This popped into my head while I was listening to the wonderful "Another Sunny Day" by Belle and Sebastian. This is a series six AU/speculation/wishful thought, for miss-baxter because lately I've been promising the world in a fanfiction sense and consistently failing to deliver.

The servants' hall was empty when she entered except for him, and one of the maids working on some mending at the far end of the table.

"Hello, Mr. Molesley," she said softly, slipping into the chair beside him.

He looked up from his book, evidently having been completely immersed in its pages.

"Good evening, Miss Baxter," he replied, sounding a little startled.

"Sorry," she apologised instinctively, "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You're not disturbing me," he told her, resting the book on the table, "Really, you're not."

"That's good," she replied softly.

They were quiet for a moment. Their silence was comfortable, and for a second she was tempted not to disturb it. She forced herself, however, to remember that she'd come to find him in order to ask him something.

"Are you having your day off tomorrow?" she asked him.

"Yes, I am," he replied, though somehow, she thought, he didn't sound very excited about it.

She'd thought it would be the case, they usually took their days off together, ever since their trips to York.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go to Ripon with me?" she asked him, "Or even York, maybe. For old time's sake."

He smiled at the suggestion, but still he looked as if something was bothering him. She frowned a little.

"Are you alright?" she asked him cautiously.

"Yes," he replied quietly, running his hand over his face, "I'm alright, Miss Baxter. Thank you for asking. But I'm afraid I can't come to York with you, much as I'd like to."

"Oh," she replied softly, "That's alright."

"You see, I've already promised the day to someone else."

She didn't know how to answer that, she didn't know what to think. Who else? her mind implored to know before she could put it in check.

"Really-…" she started to say, "If you're busy already, it's none of my business-…"

He evidently sensed that she'd got the wrong end of the stick.

"It's my dad!" he blurted out quickly, "He's been feeling under the weather lately and the garden's been getting into a mess, which only makes him feel worse. I said I'd go and see to it next chance I had."

"Oh," her heart rate was just about levelling out after the surge of irrational jealousy and then relief she'd just experienced, "I see."

She'd heard from Mrs Hughes that Joseph had inherited his father's green fingers, it all seemed to make sense. Only she'd been looking forward to the thought of spending the day with him.

"Would you like any help?" she asked him, "I mean, I'm not sure that I'd be any good," she explained, "I don't really know anything about gardens. But if you told me what to do I think I'd be alright, and I could keep you company, or see that your dad has everything he needs."

"It would be lovely if you did," he responded brightly, "I don't want to put you to any trouble, though," he amended himself a second later, perhaps realising how keen he'd just sounded.

"It wouldn't be any trouble," she replied swiftly, "I'd like to."

"Alright," he agreed, "That's very kind of you, Miss Baxter."

She smiled at him, getting out her own mending. When he picked up his book again she saw that he was smiling at the pages too.

…

"What a lovely garden," she murmured as they reached the gate of the Molesley's house the next morning.

"He's a good gardener, my dad," he told her, "I can see what he means, though, it's getting a bit wild. He's got high standards, he won't like it if it's not tidy."

"He sounds like Mr. Carson," she told him with a smile, following him up the path, casting her eyes around at the rockery and the roses.

He laughed.

"There are similarities," he conceded.

He held the door open for her and she stepped inside the little house.

"Dad," he called out, stepping inside behind her and closing the door, "It's only me."

"It doesn't seem to be," came a voice from the far door, "Unless you've got a lot prettier since the last time I saw you, lad. And unless there are two of you now."

Old Mr. Molesley was standing in the doorway, his posture a little stooped and his eyes a little tired, but looking well apart from that.

"Hello, Mr. Molesley," she stepped towards him a little, holding out her hand to shake his, "I hope you're feeling a little bit better."

"I certainly am, now that I've got such nice company here," he replied, his eyes twinkling as he shook her hand warmly, "How one earth did Joe manage to persuade someone like you around?"

"Dad, this is Miss Baxter," Joseph stepped forwards, flushing crimson for some reason, "She's come to help with the garden."

"I know who it is, lad, I'm only having you on," he told him gently, and then, turning back to Phyllis, "I've heard so much about you, I wasn't about to get confused, was I?"

She smiled gently, placing at Joseph out of the corner of her eyes, who was looking very flustered.

"Dad, why don't you show me where the rake is?" Joseph said hastily.

"If you don't know where it is by now, you want looking at, lad."

"Why don't you make us a cup of then?" he protested.

"I can do that," Phyllis offered, "I know more about tea than I do about gardens."

"There you are," Mr. Molesley told his son triumphantly, "You get on with the garden, I'm going to have a cup of tea and a chat with Miss Baxter."

…..

It was forty-five minutes later when she brought him a cup of tea out.

"Sorry," she told him apologetically, talking to his back as she approach him in the middle of trimming the hedge, "I don't think I've really been much help."

He turned towards her, wiping his forehead a little. His eyes brightened at the sight of the tea.

"I don't know about that," he told her, taking it from her gratefully, "I would have murdered for a tea a minute ago."

She smiled.

"Do you want to have a sit down?" she asked him, nodding at the little bench a few feet away, "You look like you've earned it."

"Good idea," he replied.

He sat down and she settled down beside him.

"He's nice, your dad," she told him a moment later.

"He hasn't given you the third degree, has he?" he asked her, sounding a little worried.

She grinned.

"No, he hasn't," she replied, "He was a bit on the curious side, that's all."

"I should have known he would be," he told her, "I'm sorry."

"I don't mind," she told him, "He was very kind. He says he's feeling better than he was in the week too."

"That's good," he replied, "I was worried about him."

"Yes," she nodded softly, "I could tell you were yesterday."

They were quiet for a few seconds.

"It was very kind of you to say you'd come with me," he told her softly.

She smiled, a little weakly, her head dipping a little.

"Like I said, I don't think I've been any help to you at all yet," she replied.

"You have," he told her, his voice soft and murmuring.

The tone of his voice made her look up at him. He was watching her very intently. There was a very tender look on his face that somehow both astonished her and did not surprise her in the slightest.

…..

She noticed that he was more himself in the garden, he was more relaxed, he was very natural with his hands. She'd insisted on staying to help him, but she wasn't sure if she was actually being any more use here than inside. Truth be told, she'd spent most of the time fascinated by what he was doing, hoping he'd think she was only watching him in order to copy what he was doing.

They were over by the bed of roses, trying to tame the more unruly of the stems. He'd insisted that she have his dad's gloves, and was handling them with his own hands unprotected.

"Here," he told her, concentrating hard as he snipped one of the stems with the the clippers, "Have this one."

It was one of the best blossoms he was offering her, not one of the wilder, untamed ones they were cutting back. He'd taken the prime stem and just offered it to her. It was deep and lustrous and red.

"Won't your dad mind?" she asked him, hesitating for a second.

"Almost certainly not," he replied.

She had to admit, he had a point.

"I want you to have this one," he told her softly. His voice was tender and she heard the shadow of tremble in it. She imagined it was taking his a great deal of bravery to ask her this, to do this for her. It would be so wrong of her to say no.

She reached out, taking it in her gloved hand. His hand moved, instinctively, just a fraction, drawn to try to brush hers for a second and he inadvertently slipped over a thorn as he did so. His eyes widened in surprise and he hissed a little with pain.

"Are you alright?" she asked him, immediately extending her other hand for his.

"Yes," he replied, still allowing her hand to rest on his nevertheless, "It was more of a shock."

She could see the scratch, dark red but thin. It would probably be alright, even if it had broken the moment. There was no need to let it go to ruin though. She steeled herself, taking her turn to be brave.

"Here," she told him softly, tugging gently on his hand with hers, "Let me," bowing her head, planting a soft kiss on the tiny laceration.

The pad of his finger felt soft against her lips,

"There," she murmured, "That's better."

When she raised her head, he was staring at her as if she were an apparition from the high heavens. She was still holding the rose he'd given her in her other hand.

Please review if you have the time. I could do more, though when is a debatable issue at the moment.