A Christmas gift to Syblime, as part of the 2014's S/T fic exchange.
As you'll see it is not totally canon, as at this time Thomas wasn't working anymore at the castle but had volunteered for the army, yet it's just a small twist for the story to fit the required specific ("Thomas bantering with someone")

Giving a hand

"For God's sake, William, move! You're in the way!"

Thomas Barrow, footman in Downton Abbey, was busy as a bee, as was the rest of the Abbey's staff.

"Oh, stop bullying him, Thomas", Daisy told him while threading her way through the crowd of her fellow staff members, a silver tray in one hand and a porcelain sauce boat in the other.

"Oww! Isn't that very sweet?" Thomas sneered. "Now you're William's knight in shining armour, Daisy? Defending him, aren't we? The scullery maid seems to be growing a spine, after all... Too bad your sweetheart isn't!"

William took a step forward and was about to finally retort something when Daisy beat him to it, her face beet red with embarrassment:

"He– he... he is not my sweetheart!" she exclaimed, turning an even deeper shade of red at the thought of what the others might think. Of what William himself might think. "B– but... but contrary to you," she went on stammering a bit, surprised at her own sudden boldness, "he is a true good friend! Now leave him alone and mind your own business, I'm sure you have a lot to do, like the rest of us!"

"And if you don't," Mrs Patmore put in her two cent, "I sure can find you something to do, there is enough work for twice as much staff right now!"

No one paid attention to William's suddenly dejected air, least of all Mr Branson, the chauffeur, who had preoccupations of his own on his mind.

He too had his share of tasks on his to do list: granted, his position in Downton Abbey had absolutely nothing to do with preparing or serving meals, but it didn't mean he could idly peruse through the latest newspapers while his co-workers were busy bustling about. Far from it!

After all, there was only two hours left before the family's Christmas Eve dinner, and despite their lord and master's magnanimity that granted them their annual evening off, they still had much to do to get everything ready in due time. Which means that Mr Branson exceptionally had some work to do inside the castle: for instance he had just had to give a hand to decorate the hall, to move some furniture and to go get a few crates from the attic.

"Mr Branson," Mr Patmore told him, "I know this is not within your job duties, and I also know this is below your position, but could you please bring me the crates of vegetables that have been delivered this morning and are kept outside in the cold? I'm sorry to ask you that, but all the hall-boys are otherwise occupied, and Thomas and William are busy laying the table."

"That's not a problem, Mrs Patmore, I'll get them for you. Everyone has his share to do today. I'm at your disposal for anything else, if you need me. Please, don't hesitate to make use of me for whatever you might–"

"Careful, young man," Mrs Patmore replied with a playful smile in her voice, "I could take your offer at face value... I might be an old woman, I'm a woman all the same!"

Too taken aback to react, Mr Branson didn't immediately find a witty yet respectful retort to her wisecrack. But Mrs Hughes didn't miss one single word of this exchange.

"Well, Mrs Patmore", she said, " we're just lucky Mr Carson wasn't here to hear that, or we'd have had to deal with a butler's heart attack on top of everything else!"

"My my my! Mrs Patmore!" Thomas exclaimed, "you've been playing your cards close to your chest... All this time and we didn't notice that you had a thing for much younger men!"

"Fearing competition, Thomas?" she asked in jest. "But more seriously, there's no harm in some friendly joking. Mr Branson knows fairly well this wasn't a genuine proposition..."

"How so, Mrs Patmore," Mr Branson answered acting hurt, "you mean this wasn't a sincere dishonest proposition? You're breaking my heart," he added, raising his right hand to his chest in a theatrical gesture.

"Toying with men's hearts, Mrs Patmore?" Thomas teased her. "Who would have thought? I'm sure you let a line of bleeding and weeping male hearts in your wake"

"Well, enough banter for now, gentlemen," Mrs Hughes cut in. "Thomas, please, take this tray upstairs. Mr Branson, as you agreed to give a helping hand, would you please bring Mrs Patmore her crates?"

"Of course Mrs Hughes," he answered, rather happy to escape the servants' hall for a few minutes after this.

He left when Mrs Patmore was quietly exchanging a few words in a low voice with Mrs Hughes, asking her not to become "as much a wet blanket as Mr Carson".

When he came back, carrying a heavy and cumbersome crate full of leeks, turnips and celeriac, he bumped into Mrs Hughes who was passing by.

"Oh, I'm sorry M Hughes," he told her, "I hadn't seen you."

"That's all right, my lad, no harm done. It's very kind of you to help us here inside..."

"Don't mention it, Mrs Hughes," he answered while walking down the corridor to the kitchen, "I was having a bit of free time after Lady Edith's driving lesson..."

"And by the way, how is it going with that?" Mrs Hughes asked him.

"Err–" Mr Branson began hesitantly, "how to phrase that..." he added. "I think I have grounds for asking His Lordship for danger pay!"

But he stopped short when, peeking through the doorway, he noticed in the kitchen a very refined shirt and very elegant skirt, worn by a young woman who had her back to the door.

His blood suddenly ran cold: what if it was Lady Edith? And what if she had heard what he just told Mrs Hughes?

In this case, he'd probably just have to go and find another position, and not with a very good recommendation...

But no. The young woman here had black hair. And never in a millennium would Lady Mary enter the kitchen. Which left only one possibility...

Branson's blood went from icy cold to boiling hot, while his stomach seemed to be doing at least two or three turns in his insides before settling down when his heart fell down at the bottom of it.

The Lady was donning an apron and asking Mrs Patmore what her instructions were.

Instructions? Well, wasn't she one of the people who were generally entitled to give orders around here?

But apparently, seeing how everyone downstairs was so busy preparing the coming feast, Lady Sybil had volunteered to lend them a helping hand. Now that she had learned the basics of cooking (well, the very basics, like making tea, cooking an omelette or doing the washing up), she thought she could make her small contribution to preparing the evening without being too much of a bother, of a hindrance to Daisy or Mr Patmore.

Realising that, Branson's heart had a sudden pitch and leaped from the bottom of his stomach to his throat, pounding with double speed. Then after some time it seemed to settle back to his usual physiological place in his chest, a little bit on the left side, but the pounding didn't cease being stronger than was certainly healthy for it; its rhythm just gradually slowed down to a more normal one, while somehow echoing lower in his stomach.

"Oh, thank you Mr Branson", Mrs Patmore told him while Lady Sybil still had her back to him. "Would you put it down here, please?"

Distractedly, he did as instructed, keeping his eyes on Lady Sybil's back. He had been sad to learn a few weeks previous that in a few days she was going to leave Downton for three month: she was going to train as a V.A.D. to then serve as a nursing auxiliary in Downton's small hospital.

Which meant that for the three month following New Year's Eves, he wouldn't see her. He'd miss her, her passionate though sometimes still childish enthusiasm, indignations or whims. He'd miss chatting with her on one-to-one car-rides.

Oh, stop fooling yourself, he berated his own wanderingly deceptive mind. How much longer until he faced the truth and acknowledged things for what they were? He would miss her, full stop. Her mere presence.

Yet her mere presence also made him feel... awkward. Nervous. Uneasy. But at the same time, it was making him happy, giddy, excited, and also, quite paradoxically, serene.

All these simultaneous contradictory feelings conflicting inside his mind and chest rendered him rather bemused, confused and befuddled. A little bit lost, too.

And lost he was, idly standing right now in the middle of the buzzing kitchen with his arms dangling at his sides.

"Excuse me, Mr Branson, I must... I mean, you're... Well, I have to bring this to the stove" said Daisy who was trying to reach the other side of the room while carrying a large porcelain tureen.

Snapping out of his reverie, he quickly moved out of her way by taking on step back. In doing so, he nearly crushed Thomas's foot.

"Careful, Mr Branson," he told him, "Beware the footman's feet, please!" he hissed through clenched teeth.

Branson turned quickly to Thomas: he had learned very soon not to get on the wrong side of the footman, and more generally he avoided as best as he could any kind of interaction with him: Thomas Barrow was trouble, that much he could have told as soon as his first week in Downton three years earlier.

"Well since you're offering, Milady," Mrs Patmore was telling Lady Sybil, "could you help Daisy with peeling and chopping the vegetables, if you please?"

"Of course, Mrs Patmore," she answered.

"I'm getting you a knife, Milady!" Daisy hurriedly told her, crossing the room again.

"I'm taking care of that," Branson said, beating her to it. "Don't bother yourself with that, Daisy!"

And rummaging through the drawers he looked for the fitting knife.

"Third on your left, Mr Branson," Daisy helped him. "Take an office knife. That's a short pointed knife with a toothless thin blade."

He found what she described him and took it to quickly bring it Lady Sybil.

"Oh, thank you very much, Branson," she told him while taking it on the handle. In doing so, her hand closed on Branson's fingers, and he felt a surge of something go straight to his throat, chest and stomach. And maybe even a little bit lower...

He swallowed hard, tried to calm his galloping heart and quickly removed his slightly quivering hand from the knife before she could notice anything.

Again he stood quite stupidly right in the middle of the kitchen, intently starring at his right hand which was suddenly feeling so much colder than the wonderful warmth it experienced just a few seconds earlier...

At the same time, Anna passed by the door carrying a fancy dress in her hands.

"Oh, Milady," she said when she spotted Lady Sybil in the kitchen, "I've just finished adjusting the bodice of your dress, I think it will fit bett–"

She stopped short when she noticed that Mr Branson and Thomas were in the room. Not exactly the kind of detail to be discussed in the presence of men...

A notion that apparently momentarily totally escaped Lady Sybil's mind, as she answered:

"Good, now I'll be more at ease to breath, at least! Thank you for this last-minute adjustment, Anna."

"I'll help you to get dressed after Lady Edith, Milady," Anna simply replied.

Unlike Lady Sybil, the Head Housemaid had noticed that, while Thomas apparently couldn't care less about his employer's daughter's shapes, Mr Branson had turned a discreet but certain shade of pink at the girl's absent-minded allusion to her enhanced curves...

And against his better judgment, he couldn't help but take a peek at Lady Sybil's chest. Oh God! What am I doing? Am I trying to get myself fired?

He quickly averted his eyes and focused on what else he could do to help either Mrs Patmore or Mrs Hughes. He decided to help laying the table for the servants' tea. When he held his hands out to take the plates Daisy was handing him, Lady Sybil had a throaty laugh about something she was discussing with Thomas, and to Branson there was no sound more beautiful on earth than that one. Distracted, he turned his head to her and missed the plate Daisy had just let go of, which resulted in it shattering on the floor with a deafening noise.

What a klutz! Branson thought. And probably Daisy did too, as well as Mrs Patmore. But worst of all, that was certainly also what Lady Sybil was thinking of him right now!

While he was cleaning his own mess, she had resumed chopping her leeks, chatting with Thomas all along.

Honestly, what was she thinking, making small talk with him? Couldn't she see that this man had "Trouble" written all across his forehead? Couldn't any of them upstairs see that?

But she said she liked him, talked with him as with anyone. And so far, or at least as far as Branson had paid attention – and Branson was paying a lot of attention to whatever concerned Lady Sybil – Thomas never did or said anything against her...

Which led his troubled mind to another rather unsettling thought. Unsettling, and unpleasant, at least to him: Thomas was rather good-looking – and he knew it – tall, slender, dark-haired, with refined features... in a word, everything himself wasn't, Branson reflected. And he seemed to appreciate her, and she probably appreciated him...

Oww... that thought spread a very sour and unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach!

But Lady Sybil wasn't shallow, she didn't grant too much importance to looks, did she? She was looking beyond appearances, right? Didn't care much for a nice facade or a pretty face, no?

Suddenly nervous, he got up briskly and involuntarily bumped into her, or rather into her elbow. This was immediately followed by a short but high-pitched cry and a hiss.

He turned and saw Lady Sybil holding her left hand with her right one, her knife left abandoned on the table. Then she raised her left hand to her mouth and just before she sucked the side of her index finger he had briefly time to catch a glimpse of a trickle of blood on it. And everyone in the kitchen could then see that her blood wasn't blue at all, but as plain and bright red as just anyone's...

"Oh my God, Milady, I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, appalled at what his mood and his clumsiness had just done to her.

"Watch what you're doing, Mr Branson," Thomas told him quite reproachfully. "Working in the kitchen and inside the House requires more delicacy than in a garage."

"Thank you, Thomas," Mrs Hughes politely but coldly told him to cut short his rebuke of the chauffeur.

In the meantime, Branson had grabbed Lady Sybil by her elbow and quickly though respectfully dragged her to the sink were he turned on the tap and put her hand under the cold water to clean the cut. Then he pulled his clean handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around her finger to absorb the bleeding and protect the cut.

All the while, he was apologising profusely:

"I'm so sorry, Milady, I didn't mean to– well, of course, I didn't mean to hurt you! Please, forgive my clumsiness, I should have watched out, I shouldn't have gotten up so abruptly Are you all right, Milady? I'm so sorry, I–"

She held her other hand up to stop his overflow of words. And indeed, Mrs Patmore reflected that she had never heard so many words said by the usually quite taciturn young chauffeur. Truth be told, he was never very talkative in the servant's hall nor during the house staff's meals... Bah, she thought, he probably liked to keep to himself...

"That's all right, Branson, I'm all right, don't worry." she told him with a reassuring smile. "That's nothing, just a small cut, that's only skin-deep..."

"But it's bleeding...!" he interjected

"Well," Lady Sybil answered matter-of-factly, "I'd make a very poor nurse's aide if I couldn't bear the sight of a few drops of blood! Least of all my own..."

Now that the cut was treated, Branson became very much aware that his hand was on Lady Sybil's arm, that his fingers were brushing her, and that with his thumb slightly pressed against her wrist he could feel her pulse, the rhythm of her life throbbing inside her...

He took off his hand as if he had burnt himself on her skin, aware of the awkwardness and even the impropriety of the situation to any onlooker who would have missed the few seconds leading up to that scene.

His hand now empty, Branson could still feel the warmth of her skin, like a remnant of her imprinted on his own skin, deep down to his own flesh.

Meanwhile, Lady Sybil continued reassuring him:

"Oh, really, that's nothing. Or did you think I'm the kind of person to faint at the sight of my finger bleeding? Don't worry, I'm quite used to the sight of my own blood, I can manage."

Hearing that, Tom Branson's face went beet-red, and the other women in the room looked at her in stupefaction, almost shock, with eyes as wide as the saucer Mrs Patmore was currently wiping dry. Even Thomas seemed a bit uncomfortable, this time. Yes, there are definitely some subjects that men would gladly remain unaware of; and as a matter of fact, most of the time they make their best to ignore these.

Anyway, Lady Sybil for her part didn't seem to notice the awkwardness her words had created nor the double meaning they had.

Branson, as for him, was slowly getting a grip on himself and gathering his wits. He drummed his fingers in the air to try and dispel the impression of Lady Sybil's fingers in his hand, even though part of him would have preferred to keep this pleasant sensation for a long as it would have lasted...

Really, her presence here was far too disturbing. Yet he wanted to relish it, to bask in it for as long as possible until she went away, far far away in York...

Around him in the kitchen, the activity resumed after this short interlude. Ms Patmore went back to her sink, Lady Sybil resumed chopping her vegetables, Mrs Hughes left the room with a strange look at him, Anna followed her, and Thomas went back to bringing whatever silverware was needed upstairs.

But Branson missed half of this buzzing activity, engrossed as he was in contemplating Lady Sybil's gestures.

"Excuse me, Mr Branson," Thomas's voice burst his bubble of well-being. "Careful, you're standing in the way!"

The End

Syblime's prompt was: "Chaos in the servants hall as they try and prepare for Christmas. Things get better when Sybil comes down and starts helping, but obviously Tom then gets rather distracted."