A/N: HAPPY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE! I hope everyone (celebrating or not) has a lovely holiday and New Year. Thanks so much for reading my story!

Though from the outside, the Levinson family home seemed rather tiny compared to the vast landscape of Downton, Robert found himself completely and utterly turned around as he wandered the upstairs floor in search of his wife. She'd not been in their bedroom—a fact confirmed after he jolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his heart thudding with relentless excitement and a desperate desire to speak to her.

The room had been cold when he burst through the door, quickly deflating his burgeoning glee, and so instead immediately pleading his apologies and then excitement to his wife, Robert found himself wandering the long hall, peeking into random bedrooms and attempting not to make any more noise than they'd already produced that evening, hoping that she'd not up and left him entirely.

The first four bedrooms were, like their own, dark and empty. As Robert peered into each one in quick succession he found himself wondering what the house was like when full of guests and life. Cora had told him on occasion about the grand parties that her parents hosted, filled with merriment and splendor. It always sounded so terribly different than how things were done at Downton: gaudier, more alive. The coldness of the empty bedrooms, though, the absence of movement within, reminded him strangely of home, and for the first time in quite a long while—perhaps for the first time ever, really—Robert shivered slightly at the chill in the air and the realization that his discomfort was likely a sensation Cora, living at Downton, was well acquainted with. And then, absolutely not for the first time that evening, he felt as though he'd like to kick himself for behaving like such a child.

It was in the very last room of the hallway where he found her. He'd almost bypassed this room completely, for the door looked more elaborate and somehow more solid than all the rest. The large gold handle had felt particularly heavy in his hand, and it took two tries before the lock gave way. Upon entering, it was clear that it was the master bedroom. The red canopied bed sat in the middle of the room, enrobed in expensive silks and pillows, and there were portraits of Cora and her brother on the far end of the room, housed in elaborate golden frames that twisted perfectly round the smiling faces of his wife and her brother as cherubic children dressed in ruffled clothes.

Robert did not realize until he stepped further into the room, having noticed the fireplace burning brightly, that Cora was indeed settled inside as well, laying atop her parents' great bed, wrapped in a heap of blankets. He saw the dark crown of her chestnut curls peeking from beneath the coverlet, and the bright green of her gown stuck out and off the side of the bed. He heard her sniffling as he approached, and whispered "Cora?" into the silence of the room, but she only proceeded to cry harder, turning away from him and clutching at one of the pillows nearest to her.

"Go—away—Robert," was her reply after a great pause, leaving him to stand awkwardly in a place he was quite clearly not welcome. He knew, standing in the middle of the room, that he knew very little about the people who actually did inhabit it. Taking in the sight of various trinkets, a picture frame here or a necklace hanging there, he knew as well that it had been down to his own oversight, for not trying harder to understand the people who had meticulously and lovingly created the woman to whom he was married.

And so, going away was out of the question. Instead, feeling his heart tug at the muted sounds of Cora sniffling, Robert sat gingerly and reached a hand out to stroke Cora's arm. She flinched under his touch, which served only to steep him further in guilt, but made no real attempt to move away from him.

They remained that way for some time, Cora turned away and holding tight to her pillow, and Robert stroking his fingers lightly over her arm, back, and neck. He forgot after a few moments that they were not in their room; his earlier discomfort at entering her parents' room had fallen away and left in its wake was the very base desire to comfort his wife. His wife who was carrying his child. His wife who was carrying their child. He found the thought simultaneously perfect and terrifying.

When Cora did regain a modicum of control over her breathing, finally, she turned ever so slightly to face her husband, who reflexively brought his hand to her face to wipe away any errant tears. He smiled softly, still sitting charily beside her, and dug a handkerchief from his pocket a moment later, holding it out for her and apologizing for its wrinkled appearence.

She brushed the fabric over her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of Robert's cologne, and then held the soft cloth tightly in her grasp, thanking him quietly before taking another deep breath.

"I'm sorry for telling you that way," Cora said simply, blinking up at her husband.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly and looked down at his hands. "It was my own fault," he answered, exhaling deeply. "You were right about it all; I wasn't being fair to you—"

"—Robert you don't have to say all—" Cora began, but he held up a hand, gently, his expression contritely begging her to allow him to continue.

"No, Cora. I do. And I'm not just saying it because…" he faltered, his brain still wrapping round the idea that there was a new life, a new life they'd both created, ostensibly sitting between them at that very moment. His fingers, of their own accord, stretched down at press softly against the still invisible swell of her abdomen.

"Because of the baby?" Cora finished, reaching to take his hand.

Robert nodded, swallowing and feeling a great thickness in his throat.

Sensing his precarious emotional state, Cora smiled softly and pulled their hands to her lips, pressing a kiss to his palm. "But, you're pleased? Only I know that we've had rather a hard time these last few weeks and I do so hate it when we fight, but I think that if we—"

He quieted her self-conscious ramblings with a kiss, their lips pressing tenderly in the first display of genuine affection that they'd shared in several days. There was, he realized, no way—no words adequate—for him to explain to her how full his heart was of love for her: his wife, his love, the mother of his child. Robert hoped that someday, perhaps, he would be more eloquent, that he might be able to package the sentiment into a beautiful phrase or letter that was worthy of his wife. But he feared, looking at her in the dim firelight, that nothing could ever encompass the feeling. And so he kissed her again, bring his arms around her in a great sweeping hug of affection, and kissed her once more, his lips finding the softness of her neck and his hands the gentle curve of her waist.

Cora laughed, then, a pleased, unguarded giggle against him that warmed his stomach and incited the butterflies from earlier back into flight. She clung to him, having eschewed her pillows, and breathed out words of love and hope against his skin, pulling him closer until they were chest to chest, foreheads pinned together.

Robert thought, after a time, that Cora had perhaps fallen asleep. Her steady breathing had soothed him into a restful lull, and they'd spoken very little, instead choosing to hold tightly to one another. But soon after the clock on the nightstand dinged nine times, reminding them that time would inevitably burst through their insular world eventually, Cora brought her head up and looked intently at her husband.

Unable to place the expression on her face exactly, Robert offered a lopsided grin and kissed her forehead, then helped them both to sit up. "Darling, how did you end up in here?" he asked, offering a pillow to place behind her back.

She shrugged, glancing around the room, and reached for his hand rather quickly, as though the loss of contact, however brief, frightened her. "I used to spend hours in here with my mother," Cora explained, her eyes drawing carefully around the myriad details of the elaborately decorated space. "When I was finished in the school room, she used to let me sit by the vanity and watch her maid do her hair before she and my father would go out to dinners and parties."

Robert smiled at the second-hand memory. "Your parents are much warmer than mine," he allowed.

Cora only shrugged again. "I always felt safe in here," she replied simply. "But—it's not the same, not anymore. Not now that I've grown up."

"Well, no matter how different our parents may be," Robert chuckled softly, wanting somehow to reassure her, "I would venture that they'd both agree our behavior as of late not entirely mature. Especially mine," he added under his breath.

Cora hummed in reply, her gaze affixed to their entwined hands. "What if we're not good parents?" she blurted, afraid to look up and find an answer in his eyes.

"We love each other," Robert said quietly, as though the response was obvious, "and so we will love the baby. And that's a good start, I think."

Grinning despite herself at Robert's simple explanation (he could be so terribly, wonderfully childish at times), Cora leaned up to kiss his cheek. "And you're not frightened?"

Robert chuckled and shook his head. "I'm scared witless," he answered. "I still don't think I can feel my legs entirely." Suiting action to words, he lifted his leg and shook it jovially, pleased when it drew forth a great smile from Cora.

They both laughed then, and he leaned back against the pillows beside his wife. "But we've got some time, yes?" Robert looked up, mentally calculating. "Nine—er…"

"Seven months," Cora answered. When Robert's gaze widened, realizing he'd lost nearly two moths of time to prepare in the span of a few seconds, she explained, "I called for the doctor just before we left England. He said it would be alright to travel, but I was afraid if I told you, you would insist we cancel the trip." She looked down, guilty at having remained the secret-keeper for so long.

Robert still seemed to be working it all out in his head, staring up at the red canopy above them. He cleared his throat and looked down, resolved, with a smile. "Seven months is still rather a long time to prepare."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Cora grinned, exhaling another long-held breath.

"It's all the time in the world," he agreed, kissing her forehead once more.

Robert and Cora left her parents' room in favor of their own soon after, Cora moving to smooth the blankets back out and Robert fussing over each and every step she took, insisting that she hold onto his arm and tell him if she was overly tired or needed absolutely anything at all. It was a parody, almost, of adulthood, of future parenthood, with their doting and excess of worry already obvious; and neither Cora nor Robert were remotely confident that in seven month's time they would be equipped to care for a child. But as they held one another that night, in the quiet of their room, the cool, foreign winter air swirling round outside their windows, they did know with great certainty that their hearts had already expanded to make room for the new life that was already so terribly, perfectly loved.