Downton Abbey fic
Title: Temporarily Distracted
Pairing: Carson/Hughes
Rated: T, running into a very mild M, I guess.
Set during episode 4.
Written as a celebration for the newly improved lovebelowstairs, and hoping escapedvelocity will believe. :)
As Elsie slowly hung her coat up in the airing cupboard, she listened to the general activity of the staff through the door to the kitchen.
She could hear William playing the piano again. The melancholy tune told her that young Daisy was still frustratingly ignorant to the lad’s charms.
Miss O’Brien was complaining loudly over the music. The absence of Mrs Hughes, yet again, was the subject of today’s gripe. Mrs Patmore was actually agreeing with the lady’s maid. She needed the key to the storage cupboard it seemed.
This was her family? These squabbling children? Was she going to pass up a quiet life with a good man for this?
Sighing, she reached for the door handle, only to pause when the piano went silent and a familiar authoritative voice echoed through from the next room.
Mr Carson wasn’t griping or complaining about her. In fact, he was doing quite the opposite. But his words still depressed her. He was reminding everyone that she had never taken time off to visit family, was rarely ill, and they could jolly well cope if she was running personal errands for a couple of hours.
Anna’s soft tone noted that she would miss Mrs Hughes if she did have to go away for any length of time. Then, the house maid went on to ask Mr Carson whether or not he’d miss Mrs Hughes.
Holding her breath, she strained to hear his answer.
When it came, it was bittersweet. The tone of the house would be lowered without Mrs Hughes’s efficiency and dignity, apparently.
She sagged against the door, telling herself to face reality. Any esteem Charles Carson held for her was solely associated to her position as housekeeper.
Suddenly, the door flung open and she tumbled forward, the low heel of her boot catching on the edge of one of the two steps that led to the kitchen. Her ankle rolled, and she fell in an undignified heap.
“Mrs Hughes!”
Everyone seemed to say her name at once, adding to her mortification.
“I’m alright,” she murmured.
William offered his lanky arm and, flustered, she gripped it tightly and untangled herself enough to stand.
Once upright, she tried to restore her composure. “Thank you, everyone,” she said, straightening her hat and concentrating on keeping her voice calm.
She took a step, but putting her weight on her foot made her cry out from the pain.
An arm came around her shoulders, but it wasn’t the footman’s thin one.
“Lean on me,” a baritone voice commanded near her ear.
All of the stress of the day, combined with her embarrassment, caused her to meekly obey. Resting heavily against Mr Carson’s solid body, she hobbled alongside him, biting on her bottom lip to stop herself from wincing from the pain that shuddered through her with each step.
“This will never do,” he said, after they had taken an age, and were yet to reach the doorway.
“William!” he barked over his shoulder. “Fetch the doctor at once.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
He never acknowledged her protest, but instead the most shocking thing happened. He hauled her up into his arms, as if she weighed no more than Daisy, and began to carry her along the hallway.
“Mr Carson!” she gasped, scandalised.
“Mrs Hughes,” he said, as if they were greeting each other in the morning.
“You must put me down, Mr Carson,” she hissed.
“You can’t possibly make it on your own steam, Mrs Hughes,” he reasoned, his voice annoyingly normal, as if they were discussing the weather.
“I’m too heavy-“
“Nonsense,” he cut her off. “I’m strong enough to cope with you, Mrs Hughes.”
She blinked at the innuendo he’d managed to spice the statement with.
He might be strong enough to cope, but she was not at all sure about herself. It would be so easy to let her cheek rest against his hard chest, to creep her arms around his neck, to dig her fingers into his shoulders, and just let that strength flow through to salve her weakness and vulnerability.
He gently lowered her into the settee that sat in the corner of her parlour, settling himself on its end before turning to glare at the small crowd gathering outside the door and adding to her distress.
“I don’t remember declaring this a holiday!” he growled. “Anna, shut that door behind you.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted as the door shut and the footsteps of her audience gradually faded.
“So you keep saying."
He started to unlace her boots.
“Lucky you had these on,” he commented. “If you had to wear those ridiculous new styles the girls do, your injury would have been much worse.”
“What do you know about women’s shoes, Mr Carson?” she asked, desperate for her mind to keep thinking of everyday things, like shoes and boots, and not to dwell on how gentle his large hands were as they went about their task.
“I saw all sorts of mad fashions when I was on stage,” he admitted.
Of course he had. He had known women who wore outrageous and glamorous outfits. He saw the family and their finery. And here she lay, in her dowdy black dress that hung so low she had no need to even bother with the expense of hosiery. Her one touch of extravagance had been her newly modified hat, and she could now only imagine how it was sitting.
She reached up to remove it, her musing making her realise one of the pins was digging sharply into her scalp.
She struggled due to her angle, until those large hands cupped her head and lifted it up to assist. She trembled involuntarily as his fingers twisted amongst the curls near the base of her neck for a moment too long.
After he carefully put her hat on one of the chairs, he bent and removed her shoe completely, placing it on the floor beside them.
“Now, let me see,” he said.
Although he had obviously been talking to himself, she was the one who did see. In fact, she couldn’t stop herself from watching, fascinated as his hands encircled her ankle. His fingers softly probed, searching for the initial impact of her injury. Her breath began to come in short gasps as he stroked across her skin, everything about his large and masculine hands making her feel delicate, and almost -- she couldn’t quite believe it herself considering her recent fall -- graceful.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” he murmured.
She tried to respond, offer some agreement in his assessment, but was unable. His hands were burning into her bare skin.
It all seemed so ridiculous, he was only touching her ankle and yet it was the most intimate moment she had had with a man for over twenty years. She felt the muscles between her legs tighten. It was an unfamiliar feeling yet, surprisingly, not unwelcome.
His hand crept higher, concentrating on her lower calf.
She heard a low moan, and realised, too late, it had originated from her lips.
His hands instantly fell away, and he looked up, meeting her gaze.
“I’m sorry. I hurt you,” he said, his facial expression contrite.
“No…”
She tried to continue, but her lips had become so dry. He watched her intently as she tried to remedy the situation by licking at them.
“Mrs Hughes…”
His hand lowered to her leg once more, and began to inch higher. This time she couldn’t watch. She could no longer hold his gaze in case he interpreted her longing look correctly. She let her head fall back and squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps she was dreaming. Perhaps that wasn’t his hand skimming around the edge of her underwear to caress her knee.
She let out another quiet moan, wanting more of his touch, her injury now long forgotten.
His fingers swept higher again, until they were drawing circles on her thigh, beneath the material of her knickers.
“Mr Carson,” she gasped out at the same time someone knocked on the parlour door.
Her skirt was quickly drawn back over her legs and he was standing, tugging at his coat and clearing his throat.
“That will be the doctor. I’d better let him in.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice just yet.
She was still silent as he let in, and explained the situation, to the doctor. She just lay on the settee, trying to understand how she could have let such feminine desires enter her life. And with all people, Mr Carson! A man she must continue to work with on a regular basis.
She should tell Dr Clarkson. Perhaps it was something to do with the change, and it was heightening her senses. Perhaps the excitement of Joe’s proposal had gone to her head.
She finally glanced up at Mr Carson. He looked every bit the perfect butler. Perhaps the fall had made her imagine things.
“Thank you, Carson,” Dr Clarkson said. “I can handle it from here.”
Mr Carson nodded, and turned to go. Then, he stopped and turned back.
“You stay here. Anna and O’Brien can manage everything.”
“I can’t…I’ve already had so much time off…” she stuttered.
“Stay,” he ordered, using the firm, inflexible tone he sometimes did that told everyone that he was not to be argued with.
“If the doctor’s diagnosis allows for it, I’ll arrange for someone to assist you to your room after he takes his leave.”
Doctor Clarkson nodded vaguely, his attention diverted by his study of the faint bruising and swelling of her ankle.
“Thank you, Mr Carson,” she said.
He nodded again.
“I’d better get back to it.”
“Yes, the real world,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he agreed, his voice taking on an unusually soft tone. “You’re right.” He straightened his jacket again. “Back to my duties.”
“Back to our duties,” she whispered at the closed door after he’d left.
“What’s that, Mrs Hughes?” Dr Clarkson asked.
“Nothing,” she replied. “It’s nothing, Dr Clarkson.”
The doctor nodded and accepted her absent-minded explanation.
She would need to accept it too. She would need to accept their brief moment meant nothing.
She would never be Mrs Burns, or Mrs Carson. That idea was nothing.
She was Mrs Hughes, the housekeeper, from Downton.
Pairing: Carson/Hughes
Rated: T, running into a very mild M, I guess.
Set during episode 4.
Written as a celebration for the newly improved lovebelowstairs, and hoping escapedvelocity will believe. :)
As Elsie slowly hung her coat up in the airing cupboard, she listened to the general activity of the staff through the door to the kitchen.
She could hear William playing the piano again. The melancholy tune told her that young Daisy was still frustratingly ignorant to the lad’s charms.
Miss O’Brien was complaining loudly over the music. The absence of Mrs Hughes, yet again, was the subject of today’s gripe. Mrs Patmore was actually agreeing with the lady’s maid. She needed the key to the storage cupboard it seemed.
This was her family? These squabbling children? Was she going to pass up a quiet life with a good man for this?
Sighing, she reached for the door handle, only to pause when the piano went silent and a familiar authoritative voice echoed through from the next room.
Mr Carson wasn’t griping or complaining about her. In fact, he was doing quite the opposite. But his words still depressed her. He was reminding everyone that she had never taken time off to visit family, was rarely ill, and they could jolly well cope if she was running personal errands for a couple of hours.
Anna’s soft tone noted that she would miss Mrs Hughes if she did have to go away for any length of time. Then, the house maid went on to ask Mr Carson whether or not he’d miss Mrs Hughes.
Holding her breath, she strained to hear his answer.
When it came, it was bittersweet. The tone of the house would be lowered without Mrs Hughes’s efficiency and dignity, apparently.
She sagged against the door, telling herself to face reality. Any esteem Charles Carson held for her was solely associated to her position as housekeeper.
Suddenly, the door flung open and she tumbled forward, the low heel of her boot catching on the edge of one of the two steps that led to the kitchen. Her ankle rolled, and she fell in an undignified heap.
“Mrs Hughes!”
Everyone seemed to say her name at once, adding to her mortification.
“I’m alright,” she murmured.
William offered his lanky arm and, flustered, she gripped it tightly and untangled herself enough to stand.
Once upright, she tried to restore her composure. “Thank you, everyone,” she said, straightening her hat and concentrating on keeping her voice calm.
She took a step, but putting her weight on her foot made her cry out from the pain.
An arm came around her shoulders, but it wasn’t the footman’s thin one.
“Lean on me,” a baritone voice commanded near her ear.
All of the stress of the day, combined with her embarrassment, caused her to meekly obey. Resting heavily against Mr Carson’s solid body, she hobbled alongside him, biting on her bottom lip to stop herself from wincing from the pain that shuddered through her with each step.
“This will never do,” he said, after they had taken an age, and were yet to reach the doorway.
“William!” he barked over his shoulder. “Fetch the doctor at once.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
He never acknowledged her protest, but instead the most shocking thing happened. He hauled her up into his arms, as if she weighed no more than Daisy, and began to carry her along the hallway.
“Mr Carson!” she gasped, scandalised.
“Mrs Hughes,” he said, as if they were greeting each other in the morning.
“You must put me down, Mr Carson,” she hissed.
“You can’t possibly make it on your own steam, Mrs Hughes,” he reasoned, his voice annoyingly normal, as if they were discussing the weather.
“I’m too heavy-“
“Nonsense,” he cut her off. “I’m strong enough to cope with you, Mrs Hughes.”
She blinked at the innuendo he’d managed to spice the statement with.
He might be strong enough to cope, but she was not at all sure about herself. It would be so easy to let her cheek rest against his hard chest, to creep her arms around his neck, to dig her fingers into his shoulders, and just let that strength flow through to salve her weakness and vulnerability.
He gently lowered her into the settee that sat in the corner of her parlour, settling himself on its end before turning to glare at the small crowd gathering outside the door and adding to her distress.
“I don’t remember declaring this a holiday!” he growled. “Anna, shut that door behind you.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted as the door shut and the footsteps of her audience gradually faded.
“So you keep saying."
He started to unlace her boots.
“Lucky you had these on,” he commented. “If you had to wear those ridiculous new styles the girls do, your injury would have been much worse.”
“What do you know about women’s shoes, Mr Carson?” she asked, desperate for her mind to keep thinking of everyday things, like shoes and boots, and not to dwell on how gentle his large hands were as they went about their task.
“I saw all sorts of mad fashions when I was on stage,” he admitted.
Of course he had. He had known women who wore outrageous and glamorous outfits. He saw the family and their finery. And here she lay, in her dowdy black dress that hung so low she had no need to even bother with the expense of hosiery. Her one touch of extravagance had been her newly modified hat, and she could now only imagine how it was sitting.
She reached up to remove it, her musing making her realise one of the pins was digging sharply into her scalp.
She struggled due to her angle, until those large hands cupped her head and lifted it up to assist. She trembled involuntarily as his fingers twisted amongst the curls near the base of her neck for a moment too long.
After he carefully put her hat on one of the chairs, he bent and removed her shoe completely, placing it on the floor beside them.
“Now, let me see,” he said.
Although he had obviously been talking to himself, she was the one who did see. In fact, she couldn’t stop herself from watching, fascinated as his hands encircled her ankle. His fingers softly probed, searching for the initial impact of her injury. Her breath began to come in short gasps as he stroked across her skin, everything about his large and masculine hands making her feel delicate, and almost -- she couldn’t quite believe it herself considering her recent fall -- graceful.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” he murmured.
She tried to respond, offer some agreement in his assessment, but was unable. His hands were burning into her bare skin.
It all seemed so ridiculous, he was only touching her ankle and yet it was the most intimate moment she had had with a man for over twenty years. She felt the muscles between her legs tighten. It was an unfamiliar feeling yet, surprisingly, not unwelcome.
His hand crept higher, concentrating on her lower calf.
She heard a low moan, and realised, too late, it had originated from her lips.
His hands instantly fell away, and he looked up, meeting her gaze.
“I’m sorry. I hurt you,” he said, his facial expression contrite.
“No…”
She tried to continue, but her lips had become so dry. He watched her intently as she tried to remedy the situation by licking at them.
“Mrs Hughes…”
His hand lowered to her leg once more, and began to inch higher. This time she couldn’t watch. She could no longer hold his gaze in case he interpreted her longing look correctly. She let her head fall back and squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps she was dreaming. Perhaps that wasn’t his hand skimming around the edge of her underwear to caress her knee.
She let out another quiet moan, wanting more of his touch, her injury now long forgotten.
His fingers swept higher again, until they were drawing circles on her thigh, beneath the material of her knickers.
“Mr Carson,” she gasped out at the same time someone knocked on the parlour door.
Her skirt was quickly drawn back over her legs and he was standing, tugging at his coat and clearing his throat.
“That will be the doctor. I’d better let him in.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice just yet.
She was still silent as he let in, and explained the situation, to the doctor. She just lay on the settee, trying to understand how she could have let such feminine desires enter her life. And with all people, Mr Carson! A man she must continue to work with on a regular basis.
She should tell Dr Clarkson. Perhaps it was something to do with the change, and it was heightening her senses. Perhaps the excitement of Joe’s proposal had gone to her head.
She finally glanced up at Mr Carson. He looked every bit the perfect butler. Perhaps the fall had made her imagine things.
“Thank you, Carson,” Dr Clarkson said. “I can handle it from here.”
Mr Carson nodded, and turned to go. Then, he stopped and turned back.
“You stay here. Anna and O’Brien can manage everything.”
“I can’t…I’ve already had so much time off…” she stuttered.
“Stay,” he ordered, using the firm, inflexible tone he sometimes did that told everyone that he was not to be argued with.
“If the doctor’s diagnosis allows for it, I’ll arrange for someone to assist you to your room after he takes his leave.”
Doctor Clarkson nodded vaguely, his attention diverted by his study of the faint bruising and swelling of her ankle.
“Thank you, Mr Carson,” she said.
He nodded again.
“I’d better get back to it.”
“Yes, the real world,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he agreed, his voice taking on an unusually soft tone. “You’re right.” He straightened his jacket again. “Back to my duties.”
“Back to our duties,” she whispered at the closed door after he’d left.
“What’s that, Mrs Hughes?” Dr Clarkson asked.
“Nothing,” she replied. “It’s nothing, Dr Clarkson.”
The doctor nodded and accepted her absent-minded explanation.
She would need to accept it too. She would need to accept their brief moment meant nothing.
She would never be Mrs Burns, or Mrs Carson. That idea was nothing.
She was Mrs Hughes, the housekeeper, from Downton.