Chapter Text
In the weeks following The Beating, as Jimmy mentally referred to it, the house was in severe disarray due to the death of Mr. Matthew. The family was in tatters, and the servants spoke in hushed voices of whether there was even a God in Heaven, unfair as this latest tragedy was. It was a grim period. But it was a fortunate occurrence, because no one took it amiss that Jimmy was sunk in a brown study most of the time. It seemed natural. The entire house was encased in gloom. Only Jimmy knew that his new-found contemplation had nothing to do with Mr. Matthew.
It had to do with that moment he walked into Thomas’s room and saw that battered face, and knew that this man had taken a beating meant for him. A man he’d abused and sneered at for a year. A man he’d tried to ruin. A man who still defended him, protected him, looked after him… and Jimmy’s nerve sank under the burden. He couldn’t really hold Thomas at arm’s length anymore, and the truth was, his desire to do so had abruptly vanished, buried under a ton of shame at his own behavior.
There was another element to that weight on his shoulders: an element of wonder. Personally, Jimmy couldn’t imagine making a similar sacrifice for anyone. Yet there was a toughness about Thomas, under that carefully combed exterior, that made it no shock at all (once the surprise was over) that he could do such a thing. When he thought about it, Jimmy realized that stepping into the breach was no anomaly for Thomas. Hadn’t he joined the Medical Corps and thrust himself into the war before even being called up? That it was a pre-emptive strike, Jimmy did not know, but even if he had, so what. It was a wise one, one meant to stave off a worse fate. And clearly, the same impulse had been at work when he stepped forward to save Jimmy: a smaller sacrifice to protect a greater value. Jimmy looked into the mirror to see what greater value Thomas saw in him that was worth it, but he couldn’t see it. He saw only Jimmy Contra Monde… himself alone against the world. Except now it seemed he was not alone.
The effect on Jimmy was, at first, a sort of unprecedented, shocked humility that made him unable to keep up any sort of front with anyone, Thomas most of all. In the days that followed, Thomas kept to his room until the worst of his injuries faded, for even in those dark times, it was terribly distracting to the Crawleys to have an under-butler standing over the potatoes who looked as if he were a prize-fighter by day. They weren’t unsympathetic, indeed, they lauded his heroism. But they were still content to let him recuperate in peace and quiet, rather than stand bruised guard over their meals.
Jimmy found himself compulsively checking on Thomas throughout the day, to see if he needed food, water, help getting around, anything, anything at all… with an unselfconscious nervousness that only a moron could overlook. Not being a moron, Thomas scented the wind and grew as still as a python who sees a rabbit falling under its spell. The trick in these circumstances, he seemed to know, was simply not to frighten off your prey, to let it hop closer and closer in its befuddlement until the time was right.
Thomas would have been offended at such a comparison, of course, because in this case he fully intended that the rabbit should survive the attack and learn to enjoy being a meal again and again, perhaps forever, but the actions of hunter and prey are still consistent throughout Nature, whatever the ultimate outcome: Jimmy was stunned, and was cutting himself off from the herd with his newfound silence, his increasingly intrepid visits to Thomas’s room “just to check in.” No snake could have resisted.
If Thomas was the snake, and Jimmy the rabbit, Carson was the owl up in the tree watching the developments with concern. It was clear that Thomas had transformed from a threatening shadow to a protective awning in one fell swoop, and Jimmy’s increasing willingness to linger under that shade worried the old butler. Had he been pressed to put his fears into spoken form, the word “seduce” would never have sullied his lips. But “influence”… now there was a word fit for any ears. Jimmy could fall under the influence of a man like Thomas. For Carson was fair enough to acknowledge that Thomas was a creature of some force and mystique. Even after 10 years, no one could say with any assurance that they knew him thoroughly. His capacity for vituperative action was very well known, as well as his ability to perform with grace, steadfastness, and even a certain empathy which was valuable in part for its discernment: Thomas responded to goodness, anyone who saw his reaction to Lady Sybil could see that. In some ways, he had the magnetic pull of true North: only the pure would turn toward him. One could not simply write off such a personality. The sinister drive mingled with the zealot’s regard for the holy could only produce a flavor both strong and distinct. No one could ignore Thomas. The question was not how to ignore, but how to resist. Jimmy, whose psyche was clearly fine but brittle, couldn’t be expected to hold out against him for long.
Despite his concerns, Carson was in no position to oversee very closely. The funeral services for Mr. Matthew, the visitors who came to pay their respects-- and lingered to observe the aftermath-- kept the household busy. Faces were long, and no one had enough spare time to get into mischief. When Thomas was recovered enough to join in the public displays, he had already conquered a certain amount of ground with Jimmy. A hand on the shoulder was no longer cause for tension, for Jimmy seemed to feel now that this hand had a right to land on him, and had a right to warm and press his neck. Like a yoked beast who had accepted the claim, Jimmy grew strangely passive around Thomas. In fact, both Mrs. Hughes and Carson could see the look of distant fatalism on Jimmy’s face when Thomas stepped up to him with some minor directive, usually accompanied by a touch on the shoulder, or the back. And Mrs. Hughes could see the gentleness of that touch, though of course Carson only saw the sword of Damocles tasting flesh. Nevertheless, Carson was too busy and distracted to do much more than direct warning glares toward Thomas, whose cold blue eyes slid away from them with the sort of sang-froid one would expect from a snake, even of the non-poisonous variety.
As for Mrs. Hughes, though she was in the position to speak, and could probably have done so without causing much offense, she refrained. With a certain world-weary humor, she reminded herself that if nothing else, no one was going to get pregnant: a state of affairs she’d learned to value.
So thus it was, some two months after The Beating, and the demise of Mr. Matthew, that the household finally settled into the dreary weeks of recovery. The visitors were finally gone. The family was quiet, and no longer in shock. Meals and routines were re-established. And the new dynamic between Thomas and Jimmy was established as well: Thomas was a man somewhat redeemed, having reminded the entire staff of his stauncher side, even his humanity. Of course, the kitchen maids, finally alerted to the true nature of the thing, tended to giggle at the weakness his heart had admitted to. Being girls, however, they were still sensitive to the romance of the situation: a sacrifice! A selfless action on behalf of one beloved… it amused, but it also touched.
Alfred was surprisingly calm amid the new scent in the air. He disapproved, of course. Vehemently. But this new awareness on the part of the entire staff left him the sole contender on the fields of masculinity. Thomas loved Jimmy, Jimmy was affected by that love, and Alfred could sense their removal from the plains where stags hunted. This was compensatory indeed. He decided, unconsciously, to refrain from protest for now. Really, it was none of his business. Besides, it was rather pleasant to watch the process of Jimmy’s disintegration as a rival.
Jimmy’s part in this new dynamic was somewhat less positive than Thomas’s. That Thomas could love at all lifted him in the eyes of others, for when one is as cruel as Thomas could be, there is nowhere to go but up. But Jimmy had glided, up till now, on the surface of things with his own brand of shallow grace. Until now he had been handsome Jimmy, who could play piano, dance, banter, and deflect personal questions with his thin but steady charm. Now, however, that veneer flaked away to reveal a young man vacillating between nameless unease and a curious aura of defeat.
To be in love, it has been said, is to recognize your doom and accept it with calm. Thomas had achieved the calm, having been born doomed. But Jimmy was still grappling with that sudden recognition of his destiny, and the moments of calm were only in evidence when Thomas was near him, looking at him, laying that hand of fate upon him. At such times Jimmy sank under that blue gaze, and stared back with the blankness of acknowledged prey. Alone, however, he developed several nervous tics, and his fingers drummed the table at quiet moments, only to suddenly freeze as he sank into morbid contemplation of Thomas’s ashtray.
By day, they moved as if underwater, the household of Downton. The family in sorrow, the staff respectfully, even sincerely, glum. Mr Matthew had been rather an adopted mascot for them all, ultimately, and they had prided themselves on their ability to see his worth. Now he was gone, and no one was glad. But the trance-like atmosphere was strongest wherever Thomas and Jimmy crossed paths. Thomas made certain they crossed often. Jimmy put up no resistance whatsoever. So it was that they were increasingly alone together for several moments each day in a state of breathless suspension. Thomas reveled in the moments when he entered the silver pantry to find Jimmy alone, and saw the lack of defensiveness in Jimmy’s glance when he closed the door behind them. Drawn by the aura of helpless compliance about Jimmy, Thomas edged closer, and ever closer in these weeks, to comment upon the state of the silver, or the changes to the menu, or to undertake the occasional cursory inspection of Jimmy’s person. When some minor repair of Jimmy’s attire needed his personal touch, a button or hem or bit of lint, Thomas moved in very close and attended it with a soothing murmur, and Jimmy fell into a stillness rather like a mild swoon, and gazed off limpidly in such a manner as to make them both suddenly taste something in the air, and look at one another watchfully, as if to say, did you taste that too?
Thomas, of course, was far more aware of the process unfolding than Jimmy was. Thomas had seen it before, in various forms, although he’d never been so personally invested. But he knew, as many of his kind did, that coming to terms with an unexpected and forbidden passion was an unnerving process. It grew like a tumor in the mind, pressing against the normal functions until they finally noticed the pressure, and began to flutter and agitate, and ask what was happening.
Jimmy was much more in the dark. He was of course aware that something was awake and rolling over inside of him, and it was certainly connected with his own surprising and alarming lack of revulsion at the thought of Thomas, white-skinned, cold-eyed Thomas, with his diamond-shaped face and diamond-shaped hands that should have been cold but were surprisingly warm, and his voice that should have been smooth and hissing but was bracingly rough and common… it was rather like discovering that one liked the Devil better than God. It wasn’t good news. But it was there, and had apparently been there for quite some time. Yes, whether you understood the process or not, it was unnerving. And Jimmy was thoroughly unnerved.
If the days were unnerving, the nights were hair-raising. Thomas was a tame devil by day, buttoned up and attentive to his duty--for no passion would ever render him free of personal ambition. But when darkness fell, the kitchen was quiet and still, the last of the family had drifted up from the sitting room, and the staff was disappearing one-by-one from the servants’ hall, this was the poor man’s witching hour. This was a time for those who wished to risk the stigma of being alone together, even if only alone at the end of the table, or alone in the corner near the piano. This was the time that Thomas would coil up and with deliberation light a cigarette, blowing up the smoke like a signal, and Jimmy increasingly drifted over to him like a fogbank to a lighthouse.
One night, Thomas produced a deck of cards from his pocket and challenged Jimmy to a game of War. Now War is a peculiarly mindless game, each side puts down a card, highest card wins, the winner takes them both, and it goes on and on until one side has completely denuded the other of cards, and holds the whole pack in his hands. There is no strategy, no gamesmanship, no skill involved. There is only the willingness to confront again and again, to ignore the losses and pounce on the winnings, and add to your arsenal while depleting your adversary’s over and over until you have finally completely demolished them. In short, the perfect metaphor for love. Jimmy melted into the seat across from Thomas, and they played a round, betting small change. Jimmy won, and collected his coins smilingly. Thomas watched with intent but veiled eyes, and then casually offered to accompany him upstairs.
Outside Jimmy’s door, Thomas turned and said confidentially,
“If you want to play again tomorrow night, I’ve got a bit of something in my room. To drink, I mean. I don’t have enough to go around, so—“ he shrugged slightly, “best just the two of us. Unless you’re scared of losing.”
The jibe was unnecessary, for Jimmy was quite willing to play cards alone with Thomas on the next night, and said so directly. Thomas gave him that characteristic glance, one that seemed to touch Jimmy’s face, drop to some distant spot near his elbow, and then slide away with a tip of the head that might mean “Indeed,” or “well-played,” or “we’ll see.” Then he said good night with his usual precise impassivity, and moved to his own door on silent feet. They both entered their rooms aglow with expectation… Thomas’s glow one of reddish intent, Jimmy’s of golden alarm, and spent a mostly sleepless night less than 10 paces apart, and fully aware of it.
The next day, they were both rather high-strung with anticipation, and had to take pains to hide it, and look suitably glum at breakfast as Anna commented on how many more months it would be before Lady Mary could wear a touch of purple, or perhaps dark blue. Jimmy had developed the habit of keeping his head turned in Thomas’s direction, completely unknowingly, and so was the more obvious of the two. Thomas’s nerves of steel served him better, and he had mastered the fine art of appearing to stare at his plate while really, his entire attention was directed toward every movement in the upper right hand corner of his field of vision. It was a day in which they both felt aware of every second passing.
When evening came, Jimmy came to Thomas’s room in his undershirt and slacks, rather unsure of exactly the correct attire for this sort of date, and was relieved to find Thomas in a similar half-molted state. They pulled up the chairs to the small table, Thomas produced a bottle of some amber, burning fluid, poured them each a drink into the two tumblers that he had borrowed-not-stolen from downstairs, and they settled in.
Thomas shuffled. “What’re we betting?”
Jimmy considered. “Same as last night?”
Thomas gave him a glance. “I’m not so eager as you to go broke. Wot about something else. Not money.”
Jimmy almost laughed. That hadn’t taken long at all. But he played dumb. “What, then?”
Thomas finally smiled, the kind of warm, engaging smile few people got to see. “How about a kiss. Jus’ one.” He said it lightly, as if to imply that it was really a trifle, and nothing to fear.
It seemed appropriate to at least pretend reluctance, so Jimmy looked away for a moment and tried to access the dismay that must surely be in his heart. He couldn’t find any, only a ticking silence that neither confirmed nor denied. He looked back and assessed Thomas. What could he ask that would equal a kiss? He considered for a moment, and then his eyes lit on the glove. “I want to see what’s under that glove.”
Thomas’s smile faded a bit. He’d only ever shown one person his deformity, and had learned to regret, now that the war was over, that he had sacrificed one of his beauties, his rather elegant hands. He wasn’t eager to show Jimmy the gnarled remains. Jimmy stared him down, tipping his head back a bit, and the lamplight fell on those lips. “Right,” Thomas said shortly, and dealt.
War can be played in absolute silence. Rapidly. The hands move, and the eyes flick back and forth. They drank between each round. Jimmy could see Thomas clenching his teeth as his share of the cards dwindled. In a short time, it was over. Jimmy tipped back in the chair, pleased with himself, and Thomas glowered. Then he removed the glove, and Jimmy lost his smug look for a moment. “My God,” he said, his chair coming back down with a thump. Without a thought, he reached across and took the damaged hand in both of his own, pulling it toward him and cradling it in his like a wounded bird. It occurred to Thomas that one can lose a battle and still win the war. He let Jimmy hold the hand and explore it with horrified awe for several silent moments.
“Did it break the bones?” He asked, clearly distressed.
“A few,” Thomas said, gauging Jimmy’s reactions carefully. “Fine now, except when it rains.”
Jimmy looked conscious. “It always rains.”
Thomas let a modest smirk escape. “Well.”
They sat like that for a moment more, and Jimmy regarded the hand he was holding, his own fingers moving slowly over it. He seemed in danger of falling into another of his brown studies, and Thomas hoped he would, for every moment they touched he considered it as another moment that his card took one of Jimmy’s, growing a stockpile of intimate moments between them on his side, to counter the arsenal of resistance he was sure still existed on Jimmy’s. But he knew instinctively that Jimmy’s share had shrunk since The Beating. He just didn’t know exactly how much.
Finally Jimmy inhaled, as if he had forgotten to breathe for a minute, and his eyes came back into focus. He gave back the glove. “You want to play another round?”
Thomas’s eyes took on a glow. That was unexpected; he’d thought Jimmy would retreat to enjoy another night of safety before the inevitable moment that Thomas would claim the kiss they both knew was coming. He let Jimmy shuffle.
“Wot’s yer bet this time? Mine is still… well.”
This time Jimmy was ready. “I want your cigarettes.”
Thomas actually paled. “That’s my last pack.”
“I know. You said you had to make them last till Sunday. They’ll last alright, if I’ve got them.”
Thomas actually hesitated. His cigarettes were sacred. Jimmy leaned forward, his natural cockiness finally resurfacing for the first time in two months. He glanced over his shoulder to the closed door and then spoke in a lowered voice. “How long a kiss are we talking about?” He asked with hint of challenge. Thomas forgot the cigarettes entirely. He rose and went to his dresser, and returned with a small hourglass.
“Egg-timer,” he explained. “Two minutes.” He set it down with a thump on the right side of the table. Jimmy leaned back and regarded it, his moment of daring drowning immediately in a sea of consternation. Two minutes is a long time to let another man work his mouth over yours. Clearly he wasn’t talking about a little peck on the lips. This was going to be… the full procedure, he thought.
Thomas narrowed his eyes and turned the egg-timer over deliberately, so that Jimmy could watch the sand fall for a few long moments. Watching the younger man’s face as he imagined Thomas kissing him for all those long, long seconds was fairly satisfying in itself. Jimmy seemed to forget how to breathe again as he stared at the tiny hourglass. They sat frozen for two full minutes, Jimmy staring nervously at the sand, Thomas staring contentedly at Jimmy. When it was over, they both rather felt as if the kiss had been accomplished. Jimmy breathed again. Thomas took the pack of smokes from the tiny end table behind him and set them down on the left side of the table, and Jimmy began dealing out the cards between the two items. He looked like a man who sees a noose outside the window, but he kept dealing.
From outside the Abbey, any passing watchers could see the lights in the windows going out one by one until at last, the tiny light in the far attic room went out, and they would have known that the card game was over, at least for tonight.
As Jimmy exited Thomas’s room, he encountered Mr. Carson, just coming up from a late night at the balance books. Carson’s eyes flitted from Jimmy to the closed door and back.
“What is going on with you and Mr. Barrow?” He asked bluntly.
Jimmy held up the deck of cards. “But we’re not playing for money,” he said.
Carson actually looked more disturbed rather than less. “What are you playing for?” he asked, with the air of a man who is not sure he wants to know the answer to his question.
Triumphantly, Jimmy held up the pack of cigarettes. Carson relaxed and gave him his most disapproving eye-roll, and then sighed himself off to bed. Humming to himself, Jimmy went to his room.
The next morning, Thomas was uncommonly waspish with the kitchen maids. By the time breakfast was cleared from upstairs, Thomas was lingering around the backdoor longingly, and when Jimmy passed through, he accosted him; but humbly.
“Won’t you… I just… be a friend, Jimmy, and let me have one cigarette,” he said.
Jimmy put on a serious face. “I don’t know, now… I don’t know if I should, you know. That wasn’t part of the bet.” He could barely keep from grinning.
“No, the bet was that you have them, and you do, you have them. You never said I wasn’t to smoke, now, did you?” Thomas put a placating hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and moved it caressingly down his arm. Alfred cut through the hallway, giving them a sideways glance, and Thomas dropped his hand with a frustrated grimace. Jimmy finally let his smile shine through.
“Alright, then, come on.” He led the way out back, Thomas following, tensely tugging down at his vest.
Outside, Jimmy removed the pack of cigarettes from his pockets and pulled one out. Thomas reached for it but Jimmy pulled it back.
“Ah-ah,” he said and slowly put it to Thomas’s lips himself. Thomas accepted the gesture with a slow smile, and his shoulders relaxed. At that moment, he was happier than he’d been in years. Jimmy chuckled, watching him light up and take that first long drag with a sigh of relief. They lingered a few moments after the cigarette was finished, watching the smoke drift up as if they were afraid to look at each other, but could settle for looking at something together.
By the end of the day, Thomas had rather learned to enjoy begging Jimmy for a cigarette. The whole process was delicious, for Jimmy was a tease at heart, and played his part thoroughly. In fact, Thomas ended up smoking somewhat more than he would have otherwise, but neither of them commented on it.
That night, they sat down to the table like two combatants who knew each other’s weaknesses now, and were equally determined to prevail upon them, and stretch this tantalizing game out until it moaned. Thomas set the hourglass down meaningfully and shuffled the cards.
“What are you betting for?” He asked.
Jimmy smirked like a man who has his enemy’s measure now. “Your hair pomade.”
Thomas stopped cold. “Aw. Don’t be like that.”
Jimmy’s grin grew to beautiful proportions, and Thomas admired it for a moment, and loved it, but … “Jimmy, you don’t know wot my hair looks like without it. I have this… it stands up here and it lays down there and it stands up again over here and I look like a chicken’s been clawing at my head. Water don’t hold it down, Jimmy. Nothing holds it down.” He was actually pleading now. “I’ll look… not fit to wait table.”
Jimmy picked up the egg-timer and turned it so the sand started flowing. Then he just held it close to his face and gazed at Thomas, who could sit and stare at the timer and Jimmy’s lips at the same time.
After a long moment, Jimmy said, “You’ll never win,” and curved those lips into a little smile.
Thomas grabbed the pomade, slapped it down on the table, and dealt the cards with murder in his eye. Well, not murder. But something rather close.
The next morning, the Dowager Countess joined the family for breakfast, having received a letter from a dear friend with an unmarried son that she felt Lady Edith should know about. As she swept into the hall she greeted Mr. Barrow falteringly.
“My goodness,” she said, gazing at his hair. “Is that the newest style…” she added dubiously, and then sailed past without waiting for an answer.
It was a long day for a vain man, and by the end of it, Thomas had taken on the grim, enduring demeanor of a wet cat in a cage who knows that every passer-by is going to throw another bucket on him. Even Lord Grantham had not been able to control a slight double-take upon seeing his hair, and everyone all day seemed to be addressing Thomas’s forehead. It was very distracting. And of course, he refused to explain, settling his face into a cold and forbidding mask that effectively shut off communication. The denizens of Downton settled for staring at his hair, looking to each other expressively, and maintaining an awkward silence more painful than questions.
Thomas gazed upon Jimmy much less dotingly that evening. They sat down to War with faces more matched to the game than ever before.
“I tell you what,” Jimmy began, before Thomas could even speak. He put the cigarettes and the pomade with the hourglass. “If you win, you get it all back. You get your kiss. You get everything.”
Thomas stopped shuffling and regarded Jimmy intently.
“But if I win, we arm wrestle. And you have to accept whatever bet I place on it,” Jimmy finished. He looked quite serious. Thomas glanced at Jimmy’s arms speculatively, and then thought of his own considerable fitness (and his burning determination, which bolstered strength far more than it helped a card game.) He nodded wordlessly, and dealt.
They played deftly, quickly, as if they both just wanted it over with. It was not a light-hearted game anymore. Thomas lost, and sat back with a stunned air.
“Yer cheating!” He finally stated. “It’s impossible, no one wins five games in a row, yer cheatin’ somehow!” He glared at Jimmy, who regarded him somberly.
“You can’t really cheat at War,” Jimmy pointed out.
Thomas gathered up the cards angrily and put them aside. Jimmy positioned his elbow on the table in a clear invitation to move straight to the arm-wrestling. Thomas remained unmoved for a moment.
“So here’s the bet,” Jimmy said quietly. “If you win, you win it all. Including your kiss. Whatever you say… But if you lose… you can never ask again. Never.”
Thomas stared at him, suddenly feeling as though this long game had somehow been deliberately engineered by Jimmy to come down to this moment, when his apparent flirtation would be stripped away to reveal a hard and loveless will that had never budged an inch, not really. Thomas felt sick.
Then a wave of red rose up to his face, and he determined that he’d win even if he had to break Jimmy’s arm. He positioned himself wordlessly, they locked their fists together, and Jimmy said “On three. One. Two. Three.”
Thomas slammed Jimmy’s arm to the table so fast, he was startled himself. It was over in a split second. It took his brain a moment to register that Jimmy hadn’t put up the slightest resistance. He looked up to see Jimmy smiling at him, a warm smile directly into his eyes unlike any he’d really seen before.
“Wha’ are you doin?” He breathed, truly lost.
“I got tired of waiting for you to win at cards.” Jimmy said. He got up, took a deep breath, and walked to the door. Then he turned facing Thomas and leaned against it, so that if anyone tried to open it, his body formed at least a momentary barrier to serve as warning. His arms hung limp at his sides, but his palms opened and turned outward. “Well?” he whispered.
Understanding finally dawned on Thomas, and he rose and came to Jimmy, reaching up to touch his face with both hands, and he had to notice that both he and Jimmy were trembling slightly. They put their foreheads together for a moment, and then Thomas leaned in for his kiss.
They never could say how long that first one lasted. They forgot the egg timer.