He's falling asleep beside her now, has nodded off twice already, and Elsie smiles faintly, watches him through the veil of her lowered lashes. He's trying so hard, so hard to stay awake, to sit upright, stately as always in his seat, but the passage is soothing, with gentle rocking motions, and it's become quiet in the train, dim now that the sun has begun to set in the sky. She can hardly blame him. Mrs. Patmore had fallen asleep across from her almost as soon as they took off – the poor woman exhausted from waking up earlier than usual, from overseeing the packed lunches, from keeping her maids alert and moving.

Turning the page of her novel, Elsie finds herself rather at peace, feels a muffled contentment to be in their little booth, her arm pressed against Mr. Carson's. Quietly delights in the warmth radiating from his big body now, and she shifts ever so slightly, just so that their thighs are touching. It's one of the few liberties they take really, something he never complains about – encourages it, even. He's always sat a little closer than proper to her at church, she sometimes keeps her knee against his under the dining table. It's not something they ever (would ever) talk about, something she isn't even sure he does consciously, but it's one of the few things that she asks for, revels in, something he's always given her, taken for himself.

"I was wondering, Mrs. Hughes," he says then, and his voice is a quiet rumble, endearingly thick with sleepiness. He traces the rim of his hat against his knees, leans almost undetectably closer to her. "If there was anything in particular you'd like to see while we're in London."

Elsie closes the book on her lap, is careful to keep her finger wedged between the pages. Stares at the wall behind Mrs. Patmore then, as she ponders for a moment. "Well, I'll not lie, Mr. Carson – I'm a little jealous that you men are going to the seaside with the family." She smiles. "But no, I – I suppose I'm just happy to be coming along this season."

Looking down, she fidgets with the volume, with her hands. She's more than happy, really, happier than she's ready to admit. Thrilled, in fact. She'd always wondered what he got up to in Grantham House, about his daily rounds there, had occasionally sneered at his letters about the balls he'd planned with the London housekeeper. (These were moments of weakness, she concedes, only when he was particularly formal in his writing, only when she'd found his words wanting, found herself wanting him home again.) And better still, she saw how pleased he had been – had seen his eyebrows shoot up in pleasant surprise when Her Ladyship had informed them of the changes, had asked herself and Mrs. Patmore if they would accompany them.

He hums a sleepy acknowledgement at her words then, and she can feel his body relaxing, reclining gently into the cushioned backing of their seats, as he mumbles his reply. "It'll be nice to have you there."

She purses her lips, barely restrains a smile. Steals a glimpse at him then, turns to look up at his sleeping face, to see his cheek turned into the dip of the soft fabric seat. The stray lock of silver hair curling onto his forehead, the lashes making shadows on his cheeks. Her heart clenches at the sight. Swallowing, Elsie glances at Mrs. Patmore, who is still sound asleep against the window frame, and likely would be for the rest of their journey. She wonders then, for a moment, if she could, if it would be venturing too far, asking for too much, if he would protest. They have another hour yet at least, and perhaps if anyone should come in, she could call it an accident, could brush it off as an act of unconsciousness.

She bites her lip.

Slowly, ever so softly, she slips her novel onto the piece of seat beside her and turns her head. Presses herself gently against his arm, touches her cheek to the tweed of his jacket, to the strong bicep underneath. Inhales sharply then, when she feels him tense. But no – he isn't protesting, he's not pushing her away. If anything, he's repositioning himself to make her more comfortable. Lightly, ever so gradually, he slides further in the seat until he is lower down, low enough for her head to rest comfortably on his shoulder, in the nook of his neck. She can feel the click in his throat then as he swallows hard, and just as careful, just as hesitantly as she had done, he leans toward her. Rests the softness of his cheek against her hair.

She smiles into his shoulder.