A/N: Thank you everybody for your reviews and your amazing support. This update is intensely late because I have been ill. This chapter has not been beta-ed, so please do point out anything odd.

Wishing you all a very happy Christmas Eve and looking forward to tomorrow's explosion of Carson/Hughes fics!

XOXO ~ kouw

The clock ticks obnoxiously and his fingers drum against his ledger incessantly. His nerves are overwhelming him. It's Christmas, he should be able to relax a bit, to take a breath, to not worry so much (she would tell him to lighten up, to cease the moment, that 'it's Christmas!'), but his gift that once seemed so thoughtful makes him wonder if she would see it as an insult.

His mind keeps returning to her shapely ankles, to the way her dress clings to her and that she is the only one left in the house who wears a corset.

A very undignified thing to think. Most ungentlemanly.

He swallows hard, presses his thumb and index finger against the bridge of his nose, hoping to relief some of the tension that is throbbing dully in his forehead. He groans. What a thing to ask of her, to join him in his pantry. He doesn't know when she'll show up (he does, he knows she is still upstairs, making her rounds, making certain that everything is just so for the party the family is hosting tonight.

Everything will be just so. It always is. In the past decades standards slipped only once and never in the face of the family. Her words still ring in the back of his mind: If you and the blessed Lady Mary…

Blasted, more like.

He balls his fist, squeezes hard. His knuckles whiten.

He is not used to being in a situation where he doesn't know the outcome of a plan. He is not used to not being in control. He likes his rules, the regulation, the tradition, the routine. He likes when he is in agreement with her, when they get along with just her barbs and smiles and his blundering here and there. He likes drinking sherry with her at night and discussing everything that comes to pass. He likes that she knows exactly how he likes his tea and he likes that she rolls her eyes at him without trying to conceal it.

"Mr Carson?"

It's her and he glances at the clock. She is so much earlier than she said she'd be and the colour is high in her cheeks.

"Yes, Mrs Hughes?"

"The family is going to turn on the lights on the Christmas tree, I thought you'd like to come and watch it with us?"

He nods dumbly, gets up automatically, follows her. Her skirts swing in counter of her hips (enticing hips that he wishes he could put his hands on), the sound of her heels echo in the hall. She rushes up the stairs (so wrong, he should have told her he would go first, like a gentleman, but she would have sighed, would have told him there wasn't time, that they were to hurry, that the children are impatient), opens the green baize door and steps into the hall.

Miss Sybil runs towards them: "Daddy is going to light the tree!" she says excitedly and Mrs Hughes chuckles.

"He is going to turn on the lights, Miss Sybil."

"Yes, that is what I said, come on!" She takes Mrs Hughes's hand and pulls her closer to the tree. The other servants are there already, waiting. Even Thomas, looking blasé but keeping his eye out for Miss Marigold.

Mr Branson counts back from ten and the reactions from the children are delightful, as are those of the servants. Their charges. Charles sighs. Nods. Checks his watch. It's time to get back to work really and he sees the footmen disperse, her maids disappear in different rooms and Mrs Hughes goes downstairs.

He checks the wine choices with Lord Grantham and afterwards goes down the narrow stairs, his head pounding with pent up nerves, the gift in his pocket a small weight reminding him he's still not given it to her.

The Servants' Hall is empty. It feels cold, the light is dim. He stands in the doorway, deciding what to do when he feels her hand on his shoulder.

"Are you still waiting for that kiss?" she asks, her eyes smiling and he just stares at her. Before he knows it, her lips are on his cheek and without any conscious thought his hands land on her hips and pull her close. If she is surprised she doesn't show it. He nods then and says:

"I am."

He doesn't know where it comes from - all those rehearsed phrases that have kept him up all night, all the proper ways to court a magnificent woman like Elsie Hughes have fled his mind and he leans in, captures her lips with his and kisses her deeply. Her arms are around his neck then and he can feel her form pressed up against him, her corset a stiff boundary between them.

She makes a noise - music to his ears - and he slides one hand from her hip to her back, a bit lower and she responds by threading her fingers through his hair.

When he finally pulls back they are both breathless. She is smiling, but doesn't take her arms from his neck, doesn't step back.

"Father Christmas must have received my letter," she says and there is a mischievous twinkle in her eye that takes his breath away.

"I suppose he must have."

"He's quite good at finding them, because I left it in my bin since I felt it was really too silly to send, but he found it anyway and here I am."

"Yes… here you are. Here we are…"

He presses his lips together.

"I've not given you your present yet," she says, her tone conversational, as if she hasn't her belly pressed against his.

"Nor I mine to you." He is surprised his voice isn't quaking, that she isn't running from him. Supposes he must be dreaming, that it must all be a hallucination of some sort.

"Do you think perhaps we should exchange them now?"

He nods dumbly, unable to say what is on his mind.

"Come on, then!"

She takes his hand and he lets her lead him to her parlour, sinks down in the chair he's occupied for the past twenty-odd years and waits. She puts a little parcel in front of him, wrapped in brown paper, bound by a red ribbon.

"You'll think it very silly," she says.

"You'll think my gift very silly too."

"I doubt it," she smiles and pushes her gift a little more towards him. He picks it up and unties the bow. The paper comes off easily.

It's a leather pouch filled with stationary with his own letterhead - which she must have either handpicked or even designed for him. There's a new pen and a sheet of ten stamps.

He looks up at her.

"This is very…" He doesn't say what his first thought it: extravagant. It's too much, really. It's both deeply personal and it must have cost her a pretty penny.

"Unexpected," he manages. There's a look that he cannot name flitting over her face.

"This is mine… I mean, yours. I mean… This is for you," he stumbles over the words.

She is smiling again and takes the little package from him. She unties the ribbon, pulls away the paper. She opens the small box and takes out what he's gifted her.

"Oh…" she says and he can hear the same tone of voice that he's just used.

They are on even footing at least.

"This is very unexpected too…"

She holds it up and examines it.

"It was my mother's."

She frowns. "Your mother's?"

"She wore it much the same as you do."

The silver glistens in the light and she tilts her head a little.

"I thought you didn't have anything to remember her by," she says quietly.

"Not much. Just a faded photograph and that."

"Are you certain you want to give it to me?"

"I've never been more certain of anything."

She reaches out to him then and he takes her hand. Hers is warm and dry, his is cold and slightly damp. Nerves.

"Thank you."

"Thank you for your lovely gift. It's very thoughtful."

"You'll want to write when you're away for the Season…" she says and she bites her lip, looks away, stares at her fingernails.

He thinks for a moment.

"Or when I want to write to Father Christmas," he finally says and she laughs then.

"Yes. Whichever comes first."

Silence hangs between them. She fidgets with the embroidery scissors, he runs his fingertip over the soft leather of the pouch.

"Was there anything else you wanted for Christmas?" he asks after long seconds.

"No, just a kiss under the mistletoe from you."

"You know, I think there weren't any berries on that particular branch…" He swallows a few times while she looks at him, her eyes boring into his.

"That's not good."

"Perhaps we should find another sprig."

"There is one in the library," he coaxes and she gets up so quickly, her chair trembles. She picks up the scissors and attaches them to her chatelaine.

"Now I can think of you every time I use it."

He nods and they hurry down the corridor, up the stairs, through the green baize door. Past the Christmas tree where the children are playing and into the library.

"Where is it?" she asks and he reaches in his inside pocket and pulls out a small sprig of mistletoe.

"Here," he smiles as he holds it up over her head and lowers his lips to hers.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs Hughes," he wishes when they break apart.

"Happy Christmas, Mr Carson."

THE END

(I think…)