I don't own Downton Abbey. That's all.

Dedicated to my Squishy, my other Squishy, and the third Squishy. If you don't know which Squishy you are, you're clearly not my Squishy.

Tactile Obsessions
by ScintillatingTart
September 2015

I: Silver

The silver gleamed in the harsh electric lights. He missed the days of candlelight, when the sins of the day were diminished as he polished the silver well into the evening. The electricity made for a startling contrast: he could have light whenever he wished it, and it more often than not affected everything else that he did when he took advantage. He could stay up later, get more done. He could rise in the middle of the night if he could not sleep and begin his notes for the day.

As it was, he caught himself studying a different type of silver more often now. In the late night, before they retired for the evening, he would stare at the threads of silver that wound their way through Mrs. Hughes's hair. He knew very well that he had aged, that his hair was far more grey than black now, but he found himself wishing that age would leave her untouched. That she would always be the lovely woman she had been when she had first come to Downton. But he was not the same man, now was he?

She stood up and stretched, fighting back a yawn. "I should turn in," Mrs. Hughes murmured. "Tomorrow will be a hard day. It makes no sense to stay up till all hours."

His fingers fairly itched to wind their way into her hair, loosening her hairpins, tangling with her lovely hair; the silver strands called to him in a way he could not heed. He wanted so many things: to touch her, to kiss her, to love her in the way a husband was meant to love his wife. But he would not, could not, jeopardize her position, her affections, for something so trivial as his errant heart.

"Mr. Carson, are you quite all right?"

He flexed his hand, his fingers making a fist, then releasing. He took a deep breath, then released it, giving up his heart just a little bit more as he did. "I am fine," he assured her softly. "Please rest easily, Mrs. Hughes: we do have a big day tomorrow."

She eyed him with no small amount of concern, a frown gracing her lips. Suddenly, the silver in her hair became more pronounced, a warning of a type; stay away from her, for you will only age her even faster. Do not touch her, do not breathe on her. Do not sully her.

By the time he realized she was only a hair's breadth away from him, he had convinced himself that he would survive without her. It was a lie, of course, but one he must believe. He would survive without the touch of her, he would survive another broken heart – if he ever admitted that he had a heart.

"Mr. Carson, you don't look at all well –"

"I am well," he grunted. "Merely tired, Mrs. Hughes."

She smiled sadly. "Rest well, then," she said softly.

He waited until he knew she was away to bed before he opened the silver repository. If he could not have one type of silver, then he must make do with the other.

He dreamed of her hair, unbound and cascading around them as she rode him, the soft tendrils brushing against his chest as he thrust into her, whispering her name, listening to her whimpers and moans of pleasure. He dreamt of silver and of a love he could never realize.