The bustling sounds of a busy morning at Downton faded to a murmur as Richard ascended the narrow stairs from the downstairs servants quarters. He'd been told by Mrs Hughes that Thomas was still clearing up in the breakfast room. As he took his time taking each stair, he considered sneaking upstairs and surprising Thomas though in the end he thought better of it – if he was seen he'd have no excuse to explain why he was snooping around, as tempting as the notion was.

A door a few flights of stairs above him swung closed, followed by Thomas's footsteps – he knew him well enough to recognise it was him – no talking though so he was alone. As far as he knew, Thomas hadn't heard him so he waited on a small landing, leaned back against the wall sporting a charming grin for good measure, and waited to surprise him.

Thomas, carrying a tray of used crockery and utensils, faltered as he rounded the stairs above Richard. "Richard! What the— What are you doing?"

Richard remained in his position, enjoying the pink flush on Thomas's cheeks. "Waiting for you Mr Barrow. I don't make a habit of loitering on stairs, you know."

"If I had dropped this," Thomas said, nodding towards the tray, "it would have been your fault. Why are you here?"

"I just thought I'd see how you are doing."

Thomas inhaled a long breath. "I don't need checking up on Richard. I'm fine. We talked last night, didn't we? It's not a secret anymore."

Richard straightened himself up away from the wall. "Which is exactly why I asked."

"And I said I'd talk to you if I needed to, but I haven't changed my mind. I'm still not going," Thomas retorted, his firm clipped tone warning Richard that pushing any further would not end well.

Richard stalled his further attempts to push the conversation back to Thomas's father's funeral. They were at odds: Thomas wouldn't budge and Richard still felt deep down that Thomas should go along. He knew the signs; he decided to change subject, before they started arguing on the echoing stairs for anyone on the floors below to hear. "I had another reason, the main reason for coming here," he began, "my mum rang."

"Are they alright?" Thomas asked, his tone mellowing into concern.

"Oh yes they're fine. She was only calling to ask if they could visit tomorrow, I know it's short notice but I wanted to ask you."

Thomas's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You could have called to ask me that. Why come all the way here?"

"Because I wanted to talk it over with you, in private." They began to walk downstairs, Thomas a couple of steps behind Richard as he spoke. "With everything you told me, and what I already know, I didn't want to make you uncomfortable with their visit."

"Uncomfortable? Richard I don't need to tell you how I feel at ease around them. You know that, even if they're in our own home."

"I know, and I'm glad for it, but I didn't want to rub your face in it – remind you of how well I get on with them when your own family..." he trailed off. It didn't need to be said.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and their hushed half-way-up-the-stairs conversation was drowned out by the humdrum of downstairs, mainly by Mrs Patmore shouting something inaudible in the kitchen. Stephen rushed by them, brushing past Richard in his haste. "Slow down Stephen!" Thomas chided the young footman.

"Sorry Mr Barrow, Mr Ellis," he answered, ducking his head.

"Not to worry Stephen," Mr Ellis reassured the flustered footman. "I shouldn't really be here."

"Shall we talk in private?" Thomas asked Richard, looking in the direction of the butler's office.

"Lead the way."

"Stephen, take this through to the kitchen please?" he asked, handing him the full tray. "It's the last of it from breakfast."

"Yes Mr Barrow," Stephen obeyed, taking the tray and allowing Richard to follow Thomas into the relative peace of his office, the door closed behind them.

Thomas slumped into his chair. "I know Phyllis thinks something is up with me, she must have noticed my mind has been elsewhere this morning. She's an annoyingly good judge of how I feel, though she couldn't possibly know why, unless..." Thomas's eyes widened with worry, "Margaret and her were friends once, you don't think she got a letter about the funeral too do you?"

"I doubt it. I don't think Phyllis would have any reason to hide that from you, in fact you'd probably be the first person she'd tell." Richard sat on the corner of the desk, like he usually did when they were alone.

Thomas nodded several times, as though convincing himself. "Yes. Yes, you are right. She's not me, she'd not hide something like that. But Richard, don't stop your parents from coming to visit because of my messed up relationship with my family. I'd like to see them and I won't deprive you of spending time with them either. I'm free on Sunday morning anyway. It will be nice, better than going to church anyway, assuming they're coming in the morning?"

"They hope so. My mother doesn't mind skipping a service."

"Oh but—" Thomas's eyes squeezed shut for a couple of seconds.

"What?"

"Well you and I had...plans for tomorrow morning. Just us."

It was Richard's turn to blush, he felt the heat of it rising to his face. It had been a while since he and Thomas had had a morning to themselves at home, and on a Sunday morning too...Richard had been looking forward to having all of Thomas to himself. "Well we could compromise? How about I tell them not to arrive before eleven? It will still give us a few hours with them for lunch before you have to head back?"

"I think I could handle that," Thomas agreed, looking up at him through playfully keen eyes, brightened after his previous worries.

A clock chimed in the room and Richard groaned, wishing he could stay.

"What is it?"

"I have to go." He reluctantly stood up, Thomas's hand that had been on his leg slipping off as he moved. "I promised Chris I would be back in good time so he could leave. He's been a jitter of nerves all morning, and it's only been a few hours since the shop even opened."

"Oh it's Saturday!" Thomas exclaimed. "His sister?"

"Yes, today's the day. I told him I could handle things for the rest of the day and that he should use the morning to tidy his place up."

"Chris hardly lives in a pig sty Richard," Thomas scoffed.

"No, but I thought if he was busy, it would take his mind off things."

"Hmm, good point. I'll see you later." Thomas stood and walked over to him. His hands found Richard's shoulders and then ran down over his back.

Richard gave him a coy smile. "You're giving mixed messages Mr Barrow," he said with raised eyebrows.

"You're right. Go," he relented.

Richard reached for the handle, but Thomas's hands found him again, pulling him back into him from behind. "Thomas!" Richard laughed – one that would have been heard by anyone who just happened to be on the other side of the door.

"One thing?" Thomas asked, his breath tickling his neck like a hot breeze on a summer's day. "It's not strange...us arranging...well you know, for tomorrow?" Richard pushed himself around. Thomas was so close to him, he had nowhere to go other than to be pressed up against the door. "It's just," Thomas paused, ducking his head to one side.

Richard caught on. "We're not in the situation where we only see each other a few times a year and therefore having to plan everything we do, and take every opportunity we can get?"

Thomas nodded.

"I like being spontaneous with you but...oh I don't know...sometimes it's nice to anticipate."

"You don't know exactly what will happen though, do you?" Thomas lifted his gaze to him once more, no shyness visible.

Richard smirked, tightened his grip on Thomas and pulled him into a kiss. Thomas, taken by surprise, didn't react at first, but caught up in no time and their kiss grew heated. Thomas's hand splayed flat on the door beside Richard's head, as his own seemed to roam over Thomas as though it had a mind of its own. He had to stop, he'd promised Chris and Thomas was working. Richard pulled back, pushing Thomas back also. Away from the door, he closed the gap between them again, letting his lips hover a fraction from Thomas's, their breaths mixed, faces flushed.

Thomas tried to kiss him again, but Richard backed off. "Anticipation Mr Barrow: let your mind imagine a little."

Richard left quickly, closing the door behind him and entering the real world once more. He straightened his tie and smoothed over his hair with one hand.

As he strode across the back yard and towards the path, Richard smirked to himself with a smug grin: Thomas had been well and truly on his way to being worked up by him, and now... now he'd given him a lot to think about.

...

Larry took a step back from the van, hands on hips, nibbling his lip in thought as he surveyed the engine the bonnet open, propped up by a piece of wood he'd found lying around – yet another thing to fix, though since if gave him more work to do and less time to think about why he was there, standing in a barn in the Yorkshire countryside dressed in clothes shoddy enough that even his gardeners on his estate wouldn't have worn them, instead of lounging in his warm study with Sebastian sitting in opposite looking at him over a newspaper—

Larry shook his head violently, bringing his thoughts back to the present. Mr Tomlinson hadn't been kidding; the van was plagued by a multitude of issues. "Good, that's what you need," he said to himself. He walked back over to the engine, leaned on the left side and peered inside. It was electrical, he was sure of that, which was a shame. Mechanical things were easier to fix, less fiddly. He stood up. A sharp jab of pain shot through his head as it collided with the underside of the open bonnet. Larry stumbled backwards, rubbing it. Despite being no stranger to peering into engines, that wasn't the first time he'd regretted not paying attention.

"Bloody hell that f—" Larry rubbed his head, patting it to see if he'd drawn blood.

"Larry! Keep your voice down, or choose better words than that. If the housemaids end up swearing at me then I'll know where they got it from," Sebastian chided, pulling Larry down to sit against the wall of the garage on the floor to get a better look at his head.

"Trust me, they know them already. Seb get off, I'm fine," Larry grumbled, feebly trying to fight him off.

"How many times have I told you that you don't need to maintain your own cars Larry. What's the point of having stacks of money if you don't have a few perks – your own car man for one thing." Sebastian parted Larry's hair several times over, checking for wounds inflicted by the open bonnet of his latest Aston Martin.

"Hardly a perk Seb. They'd get all the fun. They'd drive them, and I'll be in the back like some grand old lady from last century!"

"You wouldn't have a throbbing head if you did have someone to do this."

"I never said it was throbbing."

Sebastian stroked his face, cupping his chin, turning Larry's face towards him. "No, but I can tell. You're grumpy." He leaned down to kiss him, Larry letting him take control. "Better?"

"Hmm, mostly. Could do with another," Larry smirked. "If it's bleeding I'll need more than a kiss." Sebastian leaned in again, teasing his lips against Larry's – the lightest of feather light touches. He gave him a quick peck and stood up. Larry spread his hands in a gesture of complaint. "What happened to another? That doesn't count."

"You're not bleeding. It will probably just bruise. Besides you stink Larry. If I kiss you again, I don't think the stench of oil will come off me!" Sebastian quipped. "Come to me when you've washed, and don't use the front door, go through the servants entrance. Remember how your own housekeeper had to have a polite word with you the last time you left dirt on the carpets?"

Larry rolled his eyes and stood up. "Honestly anyone would think you're my mother the way you're fussing."

"Only because I love you Larry, and I don't want you to end your days at the wrong end of a wooden spoon or some other utensil the housekeeper uses to do you in."

"I thought they all liked me?"

Sebastian put his hands on both of Larry's shoulders – the only part of him that was clean enough to touch. "They do, but best keep it that way," he advised with a wink. "I'll see you inside." He turned to leave, but looked back again. "Oh, do you want me to telephone about ordering the spare parts for the Aston, spark plug wasn't it?"

Larry snapped his fingers in triumph, a conversation from years ago, giving him the solution to at least one of the van's faults. Upon investigation he confirmed he was right. Rust on the connecting points diagnosed the problem. Simple to fix, but he'd need parts. He looked around almost expecting Sebastian to be there by the door. The car wasn't the only thing that had backfired, his plan seemed to have too. It seemed focusing his mind on the practical couldn't be done without bringing Sebastian into it.

"Larry?" David called out.

"Yep, in here."

"Just checking on how you're doing?" David pushed the door partly closed behind him.

"Not bad if you're talking about the van that is." Larry rubbed his head at the sore patch above his forehead.

"Um...good? What about you? Are you alright?"

"Of course! Fine. The bonnet and myself had a disagreement and it clouted me one, but I'm fine, nothing a kiss wouldn't fix," Larry said before he knew what he had done.

"Larry? If that's one of your jokes then I—"

"No! No, sorry. It's only an old memory, something that I was reminded of. Don't mind me." Larry winced inwardly.

"Your focus isn't one hundred percent on the task in hand and is being shared with one American you know?" David guessed.

"Pretty much sums it up." Larry ran a hand through his hair. "It seems it's harder than I thought to focus on other matters when he's being sorely missed. But it's fine. I probably deserve the discomfort after what I did. Anyway I figured out why it's misfiring." After a change in the subject he didn't expect David to say more on the matter.

"I know the feeling."

"Excuse me?"

"Of missing someone. There's a situation right now." David lowered his voice and glanced towards the door. "Between Chris and I."

"If you've fallen out too then you'd better make it up."

David half-heartedly laughed in response. "We haven't. Not exactly. To cut a long story short, Chris's younger sister Helen, whom he hasn't seen for decades, turned up at the shop several days ago with her son, Chris's nephew. She knows nothing of who he is and wants to get to know him again. Chris suspects – and I don't entirely disagree – that if she finds out the truth about him, let alone about him and me, she'll never want to see him or let him see his nephew again. Chris has wanted to have contact with his family for a long time, he's just never spoken about it much. She's going to visit him today and Chris has told me not to be around, not even as a friend."

Larry let out a long whistle, and took his time to answer. "He's probably right, hopefully not, but it's best to build up relationships slowly, step by step. But you feel distant from him?"

"Something like that."

"Give him space with his sister, just for today. But don't step back too much." Larry patted him on the shoulder in a friendly manner as he passed him towards the door. "Spark plugs."

"What?" David asked, perplexed.

"That's the issue with the van that caused it to misfire. I had the same with one of my Aston's. It needs replacing. Does Matthew have a telephone?"

"No. The post office does, if you don't mind the walk?"

"No, that's fine. I need time to think." Larry found himself privately grateful that David didn't question his deliberate change of subject. He was honest about his advice, but Larry didn't want to talk about personal issues anymore, even if they weren't his own.

"Larry, thanks. Good to hear it from someone else who understands," David called after him.

"No problem. Those we love can be complicated," he said after he turned away, whether he spoke to David or himself, Larry couldn't be certain.

...

A fresh smell of baking pastry and stewed apple wafted through the air, finding its way from the kitchen to the living room where it mixed with the scent of beeswax polish. Chris stood back from a shining wooden mantlepiece, breathing heavily. He cast a wary gaze over the room, scanning over every surface, every chair, table, frames on the wall in case he'd missed something. Richard had been kind enough to take care of the shop for the rest of the day. Chris had returned home before lunchtime and except for a quick bite to eat – since his stomach had been churning all morning he'd not cared for much – had been cleaning and tidying ever since. With the exception of David, Thomas, Richard and occasionally Michael when he popped by, he wasn't used to hosting visitors. He wanted Helen to get a good impression of him, but struggled with getting the balance between presentable and unwelcomely tidy, correct.

He struck a match and lit the fire, the scent of fresh wood only serving as a reminder of the fact that if the world were a fairer place, David should have been here to greet his sister and nephew as well. David always cut the logs for the fire when he came around, Chris was happy to let him do it. Aside from the obvious pleasures of watching David's toned body at work, he appreciated the help when his leg played up.

His leg twinged again as he stood and blew out the match. He didn't know if it was just the cold foggy weather or if it was brought on by the tension that filled his whole body. He wanted David's touch, his comforting kiss that would instantly reassure him that everything would be okay. Was it pointless to try to put on a show to impress her when he knew any good impressions, any rekindling of a sibling relationship between them would come crashing down when she inevitably found out the truth about him? And aside from the obvious, he was not perfect – he glanced at the place he hid his gun and the memories associated with it, buried behind wooden doors and deep inside several boxes of random clutter – he was not perfect at all.

Chris put the dozen small apple pies – glazed with milk to give a golden appearance – on the side to cool, saving them from being overdone just in time. He'd heard somewhere that the smell of freshly cooked bread was ideal to make visitors feel at home. He hoped pies had the same effect. The gentle knock at the door almost made him drop the teapot. He took a deep breath. "Stop being stupid," he whispered to himself as he went to open the door.

"Helen, come in. Let me take that," he said pointing to her coat.

"Thank you, can I bring the pram inside?"

"Bit of a squeeze but yes, it will get damp outside. Typical weather," he said, with a nervous laugh. As he hung her coat up he noticed to his horror one of David's woollen jumpers was still hung on a peg in the hallway from his latest visit. Along with meticulous cleaning, he'd also scoured the place for signs of David and hidden them away to avoid any uneasy conversations. If it were a coat or some shoes, maybe she wouldn't think anything of it, but David had a larger frame than him, and it showed with the jumper. He used the pretence of making room for Helen's coat to rearrange one of his to cover David's jumper.

"I've lit the fire, don't normally this early in the day but I thought, well he's only little, he might get cold. In fact, it is damp outside and you walked right? Do you need a towel for your hair, does little Chris need anything? I could find—"

His rambling was cut off by Helen picking up her son out of the pram and pushing him into Chris's arms before he knew what hit him. A bright eyed baby, who seemed perfectly happy despite the weather and unfamiliar surroundings, beamed up at him. Chris froze, looking repeatedly between the child and his mother. Helen managed to wheel the pram inside over the small step, pushing it out of the way near the stairs. Chris stood rigid, only noticing his sister's mischievous smile that traced her lips. "He won't bite brother," she said with her back turned as she fetched a bag from under the pram.

Brother. If he didn't feel totally out of control of his emotions then, he did now. He moved his hand to cradle his nephew's head. "I err... that is...do you want tea?"

"That would be lovely." Helen took her time sorting out the pram, which Chris reckoned was deliberate. She sniffed the air, eyes smiling, taking her son from him. Little Chris's absence left Chris's arms feeling empty. "Oh have you been baking?"

"Um...yes. I thought, since our conversation at the shop, that I'd bake my speciality. I cooked them for a friend of mine at Downton Abbey as a birthday gift once.

"You have friends who live at Downton?" she asked with amazement.

"Not the upstairs folks of course. Some of the servants, the butler in particular." He didn't want to delve into his friendship with Thomas too much in front of her. He'd been as lovesick as he could have been when he made Thomas those pies last summer. "I wrote down the recipe you wanted though, come through I'll fetch it for you."

Helen followed Chris in through the front room and through to the kitchen at the back. All the way he could feel her looking at him and all over the surroundings of his quiet out-of-the-way cottage and he could feel her questions – or he thought he could. It was just as likely that he was overthinking still and that she was merely observing as any guest would. "They smell great Chris, and familiar too. I could close my eyes and find myself a young girl back at home in our mother's kitchen."

"The first time I made these, since back then, I had the same feeling." Chris searched around the table cluttered with cooking ingredients and utensils for a sheet of paper. "Sorry it's got some flour on it." He brushed the paper a few times before handing it to her. "I think that's pretty much the same as it was. I add berries to them when they're in season. Um...anyway...tea? You and little Chris make yourself at home, I'll sort it out."

He hoped that Helen wouldn't offer to help – in truth he needed a moment to calm his nerves, to tell himself all was going smoothly. As he sat down in the chair nearest the window in the living room, Helen and her son on the sofa opposite and the tea tray on the table between them, he began to feel himself finally settle. They made small talk about the garden and the apple trees, Helen being impressed that he'd planted them himself. Eventually, topics moved onto family – something Chris would rather not touch with a nine foot pole – it was inevitable they'd end up there.

"You're on your own here then?" Helen asked, somewhat tentatively. Chris could feel her looking at his hands. He removed them from his lap, making them busy by pouring out more tea, even though he hadn't finished his cup.

"I am," he said, his lips almost on the edge of his cup so he could take a sip and buy himself time. "I like it that way."

"You've changed then, I remember you loved being the centre of attention with the boys in the neighbourhood. You were quite cocky back then, you seem to have mellowed."

Prison does that to a man, he almost found himself saying out loud, but kept the words from leaving him. "I grew up I suppose. Youthful arrogance isn't uncommon, you know."

"I suppose but even then, you have a lovely little place here Chris, I mean that really, but it's not even that close to the village, you've got one neighbour and I...don't you get lonely? You're not married I take it?"

Chris kept the eye roll of the inevitable question he'd been waiting to face, hidden too. "No, I'm happy as I am. I don't think I'd be the marrying kind anyway. I've got a good job, friends and a neighbour that's on the whole, okay even if her several cats think this place belongs to them." His attempt to lighten the mood and change subject fell flat, Helen's concerned expression not shifting. Chris decided to try a more direct change of subject. "What about you though? How did you and John meet?"

"Oh, well we sort of met twice," she began, her frown lifting, "We met briefly during the war. I, like a lot of young women, wanted to do something for the war effort so I volunteered to maintain and fix army vehicles."

"Mother allowed you to do that?"

"She wasn't keen on it, she wanted me to do something like nursing or get working in one of the factories, but I was adamant. I didn't like the stories I'd heard of the terrible injuries some men came back with, I wasn't sure I could handle that, and the idea of spending hours a day in a factory— In the end I decided either the land army or cars. I chose right in the end though." She paused, her cheeks blushing a light shade of pink. "As it seemed. John was on leave but bought a jeep that needed a little care – oil change, new tire, nothing too difficult – we got talking, he started flirting and asked me out, took me to see a musical, really put on the charm."

"I suppose the rest was history?"

"Not exactly. He went back to the front, exchanged a few letters but ultimately lost touch. I never even knew if he survived until several years later – 1925 to be precise, summer – when I had a chance encounter, bumping into him on a bus. I gave him a good telling off for not writing to tell me he was even still alive, and after that...now you can say the rest is history. We married a few years later, in 1928. Little Chris came along later than I thought, but that's how it worked out."

Chris could see by her coloured face and dimpled smile, along with the way she stroked her baby's head, whilst she spoke that her marriage was one of love, and he was glad. He half expected their parents to find her someone suitable and marry her off. "You're very lucky."

"Thank you, and it's never too late, there might be a woman right around the corner who has eyes for you and no one else."

Chris cleared his throat. "Yeah well, as I said, I'm not the sort to get attached. John's not anything to do with the army permanently is he?" he asked, hoping Helen didn't notice him changing subject once again.

"No, thank goodness. He was a volunteer like you?"

"Yeah I volunteered. I was the average private, nothing special until they noticed my...talents," he said flatly, looking down.

"Talents?"

"I'm a good shot. It became clear that I rarely missed a target. The captain called me a natural, and rewarded me by giving me the role of a sniper, not something I'm especially proud of, you know – though you don't really know – killing people from a distance away without even seeing their faces."

Helen leaned forward. "It was a war Chris, you were no exception."

"I know that, but it doesn't sit with me any better. I've still got it, I try not to let people know so they don't ask questions but there was a summer village fete last summer. They had a shooting range: it became clear to my friends here then." Chris glanced down at the door of the cupboard where the gun he had stolen from a house several years ago lay hidden, the one he'd used to bring Martin Lee – the man who had tried to kill David, and had almost killed Richard – to justice. He considered for a moment whether she should hear that story too, if it would paint him as a hero in her eyes? She would have read the incident in the papers. "I don't do that anymore." She didn't have to know all his secrets.

Helen was silent, reaching forward to pour herself some more tea. She took her time, sipping it whilst looking out the window to the garden. "The fog seems to have eased a little. Do you mind showing me your garden? You have space around the back too?"

It seemed Chris wasn't the only one with a talent for avoiding topics that were best left covered. "Yes, though I don't want him to get cold, it's still damp."

"I'll wrap him up, we needn't be out there long. You've found yourself a fine set of green fingers by the looks of it?" she smiled.

"I'm not a gardener, but I like to keep things tidy."

"The tree in the lane looks neat as well, the one just beyond the wall. You've trimmed that?"

"No, I'd never manage the ladder on account of this." Chris tapped his knee. "No, a friend of mine did that. He helps out around here, from time to time."

"Oh that's good. Maybe I can meet some of your friends, and if I'm not being too forward, I hope we can come and see you again soon?"

"I'd like that, very much. You'll both be welcome." Chris stood up, stretching his bad leg a few times, it being stiff from lack of movement. "I'll give you the grand tour and then we can pig ourselves on the pies I made, just like we used too."

"Just like then yes," Helen agreed with a memory-filled smile, "though our parents aren't here to scold us for having too much."

"That's a relief," Chris said whilst Helen had her back to him, bending over little Chris. She didn't see his tight expression and was too busy with her beloved baby boy to notice the bitterness in his voice.

Note: the next chapter might be a little while longer in coming. I'm going away on a short break in a few weeks and prep for that is about to make me very busy. It will be worth the wait though, I promise ;)