A/N: Ok! I punched this into my phone when I was supposed to be sleeping. Pity me tonight at work. :( Then I engaged in my weird fic naming scheme which mandated that this fic title start with the letter J (you would think I have a Sesame Street hang up or something.)

So, I apologize for the odd title and therefore, odd last line.

And I KNOW I should sit on this and edit it more, but it is just burning to leap up there. Does that make sense? Plus I work the weekend and will not have the time to work on this anyway. :( But I will have time to check my email to see if anyone read it. :)

/

Mrs. Hughes watched as Charles Carson came into her parlor, closed her door, and then froze there.

It had been a horrid day, she feels it as well, so she is not surprised he would want to sit a bit with her tonight.

"The rest of the staff has gone upstairs?" she asked as she replaced a book on her shelf.

"Yes, Elsie."

She stopped a second then, having only heard her first name come from him a few times before. She finished what she was doing and then walked closer to him. Studying him. He was feeling the strain of the day, she was sure.

"You did well today, Mr Carson. As always." She smiled at him then, quite consciously. "All of it was a frightful business, well managed."

There was a silence then while they both seemed to mentally review the recent horrors.

Her Ladyship had miscarried. There had been the announcement of war. The tense garden party guests. Lady Mary had turned distraught.

And a jilted Lady Edith had slammed no fewer than 4 doors on her way to her room. Dislodging 2 paintings. And breaking a china vase.

And below stairs, there had been another fist fight. Although this bust up had been blissfully short, as Mr. Bates had been involved. The valet had laid out Thomas quite efficiently over what Thomas had said about Anna's potential contribution to the war effort.

Really, Elsie mentally concluded, the sight of the first footman drooling on the floor in his insensibility had been the week's only bright spot.

But Mr. Carson did not want to talk about today, Mrs. Hughes decided, as she looked at the tall man's face.

She walked closer to get a better look at his color. To decide that he was, indeed, well.

Because, while he ran the staff, she looked after him in quiet moments like this. And that was a role she took quite seriously and performed to its fullest.

"Mr Carson?" she asked, as she raised a hand to test his cheek.

"Would you let me..." he said, sounding quite unsure. "Would you let me put my arms around you?"

"I must look undone," she concluded as she dropped her hand. "You are worried I might be affected after today's..."

He was standing there quite rigidly, still. So, she found his next words a bit surprising. "It's me that needs you..."

She didn't make him say another word. Not after the years they had worked together. Stood together. Not after the days they'd had of late.

She took that last step, her arms extended. And she settled her head at his chest.

He closed his eyes and wrapped her up in his long arms. There came a sound of relief from his great chest.

And it was just like before, he reassured himself.

There had been an afternoon two years back when he had been so bold as this. She'd had a letter. The news was bad, he could see. And he had not hesitated. Had not even asked permission then. He had steered her from the hall to a secluded spot and tried to soothe her.

Because he had not always been a butler. A tin man. Charles Carson had been a man of obvious heart before.

Backstage, he had been that man the women had confided in and took comfort from. But somehow never chose. When he went into service, he didn't lose his heart. He assured himself of that. But he did lock it away, perhaps, a little too well.

He sighed into the housekeeper's hair as he thought of time lost and days spent alone. And after a blissful moment of registering only how good she felt against him, he began to worry.

"Am I making you uncomfortable. Be honest with me. Please," he whispered.

"Not at all," she told him.

But her voice seemed off, he noted. He bent his head to get a look at her.

"Why are you crying," he asked, softly. He kept one arm around her then and still managed to press his handkerchief into her hand.

"Because I can, I suppose. Because it isn't every day I have someone ..."

"You could... Have someone. "

Slowly then, so that she would have the time to object or stop him, he leaned closer. He touched his lips to hers gently and waited for her to respond.

She kissed him back. She did, he was sure of it. But just as quickly, she pulled away.

"Mr Carson? Charles."

"I'll go, Elsie," he said with a sad smile.

"I am trying to ask you to stay. Will you sit with me a while? Let me make you some tea?"

He was so heartened to hear her words, he could not answer. He needed to kiss her again.

Her kisses were not shy; she did not pull away. She kissed him like she'd thought of this before. The way he had dreamt of it, perhaps.

And he was frozen there now, considering it and her.

She put her hand to his face again and smiled hard. "Sit down, Charles. We've had a rough week and a rougher day."

"We are in this together," he tried.

"Yes. Or I couldn't possibly do it. Now sit," she admonished, as she took a step toward her couch.

Finally, they were sitting together, and he took her hand in his. "It isn't because of the war, Elsie. Or the pounds of unpleasantness we managed today. You have to believe me."

"Believe you what?"

"How much I needed to hold you. I can't explain other than to tell you that it comes from how I feel about you. How I have felt for you. For years. I should have kissed you years ago."

"You did," she said with a small smile. "Don't think I've forgotten." She reached up to brush at his hair then while she worked on the words. "When I'd got that terrible letter... telling me I'd lost my sister."

He nodded and then took her hand to kiss it.

"You saw me shaking there in the hall," she continued. "You pulled me into the pantry then. And held me. Rocked me. And let me cry. You told me to cry. Which was the most blessed thing. And when I was done... you kissed me."

"Not proper kisses," he said.

"Perhaps, they were the best kisses I have ever had. Because you made me feel so... cared for. As if I was well loved."

"Because you are loved. Just like before, today, and tomorrow," he promised.