I have not written anything new in months and I'm afraid I've grown a bit rusty. This little piece of fluff is my attempt to get back into writing.

The title comes from a quote by Charles Ives – "Vagueness is at times an indication of nearness to a perfect truth" – which I found rather fitting for our favourite couple. If the story seems vague in places, then that has been done deliberately ;)

Spoiler warning for season 6.

When his heavy-handed knock rings out against her door, she nearly sags with relief that her wait is finally over.

But it's only a brief moment of reprieve before her stomach knots up again and she gets up from her desk to greet him.

She has expected his visit ever since Mrs. Patmore had crept into her sitting room earlier to confess that she had spoken to the Butler. That she had tried to explain the Housekeeper's insecurities and worries to the man.

The Cook had been near tears when she had relayed that she had obviously not found the right words, had jumbled it all up because the Butler's only reaction had been to listen stone-facedly before storming out of the pantry without uttering a single word.

Mrs. Patmore's distress had been real; her pleading for forgiveness so anxious that Elsie Hughes hadn't found it in her to condemn the Cook for what had been intended as an act of kindness.

Furthermore, she knew then and knows now that it is time to address all those questions that have plagued her mind in the past couple of weeks. If Mrs. Patmore's fumbled attempt at diplomacy opened up the opportunity to do just that, then maybe she should be thankful for it.

Still, when the door opens and he enters her sitting room with a grave face, she childishly wishes she could make her escape. Mumble something about the linens and leave him there.

She wishes his visit had come sooner; ideally right after his one-sided confrontation with the Cook. She could have used his blustering about propriety to her advantage. Could have calmed him down before Mrs. Patmore's words festered in his brain and turned into something bigger. Something she couldn't control.

But, he hadn't come to her. He had obviously used dinner to reflect on the Cook's meddling and the meeting between the two women that had preceded it. God only knew what kind of scenarios he had come up with during those long hours. What he imagined she had said to the other woman.

"I believe we need to talk," he opens now, his voice level.

He doesn't move to sit down so she stays standing as well, her hands loosely linked in front of her waist. She simply nods; wants to afford him the chance to have his say first.

"I can only assume that you spoke to Mrs. Patmore and that your conversation has sparked the strange visit I had this afternoon."

"I apologize for that," she says quietly, and she means all of it. She shouldn't have spoken to Mrs. Patmore in the first place. She should have insisted on the Cook's silence afterwards.

"Is it true what she said?" he asks in this strangely flat voice.

She finds it difficult to look him in the eye, so she settles her gaze on his right shoulder and nods.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and exhales slowly. It causes her to look briefly at his face. The strange look she finds in his eyes disconcerts her.

"That changes things," he declares firmly and she clenches her hands. Nails digging painfully into the dorsa of her hands.

"What do you mean?" she asks hoarsely before biting down on her lower lip.

Of course she knows what he means. Theirs is a business arrangement. He had asked her to marry him because he had wanted his closest friend to be able to go into business with him.

His tears during the proposal had not been inspired by love and happiness but by relief over not having made a fool of himself.

He cares for her, deeply, she knows that. But love complicates matters. For this man, who is so very fond of black and white, it opens up a whole pallet of greys which he probably couldn't manage to discern and decipher even if he wanted to.

"I don't think the house on Brouncker Road is such a good idea under these circumstances." There is no doubt audible in his voice. His mind's made up.

She won't cry. Not now, not in front of him – it isn't fair on either of them. No, she will save face and only show her true emotions once she is in her bedroom.

And maybe it is best to know now. To know that he is looking for a companion and nothing more. Better than finding out after they have stood at the altar – when there is no way back.

"I see." Her voice is strong – if a bit hollow – and she is strangely proud of that. "Will you inform the family in the morning or should we do it together?"

The family who has been so very, so unexpectedly enthusiastic about their plans to marry.

"I'm not sure what the family has got to do with this." For the first time there is a note of confusion in his voice and it causes her to look at him again.

"Well, surely they should be informed about this change of plans," she exclaims disbelievingly.

"I don't see how it matters to them whether we retire to run a guesthouse or to live in a cottage of our own."

She gapes at him. Blankly, stupidly. Repeats his words in her mind in an effort to make sense of them.

And then her eyes fill with tears and she turns away from him. Presses her hand against her pale lips to keep from sobbing out loud. Unable to believe that she has gotten it so very wrong; that she misjudged him so completely.

His hands are gentle when they come to rest on her shoulders. "What did I say?"

She turns around and his hands fall away. She wipes at the tears with her right hand.

"I thought you meant something else when you talked about changed situations," she explains quietly. She knows she has to be honest with him now, has to somehow explain the flood of tears that she has thankfully managed to get under control again.

She watches as his eyebrows crease in confusion and then lift again in disbelief when he understands her meaning.

He motions towards the chairs and she gratefully sinks into her accustomed place. When he has sat down, he faces her with a look filled with both incredulity and benevolent patience.

"So is this why you unleashed Mrs. Patmore on me?"

She smiles a little, is reassured by the amusement colouring his voice. And it really is quite funny when she thinks about it. She can only assume what the feisty Cook has had to say to him.

"I'm sorry I spoke to her when I should have spoken to you, but you were so vehement about not using first names at work that I was beginning to doubt that I had understood you correctly on Christmas Eve."

He sighs wearily. "I wish you'd realize that my focus on propriety and my feelings for you are not mutually exclusive. I simply didn't wish to give anyone – neither the family nor certain plotting underbutlers – the opportunity to find fault with our conduct. I will readily admit that I could have been kinder in my refusal but this doesn't mean that my proposal has not been made for all the right reasons."

She's almost impressed with his ability to phrase his feelings in such vague ways – more than anything, though, she is unnerved by it. "What did you mean then when you said that Brouncker House no longer was a good idea?"

He fidgets with the edge of the tablecloth for a second before looking at her again. "When I came to you with the idea of investing in a property together, I did it because it provided a chance to test the waters so to speak. If you had refused a joint business venture, then it would have been reasonable to assume that you'd also oppose an offer of marriage.

Because that was what I really wanted to offer you. Right from the start. When you did seem interested in the idea, I began to make up little scenarios in my head of how I would slowly, stealthily woo you during renovations and subsequently when we ran the house together."

She smiles softly at him, her dear man – so insecure after the terrible mess that had been his past love life; not daring to believe that she might love him not just as a friend.

"And then you went ahead and ruined every single one of my little scenarios when you professed that you didn't have any money to invest."

She looks at him silently and is reassured by the gentle look in his eyes, the soft smile playing on his lips. She marvels at his new openness with her and wonders once again how she could have doubted him.

"So, I hatched a new plan. One that would allow my original plans to stay as they were, but I needed to risk proposing in order to adhere to propriety's rules." He gives her a wry smile and she shakes her head in silent amusement.

"But you must have known how I felt when I accepted your proposal. Why does everything change now when it hasn't changed then?" she asks, voicing her confusion over his story.

"Shouldn't you also have known my feelings when I proposed? I wasn't even very subtle about it," he challenges good-naturedly. "Instead, you released a banshee on my head."

"It can't have been that bad," she teases.

"Yes, you go on laughing when she calls you a bumbling berk!"

"She never did!" Elsie can't help the small tinkling of laughter that escapes her and he quickly joins her with his own rumbling chuckle.

"So you see, Mrs. Patmore's words have made all the difference – even if I would have preferred to hear those particular words from you, ideally with less insults."

Her eyes soften together with her smile and she barely withstands the urge to take his hand. "But a cottage? How ever will we afford all that?" She is touched by his dreams, but there is Becky to consider and the fact that they might not find themselves in the family's employ for much longer.

"You've seen all my accounts and my retirement schemes. If we manage to get the guesthouse going and are able to earn profits in the first years, I think it stands to reason that we will be able to re-sell it at a good price. Enough to earn us a nice cottage and enough money to care for Becky.

Because one thing I do know," he says, his voice gravelly and she finds herself transported back in time to Christmas Eve. "The woman I love, loves me and I will not allow her to work herself into an early grave. I would like to enjoy a few, carefree years with her."

A single tear escapes her at his confession and now she does reach out and grasps his hand while she replays his words of love in her mind.

"She does love you. Very much," she finally whispers and in an instant his eyes are swimming with tears as well.

She decides that this is not the time to pick apart his dream, to speak of inflation and possible illnesses. This is a moment to revel in their shared love.

They continue sitting in silence for a few minutes, his thumb caressing the back of her hand before she yawns and they reluctantly get up from their chairs.

When they are at the door, he turns back to her. "Oh, please remember to let Mrs. Patmore know that the barmpot has gotten his act together after all."

"My my, she really went creative with you, didn't she?"

"Yes – and before you say anything: she can absolutely not pledge the toast at our wedding!"

Elsie Hughes clear laughter rings out in the deserted Servant's Hall as she follows her future husband towards the stairs.

He looks at her, a gentle smile playing on his lips. He hasn't told her everything Mrs. Patmore has thrown at his head.

There will be other, more appropriate, times in which he'll let her know that she could never be a mere companion for him. That the way she smells, the way her hair reflects the light, the way she smiles at him does things to him that are practically unheard of in a man his age.

For tonight, though, it is enough for her to know that he loves her.

I hope you enjoyed it at least a little. I'd love to hear from you.