A/N
My response a while back to a Tumblr post calling for more drunk Molesley and the emotions his drunkenness awakens.
She found him in the dimly-lit Servants' Hall, nodding and muttering over both the table and about a third of the reserve wine cellar. She sighed. The Servants' Ball. He'd say he had wanted to make sure that everything was in perfect order for the occasion—wouldn't do to have any drink second-best.
She supposed he must have been nervous to be touching her, holding her, for the first time, really. She knew she was. They'd decided that the day before the Servants' Ball was as good a time as any to announce their engagement to the staff and to the Granthams. So the next evening she had tried not to laugh—or cry for that matter—at the spectacle he had made of himself: pirouetting across the floor, nodding his head and humming loudly along with the music from the gramophone, and looking like a deer in the headlights every time she smiled at him. It had taken every ounce of effort and generous grace she possessed not to burst with a giggle when she heard Lord Grantham lean over to the Dowager Countess and mutter something about a wild man re-emerging from hiding.
She came around the side of the table and touched him softly on the shoulder. Then she lifted him to his feet, against his unintelligible protestations that echoed excruciatingly through the empty hall. She cringed slightly—he never normally raised his voice at her or anyone. Only when it mattered did he speak up in confidence for something he believed was right. And apparently also when he was completely intoxicated.
Ms. Baxter might've been annoyed at this situation—perhaps angry or hurt—if she didn't know him to be the most gentle of souls. But she did. In fact she trusted him now more than any man she'd ever known in her life, and she loved him without hesitation or question. Even more, she knew with absolute certainty that he loved her. (It stopped her in her tracks just to think of that. Not many in this world could say the same of those they loved. But trust him she did.) This was just a lapse of judgement, a silly folly on the part of her fiancé. And for that, she, of all people, could certainly forgive him.
She guided him out to the courtyard, leading him gently, he humming a tune to himself and in some odd way trying to dance a jig with his feet as he scuffled them along the hall. She led him to the bench by the door, hoping a few minutes in the sharp night air would calm him. The courtyard light glared out over them and she gladly turned her back to it as she sat him down. She much preferred to see the mist and stars of the wide, mysterious night rising over the courtyard wall—they excited her, though she wasn't usually one for adventure. After the heart-stopping terror of her crime, the rash act of a temporary, consuming flame, she had retreated forever into the reserve of her quiet soul. Only Mr. Molesley, small, timid Mr. Molesley, had drawn her out by his passion for truth. She smiled when she thought of their days roaming the streets of York, an impossible task before them. Mr. Molesley had plunged in without looking back, pushing forward with fervor and optimism. That's what it was, she thought. He gave her hope.
She was startled back to the cold night when she realized that his shoulders had begun to shake with sobs. She groaned at the undignified effects of the alcohol on his constitution and emotions. Dear creature. What now?
"What's wrong?" she asked, touching his shoulder, her tone as soft as could be. He looked up at her from his slouched position, the light from above gleaming off his balding head.
"Oh, I'm such a fool!" He sobbed. "I'm just a foolish, silly man, and I'm no good for you! I'm such a fool and...and you're so beautiful…" He stared at her shamelessly, losing his failing train of thought and barely-coherent speech in the process. This really might have bothered her, but she chose to ignore it, knowing that Mr. Molesley was always exceptionally polite, never with anything but the most gentlemanly comportment and behavior towards her. (Perhaps a little too gentlemanly sometimes?...No, no, of course not, what a thought.) Instead she laughed.
"We're all fools, Mr. Molesley. You and me especially." She looked down. "And if anyone's not good enough its me," she said, suddenly sobering. At this he looked up, startled, a pained expression on his damp, tired face.
"No, no, don't—don't say that," he cried. He took her hand clumsily. "You know I—I love you...all of you—the good and the bad. And I—I can't wait to marry you." His drunken tongue slowed and slurred his words, making his speech sound rather melodramatic. Yet behind it there was such innocent sincerity that she couldn't help shedding a tear. She squeezed his hand and smiled.
"Thank you. And I love you, too."
As she gazed into his widened eyes her thoughts wandered again...perhaps they both deserved to indulge in a little foolishness. The next thing either of them knew, she had grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and was kissing him as if her life depended on it. At first he was utterly shocked, powerless in compliance; but after a moment he slowly let his hands drift to her waist then pulled her closer to him. She smiled as he lifted his hand to touch her face. She pulled away slowly to rest her forehead against his. He really did draw her into adventure, she thought with a laugh—then leaned in to kiss him once more.
Neither of them noticed the pair embracing a little less conspicuously in the shadows behind the pile of discarded storage crates; nor did they hear the stifled laughter and loud shushing between Anna and John Bates as they looked on at the awkward, half-drunken, passionate first kiss. They weren't at all annoyed that another couple had found their favorite spot.