CHAPTER 7

Molesley did not die.

Dr. Clarkson was beside himself with confusion; he went through every chart, checked all of Molesley's vital signs, and eventually threw his arms up in the air in exasperation. There was no logical way that a coma patient would be able to come back from near cardiac arrest – especially when all of Clarkson's attempts to help him had been unsuccessful. Yet when the good doctor checked on Molesley the next morning, his oxygen levels had returned to near normal and his heart was no longer distressed.

It didn't make any sense, but neither Baxter nor Bill could bear to question it. After Dr. Clarkson reported that Molesley seemed to have returned to a stable condition, for now, the older Molesley wrapped Baxter's tiny frame in a warm hug. She hugged him back with every ounce of strength she had, happy tears leaking from her tired eyes.

With a promise from Dr. Clarkson to ring if there was even the slightest change in his condition, Bill and Baxter left the hospital together in the early morning light. Baxter turned down Bill's offer to walk her up to the big house; the old man looked as though a gentle breeze could knock him over. Baxter had been at the hospital since afternoon the day before and he was there when she arrived, so she could only imagine how many hours he'd spent keeping vigil at his son's side.

They parted ways, and Baxter began the long trek to Downton. What she would give for Tom and his car to pull up right about now, she mused. It took a little longer than usual, but she eventually made it, opening the door gratefully. She had to speak with Mrs. Hughes, but then wanted nothing more than to curl up in her bed. Luckily for her, she ran straight into the older woman as she rounded the corner.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hughes gasped, startled, and put a hand to her chest. "Heavens, Miss Baxter, you are as silent as a mouse sometimes." Her eyes took in Baxter's ragged appearance, and she nodded toward her sitting room. "Come."

Baxter had barely walked through the doorway when Mrs. Patmore came barreling through behind her, clutching a tray of tea. Mrs. Hughes thanked her and held the door open, but Mrs. Patmore took a seat next to the tea and busied herself pouring them all cups. Mrs. Hughes waited for one more moment before realizing she couldn't shoo the cook away, then shut the door with a click.

Baxter accepted the tea gratefully. The liquid seemed to warm her from the inside out, and she gulped it down just a bit too quickly. There was something about a good cup of tea that had always succeeded in making her feel at ease, even in the darkest of times.

The tea's calming effect didn't seem to be working on Mrs. Patmore, though. The older woman could hold her tongue no more and Baxter felt a bit as if she was being interviewed by the barrage of questions she was being asked.

"We haven't heard from the hospital," Mrs. Patmore leaned forward, staring at Baxter. "Is he…? Oh our poor Mr. Molesley – he could give me quite the headache but he was a good man. What he did for Daisy and how he teaches those children, my, what a terrible, terrible loss."

"Mrs. Patmore, don't go jumping to conclusions. Let her speak." Mrs. Hughes levelled her friend with a stern look. Mrs. Patmore immediately clamped her mouth shut.

Baxter drained the rest of the tea from her cup and then looked at the two older women with tired eyes and a tired smile. "Mr. Molesley is alive. Dr. Clarkson doesn't know how he managed it, but he pulled through."

She went on to fill them in on more details from her night at the hospital, including Molesley's initial diagnosis and Clarkson's promise to ring the moment something changed. Mrs. Patmore grasped Mrs. Hughes' hand and praised the Lord for Molesley's safety, gushing on and on about how happy she was until Mrs. Hughes kindly kicked her out. When it was just the two of them, Mrs. Hughes handed Baxter a scone from the tea tray and made it very clear Baxter had no choice but to eat it.

Once she'd finished the scone, Mrs. Hughes sent her straight to her room. The housekeeper was adamant that Baxter was to rest as long as she needed, and that her and Anna would attend to Her Ladyship in the meantime. Baxter was grateful – she wanted nothing more than a long, long sleep. However, she could see the stress in Mrs. Hughes' body language. They were only three days from Christmas and guests were beginning to arrive. They needed all staff hands on deck.

Pulling her duvet up to her chin and letting her eyes drift closed, Baxter vowed to herself to be up and ready to get back to work by dinner time.

The time to dress Her Ladyship for dinner had come and gone by the time Baxter opened her bleary eyes.

At first, she couldn't see anything, and blinked again, unaccustomed to such darkness in her room. She felt a bit out of sorts – groggy and muddled in a way that only came with sleeping during unusual hours. She yawned and stretched, her body feeling like it had had some semblance of rest for the first time in many, many days. She let her eyes slip closed for just a moment more before sighing and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Reaching for the lamp on her nightstand, Baxter lit it and the small room was bathed in a golden glow.

She squinted at the sudden brightness and took a moment to let her eyes adjust. When they did, she looked up to see a figure seated just across from her, near her dresser, in one of her wooden chairs that had been taken from its place near the window.

Baxter gasped.

The shock of seeing a figure in her own personal room, where no one but Mrs. Hughes had ever been, made her body launch into action. She retreated back into her bed, her back painfully colliding with the hard wall, and she grabbed her pillow and threw it with all her might at the figure.

The pillow soared through the air, through Mr. Molesley, and crashed into the opposite wall where it fell to the floor with a plop.

"Well, that wasn't very effective."

Baxter was breathing heavily, her heart pounding, with a sudden spout of anger lighting a fire under her – and Molesley's wry comment certainly didn't help matters. She was out of her bed in an instant, stalking over to where he was still seated.

"What do you think you're doing?" She spat, voice lowered to a dangerous whisper and eyes glaring daggers. "How did you get in here?!"

"Uh," Molesley's eyes were wide and alarmed. "The door?"

She stared at him incredulously. "What if someone saw you? Do you have any idea—,"

"They can't." He cut her off, standing quickly and holding his hands up, palms out, in a show of surrender.

"What if—,"

"Miss Baxter, I—,"

"I can't believe—,"

"Please—,"

"Of all the improper—,"

"Miss Baxter!"

Molesley's raised voice was what finally made Baxter clamp her mouth shut. She was seething; the unusual wave of anger still bubbling throughout her chest. Her body felt as if it was being held together by a series of faulty wires – one more spark and the whole thing would go up in flames. She stood completely still for a moment, breathing through her nose, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

"I'm sorry." Molesley's head was hanging, and when she glanced up at him, he refused to meet her eyes. He looked deeply troubled and Baxter was immediately filled with regret.

Feeling a wave of mortification wash over her, Baxter turned away from him and perched herself on the edge of her bed. The two of them sat in a thick silence for a moment, neither looking at the other, and then she spoke.

"Please don't be. I'm sorry, Mr. Molesley. You just frightened me terribly." She glanced up at him from under her lashes, hoping she didn't look as humiliated as she felt. "My response had little to do with you and much to do with my past."

With everything else going on it was childish for her to act in such a way. It was just that waking up to see someone in your room that you hadn't been expecting was alarming. Especially a man…especially because it had happened to her before. But her Mr. Molesley would never let himself into her private chambers for any indecent reason, that she was sure of. Molesley was not Peter Coyle. He never would be. And Phyllis Baxter was not the kind of woman to throw fits or yell – although, she thought meekly, maybe she was precisely that sort of women if the last few weeks were anything to go by.

A unique expression of concern mixed with relief washed over Molesley's features as he mirrored her actions and sat down in the chair, facing her. "I am, though. Sorry, I mean. I should have known better. I didn't mean to invade your privacy, I just wanted to be sure I could speak with you as soon as you awoke. Just in case I don't have long."

Baxter nodded, and with that nod she chose to put this whole misunderstanding behind them. Straightening a bit and giving him a soft smile, she continued. "I'm grateful to see you, Mr. Molesley. Last night was one of the most frightening nights of my life." She glanced away quickly, not wanting him to notice the way her eyes were getting misty. "And I would quite like to never relive it again."

Molesley looked as if he was going to apologize again, but Baxter waved him off and continued on.

"Do you know what happened? You were supposed to wait for me while I dressed Her Ladyship but you completely disappeared."

"I haven't a clue," He shrugged, but he frowned deeply and there was a glint of fear in his eyes. "One moment I was waiting for you outside of Her Ladyship's room and the next I was standing in the servant's hall listening to a Christmas carol. I didn't realize any time had passed until I heard Andy and Daisy talking about me."

Baxter encouraged him to continue, and he did.

"Daisy was telling Andy about what she'd heard from Mrs. Patmore, who had talked to you." He recounted, using his fingers to list off the people to be sure he didn't miss anyone. "It was about how I'd nearly died."

He looked at her, meeting her eyes with his own terror-filled gaze.

"I don't want to die, Miss Baxter."

"I would quite like you to be well again, too, Mr. Molesley," Baxter's words were quiet but laced with as much fear as was written on Molesley's face. "I've dealt with a lot of terrible nights in my life, but last night was one of the worst."

Molesley was on his feet at this point. He had started pacing about the room as a way to deal with his anxious energy, and Baxter simply sat and watched him do it. She may have just woken up, but the weight of the situation was pushing on her shoulders and she couldn't compel herself to expend any unnecessary energy.

"If I'm laid up in a hospital bed, how am I here right now? How am I talking to you?" His voice was thick, and he ran his hand across his head. "Why can I touch things but not people? Look." He scooped up the pillow she'd thrown at him earlier and held it out towards her. "I'm holding this! But when you threw it at me it went straight through, just like your hand does. Pardon my language, Miss Baxter, but I'm absolutely buggered."

Her eyebrows rose at the phrase, but she made no comment. She wanted nothing more than to offer him an explanation and some comfort, but she was just as lost. Maybe this whole situation was some kind of figment of her imagination – or maybe she was just having some truly bizarre and much too vivid dream.

But maybe it wasn't either of those things. Maybe this was real, and it was some cosmic karma coming for her. After all, Molesley would have never fallen down the stairs if he wouldn't have been looking at her. If it wasn't for her, he would be alive – truly alive – and well right now.

"I've been thinking," He continued, pulling her from her rapidly darkening thoughts. "Maybe I can control what I can touch and what I can't? Andy walked through me with a dinner tray when I was coming up here, before you woke up – sorry again about that – but my point is, I thought we'd collide, and we didn't. But if I want to open doors or pick up pillows, I can."

Baxter was on her feet then. "Try touching me again."

His anxious pacing halted, and his eyes widened comically. Baxter barely resisted rolling her eyes, knowing exactly what he had thought. Any other time she may have been embarrassed by the implication, but right now there were much more important issues than her dignity.

"My hand, Mr. Molesley," She specified, holding it out to him with her palm facing upwards. "Maybe if you concentrate and decide you really want to, you can touch my hand. Why should touching me be any different than touching a pillow or a door knob?"

Molesley's eyes flickered from her face to her outstretched hand and then he sighed, "Worth a try, I guess."

His eyebrows pulled together slightly, and Baxter recognized the careful look of concentration as one he frequently wore while pouring over books that interested him. Slowly, he reached out his hand and placed it flat on hers – his palm faced downward to meet her upturned one. The two of them stayed perfectly still for a moment, staring at their outstretched, and now connected, hands.

"Do you feel that?" He breathed.

"It's warm," She moved her hand upwards a bit, and it went through his in the same way it had outside during their first meeting. But this time there was something else. "I can't touch you, but I can feel that you're there."

Molesley nodded enthusiastically, "I can tell you are too. I can feel your presence." And then his features lit up, his lips stretching into a wide smile. "Miss Baxter, I've felt so isolated since this started. Just so completely alone. Even though I can't really hold your hand, this is enough. It is more than enough."

His eyes were shining with unshed tears and Baxter felt the ever-familiar prick beginning behind her eyelids too.

"I've missed you so much, Mr. Molesley," She admitted. "When you disappeared while I was dressing Her Ladyship, I thought you'd surely pop up and scare the daylights out of me again. But then Dr. Clarkson's note came…and I was certain you were gone. Really, truly, gone. I was so afraid."

"You know what's strange," He started, his eyebrows pulling together in concentration once more. Baxter gave him an incredulous look and Molesley couldn't help but let out a short chuckle, knowing exactly what she was thinking. "Well, yes, this can all be described as strange. But I think it's interesting that I disappeared when I was dying."

He screwed up his face for a moment, but Baxter just shook her head, saving him the effort of trying to explain the unexplainable. "I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Molesley. Your physical body was failing at the same time your maybe-a-ghost body disappeared."

"My maybe-a-ghost body?" He gaped at her. "I don't like that one bit."

It was her turn to laugh then, "Sorry. It's sort of how I've been keeping things straight in my mind."

"Do you think there could be something to that, though? That I disappeared when my actual body was dying?"

Baxter tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, unconsciously chewing it as she thought. It would make sense – he had disappeared right before she'd received word on his health scare. Could that be why he appeared and disappeared so suddenly when she'd first spotted him sitting in the servant's hall?

"It's hard to say," She replied after a moment. "Everything about this is hard to comprehend, though, not just the reasoning of why maybe-a-ghost you comes and goes."

He frowned again at her term but didn't comment on it. "I heard a Christmas carol. That's why I came back, I'm sure. It's my only memory…there was nothing, and then I heard Silent Night."

"Silent Night?" Her eyes widened, "You heard us?"

At his puzzled expression, Baxter pushed on.

"It was your Dad, Mr. Molesley. He was humming Christmas carols. I started to sing along with him when he got to Silent Night. I can't tell you why, I'm a terrible vocalist; but it just felt right at the time. Like something I needed to do."

"It was you," His face looked so astonished, and so overjoyed, that Baxter wished once again that she could throw her arms around his neck and hang on with all her might. "I heard you and you brought me back."

"Well thank Heavens you listened."

Her voice was barely a whisper, and she was surprised that she could get the words out around the emotion that had quickly gathered in her throat. Molesley's eyes were teary again and Baxter felt her heart pounding.

She was the reason he'd come back, even if the real him hadn't woken up – he hadn't died, either. And it was because he heard her. The realization was almost too much for her. She was so happy, and scared, and thankful, and astonished – she wanted to speak, but couldn't find any words.

As the two of them continued to stare at each other, a sudden idea crossed her mind. She'd thought of it earlier, of Benjamin her old schoolmate, and she'd shrugged off the idea. But now…

"Mr. Molesley. When I first saw you, this you," She began, gesturing towards him. "It made me think of a boy I went to school with ages ago. He liked to tell ghost stories and said that ghosts get trapped when they have unfinished business. Do you think something like that could be happening to you?"

"But I'm not dead." He looked puzzled.

"But you are in a coma," She pressed. "And maybe there's something holding you back from waking up."

He groaned, turned away from her, and sunk heavily into the chair. Baxter let her own hand fall to her side, suddenly missing the warmth that his presence caused on her palm. She wished with all of her heart that she could actually hold his hand; she squeezed her own fingers into her palms to try to shake the forlorn feeling from where it had settled in her chest.

"Think about it, Mr. Molesley," She said after a moment, pushing forward with her idea. "If you were to…to not wake up," saying the word 'die' was too hard, "would you have any regrets?"

Molesley thought for a moment. His lips pressed in a tight line and he rubbed his palms up and down his thighs in a gesture of nervousness or anxiousness, she wasn't quite sure which one.

"I think I would, yeah." He finally agreed. "One major regret."

"That might be it then!" She stepped towards him, feeling a spur of hope. "Maybe you're stuck in this limbo because you have to face whatever it is. Oh, Mr. Molesley, what if it's that simple? What if once you deal with this thing, you wake up?"

He paled a bit. "Or I don't wake up at all."

"Either way," She said fiercely, ducking a bit to catch his gaze and then pouring all of her strength into her words. "If you do or if you don't, you'll be at peace. You deserve to be at peace."

He stood up and stepped towards her, then. He hesitated for a moment and then straightened up almost imperceptibly. "Well, alright. If you say it's worth a go, then I trust you. Miss Baxter—,"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door, making them both spring apart as if they'd been caught canoodling. Baxter looked at him with wide eyes for a moment, horrified she'd be caught with a man in her room and fired on the spot, before she realized the only person who could see him was her. There were silver linings in all things, apparently. Molesley seemed to have the same surge of fear and immediate relief, and they shared a look before she quickly pulled the door open.

It was Daisy, sent up by Mrs. Hughes with a tray. The sight of the younger woman was an unwelcome reminder to Baxter that she had, yet again, been avoiding her duties. After she thanked Daisy for the food and closed the door behind her, she looked at Molesley with an apologetic expression.

"I have to change Her Ladyship for bed," She wandered over to her bed and delicately sat the tray down, careful she didn't spill what smelled like a shepherd's pie. "I want to stay here and keep talking but I feel awful for causing so much extra work for Mrs. Hughes. The Christmas guests have started arriving and I have to pull my weight…they've been much more lenient than I deserve already."

"I understand." Molesley nodded, but she wasn't quite convinced that he was truly listening to her. He hadn't taken his eyes off of the shepherd's pie for more than a moment since Daisy had arrived with the tray.

Smiling a bit to herself, Baxter used the knife to halve the pie.

"I don't have much time until Her Ladyship will be ready to go up, and I still have to change back into my dress and straighten my hair. I'm not terribly hungry, either…Mr. Molesley, would you care for half of this?"

His eyes lit up brighter than the Crawley family's Christmas tree.

"I haven't eaten anything in days. I guess maybe-a-ghost people don't have appetites," He mused. "I'm not even sure if I can eat it…but ghost or no ghost, I could never turn down one of Mrs. Patmore's pies."

Part of Baxter's brain was screaming that things should not be this easy. She shouldn't feel content to share space with some sort of specter, even if it was Molesley. But as she watched him take the piece of food she offered, and grin, and look so jovial – she couldn't imagine being around him to ever be hard.

A/N: Thanks for reading! :)