A/N: I have ideas, but no time to write them down.
- This might become a collection of moments spent during that time when Baxter and Molesley tried to prove Mr. Bates's innocence, no promises.
Woolen scarf wrapped around his neck, steaming hot cup of tea in one hand and a much needed handkerchief in the other, Joseph Molesley felt immensely out of place sitting at the bar of the third pub on their list today. He almost regretted not staying at home, is his relatively warm bed when an exceptionally terrible sneeze shook him. Oh, what he would have given now for a bowl of Mrs. Patmore's homemade soup, brought up to him by a friendly faced Andy or Daisy who would try to cheer him up with some newly acquired knowledge about one historical event or another. Or her … His eyes fixed on the woman who had in the past two weeks made it her task to care for him when a horrible cold had more or less tied him to his bed.
Always kind and eager to take on even the worst of cases, she hadn't backed off when he told her what an impossibly stubborn patient he could be. Or when a particularly nasty drunk had all but shouted at her to leave him alone earlier that day. They had left the shady pub soon after, but Joseph still felt the rage building up inside him like fire when he remembered those words. He wished he was at his normal strength and that he had done more than just drag his companion away and out in the early winter cold.
He thought of the heroes in his books, true gentlemen who would defend a lady's honour at every opportunity they got – not once in all the novels that he had read, had he come across a puffy eyed, aging footman who saved the day.
'Miss Baxter doesn't need heroes', a low voice that sounded suprisingly enough like Thomas Barrow, spoke up in his head. It was right, Joseph silently agreed when he let his thoughts drift back to the situation. The way she had handled the moment, calm and polite and controlled, it suddenly occured to him that this hadn't been the first time in Miss Baxter's life to be confronted with an unreasonably aggressive person. It hurt his heart to see even a glimpse of what she must have had to cope with in the past, and he admired her for her seemingly inexhaustible strength.
„Tha' one's certainly a keeper, aye?!" a voice close to him barked and caused Joseph to jump slighty in his seat. The bartender was an unpleasant guy, with half of his teeth missing, hair sticking on his head by a disgustingly high amount of product and his breath full of alcohol. But at least he was cooperative enough to let them question his guests for nothing more than two cups of peppermint tea in return. He nods in the general direction of where Miss Baxter is standing with a dirty smily on his lips.
„She's not … she – I mean, we … she's my friend. Best friend." Molesley explained clumsily, but with an air of defense.
"Well, if yer sayin' so..." the bartender shrugged and turned back to another customer, not without another glance at Miss Baxter who was swiftly doing what they had come to York for, today and all the other times before. About halfway through their list of pubs by now, it had begun to seem less and less likely that they would ever come across anyone who remembered John Bates from his own visit in a pub a few months prior. So far, everyone who they had talked to were either one-time bypassers or the constantly drunk regulars who possibly wouldn't be able to remember Bates if their lives depended on it.
Joseph felt another wave of protectiveness flood him as soon as his eyes followed the man's gaze upon the lady's maid's backside. She did look lovely, he thought, with her loose-cut coat wrapped around her slender frame and her hair shining slightly in the dimmed light from bits of snow that had found their way under her hat. Lately, Molesley had often found himself lost in thoughts like this, pondering over the exact shade of Miss Baxter's hair or thinking how fragile she really was under all those layers of clothing. Maybe he was feverish. He wasn't looking at her like the bartender was, was he?
The thought alone made him nervous and fidgety, causing him to almost knock over his teacup when he grabbed it absentmindedly and just as soon let go of it again, his hand hurting from the sudden contact with the burning heat.
Joseph couldn't help but feel a bit useless. He was ill, washed-out and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, leaving no space for any coherent thought. Maybe the wise thing would really have been to stay at home, leaving Phyllis to go to York by herself for a second time in two weeks. He knew he couldn't after he had been almost sick with worry that first time around already. All day long, he had barely closed his eyes for a much needed rest, wondering instead where she was, if another unsuccessful search had left her disspirited and in need for a cheering up, or if she was having a breakthrough without him. He could not hold back a beaming smile that evening, despite feeling overly tired and worn out, when she walked through his door with the usual soup and tea on a tray. And when she confessed, in a meek voice and with her typical shy smile, that she was in a way relieved that she hadn't solved their case that one time when he wasn't able to be there with her, Joseph had sworn himself that he would not let another day off pass where he didn't accompany her to York.
Of course, Miss Baxter had been reluctant at first upon him insisting to go with her, when she had noticed how ill he really was, still, even a week later. However, after a half-hearted argument and attempted puppy dog eyes from his side that made her smile and shake her head in a way that expressed very clearly how childish she thought him, they had come to agree that she would take him with her on the one condition that he would rest as much as possible and let her do the questioning.
By the time he nipped on his cup again, the tea had gone almost cold, making him grimace at the bitter taste. Before he could order a third cup though, his eyes met those of his companion, who watched him from the other side of the room. Even in the distance he saw her sad smile and the apologetic shrug. She slowly strode over to the bar.
"Nothing?" He asked in a tired voice that had become too familiar to them lately.
"No, nothing", she replied, equally frustrated. Concern was eminent in her voice and eyes when she noticed the poor state her friend was in. "We should be heading home. It's late, and you're glowing. I hope you didn't catch a fever!"
Without even a single protesting word he let her fuss over him for a moment, feeling her hand on his forehead to test if he was indeed feverish, and feeling himself blush under the touch, silently praying that she wouldn't notice it had nothing to do with his cold. His thoughts drifted back to the bartender's words...Should that man who didn't know him a bit have been right, after all? Joseph had convincingly told himself that he was only so eager to get back to York because it was their mission, together, not hers alone while he sat comfortably in bed, and because he had felt terribly distressed about the idea of sending her out alone. But maybe it wasn't just that, the little voice in his head spoke up again, maybe all this time spent together did change things between them – he was certain now, that he was indeed hallucinating already. Only faintly, he noticed his coat being pulled closer around him.
At last, they left the pub, after Phyllis had wrapped them both up warmly in their respective coats and hats. Somewhere along the way to the station, her hand had slipped into his. She would later insist that it was purely to keep him steady on his feet. Just as he would deny that him sitting next to her in the compartment (as opposed to sitting across from her, with a respectable distance between them) had any other reason than being as close to her as decency would allow. And when had he started to call her by her given name in his head, anyway?