Work Text:
‘So, are you going to do it tonight?’
Tom kept his head down, scribbling a note on the purchase order in front of him, not paying the slightest bit of attention to Thomas.
A balled-up piece of paper cannoned across the desk.
‘Tom!’
He looked up, across at his friend sitting at the desk opposite him. ‘What?’
‘Are you going to do it tonight?’ Thomas repeated.
Tom stared at him blankly, no clue what he was asking him. ‘Do what? What are you on about?’
‘You know. The thing. You and Mary.’
‘Me and Mary?’ Tom echoed, his eyebrow rising.
‘Yeah. You and Mary. Tonight. Are you going to do it?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’
Thomas pursed his lips, blowing out a small raspberry. ‘Yes, you do, you big, fat liar.’
‘No, I don’t.’
Thomas leaned back in his chair, arms folded, studying him with theatrical suspicion. ‘You’re going to do it. You’re just trying to wind me up, pretending you’re above the whole thing. Make me beg you. But I won’t, you know. Because you know you’re going to do it. It’s practically tradition by now. Neither of you will get out of there alive if you don’t do it.’
Tom shrugged, a little too casually. ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’
‘Aye, we will.’
Tom ducked his head again, but his handwriting had gone loopy, drifting off the edge of the page.
Across from him, Thomas stared at the top of his head and then nodded with smug certainty as he turned back to his laptop. ‘You’re definitely going to do it.’
Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the purchase order, Tom did his best to hide his grin.
‘We’re looking forward to coming out tonight, me and John,’ Anna said to Mary as they waited for the last of the paying visitors to leave the Abbey. ‘John’s particularly looking forward to you and Tom doing your thing.’
‘Our thing?’ Mary asked, distracted by the small child barrelling determinedly towards the Christmas set piece in the Great Hall, a recreation of Enid Blyton’s Magic Faraway Tree, complete with doors and tree-dwelling residents, and a slide coming out of the bottom of the trunk.
‘No, Aristotle, darling,’ the child’s mother said, swooping in to scoop up the errant toddler. ‘No slide, not now. It’s time to go home. These nice ladies are waiting for us to leave, so they can go home, too.’
As a great wail of protest filled the air, Mary and Anna exchanged a swift look.
‘Aristotle?’ mouthed Anna, her eyebrows sky high.
‘Nothing like putting pressure on a child to be a high achiever,’ Mary muttered under her breath as the family group disappeared towards the main door, expertly shepherded by Mrs Hughes, head of the visitor experience team, with the serene efficiency of a swan gliding across a lake – if swans wore sensible shoes and carried clipboards.
‘I love to see them arrive, but I love to see them leave even more,’ Mary observed as the door finally shut behind them.
‘You mean you love to see the ticket sales racking up,’ Anna replied, flashing a knowing smile at her boss.
‘Absolutely that is what I mean. This place costs a fortune in upkeep, as you well know. Christmas tops up the coffers more than any other time of the year.’
‘It’s nice that we’ll be able to let our hair down tonight at the Christmas do, though, isn’t it?’
‘Of course, it is. It’s finally our turn to get into the festive spirit.’
‘You mean all this hasn’t done it for you?’ Anna asked, gesturing at the winter wonderland set up all around them. ‘I think this year’s theme is the best yet, with all the Christmas lands in the bedrooms. I love the Sugar Plum Fairy one. Although the elves' workshop runs it a close second. And then, of course, there’s the animatronic reindeer that keeps malfunctioning and winking at people.’
‘That reindeer is a menace,’ Mary said. ‘I’m convinced it’s possessed.’
‘But it’s ultra Christmassy.’
‘I know, but this is work. Tonight, it’s time to play,’ Mary said, already thinking of the bottle of wine she intended to have with her meal at the team’s Christmas party.
Anna grinned. ‘Ah, so you are going to do it then.’
‘Do what?’
Your thing. You and Tom.’
Mrs Hughes arrived beside them, enviously unruffled as always, her silver hair still immaculate after another long day of making sure their paying guests had an amazing time at their Downton Abbey Christmas experience.
‘Oh, did I hear Anna say you and Tom are doing the thing tonight, Lady Mary? How lovely!’ she said, clapping her hands together.
‘Yes,’ said Anna.
‘No,’ said Mary, perhaps a mite too quickly.
‘What do you mean no?’ Anna demanded, clasping a hand to her chest, looking shocked. ‘You can’t deprive us. It’s tradition!’
‘We’re not performing monkeys,’ Mary said, primly.
‘Oh, give over. You love being the centre of attention,’ Anna replied, giving Mary a friendly jostle.
‘I do not.’
‘Oh, come now, we all know that’s not true,’ Mrs Hughes joined in, sending Anna a conspiratorial glance. ‘You once made the entire maintenance team gather in the courtyard, so you could demonstrate the correct way to use a snow shovel.’
‘That was a safety briefing,’ Mary said, defending herself.
‘You had a spotlight,’ Anna said.
‘It was dusk.’
‘And you had a microphone,’ Mrs Hughes added. ‘Tom doesn’t like being the centre of attention, that’s true enough, but you relish it.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, Mrs H,’ Anna said with a grin.
‘But if Tom doesn’t want to do it, I will respect his wishes, as should you,’ Mary responded, rising loftily above the teasing.
‘He’ll do it if you ask him to, you know he will. He can never say no to you,’ Anna said, having absolutely no doubts on that score.
‘Tom does have a mind of his own, you know,’ Mary countered.
‘Oh, I know he does, but somehow, you always manage to get him to do it every year, even if he says he won’t until he’s blue in the face.’
Mrs Hughes tipped her head to one side, sighing wistfully. ‘Charlie and I always look forward to it. Last year brought the house down. The way you two do it, it’s just so… so…’
‘Unique?’ Anna supplied.
‘Wonderful,’ Mrs Hughes concluded.
‘I always thought Carson disapproved of us doing it?’ Mary said, surprised. ‘He never looks like he’s enjoying it all that much.’
‘Oh, no, not at all. He likes a front‑row seat for it. He loves it.’
‘Well, he needs to tell his face that,’ Mary deadpanned. ‘Anyway, let’s shut up shop, shall we, ladies? Otherwise, nobody’s going to be doing anything tonight.’
‘Amen to that,’ Anna said, fervently, heading for the stairs alongside Mrs Hughes to do one last sweep of the public rooms. ‘The sooner we’re finished, the sooner we get to the party, and the sooner we get to watch you and Tom do your thing.’
Shaking her head, Mary bit her lip, tamping down her smile of delight that, apparently, people really did love her and Tom doing their Christmas thing.
‘Mary, darling, we’re on our way!’ Cora’s voice echoed from Mary’s phone as she and Tom walked down the driveway. ‘Papa and I are so looking forward to it.’
‘Ask her if they’re going to do it tonight,’ Robert said, clear as a bell, as Mary and Tom exchanged a grin.
‘You’re on speakerphone, Robert, they can hear you,’ Cora replied, the eyeroll apparent in her voice.
‘Oh, yes, I forgot about that. Mary, this is your father speaking.’
Tom’s shoulders shook with silent laughter at Robert identifying himself like they wouldn’t know it was him. Mary shot him a quelling look.
‘Will you and Tom be doing the thing tonight?’
‘That seems to be the question on everyone’s lips, Papa,’ she said, avoiding answering him.
‘Well, it is rather amusing. Goes down well every year.’
‘So people keep telling us.’
‘Are you going to do it then?’
Mary exchanged another look with Tom, seeing him raise an eyebrow, not saying anything. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Well, it would be a shame to break a winning streak.’
‘Stop bullying them, Robert,’ Cora scolded gently. ‘They’ll do it if they want to do it.’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘Well, you’ve said it, so hush now. We’ll be with you shortly, darlings.’
‘See you soon, Mama,’ Mary said, hearing her mother begin to remonstrate with her father with a gently exasperated, ‘Honestly, Robert, you can be so – ’ before the call ended.
Mary glanced across at Tom again. ‘Well, it looks like we have an audience awaiting us. Quite eagerly too, if the number of people who have asked me if we’re going to do it is anything to go by.’
‘Thomas asked me about it at work today.’
‘Anna and Mrs Hughes asked me. And Mrs Patmore, when I popped into the estate shop.’
A grin tugged at the side of his mouth. ‘Looks like we’re the talk of the town. Who knew our little thing would be so popular?’
‘Do you want to do it again this year?’ she asked, her fingers nervously fiddling with the strap of her handbag, never sure of his answer because she knew how much he usually didn’t like doing this sort of thing.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t think we have much choice. They might lynch us if we don’t.’
‘No, Tom, if you don’t want to…’
He shook his head and shot her a grin. ‘But you do. I know how much you love doing it. So, I’ll do it, Mary. It’s only once a year. And it is Christmas.’
Mary nodded, a little bubble of happiness fizzing through her. ‘All right then. We’ll do it.’
The moment Mary and Tom stepped through the doors of The Grantham Arms’ function room, a hush fell.
Not a dramatic, cinematic hush – more the kind of collective intake of breath people make when the raffle prizes are wheeled out early.
Then, as if on cue, thirty pairs of eyes swivelled toward them.
Mary froze mid‑step. Beside her, Tom muttered, ‘Good grief,’ out of the corner of his mouth,
Spying them, Anna threw her arms wide. ‘They’re here!’
A small cheer went up.
Mrs Patmore elbowed her way towards them, cheeks already flushed from several mulled wines. ‘Well? Are you doing it?’
‘Happy Christmas to you too, Mrs Patmore,’ Mary said, attempting dignity and failing, because someone at the back had started chanting, ‘Do it! Do it! Do it!’
Tom winced. ‘They’ve started early.’
‘You two took too long arriving,’ Daisy called from a table. ‘We’ve been warming up.’
‘Warming up?’ Tom echoed.
‘Vocal exercises,’ Daisy said, as if this were obvious. ‘We want to be ready.’
Mary blinked. ‘Ready for what?’
‘For cheering,’ Anna said, appearing at her elbow. ‘Obviously.’
Mrs Hughes glided over, serene as ever, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Don’t worry, dears. No pressure. But Charlie has set up a little stage area for you. Just in case.’
Mary followed her gesture.
There, in the corner, was a small, raised platform decorated with fairy lights, festive garlands and several sprigs of mistletoe. Thomas was setting up two microphones under the close supervision of Mr Carson. He looked up, caught Tom’s eye and winked.
‘This is all for you, mate.’
Tom groaned. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Like I said, no pressure, laddie,’ Mrs Hughes said, patting his arm benevolently.
Mary shot Tom a sideways glance, looking for confirmation one last time. He gave her the smallest nod – the one that meant 'I’m in if you are'.
Her heart did that ridiculous little skip.
She lifted her chin, stepped forward, and addressed the room.
‘All right, you lot,’ she said, hands on hips. ‘We’ll do it. After dinner.’
The cheer that erupted could probably be heard in the next county.
Tom leaned in, voice low and amused. ‘We’ve created a monster.’
‘Nonsense,’ Mary said, smiling despite herself. ‘We’ve created a tradition.’
The room was already buzzing, crowded with people with full stomachs and even fuller glasses, when Mary and Tom stepped onto the little makeshift stage. Fairy lights twinkled. The disco ball cast patches of glittering light everywhere. Someone – probably Anna – had placed a Guinness and a glass of prosecco on a stool like offerings to the gods of festive chaos.
A cheer went up the moment they took their places.
Tom rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I can’t believe we let this become a thing.’
‘Tradition,’ Mary corrected, lifting her microphone with the confidence of a woman who had been waiting all evening for this moment.
‘A monster,’ Tom muttered, but he was smiling.
Mrs Patmore cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Start it, then! We haven’t got all night!’
The music kicked in - that unmistakable opening - and the room erupted.
‘All right, all right, pipe down!’ Tom called as he waited for his cue.
The room quieted, the anticipation palpable as he raised the microphone to his lips.
‘It was Christmas Eve, babe,’ he crooned, a growl in his voice as he put an emphasis on ‘babe’. ‘In the drunk tank. An old man said to me, won’t see another one.’
In the audience, people raised their hands in the air, swaying along with the melody of the karaoke backing track.
As Tom finished up the melancholy opening of the song, Mary launched into her part with theatrical flourish, leaning into the mock‑melodrama, one hand pressed to her chest like a tragic heroine. The crowd whooped.
Tom came in on his line, slightly off‑key but with such earnest determination that the room melted. He shot Mary a sideways look as if to say, ‘Don’t you dare laugh at me’, which of course made her laugh anyway.
By the time they hit the back‑and‑forth section – the playful bickering, the faux‑insults, the exaggerated exasperation – the room was roaring as Mary and Tom leaned into their parts, circling each other, giving it their all. Anna was wiping tears from her eyes. Mrs Hughes was swaying like she was at a concert. Even Carson, standing stiffly at the back, had the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
Mary leaned into Tom for the final verse, their voices blending in that imperfect, familiar way that only comes from years of doing this together. Tom’s hand brushed hers – a tiny, unplanned moment – and Mary felt the warmth of it all the way to her ribs, the magic of the moment seeping into her.
As the lyrics finished, thirty voices rose in a rousing ‘la dah di dah di dah’ rendition of the end refrain, everyone in the room joining in, singing and swaying, arms around their neighbour’s shoulders, a moment of perfect unity.
And when the song ended, the room exploded.
Stomping. Cheering. Whistling.
Tom bowed with an exaggerated flourish. Mary curtsied, dropping low and then straightening with a huge grin on her face, matched only by his.
Someone shouted, ‘Encore!’
Someone else yelled, ‘Same time, next year!’
Mary looked at Tom, breathless and glowing.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘that went down well.’
He shook his head, laughing. ‘We’ve created a monster.’
‘A beloved monster,’ she corrected.
‘You’re under the mistletoe! Kiss her!’ someone yelled.
Tom grinned and held out his arms to Mary. Laughing, she stepped into his embrace, hugging him tight, kissing him on the cheek, thrilled that their rendition of Fairytale of New York had once again brought the house down.
Around them, the applause rolled on.
They stepped down from the little stage to a flurry of clapping, people reaching out to pat Tom on the back, squeeze Mary’s arm, or shout some variation of ‘Best one yet!’ over the music.
Mary felt buoyant, almost fizzy, like she’d swallowed a glass of champagne too quickly. Tom looked slightly dazed, but in the pleasantly stunned way of a man who had just survived something he secretly enjoyed.
Anna barrelled toward them first, eyes shining. ‘You two! Honestly! I nearly wet myself laughing.’
‘Charming,’ Mary said, though she was glowing.
‘Tom, you were actually in tune this year,’ Anna added, impressed.
Tom pressed a hand to his heart. ‘High praise.’
Mrs Hughes arrived next, clasping her hands together, Mrs Patmore by her side. ‘Oh, that was simply marvellous. Marvellous!’
Mrs Patmore winked at Tom. ‘If I were twenty years younger, lad, I’d be throwing my knickers at you up there on that stage.’
Tom barked out a surprised laugh. ‘Well, consider me flattered, Mrs P.’
She winked at him again and then barrelled off in search of a top-up of prosecco.
Carson approached with the solemnity of a man delivering a eulogy. He paused, cleared his throat, and said, ‘Acceptable.’
Mary blinked. ‘Acceptable?’
‘Very nearly enjoyable,’ he amended, then walked off before either of them could recover.
Tom snorted. ‘That’s practically a standing ovation from him.’
‘I’ll take that,’ Mary said, a smile on her lips.
Thomas appeared, a grin all over his face. ‘I knew you’d do it.’
‘You were right,’ Tom replied, an answering grin on his face.
‘Well, it were banging.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘Heads up, the in-laws are here,’ Thomas muttered before beating a retreat.
‘Oh, my darlings!’ Cora cooed, descending on them, a glass of prosecco in hand. ‘That was… it was perfection! Perfection!’
Robert clapped his hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Jolly well done, old man. When you’re acting all drunk like that… so good, so good.’
‘Thanks,’ Tom said, raising his near-empty glass of Guinness. ‘Good to know all that practice at being drunk over the years has paid off. It’s thirsty work, this is.’
‘Oh, allow me, allow me,’ Robert replied ebulliently. ‘Come and help me with the drinks, Cora.’
Slowly, Mary and Tom drifted toward a quieter corner near the Christmas tree, the noise of the room softening into a warm, chaotic hum as people turned back to their own conversation. Mary leaned back against the wall, letting the lights wash over her. Tom stood beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him through her dress.
‘You were brilliant,’ she said softly.
‘You carried it,’ he replied.
‘You always say that.’
‘And it’s always true.’
‘No, it takes two to make it work, you know.’ She nudged him with her shoulder. ‘You know… you didn’t have to do it.’
‘I know.’ He looked at her then, properly, the world around them blurring into the background. ‘But I wanted to.’
Her breath caught – just a little, just enough that she hoped he didn’t notice.
‘Well,’ she said lightly, ‘I’m glad. It wouldn’t be the same without you.’
‘It wouldn’t be anything without you,’ he said, the moment building between them, and then, because he was Tom and incapable of letting sincerity linger too long, he added, ‘Also, if we didn’t do it, Mrs Patmore might have staged a coup.’
Mary laughed, the tension dissolving. ‘She really would.’
They stood there for a moment, side by side, watching their friends laugh and dance and argue over the last mince pie.
Tom shook his head, smiling. ‘Come on. Let’s find Robert with those drinks before someone demands an encore.’
Mary slipped her hand through his arm – partners in crime, escaping the scene.
‘Lead the way,’ she said.
And together, they stepped back into the party.
By the time the clock edged past midnight, The Grantham Arms had begun to empty. The die‑hard dancers were still going – Mrs Patmore leading a conga line with alarming authority – but most people had drifted into smaller clusters, nursing drinks and laughing in that soft, end‑of‑the-night way.
Mary slipped out into the quieter lounge, the one with the old fireplace and the slightly lopsided Christmas tree. The lights were dimmer here, the music muffled. She exhaled, letting the warmth of the evening settle into her bones.
A moment later, Tom appeared in the doorway, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair slightly mussed from too many congratulatory pats.
‘There you are,’ he said, spotting her.
‘Hiding,’ Mary admitted.
‘From the conga line?’
‘From Mrs Patmore specifically.’
Tom chuckled and crossed the room to her. ‘Wise.’
He handed her a fresh drink — something sparkling, something festive — and took a seat beside her on the old sofa. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet was companionable, the kind that only exists between people who know each other down to the grain.
Mary glanced sideways at him. ‘I know I said it before, but you were good tonight.’
‘You always say that.’
‘Because it’s always true.’
He huffed a soft laugh. ‘I still can’t believe they make such a fuss over it.’
‘It’s tradition,’ she said, echoing her earlier words but softer now, more sincere. ‘And they love it. They love us doing it.’
Tom looked at her then – properly, fully – and something in his expression shifted. Not dramatic, not sweeping, just a small, warm unguarding.
‘You love it too,’ he said gently.
Mary opened her mouth to deny it, but the lie wouldn’t come. Not after the applause, not after the way her heart had lifted when he’d agreed to do it, not after the way their voices had tangled together on that last chorus.
‘Maybe I do,’ she said quietly.
Tom’s smile deepened, slow and warm. ‘Good.’
The fire crackled. Someone in the next room attempted the high note on All I Want For Christmas and failed spectacularly.
Mary let her head tip back against the sofa. ‘Do you ever think,’ she said, ‘that we only get away with this because it’s Christmas?’
‘Probably,’ Tom said. ‘But I’m not complaining.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ He paused, then added, ‘It’s the one night of the year I don’t mind being the centre of attention. As long as I’m up there with you.’
Mary felt that – a small, bright warmth blooming in her chest.
‘Tom…’
He nudged her knee lightly with his. ‘Don’t look so shocked. I can be sentimental once a year.’
‘Only once?’
‘Twice if you’re lucky.’
She laughed, soft and genuine. ‘I’ll take it. Well, same time, next year, partner?’
Tom smiled. ‘Wouldn’t miss it.’
Her heart fluttered, undeniably happy with his answer.
They sat there a while longer, the party humming faintly in the background, the warmth between them settling into something easy and familiar. Eventually, Tom stood and offered her his hand.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Before Mrs Patmore finds us.’
Mary slipped her hand into his, letting him pull her to her feet.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go home.’
Together, they stepped back into the dark of the winter night.