At last, we are at an end with this story. Parting is such sweet sorrow. P.S.: To be abundantly safe, I changed the rating.

Elsie Carson had slipped into a deep slumber about twenty minutes after the train departed. To Charles Carson, she was bliss itself while resting. It was just another small discovery on a honeymoon filled with exploration. After moving to sit opposite of her in their empty compartment, he had been briefly concerned by the sun on her face. As the train finally lurched towards a more southerly line, he sighed with contentment knowing her delicate skin would be spared from direct sunlight.

He shivered at the thought of her skin – every inch of it. Her cheeks had become slightly rosy while they honeymooned in Whitby, but the rest, he had to smile in remembrance, was as white as used but well-maintained porcelain – faintly dotted with freckles, scars, and birthmarks. But it was so much more than that. It was alive – soft to the touch, given to blushing beautifully as indescribable evenings (and mornings and afternoons) wore on, and capable of being an endlessly fascinating conduit for giving and receiving pleasure.

Clenching his hands into fists as his wide eyes darted to the compartment door, Charles was grateful they were alone. Of course, he was now a contented, married man. They had explored age-old yet still undiscovered territory in learning how to please and be pleased, each time more successful than the last. But it was still so alarmingly new.

He was classically conservative through and through, reluctant to make any change, small or large. But the changes he dared to embrace, recognizing and sharing feelings he had long since held but of which he had been wilfully ignorant, provided a new horizon for welcomed possibilities and still more problems. Life, as they had left it in Downton, was waiting for them.

He sighed at the thought. They had departed Downton, however briefly for their honeymoon, leaving staffing conditions in a state of flux. No amount of training, trial runs, discussions with the family, could alter that. It made Charles initially uneasy as they walked away from the grand house on their wedding day – knowing that their return to the Abbey would occur under very different circumstances. That magnitude of it all, turning away from a post in which he was fully in control of every single detail that made the house grand, almost made him uncertain of the life he had so wished to share with Elsie. He was unsteady as reality set in with each step leading from Downton Abbey.

But as he saw her standing expectantly in front of their marital bed on their wedding night, all of those concerns were pushed to the furthest corners of his mind.

Eyes black as the night, he came to her. Impatiently patient, he helped his bride with each layer of clothing, setting them aside on her dressing table chair.

As the heat of her skin connected with his fingertips, he never ceased to find her eyes with each step, expressing reverence and concern. She never wavered in her consent, only shutting her eyes languidly as his reverent, savoring lips and tongue, his inquisitive and insistent hands, traced curves no longer hidden behind her corset.

Her legs quickly betrayed her, but she so desperately wanted to unbutton his waistcoat, to feel the skin under his shirt. There was no demure way to sit at the head of the bed, catching her breath as she came undone at the sight of him. She leaned back, her arms splayed out behind her at an angle. He made quick work of his pocket watch, tie, and waistcoat, shedding his shoes and socks in comic haste.

His progress halted when he gazed back at her. The bedside lamp had cast a soft, fiery halo with the errant wisps of her long, auburn hair. Her legs were now bare and her shift strained mightily against her breasts. He could only heave an unsteady breath in response. She was a staggering vision, bringing Charles to his knees before her.

He knew not how she removed his collar and shirt. His focus was helplessly bifurcated between the glorious weight of her breasts in his gentle, probing hands and the feeling of her warm fingers tracing the muscles of his chest and shoulders. She was searching, impatient. He was equally taken, wanting to see and feel all that lay hidden beneath her shift.

Finally looking into her eyes, every want and need aligned. She kissed him tenderly as countless moments passed. He waited for her to open, to signal their time was upon them. He wasn't disappointed when she tilted her head slightly, adding delicious pressure. She pulled away with a flourish, her eyes – wide, dark, alluring. Charles could hardly see straight as he lunged forward, sweeping her up in his arms and planting her whole body soundly on the bed.

A stillness descended - a calm before the storm. Breaths quietly mingled as heads reclined on a single pillow. Then they began.

Muted thuds of fabric penetrated the atmosphere as they slowly rid themselves of their remaining clothing, soon followed by quick intakes of breath. Recognition and reverence reigned.

Wet, smacking of lips mingled with unsteady sighs and hitched breaths. They explored tentatively, finding no bounds with each kiss and taste.

Whispered declarations of love met indescribable looks, spurring each other further.

Strangled cries of pleasure followed the rustling of sheets, her back helplessly arched as he gave her a pleasure all her own.

There was wonder in the air as they finally aligned, ragged breaths unabated as they slowly joined.

At the sight of her chewed lip, his furrowed brow, they halted - afraid.

But eyes and lips and hearts reassured. Tongues and hands and hips propelled. Slowly.

Their entropy soon increased, an overwhelming pressure dissipating into ceaseless pleasure.

Muted, mutual moans, increasing in interval and volume, were in rhythmic harmony with the creaking of the sturdy bed frame.

No longer earthbound, they soared and soared to untold heights.

Finally, they found their home in each other.

Collapsing in a quivering heap, a sated slumber followed.

Charles drew a sharp breath as the train rocked rather noticeably on the tracks, finally arrested from his rather vivid recollections. Unbelievingly, Elsie barely stirred. Her tranquility and the more gentle rocking of the train calming him. As their journey continued, he welcomed the train's departure from each small village stop. Their train was transporting them forward, ever closer to home.

As they crossed over a stream, Charles smiled to himself. In a quiet moment during their honeymoon by the sea, he realized that, together, they had already forged a path ahead. For years, she helped him find the right way. It didn't always involve plotting, either. It was her mere existence that inspired him to speak kindly when a harsh remark was his first inclination (though he was always soft-hearted, his stern façade demanded an initially rigid response). It was the thought of her look of quiet joy and pride that made him gentle and patient with Alfred even as his support encouraged the lad to leave the ranks of a household in desperate need of footmen.

It was her shining eyes – in the dimness of her sitting room during a late night – that inspired him to endeavor for more opportunities to see her, to look on her for as long as he liked and be as transparent as glass in expressing his love without a word. After their first night in Whitby, he had watched the faint rise and fall of her torso in the moonlight, relaxing and exciting him with every breath. Following the overwhelming newness – the transformative and exhausting culmination of their initial coupling - there simply hadn't been time on their first night as newlyweds in their cottage. Now, he continued to gaze upon her as he watched the sun and shadows of the countryside roll across her reposed face.

It was this very moment Charles Carson realized, truly realized, that his most fervent wishes had been granted. His entropy was now fully realized – he was to be without work eventually, and could have his arms full of his warm, inviting love at a moment's notice. He had surprised himself in becoming quickly accustomed to taking her hand as they strolled about the quaint village, perusing small shops for jet jewelry and climbing the endless steps leading to the ruins of Whitby Abbey. With each step with her by his side, with each fortifying breath of the crisp North Sea air, he felt the cares and worries of the past few months slowly recede away.

The minutiae of Downton's never-ending transition into modernity, however important each little detail was, would be sorted out in time. Their successors, Mr. Molesley and Mrs. Bute, would weather the coming changes with more dignity and resignation than Charles Carson would muster. Instead, he now set his sights on other, more important matters.

Though Elsie was hardly in need of doting, he was determined to provide her with as many instances of adoration as she would allow. With each passing moment of their honeymoon, full of joyful, passionate, silly, exasperating, heated, and quiet moments, he realized he could never find a way to fully express his depth of emotion for her. Even if he successfully endeavored to provide earnest and unadorned expressions without a hint of cloyingness, it would never be enough, he understood with startling clarity late one evening in Whitby.

After an evening of worshiping her with his body, he slowly bent forward in the darkness, sitting upright as his chest heaved. His sudden tears upon his realization were a shock to them both. Without even knowing the particulars that brought on his sudden surge of emotion, she rose to meet him – his torso left uncovered in the cool air of night. They sat naked and exposed, physically and emotionally, as his catharsis came crashing down on him. Silent but steadfast by his side, she fell even more in love with him as rode out the waves of the astonishing truth of his infinite love for her.

Her shining eyes, brimming with her own tears, eventually locked with his. Wrapping her arm around his shoulder, she listened to his whispered fears. Her quiet, calming presence brought him back to the elegant solution of the human condition: sometimes things need to be expressed, not said. As they sank back down to face each other on their honeymoon bed, what followed was unadorned reverence – wordless but full of meaning.

When morning finally arrived and he had filled a few cleansing moments by staring at the sea, Charles Carson promised himself that he would still spend his life in service. This service would not involve bells, endless stairs, and constant interruptions, however. It would involve no specific timetables but their own following their oversight of the improvements being installed while the family was in London for the Season. If they liked, they could be involved at the Church, join local committees, and visit their many daughters and sons of Downton as they wished. God, Elsie, and their marriage would be his only masters before the sun fully set on his life.

It was mid-afternoon by the time their final train began navigating the last twists and turns that would lead to the station at Downton. Charles Carson had been seated opposite of his wife during most of the train ride, lost in the sight of her as the Yorkshire countryside passed them by. Now, with Elsie Carson fully stirring, he joined her on her side of the compartment. As she became more alert, he welcomed her subtle leaning into his side as he planted a soft kiss in her hair and drew in a deep breath of her.

All the smells that he associated with Mrs. Hughes over the years were now being explained to him. Small bottles and a bar of soap solved some of the mysteries. But there was her own scent that he would catch for the briefest of moments over the years. Now, having slowly run his hands over her, followed by his nose, lips, and tongue, he concluded that her scent was unquantifiable, just as Elsie had always been to him. Even if it were in his power to do so, she was the one riddle he didn't feel compelled to solve.

"Are you quite well, Mr. Carson?"

He took yet another breath as he slowly straightened and looked down into her glorious, inquisitive eyes.

"As well as I can be, Mrs. Carson," he replied with a smile. It would be a long while until the delightful surprise of calling her his "Missus" wore off.

"Meaning you're not quite well," she asked as her brows knitted out of concern.

With as much of a whisper as he could muster, his rumbling low voice sent a delicious shiver down her spine as he answered her. "Meaning, I will be quite well once we are secured and alone in our cottage."

His words, coupled with a roguish smile, were enough to make her blush and laugh in surprise. Charles Carson was going to weather retirement well. Elsie Carson would make it her mission to ensure he never regretted his decision to take her hand and embark on the last and greatest chapters of his life.

The train began screeching to a slow halt as it pulled into the station. As they silently exited their compartment with their luggage secured in one hand each, Elsie Carson joined her hand with her husband's to begin the familiar walk along the platform.

Looking up at him, in his bowler hat set against the lingering steam of the train on his left, Elsie Hughes marveled at the man she was privileged to call her husband. His regal bearing could be imposing to most, but it always elicited pride in her heart and soul.

She had finally seen each crevice and dip of his skin covering the muscles, tendons, and bones that kept him standing tall throughout a lifetime of service. His face, hands, feet, and forearms were covered in a healthy tan formed over the years. But they gave way to a lighter hue of soft skin and patches of hair Elsie Hughes now blushed about in remembrance.

Though thoroughly and happily married, Elsie Carson was still easing into being a 'woman of the world.' Charles Carson, along with herself, managed to shock the former Elsie Hughes in the early days and nights of their marriage. That their initial, timid fumblings had given way to such voraciousness was at once expected and delightfully overwhelming. The tenderness of the giant of a man she married, made clearer still to her during that cathartic, indescribable night of bodily worship in Whitby, was yet another layer that she suspected existed, but she had yet to bear witness to it until that moment.

Her eyes had fluttered open in confusion after he had leaned forward in the bed. In the span of a few days, she had slept in two new beds, both with him. The subtle sound of waves brought her back - Whitby - as she watched him hunch uncharacteristically. She swallowed, her throat slightly raw from joyful exertion. There was a tinge of roughness to her honeyed tones as she had asked him to take his time. He would tell her, of that she was certain.

He was heartbreakingly fragile as his shoulders softly shook, racked by cathartic tears on that poignant night. His whispered fears, that no amount of expression would ever be enough to convey his love, was all she would ever need. She told him so, and his eyes locked with hers, now dry but raw with emotion.

It was almost too much to respond to with mere words. Instead, he had turned his torso towards her so they lay looking at each other in their moonlit hotel room. One caress of his cheek to express her friendship led to another to express her love. One kiss of thanks led to another to evoke his now-tapped and fathomless desire for her. The night that followed was a study in hedonistic reverence.

She had helped set him on this course, to becoming something other than butler for a great estate – an individual, a husband bound happily in matrimony. The exciting passion she unearthed – in him and herself – made her fears of being overwhelmed and overwhelming fall away. Even as they settled into the rhyme and reason of married life, however, she would still likely find it difficult to think on their time alone without the uncontrollable flush on her delicate skin giving her away. As they passed through the village, acknowledging onlookers along the way, she was grateful for her sun-tinted cheeks. Finally, they started on the path that led to their new home.

Now, their new lives awaited them at their cottage. Their first evening there following their wedding existed outside of time and space in Elsie Carson's mind. Instead, she had dreamed of them puttering about their home while dozing in their train compartment. It was to be a reality in mere moments, and she was impatient to usher in this next chapter in their lives.

Being without work in a big house would require a period of great adjustment. Even with their agreement to continue training their successors, as well as overseeing Downton during the Season, their honeymoon provided a welcome example of the many ways with which their time could be occupied. Despite her flushing cheeks, she privately smiled at the thought of their marital bed and the space by their kitchen sink.

Finally, Elsie Carson found the words to address her husband, a creature of small but significant changes over time. She was grateful to be the one who had encouraged, prodded, observed, and partially benefited from the quiet evolution he had taken from butler to man and husband.

"Then we best be on our way."

Hand in hand, they walked proudly along their path – familiar and new – together.

The end.

I can't possibly express how grateful I am to you all. Much like for Charles and Elsie, this was a journey of self-exploration and evolution for me. Your comments, and the many ways you could and did express support, mean the world to me.

Dee, thank you for your insanely helpful comments for this last chapter (that grew and grew into two!). I am indebted, happily so.

Drop a final line, if you can. Are you happy with their journey? Let me know. :)

Thank you, all. MWAH.