Author's Note: This story is set near the end of Season 2, episode 3. The action commences immediately after the scene in the kitchen in which the true contents of the soup tureen are revealed and Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes set the matter aside for the moment so that Mr. Carson and William can finish serving the state dinner.

Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their setting are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

The bustle in the kitchen continued as Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, and the others worked furiously, transferring food from pots and pans into serving dishes, and arranging garnishes and other final touches to the presentation before each remove was sent up. Mrs. Hughes had left them to it and gone back to her own duties, but Mr. Branson continued to stand where they had left him, leaning slightly back against the cupboard, his borrowed footman's finery still immaculate, lost in thought, without duties of his own to return to, since he had forfeited serving duties, and Mr. Pratt was covering those of chauffeur for the night to allow Mr. Branson to assist Mr. Carson. Assist?! Mr. Branson waited as his heart, which had been racing from the moment he had filled the silver soup tureen, began at last to slow. He felt its familiar stutter (was that the 'pan systolic murmur'?) beneath his still folded arms, and took a deep breath.

"I defy you to sigh," he heard Mrs. Patmore say, and looked at her to see whom she was scolding. She continued her tirade, since no one under her authority would be likely to answer back, and he realized she was looking at him. "What on earth were you thinking of?" She didn't pause, "And such a waste of food, too!" 'Waste of food?' he thought, 'What waste of food? They took the soup up, he hadn't touched it… did she mean the sour milk?... well, it would have been food, if he'd used it to make soda bread, but honestly—'

"Are you still here?!" Mr. Carson was back. Mr. Branson lowered his arms to his sides. Mr. Carson used his own arms to make a sweeping negative gesture. Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Branson saw that Mrs. Hughes was observing from the door. "I am NOT doing this tonight," Mr. Carson declared. "Go back to your cottage, Mr. Branson. You'll be dealt with in the morning."

'Dealt with?!' Mr. Carson was looking at him oddly, though Branson had not spoken the thought aloud.

"Did you hear me, Mr. Branson?" the butler inquired, politely.

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

"Then get out of my sight!"

Mr. Branson was by no means unwilling to flee the scene, but to do so he had to pass quite close to Mrs. Patmore, who took the opportunity to aim a swat at his passing backside. Mrs. Hughes, observing, had thought the cook meant it only as a symbolic gesture, to figuratively speed the boy on his way, but in fact her blow connected with a loud clap, as well as sufficient force to make him stumble. He aimed a startled look back at her, but said nothing, opting instead to proceed as quickly as possible out of the kitchen.

You'll be dealt with in the morning.

It had confused Branson a little to be back at the chauffeur's cottage. His plan had involved being sacked, it was true, but he had expected to be arrested, not still there at Downton to have the sacking be done in person. He did not look forward to it. He should have been hungry, as it was dinnertime, but his stomach was in a knot, and he felt he'd be grateful never to have to look at another morsel of food again… which was lucky, since he was less than twelve hours away from being turned off without notice and without a reference, and God alone knew where his next meal would come from…

Branson had stripped off and hung up the footman's livery while thinking these cheerful thoughts, then kept his mind carefully empty while he brushed it. There was nothing else for him to do, since he had packed his belongings in preparation for his expected arrest. He sat down on the bed, and thought of Lady Sybil, beautiful in evening dress as he'd last seen her at the dining table, talking animatedly to Mr. Matthew as they waited for the first course. Branson would never see her again. He lay down and slept.

In the morning, Tom realized he did not know what he was supposed to do. He had never been sacked before. Was he supposed to go to Mr. Carson? Or Lord Grantham?! The mere thought made him ill, but it was Lord Grantham who had hired him, so… but this was foolish. He could not just go up and ask to see Lord Grantham, so obviously Mr. Carson would have someone bring him a message to tell him what to do.

Tom had just set his morning tea to steep in the old brown teapot and dished up a big bowl of stirabout (since it might be his last for a while) when there was a knock at the door. He sighed: there it was then, he was finished. He went to answer the door.

"Mr. Carson!"

"Were you expecting someone else, Mr. Branson?"

Tom shook his head, possibly to clear it, since he also more politely verbalized an answer, "No, Mr. Carson." The (soon-to-be-former) chauffeur stepped back to allow the butler to enter. Mr. Carson shot a glance around the room, taking in the boy's portmanteau, apparently ready for a departure, the library book on the small side table next to the single armchair, and the bowl of oatmeal porridge on the table in the 'kitchen' area. This table boasted two straight-backed chairs, so Mr. Carson walked to the one furthest from the boy's breakfast and seated himself. Tom followed him to the table but remained standing, a troubled look on his face.

Mr. Carson tilted his head to indicate the bowl. "Eat your breakfast, Mr. Branson, then we'll talk when you're ready." Tom opened his mouth to say he was ready now, but what came out was, "Will you have some tea while you wait, Mr. Carson?"

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Branson." The boy turned to the counter where the teapot waited and got down two cups and a small plate. Mr. Carson watched wordlessly while the boy cut two slices off a small round loaf and placed them on the plate. He brought the plate to the table and placed it before Mr. Carson, then brought the butter bell and a small knife as well. He went back to the teapot and poured two cups. He set the first before Mr. Carson, and the second by his own place, then fetched a bowl of sugar and set that near Mr. Carson as well.

Tom seated himself and obediently placed spoonsful of oatmeal in his mouth and swallowed them, as that was what he'd been bid to do, but watched Mr. Carson spread butter on his soda bread and put sugar in his tea with a kind of wistful gratitude. If he was being sacked, at least Mr. Carson didn't hate him, but was eating breakfast with him one last time.

Mr. Carson took a bite of the bread. Despite himself, he smiled at Mr. Branson. "Did you make this bread?" Branson nodded."It's quite good."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson."

The boy fell silent to concentrate on consuming his meal. Mr. Carson followed his example, finished his bread and sipped at his tea, watching the boy spoon up the last of the oatmeal and wash it down with his own delicate sips of tea. Branson had been looking down at his bowl, at the table, at his cup, but finally he set the cup down and looked up at his guest, a long thoughtful look. He looked away again, moistened his lips, ran his teeth over the lower one, swallowed, took a deep audible breath, then looked back up at Carson. "I'm ready, Mr. Carson."

"Ready, Mr. Branson?"

"You said we would talk when I was ready."

"Ah. And what would you like to talk about, Mr. Branson?"

"I'd like to apologize."

"Apologize?" Mr. Carson seemed surprised. "Some sort of political protest, wasn't that what you intended?" Branson nodded. "I find it difficult to envisage the idea of your apologizing for attempting a political protest—"

"Not for that—"

"No? For what then?"

"For lying to you in order to do it."

"I don't see how you'd have gotten into the dining room to stage your protest without lying to me," Mr. Carson pointed out.

"I couldn't see how either, otherwise I wouldn't have done it," Mr. Branson smilingly agreed.

"Oh, I see." Mr. Carson had not seemed angry up to this point, but suddenly he was. Very. "You'd like to ask me to forgive you for offering to 'help' by serving at table," thinking about how grateful he had felt at the time suddenly enraged the butler," in order to 'keep up the honor of Downton,' as you so aptly put it, when in reality what you wanted to do was to spit on the honor of Downton, and bring disgrace on Captain Crawley, Lord Grantham, his family, myself, the entire staff, and above all, yourself! Is that what you'd like? To ask my forgiveness for that?"

"No, I don't want to ask you to forgive that… I've an idea it isn't actually forgivable… but I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for it, even though I know you won't believe me. I wish I had offered to serve on some occasion when I could really have done so. It wasn't well done, and I'm ashamed of myself because of it." Branson was not looking down, he was not mumbling, his voice was strong and he looked Carson in the eye… but Carson believed him. His rage left him.

There was no way this boy would really have poured that slop over General Strutt's head in front of the entire Crawley family and their guests… he had been in the dining room for minutes, well over the time needed to pour out that slop had he been able to bring himself to do it. If Carson and Anna had not arrived, Carson was certain Mr. Branson would have left the dining room himself, tureen intact, without making his protest… Still, there was no sense challenging the boy to make another attempt in a foolish effort to prove he would have done it by saying so. Let him believe he was only narrowly prevented from "succeeding" in his protest.

"I appreciate your apology, Mr. Branson, but I'm afraid I must extract a promise from you as well."

"A promise?"

"Yes. You must promise me that you won't engage in any further political protests while you're here at Downton."

Branson was perplexed. 'While he was here at Downton… what, in the next five minutes?' Then it suddenly dawned on him what the words meant, and he felt a rush of gratitude. "How long would I have, Mr. Carson?"

Carson considered him strangely. "Well, that's sort of up to you, isn't it, Mr. Branson?"

Branson knew he didn't deserve such generosity, but he had no idea how long it would take to find another job. He wondered if this meant he would be given a reference as well. "Do you think I could stay as long as a mo-" suddenly he stopped. 'It's up to me?' Mr. Carson was regarding him with amusement now. Mr. Branson's breath left him. "You're not sacking me," he declared.

"What was your first clue?" Mr. Carson couldn't resist teasing, then immediately became serious again. "You are correct-"

"But-"

"-provided you give me your promise. Otherwise I assure you I will certainly sack you this minute, without notice and without a character." Mr. Branson was trying to break in again, but Mr. Carson stopped him with a gesture. "You may want to hold your expressions of gratitude until we've finished. Right now we're only discussing your promise. After I have it, we can move on to discuss your punishment." Well, that certainly silenced the boy right enough.

Mr. Carson waited. Mr. Branson waited. They looked at each other. Carson had told Mrs. Hughes it was a matter requiring delicate handling, but honestly, he felt like kicking the boy, and some of the thought crept into his expression. Mr. Branson saw it with dismay and risked speaking again.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson, but are you waiting for me, or am I waiting for you?"

"I," Mr. Carson fumed, "am waiting for you to give me your promise."

'Ah,' Branson thought, "I pro- wait, Mr. Carson, I just told you a bald-faced lie not 36 hours ago for the sake of a political protest. Will you believe any promise I make?"

'Was the boy insane?' Carson wondered. "I have asked for your promise, so obviously, yes I would believe it. Are you planning to lie when you promise? Do you want to leave Downton for good this very morning, Mr. Branson? Yes or no?!"

"No!" The immediate, nearly shouted response startled both men.

Mr. Carson's voice, in contrast, was now deadly quiet, "No, what?"

Branson swallowed. "No, I don't want to leave Downton." He was no longer looking at Carson; he was staring at the table.

"Your promise, then."

"I pro-"

"Look at me while you promise," Carson interrupted.

Branson looked up at him and started again. "I promise I won't engage in any more political protests, Mr. Carson."

"Good."

Branson's gaze drifted down, then snapped up when he remembered he'd been told to look at the butler. He waited, but Carson said nothing further. Branson continued to look at the older man obediently, not staring, just looking, and saw in Carson's eyes that he was going to have to ask. He did not want to.

"Mr. Carson?"

"Yes, Mr. Branson?"

Branson thought about how difficult it had been to declare himself to Lady Sybil, back at the hospital in York. This was hard, but not as hard as that had been... and he acknowledged that it should be difficult. His throat was dry. He swallowed and took a deep breath, then let it out, while Carson waited patiently until Branson was once again "ready."

"What's... what's my punishment, Mr. Carson?" Branson kept his eyes on Carson's though he knew he looked afraid... he was afraid, yet, if he wasn't being sacked, how bad could it be?

"For the next month, unless you have work that requires it, you'll keep to your cottage."

Branson's head tilted, considering what this meant. Normally, he did stay around the chauffeur's cottage or garage, unless he was helping out elsewhere, or...

"If you bring her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess, for dinner, you'll return here until it's time to take her home... you'll eat your meals here, you'll spend any time you have free here. Not in the servants' hall, not with the kitchen staff, not at the stables, not with the gardeners, not with the electrical engineers, not at the pub in the village. Here."

... at mealtimes. Branson had purposely ingratiated himself with every working group on the estate because of his dislike of eating alone. His work on the motorcars was nearly always performed alone: he wanted to talk to people at meals. He wondered how Mr. Carson had known so exactly what penalty would indeed be a punishment.

Carson had continued to speak. "Downton is a team, Mr. Branson, and when you act against Downton, then you're no longer part of the team. You're alone. I just want to make sure you understand what you risked: to give you a taste of what being alone might be like.

It could be bad. It could be very bad.

"Do you accept, Mr. Branson?"

"Is my acceptance necessary?" Branson wondered. "You can impose any penalty you like, surely?"

"You're not yet back in a position to play word games, Mr. Branson; you're going to have to re-earn that kind of latitude, I hope you understand that." Branson was nodding in chagrin, so Carson left the point. "I'm not going to lock you in, nor set a guard on you, and to be perfectly honest, if you chose to ignore my strictures, the only way I could 'enforce' them would be to relate this entire affair to his lordship, which would certainly confuse him, since all he knows at this point is that you offered to help serve last night but were unfortunately struck down by illness before you could do so." He pointedly ignored Branson's shocked stare except to say, "so please respond appropriately when he asks if you are feeling better.

"To return to the point of our discussion, when I asked if you accepted, I was inquiring whether it is your intention to submit to your punishment and abide by the terms I've laid down in good faith, because if you do NOT so intend, I would like to be informed immediately, rather than be made to look a fool by your disobedience."

A month in coventry. One hundred twenty meals eaten alone. His pledge not to cheat, but to abide by it willingly, to enforce it on himself... Branson thought again of Lady Sybil. He would see her again and speak to her. He would be able to remain near her. For that, he would consent to eat every meal for the rest of his life alone, if necessary.

"Mr. Carson, I accept."

"Good." Carson rose to go, and Branson immediately rose as well. "There's just one last thing."

"Yes, Mr. Carson?"

"You are never, and I mean never, not even if the king himself is to dine at Downton, you will NEVER again offer to serve at table. Is that clear?"

"Yes, it's clear, Mr. Carson." Branson gave such a rueful, abashed half-laugh that Carson actually wasn't offended by it. "I'd never dare."