60 Pubs in York

A/N: Okay. So. I don't really 'ship Baxley the way I do Chelsie (and I will always write about them) and I will admit, I didn't always like or even sympathize with Molesley. But the interplay between these two feels so redemptive and there's so much untold and unknown (about her, especially) that it feels like a rich vein of ore to mine. I came up with this idea a while ago, kept shelving it, taking it down, brushing off the dust, and putting it back again. I've finally decided to give it a go. True Baxley 'shippers, keep me in line. Tell me what I've done wrong, and where I stray. And if I'm on the right track. ~CeeCee

She moved the food pedal of her machine rhythmically, the low humming vibration of it soothing, nearly hypnotic. She glanced up at the clock on the wall over the long, battered table in the servants' hall. Nearly 10 o'clock. Her ladyship had retired early this evening, at half-past nine. Lord Grantham had entered his wife's bedroom right before she had finished assisting her ladyship with bedtime preparations, and Phyllis could sense that he was agitated.

Who can blame him? She thought. Phyllis Baxter paid attention to people. To everyone. Some of it was in her nature, but much of it had been learned, fostered, by Peter Coyle, all those years ago. But while Coyle used his (and hers, oh yes, he'd used her, in many ways, until there was very little left of her she could recognize) powers of observation to benefit himself, Phyllis always strove, these days, that her attention would do some good, put something valuable back into the world.

She owed the world that, at least.

She owed herself that...perhaps.

In any case, she understood that John Bates' disappearance wasn't solely upsetting to Robert Crawley because of the inconvenience of losing a valet, or even the loyalty of an employer troubled by the travails of a hardworking servant. No, she knew that the men had forged a friendship, during a war, nonetheless, and Mr. Bates' confession and flight to Ireland, or beyond, was all the more upsetting for it.

She assumed that the authorities would have to release Anna Bates, which was a relief. Anna was not the type of woman who would last indefinitely in the sort of dark places that prisons were. Phyllis understood this; the blackness was so relentless, survival became focusing on the pinpoint of hope, that day of release. It seeped into your bones, your mind, your heart and your soul.

She wasn't sure she'd completely shaken the shadows of her past. They seemed to crowd the corners of her vision, no matter how much she tried to distract herself with brighter things. She lived in them for such a long time, the light sometimes felt too harsh to her, though she'd been slowly learning to appreciate that it's was still there. And that there might be a place for her in it.

The sewing machine continued to hum along predictably under her steady guidance, and she gently pushed her wandering thoughts aside, for the moment. With few exceptions, Phyllis found it more than possible to spend hours, no days, speaking only when it was required of her, out of duty or politeness. She hadn't always been so. She sometimes wondered if she had been allotted so many words to speak in her lifetime, and had used far too many of them far too quickly. It bothered her far less than a younger version of herself would have thought.

She hummed a little to herself, a duet with her machine. She wasn't sure how long she was bent over it, threading the hem of a beautiful gown through carefully, but she was pulled out of her reverie by the smell of strong tea. She raised her eyes and saw Joseph Molesley standing in the entryway to the hall, two teacups in hand.

Her heart did a small roll in her chest, a concise but languid movement.

"Miss Baxter," he said, clearing his throat a little. "I don't mean to disturb your work, but I thought you might like a cup of tea?" He walked towards her, placing both cups on the table. "May I join you?"

"Please do, Mr. Moseley," she smiled as he sat across from her, her heart still pounding a little. She set aside both the machine and the frock she had been working on. She didn't think she'd be returning to them tonight. She thought of Joseph as someone comprised of layers of softness, gentleness, but there was a sharpness to his mind that she knew many at Downton didn't catch on to, sometimes, most of all, himself. But she could see, now, on his face, his mind was working something out, and he wanted to share it with her.

And she wanted to hear it. To give it her full attention.

It reminded her of how she felt when Peter Coyle would press his body close to hers, in ways and in places and at times that entirely flouted propriety.

It made her think of how she felt, when she'd stole that jewelry, and breathlessly, desperately, went to meet her erstwhile lover.

She felt awake for the first time, in a long time. But she also felt safe.

"You've something on your mind, haven't you, Mr. Molesley?"

"Indeed, I do, Miss Baxter," his forehead crinkled, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. His eyes were focused somewhere over her shoulder. He was thinking. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and brought his eyes down, to join her gaze. He smiled a little, though his brow was still folded thoughtfully. "It's about Mr. Bates, you see."

And then he did something that surprised her. He pulled out a nice studio portrait of the runaway valet, laid it on the table.

"You'd say that was a fair likeness of him, would you, Miss Baxter?"

"Yes, I would, Mr. Molesley," she picked it up, studied it. She meant it. The portrait was rather standard, but it somehow conveyed Mr. Bates' amiable seriousness. "It…feels like him, if you understand me?"

He broke into a grin, and she found herself responding in kind. He was a very dear man.

"I'm glad you've said that, Miss Baxter, because I've an idea," he took the photo from her, his fingers brushing hers. It sent a small thrill up her arm, made her think, in certain ways, of stolen moments in the pantry with Peter. But also, not anything like that at all. Not in the least. "I was thinking – and, I would value your opinion here – what if I took this photo, on my day off, to York? Visit the pubs there, see if anyone remembers Mr. Bates being there that day? The day Mr. Greene was pushed?"

Phyllis' pounding heart danced a bit faster. "Mr. Molesley! What an excellent idea. And what a generous one." She wasn't sure she'd ever met anyone more different than Peter Coyle than Joseph Molesley. And yet, her heart responded to him, enthusiastically. Perhaps, it was healing, after all.

"You don't think it's foolish, then? A wild goose chase?"

"I don't. I certainly think it's worth trying, given that a man's life – and his wife's – are in the balance," she grinned broadly at him. "Even if there must be hundreds of pubs in York."

"My thoughts exactly," he didn't seem daunted at the idea. "I've a plan, though; I think it's best if I start close to the train station, on the main streets, and expand the search from there if I've no luck." He appeared so eager to begin, she thought for a moment he might just up, dash a way, grab his coat and hat and head out the door immediately.

"Mr. Molesley," she began hesitantly, but pushed her self-doubt aside. He enjoyed her company, perhaps, even admired her, felt fondly towards her. There was no need to feel he'd turn her down. "Mr. Molesley, if you'd be willing, I'd like to join you, at least for some of the trips, if I might?"

He'd been carefully studying Mr. Bates' photo, but now his head snapped up. A wayward strand of his fine hair fell over his forehead. He looked like a schoolboy who'd gotten called on by his favorite teacher. He swallowed, hard. Looked again at the spot over her shoulder.

"Miss Baxter, I would be honored if you would accompany me," he stated. He seemed as if he wanted to say more, but quickly closed his mouth.

"The honor is mine, Mr. Molesley," she said softly. "There aren't very many people who would give up their spare days off to trudge through York. You remind the rest of us how to be." She stood, gathering their cups and saucers. She needed to go, before she said too much.

He looked up at her, his eyes wide, still seated for the moment. Then his good grooming kicked in, and he stood, but his face still held confusion.

"It's as you yourself said, Miss Baxter – a man's life is at stake. How can a day off compare?"

She was glad both of her hands were occupied with the dishes. Otherwise, she was certain she'd reach across the table to stroke the stray hair back over his nearly bald pate. Thought briefly of the many times she'd run her hands through Peter Coyle's thick, dark curls.

"Good night, Mr. Molesley," she managed. "And you're right – there's no comparison. See you tomorrow."