Work Text:
Thomas isn’t twenty-four anymore, sneaking into the pitch black of Jimmy Kent's room with his heart in his throat and hands trembling with anticipation.
It’s been seven long years, and Thomas is just this side of thirty, the first hints of silver adorning his temples like a modest crown. He's older and he certainly feels it. No longer a sharp, brooding shadow, avoided and ignored until absolutely necessary, now Thomas sits at the head of the table, and people listen when he speaks.
The memories of his early days at Downton, however, remain vivid and distinct in his mind: bleak mornings and late nights, the endless routine, like clockwork. Although Thomas had grown up around clocks--had a healthy respect for them, really--time lost all authority. Thomas took up smoking just to tell the hours of the day apart.
Thomas is thirty-one now, thirty-two in August, and he still smokes, but less. He draws some comfort from the ritual, though the act of smoking itself has long since slipped into second nature.
It’s habit more than anything else. He looks forward to it every night. After dinner is cleared, Thomas' hand drifts into his pocket of its own accord, digging for the smart little brass cigarette case he’s taken to carrying his smokes in. He pops it open and plucks a cigarette from the fray, dangling it between his lips as he digs around in his pocket for a light. He crouches forward as he lights it, one hand sheltering the flickering flame from the non-existent breeze, and inhales in time with the dusky hiss of the lighter.
Sometimes, he plays cards with Anna or Baxter, if they’re around and willing. Most of the time, he reads novels that long ago crossed over from familiar to intimate and smokes by himself until his throat is thick with it, and the entire house is still and silent enough that he can hear the tobacco burn every time he takes a drag.
When Thomas goes dancing in York, the air in Turton’s is fragrant and cloying with the stench of cigarette smoke and spilled liquor, but Thomas partakes in neither. The night is a fleeting taste of his younger days, when danger seemed a more selective mistress, and he was more willing to risk everything for a handful of hours of fun. He’s as wide-eyed and wobbly-kneed as a newborn calf, too eager by half, but no one seems to mind.
As he laughs and spins and feels his body solidify in the arms of another man, he realizes that he’s no longer Barrow, the butler, who has wasted his best years and then some serving a family who forgets his first name half the time; but Thomas, twenty and strong and clever, not quite sure how his life is going to turn out, but certain enough in his own talents that he knows it will be nothing short of impressive.
//
When Thomas was sixteen and only two years into service at Downton, there was a stretch of summer weather so hot and brilliant that, for one glorious week, even the Dowager Countess was docile as a house cat. Thomas remembers clambering downstairs with the other footmen, having been dismissed early for the third night in a row, the contagious excitement of the staff rubbing off on him. Almost everyone stayed up late that night, playing cards and trading gossip, talking about the fair that would be set up in town for the weekend.
The night deepened and gossip was exchanged for stifled yawns and full-body stretches. The rest of the Downton staff left for bed one by one, until Thomas was the only one that remained. He lit a cigarette and fingered the spare playing cards in his pockets, the ones he used to cheat. He’d made enough money that week alone to play all the games at the fair twice over.
His gaze lingered on a well worn paperback novel, abandoned or forgotten on the far end of the dining table, but his mind was elsewhere. Though the sun had disappeared behind the horizon hours ago, the night air still held traces of its luminous warmth, and Thomas decided to go for a walk.
As he was throwing on a light jacket, Mrs. Hughes, dressed only in her nightgown, her hair in rollers, shuffled in. She made a beeline for the book and didn’t notice Thomas until he muttered a reluctantly cordial, “Mrs. Hughes.” He had never enjoyed feeling invisible, though he was beginning to realize said feeling was a hallmark of life in service.
Mrs. Hughes jumped, but smiled once she saw it was Thomas smoking in the dim light, and not an intruder. “Going for a walk, are we?” Her voice didn’t hold a hint of the suspicion. As yet, he was merely an ambitious footman on the cusp of adulthood.
“Best do it now,” she continued. “It’ll rain tomorrow. I can feel it in my joints.”
Thomas scoffed before he could think better of it– after all, it had been sunny for days and the weather showed no signs of changing– but Mrs. Hughes only shot him a knowing look.
“You’ll see, lad,” she warned, but Thomas, his cigarette smoked down to the filter, had already lost interest in the conversation. He dawdled by the door, waiting for Mrs. Hughes to leave.
After Mrs. Hughes said goodnight, Thomas spent the next half hour wandering the grounds. It was still hot out, and Thomas was soon covered in a fine, glistening layer of sweat as he trudged through the grass, which was alive with crickets.
He was thinking about what he would do tomorrow. Everyone had the day off for the fair, and he thought he’d try to get there early, before it was over-run with children. He would try his hand at a few games and win a trinket or two. And then he’d make his way over to the post office and try his luck with the boy who worked there, when the manager was out--as he would be on the day of the fair.
Thomas wasn’t sure what the boy’s name was, something like Ernest or Alfie or Francis, but it didn’t matter. Whenever Thomas popped in to drop off a package for Lord Grantham, the boy made eyes at him so obvious it made Thomas flush just thinking about it. Thomas would set his prizes on the counter and he’d look dashing with his hair slicked back with the pomade he’d filched from his Lordship’s last guest, and he’d say something suave and disarming. They’d be sucking each other off in the backroom before tea time.
He went to bed that night with excitement thrumming through his veins and woke up the next morning to rain pummelling the house from all angles, its foundation trembling as thunder rolled in from the hillsides.
The fair was cancelled and the staff wouldn’t have another free day for weeks. At breakfast, which was a damp, subdued affair, Mrs. Hughes raised a significant brow at him from across the table as if to say I told you so. Thomas ignored her, still hopeful that this spell of bad weather was an anomaly, and that they’d return to long, golden summer days soon enough, but the rain continued into autumn. It wasn’t until the air turned crisp and the leaves began to change that the fair was finally due to come back to town. By then, everyone and their mother had heard the news about the boy at the post office.
“My friend Ruth at the post office, she worked with him.” Thomas overheard one of the maids whispering to another as they dusted. “Said he always seemed a bit, well. Funny.”
“Shame, though, what happened to him,” came the other maid’s reply.
The first maid shrugged. “I suppose they didn't have to take it so far."
Thomas’ hands curled into impotent fists at his side. “You'll shut up, if you know what's good for you,” he snapped as he strode past them, but they only giggled and rolled their eyes at him, and he was powerless to stop them.
//
When Thomas is arrested in Turton’s, all he can think about is that endless rain.
They put him in a holding cell with the other men. Everyone is silent and apprehensive. The man Thomas had been dancing with is sitting on the floor, leg’s sprawled out in front of him, staring into nothing while he bites his nails down to a quick.
Thomas rests his head against the steel bars of the cell and thinks about how he learned at sixteen that a spell of good weather was a bad omen, and kicks himself for making the same mistake almost twenty years later.
In a way, it’s almost a relief to finally be caught. At least he won't have to hide anymore. He’ll be sent to prison with all the other perverts and sodomites and eventually, someone will beat his head in the same as they did Alfie from the post office.
He’s thirty-one, and wonders if his death was worth being held one more time.
But then his name is called and he’s free, stepping out into the bleak, watery daylight to see Richard Ellis waiting for him.
It’s too good to be true, Thomas thinks, even though it isn’t. Because he can’t ignore all the men still in that cell, whose lives have all been ruined in the space of one night. And he can’t ignore the fear that floods through him when Richard touches him, overwhelming any gladness he might feel, because in Thomas’ experience, wanting someone has never brought him anything but catastrophe.
It’s almost enough to make him not want it. It’ll bring too much trouble, and he'll make a fool of himself. He always does.
But he’s thirty-one, and he’s tired of being lonely. More than that, Thomas likes Richard, more than he cares to admit. He knows himself too well by now to be surprised. Richard is all tall, sharp lines and angles; all golden skin and flaxen hair and wolfish smiles. Thomas never stood a chance.
At first, he reminds Thomas of Jimmy Kent, but the resemblance is short-lived. Richard is solid where Jimmy was flighty, mischievous where Jimmy bordered on cruel. Richard is a man and he holds himself like one: confident and sure, in a way Thomas has only ever pretended at. But there’s a warmth to him, too.
Later, at Downton, when Richard leans in to kiss him in the hushed, dusty stillness of his office, the entirety of his world narrows down to the heat of Richard’s mouth on his, their tongue’s moving against one another, Thomas’ fingers sliding through the silky hair at the nape of Richard’s neck.
It’s over before it begins, both of them springing apart as Andrew walks by.
“Their Majesties are going,” says Andrew, and leaves them to say goodbye.
Thomas remembers what it was like seeing Jimmy off after he was sacked. “I hope you find some happiness. I do, truly,” Jimmy had said, gazing up at him with an expression Thomas couldn’t begin to unravel. It had almost felt like he was seeing Jimmy off to war, neither of them sure if they’d ever see the other again. And aside from a few laconic letters after the fact, all trace of Jimmy had disappeared from Thomas’ life.
Thomas wonders if that’s how this goodbye will be. They both work in service, after all, and Richard all the way in London. They’ve barely known each other long enough to be friends, let alone anything else.
Richard hands him a silver keychain embossed with a crescent moon. “It’s not much, but I’ve had it for years. It’ll remind you of me.”
Thomas has never learned to smile properly; it always feels strained and awkward at the edges, out of place on a face as dour as his own. But he can’t stop himself from smiling now, feeling a little giddy at the romance of it all. It’s more than he dared hope for.
“That’s the point, isn’t it? So you can think of me till we meet again?”
It’s a wonder Thomas can hear him over the rushing in his ears. “Thank you,” he manages, missing casual by a mile.
Richard smiles at him. There’s a promise in his eyes, and even though Thomas is far too old to believe in promises, he finds himself believing this one.