A/N: Hello, all! I'm a newcomer to the Downton fandom and have fallen DEEP down the Baxley rabbit hole. These days it takes an awful lot to inspire me to write because I've sadly fallen out of practice with it, but a certain Phyllis Baxter and Joseph Molesley have proven to be perfect inspiration (well, them and the national pandemic that has caused me to lose my job but that's a whole other thing). Anyway! This story is almost completely written and should be about 10 chapters total. Updates should be fast since I mostly just have to proofread. Setting is post-movie. I'm kind of nervous about my first foray into Baxley-fiction, so please let me know if I'm doing these incredible characters justice. :)

Enjoy chapter 1!

CHAPTER 1

The hum of her sewing machine was soothing.

There was something about the repetitive motion of fixing the seam on one of Her Ladyship's silky, emerald dresses that could fill Phyllis Baxter with a sense of peace unlike any other. The dress was beautiful; it was adorned with tiny pearls around the sleeves, most of which Baxter had spent the better part of an hour reattaching or reinforcing before she started on the seam. The work was specific and required her full attention. One wrong move, and she'd have to start all over again.

But she didn't mind. The work was easy enough for her and it had the added bonus of keeping her mind occupied. By training her eyes on the silky dress and the sewing machine, her thoughts quieted. It was easy to avoid thinking about the accident, about her friend, and about how badly her heart ached because of it all.

It had been exactly two weeks since Joseph Molesley had taken a terrible tumble down the steps and cracked the back of his head at the bottom. Baxter had witnessed the fall – in fact, she was almost positive she had been the cause of it. The two of them had been exchanging a joke, him from the top of the stairs with his silver tray and her at the bottom with a dress draped over her arm. Thomas had come running down the stairs in a hurry to get something that had been forgotten for the family's dinner and Molesley had taken a step back without looking. He was looking at her.

Not realizing how close he was to the edge of the top step he'd lost his footing and went tumbling backwards sending the silver tray flying into the air. It all had happened so fast that he was soon lying in a crumple on the floor at the bottom of the steps, right at Baxter's feet, with a pool of crimson blood quickly pouring from the back of his skull.

Everything after that had happened in a flurry that Baxter couldn't quite comprehend. She remembered trying to get to Molesley and being pulled back and pushed away as the footman was lifted and carried swiftly out of the house. There was a noise, too, a shrill high-pitched wail that Baxter didn't realize until much later had been the sound of her screaming. Molesley was rushed to the hospital and Dr. Clarkson, where he'd been – mercifully still alive, but barely – for fourteen days.

Since then, Baxter had walked to the hospital at her every opportunity but had yet to step inside. She couldn't bear the thought of Molesley lying there, broken and unconscious. Thinking of someone she cared for so strongly in a situation that they may never wake up from made her queasy.

A tremor ran through her hands and she sighed, turning her sewing machine off and placing the half-finished garment into the basket beside her. It was late and if she wasn't going to risk adding more work to her to-do list by messing up the stitching she was working on, she'd best stop for the night. She set about cleaning up tools and when she placed the last spool of thread into her basket, she let her eyes drift closed for just a moment.

The servant's hall was completely empty, most of the others having retired hours earlier. The silence felt almost too loud without the gentle hum of her sewing machine to break it, but she didn't quite mind. Baxter felt as though she hadn't truly rested since the accident. The heavy weight of exhaustion pressed down on her shoulders and she allowed her body to sink back into her chair, just for a moment. All she wanted to do was sleep.

But how was she to rest, to go on with her normal routine without being affected, when her friend's life was hanging in the balance?

When it was her fault?

"Evening, Miss Baxter."

The voice shocked Baxter out of her spiraling thoughts and she jumped, eyes snapping open to see Thomas sitting down wearily in one of the chairs next to the fire.

"Having a nap, are you?" He smiled, teasing her gently.

He pulled out a cigarette and lit it swiftly, raising it to his lips for a drag. Baxter watched his actions and then returned his smile with a gentle one of her own. There was no wickedness present in him anymore – especially towards her. There was just friendship now; conversations full of trust and smiles full of warmth. Baxter would be forever grateful for the decent man Thomas had become.

"Just resting my eyes for a moment, Mr. Barrow," She replied. "I didn't realize how late it was."

"You and I both," He murmured, taking another drag from his cigarette and looking into the fire. "You'd think we'd both be dead on our feet after all the excitement around here lately."

He was right. The Christmas holidays were approaching within the month and Lady Grantham had decided to throw a dinner and ball like no other. It was to be the biggest dinner Downton held since the King and Queen visited earlier in the year, and the staff was stretched very thin with the preparations. Much to Thomas' dismay, Lady Mary had suggested Mr. Carson come back to manage the whole event – but Lady Grantham had not yet decided.

Her Lady had been atwitter with chatter about her plans for both the dinner and the ball, including the multiple meetings she'd already held with Mrs. Patmore to go over the menu. Baxter was happy to listen to her talk about the goings on night after night while she helped her dress and undress. The Old Lady Grantham had taken very ill as of late, and Baxter knew this celebration was being thrown in her honor – Her Ladyship wanted the Dowager to have a proper celebration for what very well may be her last Christmas.

"The times are certainly changing," Baxter agreed, thinking back to the days when a house like this would employ at least three times the amount of servants. "This may be one of the last extravagant balls to happen at Downton."

Thomas hummed his agreement and flicked his cigarette in the fire. "Have you been to see Molesley lately?"

A hard lump formed in her throat, the question catching her completely off guard. Thomas noticed that she'd stiffened and swept his eyes over her, his eyebrows pulling together.

"Just thinking how much easier it will all go with another footman," He explained. "And I know you've been walking to the hospital every chance you get. Was just curious if there was any update on his condition, is all."

Baxter stood up, then, and pushed her chair in. She hooked the basket of Her Ladyship's clothes over her arm and reached for her sewing machine while she swallowed the lump in her throat.

"I haven't, not lately," She answered, avoiding his gaze. "I'm sorry I've no news to report. Anyway, it is late, Mr. Barrow, so I think it's time for me to go up."

She was almost out the door when his voice stopped her.

"It wasn't your fault, Miss Baxter, what happened to him. It was an accident. The bloke tripped and that wasn't your fault or mine."

She clutched the sewing machine tighter to her chest while her vision blurred with unshed tears.

"Goodnight, Mr. Barrow."