A/N: So I've been working on a series of drabble prompts submitted to me via tumblr, and I'm going to post them here.
This first one is requested by revfrog
Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey
Prompt: Baxley, flowers
"Um...Mrs. Baxter?"
She looks up from the lace she is mending, the needle clutched between thumb and forefinger of one hand, and the lace draped gently over the curved fingers of the other. A kind smile opens instantly across her lips. "Yes?" she answers, her hands going still, suspended mid-stitch and as still as if made of stone.
He swallows, though not too hard, lest the words that he's spent the last hour practicing like an actor waiting to go on stage disappear down his throat. His thumb runs along the stems of the flowers, which he holds out of Mrs. Baxter's sight, in hopes that he might surprise her.
"Well I was wondering…I thought you might like…"
God damn him and his schoolboy shyness! Why does he struggle to articulate the affection he feels for the woman who sits before him, her quick, careful fingers holding a needle and thread as if it is light as a feather? They are both adults, no younger than forty-two, both of them, yet there he is, struggling to tell her a simple thing or even keep from turning bright red under her large, kind eyes.
"What might I like?" she asks, setting the lace down and placing the needle beside it. She watches him with a patience he equates with a mother waiting for her child to take its first steps, her eyes encouraging him to speak.
Come on you old fool, he thinks, swallowing again. It's now or never, and you haven't all day.
"I thought you might like these." He holds the small bouquet up and offers it to her, the butterflies in his stomach leaping about, nervous as ever. "They're from my father's garden, nothing like old lady Grantham's, I know, but-"
"They're absolutely lovely," Mrs. Baxter exclaims, her dark eyes lighting up, and she stands to accept his gift, bringing the bundle of petals and stems to her face and inhaling their scent. "Thank you Mr. Molesley. It's very considerate of you, to think of me."
I think of you all the time, he wants to say, and his success almost makes him bold enough to do so, but he catches himself before he can ruin the sweet taste of his small victory.
"You're welcome, Mrs. Baxter," is all he says before making a quick exit, his heart pounding merrily in his chest and the lady's maid no doubt watching him as the prince watched Cinderella flee the ball at the first stroke of midnight, confused by the sudden disappearance of the first footman.