A/N This is another fic inspired by that delicious beach scene at the end of Series 4.

Many many thanks to the lovely kouw for beta'ing this for me!
Please take the time to leave a review - I would love to know what you all think about this. Thank you!

Chapter 1. Flux

temper: (transitive verb) to bring to a suitable state by mixing in or adding a usually liquid ingredient*

He feels lost, out of his element. His element is the house, in the wood of its beams, the stone of its foundations. He is at home in the cool and solid certainty of the wine cellar. Here in the presence of lulling waves and warm sun, it is no surprise he feels unsteady. It is no surprise either that she is confident navigating in all this flux, this light and wind.

She turns to him as he hesitates, and challenges him (she always challenges him, doesn't she, always gently pushing; that last little touch of the postcard on his board had toppled another grain of sand from his disintegrating walls).

"Come on! I dare ye!"

She is sure his maddening stone walls are coming apart. She has been washing away at his foundations for quite some time now, gently eroding the facade. She will not make them crack, no, she does not wish anything so violent on him. But slowly, so slowly, the barriers are falling away and he is becoming more open, and someday (perhaps soon, yes, she hopes so) she will show him her secret heart, wrap herself around him, hold him close to her, never let him go.

The sand under his feet is being swept away bit by bit with every little wave. Maybe that's why the water feels so dire for him; maybe on some level he knows. He has been in his role for such a long time. He is an ancient oak, deeply rooted in the earth, steady, unmoving, and all of this change is shaking him to his roots. He thinks this, madly, as the cool water (so shocking, so alive) flows around him.

This wind, this water, this sun have made her bold. But it isn't just that. Her new boldness comes with the change of the season from winter to spring to summer, but also from this change in their rhythm, in the chance to spend the Season in London. Staying at Downton for the Season is less work, with fewer petty aristocratic emergencies to deal with, but it's a lonely time as well. She has been glad of this time with their downstairs family (and especially with him, of course; she has always missed his company when the family were away, but she has felt that absence even more keenly since the time he sang for her in his silver pantry).

She knows how much she can push him, and when. (Usually she does. It still stings to think of the time he told her not to get sentimental. At some point, maybe, she'll talk to him about that. Confront him. Gently, gently, hoping he won't shut down and stare at the wall like he usually does... maybe someday, after they've made love and his body is loose and tangled with hers.)

But it will do her no good now to get ahead of herself.

What a figure he strikes, standing there, waggling those fingers and worrying. Of course he would worry. The sound he made when the water rushed to meet of his feet, still warm from the confines of his dignified shoes, was a sound of shock, then of grudging, tentative enjoyment. He will try this, he will venture in, but only just. He needs her help.

He looks at her for a moment, looks away. He cannot deal with the sight of her blouse moving in the wind, whipping against the firm contours of her corset. Normally her clothing is dark, immobile, but the soft fabric is moving against her now. Caressing her. The word jumps to his mind and he struggles to push it away. Tries not to think about how it might feel to put his hand there, on the narrowest part of her waist, slide the blouse against her corset, rest his fingertips against the small of her back. What it might be like to free her body from the confines of bone and cloth.

He drags his mind back to the present, frets about the banal instead. "But - If I get my trousers wet?"

Ridiculous man. Wet wool is a nightmare; she will freely admit it, but who can care on such a beautiful day? Who can bother with momentary irritations when the two of them are standing here on the brink of something, enjoying this tiny sliver of freedom and the delicious feeling of salt waves against bare skin?

"If you get them wet, we'll dry them!"

He frowns, fidgets. She doesn't seem to understand the gravity of this situation. He might slip away if he keeps moving forward, deeper into these moving waters. Help me. I want to move forward, but I am afraid. Make it better. I'm lost, or I will be. Help.

"Suppose I fall over?" Of course he is fretting about falling over in the gentlest of waves, she thinks.

"Suppose a bomb goes off? Suppose we're hit by a falling star?" It's too easy to tease him. "You can hold my hand. Then we'll both go in together."

He really does need her help. He knows this; she realizes it as he carefully steps toward her. He tests every step, as if every move forward held unknown perils.

"I think I will hold your hand, er - it will make me feel steadier."

The words come out before she even thinks about them: "You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady."

He is stunned. She has never sounded like that. How has he never heard the music in her voice before?

She is smiling, looking at him, waiting for his reaction. Hoping it will be nice, that he'll play along, not do something irritating and shut her out again.

He feels almost steady again (almost)as he responds, frowning, squaring his shoulders. "I don't know how, but you managed to make that sound a little risqué."

But she's laughing now. Risqué. He's taken the bait. He's tried to fortify his walls, but they are bending too, the wood grain softening in the water, the jagged edges smoothed down.

Just look at him there, all put-on sternness. Suddenly she sees how he must have been as a little boy. Serious, studious. He stands there in his rolled-up trousers and his bare feet, vulnerable in the shifting sands. He is entirely unconvincing in his disapproval, This is all new, guide me, I am swaying and I am teetering and this ground is unsteady.

Her laughter is audible for only an instant, but her body delights in it, curving against the wind, shaking out what remains of dusty years of rejection and letting them drift away in the salty water.

"And if I did?"

She holds out her hand and he takes it. She is warm, she is strong, she is supple and knowing and sure in this water; she is telling him something else and he must listen, drag part of himself back to his ears as his attention has all rushed to his left hand, his skin pressed against hers, her fingers moving, gripping his, finding a firmer hold. He stares at their hands, at her face.

"We're getting on, Mr Carson, you and I. We can afford to live a little."

He is still staring. He steps slowly, his face frozen as she nods, a silly, exaggerated nod, smiling up at him from below the rim of her hat.

They wade, together. Here and now it is simple, lovely. In this sea and this wind and this sun, after the resolution of so many fears, it is so easy, so logical, so obvious to her that his hand should be in hers, warm and strong. They step forward together, slowly. She catches his eye and he smiles at her, his mouth closed but his eyes crinkling, mild. Happy. He looks like a man now, just a man, a lovely man freed from white tie and tea trays. She resists the urge to reach up, stroke his cheek with her free hand, press herself to him, taste his smile. She is sure she is blushing, and she looks down again as they continue their slow progress.

He is reeling from the feel of her skin against his, the smooth softness, the heat of her. The look in her eyes almost undoes him, and he gasps slightly when she looks down again. Losing contact with those eyes is physical pain, withdrawal, starvation. He wishes he could loop her arm through his, hold her just that little bit closer. Surely it wouldn't be too improper - it would be like walking to church together in icy winter, like sharing tea and wine, nothing over the line. But he is afraid, so he keeps walking, his hand in hers. Until she does it for them, takes his arm, moves closer and his heart is pounding. They keep going.

"Are you enjoying your time at the beach, Mr Carson? I know it wasn't your first choice."

"Yes, ah, well, I do find it to be quite - a new experience. The staff certainly are enjoying themselves."

She rolls her eyes. There is little that interests her less at the moment than whether or not the staff are enjoying themselves. They walk on, together.

He looks down at her; she is smiling at the waves at their feet, biting her lower lip, and she looks up again at him with those bright beautiful eyes, and sees the warmth in his. Suddenly she feels a bit unsteady herself. She speaks, tries to put all of - this - into words.

"You really can, you know. Hold my hand."

"I - er. Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

A pause. She curses inwardly, frowns down at their feet, still moving. He is not helping.

He slows his pace.

"I don't expect you to understand why," he continues carefully, "but that does mean a lot to me." I want to hold your hand always. I love you. Never leave me. Please hear the words I can't say.

She stops, looks up at him, feels a twinge in her heart for this lovely man who is venturing so far from shore for her. She gives him a tiny smile, wants to tell him that he's safe. That his heart is safe with her. That her heart has been in his hands for years, now, decades.

"Perhaps we should -"

"Would you like to -"

They smile, laugh a bit. She starts again: "Perhaps we should head back to shore, Mr Carson. The water is getting a bit deep here."

"If you wish, Mrs Hughes. I know I wouldn't mind being on dry land again."

"Yes. But I do hope you'll tell me more about your mysterious whys and wherefores once we're back on solid ground."

There it is again, the music in her voice. The lilting tones, the drawn-out vowels and rolling r's of her lovely brogue. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. She hopes he will not slam the doors in her face again.

She releases him gently to allow them to turn around, and his arm feels cold where her hand has been. They shift slowly, and when they are both facing the shore again, she looks up at him from the corner of her eye. She worries her lip again, and freezes when she sees the look in his eyes. He is staring at her. At her mouth, and his eyes look desperate, hungry.

"Are you alright, Mr Carson?"

He has been caught out and he knows it. He blinks, shakes his head lightly to clear it, clears his throat. "Yes, yes, of course. Shall we…?" He offers her his other arm, and she slowly takes it.

Their hearts are pounding together as they make their way back to shore.

TBC

* definition via Merriam-Webster