A/N: A drabble prompt from revfrog on tumblr.

Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey


It was the same rule in every house Phyllis had ever worked in: no men in the women's wing, and no women in the men's wing.

Yet there she was.

It was a simple rule with a simple purpose: to keep the male staff away from the female staff in a way that kept the men from forcing themselves on the women, and kept the women from doing anything they might later regret.

Yet there she was.

She wasn't in the men's wing per se, nor was Mr. Molesley in the women's, but the vestibule between the two was a fine enough line to be toeing if they were caught by Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes.

Yet there she was, and there he was, both of them glowing in the dim corridor, her from the two glasses of port she'd allowed herself during the earlier festivities, and him from...well why did he appear to glow? He hadn't had a glass of anything all evening (there had been an incident a few years prior, according to Madge, that proved Mr. Molesley and alcohol were not compatible in the slightest, and apparently Mr. Carson was especially strict after that, determined to prevent such a thing from ever happening again), yet he seemed to radiate...seemed to radiate what?

"I suppose this is goodnight, then," he said, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet shuffling together on the wooden floor.

"It doesn't have to be," she told him, "not yet, anyways."

Oh, she was a bold one, wasn't she? Saying such things when it was her job to set an example for the younger maids of the household, or when Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson could come upstairs any second.

"And what, exactly, do you mean by that, Mrs. Baxter?"

"Well Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson won't be up for quite some time, so this doesn't have to be goodbye."

Those two glasses of port had made her bold indeed. She never would've said such a thing otherwise, would she? She would've left it at "goodnight" and she and Mr. Molesley would've gone their separate ways. They'd see each other in the morning, so there was really no reason for them to linger here like young lovers (which, at forty-two and forty-one, they most certainly were not, not anymore) and wait to get caught by the butler and the housekeeper.

"Mrs. Baxter-"

"Phyllis," she corrected. She knew his Christian name, so it was only fair that he get to know hers. "You can call me Phyllis when it's just us two."

"Phyllis," he said, slowly, as if he was tasting it. "It's a, er, lovely name."

Phyllis felt her cheeks redden. "Thank you," she said, pleased somehow that he liked her name, which she found horribly old-fashioned and odd.

"It's Greek, you know."

"Excuse me?"

"Phyllis. She was a princess, I think, and her lover left her" - he knit his brows in concentration, and Phyllis thought for a moment that he might burst something if he wasn't careful- "and when she died- her lover didn't come back, can't remember why- she was turned into an almond tree."

"That's horrible," she said. "I wouldn't want to become a tree when I died, even if it was something nice. Where did you hear that story?"

"My mum had a book of myths, used to read a couple to us each night if we were good. I always liked to hear them, to know what people a long time ago thought about things like the seasons, the stars, love."

"Love?"

"Oh yes. The Greeks believed that there was this rascal- Eros, I think was his name- who went around shooting folks with arrows, to make them fall in love. Those were his gold arrows. He had a quiver of lead arrows too, which inspired hate," he explained, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he spoke.

"Oh my." Phyllis covered her mouth with her hands, hiding her amusement at how excited Mr. Molesley was, like a child on Christmas day. "Will you tell me more stories?"

"Later, maybe," he promised, his excitement dying out as the sound of Mr. Carson's slow, but undoubtedly steady, footsteps came up the stairs.

"Tomorrow, after luncheon. Promise me."

"And what, might I ask, are we promising?" came Mr. Carson's voice from the landing. "I will not have some Christmas miracle performed in my house, do I make myself clear?"

Both Phyllis and Mr. Molesley blushed, their cheeks turning a vivid red that was unmistakable in the light of the singular electric light fixture between them.

"Y-yes Mr. Carson," Mr. Molesley said, projecting his voice so the butler could hear him, while Phyllis slipped away to the women's wing, a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.


A/N: I hope you enjoyed this little drabble, and thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think by way of review, and I hope to write much more Baxley in the future.