiculous 118 men start talking to old film stars and they both look back to the telly as the film starts up again. "Well, you never know."

* * *

><p><em>Key:<br>_

Wicked witch, munchkins and ding, dong etc._ - references to _The Wizard of Oz _with Judy Garland, which Elsie did make Charles watch, after he told her he didn't like musicals (before she learnt of his music past); she's determined to find at least one musical he likes before they're done. I rather suspect it will be something very random, like Mamma Mia or perhaps being the romantic historian that he is, Sound of Music - even if he doesn't think WW2 is real history yet._

Lynx - _also known as _Axe_, a brand of men's deodrants. They had a set of adverts that showed men spraying the deodrant and quite quickly after finding as I said, scantly-clad gorgeous female angels falling from the sky to have him._ _Youtube it, you'll find them. (And then you'll imagine Elsie as one of them and Charles as the guy, I bet)_

Die Another Day - _Bond, James Bond._ _Incidently, I have this boxset of blu-rays. A very welcome Christmas present. And in case anyone has never heard of them, I'm talking about the James Bond, English Spy series of films._

ITV - _ah, the channel that brings us _Downton Abbey_, and does so with many an advert (the BBC has none, so we get spoilt and then don't want to have to sit through adverts when we have to)_.

118 men - _a service you dial to get a phone number you want. Again, youtube is your friend. But for all ITV movies, there will be a 118 advert at the beginning and end where they sort of insert themselves into old films that involve a character speaking on the phone._


	19. Chapter Nineteen

A/N: Oh I am sorry about the delay, but I was poorly and I couldn't manage to write a single thing; I spent two days cuddling my black lab and watching A Touch Of Frost. But I'm fit and well again and I hope this makes up for it a little; you shippers will like a few bits I think. ;)

_In which Elsie doesn't like her birthday but Charles's present is 'good'._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen<strong>

The thing about birthdays is a person either loves them or hates them and Elsie doesn't love them.

Oh, she likes everyone else's well enough; enjoys picking out a present and organising a cake; that Beryl makes, naturally. Unless it's Beryl's birthday of course and then she employs Daisy to do it; the girl is just as good as her almost-adoptive-step-mother, or whatever Beryl is calling herself now.

No, those birthdays she enjoys, loves, it's her own she takes issue with. She always has, even as a child. She'd go out of her way to make Becky's day amazing and then cringe and shuffle about awkwardly through her own.

It's the attention, all that energetic focus thrown at her that she can't enjoy. It wasn't until she was quite a bit older and realised that really, all the fuss and bother, that's for everyone else's benefit anyway; _they_ want to know that she's enjoying herself, _they_ want to see what her reaction is to their gifts and _they_ want to show her how much she means to them. Once she realised that, it became much easier to smile when she walked into her 'surprise' parties, to chat happily with everyone in the faculty all squished into her living room, to open her presents and actually express some of the joy she feels at the thought they've put into it. The party games though, she put a stop to those pretty sharpish.

That's not to say that she actually enjoys the fuss now, she doesn't. But she does appreciate it.

She more-or-less considers her birthday to be whichever Saturday her party falls on. It's easier that way; it means she's always free for most of the day to do the birthday things she _does_ enjoy. Like spending the morning with Becky and the nurses, drinking tea and eating scones with jam at ten o'clock in the morning. Wearing one of those ridiculous party hats.

Or spending the afternoon with Charles while he pretends he isn't keeping one eye on his watch and the other on her face to make sure she doesn't suspect anything. He always books a table at a posh restaurant, or tickets for a matinee; something she can get dolled up for and not stroll into her party after in jeans and a jumper.

Of course, like this year, sometimes her birthday actually does fall on the Saturday.

"What do you think of this one?" She turns the iPad around for Charles to see. "The LG."

Charles squints at the screen and grimaces, she can almost see him counting the number of buttons and options.

"It's the newest model." She adds.

"Don't they make any with the dial thing and actual buttons any more?"

"Not since the 90s no." He frowns at her laugh.

She'd been shopping for the microwave when he called to say he was coming over. A silly tradition really, considering they don't so much as knock on their office doors.

She'd thought they'd be heading out, but he isn't wearing any of the usual formal wear and he'd seemed quite happy to take a seat in her armchair and flick on the cricket - a rather large wrapped present tucked up against the side - while she shopped

Not jewellery then, not unless he's gone out and stolen the crown jewels.

It turns out there _was_ a part of her that thought he might get her jewellery after all, or maybe it was just a bit more of that relentless hope, either way she's not as disappointed as she was the last time this happened; going from a promising brooch to a fountain pen between Christmas and her birthday.

Based on the smug look he's worn each time he's looked down at the gift, she thinks it's something she's going to like anyway. He's obviously put some thought into it.

Adding the microwave to her basket and ordering, she dims the screen and stands. Time for one last cup of tea and then she'll have to ask him what they're up to for the afternoon.

She flicks the kettle on and leans back against the counter. The corner looks so empty now that Charles has helped her chuck the old microwave out. It's a good job it's the weekend really. She'll have the new one delivered by Monday and she only needs to come up with something to eat tomorrow. Eggs are always good.

"You've not asked about this." Charles gives the present a little shake as enters the kitchen.

"I didn't want to be too eager."

He scoffs and she supposes that's fair; she might not like all the fuss, but her curiosity about gifts tends to overwhelm her.

The truth is, she'd just needed a bit of time to prepare herself. Damn Beryl Patmore; she _never_ would have hoped if...but no, it's her own fault. She knows better.

"Go on then, hand it over." She holds out her arms and makes grabbing motions with her hands. Charles holds the present back. He's standing the other side of the counter and it must be heavy if he isn't raising it above his head like usual. She never can reach anything he holds up there.

"Not until you ask nicely, Professor Hughes."

She snorts and turns back to the kettle, pours the water into the teapot before remembering to throw the teabags in. Charles tuts behind her. "I'm not going to _ask_ you for my birthday present, Charles."

If he were any other man, she would call that expression a pout. "No, that wouldn't be right, would it?"

"No." She raises an eyebrow and holds her arms out again. "Now stop stalling and give it here. I promise I'll like it."

"Happy Birthday." He passes it across the counter, then walks around behind her to give the teapot a swirl. She rolls her eyes; no one else ever minds her tea. "You'll _love_ it."

"That sure are you?" She peels the paper off carefully, trying not to tear it where the cellotape is stuck. "It's not a microwave is it?"

He laughs, reaching over her for the mugs in the top cupboard.

"Even I couldn't have foreseen that, Elsie." He mutters something about silver decoration while he pulls milk from the fridge and she assumes he's talking about the microwave-breaking mug.

Ignoring him she folds back the green paper and bites her lip. A Blu-Ray Player, no wonder he was so sure. She does love it, but when she turns around to thank him, she wishes she didn't know why it still hurts a little anyway.

"Charles, it's perfect, thank you." She rises to her toes to press a kiss to his cheek, curls her hands over his shoulders and closes her eyes for just a second as his arms come up to hug her back.

"Now we can watch those Bond movies you've been keeping from me." He says when she pulls back and she smacks his arm.

"There's bourbons in the bin." She lifts the box out of the paper and takes it back to the living room, leaves it by the telly. "Or chocolate digestives in the fridge." She nods at him, folding the paper and tucking it into the odds-and-ends drawer. "Your pick."

He smiles and heads for the fridge as she knew he would. Gathering up the mugs she slips past him.

"So you do like it then, the player?"

Elsie nods, makes her smile a little brighter as she sits back on the sofa. "I really do."

He smiles back and takes his tea. "Good." He says.

_Good_, she thinks, blowing at the steam. _Good_.

* * *

><p><em>Key (It's a biggy):<br>_

sharpish -_ quickly, swiftly._

dolled up -_ dressed up, i.e. fancy clothes._

LG - _Electronics manufacturer. (I myself have had rather split experiences with LG appliances. My old LG telly used to randomly turn itself on while I was at uni, and our old LG dishwasher would do the same. However, the LG telly and dvd player in the living room are superb. So...split. :P But they do usually look incredibly high tech and a bit futuristic. Charles would hate them so much)._ _Also, they all do still make them with dials...but Elsie's teasing him._

crown jewels - _the jewels belonging to the reigning British Monarch, located in the Tower of London. I recommend googling, just to aww over how pretty they are and imagine if you were the Queen and got to prance around in them._

bourbons - _Oh, bourbons. Those two chocolate biscuit slices with chocolate cream filling, perfect for dipping in tea where they go all soft and soggy, but be careful you pull them out before they fall apart!_

bin - _bread bin, quite a common place to find biscuits if you don't store them in a cupboard (like I do) or a dedicated biscuit tin. _

chocolate digestives - _digestive biscuite base, layer of wavy chocolate on top, another biscuit perfect for dipping. The chocolate melts and the digestive still has a bit of a crunch. Mmm._

odds-and-ends drawer - _you know, that drawer where all the elastic bands go, and the little plastic bags, and the pencils and pens and batteries you're not sure have any more charge and old shopping lists and the little napkin/fork/salt/hand-wipe packages you get from KFC._ _And that recipe you just had to write down and now will never ever find again._


	20. Chapter Twenty

**A/N: Ah, thank you so much for your reviews and well wishes. I'm feeling much better now! Now let's have a little peak into Charles's world on this special birthday...**

_In which everyone says 'surprise' and Charles is a right silly fool._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty<strong>

"So, where're we going then?"

He'd known this would come up, knew he was living on a reprieve every minute she spent shopping instead of watching him watch the cricket. He knows that _she_ knows about the party, so of course she'd expect him to have a table booked, or tickets to a play organised. Especially when he dropped 'round. He should have stayed away really, should have left it for the Bateses to come over as they all arranged. But he _always_ sees her on her birthday and yes, there's the party later but...well, he'll see. He'd wanted to give her her gift, see her face when she opened it.

And if he's honest, which he supposes he should be - it'll make up for the next few minutes and the lies he's about to tell - he had wanted the hug she gave him, the light press of her lips to his cheek.

She only does that on her birthday.

"Nowhere. That is, the Bateses will be here soon and I believe they want you to, actually, I don't think they've said what they want to do but uh, the thing is I'm busy, this afternoon. I have a- there's a meeting, of the structural committee and I just couldn't get out of it. Actually, I should probably leave soon. And you'll need to get ready. Not that you need to change of course, unless you _want_-"

"Charles, you're rambling."

"Yes."

He finally looks up at her, takes in the way her forehead crumples between her brows with her frown. "I am sorry, Elsie."

But it is better this way, he's sure of it. Only he doesn't like to disappoint her.

"No, no. I shouldn't have assumed." She waves a hand, stands when he does. "Thank you again, Charles; for the Blu-Ray."

"Happy Birthday." He hesitates a moment; they don't usually hug when he leaves, but something tells him this time he should. He shakes the thought off and heads for the door while she collects their mugs. "I hope you have a good evening."

She frowns at him again. "You sound like I won't see you."

"Well, why would you?" He winks and she laughs, rolls her eyes.

"Oh, get on with you."

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

He's back in his rooms when he hears her come home.

The committee meeting was real enough, had to be otherwise she'd have found out somehow, but he spent a little time in the village, shopping for things like socks and washing liquid as though it was urgent. He hadn't wanted to be in when Beryl arrived to set up. He wouldn't have minded helping, loaning out his oven and microwave if needed, hanging a few balloons, except she'd have roped him in to being there when Elsie got back. He knows his friend; she's sneaky like that.

It was safer if he just stayed away. He texted her to say she could use the key Elsie has, the one she keeps in the little vase by the phone, if she needed to get into his rooms. And then he went out.

He hears the unusually loud voice of Mr Bates in the corridor, Anna Bates's smothered laugh as she tries to get some volume too. He imagines Elsie is biting her lip to stop her own laughter at the two of them.

He wonders where they've been; the Bateses never did say what they had planned for her.

His book open on his knee, he listens as her door opens and the shouts of surprise start, someone clicks her stereo on at the same moment and the music drowns out whatever she might have said. But straining his ears he thinks he hears her laugh rising above the noise.

Jittery, he drops the book to the coffee table and heads for the kettle. A nice cup of tea's what's needed now.

He doesn't think about how he has waited until now, when the music is playing and no one will hear, to make the tea, because he's been thinking about it for the last half hour.

Their kitchens mirror each other and the music is quieter here, he'll be careful later, not make too much noise moving about. He has a sandwich from Markses for dinner, a bottle of red to wash it down with.

Everything he needs, he thinks, pouring milk into his cup, for a quiet night at home.

And he'll drop in later, a few hours from now when some of the first arrivers have left. When she'll have had time to talk to everyone and enjoy herself; once she's opened her presents and cut the birthday cake Beryl will have baked for her.

He leans his hip against the counter while he waits for the tea to finish stewing. She won't miss him 'til then anyway.

Giving the teapot another swirl, he heads over to his bag and pulls out his iPod. He has a few audio books on there he's not listened to yet and he won't be able to concentrate on his book now, not with the racket next door. Not if he's listening out for her voice every few minutes.

He pours the tea out while he scrolls through the options, chooses Angels & Demons even though he's already read the book; he likes this one, likes to think about how a single different view point can affect the way someone looks at history. Elsie bought him the films last year, he hasn't watched them yet; he's not sure he'll like how much will have been changed for the screen.

Settling back into his chair he balances his cup on the arm while he untangles the earphones. Blasted things, how can two small cables get _so _knotted up all by themselves?

A cheer rises up next door; she's started opening her presents then and he shoves the little speakers into his ears, the wires still knotted where they join at his neck. He'll live.

Pressing play, he lifts his cup and leans back into his chair.

A few hours and then he'll get changed.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

Inevitably, the book sends him to sleep not long after he's eaten his sandwich, the even voice droning on in his ears.

He dreams of Elsie, a bunch of keys at her waist and a black dress hanging from her neck to her ankles. "You missed quite a night, Charles." Her smile is so force it's painful to see and he reaches out for her but she steps back from him, shakes her head. "So you _are_ here then; if you don't hurry up you'll miss-Charles?" His mouth won't form words, not even her name so he hums, low in his throat. "_Oh_, I see." She turns and walks away and when he tries to follow, his legs won't move.

"So, what's his excuse then? _Oh_." And then Beryl stands in front of him, apron on and wooden spoon in hand, her face so hopelessly sad. "You're a fool Charlie. A right fool."

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

Markses - Marks & Spencer_, a large chain of shops that have a lovely range of food as well as clothes._

_Ooo, that might actually be it this chapter!_


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**A/N: Ooooo we've reached the end of the first third of this story, so I'll be taking a couple of months off...I joke. But we are at the end of part one. Remember that, there's so much more to come!**

_In which Charles wasn't just dreaming of Elsie and Beryl's visit and Elsie comes to some hard realisations._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-One<strong>

"Elsie!"

She pushes her door open and the music swells up, drowning out Beryl's voice behind her.

She smiles at Joseph as she moves past him, squeezes his shoulder and pushes him a little closer to Phyllis. She's up a bottle of Glenlivet from them after all, even if they bought it for her themselves. She'd bet Charles had something to do with that, it's just the sort of thing he'd get a kick out of.

Her smile falters a little at the thought and she ducks beneath Denker's wildly swinging arm; she'll have to get Thomas to help the woman out later if she drinks much more. At least Spratt didn't show up this year.

"Elsie!" Beryl barrels into the kitchen just after her, her cheeks red from the rush. "Slow down woman."

While Beryl leans her elbows on the counter, Elsie slides her own wine glass across to her. "Here, drink that for me."

Pulling a clean glass down from the cupboard she pours in some of Anna's red grape Shloer and takes a few gulps.

"Are you alright?"

She nods at her friend, head turned to watch her guests dancing about in the living room. Some of her colleagues are barely older than their students. "I'm fine."

Beryl shifts over, leans beside her against the counter.

"You're not drinking." She points out, so helpfully. Elsie never drinks in company when she's upset.

She raises her glass and clinks it against Beryl's, then points with it towards the party. "While they're here; I'm fine."

Beryl leans in closer, shoulder pressed up against Elsie's. "Fair enough, love. Fair enough."

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"You'll make sure she gets back to the House all right, won't you Thomas? We don't want a repeat of New Year."

Thomas hoists Denker's arm up further over his shoulder. "I'll get her to the house, Professor, but I can't guarantee she'll stay there."

Elsie pats his arm. "No, I don't suppose you can. Still, perhaps Spratt'll be up, that should shock her a little sober I shouldn't wonder." She wiggles a finger at him as he steps out into the corridor, the Logic Professor half stumbling, half dragged along with him. "And don't you go causing trouble tonight either, I don't need that man showing up in my office tomorrow morning blaming me for anything."

"I can't promise I won't cause trouble, Professor, but I can promise they won't trace it back to me."

She laughs, she's always liked Thomas. "That'll do then. Goodnight Thomas."

"Night Professor."

She closes the door and turns to where Beryl's waiting by the kitchen, a full wine bottle in each hand.

"Red or white?"

Her throat closes up for a moment as she remembers again, the smile she's had on her face for the last hour and a half dropping.

She swipes the red out of her friend's hand in answer and takes it back into the kitchen.

"Right then, I'll just pop this back in the fridge for later shall I?"

Elsie nods and leaving the bottle on the side, she fumbles around the used plates and abandoned glasses for the corkscrew.

Beryl brings over the big glasses, the ones she bought as a joke a couple of years ago, that take about half a bottle each without reaching the rim.

Using the cake knife, she runs it around the top of the bottle and flicks the little seal off so that the cork is visible.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." She says, stabbing the screw into the cork and pressing down against it. "You saw him. He wasn't even dressed to come over." She turns the handle on the corkscrew, it's little arms rising up to knock against her knuckles.

She stops before pushing them back down and leans her elbows on the counter.

"He did say he would." Beryl insists, leaning forward, the counter between them. "He said he couldn't make the start but...you know he's going to be so mad at himself when we wakes up."

Standing straight again, Elsie finishes removing the cork, the pop loud now that the music and guest are gone and there's just the two of them. "No, he'll be worried, scared probably that I'll be angry."

"Are you?"

She pours the bottle evenly between the two glasses, watching the dark wine lap up at the sides. "No, I'm not. Not at him."

She slides a glass over to Beryl and lifts the other. "Who're you mad at then?"

"Myself, I think."

Beryl scoffs and Elsie raises her glass in a lazy salute. "I shouldn't care so much. That's what I'm mad at. He wasn't obligated to come, Isobel didn't and I'm not bothered by that. I saw him earlier. If it'd been you, I'd be disappointed but..." She trails off, takes a few gulps of wine.

"That's different. Isobel Crawley isn't a good friend and I'm, well it's different with you and Charlie."

Elsie smiles, breath hiccupping a little in her chest. That's the problem; "It isn't is it, not really. Not for him anyway."

"Of course it is! That man loves you."

She finds herself nodding, smiles again. "He does." Beryl smiles back before Elsie continues. "He loves me as a friend, a dear friend but that's what we are. In the end, that's what he wants."

She feels Beryl step up beside her, hands landing on her arms. "What if it isn't?"

Tears gather in her eyes and she blinks them back. Isn't that what she's always said? _What if..._

"Then he's had years to tell me otherwise."

"Everyone knows-"

"Everyone's _wrong_. _I_ was wrong." Her eyes burn and she bites her lip to stop the tremble. "I said I wouldn't expect anything, remember? That I'd _stop_ expecting anything. But I didn't, not completely."

Her heart hurts, which is silly really; one of those clichés she's always warning her students against using. Love is supposed to be in the mind if you're practical, and the soul if you're fanciful. The heart is for poets and she's never been one of those.

"What're you thinking?"

She meets Beryl's eyes. "I'm thinking I've had enough. Enough of being alone, enough of waiting for Charles Carson to suddenly realise I'm the love of his life." She laughs wetly, rubs beneath her eyes with her free hand. "Enough of being fifty-ah, _two_ now, I suppose and still putting things off."

"And Charles...?"

"Charles might be a love of my life, Beryl but no one said there's only one of them for each of us. Maybe it's time I started looking away from him."

"Or you could tell him?"

Bless Beryl Patmore, how she's stayed so hopeful with the life she's had, Elsie doesn't know but she is so grateful to know her. She reaches up and places her hand over Beryl's on her arm. "I did, once."

Another time, that look would provide endless hours of laughter. "What!? You never said."

"No." She takes a couple more gulps of wine. "He laughed it off, he thought I was drunk I think. Or at least he wanted to think that."

That had been when she'd decided that they'd be friends and just friends. She just hadn't really given up hope that he was taking his time. _Taking his time_; if that was the case, then glaciers move at a faster pace than Charles Carson.

"Elsie, maybe if you told him again-"

"I don't think I can. Not again. Not and have him push it away again. Besides, I think I get it now, really get it. He just, he doesn't see us that way."

She shrugs, as though she doesn't feel like she's saying goodbye to something. "And that's okay. He's entitled to that."

"Elsie, if it's just about the party-"

She's going to feel bad later for interrupting so much. "It's not that. No doubt he had some noble reason for staying away tonight, and I'll forgive him for missing the party; I already have I think. But I'll bet you anything that a part of him did it to push a little distance between us. He probably doesn't even know it, but it wouldn't be the first time. And _that's_ what this is about."

"You're not going to do anything too drastic?"

Elsie laughs, "What, like run off with Mr Spratt? No, no. I want to try new things, like skydiving, or running a marathon. I want to write again and sell articles to the papers. And I want romance, I want someone to sweep me off my feet, or let me do the sweeping. I want-"

"You want to be wanted."

The tears appear again, faster and stronger than before and she can't fight them off. Her glass rattles against the counter as she puts it down and she leans into her friend's side when Beryl does the same and gathers her close. "Yes." She whispers, tears falling against Beryl's hair.

If Charles doesn't want her, then she'd like to want someone who does.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

get a kick out of - _enjoy, find funny; tickle his funny bone._

red grape Shloer - _non-alcoholic adult beverage (that I often drink during the week because it's almost like drinking wine only...not.)_

the House - _Spratt, Denker etc. are living in the Dower House, naturally. ;)_

_And please don't panic; Elsie knows where her heart lies, Charles just needs to remember where his does...and that's part 2. ;)_


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**A/N: Awww, I'm sorry for all the heartbreak, but I promise it's necessary and won't be all encompassing as we go on. Thank you everyone for all of your absolutely amazing reviews. I _loved_ reading your reactions!**

_In which we take a break and visit the Masons and Beryl is a plotter too._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Two<strong>

Beryl breathes deep, the smell of frying bacon and sausages almost overwhelming as soon as she pushed open the door. She'd had breakfast at Elsie's; porridge to soak up the last of the alcohol in their systems. Made the old fashioned way of course because the hopeless woman blew up her microwave.

She shakes her head, hangs her coat up by the door, three others beside it in a comforting line.

Bill steps out into the corridor, spatula in hand. "I thought I heard the door click."

Something settles in her at the sight of him, his hair a mess and shirt buttoned almost all the way up to his neck. She can hear William and Daisy in the kitchen, their voices raised up a little higher than the spitting pork and the boiling kettle.

"Sorry I'm late." Stepping towards him she leans in for a kiss, the whiskers of his beard tickling her cheek as always.

He tugs her into a hug and shakes his head, she can feel his lips against her hair. "Nah, truth be told I didn't expect you back until later anyway. I know what you're like when you get going, the pair of you."

She smiles, takes another deep breath and laughs. He smells of bacon too; it's making her stomach grumble even though she's eaten enough already. "You're late too." She says, because it's 10am and he's usually made breakfast and cleared it all away by 9:30.

His smile is soft as she pulls back, a little sheepish. "We had a bit of a night ourselves."

She pokes her head into the lounge and notes the small stack of DVDs by the telly. "I see."

"Yes, well, the young'uns picked them. Have you eaten? You should've brought Elsie back with you," He points the spatula at the kitchen door; "they would have loved to see her."

Turning back to him she reaches up and pats his cheek, lets her palm rest there a moment. He's such a sweet man. Moving in here with him isn't going to be any kind of chore at all.

"I think she wanted some time alone."

His eyes widen, she knew he would get it. It's not like their Elsie to keep to herself when there's eggs and bacon and some time with Daisy and William in the offering.

"Is she alright?"

That's the question, isn't it? _Is_ she? Because from the way she was talking last night, Beryl's not so sure she is.

"Dad! The bacon's burning."

Bill rolls his eyes and Beryl chuckles; his son, the master chef. "Turn it off then!" He calls back and she steps away, turns him around and gives him a light shove towards the kitchen.

"Come on, I'll tell you about it later."

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"Charlie's done it this time alright. Old man's an idiot if he can't see what they could have, and a fool if he doesn't want her."

Beryl nods, watches Daisy as she bounces around the room, the Wii control swinging dangerously in her hand. The kids aren't listening to them anymore, lost in their little tennis match. She wonders if Elsie and Charles would be interested to know just how many times their present - jointly given, of course - has kept it safe for her and Bill to chat about them both without an audience.

"Of course he wants her. I don't think he _knows_ he does, that's the problem."

William sighs in defeat while Daisy gives a little cheer, her character on the screen jumping up and down. "Best out of three?"

They're so much like siblings it's no wonder nobody thinks any differently anymore, even William has got used to thinking of Daisy as family and not a hopeful prospect; they were always going to be better as friends. Unlike some others she knows.

Bill shrugs, knocking her hand away from the bowl of vegetable crisps and grabbing a handful. "Maybe it's a good thing then, what Elsie's thinking to do. Might knock some sense into the man."

She swipes some crisps right out of his cupped hand and smirks at him as they crunch between her teeth. "Yeah, unless she kills herself skydiving. _Skydiving!_ Or she finds someone; Joe Burns wrote to her, you know, the farmer she was with before she came here. She said she wasn't interested now, but..."

Brushing his hands off on his jeans, Bill clasps hers and squeezes. "Elsie knows her own heart, love. She's tired of listening to it, but she knows who's in it. And Charles, well a little competition is never a bad thing."

He says it knowingly and she throws his hand away. "Oh hush up you, who'd you have to compete with?"

"Well, there was that Tufton guy."

"There never was!" She says, stealing the last crisp.

"Oh, he liked you."

"He liked my _cooking_."

He shakes the empty bowl. "Speaking of which."

She smacks him, but stands anyway. "Alright, but just one more lot, I'll be doing dinner soon. Roast beef."

He beams up at her like a puppy. "With trimmings."

She nods, pretends not to notice how much attention the children are now giving them. "Roast potatoes, cauliflower cheese, honey parsnips and if we're lucky, Daisy might do you some Yorkshires."

He grabs her hand and kisses her knuckles. "Marry me Beryl Patmore."

"I've already agreed to that ya daft sod." She pulls away from him and heads out the room.

Her phone flashes away on the kitchen table and she flicks it on while digging through the cupboard for another tupperware box of her crisps.

It's a thank you from Elsie for last night and she sighs. She hasn't told her friend about the engagement yet. She wasn't going to until after Elsie's birthday, now she's not sure when a good time will ever be. She wants them to be as happy as she is, with Bill and the teenagers but she's not sure how to get them there.

Whatever her dear fiancé says, she's not sure Elsie won't find someone after all; she's not been short of offers in the past, even if she has seemed oblivious to them. No, if Elsie's really going to go out looking for romance, she'll find it.

Pouring the crisps into the bowl, Beryl puffs air out through her lips. Elsie will be happy, sure, but she won't be _as_ happy. And Charles, whether he'd ever admit it or not would be miserable if someone else swept her off her feet. Although she doesn't have much against that at the moment; he'd have brought it on himself.

No, she thinks, clicking the lid back on and stuffing the box back in the cupboard, no it won't do. Maybe there's a way to light the right kind of fire under Charlie and get Elsie back to thinking that maybe she should wait a bit longer for him.

She nibbles at a crisp thoughtfully. It'll come to her, something'll come to her eventually.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

young'uns - _young ones, teenagers._

Wii- _the game console that has everyone jumping around the room like a loon. That one time when leaning to the side actually *does* help your character turn a corner faster. _

vegetable crisps - _okay, first of all...English, so crisps are the thin slices of (usually) potato, snacks that are fried and sold in packets. Here Beryl has knocked up a load of mixed vegetable ones, which are so lovely. Beetroot and carrot crisps will change your snacking life._

Yorkshires - _Yorkshire pudding. If you haven't had it you're missing out; it's basically pancake batter but oven cooked and it rises into a 'crunchy on the outside, soft and pillow-y on the inside' delight that is always present at a British roast. _

daft sod - _a sort of endearment. Meant that way here anyway._


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**A/N: Ah, I'm so glad you all enjoyed the little jaunt into the Mason's world. Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews!**

_In which Charles worries and Elsie, well, Elsie Hughes is very much herself._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Three<strong>

Charles stares at the wall between his living room and Elsie's and strains his ears. He heard Beryl leave a few hours ago, his friends' voices muffled through the door when they said goodbye.

He isn't exactly sure what he's listening for now; maybe things hitting the wall, possibly for grumbling and shouting, his name used like a curse. Anything really, that will give him some idea of just how mad she is that he missed her party.

Beryl was right all along; he does regret it. Not because he thinks she honestly suffered with his absence, but because he forgot for a while there how awful it is waiting to find out her reaction. He should have remembered, his last mess-up was only a few days ago. Maybe he _is_ an idiot.

He certainly didn't mean to sleep all the way through it. He might have still been undecided about turning up, but he wanted to actually make a decision about it in the end, not just leave it up to fate.

Then again, he hadn't exactly set an alarm for himself or tried too hard to stay awake. Perhaps he made a decision after all.

He woke up this morning with an image of jingling keys clear in his mind and the worst feeling of unease before he even remembered the party. His stomach hasn't settled well since.

He can hear her telly rumbling and every now and again she says something, but he can't hear the words clear enough to know if she's talking about him or to the TV. She does that sometimes, a little additional commentary to whatever they're watching.

Sometimes it's facts about the production, stories from behind the scenes, other times she'll almost be warning the characters against doing something, as though they'll hear her and go a different way this time.

He wonders if that's why she became a journalist; always wanting to lay out the facts and help someone make a better, more informed choice. It could have just been that she has a knack for routing out secrets and she does like a good gossip.

The telly next door goes silent and he hears her footsteps as she walks through to the kitchen.

He gives it a moment of thought before moving into his own kitchen and listening at the wall again.

Cupboard doors open and close, a cutlery drawer slides in and out; a bit of a hard shove there - is she thinking about him?

There's more shuffling around, the scrape of something along the counter and then what sounds like a hand slamming down on it.

He jerks away from the wall and winces. He _really_ hopes she isn't thinking about him.

The sounds move away and he wanders back into the living room.

Sighing, he drops into his chair, chin resting in the palm of his hand, his elbow on the chair-arm. He's going to have make it up to her somehow, he'll definitely have to drop over there to see her later.

The quick, three-beat knock on his door makes him jump, heart pounding in his chest. That can only be one person. Slowly, feeling every one of his years, he stands and moves towards it.

Whatever she has to say, he'll take it; he deserves it after last night. So long as she had a good time, then it will be worth it. Whatever _it_ turns out to be.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"I forgot about the microwave. I don't know; my mind's been all over the place this morning."

"Must be age." He tries the joke tentatively and she laughs, a short burst of it. He takes a shaky breath and smiles back at her, watches as she sets the timer on his microwave and sets it spinning.

"You could be right."

She leans back against his counter, her arms crossed. He isn't sure what to make of her. She looks as she always does at the weekend; her hair pulled back loosely from her face, little make-up and in jeans and a jumper. She's smiling, laughing and when she shook the open tin of beans at him at the door and asked if she could come in and borrow his microwave, she sounded the same.

But something is missing. Perhaps it's just that she doesn't seem angry, hasn't said anything about the party at all. Maybe that's what's different.

Well, if she doesn't think it's something to mention then he is certainly not going to treat it as such. The last thing he wants to do is talk her into being mad at him.

"So, how was the party?"

She seems to be looking a little past him and it takes a moment for her eyes to focus. "Hmm? Oh, good. It was good. Our dear Miss Denker tried to get a poker game going again, she was too drunk to remember what happened last time, although _not_ drunk enough to insist we make it a strip game, thank heavens."

"If I remember correctly, it wasn't Miss Denker that kept calling for Molesley to strip last time."

He expects her to blush but curiously she doesn't, simply raises an eyebrow before popping the microwave door open and stirring the beans. "He lost the hand, he had to remove his shirt. That's the rule." She shrugs, closes the door and leans back again, licking the residue of tomato sauce off the fork.

"You seemed okay with it when it was your TA losing her layers." She points the fork at him; "in fact, if I didn't know you better I'd think you'd set the poor girl up to lose that last hand, the way you and John took to ogling her."

"Ah, but you _do_ know me better Elsie Hughes. You know I've never looked at any of the staff that way. I don't even like most of them!" Something flickers in her eye but it's gone before he can recognise it, the beeping from beside them distracting her.

"Well, anyway. It was a good party. You should have come."

She has her back to him while she pours the beans from his approved microwave-safe bowl into the one she brought over with her, so he can't read her face. Her tone seems even enough though. No recrimination hidden there between her words.

It's as he thought; she was busy enough not to miss his presence.

Still, his uneasiness persists. More so now that he knows it really _is _okay.

"I'm sorry, I did mean to make it for the end but I, uh-"

"You fell asleep." She turns back to him, dirty bowl and fork in her hands, and hooks her little finger around the hot tap, setting the water gushing into the sink. "Beryl and I came to find you, you were passed out cold in your chair." He passes her the washing liquid when she points at it.

He has vague memories of that, although they're mixed up with the image of those keys. Something about missing a good night, and being a fool - that would have been Beryl. His mind must have picked up on them being there and wove it into a dream.

"You should have woken me."

She tilts her head, the sleeves of her cream jumper scrunched up to her elbows, hands and half her forearms submerged in the water.

"I didn't like to, you obviously needed the sleep if you could manage it through that racket." She drags the sponge over the bowls and then places them on the draining board, the fork next. "Besides, it was winding down by then anyway."

She smiles again as she drains the sink and he grabs a clean tea-towel from the drawer for her to dry her hands on.

"I'd best get back next door before these go cold."

She picks up the bowl of beans and steps passed him.

"You could eat here, you know. I got a new loaf of tiger bread yesterday." Her favourite. She'd rather been on his mind while he shopped.

Another smile but she shakes her head and continues moving through his living room to the door. "Tempting, but I'd best not. I've got a few slices already buttered and there's a couple of things I still need to get done before tomorrow. I don't want to still be working at three."

He nods; her Monday afternoon with Bill Mason's children is just as much a birthday tradition for her as the visit with her sister and the 'surprise' parties. She's always felt bad that they can't join in with the other celebrations on the Saturday, she's been taking them out on the Monday after to make up for it, ever since Beryl started seeing Bill.

He wonders what'll happen when they're old enough to actually attend the party. Bill hardly ever shows his face, but then Charles doesn't think _he'd_ want to leave two teenagers alone for an evening either. He's heard enough stories from his students to put him off that idea.

"Of course not. I'll see you tomorrow?"

She's already halfway out the door. The bowl in her hand must be heating up fast, the way she's rushing to leave. "Of course you will, Charles. The one after too."

She offers him another smile, pauses just before stepping completely out of his rooms. "Nothing's changed."

He waits until she's inside her own rooms before closing the door.

_Nothing's changed._ An odd thing for her to say so insistently.

He shakes his head and goes back to the kitchen to make a start on his own lunch; women are a complete mystery to him sometimes.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<br>_

_Mmmm I can't see anything, but do let me know if I've missed something!_

_Thanks to the ever so helpful klswhite:_

tiger bread - _otherwise known as _giraffe bread_ or _Dutch crunch._ It is quite yummy and looks rather pretty too!_


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**A/N: Ooooo you're all so fantastic and I love you all. Thank you so so much for your comments! I'm a little slammed at work so all my free time's been going into writing and I haven't replied to you for so long. But I really do appreciate all of your reviews so much!**

_In which Beryl has an announcement and Elsie is no match for two teenagers.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Four<strong>

"You can't call him _'Mr Burns'_!"

Elsie flinches away a little from Beryl's voice, right there in her ear, her pen drawing a jagged line across the page.

"Will you _please_ stop reading over my shoulder. I said I'd let you read it before it's sent, can't you wait five minutes?" She waves a hand towards the other chairs; "Go sit over there."

Beryl huffs but moves away, muttering. "'Five minutes', she says. It's been ten already and all you've written is his name!"

With a sigh, Elsie screws the sheet of paper up and drops it into the bin beneath her desk. "And apparently even that wasn't any good."

"Oh now don't you go blaming that on me. You were engaged to the man for God's sake, you can't start calling him 'Mr Burns'. That's no way to rekindle a relationship."

Elsie turns, her eyes narrowed. "_Friendship_, I'm not rekindling anything more than that."

Beryl raises her hands like a mime, palms flat against nothing. "So you say. But you also said you were interested in finding someone to share your life with, I'm just thinking maybe you shouldn't completely burn this bridge before you've given it a bit of a test drive."

"That's the worst mixing of metaphors you've achieved yet." Wrinkling her nose, Elsie takes a sip of the cooling tea at her elbow. Chai again; it's possible that it might be growing on her, although she wouldn't have said no to a proper cuppa this afternoon.

She has one last lecture for the day and then she's free to leave. Which should work out about right; Daisy and William finish school a little before three and even after she's got her car sorted and picked them up, they'll still have plenty of time to grab a hot chocolate at the Starbucks by the cinema before the film starts.

She's just got to get this letter done first, otherwise she'll keep putting it off until it's too late to do _anything_ about it.

She made a decision on her birthday to stop putting things off. And even though she was a little bit drunk and more than a little upset, she still thinks she was right. It's time she make some changes in her life, do some of the things she's always placed on the 'someday' pile in her mind.

First up is Joe Burns. She has thought of him over the years, of course she has. Until she took the job at Downton, she'd been planning to spend her life with the man. Or at least, _he_ had been planning for that, she had been caught up in the idea of marriage and starting a family, rather than the actual practicalities of it. She's not sure now how she ever thought she'd be able to keep travelling and writing and still make life as a farmer's wife work. The hours he has to keep and the hours she used to were hard enough to navigate when they saw each other for only a day or so each week. Keeping that up through a marriage would have been exhausting. Honestly, the fact that she hadn't even considered giving up her career to make their lives easier, said quite a lot about how invested she really was in _them_. Which was almost exactly how Joe had put it to her at the end.

She'd hardly given it a second thought when her mother died and she took over responsibility for Becky. Of course she couldn't continue chasing the next story across the country, couldn't rely on an unreliable income when Becky's home bills needed paying and there was medication to buy. Joe had tried to tell her he'd take care of it, that when they were married she'd have half of what was his but...well, that had been the fight that finished them. It hadn't even really been a fight, so much as a discussion and a realisation that she didn't love him the way a wife should, didn't _want_ that life after all. Not when she had the offer from Downton in her hand, a promise from them to pay her school fees if she worked towards a doctorate and everything in her was saying she should take it.

Still, she always meant to get back in touch with him eventually. It should be easier now that he's broken the silence first.

"I'm just saying, you already know him, so there won't be any of that awkward first date business."

Elsie rolls her eyes, picks out another sheet of cream paper. "No, there'll be the 'oh, you haven't changed at all, Elsie' business and the 'why was it you left' business." Admittedly she hasn't had a first date in a while, but they can't be any more awkward than that.

"I'm still not used to that."

"To what?" Okay, yes; _'Mr Burns'_ was a terrible idea, she'd known that when she wrote it. So, _'Dear Joe'_. And then what? _'It was lovely to hear from you'_? Was it though, because this doesn't feel lovely. This feels stressful.

"When you go all English on me."

It takes her a moment to work out what her friend's talking about. "Well I can't very well mimic the man with my own accent can I? He's as Scottish as you are, it wouldn't have the same effect."

She turns her head and catches Beryl shaking hers. "It shouldn't be so easy for you, is all. Switching between them like that."

Never mind that Elsie has spent most of her adult life south of Scotland. Really, she imagines that if she'd let herself, she'd have lost almost all of her burr by now. Becky has; she hardly ever rolls her 'r's anymore.

"Oh I _am_ sorry, Beryl. And need I remind you what you were like the first few times you saw Bill. Putting on those airs and graces. 'Oh, thank you for waiting William, am I frightfully late?" She mocks, sounding more like Violet Crawley than Beryl managed at the time.

Beryl flushes. "No you don't! But that's my point, I had to work hard at it. Nearly did myself an injury with that, I did."

They both laugh; it hadn't fooled Bill for a minute. He'd known just who he was trying to date and hadn't said a word about it when Beryl eventually threw in the towel and went back to her native tongue. That had gained him a few points in Elsie's book.

"So if you don't want to start anything with your Joe, what's your plan?"

She puts her pen down with a sigh, spins her chair around to face Beryl.

"I don't know, I don't have one."

"_You_ don't have a plan? _You._"

Elsie screws up one of the sheets of paper to her left and chucks it at Beryl. "Yes _me_. Plans haven't been getting me anywhere, I thought I'd try a more spontaneous approach."

After straightening up the ball of paper, Beryl squints down at it, her lips tightening into a little line. "And this, is this part of your new spontaneous lifestyle?"

She holds the sheet up and Elsie leans forward in her chair to read it, wondering which of the papers she threw. Oh, _that_ one.

"Well, it's an idea."

"An idea! What if the cord snaps?"

"What if the ground rises up, what if the world stops turning?" She rolls her eyes and stretching half off her seat, snatches the paper back. "It's long passed time I stopped worrying about 'what ifs' and just did something for a change. And there's not been _that_ many bungee accidents."

Turning back to her desk, she lays the form back on the small pile of similar ones she printed off this morning. She's not going to do them all, but maybe she'll pick a couple at random. _Spontaneously._

"Well it's a good thing we're having the wedding soon then, can't be my matron if you're dead."

"I'm not going to _die_, stop being so melodramat-" she stops, spins around so fast on her chair she slips a little to the side. "Did you say wedding?"

Beryl grins, the corners of her eyes crinkling as the smile takes over her face. "I did."

"Oh!" Jumping up from her seat, Elsie crosses her office and pulls Beryl into a tight hug. "Oh I'm so happy for you Beryl."

"I couldn't tell."

With a smack to Beryl's shoulder, she lets her go, takes a step back. "Well, I've been expecting this for so long, I'm almost surprised it's finally happened!" She laughs, "_When_ did it happen? Yesterday?"

Her eyes narrow as Beryl shifts awkwardly, her eyes dropping away from Elsie's. She has a flash of insight then; the very long lunch on Thursday and Beryl's uncharacteristic cheeriness Friday morning. "No, I know when."

Beryl looks up again, hands wringing at her sides. "I was waiting 'til after your birthday to say anything."

"Well next time _don't_." She says and pulls her in for another hug.

"Planning on this being the only time, actually."

Elsie smacks her again.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"You should have called him." Daisy says, scooping cream off the top of her drink with her finger.

"What's wrong with a letter?"

"It's old fashioned." William chirps in, half his drink already gone; no doubt the two tonne of sugar and the extra splash of milk he added helped cool it down a bit. Elsie's tongue still stings from the first sip of her own.

"It's a bit impersonal, isn't it?" Daisy adds, not exactly disagreeing with her brother.

"I always thought letters were quite personal, actually. More than a phone call."

Both teenagers shake their heads at her. "Maybe in the old days."

She glares at William; and she always thought he was such a nice boy. He cowers a little and holds his mug up in front of his face.

"Sorry aunt Elsie."

"He's right, though." Obviously she's picked up the wrong children from school. These can't be the same two she remembers following her around and fighting over who got to sit next to her on the bus a few years ago.

She's not even sure why they're talking about this at all. She'd finally finished the letter just before her last lecture and brought it with her to post while they were out. She knows why the letter came up; William had to move it off the front seat when he got in her car, but it's how they know so much about Joe and _his_ letter that's baffling her.

Or perhaps not, maybe she just needs to have a word with her friend about watching what she says when young ears are about; because the more they're talking, the more she's hearing Beryl in their words.

"Well, he wrote to me; he must like letters." She defends.

She gets two pairs of raised eyebrows for her trouble.

She waves them off, tries another tentative sip of chocolate. "Well, I've posted it now, he'll get it tomorrow."

"You're not going to write to all the men you're seeing are you?"

Elsie chokes, her drink going down the wrong way.

"Daisy!" William glares at his sister as he passes Elsie a tissue. "Are you all right?"

Swiping the tissue over the chocolate on her chin, and then dabbing it at the drops that made it to the table, she nods. "I'm fine." She stares at Daisy. "What on _Earth_ has Beryl been saying to you?"

Daisy fidgets, turns her cup around and around between her hands. "She hasn't said anything to us, but she was talking to Dad and they said you were going to date other men."

"_Other_ men?"

"Other than uncle Charles." William replies.

Elsie drops her face into the palm of her hand and barely resists the urge to groan aloud. She's going to kill Beryl.

Tipping her head back up, she rests her chin on the heel of her hand and points at the children, one after the other while she speaks. "Charles and I have never dated. _But-_" she hurries to add when Daisy opens her mouth, her eyebrows drawn together. Elsie isn't quite sure how to put this, _really_ doesn't want to be discussing it with a pair of 15-year-olds in Starbucks. "she was right that I might meet someone, might at some point date some_one_. And that's all I'm going to say about it."

Daisy and William glance at each other before turning back to her with smiles on their faces. Elsie pauses, mug at her mouth, doesn't dare to take another drink until they've said whatever they're planning. She knows those smiles; usually she's joining in with those smiles. They are not so much fun when they're directed at her instead of Charles.

"Okay. We have an idea."

Elsie blinks, her mug thumping down against the table as her hand falls. "An idea for what?"

"To help you meet someone." Daisy continues. "So you're not lonely."

"Oh sweetheart, I'm not lonely."

The children share another of those looks. "Have you thought about online dating?"

Elsie checks her watch; they have another hour. She really should have booked an earlier movie.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

bin - _trash can? Waste paper basket_? _Although they tend to not be baskets here...but solid plastic...buckets?_

cuppa - _cup of tea; english tea with milk and maybe a little sugar to taste._

threw in the towel - _gave up, stopped._

_DeeeDeee; I suspect you might be a little bit psychic because the online dating thing? Always going to be a part of this story, that was one of the first things I plotted out! :P_


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**A/N: I have been neglecting you, my darling readers and reviewers and for that I apologise. I hope this chapter can make up for it a little! Oh and LC; I'm glad you couldn't stay away. The last 24 chapters have all been setting the scene and bringing our Elsie to a few necessary decisions; now we're going to see a Charles that's being made to confront how he _really_ feels. It's just going to take him some time, is all. And while he's doing that, Elsie's going to be out enjoying herself (sometimes) and trying new things, while Beryl keeps a watchful matchmaking eye on the pair of them. ;)**

_In which Charles hides like a child and gets invited to fall from the sky. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Five<strong>

He hurries back from Greggs, two paper bags in one hand and the cardboard tray of coffee cups in the other, wobbling threateningly when he uses his shoulder to push open the main doors.

He didn't really get to see Elsie yesterday, just a fleeting moment as she left to pick Daisy and William up. His own fault; unlike the English Department, _he_ had the History course set essays to be completed over the Easter break, the inevitable result being a desk piled up with unmarked work and little time to devote to it. He'd knuckled down yesterday but time had disappeared on him and he had surfaced from his office too late to see Elsie for lunch.

He still doesn't feel quite right about the weekend, a niggling in his mind keeping him from tucking Saturday night away in his memory. His hope is that it'll go away over lunch when he sees how, as she said, nothing has changed. And why should it have? She hadn't been at all upset with him.

He takes the stairs up to her office when he sees Spratt waiting by the lifts. The last thing he wants is to be stuck in an enclosed space with _that_ man.

He's slower going up than usual in deference to the cups; the lids are already covered in spilt coffee, there will be none left for them to drink if he's not careful.

He got her a cinnamon spiced latte instead of a plain white coffee; she might not be upset but he still feels as though he has some making up to do.

Besides, Elsie might not be mad at him, but Beryl is furious. He's been avoiding her since she sent that email yesterday. The one that barely made it through the University's language filter.

Perhaps she'll calm quicker if she hears that he's trying to do something nice for Elsie.

He plans to book them in for a play next weekend too; making up for skipping their usual birthday plans. He'll admit it to himself at least that he hadn't realised how much he would miss that; dressing up, having her on his arm for the afternoon.

They're showing a small production of _Oklahoma! _at the Ripon Theatre and he knows she likes the film of the musical. He hadn't disliked it himself.

He pauses on the landing between floors to straighten the cups up, one of them tilting dangerously to the side.

"-diving."

A door swings open above him and he jerks his head up at the sound of Molesley's voice coming down from the attics. Ducking into an alcove he lets the big tapestry fall back into place, hiding him. He _really_ doesn't need to get stopped by Joseph Molesley. That's another email he's ignoring.

"I don't think she'll really do that. She's got a whole pile of different forms on her desk, I think that's just one of them."

"I don't know, I'm more surprised about the dating." The voices get louder as they come down the stairs, Charles quiets his breathing, unable _not _to listen given his position.

"Why shouldn't she look for someone? She's an attractive, accomplished woman."

"I didn't- of course, I wouldn't say anything against- You're right, of course. You know I have the utmost respect for her, as a Professor and a-_ahem_, a woman."

Charles raises an eyebrow. Well, someone has set tongues wagging. Elsie's bound to know who, he'll have to ask her if he ever gets out from behind this blasted tapestry. Have Molesley and Miss Baxter got nothing better to do than dilly dally around in stairwells?

He'll certainly give Joseph Molesley more work if he's looking for it; it's about time he started acting like a real professor - he can mark some of Charles's second year essays. That'll keep him busy and out of Charles's way for a while.

"I just thought, well. That she didn't need to go looking _elsewhere._"

"Beryl still says she doesn't, it's why the bet's still on."

"I wondered about that, it seems silly to have money on a date for them, if she's off looking for someone else."

"You're just worried because you had June down and Beryl's putting better odds on late Summer now-"

They pass by Charles and down to the ground floor, their voices fading out as they move away from the stairwell. Slipping out into the open again, he rushes up the last few stairs.

It seems Beryl is running a little gambling ring of her own; he wonders if Elsie knows why they weren't asked to join in.

It's as he reaches her door, his hand already wrapped around the handle, that he gets it. A flash of insight he really should have had sooner.

There's only one non-couple that Beryl would start a book on and leave them out of. _Them._

Which of course means that the woman they were talking about is-

"Are you going to hover out there all day, Charles or are you coming in with those sandwiches?"

-Elsie.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"I could kill Beryl." Elsie says again, Charles hides a smile behind his Eccles cake.

He'd been distracted by his thoughts when he walked in and being Elsie Hughes she'd not only noticed but quickly wheedled them out of him.

Not the bit about the bet though, he's not planning on telling her about that until he has found out just how big a book Beryl's been running on them; he knows it's between the English and History staff, likely the Techs since Beryl's keeping it. Is the Science department in on it too? The other Humanities? Is this why Spratt has been smirking at him the last few weeks, always just _there_, watching?

"It's not the first time you've been the subject of gossip." He points out, refuses to flinch from her glare.

"Thank you, Charles."

"Just an observation; besides what did you expect to happen once you started talking about trying things like-" he pulls a sheet of paper off the pile of forms, "_Crufts_?"

He raises an eyebrow and she flushes lightly. "Elsie, you don't have a dog."

"I haven't looked at them all yet." She snatches the form away, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it into the bin in the corner, already quite full with similar little balls of paper. He wonders what other forms she's discarded already.

"Is there anything about Netball in here? Competitive paper tossing?"

"Careful." She warns, a sticky finger pointing at him. "I know some of these are silly; there was a site with links to the lot of them and I thought I might as well just get them all, maybe I'll sort them out later."

She shrugs, goes back to picking apart her iced bun. Charles watches her, still a little shocked by this new attitude of hers. There are no plans as far as he can see, nothing definite anyway. And he hasn't even got started on the 'dating' bit. He can't remember Elsie seeing _anyone_ since she arrived at Downton.

Is this another new thing, or has he just missed it all this time? He cannot believe she's been looking for someone for 15 years and he hasn't noticed, she would have told him, surely. Besides, he knows how she's spent most of her days for almost as long as that, she couldn't have been going off to bars or out on dates and him not know. No, it must be new. Another part of her new outlook; _spontaneous_ she'd said. The idea does nothing for the little knot of unease that's looking to be a permanent addition to his stomach.

"As much as it pains me, I have to agree with Mr Molesley on one thing;" two actually; she is after all a very accomplished woman; "I'm not sure I like the idea of you jumping out a plane in mid-air."

She eyes him, licking the last of the icing from her fingers. "It wouldn't be much of a thrill jumping out when it's on the ground, would it?"

"You know what I mean, what if your parachute doesn't open, or something else goes wrong? You're _falling from the sky_."

"It's the risk that makes it so exhilarating, Charles. Besides, at my age, I can afford to live a little."

He swallows the last of his cake, dabs the flakes of pastry off his lips with a napkin. "You're younger than me."

She smirks, shaking her empty cup and then reaching over to steal his and taking a sip. "Nobody said you couldn't join me. I'll print you off another form."

He blames Beryl. He's not sure how, but this has _got_ to be that woman's fault.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

Greggs - _chain of bakeries.__ There are _Greggs_ everywhere._

knuckled down - _worked hard_

tongues wagging - _gossip spreading, people talking_

dilly dally - _hang around aimlessley, delay moving on to wherever you're _supposed_ to be. _

start a book - _gambling/betting term, it's the idea that everyone's bets need to be recorded down (ie. in a book)._ _I wonder if that'll change in the future when we probably won't ever write anything down on paper..._start an ipad memo_?_

Eccles cake - _puff pastry filled with basically, mince pie filling, only with more raisons. I like them, the pastry goes everywhere but they are yummy. And the big crystals of sugar that's glazed onto them give a delightful crunch._

wheedled - dragged, pulled, convinced him to tell her. Well, she was a journalist and still our canon Mrs Hughes at heart; she find out everything eventually. ;)

_Crufts - big Dog show competition.  
><em>

iced bun - _um...a bun with icing on top? _


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in this, it seems I can't write on weekends and the first part of this week is manic at work. However, please enjoy this chapter and thank you so so much for your reviews and comments! I love them so much! **

_In which Elsie knows everything and Joe still can't do a Scottish accent._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Six<strong>

"So what sorts of things do they ask then?"

Elsie looks away from the telly, over to where Beryl's curled up in the corner of the sofa. Bill's disappeared outside for a bit; something to do with his car. She hadn't really been listening; likely wouldn't have understood if she had.

"Who?"

"This website you're on."

"_What_ website?"

Beryl rolls her eyes and waves a hand around. "This dating site."

She could, she supposes, be embarrassed or surprised that Beryl knows about that. Instead she just sighs, it was rather inevitable. Evidently _nothing_ spoken to one Mason - or soon-to-be Mason - stays secret from the others for long.

"I'm not going to ask which of them told you, because it was probably both of them. But I am going to say what I said earlier; I'm not telling you anything."

She looks back to the telly but the picture pauses as Beryl huffs.

"I said I was sorry! I only told your Phyllis, the others must have overheard."

"Why were you even telling Phyllis?"

Beryl shifts awkwardly and Elsie narrows her eyes. "It's that bet, isn't it?" More shifting and a conspicuous lack of denial. "Beryl! You _promised_ me you'd shut that down."

"No, no I didn't. You made what I felt was a rather hypocritical request that I never got around to doing anything about."

Elsie glares at her. "I wonder why we're friends sometimes."

"No you don't."

No, unfortunately she doesn't, although sometime she does question her sanity.

"Well, now you _can_ do something about it. Shut. It. _Down_, before someone lets slip to Charles."

Beryl rolls her eyes. "No one's going to let him know and even if he did overhear something, he wouldn't get it."

Elsie's not so sure. Charles isn't quite as oblivious and people seem to think. Not about everything anyway. He just might not _tell_ anyone what he knows, but he knows it just the same.

"Beryl."

Beryl raises her hands, the remote still held in one. "Alright, alright."

Elsie stares at her a moment longer, but then the telly starts up again and she turns back to it.

"So these questions…"

She closes her eyes and groans; it's going to be a long evening.

-x-x-x-x-

It's only later, tucked up in checked pyjamas and her duvet; that she realises Beryl still didn't actually agree to end the bet.

It shouldn't bother her, especially not now when she's finally getting used to the fact that Charles doesn't see her that way. Now she's _letting herself_ get used to that.

But it does. Maybe it's because she doesn't actually _like_ to be the subject of gossip and speculation; she's never got used to that, it was one of the benefits of being a journalist - she was always on the other side of the news.

Maybe it's because now that she's decided to move on from Charles, she wants everyone else to move on from that too. She's always known what they say about their friendship, and of course there's the bet that she's known about for a long time too. She understands it, after all; she does the same with Phyllis and Joseph, Charles's little 'Lady Mary' and whoever happens to be her flavour of the month.

And it isn't as though she and Charles haven't given them all _plenty_ to talk about over the years; it is rare to have a friendship as deep as theirs after all.

But now that she's accepted that it is _just_ a friendship, no matter how unique a one, she wants everyone else to accept it too. Otherwise, she'll be right back where she's been these last thirteen years, wondering if maybe she's wrong and everyone else is right and she should just wait Charles out a little longer.

She groans, drops her head into her hands and scrubs. _No, no_. She's not doing this again. She's not going to let her friends do this to her.

Let them think what they want, she knows what's better for her and it isn't waiting and wondering. Not anymore. Not if she doesn't want to end up living alone.

There's a part of her that knows that she'll never actually he alone, she has Beryl and Charles, Becky and Anna and John. But there's another part of her that also knows that one day Charles is going to find someone else and Elsie needs to be ready for that.

She jumps at the ring of her mobile, the sound low but the vibrate strong enough the thing almost shakes itself off her beside table before she can grab it.

It's not that late yet, even if she is ready for bed, still she's not expecting a call.

"Hello?"

"El?"

Twenty years and she still knows that voice.

"No one's called me that in a long time." She runs the volume right down on the TV, slumps back against the headboard. "Hello Joe."

Joe laughs, it sounds almost as natural as she remembers. That's Joe; he always seemed so comfortable everywhere, she evened that. "I'm not surprised; you always said you hated it."

She smiles, pulling her knees up and resting her elbows on them. "I didn't hate it. I said it was lazy; Elsie's already an abbreviation-"

"-so people could at least take the time to say _that_ in full. I remember."

She laughs. "You should, I said it often enough."

"Mmm, still let me call you El though."

"I didn't think I _could_ make you stop. You were quite stubborn back then, Joe Burns."

"Still am, if my son's to be believed."

It's odd, the way that seems to jerk her back, as though she's just remembering that it's been twenty-years since she last spoke to him. He must be thinking the same because before she can say anything, he's talking again.

"I've missed your voice." She swallows. "You know, afterwards, I still kept expecting that Tuesday phone call."

"I kept picking up the phone to make it." She admits quietly. That phone call had been a part of their relationship for three years then, a part of her routine. For a couple of months she'd think of him every time it got to eleven-eleven on a Tuesday morning. Even now, if she glances at a clock precisely at that time, she'll think of those calls.

"I wish you had."

She closes her eyes, her throat feeling swollen and tight. "No, you don't."

They wouldn't have made it, she and Joe. Not in the long run.

"Maybe not. Still would have been nice to hear your voice. No one calls me a 'silly fool' the way you do."

She laughs, the sound bursting through the lump in her throat. "Still can't do a good Scottish accent can you Joe?"

"I'll have you know, I've been practicing that."

"Don't give up your day job just yet." He laughs with her. "Speaking of which; organic farming, really?"

"You have to move with the times El. As I believe a very beautiful woman once told me."

Still a charmer then. She rolls her eyes because he can't see her. "Shut up and tell me the things you left out of your letter, you silly fool."

He laughs. "Ah, there it is."

She wriggles deeper into her duvet. It _is_ good to hear from him after all.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

_I'll...uh, I'll add this when I'm on the bus. :P_

Okay...I came back but actually, I can't find anything *to* add. Let me know if I'm wrong about that though!


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**A/N: Oh I am so glad you enjoyed the last chapter! I like Joe, he's a charmer, but he is sweet to Elsie. Thank you so much for your reviews, they made me get this chapter out nice a quick. Hopefully the rest of my week shouldn't be so hectic! I'm going to try to reply to your reviews today, but unfortunately, I only have so many breaks during the work day.**

_In which Charles is an idiot again and it turns out that carrots can be purple._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Seven<strong>

"You're an idiot." Charles jerks away from the slap Beryl lands on his arm. "And you've been avoiding me."

"I wonder why." She has a mean slap, Beryl. He imagines it's all that working with her arms; the stirring and pounding and kneading. There's a lot of power behind her smacks.

"Oh toughen up. You missed the party Charles. And you bought her a blu-ray player."

He blinks. "The player? Elsie said she loved it."

Beryl rolls her eyes and he flinches away as her arm rises again. "Oh I'm sure she does, it's Elsie."

She drops into the seat next to him, displaced air sending his papers scattering across the table. "I don't see what the problem is then." He rises a little out of his chair to reorder the essays back into their piles.

"You were going to get her jewellery."

With a handful of papers held above the table he frowns at her. What on earth is the mad woman going on about. "Going to get who jewellery?"

"Elsie."

"I was going to get Elsie jewellery; when?"

Beryl huffs, glaring right back at him. "For her birthday."

"I got her the blu-ray for her birthday." He reminds her, trying to untangle whatever it is she's talking about.

"Exactly. That's the problem."

It's no use, a sane man cannot understand a lunatic. "You're not making any sense, Beryl."

"I'm making perfect sense Charles Carson; which is more than you've been doing the last few weeks."

"Is this about the party?" He settles back into his chair, careful to keep his arms unfolded; Beryl went to the same body language seminar he did last year, when Robert Crawley had those guest speakers in for the week.

"Yes it's about the party, it's about the party and the jewellery you told me you were getting for Elsie."

"I said no such thing." In fact he remembers quite clearly saying he _wouldn't_ get Elsie jewellery, just before he spotted the blu-ray.

"You did, I made the suggestion and you agreed that I'd given you an idea." Beryl pokes her finger at him, the nail digging right in against his shirt. Carefully, he plucks her finger away from him.

"And you did; something she'd like, you said."

And she _had_ liked the player, does like it. She told him that on Tuesday over lunch; just before she invited him over for a little James Bond watching tonight.

Beryl stares at him, her eyes curiously sad now. "Oh, Charles. You're an idiot."

"Why now?" But Beryl shakes her head and pushes herself up and out of the chair. Pats his head like he's a puppy or a small child.

"I'll see you later." And then she's gone, disappearing out the library doors.

Mad, mad woman.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"Why aren't we starting with the first ones?" He asks again, because she'd just huffed at him the first time and skipped through the trailers.

"Because we're starting with the Sean Connery ones." She hands over a bowl of crisps and another glass of wine. Disappearing back into the kitchen to get her own. "And we've already watched the first ones."

"Not on blu-ray we haven't." He peers over at her bowl as she settles onto the sofa beside him and she tips it towards him with a roll of her eyes. Vegetable crisps there too. Good, last time she tried to pass them all off on him and sat there munching Doritos for half an hour before he noticed. If he's going to be eating Beryl's latest food fad, then he's not doing it alone.

"I'm giving you the beetroot ones, just so you know."

"Fair enough. But then you're getting my carrot ones." She wrinkles her nose, but nods and he smiles, turns to the TV where the screen's still frozen on nothing.

"Did you know you can get purple carrots?"

He looks back at her, watches as she presses play on the remote and plucks a white crisp from her bowl; parsnip probably. Beryl always throws in a lot of those. "Why would I know that? Why do _you_ know that."

She flicks her eyes towards him. "Just an interesting fact. I was flicking around on some sites yesterday-"

"_Carrot_ sites?"

She pauses the blu-ray again just as the Russian landscape fills the screen.

"No not a carrot site. Why would I be looking at carrot sites?"

He can feel himself flush. "You're the one that started reciting carrot trivia and talking about websites."

"_Farming_ websites. I was looking up Joe's farm; he's been opening it up to the public the last few years; school trips and things."

"Joe who?" He picks out an actual potato crisp and crunches it between his teeth. The only Joe he knows, or well knows _of_ is-

"Joe Burns."

-that's the one. "I didn't realise you were in contact again, I thought you hadn't spoken to him in years?" He frowns at her, he's sure he's right about that. He remembers that conversation particularly clearly after all; finding out she'd been engaged before coming to Downton had been quite the surprise that night. So too had been discovering that it was possible for someone to ruin beans on toast. It had been a night of discovery and Chinese takeaway.

"I haven't. Hadn't. He wrote to me a week or so ago." She's only half looking at him, her hand moving from the bowl of crisps to her mouth, the film playing again.

"Oh." Is this what her new attitude is about; some big news from her ex-fiancé that's sent her looking for change in her own life? He studies her face; she doesn't look upset or worried. Not even concerned. "He's well, I take it?"

"He's Joe." She shrugs and he wonders if she even remembers how little she's ever spoken of the man, if she thinks that's explanation enough. Then again, he _does_ understand what she means. "His wife died a little over a year ago, his son took it hard."

He pulls his eyes away from the screen again, watches her rummage through her bowl of crisps and drop a handful of beetroot into his own. "I'd imagine he did. Did you know he'd married?" _Had a child_, he thinks.

She's never said if she would have liked children herself, but she is so good with them, he imagines she might have once. He really hopes that Joe Burns hasn't stirred up too many emotions, contacting her after so long. Elsie can skydive, climb Mount Everest, cycle across the country on a unicycle if that's what she thinks will make her happy, but if she's after reclaiming a few 'what could have beens' he's afraid she'll just end up disappointed.

"No, after the calls arranging to have my clothes brought from the farm to here, I hadn't heard from him again until the letter. Or of him, come to that." She shrugs again, "But I can't say I'm surprised."

"Can't you?"

She turns to face him, tucking one leg up beneath her, her bowl of crisps balanced in her lap. "Would _you_ have been, if you'd heard from your Alice before Charlie dropped by?"

No, put like that, no he wouldn't have been surprised if Alice had told him she was married. He might have been surprised that she'd contacted him at all, but not that she'd married Charlie Grigg, no.

"I take your point." She smiles at him softly, her hand settling on his own and squeezing his fingers.

"He'd always wanted a wife, children. I knew he'd meet someone else." She says it so easily, but still he feels something tug in his chest for her. He wouldn't have been surprised, and _wasn't_ surprised to learn of Alice and Charlie's marriage, but it had still been a hard thing to face all the same. Knowing that Alice really _had_ moved on - had chosen someone else and built a life with them.

Turning his hand over he squeezes her fingers back. "Are you going to see him?" She is - if the rumours, Beryl and Elsie herself are to be believed - looking to date again. Why wouldn't she consider someone she obviously knew so well, someone she has history with and has loved before?

"Mhmm, lunch on Sunday." She's watching the film again. "We talked last night; I think it'll be good to see him again."

She pulls her hand from his to pluck out another crisp and he delves into his bowl for a few himself. There's no way that he can ask her if this is a date, or just a lunch to reconnect with someone from her past. He suspects the latter; Elsie is not one to rush into anything and he remembers the little she _has_ told him about their relationship. But a lot of time has passed since then, he supposes. And there _is_ this whole new attitude of hers, she's becoming a lot less predictable.

"You'll have to let me know how it goes." He says, turning back to the film himself; it's lucky he's already seen this one, he hasn't watched a minute of it so far tonight.

_Joe Burns. _

Strangely, when he leaves later he can hardly remember the film at all.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

Doritos - _little triangular crisps that are very yummy and, I find, very addictive. They're great for dipping and if you have the really cheesy ones, they make your fingers go orange. So obviously they're soooo healthy. :p_

carrots - _okay, so you can get purple carrots. They are a thing. Also, there really are carrot websites, particularly a carrot trivia website with over 100 things you didn't know about carrots...the websites I've visited for this fic...I still think that site is going to be less weird than when I go trolling through e-harmony and other dating sites later. _


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**A/N: Ahhh, you guys. I love you all! I hope you enjoy this little chapter, Anna is back! And thank you so much for all of your reviews and comments! I loved seeing each new one drop into my inbox yesterday; it made me smile through the stress of the monthly staff reviews. ;)**

_In which Anna and John are happy parents-to-be and Beryl is a hyena._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Eight<strong>

"Go on then." She says, pulling out a chair and slipping in between Anna and John. "Show me."

She waves a hand towards the little rectangle of card Anna's holding. If the Bates want to keep this a secret then they should really stop discussing it in the Lounge. Then again, she imagines she'd be just as excited, have it on her mind just as much.

Anna grins, a big beaming smile. Elsie finds herself matching it before she thinks about it; it's just so good to see Anna so happy.

Even as a student the girl had been serious, a certain sadness about her. Elsie was so pleased when she came back to the University as a post-graduate and so proud when she joined the faculty later. But it's John Bates that put that smile on her face, right from the start. The ex-soldier had shown up and Elsie had known the first time she'd been in a room with the two of them. She hadn't bet on it; even Charles has seen that marriage coming, but she'd known.

"We _were_ going to show you." Anna insists, leaning into Elsie's shoulder while she holds out the sonogram.

"I know. I heard you." She wouldn't have sat down otherwise. She doesn't make a habit of butting into people's lives, usually waits until they've invited her in.

She still has her glasses on, which is fortunate, because even with them she has to squint to see anything on the scan. Nudging John with her elbow, she raises an eyebrow.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to help me out here."

He smiles and with a careful finger points out the baby's head and legs, a little arm raised up. It's amazing how developed something so small actually is. A tiny little person already.

Tears blur her vision for a moment and she blinks them back quickly, focuses on the little blob of Bates. It's no good and she turns, pulling Anna into a tight hug.

"I am so, so happy for you."

She stays there a moment, Anna's arms wrapped just as tightly around her waist, before she feels everything settle back down again inside her.

"So everything's okay, you're both well?"

Anna nods, tears on her cheeks and Elsie reaches up a hand to brush them away. Can feel John's eyes on her, watching every move. She isn't a bit surprised that he's so protective; he always has been of his wife.

"Good." She swallows, turns and settles back into her seat, picking up her tea and holding the mug close to her chest.

"It is." John tucks the scan away into one of his files, a soppy smile on his face; a soon-to-be-a-father smile.

There's silence then, Elsie can't vouch for the Bateses, but she loses herself in her thoughts; they haven't mentioned the sex of the baby and Elsie won't pry. But in her mind she sees a little girl, with Anna's eyes and John's dark hair.

"Elsie?" Anna's hand on her arm makes her jump.

"Sorry Anna, I was away with the fairies for a moment."

Anna glances at her husband and Elsie takes a steadying sip of tea. Something's going on.

"I, I mean _we_...um."

She's not sure she's ever heard Anna sound quite so unsure before. The girl hardly ever speaks until she's certain of what she's saying.

"I have a friend in Thirsk." John jumps in, saving his wife; _protective_. It makes Elsie smirk a little behind her mug. "Actually, he's my old commanding officer." She nods, not quite following.

"He's wanted to meet you for a long time." Anna chimes in, giving her pause.

"_Me_?"

Anna nods. "He says he's sure he's seen you around, when you've been in town and of course we've talked about you sometimes."

She doesn't, actually, want to know when those times were. She suspects they weren't her better moments.

"Mentioned you." John corrects, Anna blushes.

"Right, yes."

Elsie holds up a hand before this tennis match can continue. "Are you, is this-" she clears her throat, straightens up a little and tries again. "Are the two of you trying to set me up on a date?"

She probably should have considered this; certainly she should have expected it from Beryl. Although, even if she had thought about it, she doubts she'd have suspected it of Anna or John.

"Yes."

Just 'yes', and a smile.

"James is a good man."

"No doubt; if you count him as a friend, John." She pats his arm.

"Will you think about it? I think you'll like him."

Elsie nods and after a minute more of somewhat awkward silence, Anna gets up to make another cup of tea and John pulls out a lesson plan.

A blind date. She was less scared of the bungee jumping.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

Elsie manages to type up three sets of slides before Beryl stops snickering.

"I'm sorry."

"Mmm I'm sure. It's not _that_ funny."

Beryl giggles again and Elsie rolls her eyes. God help her if this is going to be the reaction she's faced with every time she mentions she might have a date. "Oh it is."

"Well then I'm glad my life is such great entertainment for you." She slams the laptop closed harder than she meant and Beryl stops laughing.

"Oh love, you know I mean nothing by it." She leans her head into Beryl's arm, the other woman's fingers curling around her shoulder.

"I know, I know. Sorry." Dropping her glasses on her desk she pinches her nose. "But that's just it, it is funny isn't it? Someone my age going on a date."

Beryl's fingers tighten and she finds herself turned around to face her.

"No, it's not." Beryl leans down a little, waves her free hand around. "_You_ on a blind date with a _General_, is funny. _You_ on any kind of _blind date_ is funny, because I know you and how much you hate _not_ knowing everything about everyone around you. Elsie, it's going to drive you mad that you'll be meeting someone you know nothing about."

Elsie bites her lip. "That's not entirely true."

After a moment, Beryl's face stretches into a wide grin. "You've already Google'd him haven't you!"

She has.

Beryl squeezes her shoulder again before moving away and collapsing into a chair. "See, _that's_ the part that's funny. But if you've really given up on Charlie-"

She glares, although she doesn't honestly expect Beryl to ever give up on that now. "I don't think that's quite how it's happened, but _yes_."

"-then you go on as many dates as you need to, to find someone that makes you happy. And if there's any bad talk, well, I've got that antique rolling pin you got me. Always said I'd find a use for it one day."

"You make it sound like I'm going to suddenly find myself drowning in offers, it's one date with one man who _thinks_ he might have seen me and who _might_ have heard some not too bad stories about me from Anna and John."

Beryl's lips twitch, but she keeps her face blank. "Actually, if it doesn't work out with the General, then Bill has a friend from work you should meet. And Joseph Molesley asked me yesterday if I thought you'd consider his cousin in Ripon, he says you met him at one of the big Christmas balls a few years back."

Oh dear Lord. Her face must look a sight because Beryl fairly cackles, gripping her stomach as she laughs.

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Not a word."

She closes her eyes as Beryl laughs again. She's going to find this funny. Tomorrow maybe, or next week, she's going to find this just as funny as bloody Beryl does.

There is, however, a small part of her that has been largely ignored for years, that's rather excited to discover she's still 'got it', even after all this time.

Her own lips twitch, the corners pulling up slightly. Yes, tomorrow she'll definitely find this funny.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<br>_

tennis match -_ the backwards and forwards between two people, in a conversation between *3* people where the third keeps having to switch their focus from one to the other, like watching a tennis match_.

Slides - _basically the PowerPoint presentation she'd have projected up during her lectures._

got it -_ still attractive, in and out, still desirable._


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**A/N: Oh! I adore how much you enjoyed the last chapter. Now that she's 'on the market' all these hopeful men are turning up! Thank you everyone who read and reviewed, and the few new readers I have; I've no idea when this will be finished, but at least I update regularly!  
><strong>

_In which Charles is not a master spy either and Elsie has definitely changed over time._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Nine<strong>

Charles doesn't mean to spy on her. In fact, he would hesitate to even call it spying; they're standing in a semi-public place after all. Elsie and her former-fiancé. The farmer.

He planned to be back home earlier than this, wanted to give himself a bit of Sunday not devoted to sending badly fitting clothes back to Next, or picking up next week's dinners. It was the blasted post office woman that did it; set his day back by half an hour, half an hour that almost inevitably became one hour, then close to two. Apparently her son is interested in Downton's history course and she'd wondered if she might be able to arrange a meeting between them before the boy has to start applying.

He's not entirely sure how that managed to take half an hour, he can't remember anything else being discussed.

Then there'd been the queues in Tesco and the twenty minutes he spent choosing wines to fill his wine rack. By which point it was lunchtime so he stopped for a sandwich and a hard-earned cup of tea; he wasn't likely to be in the mood for a proper Sunday lunch when he _did_ get home anyway.

He'd been so thankful to finally make his way back to the University; seeing a little light at the end of a dismal day. Couldn't wait to kick off his shoes and settle in with a good book.

But there they are; Elsie and her farmer Joe, blocking the corridor outside the rooms.

As awkward as hanging about the far end is, it's worth the strain in his arms keeping the bags from making a noise because there isn't anything that could get him to walk past them now.

He can't hear what they're saying, but he _can_ see the look on the farmer's face when Elsie turns her head away with a laugh. She's clutching a rectangular _something_ to her chest and every so often she strokes a hand over the back of it.

He has to give this Joe credit; he keeps his eyes on her face.

With a final laugh, Elsie leans forward and drops a kiss to Joe's cheek, curls her free hand over his shoulder.

Charles looks away, finds a dirty mark on the wall and wonders where it came from. It looks like black powder; so it could be from any of the staff in residence who have had a fight with one of the printers. Which is _all_ of the staff in residence. He's really going to have to try again to convince Crawley to get new ones.

He's still somewhat pointedly looking at the wall when footsteps approach and Joe Burns is suddenly right in front of him.

"You must be Charles." He doesn't hold out his hand, just waves it loosely at the bags in both of Charles's.

Charles shrugs, tips his head in acknowledgement. "And you're Joe."

"El said we might bump into you."

_El?_ He's always thought she hated when people shorten her name any more than it already is.

"And so you have. I was just getting in." He gives the plastic bags a shake, the wine bottles jingling in their carrier.

"Yes. Well; I'll let you get on, that looks heavy." Joe rocks back on his heels. "It was nice to meet you."

This time he does hold his hand out, before shoving it into the pocket of his brown trousers with a small laugh.

"Next time." Charles says, with a nod. "I'm sure we'll see each other again." It looks like the reunion didn't go too terribly and he can't imagine Elsie's planning on it being a one-off.

"I hope so."

Joe walks on then, smile on his face and Charles turns to watch him go.

He's not quite what he imagined. Although he can't really say what he _had_ imagined, only that Joe isn't it.

"If you've finished cluttering up the corridor, I've put the kettle on?"he spins around, wincing as bottles and tins crash together.

Elsie leans against her doorframe, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

Caught and not at all surprised that he has been, he shrugs. "Give me five minutes to put all this away."

She glances at the shopping. "I'll give you ten minutes, and you can leave organising your wine rack until later."

She turns into her rooms, the door left open and he sighs. She's right of course; it'll take much longer if he tries to put the wine away now.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"So, lunch went well, then?"

"You know it did." She hands him his tea and waves him back into the living room. "You don't make that good a spy yourself."

Settling into the armchair he frowns. "I wasn't spying. I just didn't want to disturb you."

"A likely story." She curls her bare legs up beside her on the sofa, rests her mug on one knee. "You should have, I'd have introduced you."

"We managed that ourselves, thank you."

She smirks at him from behind her mug as she takes a sip. "And?"

"And what? He seems nice." He takes a few sips of his own tea. What is she looking for; he only met the man for a moment?

"He is." Her smile softens and she plays with the hem of her skirt. "He's hardly changed at all."

"That's good then." He's glad for her; he knows she'll have gone to lunch expecting Joe to be the same man he was fifteen years ago; he's glad she wasn't wrong.

"Is it?" Her fingers dance over her skirt, smoothing it out and then crumpling the hem back up again, over and over. He's tempted to reach out and stop the restless movements and takes another sip of tea instead.

"Isn't it?"

She sighs, bites her lip. "I don't know. Charles, I think I actually _want_ him to have changed. I know it doesn't make any sense, but he was sitting there, the same Joe he's always been and I spent the entire time trying to find differences."

"And you couldn't?"

"Well, he's older of course. Greyer and the beard is new, but no, it could have been seventeen years ago and we'd have been having the same lunch, filling each other in on everything that'd happened since we'd last spoken. There was more to say this time, of course."

"Of course. Have _you_ really changed that much?"

He doesn't think so, she's always been the same to him; reassuringly so.

But she laughs, reaches for an upside-down picture frame on the coffee table, holds it out to him.

"Oh yes, Charles. Definitely."

He turns it over and feels his eyes widen. It's Elsie, no doubt of that; he'll always recognise her eyes, the cheeky quirk of her lips. But otherwise it's like seeing someone else entirely. It isn't the age difference, so much as it is the kaki trousers and the dark green vest-top. Her hair pulled up tight on her head and the line of soldiers standing behind her. The hand shake with Tony Blair she's half pulled away from, this picture obviously taken after the official ones were over.

"Aren't we all supposed to change?" He finally manages, still unable to look away.

He knows some of the places she's been, knows the stories she covered in her past career; but seeing it like this, a little frozen moment of time when she stood in a war zone is different. It's hard to believe this Elsie is the same person who types up his lesson plans for him and burns her toast. He wonders if this was what it was like for her and Beryl, finding out about his past as a Cheerful Charlie.

"Maybe. Some of us more than others, I think."

He hums in agreement, still staring at the picture.

"You can give that back anytime now, Charles." She laughs and he jumps a little, looks over at her with a smirk.

"No, I don't think I will, actually. Not until I've made copies to put up around the Lounge."

"You wouldn't!" She reaches for the picture and he holds it away, on the other side of him, far enough from her she'll have to get up to get it.

"I would."

She huffs, flopping back against the sofa cushions, tea splashing dangerously close to the rim of her mug. "You won't, the printer'll take so long to start up you'll give up before you do."

He looks at the picture again, the dusty handprint on her waist, the way he could almost believe the former Prime Minister is looking down her top. "Oh no, I think it'll be worth the trouble this time."

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

Next - _mainly a higher end clothing store. Not designer but not the cheapest clothes around. You can order direct from the site as well as the store and the sizes quite often differ item from item, so people have a tendency to order more than one size and just take back what doesn't fit. I like the idea that Elsie's hovered over him while he's been shopping online, pointing things out that he's now tried on, not liked the fit of and sent back. _

carrier bags_ - okay, so most people use hessian bags or bags-for-life, but I can't really see Charles walking into town with a load of empty bags in his hands. _

Tins - _cans. :p_

Tony Blair - _UK Prime Minister from 1997 to 2007. If my incredibly, embarrassingly poor memory for history serves me (and the massive amount of back-up Googling I did), the picture would have been taken in Kosovo in about late 1999 during Tony Blair's visit to the NATO headquarters following the 'end of the conflict'. _

**I can't thank chelsie fan enough for so many things this chapter! She picked up on all the consistency issues I totally missed. Thanks hun! **


	30. Chapter Thirty

**A/N: Well now, wasn't that an odd forced-hiatus? Typical, the one day everyone had an update all ready to go; it couldn't have happened on a day when no one had anything to post could it? Anyway, we're all back and I am so looking forward to reading all the gorgeous updates! A friendly reminder for you panicking people; Charles isn't even admitting to _himself_ that this uncomfortable feeling he's having about these changes Elsie's making to her life? That's worry, and jealousy and his heart trying to make him listen to it for once. But since he _isn't_ listening and isn't thinking about it, even in the narrative I can't write those feelings down, but hopefully they're there to find; in the way he looks away as she kisses Joe's cheek, that he won't free a hand to shake Joe's, that he happily guided the conversation around to talking about Elsie's changes rather than Joe's staticness as soon as he could. ;) It'll become less subtle quite quickly; there's something coming up in a chapter or two that's going to give him a bit of a reality check. But I'm hoping _something_ of his real (and buried oh so annoyingly deep) feelings is coming across! In my head it seems so obvious, but then I have the rest of the story there. Your comments are helping me to make sure I get at least some of that down onto the page, so thank you, every one of you that reviewed the last chapter.**

_In which Charles might be starting to realise things could change and Beryl thinks Elsie is a dress-me-up doll._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty<strong>

"So he didn't say anything?"

"Nah, he's an idiot."

"Totally."

"She's right, she's better off without him. He ain't in love with her."

"He is, I'm know it. He's just denyin' it or..."

"Or he's an idiot."

"Well, yeah, or th-"

Finally digging the remote out from the back of the sofa, Elsie switches the telly off. Silence fills the room and that's so much better; she really hates Eastenders.

"Sorry, Charles; you were saying."

She holds the mobile between her ear and shoulder, straightening up the cushions again. She should probably run the hoover over the sofa while she's got them off, there's an embarrassing amount of crumbs in there, but she's held off Charles long enough, she can't go asking him to hold while she cleans. She'll do it tomorrow, or Wednesday. She'll do it.

"The only other day is Tuesday. The tickets for _Oklahoma!;_ either Thursday or next Tuesday."

"We'd better make it next Tuesday, I have plans for Thursday I'd rather not cancel."

She's not sure quite how, but the silence on the other end of the phone sounds somewhat choked, surprise she guesses. "Charles?"

"You have plans?"

She rolls her eyes, thumps her palm into the last pillow to try and bulk it up a little. Too many long nights watching episode after episode of _Game Of Thrones_; she's rather flattened the poor thing.

"Yes, I do. A friend of John and Anna's. I thought you'd know by now." She was certain Beryl would have told him, it's not like anything stays secret for long and she didn't exactly swear the woman to secrecy anyway.

"No, uh- Beryl hasn't said anything." It says something about their dear friend, that even Charles would expect this to come from her. Settling the cushion in place she flops rather inelegantly on top of it.

"Oh, well. Maybe she thought I'd be embarrassed? A blind date at my age."

"So it is a date, then?" She'd expected him to tease her about her age, especially after the last time she brought it up; something about not dragging him into it this time - after all, she _had_ left the skydiving form on his desk as promised - she hadn't expected the date part to grab his attention. Not after all the talk that's been going around about those blasted websites that she _hasn't_ joined. Not yet anyway.

"I think so." It's not as though either of them actually said the words, but it was implied by the setting up of a time to meet, the suggestion of dinner Thursday evening. "It's been a while, but I'm pretty sure that's what going out to dinner with someone is."

She hears him grumble through the phone, bites her lip as it turns up in a smile. He's going to say it, like he always does, but this time she really isn't going to let it bother her.

"Well, I'll book the tickets for Tuesday then."

She blinks. "Oh, uh-okay, I mean good. Thank you, I'm looking forward to it." A frown settles between her brows as they say goodbye and she stares at her phone after he hangs up.

He didn't say it; didn't use their friendship as a yard stick for measuring non-existent relationships. For a moment she wonders if that means something, but then shakes her head. That's the old Elsie thinking. The one that reads too much into the smallest of Charles's gestures.

She feels nervous now that she's thought of Thursday night again, her ankle bouncing restlessly. She hears a thump from next door; knows from experience that it's Charles's bedroom door closing.

She scratches her arm. She could hoover now, get it out of the way while he's on the far side of his rooms. That should calm her down enough to sleep.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"Remind me again why I'm here?"

"Because you asked my opinion on your outfit for Thursday." Beryl says, carefully counting out eight items of clothing from the pile in the trolley.

"No, no I'm sure what I said was; 'this skirt will be okay, won't it?'"

She waits while Beryl holds two hangers next to each other, the sequins on one of the tops catching the bright store lights and glinting. She's fairly certain she won't be going with that one; she doesn't need to be blinding the poor man.

"Exactly; my opinion is that you need new clothes."

"Oh for goodness sake just give me that one." She snatches the sequin top out of Beryl's hands and adds it to the other seven items hanging off her fingers. "You're going to make me try them all on anyway, it doesn't matter what order I do it in."

Beryl sighs, shakes her head as she starts counting out the next eight. "You're worse than William at this, you know? You're supposed to _enjoy_ shopping Elsie."

Elsie rolls her eyes, turning away and heading for the girl hovering by the changing room, an _8_ tag already held out. She never has got into that; the stereotype that says she should like trawling through hundreds of tops, skirts, trousers, _shoes_, coming away with a new outfit and feeling good about all that wasted time. Although, coats and bags are another matter entirely. She wonders if she can afford to treat herself; although it's rather late in the year to be looking at coats; Summer _is_ just around the corner.

Stepping into one of the tiny cubicles she pulls the door closed, satisfied when she hears the magnets click together. She'll be fine so long as she keeps her elbows in tight, one nudge against that door and she'll be showing anyone who wanders past, parts of her that haven't even seen the light of day in a few years.

Stripped down to her underwear she unhooks the first skirt, a dark black 'pencil-cut' the label says. Tugging it on she can appreciate the way it shapes her, of course it also makes her feel like she's one pair of stilettos and a briefcase away from going to a board meeting. She plucks up a red shirt to go with it, bounces on her toes while she fiddles with undoing the tiny little mother of pearl buttons.

The shirt on, the annoying buttons all done up again she turns in a slow circle, stopping with her back to the mirror and peering over her shoulder.

"You look good."

She jumps, glares at Beryl's face, peering through the slightly open door. "I look like I should ask you about those unusual expenses on your tax return."

The other woman laughs. "Alright, try something else. But maybe keep this one in mind the next time you want something from the Board."

Elsie unbuttons the shirt again, pulling the edges apart before she notices Beryl still standing there. "Do you mind?"

"Not really, got nothing I haven't seen before."

Taking hold of the door she gently shoves at Beryl's shoulder and pushes her back through the gap, slams the door in place.

"Try the purple dress. I saw some shoes earlier that'll go great with it."

Elsie takes a deep breath and counts to ten before digging out the purple dress from the back of the hangers. It'll all be worth it if she finds a few nice outfits. Then she won't need to do this again anytime soon.

It's not so bad, she thinks as she puddles the dress on the floor and steps into it, settling the capped sleeves on her shoulders. At least Beryl's been picking out things that do suit her shape and colour and it isn't like Elsie hasn't had any say. Not a lot of say so far, mind but enough.

The skirt of the dress seems to fit nicely against her thighs, not too tight that it'll resrict her stride but not loose either. With her hair down and a little make-up, this might be the one for Thursday. She'll need a new bra though.

"Oh, that _is_ nice." Beryl smiles at her from the door again and Elsie nods back. She does like this one. Well, that was quicker than she'd thought it would be.

Beryl claps her hands together. "Right, we'll get that one. You try the jeans next, I'll go find those shoes. And you better hurry up, we've only got a couple more hours and I counted out another three sets to go."

She's gone before Elsie has a chance to say anything, the cubicle door clicking closed again. Elsie groans, leans her head against the chipboard wall. This really _had_ better be worth it.

With another groan she slips back out of the dress, reaches for the jeans. Beryl's obviously been hoping for an evening like this; she's not going to dare ask how long it's been on her friend's mind.

She stops with the jeans halfway up her legs at a thought. Beryl wants her to be part of her wedding party; she's going to be in another changing room, in a another shop in a few weeks' time doing this all over again.

"I'm back, what did you think of the jeans?"

Charles is going to laugh so much over this.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

Eastenders - _British Soap Opera set in, unsurprisingly, the East-end of London. The melodrama, the sheer number of murders or potential victims that move there; the place should be closed down and permenant police tape tied up around it!_

yardstick - _a standard by which you judge the success (or factness) of something. Literally, it's a big ruler a yard in length, but obviously the slang of it is just that you're measuring something, using something else as your ruler._

trolley - _um, shopping _cart_?_ _Big metal thing you push around in shops that always has a crooked wheel so you're forever having to counter-correct it to avoid constantly slamming the thing into a display of baked bean tins or other people's heels._


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

**A/N: Aw, thank you to my Guest reviewer, I couldn't miss a day posting; although I will admit this one is a little late. Thank you everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I love every single one of your words and if I didn't reply back it's only because I was grinning too much to type (or I was writing this chapter instead).  
><strong>

_In which Elsie is an inadvertent matchmaker and Charles almost gets a clue._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-One<strong>

His glasses perched on his nose, Charles works his way through the delightful world of online theatre bookings. He goes through this every year and still hasn't found an easier way, except for phoning in the booking, but that seems like giving in somehow. As though that would be letting the multiple pages and confirmations and little asterisks that sit there beside blank boxes for information he doesn't know off-hand, win.

Tickets finally booked and sent to his printer, he hesitates over reserving a table for dinner in a way he hasn't for more than a decade. Will she _want_ to have dinner with him, now? Is that going to seem strange, too much like her _date_?

Of course he's going to reserve a table; he shakes his head at himself and dials the familiar number. Checks that they still serve the whisky sponge she favours, before leaving his name and number. It's their restaurant, a regular part of their birthday routine, it would probably feel stranger not to eat there after all this time.

Besides, the last thing he wants is for Elsie to wonder if something's bothering him. For him to change a tradition would be like waving a red flag and shouting 'ask me what's wrong'. Which if course, she would.

There's also the fact that he really does enjoy these evenings; the perfectly cleaned and folded napkins, the maître d' in tails, the waiter that pours their wine with a cloth over his arm and pristine white gloves. How Elsie relishes the elaborate service and teases him relentlessly when he praises the wine list or explains which era the set of the table is based on.

There was little real chance that he wouldn't book the table, but that he felt the need to question it at all niggles at him.

It niggles at him so much that he almost calls Beryl about it before common sense reasserts itself. It's nonsense, a momentary worry; there's no need to make it into the big deal it would become with Beryl's input.

Shut away in his office, he closes down the web pages and tries to concentrate on typing up the next set of essay questions for his third years; this will be the last big one before their final exams so he wants to make sure they have them early, even if most of the students won't bother to look at them until a week before they're due.

"It's much quicker if you use more than one finger, you know."

He looks over to the door, Elsie just stepping through, two mugs in one hand, the fingers of the other splayed out and wiggling.

"Is that for me?" He nods at the second mug instead of responding to her teasing.

"No, I was just taking it for a walk." She lays it next to his elbow on the desk with a roll of her eyes. She must have been out with Beryl yesterday, she's always more sarcastic when they've spent time together.

She settles into one of the other chairs with a sigh, the mug already at her lips. He raises an eyebrow at her and waits; something's got her riled up today. He's just glad it's nothing he's done; she wouldn't have brought him the tea if it was.

"Hypothetically, if I inadvertently said something that might result in a certain Dean's youngest daughter dating a lad a few years her senior, how much trouble would I be in?"

"Would this older lad be a student?"

"Hypothetically; let's say _yes_."

"And 'hypothetically', would he happen to be Irish and a bit of a revolutionary wild card?"

"Possibly." She winces. "This is bad isn't it?"

"Accidentally matchmaking the teenage activist daughter of your boss, with a boy you've had to talk down from serious property damage at least once in the past? Well I don't think it can be classed as _good_, do you, Elsie?"

She says nothing, taking a sip of tea.

He turns around completely to face her. "I thought you were going to warn Branson off. What in God's name did you say to him?"

"I'm not sure. I told him that perhaps he should be more careful, that a young girl's feelings weren't something to be taken lightly. He said he agreed with me."

Charles eyes her. "That doesn't sound like it went wrong. That's what you wanted isn't it?"

"Yes." She says. "Except..."

"Except what?"

"Except his agreement sounded less like 'I'm going to let her down gently' and more 'this is great, I'm going to ask her out.'"

Charles laughs, quickly covers it with a cough. "So what you're saying is you think you actually _gave_ him the idea."

Elsie groans, drops her face into the palm of her hand.

He's reaching for his drink when a thought stops him and he does laugh.

Her eyes peek out from between her fingers, narrowed and accusing. "What?"

"Nothing. _Really_." He adds as she continues to glare at him. "Only, I knew you'd seek some kind of revenge on Crawley for cancelling your trip, but I never thought it would be so elaborate."

Leaning forward, Elsie smacks his arm. "This is serious Charles."

"Right now it is, yes, but they're still children. It'd be best if you avoided the Dean for a few days, and you'd better hope he never learns what you did, but they'll move on quickly. It's a phase, you'll see. They're just caught up in the illicitness of it."

She doesn't look convinced, but she does relax back into the chair, bringing her mug up to her lips. "I hope you're right, Charles. Not for my sake, but for theirs."

He nods and smiles at her. He's right about this, he's sure of it.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"Well, I'd best be off. Those projects aren't going to mark themselves and I don't want to be running late by tonight; I promised Elsie I'd help her get ready."

Beryl grabs up the wrappers from their lunch and drops them in the bin by the door as she leaves.

She turns just at the threshold and waggles a finger at him. "Nothing to say?"

He shakes his head with a frown. She's been like this the whole time she's been in his office today, asking pointed but cryptic questions. What could he possibly have to say?

Beryl sighs. "On your head be it." And disappears out the door.

Elsie has her date tonight.

It's Thursday and tonight Elsie has a date. No doubt so do a lot of other people, although it makes no sense to him why anyone would schedule a date for a Thursday when Friday is just a day later. Perhaps Elsie hadn't wanted a late night when she always gets up so early on Saturday to see Becky.

Not that he knows if she and her General will be having a late night. It _is_ possible to eat a meal in an hour, an hour and a half. He's been thinking about it and he doesn't expect that they'll be lingering over coffee, dragging out the conversation; what could they possibly have to talk about? They're strangers to each other and small talk can only get you so far.

Elsie is a listener, not much of a talker unless she's comfortable and familiar with the other person, and he can't imagine that anyone who's a good friend of Anna or John Bates is much of a chatterbox.

He suspects it's going to be quite a quiet evening all round actually and even though he isn't going to be looking out for her, he's sure she'll be back home by ten.

A quick shake of of the General's hand and that'll be that.

Of course he does hope she'll have a good time; he knows she's looking forward to it even if he doesn't quite understand why. It's just that something feels wrong about the whole thing. He thinks it might be the timing of it all. Surely, if this General has known the Bateses for as long as Elsie says, then he would have approached her before now if he was interested? He's not sure what's suddenly made the man decide to come forward, but it's leaving Charles with a bad case of indigestion.

This isn't someone who's replied to some ad that she hasn't, so far as he knows, placed on any kind of dating site yet. This is a man who has seen her and frankly has taken his sweet time bothering to make himself known to her. At least Joe Burns had an understandable reason for staying away as long as he did - Charles can certainly understand him anyway, it's not easy to get over any woman who turns you down and Elsie isn't just anyone.

No there's something about the whole thing that sits badly with him and if he could just put his finger on it, then he might be able to get some actual work done.

He really hopes that whatever it is, it's not something Elsie should be aware of before tonight, because Charles doesn't feel any closer to an answer than he did yesterday.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

_chatterbox - a talker. This was usually how I was described by my school teachers; my how that has changed. ;)_


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

**A/N: Sorry for the slight delay in posting. I didn't finish this chapter until late and I wanted to give myself a chance to sleep on it first, before posting. Thanks to everyone who is still reading this and those of you that keep reviewing! And welcome to the few new readers I've picked up. **

_In which Elsie has a date. A _date_._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty - Two<strong>

"He should be coming to pick you up."

Elsie rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "I really don't mind that he isn't." She calls back through the bedroom door. Locked from the inside, a lesson learnt a long time ago if she doesn't want Beryl bursting in mid-flow with some point or other, not even remembering why the door was closed in the first place.

The handle wiggles and Elsie laughs.

"It doesn't seem right, you meeting him at the restaurant." Beryl can be so adorably conventional sometimes.

"I really don't need a man to come and collect me for dinner." She dithers a moment over the new set of stockings and her suspenders before huffing out a breath and grabbing a pair of flesh-coloured tights.

It's still a little nippy for going bare legged, but the stockings would be a waste. She'd be the only one to know she had them on after all.

There's a flutter in her chest at the thought; a little burst of excitement and nerves as she gathers up one of the legs in her hands and sits back on the bed to slip it over her feet and up her calf. Doing the same with the other leg, she stands and pulls both up her thighs, settling the waistband just above her hips. Turning sideways she flicks up her dressing gown and checks that she's not being pulled in oddly at the waist by them; it's quite a fitted dress and the last thing she wants is to look like an over-folded piece of paper, with a crease right across her middle.

"Don't make this an independent woman thing." Beryl's hand thumps against the door. "I just mean, it's more romantic isn't it? That knock at the door, wondering if he's got flowers, whether there's going to be a kiss on the cheek or the hand."

Elsie bites her lip, chuckling quietly enough that she won't be heard. Bless Bill; Beryl got a good one there. "He might still have flowers." She says, lifting the dress down from its hanger. "But I think a kiss _anywhere_ might be a little much for a first date." With someone she's never met. She slides the zip down and jumps when the door handle wiggles again.

"Let me in."

"Why?" But she's already turning the key in the lock. "I am capable of dressing myself you know."

Beryl waves her words away. "I want to see your underwear."

On reflex, Elsie tugs her dressing gown tighter around herself. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me. Let me see." She reaches out and pulls the fluffy material away, baring Elsie completely. "Yeah, that's what I thought." She drops the edges of the gown and heads for the chest of drawers, pulling out the top one and rummaging through.

Elsie looks down at herself. "What's wrong with these?" The knickers and bra are a matching set, black satin, she picked them up with the dress. Plain but serviceable; and again, who will know except Elsie herself? And Beryl.

"Nothin', but why wear them when you've got these?" She turns from the drawers and holds up the other new set Elsie bought with the dress.

"Don't you think they're a little-"

"Young?"

Elsie glares as Beryl flings the bra at her. It still has the label on. "I was going to say 'fancy', but young works too."

"Of course they're fancy. You're going on a date, they should be fancy!"

Elsie manages to catch the knickers just before they hit her head. Even Beryl flinches apologetically at the near miss. The sheer amount of time they both spent curling and teasing her hair, Elsie will be damned if the whole thing gets ruined now. Although with the amount of hairspray in it, she might be lucky if it ever goes flat again.

"He's not going to see them." Elsie points a finger at the little waggle Beryl does with her eyebrows. "Stop that."

"I will, if you stop treating this like it's nothing."

"I'm not, I-"

Beryl cuts her off. "I had to drag you out to get that dress." She ticks off points on her fingers. "You wouldn't let him come here to get you. You didn't want me telling Daisy and William, even though they asked. And except for when I've brought him up, you've not mentioned 'General James' once all week."

"That doesn't mean anything, I just didn't feel like making it a Mason family discussion point."

"That's not it and you know it." Beryl settles on the bed, pats the covers next to her. "D'you not want to meet him tonight? Because you know you don't have to? We'll call him and-"

"No, no." Elsie collapses onto the bed, reaches for Beryl's wrist. "No, I _do_ want to go. I do, it's just..." Pulling her hand back she fiddles with the tie on her gown. "It's been a long time, Beryl."

Beryl's shoulder nudges into her own. "I don't think it's changed much."

"No, but I have and...what if he's nice and there's another date and another?"

"I think that's the-"

"What if it turns out that he doesn't see us the same way?" She continues, voice quiet. She bites her lip as soon as the words are out. It isn't just that, she knows, it's also the nagging feeling like she's betraying something by seeing someone...someone else. Except that's the problem isn't it? It isn't someone _else_, James would be the only someone. She's just got to push past the feeling and remember that she _is_ excited.

"I could just throttle Charles."

"It's not his fault." Elsie tries a smile and finds that it comes quite naturally. "Don't listen to me, it's just nerves."

"Well, I won't say you're not over thinking things; you've not been on one date yet and you're already panicking about the ending. But just remember that not all men you meet are goin' to be idiots?"

Elsie raises an eyebrow as she stands. "Charles is not an _idiot_. Look, you're right. I'm over thinking things, it's what I do." She leans forward and squeezes Beryl's shoulders. "But I _am_ excited."

Leaning past her friend, she picks up the abandoned bra and knickers, gives them another look over. They are nice and she did pick them out for a reason; not just because she's always had a secret fondness for purple satin and black lace.

"Good." Beryl stands, claps her hands. "I'll be outside, don't take too long; you've got half an hour."

"Yes sir." Elsie laughs, giving a mock salute.

"That needs practice." Beryl turns back at the door. "Speaking of which, they say it's like riding a bike."

With a roll of her eyes she pushes Beryl out of the room. "Get out."

Alone again she slips the dressing gown off her shoulders and hooks her thumbs into the top of the tights. She'll go with the lace, but she's sticking with the tights.

She laughs; she hopes Beryl's right, she was a pretty good cyclist once upon a time.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"You do look lovely, tonight."

"Thank you, James." She smiles around her fork, the chocolate cake smooth and rich against her tongue.

James smiles back, sipping at his port.

It hasn't been half as awkward as she thought it might be; she'll admit to being a little surprised at just how much they have in common. Then again, they've stuck mostly to talking about the places they've been and the things they've seen. No doubt both of them sugar coating the latter a little. But James is an interesting man and seems just as happy to talk as she is to listen; not that she's found him inattentive, in fact she's spoken more about herself tonight than she ever usually does with someone new.

Still, as good as the evening has been, she thinks they both know there won't be another. There's no spark between them. It feels like she's eating with an estranged cousin, not someone she would want some romance with. He's charming and genuine in his compliments, she can see that. But if she were never to see him again, she doesn't think it would feel as though she had missed out on anything.

She thinks it's the same for him. He hasn't said anything of course, but she's spent fifteen years watching a man eat across from her that has no interest in more than her good company; she knows what that looks like.

Still, she has had a good night. As first dates go - and after all this time, it did feel a little like preparing for her first as a young lass - she thinks she could have done far worse than a man who calls her lovely, even if he has no interest in taking things further than that.

"Shall we have coffee? I'd like to hear what you were doing in Kuwait."

She nods, lays her fork down. "Please. But I think it's your turn for a story, James."

She pushes her plate away and leans back in her chair as he thinks. It's a shame really; he's a very handsome man; salt and pepper hair - a little light on the pepper, blue eyes and a little dimple in his left cheek when he grins. And he certainly isn't without humour; she'll be telling Beryl and Charles his funny stories for the next week.

She just doesn't feel drawn to him; she'd like to learn more about him, but she'd be just as happy asking John and Anna as she would seeking James out again so he could tell her himself.

"Okay, I think you'll like this one."

She does. Just not enough.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

dressing gown_ - bath robe_

salt and pepper hair_ - dark hair, with the grey showing through_


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

**A/N: Oh you lovely little people, you. Thank you so much for all your comments. And I am so sorry that I'm not managing to write as many lovely reviews to all of the amazing chelsie goodness that's out there. I'm reading it all and loving it all! This was a surprisingly hard chapter to write, it's all Charles and well...I haven't don't that in a while. Hopefully, it's good and it's certainly setting up some things for the next few chapters. :) (Also, I love how many of you wanted Elsie's date to work out; I sort of did too, which is why James is not a bad date, just well, he's not Charles is he?)**

_In which Charles is a worry-wart and a better spy that he thought. But, _oh dear_._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Three<strong>

She's late.

It doesn't matter that she never gave a time for when she would be back and that actually, it's none of his business anyway; his mind keeps reminding him that she's late.

His pasta bowl and fork are still on a tray on the coffee table. He was too caught up in a documentary to move them at first but now he doesn't want to risk missing the sound of her footsteps as she returns, just because he's in the kitchen washing up.

Pacing another circuit around the living room to the front door, he straightens the frame on the side table absentmindedly, brushing a finger across the glass.

He always worries when she's out late. He knows Beryl does too. He has tried to have Elsie text him the way she does Beryl, but she'd laughed him off, said that it wasn't as though he even knew she _was_ out most of the time; after all, she usually only texts Beryl when she's walking through the village from the cottage - even Elsie can't get into trouble going from his rooms to hers.

She's right of course, but that doesn't stop him from worrying when he does know she's out.

He checks his watch again, starts another circle around the sofa, between the armchairs, to the door and back again. Eleven O'Five. Surely she can't still be at dinner? And if she isn't, where is she now? What if it was awful and she left; she has a temper, Elsie and she'd have no qualms about walking out halfway through a meal if she felt it called for it. She could have left the restaurant hours ago and now be wandering around...he stops dead by the TV.

He has no idea where she is. He never thought to ask; too surprised that she was going out at all. On a _date_; an actual one, not like her reunion lunch with Joe Burns. Stupid of him, he should have made sure he knew where she'd be.

He has no idea where this friend of the Bateses even lives. He knows the man didn't come to collect her; he'd heard her leave, along with Beryl. Hadn't heard a male voice with them. But Elsie has a car, she could have driven anywhere to meet him. She could be wandering around Thirsk right now, angry and upset; she wouldn't drive that way, he knows, not after her father died.

Pulling his phone from his pocket he checks the last calls again, just in case he's missed one from her and the little alerts aren't working. He hasn't, not a call or text and after making sure the volume is still up as high as it goes, he stuffs the mobile back into his trousers.

Perhaps he should call Beryl? She'll want to know that Elsie's missing and she might know _where_ Elsie was going tonight.

Reaching into his pocket again he turns his head at a sound from the corridor.

By the time he reaches his door, he's certain that it's Elsie. And not _just_ Elsie.

His heart gives an odd thump, still calming down from his panic.

He should step back, leave her to say goodnight to her 'date' without eavesdropping on her. But he can't push away the worry just yet so carefully, he turns the handle and pulls his door open less than an inch. Leaning up against the wall he can just see through the gap as Elsie and her General turn the corner and reach her rooms.

Purple. She's always looked good in purple.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

It takes him a moment to drag his eyes away from Elsie. From the bright smile on her face, the touch of pink on her cheeks, the way her hair seems somehow redder under the dim corridor lights than it did when he bumped into her yesterday. There's something different about her, something that's drawing his attention to her; it's in her posture, the way she's laughing, her body tilted toward the General.

His heart gives another little jolt in his chest; he's getting too old for all this worrying.

"Well, you've fulfilled your duty, General. I'm home."

Finally looking away from Elsie, Charles takes in James Harmon while the man laughs, cheeks dimpling.

"It was a pleasure, Elsie. Not a duty."

His grey hair; rather untamed - has the man never heard of hair gel? - glints dully in the dim light as he bends forward and takes Elsie's hand. He brings her knuckles to his lips and Charles narrows his eyes. A charmer. He'll be one to watch, then. Charles knows that type and he won't have anyone toying with Elsie.

"And you're all air. Get on with you." Charles presses closer to the door as Elsie pulls her hand from the General's and uses it to balance against his shoulder.

It gives Charles a perfect view of her; the purple dress to her knees, the high black shoes. She's dressed as well as she usually is for their birthday meal and show, although he's sure he hasn't seen that dress before.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, James." She tilts her head to the side and Charles loses sight of her face, tucked behind the General's.

His cheek twitches and he rubs at it, chest burning with indigestion. There must have been too much garlic in the sauce.

Elsie steps away, one hand behind her as she leans back against the wall.

"It was lovely to finally meet you, Elsie."

Charles is sure it was. _Finally._ He rolls his eyes.

"Thank you." She smiles politely. "Goodnight, James."

He's never seen it in this context, but he's no stranger to the Elsie Hughes brush-off after standing at her shoulder through countless university parties. James is lucky; her 'thank you' sounded genuine to him.

"Goodnight then. Perhaps I'll see you again?"

Charles jerks as his nose presses against the cold wood of his door, but can't bring himself to step back, not until he's heard her reply. What if he's wrong and Elsie _does_ plan to see more of General James? Charles isn't sure what it is about the man that he dislikes, especially as he hasn't even _met_ him yet, but if Elsie intends for him to stick around, then Charles is going to have to figure it out and put it aside.

"Perhaps." Elsie smiles and Charles recognises that one; he's been on the end of that one a time or two when he's suggested something that she has every intention of backing out of later.

The General seems to take it in stride, bowing his head with a little chuckle. "Understood."

Elsie steps away from the wall again, places a hand on the man's arm. Charles shifts from one foot to another.

"It really was a lovely evening."

The General takes her hand in his and lifts it to his mouth again. "I hope whoever he is, he knows how lucky he is."

Charles watches as Elsie jumps, her eyebrows rising and her cheeks flushing even pinker. "I don't-"

"Take care, Elsie."

And then he's gone. Elsie watches him leave but Charles can't look away from her. He's not entirely sure what just happened, but his heart is hammering in his chest again.

A moment longer and Elsie turns back around; her eyes sparkling in the lights. Tears he realises, hand already curling around the door, something like rage building up for the General.

He pauses though before bursting out of his rooms; Elsie would hate him for showing up now. She'd kill him when she realised he'd seen the whole thing.

Still, he can't just stand here and watch her cry.

Of course, she's forgetting that she's made of sterner stuff than that and he relaxes a little as she takes a deep breath and shakes her head, blinking until her eyes look dry again.

She pulls out her keys, hooking them around her finger while she digs her phone out of her bag. A text for Beryl probably.

He'll wait until she's gone in; if he tries to shut the door now she's bound to hear it.

Just as she drops her hand down, her text apparently sent; his phone gives a loud three-beat beep.

He swallows as Elsie's eyes meet his. He should have shut the door after all.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

worry-wart - _worrier_

stop dead - _come to a complete standstill instantly. Like an emergancy break for people. :P_

all air - _in reference to being 'full of hot air'; making things up, usually to flatter and charm or to exaggerate something._


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**A/N: Oh you lovely, wonderful people! I have adored reading your comments, thank you so much! I absolutely love taking a quick break at work to check my emails and seeing a little ffn alert. I hope you enjoy the way I took this one. Also thank you tumblr for sorting out our Charlie's height for me; it's a little thing (unlike him!) but it was needed. :)  
><strong>

_In which Charles is a hopeless liar and Elsie seems to be running a student matchmaking service._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Four<strong>

"You'd best come out." She says, tucking her phone back into her bag. Her keys jingle against each other as she swings the ring around her finger once, before closing her hand in a fist around them.

Elsie would like to say that she's surprised but this is why she'd text him, after all. She'd known he must have heard her leave earlier, the amount of noise Beryl was making fussing about, and she knows he worries about her safety. That's one of the things that kept her holding on, waiting for more; hoping his concern said something deeper about his feelings for her than it does. So she'd sent the text, just in case he _was_ waiting to hear that she got back okay. She'd thought he might be checking his phone every so often, she hadn't imagined he would be standing in his doorway, snooping.

He steps out into the corridor slowly and she has to fight a smile at the way he's folding himself up, shoulders curled, almost as though he's trying to make himself as small a target as possible. At six-two he inevitably fails miserably.

She eyes him a moment - his cardigan and cords, his socked feet curling against the worn carpet - and her heart jumps. It's like a kick after James. There's a man who makes her laugh, who's looking for the same thing she is. Classically handsome and simply too busy with his career up to now, to meet anyone after his divorce, and she had felt nothing. Not a spark, not a jolt. Not even the inklings that something _might_ develop somewhere down the line.

And then there's Charles. Even James saw that. _Then there's Charles._

"Do you want to tell me what you thought you were doing, or should I guess?"

She crosses her arms and Charles fidgets.

"I, uh. My door was open, I didn't realise until I heard you talking, I mean, there were sounds so I must have left it when I came in, I was just shutting i-"

She raises a hand and he stops.

"One;" she says, holding up a finger. "You never leave your door open. You even check _I've_ shut it properly when I'm over and two;" she holds up a second finger. "You're a terrible liar Charles."

"Well I..." He sighs. "I was worried that you weren't back and then I heard you and-"

"You decided to peep." She tries to hold a straight face, but her lips twitch at his grimace.

"You're enjoying this." He glares at her, huffs and crosses his own arms.

She nods, finally giving in to a short laugh. "I am."

"And you're not mad?"

She shakes her head. "I can be if you'd prefer?" She has to laugh again at how quickly he shakes his head. "I'd have told you how tonight went anyway, if I'd known you'd be interested."

"I'm not."

Elsie blinks, tightens the arm around herself. This feeling, the quick stab of hurt, this is why she's going to ask Bill about the man who works with him, the one Beryl mentioned. "Oh."

"But I'm glad you had a lovely night." She's sure the emphasis on 'lovely' is in her head. "

"I did. I think you'd like James."

He grimaces. "I'm sure."

She wonders if she should ask him what he thought of James, after all, she's certain he listened and saw everything, but she doesn't want the night ruined. That's really why she can't be angry with him. She's had a good night, a good date and she doesn't want to look back on it and only see a fight with Charles. Besides which, she knows she'd have been just as nosey if _he_ had been the one escorted back by his date.

The thought leaves a bad taste in her mouth. It's going to be hard to see that, whenever it happens. And it will, she's sure if it; she's not the only one to see Charles's charms.

She won't ask him, not now. Best to just let the night end.

"I'm afraid you'll have to find your own entertainment now, Charles." She tilts her head towards her door, bounces her keys in her palm.

"Goodnight, Elsie." He rocks forward as though might move towards her, but then takes a step back and gives an awkward little wave.

She waves back, teeth showing through her smile. "Night."

He takes another step back on a turn and disappears inside his rooms, the door clicking shut loudly.

Elsie stares at it a moment, shaking her head; at herself, at him.

With a roll of her eyes she turns away and unlocks her door.

Time for bed, she thinks and smiles. Even if there was no spark with James, it really wasn't as awkward a night as it could have been; that bodes well for the future.

-**x**-**x**-**x**-**x**-

"She's excellent, Professor. She thinks about things in such a unique way."

Elsie hides a smile behind her mug. She's never seen Michael Gregson so enthusiastic about another person, let alone a member of the student paper.

"I'm glad Edith's helping, Michael."

"She is! We're considering a whole new column for her next month."

Michael leans forward in his seat, his hands gesturing; he's usually such a contained lad that the gestures seem wild and exaggerated on him. "She's a great asset to the paper. It's still early days, Professor, but I think she might be the one to take over next year."

She isn't exactly surprised by that; she'd seen the way this was going. She _is_ surprised that he wants Edith as a successor when he finishes this year. He's looking to join the faculty fully next year and she'll probably delegate most of the supervision of the paper to him, but he'll no longer be Editor.

"You remember that she's only in her second year?" Usually it is the post-graduates that run the paper; they have a little more time and a lot more experience.

"I think she can handle it. And she has so many great ideas."

Elsie nods as he goes on, explaining some of the changes they're looking at making; from redesigning the front page layout to including an art and photography section at the back for students to display their work. They are good ideas; some of which she's seen before - the paper has been through so many revitalisations over the years, it's due to loop around and repeat a few now. But it isn't the suggestions that fascinate her, it's the way Michael's face lights up every time he mentions Edith's name - which is often -, the almost proud smile that hooks his lips whenever Elsie agrees to one of the new changes. He's smitten, completely smitten.

She has Edith in her last class this afternoon, she'll have to see if it's mutual. Of course it'll be harder to find out from Edith; the girl keeps things much closer to her chest. Michael leaps forward in his chairs suddenly, reaches for Elsie's hand and stops just before touching her; his mouth already flapping about the next idea. Then again, perhaps Edith won't be so hard to read either, if this is what attraction does to quiet people.

Taking another sip of lukewarm tea, she silences a groan. She can't believe she might have accidently set up_ two_ of the Crawley sisters.

Charles is going to have a field day with this. She just hopes to high Heaven that no one tells their father; she can't see Robert Crawley coming by to thank her for it.

Michael finishes up and sits back again. "Have you decided what _you're_ writing for the paper, Professor?"

Her heart gives a jerk, fingers tingle with nerves. She's had a few ideas now, compiled a little research. Decided against the one that sent Charles's eyebrows to his hair line; period dress and the feminist movement. She's not sure if it was her notes about bust lines and feminine power or the few doodles of corsets that did it, but that had certainly been the page that gave him pause. She suspects he'd have been one of those that resisted the idea of advanced schooling in the '20s, not just for women, but the men of the lower classes as well; at least at first, although she thinks it would have had little to do with restricting power and more with his hatred of change.

That's not her style at all really; not something she ever wrote about to any major degree, just the odd piece before her career really took off. But it's not as though she can send herself off for a few weeks to Iraq or Afghanistan to report. It's an article to meet a student challenge not something for the Times.

"I'm working on a few things, Michael. Don't worry, I'll have it to you before you go to print."

And she will; if she ends up writing the whole thing the night before, she'll make sure there's something good to print. After all, it wouldn't be the first time she's done that; and for much more prestigious papers than the University Chronicle.

Still, she really does need to devote some time to it. To finally settle on a subject. Perhaps this weekend; she'll feel better about the whole thing with some words under her belt.

"Now, let's talk about your dissertation." She drops her mug on the desk and shifts her chair closer to the coffee table while Michael pulls a file of papers from his bag. "How far have you got with the analysis this week?"

Tomorrow; she'll start working on the article tomorrow. She makes a mental note, taking the stapled sheets of paper that Michael holds out; she's going to need to pick up some tea bags and plenty of biscuits; old habits do die hard after all, and she never used to write a word without a Rich Tea in hand.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

cords - corduroy _trousers. They're so soft and would be something a man like Charles would wear as his comfortable clothes (no jeans for him, not yet at least!)._

Rich Tea - _the wimp of dippable biscuits. Big (sometimes so big you have to snap it in half to actually fit it past the rim of your cup and there's a certain amount of excited pride when you think a cup's too small to fit the rich tea in and then you realise it actually _will_ squeeze through; my fellow Rich Tea dippers will understand) and round __and yummy when all soggy. You just have to be careful, because there's an incredibly fine line between not-soggy and broken-off-and-now-sitting-at-the-bottom-of-your-cup._


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

**A/N: Oh my poor neglected readers! I am so sorry! I haven't been ill, so please don't be worrying, no, I started out on a redectorating venture from which I have only just pulled myself out. Since 8am Saturday I have been neck deep in Ikea storage instructions, paint tins and wooden furniture (also, I had not realised how much _stuff_ I had until it was laid out in another room and I had to spend two days sorting through it and dumping most of it. Unfortunately, 8 in the morning 'til 10 at night was taken up in this way, at which point my head hit a pillow _somewhere _in the house, and I was asleep instantly. Rinse and repeat. But I have survived, my room looks like a summer cottage and I am writing again! I do hope this chapter goes a little way to making up for the long wait. Although, I do know you had so many other lovely things to read (my email alerts have overflowed with new stories!)**

_In which Charles makes shepherd's pie and the almost-Masons set a date._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Five<strong>

He's running a little later than he'd like; he doesn't have to worry about Elsie, she might only live next door, but he can always rely on her to be exactly on time if not a minute or two late.

She used to show up early, at the beginning when they were still feeling each other out, when he didn't know better than to accept her offers to help with the dinner. Fifteen years later and she never offers and he would never accept even if she did, she'll just show up with a dessert from Marks's and he'll have a glass of wine ready for her. Unless it's an evening like tonight, where she'll bring nothing at all because Beryl's coming and her desserts beat any commercial brand.

No, it's not Elsie that's got him panicking, it's Bill and Beryl. Beryl's usually bad enough, always early, but when Bill's with her they can be anything from twenty minutes to an hour ahead of time.

Bringing his knife down quickly on the last carrot, he scrapes the lot into a cold saucepan. Dumping the cutting board and knife in the sink, he gives the mincemeat a stir with the spatula, breaking up some of the larger bits with the edge. It's browning nicely, nearly time for the beans.

Ideally, he should be ready to add the lot to the dishes by now, but after the rotten onion saga and the rush to Tesco to get more, he's not quite there yet.

Filling the sink with water, he squeezes in some washing liquid and pulls the potatoes off the stove.

It isn't like him to not check his ingredients ahead of time, especially when he has guests like this, but he's been feeling a little off kilter the last few days, ever since his talk with Elsie after her 'date' on Thursday. His mind has been all over the place, jumping from one thought to another, never settling for long enough to actually _think_ anything.

With a start he turns off the tap just before the foamy water can overflow. Really, it's starting to get worrying. He thinks he might be coming down with something, it is pretty draughty in the corridor after all.

Straining the potatoes, he plops them back into the pan and adds more than a little butter; it's Beryl, she always knows when he skimps on the butter.

Masher in hand he presses down on the potatoes, exhaling with every downward thrust.

Maybe it's a cold coming? Or just the unsettling way his life is starting to change. Turning the pan around he mashes from the new angle. Not his life, _Elsie's_ life, she's the one making changes, changes that so far haven't even really affected his life at all. Oh, there's the theatre tickets for next week instead of last Thursday, but then it's not the first time she's pushed one of their nights back in favour of something else. Never a _date_ mind, but he supposes that shouldn't really make a difference.

His chest burns and he rubs at it, tapping off the masher. It can't be indigestion this time, he's not eaten anything since lunch. He hopes he's not developing a chest infection as well as a cold.

Turning back to the mince, he empties the tin of baked beans into it, giving the whole thing a big stir. A little salt and pepper and several drops of Worcestershire sauce later and he's emptying the lot into the little ceramic dishes. Potatoes on top and he's done.

Just in time for the knock at his door.

He calls out for them to come in, and shoves his hands into the sink to wash them, drying them off just as Bill walks through to the kitchen.

Just Bill.

"No Beryl?" They shake hands as usual, and then a clap of a hand to each other's back.

"She's next door, she wanted to talk to Elsie." Charles nods, reaches into the fridge for a bottle of Merlot and a beer for Bill.

"Actually, I um- I wanted to talk to you too."

Charles hands the beer over with a raised eyebrow, Bill fiddling with the lid before twisting it off. "Go on then."

Charles doesn't think he's seen Bill this nervous since he told him he was thinking of proposing.

"I uh- look, do you think you could lose the apron first?"

Charles looks down with a start, hands already beginning to untie the knot at his back. It's one of Elsie's joke gifts that's turned out surprisingly useful.

Bundling the whole thing up in a ball, he slams it into a drawer and turns back to Bill, his cheeks a little hot.

"_Kiss the cook_?"

"You wanted to tell me something?" Charles ignores Bill's laughter; he's never really got the apron anyway, the big rooster on the front, or why Elsie always looks half amused and half something else whenever he wears it.

"Right, yes. I..._we've_ picked a date, for the wedding." Bill adds quickly, as though Charles might have thought it a date for anything else.

"Excellent, let me just get my diary and I'll put it in there. I think there's a calendar at the back that goes forward a few years." He mutters the last, already digging through the drawers of his desk. He had the blasted thing out yesterday, trying to plan out the end of year exams.

"There's no need for that, Charles. We've booked the registrar for the twenty-eighth of May."

"Two-thousand and...?"

"Fifteen."

"Lovely, that's...wait." He stands straight with a start, looks over to Bill's smirking face.

"That's _this_ month."

Leaning against the wall, Bill takes a drag from his bottle. "Twenty days from today."

"That's..." It's madness. Charles never thought Bill and Beryl would be one of those couples that stays perpetually engaged, but a little less than three weeks? "That's soon."

"It is." Bill pushes off from the wall. "So that doesn't give you much time to organise the stag-do."

It takes Charles a minute to realise exactly what Bill is saying. He's never been anyone's Best Man before - he certainly wasn't going to be Griggs'.

"Bill." Clasping his hand again and giving it a rough shake, Charles can't fight the smile, even if the idea of organising a stag night is more than a little concerning. He's never even been on one, only heard about them or seen them in Elsie's films. He doesn't suppose Bill would want to go to Vegas anyway. He'll probably ask Elsie about it. She's bound to know what's expected.

"But what about William?" He asks a moment later, back in the kitchen, wine glass in hand.

"Oh he'll be Best Man too, of course, he'll look after the ring. He's a good lad, but he goes to pieces at the first sign of doubt. If I get cold feet, I'm gonna need someone to knock some sense into me, not offer me a cup of tea and a sit down.

Charles frowns, he'd probably offer that himself too. Perhaps Bill hasn't thought this through completely.

"If I said, standing outside the registrar's office, Beryl already inside, that I'd changed my mind, that I couldn't go through with it, that I was gonna leave her there, what would you do?"

Charles can already feel his hands curling at just the thought of his friend being treated like that, the pain and suffering from one man's nervous mistake.

"And that's why I want you outside those doors with me Charlie-boy."

"Please don't call me that."

He hears his door rattle and open, the ladies finally arriving.

A smile settles back on his face, his fingers relaxing. Dinner's nearly ready and he's sure Elsie's already found out how Bill and Beryl managed to get such a close date with the registrar and if he's not mistaken, that pie dish in Beryl's hand means she's made her special cherry pie. He's got a tin of custard somewhere. It should be a good night all round.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

Shepherd's Pie:_ lamb (or I use beef because it's yummier and a little healthier) mincemeat, onions, (baked beans because omg they make it so much better, like magic) and gravy, all topped with fluffy (buttery) mashed potato and oven baked just long enough that the mince filling burns your tongue and the potato has gone golden._

_Also, they're having a registrar wedding because...well, for one the date but also well, we'll get to that in a later chapter. I don't think there's anything else, but do let me know! :)_


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

**A/N: Oh you wonderful people! I'm so amazed by how happy you all were about the last chapter! There shouldn't be anymore breaks until this is done now, the decorating completely finished. I will say that for the next little while my job has shifted as I'm covering for another member of staff, which means I'll have less tea breaks etc. but as I tend to write in the morning now more than anything, that shouldn't affect my updating schedule too much! You're all picking up on Charles's slow realisations, which I _love_. He's getting there, he's getting there. **

_In which Bill and Beryl are up to something and things are washed up and put away._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Six<strong>

The table jumps, as does Bill, casting a dark glare across to Beryl.

Elsie bites her lip to keep the smile off her face.

Usually Beryl's under-the-table kicks are to shut someone up, she thinks this might be the first time she's seen them used to get someone to _start_ talking.

It's been a good meal, all told. Charles is a good cook and shepherd's pie is an old favourite of hers. The baked beans had been her idea, well, her _mother's_. It spreads the mince out when you've got a lot of mouths to feed and little to do it with. Of course now, she just likes it there for flavour, texture too. And she'd rather enjoyed the scepticism with which Charles had first approached the suggestion. Elsie is the first to admit she has no skill at all in the kitchen besides the odd soup, but she knows a good flavour when she tastes it.

"I uh, I spoke to Hugh today, he's doing well, now that the divorce is final."

Elsie raises an eyebrow, trying to catch Beryl's eye across the table. Beryl avoids her, scooping up another bite of pie and cream onto her fork.

Charles looks as confused by this new topic as she is, staring distractedly at Bill. He's seemed distracted all evening actually, she wonders if it's the idea of being Best Man. She's pleased for him, she is; he doesn't have that many other friends and he tends to wave off any mention of his friendship with Bill, so she's glad Bill's been able to use this to let Charles know that the friendship _does_ exist outside of Beryl, but she'll admit to laughing a little when Beryl told her. It was the idea of the Bachelor party that did it. She can almost imagine Charles arranging for the boys to take tea at the Savoy and then move on to a show in the West End. She _can't_ quite picture him in the middle of a pub crawl through Yorkshire clubs and bars, although he must have been a frequent sight in both back in his singing days.

Perhaps he'll ask her about it, she's been to one or two herself after all; most of her friends before Downton being other journalists, most of _them_ being men.

When no one else picks up the conversation, Elsie reaches for her glass. "I'd say that I'm sorry for him, but you make it sound like he's pleased enough."

"Pleased? The man's over the moon. " Beryl pipes up, cutting another slice of pie and slipping it onto Charles's plate. Elsie smiles at his frown and the way he immediately sets to work covering it with cream. "Susan was a right ice queen."

"Oh." Elsie still has no idea why they're talking about this Hugh and his cold wife, or why it's important enough that Beryl had to kick Bill to remind him about it.

"Yes, so I gave him your number, he said he'd call sometime tomorrow."

Her sip of wine goes down the wrong hole and she coughs into her napkin, eyes watering. "I'm sorry?"

Bill looks concerned and a little amused. Beryl just looks amused. Charles; after checking she doesn't need some water, goes back to studying his pie.

"You know, I told you about the man Bill works with, the one we thought you should meet? You'll like Shrimpie and you've got some bits in common; he travelled about a lot before joining the company."

"_Shrimpie_?"

Charles usually reserves that tone for students that tell him their dog ate their essay, or that time Elsie joined a protest outside the BBC building when Arlene got booted off of Strictly for being too old.

Then again, he _hates_ silly nicknames.

"That's what everyone calls Hugh, a childhood joke that stuck." Beryl waves Charles off and turns back to Elsie, leaning over the table "He's related to our esteemed Dean by his marriage to that ghastly woman, but he's not a bit like the rest of them."

"Beryl, I'm sure he's lovely but-"

"What? You said you were looking forward to another date, now you've got the first one out of the way."

"Do you think we could talk about it later?" She deliberately keeps her eyes away from Charles, but still it's him she's trying to spare. Which is stupid, because when she does look over at him, he's paying them no attention and instead is reading the label of the wine like it's the most fascinating piece of literature he's seen. She has to call his name twice before he even looks up.

"Sorry?"

"I said, do you want some help with the washing up?" She already has their dessert plates and spoons stacked up in her hands so at the very least he can't stop her from staying behind in the kitchen for a bit. She tries to look pleading, but it's not a look she's ever attempted to pull off before.

He nods and stands and she waits for Beryl and Bill to slip through the arch to the living room before she walks over to the sink.

There's quiet for a few minutes; the rumble of Bill and Beryl next door, the water rushing to fill the sink and Charles clanking about clearing the table.

She's reaching for the sponge when he settles beside her. "_Shrimpie?_"

She rolls her eyes, scrubs at the first plate. "Charles."

"It's a ridiculous name."

"Says one half of the Cheerful Charlies." He goes silent, his shoulders stiffening and her heart _hurts_. She's got to learn to hold her tongue sometimes.

He takes the plate when she holds it out and she clasps his wrist, soap and water soaking into his shirt. "I'm sorry Charles, that wasn't fair."

She waits until he nods and smiles before letting him go. No matter how many times she tells herself that she shouldn't, she still feels guilty whenever she talks about dating. Always, at the tip of her tongue or the edge of her mind there's a 'someone else' that tries to follow. She feels like she's betraying a relationship that has never existed outside of her own head and guilt has always made her words sharp.

They wash and dry in silence, a comfortable silence broken every now and again by Beryl's laugh or Charles's quiet humming along to the songs quietly playing, that she realised years ago he doesn't even know he's doing.

She wishes he'd sing properly, just once.

Placing the last spoon onto the draining board she pulls the plug out and turns to wait for the tea towel to dry her hands.

"My sleeve's soaked, you know." Charles grumbles, dropping the spoon into the drawer and knocking it closed with his hip.

"Oh you poor thing." She rolls her eyes, feeling a little cheeky at the smile in his. "Here, let me see what I can do." She ignores the tea towel he holds out and instead presses her wet hands against his shoulders, feels the material give as the water seeps into it.

"Elsie!"

"There." She pulls her hands away and claps them together, already laughing at the shock on his face, her hand prints dark blue against the rest of his shirt. "That's better."

She takes the tea towel now and hangs it out over the oven handle to dry while Charles sputters behind her.

Turning to him on her way through to the lounge she chokes. His eyes look so dark in his face as he glowers, but with that twinkle that she clung to for so long. "I'll get you for that." He promises and she can feel her heart pounding in her chest.

She pulls her voice together. "And your little dog too." And carries on into the lounge, the sound of the kettle clicking on following her.

"Charles is just making coffee." She settles into the free armchair, grateful for once that Beryl has taken one half of the sofa. "So, tell me about this 'Shrimpie'."

It's still too easy to slip back to 'before'. She needs someone else to love, someone to love _her_, and then she'll be able to enjoy her friendship with Charles for what it is, in a way she's realising she's never been able to before.

The kettle starts to boil while Bill tells her about Hugh's time in India and she forces it down, but she's still glad that Charles can't hear them.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

Savoy - _The famous hotel in London_. _I've had afternoon tea there. Charles would adore it; the full service with waiters in white gloves, the delicate sandwiches, the piano music in the little indoor pagola. I felt like I was in the middle of a 1920's novel._

pub crawl - _going from one pub or club to another in (usually) a predetermined route that loops you back to the start, you should have one drink from each but well...yeah, like you keep it to just one. _

over the moon - _really really pleased._

Arlene got booted off of Strictly - _okay, this is in reference to Arlene Phillips, one of the original judges on the BBC Strictly Come Dancing show, who is an outstanding choreographer and was brilliant, only the BBC did deem her too old to be on the judges panel and replaced her with (until recently when Darcy Bussell joined the show) some really pointless _young_ women who had only a very loose connection to dancing of any kind. In rankled so much worse, because all of her co-judges (all men) were the same age if not older, and of course the host was Brucie, who's been about forever! Anyway...moving on. :P_

"And your little dog too." -_ another Wizard of Oz reference._


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**A/N: Oh, you lovely people! Thank you so much for all the kind words about the last chapter, and this story! They really do mean the world to me! Sorry about the bit of a wait; the new duties at work took more writing time out of me that I anticipated, but don't fear, I'm still writing and I'm still dedicated to seeing this one finish. ;) I hope you enjoy this one!**

_In which Charles is a blind idiot and not at all interested in salmon, chicken or meringue. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Seven<strong>

When he was twenty-five, Charles met a girl - and she was a girl, just as much as he was a silly, silly _boy_ - who danced like smoke, smiled like sunrise and kissed like it was an Olympic sport and she was going for gold.

He didn't realise, until he came home early one Thursday with a new roasting dish, a bag of fresh veg and the idea to make something special for Alice to go with the little black box in his pocket and found her entertaining his stage partner a little too intimately in their bed, that he wasn't Alice's gold at all, he was silver, maybe even bronze if everything he heard in the pub later was true.

He went home again the next morning, when Alice was gone, her one little suitcase packed and hardly a thing missing from the flat and sat on the edge of his bed just looking. Looking at the single photograph in a silver frame on the table at his side of the bed.

He sat there for hours just looking. And then his stomach grumbled, or his phone rang or he simply woke up and the smiling, lying, cheating face of Alice Neal was tipped into a drawer and shut away with a closed lipped nod. He was never doing this again.

Thirty years later he sits on the edge of another bed, looking at the smiling face of another woman in another frame and he wonders what might have happened if he hadn't shut that drawer quite so tightly.

**-x-x-x-x-**

Charles shakes his head, reaching out and picking up the picture of Elsie. He'd moved it in here on Thursday when he'd walked back through his door and seen it on the side table. He'd thought she might show up Friday and he hadn't wanted her to see it, not when he knows she'd have taken it back. He did steal it after all, with a threat to show all and sundry this little surprisingly piece of her past.

He hadn't really thought about why he was so reluctant to give it up, or why it had ended up on his sidetable in the hall instead of in his briefcase to be copied.

He certainly hadn't thought about why he felt his bedside table was a good place for it.

He does now, fingers absently tracing Elsie's smile. When he'd seen it, he'd thought about the changes, the differences between the woman captured in the photograph and the one he's known for so long. Now, eyes sweeping over every detail, he can see the things that are still the same.

She still tilts her hip like that when she's about to say something a little risqué, her eyes crinkle the same way when she's smiling and she _means_ it. His thumb rests against the dust print at her waist; she's still the same curves and lines only shifted slightly, gentled.

His chest burns and he almost gets it now, now that Beryl and Bill have gone, now that Elsie has helped tidy up and left for her own rooms.

Staring into the younger face of his best friend, he feels like maybe he's been opening that drawer for years, so slowly he never even realised he was doing it. And now it's open, wide enough that he can see just how much he shut away and how empty he made himself.

He brushes his finger over Elsie's face again and then settles the frame back in place, turned so that it'll be the first thing he sees in the morning, like today and yesterday. Only he thinks it won't be long now before he knows why he smiles and why he's felt like pneumonia is only one cough away, his chest tight.

**-x-x-x-x-**

"-arles! Charles! Professor Carson!"

Charles jumps as Beryl's hand comes down hard on the table between them. She glares at him, but he can see concern behind the fire. "Sorry."

Beryl crosses her arms across her chest, leans closer to peer at him. "What's going on?"

His fingers tighten into fists beneath the table and he shakes his head. "Nothing. I was just thinking, my mind must have drifted."

"Right." She raises an eyebrow at him, gives him a look that usually comes from Elsie; his two friends are a terrible influence on each other. "And what was so important to _think_ about, that you stopped listening to me, hmm?"

He thinks about what Beryl had been talking about; the wedding, the dresses for she, Elsie and Daisy, the suits for he, Bill and William, the lists of guests and flowers and food she needs to compile for the reception after. At his most attentive he thinks he would have drifted away from listening at some point, but Elsie had passed by with Molesley and her Miss Baxter, both of them nattering away in her ears and she'd turned just a little, to smile at Molesley and it had been the smile from the picture, the same smile she's given him and everyone around her for fifteen years but his heart had pounded, just once and he'd known that it wasn't illness, that all the tight chests and aching ribs hadn't ever _been_ illness, or indigestion and Beryl's voice had faded completely away.

Of course, he isn't going to tell Beryl any of that, not while his mind is still whirling, rewriting he has no idea _how_ many days, weeks, months - _years?_ - of history, choosing new angles to look at and flooding him with emotions he really had thought he wasn't feeling.

He's not going to tell her what a blind idiot he's been, because sitting in the faculty lounge with Beryl frowning at him and a cold cup of tea at his elbow, he doesn't _know_ what kind of idiot he's been, not really and not yet. He needs time to think, to figure out why he has Elsie's picture on his bedside table, why he's been so, so..._jealous_ these last few weeks, and why he's only now noticing that the clearest memory he has of Elsie is not the newest but of a cold wet day in October twelve years ago when she'd looked up from her scotch, her hair still damp from the storm they'd been caught up in and she'd told him she loved him.

"I was thinking about Bill's bachelor party." Charles says, keeping his face blank and his voice even. "I need to speak to, uh, to Elsie, but do you think you could give me a list of the people he'd want there?" After all, he doesn't actually _know_ any of Bill's other friends, his work colleagues. Doesn't know which of them Bill tolerates because he has to and which he would actually like to have join him on the night.

Beryl's still frowning at him, but she nods and agrees to send him over a list.

"Thank you. Now, you were saying something about salmon or chicken?"

He tries harder to listen this time, while she swings backwards and forwards over the decision but it's only with half a mind.

_Years_, he thinks and resists the desire to groan, nodding instead to Beryl's words. He has a horrible suspicion that he's been looking at this all wrong for _years_.

There's a part of him, still waking up, that rather wishes he could have had whatever this epiphany is over Elsie's smile, a long time ago.

There's a more familiar part of him that wishes she'd just taken a different route to her lecture today.

Beryl asks him what he thinks of meringue and he makes himself concentrate. He's not being thinking about this for years - _years_, and he once prided himself on his own self awareness! - a few more hours won't kill him.

"Everyone likes meringue." He says and gets up to make them both another cup of tea.

* * *

><p><em>Key:<em>

all and sundry - _everyone_

_A/N: So I hope you don't feel this was completely anticlimatic. It was never my intention to have some big thing happen to make Charles suddenly see Elsie the way he's actually been denying seeing her all this time. But just a build up of little moments and changes and then her smile, it was always going to be her smile in some mundane why that he's always seen it and then...wham! his little denial house of cards falls down. There'll be more about this, of course. He's Charles; he's not actually going to give into what his mind is now letting him see straight away; after all, he doesn't usually listen to his heart. But, yeah...he's opening his eyes now._


End file.

Downton Abbey, Drama, Romance