Alright so this is REALLY short & probably kind of pointless in the grander scheme of things, but I felt like I needed to dip my toe back in the water with this one so to speak as it's been a while *buries face in hands* since I last updated this. I'm hopeful to finally get into a rhythm with my writing now that's it's been made official that S6 of DA will be the last. That being said, I am more determined than ever before to close out all of my fics before that happens. So you might be seeing some more updates from me in general now (let's hope *crosses fingers*). Anyway, I think it's safe to assume that from here on out with this fic I am blurring the line between canon & AU. So if you see something that differs from the show, I'm claiming artistic license and deeming it apart of my AU headcanons that exist for these two cuties.
Also, a HUUUUGE thank you to those who are still interested in this fic, it really means a lot to me. Hope you enjoy it! :)
"Has anyone seen, Mr. Molesley?" Mrs. Hughes intoned urgently, her eyes scanning the servants hall for any sign of him.
When no one offered up a prompt reply, she went on, her voice stressing the seriousness of the matter. "They're just about ready upstairs and Mr. Carson's in quite a mood…"
Baxter glanced up, looking just as perplexed as the rest of those seated in the hall.
"Any ideas, Miss. Baxter?" Thomas taunted from the corner, cigarette in hand per usual.
Her brow knit together and she rejoined rather sharply, "Why should I know? I'm not his keeper now, am I, Mr. Barrow?"
"Perhaps he's out in the yard," Anna interjected helpfully, trying to keep an even temper throughout the room.
"Perhaps," Mrs. Hughes nodded, her wide eyed look of desperation reaching Miss. Baxter. "Would you mind checking, Miss. Baxter? I've a fire to put out with Mrs. Patmore." She threw her hands in the air, let out a hefty sigh, and turned before Phyllis could offer up any sort of response.
The chair groaned beneath her as she stood, and Miss. Baxter bowed out of the room and towards the back stairs that led out into the servant's yard.
She was grateful for the cool air that whipped across her face whenever she pushed open the door. It provided a sense of clarity and lifted the weight from inside her chest that the hot and heavy air from that night's dinner placed on her.
Blinking in the semi darkness, she cast her focus about, looking for any sign of movement. Only the sounds that nighttime brought could be heard with that of a crackling fire pit that made her jump. And then she saw a darkened outline of a man she'd come to know so well (and to deceive) during her time at Downton.
She bit the inside of her cheek, cursing herself for this change of circumstance. She didn't have anyone to blame but herself for this mess. And blame herself she would, for losing one of the few people who'd been so good to her ever since she arrived.
Swallowing back her feelings on the matter, she reminded herself this was business. Mrs. Hughes had asked her to come here and see to him. She could claim that much if she was met with any ounce of iciness. Her nails dug fresh marks into her palms as she edged closer to him, trying to read his face through the faint light that radiated from the small basin in the middle of the yard.
Baxter cocked her head to the side, and began tentatively, "They said you might be out here."
He cleared his throat, and nodded. It was then he flashed a look at her long enough for her to notice that everything had changed.
His expression was etched with sadness, eyes bleary with disappointment, and mouth contorted into an unsettled frown. "Thought I'd get some air before they have their dinner," He informed her plainly.
She bobbed her head, looking down at the fire as he did. Baxter felt the edges of her vision blur, and she cleared the lump from her throat before jerking her head back the way she came, "Mrs. Hughes…she was looking for ye…"
He found her eye again, sniffed and then swallowed. Straightening the front of his livery, he asserted, "I should be off then."
She waited for him to brush by her side, feeling the cool air swirl between their arms momentarily. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned her profile to find his in the darkness and murmured, "I've let ye down, haven't I?"
The scraping of his feet against the cobblestones ceased, but she couldn't bring herself to open her eyes and find his gaze. That is, until he spoke with a quiet certainty that nearly sounded foreign to her ears.
"No, I wouldn't say so. You are who you are. You made choices, and you paid the price for them."
She tilted back her face and looked into his big eyes, laden down with confusion. Chewing on her bottom lip, she guessed, "Still, I'm not who you thought me."
He straightened the front of his jacket, chin jutting out as he explained neutrally, "It is not for me to pass sentence. You've had enough of that."
She winced at the lingering judgment in his tone. Even if it wasn't his intent, it was inevitable.
"I've changed," Baxter insisted, not bothering to mask the pleading edge in her voice.
She needed him to believe her. She needed to eradicate the pained expression crossing his visage. She couldn't take seeing it any longer knowing she was the cause of it.
"I'm different now," She went on, letting out a heavy exhalation. Glancing down at her feet she mumbled sadly, "I wish you could believe me."
"But you won't tell me why you did it?" He urged with a similar desperation while he stepped forward and lightly touched her arm. Her gaze flickered upward at this as he finished insistently, "Because I am not persuaded that you could have acted on your own."
Her heart stalled and face grew hot as his words struck a pang of familiarity within her. He was right, and perhaps he knew it too, judging from the slow realization that flooded his gaze.
But even so, she couldn't tell him. He wouldn't understand. The differences between them and the circumstances of their lives were far too different for him to. Try as he might, but in the end, she'd undoubtedly be met with that pitying look that tore her insides apart with guilt.
"Maybe not," She stepped back, looking away from him. Slowly shaking her head, she informed him plainly, "But…I don't want to talk about that. Because alone, or not, in the end, I made the choice to steal. There's no point in trying to pass the sin along."
There wasn't. What was done was done. There were no second chances, not opportunities to rewrite history. No matter how badly she wanted to.
"And you won't allow me an opinion?" He questioned dejectedly, tossing his hands in the air out of defeat.
Her mouth twitched at the corners, part of her glad he wasn't accepting what she told him already as the full truth.
"You see, you wouldn't have done it, no matter who asked ye to, no matter what the provocation."
He frowned, shaking his head, "I don't claim that. If a man's to watch his loved ones starve, who's to say what'll do."
"But I wasn't starving, was I? I was working, earning wages," Baxter reminded him, shattering the fragile thread of hope he held onto that she was justified in the matter. "Believe me," She started again, her words losing stability with each passing second, "I'd give a limb to rewrite that whole chapter of my life. But I can't, Mr. Molesley. Not even for you. I can't."
The lump in her throat rose again, and she forced herself to turn away from him. She wouldn't let him see her like this, know her like this, or even remember her like this. Her hand flew to the base of her throat, forcing back the slight cry that threatened to spring forth from her.
"Miss. Baxter…" She felt his fingers brush across her right shoulder blade, sending a chill down her spine.
Baxter took a step away, ordering him about despite the shiver that coursed through her entire being, "You should be going. I've already caused ye enough trouble, I don't mean to stir up anything more for ye with Mr. Carson."
Before he could say or do anymore she was already several yards away.
As she came to learn in the days that followed, the gloominess that loomed over her head extended far beyond her own reach as she caught snippets of conversation from around the breakfast table.
"I hope your telephonic flurry of communication does not mean bad news, Mr. Barrow," Mr. Carson remarked, his tone suggesting he was on the brink of delivering a lecture of some sort.
Thomas, looking pastier than ever, replied lowly, "My father's very ill, Mr. Carson."
"Oh I am sorry," He apologized, the scolding edge in his voice dissipating altogether. "Will you need time off?"
"Well I ought to leave in the morning," Thomas informed carefully, pushing his food around on his plate.
Mr. Carson arched an incredulous brow, "Really?"
"If you want me to see him alive," Was the bitter response marred with an ounce of grief.
Baxter's face turned in his direction, and she studied Thomas sullen side profile. He looked as though he might be sick, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him.
"Oh my heaven," Mr. Carson blustered, nodding his head understandingly. "Of course I do. Of course you must go."
"I'm sorry to hear it," Baxter intoned softly, her mouth twitching into a saddened half smile. "I remember your father very well."
Thomas shot her a pointed look before scoffing, "Don't pretend. You could care less."
She looked down, reminding herself that she shouldn't take it personally. His father was dying. That was a heavy burden enough to carry in itself. She didn't need to make him feel worse than he obviously did about his smart retort.
So Baxter did the only thing she could think might alleviate some of his distress. She swallowed her pride, leaned closer to his side and reminded him plainly, "I've known your family for a good, long time, Thomas."
His focus flickered to her side, eyeing her suspiciously.
"I may not want to be your spy, but nothing changes that," She insisted, hoping to inspire a change in him.
"If you say so," He grumbled, looking ahead again.
She frowned, studying him while he took a slight sip of his coffee. How could he forget all that they'd gone through together? How was it he only remembered when it was convenient for him?
After all these years, after all the time their lives ran on separate tracks, she never forgot those many years they spent together.
Baxter remembered Thomas, Marie, and her running through the fields, dirtying up their clothes after Sunday Service, getting scolded once they returned from their adventure. She remembered Thomas throwing her dolly up in one of the apple trees, and his father forcing him to climb the high branches to retrieve it. She remembered walking through his father's shop, finding comfort in the rhythmic tick, tick, tick that filled the otherwise quiet space. She remembered hiding in the Barrow's barn, seeking refuge while Mum and her latest "friend" had it out. And she remembered when Thomas' father discovered this to be a reoccurring habit, and tossed out the man who was responsible for her cowering in the dank, dark corner of the family shed.
Her eyes stung as the thoughts came to her. Mr. Barrow was a good natured man, who treated her well. He was one of the few she'd known in her entire lifetime. And he was the first one to give her hope that not all men were horrid to others for no real reason. Blinking back the sadness at the thought of him dying, she felt the need to tell Thomas.
"Your Dad was always kind to me."
"Was he?" Thomas rotated in his seat, facing her more fully. His eyes were dark, full of irritation and distrust as he replied scornfully, "Because he was never very kind to me."
And with that, he pushed back his chair, aiming to forget there was anything good between them. Just as he always did.
Baxter let out a heavy breath, taking a bite of her biscuit that tasted dry and paste like now. It stuck to her mouth and felt hard to chew. When she glanced up again, she noticed Mr. Molesley looking away quickly from a few seats down and across the table.
And she silently wondered if he was like Thomas, trying to forget that anything good ever existed between them for different reasons altogether.