3 A.M.

Disclaimer: Downton Abbey would be a very different show, believe me, if I were the one in charge. Downton Abbey belongs to one Julian Fellowes, and the song 3 AM which inspired this piece belongs to Matchbox Twenty.

Summary: He lowered his hand from the doorknob and flattened his other palm against the cold wood of the door. He lowered his forehead to rest beside his hand and for a moment stood there with his eyes closed listening to the ratta-tat-tat of the rain outside and the tears falling like rain inside and the sound of his own heart breaking. Spoilers from Season Three. Oneshot.

Pairing: Charles Carson/ Elsie Hughes.

Author's Note: So, I'm an American (Iowan, to be specific – cookies if you can find that on a map without google), this means that one, I spell things funny, and two, I've not actually seen any of season three, mind you, I've read the spoilers, the fics, and seen all the .gifs on tumblr, but I've not actually watched any of the new episodes. My mother would kill me if I watched them without her. My point is this, I know the ends of lots of the episodes, but I don't know the means, therefore this story is AU.

Author's Note the Second: I've played around with the formatting a bit as well as fixed some typeos (some glaring, others less so), hopefully this will be more pleasing to ya'll. Keep the critiques coming!

She say it's cold outside and she hands me my raincoat

She's always worried about things like that

She says it's all gonna end and it might as well be my fault

And she only sleeps when it's raining

And she screams and her voice is straining

"Alfred," Her voice was sharp to get the tall young man's attention, but softened slightly as he turned, "what do you think you're doing?" She asked, joining him in the open backdoor. She must look up and up to actually look at the footman.

"Mrs. Hughes, I was just going to-" the gingery haired youth began, torn between being intimidated by the smaller Scottish woman and attempting to assert himself professionally. But Elsie waved off his response, the question itself was unimportant.

"You were about to go darting about outside in the rain." She gestured to the falling rain outside, the open door allowing the cool weather to creep into the house and down the hall. Alfred looked sheepish but did not contradict her. From the hooks on the wall beside the door Elsie produced a jacket; one he knows was not there a week ago. She'd gone to the village on her half day off and specifically purchased that jacket (with money from the uniform fund of course) so that the giraffe of a young man would have a Mack that would fit him and his ridiculously long limbs. She handed him the coat with a small smile and said simply,

"It's cold outside."

She always worries about things like that, the little things. Like if the young household staff would be outside without a proper jacket for the weather. Even if they were just going to the end of the lane and back she would see to it that they were dressed appropriately. She worries about everyone – if they have had enough to eat, gotten enough sleep, had a jacket that fit them properly, not simply fit on them. She worried about everything and everyone. Everyone except herself. Her needs are second if they are acknowledged at all. In many ways it makes her perfect for service. She put the family first, the house first. Her worries and her caring make her a very accessible housekeeper, especially to the younger staff who might have left their own homes but were still in need of mothering.

And in so many ways it was an awful flaw. She was far from Atlas, despite what she might think, she did not need to carry the world on her shoulders. To the untrained eye Elsie Hughes was just as she ever was, but to him, under his gaze he could see the cracks. She was slowing down, She'd lost a little of that magic drive. The circles under her hazel eyes were a shade too dark, the wrinkles where the smiles had once been were now just a hair too deep, and her steps were just a bit too heavy. And although she spoke just as she always had, a mixture of sass and sincerity, her voice was straining.