A/N: Hey everybody! After the canon 'Snippets' and the hopeful 'First time', I thought: how about a little AU to get us through the few weeks until Series 6 starts. Sailors and barmaids. Yup. You read that right... Thank you, Dee, for giving this the once over and thank you Kissman for your suggestion! Darling readers: please don't hesitate to review!

late December 1868

He's a strong, good-looking fellow with a full head of thick, dark hair and a deep voice that carries over the deck as he shouts orders to the boatswains. He can see land at the horizon and he'll feel firm ground under his feet in about an hour. It's been weeks and he knows he'll feel like his legs are dancing without any coordination.

But give it a night and he'll be fine. Tomorrow it will be New Year's Eve and he'll go to the same bar he's been visiting for years and he'll talk of his travels to Elsie.

Elsie Hughes is pretty and sassy and young and she makes no claim on him. She pours him the Scotch he likes and fixes him cheese and pickle sandwiches and she delights in the oranges he brings her from Spain and the bananas from Egypt.

The bar will be warm and clean and the cook makes hearty stews and risolles and apple pie and he indulges happily, knowing that in a few days' time he'll be off to India or Nigeria or Malaysia. Elsie will offer a room to him at a more-than-fair price and he'll be sure of a swept floor and clean sheets. He'll fall asleep with her sparkling eyes the last thing on his mind.

"Get cracking, lads, or we'll never make it to port!"

He is impatient to see her. To hear her steady voice laced with Scottish words he can only guess the meaning of. He wishes to know if she received his letters. He posts them when he can; he writes about his days, about exotic and dangerous places, and he complains about the rooms he occupies in mediocre inns the few times he decides to disembark.

He works as second officer on Lord Grantham's ship: the Downton and he is doing well. He is on his way up. Learning from his superiors, teaching the ones lower in hierarchy. He makes sure his clothes are as clean as possible and sets an example by avoiding the whores that swarm around the docks when the ship pulls into the harbour.

He loves the sea. The unpredictable waves spurred on by unreliable wind and the moon and stars that make his world seem wider. He sees places he never dared dream of as a lad. Trinidad, Mauritius. Indonesia with its many treasures, skillfully governed by the Dutch*.

He's seen the jungle of Brazil and the lush green valleys of Melbourne, but the sea always calls him back, like a lover.

The boys are running around with this and that, skip is shouting his orders and he jolts into action. The shore is so close, he can actually smell land. He's felt nothing but the sea under him for the past eight weeks and the ship is starting to get too small for the many men who have to call her home. After unloading the heavy cargo, he'll finally have time to himself and he'll use it to clean up his cabin - his home that's not quite a home.

He'll sleep. Shave thoroughly. Find his last clean clothes and send out his laundry. Then he'll collect his wages, put half of it in the bank and then - only then, when there are no loose ends left - he'll go to Elsie and he'll never tell her how he saw her face when he was laid up with malaria for days, his fever spiking, his voice raw from calling out her name; his dreams playing tricks on him, thinking it was her body lying next to his. He won't tell her of the disappointment that it was only his bunched-up blanket.

November 1873

The men think twice about pinching her bottom when she reaches in between them to fetch empty glasses or wipe down tables - she's a bonny lass, but has a stare of steel she doesn't mind projecting on anyone who comes too close or says the wrong thing. She talks to them, unafraid of their opinions and undeterred by their salty language. They are harmless, really. The men at the bar are nursing their whisky and water, talking about their homes - young lads missing their mothers (more water) and men who haven't seen the newest additions to their families yet (more whisky.)

The evenings start early now the winter is upon them. It's just about Christmas time and the wind has been strong: men with families to support choose between spending Christmas with their children and going off to provide for them. Men alone either go home to their sainted mothers or embark on yet another great adventure.

When all the men have left after last call she runs a broom through the establishment, scrubs down the counter and checks the guestbook before going up to her small room. She thoroughly washes the grime and sweat from her body and puts her dress out to air. In the morning she'll slip into another dress, alternating the three she owns. She would like to have more money to spend on frivolous matters, but it's no use dreaming. She works hard for her money and has a steady place. Her sister is cared for and she… well. She can make do. She has her job, a place to live, a few friends who work in other establishments and she can meet after church and at the market.

Plus New Year's is coming up and with it a visit from Charles Carson - who was promoted just this May. He is first officer now and proud of it. Why shouldn't he be? He hides his surprisingly tender heart away to present himself as a stern, strict taskmaster.

When he comes in, he'll find his usual seat at the bar and he'll tell her stories about his dealings with the French in Morocco - saffron is as valuable as gold - and about the bright-coloured clothes of the Mexican people.

After two drinks he'll tell her about Yorkshire and how he left his home and family as a young lad to escape a life in service (and where has she heard that before…)

Four drinks in and he'll get teary-eyed about a girl named Alice and how she left him for a leading seaman with a roving eye.

That's when she'll offer him a room at a reduced rate - she'd rather collect half price than have an empty room and the inn is deserted on New Year's Eve as it is. She knows he'll stumble after her, not quite having retrieved his land legs (or maybe he's lost them with each brandy he knocked back.)

She is looking forward to his visit.

It's been a long time since she's seen her friend.

May 1882

They pull into Porto to pick up a shipment of Tawny port and Charles makes his way to the shipping office to check if there have been any messages whilst the lads load the cargo. The Downton is heavy but the weather should hold until they reach their home port. He finds he is tired, irritable. Being captain is wonderful - it's what he has been working for all these years - but it comes with heavy responsibility.

One of these responsibilities is showing his men that he trusts them to do their jobs - and do them well - even when he isn't there to breathe down their necks. So far it's been going well (aside from a fight between Mr Barrow and young William) and he's pleased and proud that his ship so far has been a lucky one.

His next journey will be to bring the owner's daughter Mary to New York where she'll stay with her grandmother. He isn't much looking forward to it, even though he has a soft spot for the young woman. Bringing a woman on a ship is asking for trouble. He knows his men will behave, but he can't say the same for the weather.

He arrives at the shipping office where he is offered strong black coffee and a sort of custard tart that he happily accepts. Afterwards he pays a king's ransom to let them set sail at the crack of dawn and takes the letters that have been waiting for the Downton to come into port. He thanks the employee and walks out, taking his time to wander back to the ship, checking the letters.

There's one from Grantham, giving him orders and information, a bill from the Dutch East India Company and one for him personally. It's in Elsie Hughes' slanting handwriting and he smiles when he runs his little finger through the fold of the envelope. He pulls out the letter and starts reading, paying no attention to his surroundings.

He stops in his tracks when he reads that she's taken out a loan to buy the pub she helped make a success. He smiles. When he returns to Yorkshire he and Elsie will be as much as equals.

He wonders if she'll call herself 'Mrs Hughes' now.

30 December 1897

His letters are written in a strong, bold script, but his words are thoughtful and over time they've become surprisingly tender. He writes about missing the unpredictable Yorkshire weather and about the home port of the Downton.

He tells her about the treasures he'll bring back from his travels: silk from China, vanilla from Madagascar. The last time he came ashore he gifted her a chain of fine silver braid. The small locket lies against her skin and with every bend and stretch she is reminded of him.

Her pub thrives. She has a few girls to help her manage - young ones, older ones, married ones. Her pub is not a rowdy place nor a place frequented by sailors looking for a jolly time. She provides a short respite in-between the ship and their homes. A bed if needed.

Mr - or is it Captain Carson? She never quite knows what to call him, knows that in her heart she calls him 'Charles' like she's asked him to call her 'Elsie' - should have arrived three days ago. He isn't often late - oh it happens when it's a long stretch, but he's only coming from Denmark and it's odd he isn't here yet.

That evening, as she serves whisky and wine, she overhears two men talking:

"Glad I didn't get on the Downton," one says.

"How's that? Old Carson is a strict and works you hard, but he's fair and he always pays up," the other answers.

"You've not heard?"

"Heard what?"

Elsie lingers by the next table, scrubbing at a nonexistent stain with a dry towel.

"Fire broke out after they left Nyborg."

When she hears that, Elsie needs to sit down. She touches the locket that bears his name - his gift to her. A gift that said more than words could. A gift that said that one day he would stay.

A gift that will now only serve as a reminder of an uncertain arrangement for a future that wasn't meant to be.

2 January 1898

She grabs hold of his arm when he comes down the gangway. There are tears in her eyes and a thankful smile. He too is grateful. Thankful that he's home. The Downton is a little worse for wear - the fire ruined the cabins the family use when they decide to board - but all is well. The Downton is safe, his men are safe and he is too.

He is the only one being met.

By her.

The locket he gifted her long ago bounces atop the bodice of her dress and pulls his line of vision straight to the one place he shouldn't look and he puts his hand on hers, gently gives it a squeeze.

"Let's get you sorted," she says and her accent is the same - a Scottish lilt softened by years of Yorkshire living - and her voice has grown a little deeper. He blames that on the smoke she inhales on a daily basis in her pub.

He nods and she leads the way. They are quiet together. Comfortable. Later she'll want the full story and he'll give it to her; he will tell her everything after he's had a warm meal. He knows she won't press him. Besides: she no doubt has some work to do.

He watches her shoo out the last stragglers. Her firm authority is mixed with something else: something he cannot quite put his finger on, but none of the men make a fuss and she returns, the key of the door in hand.

"I'll show you to your room," she says and she smiles.

He knows it will be the same room he always occupies. As if she keeps it vacant just for him.

"Wait," he says and reaches for her.

She takes his hand and looks at him expectantly.

"What is it, Mr Carson?"

"There is something I need to ask." His heart is pounding so hard against his ribcage, it almost hurts.

"Oh dear, that sounds serious," she replies and he delights in the twinkle in her eye - but there's a little glimpse of apprehension too.

"It is - a little. See, when I was helping the lads putting out the fire on the Downton I could only think of one thing," he starts.

"And what was that?"

"You."

She is looking so surprised and her hand clutches the front door key so tightly, her knuckles turn white.

"I'm not convinced I can be hearing this right…" she says and she is looking everywhere but at him.

"We've known each other a long time, Mrs Hughes and… well… I wanted to... "

She takes a deep breath and he braces himself for the telling off he'll be receiving, but there's only silence.

"You're offended," he states and she lets out a breathy laugh.

"Mr Carson, I assure you: the last thing in the world that I am is offended."

He lets out a sigh of relief.

"Come on, Mr Carson. It's time for bed," she puts her hand in his and pulls him up the stairs, past the door of the room he's occupied for decades. She opens her door and pushes him in.

"I like to sleep on the right," she says.

And that is when he decides he'll never leave her again.

January 1898

She curls up against him when he finally comes up.

"You're late," she says and rubs her hand over his shoulder.

"Joseph Molesley dropped by," he says and he turns over to look at her.

The small flame of the candle flickers and Elsie's eyes hold unfathomable secrets in the dim light. He leans up to kiss her cheek.

"What's that for?" she asks, pressing herself flush against him.

"Nothing in particular," he says and she smiles.

She kisses him back. A little kiss on the corner of his mouth. Then another on his cheek - undeterred by his stubble.

He is warm and comfortable with her so close. His nights are filled with pleasant dreams and he doesn't feel the pull of the sea as strongly as he once did.

Elsie is his Sirene - her voice, her curves and hot wetness call to him at all times and he answers. Happily. Eagerly. She takes his hand lies it flat over her breast.

"Kiss me properly," she breathes into his ear and her leg moves so it's between his.

He complies.

His fever dreams didn't prepare him for the glory of reality. His imaginings of the silk of her hair and skin pale in comparison.

She kisses him deeply, moves and she is suddenly naked by his side. She pulls him on top of her and all is stirring.

"Come on home, Charles," she says. "Come home to me."

* Victorians saw colonialism (or imperialism) as absolutely necessary. Britain was a world superpower and this title was strengthened by colonising especially South and West Africa in the 1900s. This expanded economical growth enormously, but people failed (neglected?) to think about the effect of colonialism on the colonies. Colonies were used for resources and to ship your unwanted people off to...