Jimmy woke with a start, his pyjamas stuck uncomfortably to his back with sweat, his cheeks wet with tears he didn't remember shedding. It had been two weeks since 'The Beating' - two weeks since the dreams had started.
Not dreams, Jimmy thought, but rather one very specific dream.
It always began in the same way; he was walking under that bridge, a little drunk but happy, when he was accosted by two large and unkempt men. They meant to rob him, and worse. But in the dream, as in reality, Jimmy was rescued by Mr Barrow. He would just appear at exactly the right moment, stepping in and telling Jimmy to run. But that's where the similarities between the dream and reality ended. That's when things got really bad.
Instead of running to get help, like he had in reality, in the dream (nightmare, Jimmy thought) he just watched. He couldn't move, or shout, or anything. All he could do was watch as the thugs doled out a beating that was meant for him, as Mr Barrow stared at him, those impossibly blue eyes pleading for him to do something.
Sometimes Jimmy would wake up during the beating, pale and stricken, his hands balled up in the sheets.
Those were the good nights.
On the bad nights the dream would continue; the men would flee, leaving Mr Barrow in a growing pool of his own blood. Only then would Jimmy's feet become unstuck and he would collapse at Mr Barrow's side, grasping his face, shaking him, begging him to just wake up. But Mr Barrow never woke up. He was always cold, dead, gone; his blue eyes clouded and unseeing, his skin grey.
And Jimmy always awoke with silent tears on his cheeks and his heart hammering against his ribs.
It's just guilt, Jimmy told himself, because I let him get hurt. Not that I asked him to get involved, or follow me around like a bleedin' love struck puppy. Jimmy dragged himself out of bed, crossing the cold floorboards to the basin of water on his nightstand. He stared at his shadowed reflection in the dark mirror, appraising his handsome cheekbones and his ruffled hair. Or I'm just spooked by the death of Mr Crawley, Jimmy reasoned. In Jimmy's experience people were liable to drop dead at the most unexpected and life shattering moments, just as his own father and mother had, and Mr Crawley's death had unsettled Jimmy more than he would ever openly admit. It had cast him into the same malaise that affected the rest of the household, upstairs and down.
"That's why it pays not to bother with folk," Jimmy said aloud to his reflection, "then you can't be too upset when they die." Jimmy tried to imagine how he would feel if Daisy, or Ivy or even Alfred were to suddenly pass away. He found it bothered him only a little, which was still more than he'd like. That was the thing about being in service; you spent so much time with other people it was almost impossible to not be dragged into their petty lives. Jimmy had never been one for forming attachments, or for anything more than idly socialising - he'd never had anyone he considered a friend, much less a romantic relationship. I'm alone because I choose to be, he thought, except I'm not really alone any more, am I?
Jimmy's mind turned to Mr Barrow; they had been getting along well enough since 'The Beating' and Jimmy found he continued to visit Mr Barrow less out of obligation and more because he actually enjoyed his company, now he'd given it a chance. Mr Barrow was funny, in a sarcastic and cutting way, and he made for intelligent conversation. Not like I've got anyone else remotely interesting to talk to, Jimmy surmised, washing his face in the basin, the water like ice against his clammy skin. Talkin' to Alfred is about as exciting as measuring place settings, Jimmy smirked at his own snideness, Mr Barrow would have appreciated that. Frowning at how his thoughts always seemed to circle back around to the under-butler, Jimmy tried to imagine how he would feel if Mr Barrow were to suddenly pass and found there was no comfortable answer; the tightness in his throat, heaviness in his chest and swirling nausea in his stomach surprised Jimmy. I'm goin' soft, he thought, I'll have to put a stop to it.
Jimmy returned to his cot, irritated and acutely aware that it would soon be time to get up and that it was rather unlikely he'd manage to get back to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes all he saw was Mr Barrow's face; battered and bloodied, his eyes distant and cold. Jimmy sighed, half-tempted to go and check on Mr Barrow. Only so I can get back to sleep, he pouted, not because I'm actually worried. He thought better of it - lurking around Mr Barrow's room in the night was a sure-fire way to get accused of being up to something 'unnatural'. And Alfred kept throwing Jimmy accusatory looks already, on account of Jimmy and Mr Barrow being so pally of late.
"I don't know how you can even stand being in the house with 'im," Alfred had sneered, "let alone being his best mate all of a sudden. Maybe you weren't as upset as you made out then?"
Jimmy had, of course, responded with anger and outrage at the insinuation. Not that I care one hoot about that great oaf Alfred, Jimmy frowned, but I just don't want folk thinkin' I'm like Mr Barrow. Because I'm not. I'm not. Even as he thought it, Jimmy's stomach knotted with guilt and with something else, something he couldn't even begin to think about.
Regardless of his concerns, Jimmy found he couldn't resist calling in on Mr Barrow before breakfast, just to make sure he was feeling alright. And not about to drop dead, Jimmy grimaced. He knocked quietly, before softly pushing Mr Barrow's door open and sidling into the room. Jimmy had been in Mr Barrow's room several times over the last two weeks, but he was still always surprised by how much the room was a reflection of the man who dwelt within. On the surface it was calm, practical and tidy to a fault, with little in the way of knick-knacks or personal possessions to give away anything about Mr Barrow. But if one delved into the closet or drawers, they would find an array of letters, books, photographs and trinkets. Mr Barrow's room, just like the man himself, had a surprising depth, bordering on sentimentality.
The sun was barely up and Mr Barrow had the curtains drawn, but Jimmy could make out the outline of the under-butler still prone in his bed. He was so still that in the semi-darkness Jimmy couldn't tell if he was awake.
"Mr Barrow?" Jimmy hissed, tiptoeing over to the cot. Mr Barrow didn't reply and for a moment panic squeezed Jimmy's throat; he tried to make out if Mr Barrow was breathing, but if he was it was so softly that the light rise and fall of his chest was imperceptible in the dim bedroom. Without thinking, Jimmy lay his head on Mr Barrow's chest, and much to his relief he was greeted with the steady thumping of Mr Barrow's heart. Jimmy smiled, feeling Mr Barrow's strong heartbeat reverberate through his head. After a few moments the heartbeat quickened and Jimmy chanced a look up to Mr Barrow's face - he was now very much awake and staring at Jimmy with an expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.
"Jimmy?" Mr Barrow whispered, his eyebrows knotting together into a frown, "What're you doing?"
"I was just checking on you," Jimmy smiled, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to creep into someone's room and lay your head on their chest while they were sleeping. It's a legitimate medical technique! Jimmy thought. A little early morning sunlight was now invading Mr Barrow's room - in the half-light his cheekbones looked more pronounced, his cheeks hollowed, his hair as black as a starless sky. His face was still marred with a dozen cuts and grazes, each one a dark line on his pale skin, the contrast making his injuries look all the more shocking. Jimmy reached out to touch a half-healed cut at the corner of Mr Barrow's mouth, his own heart now skipping impossibly quickly, before stopping just short of his red lips. A flush rose In Jimmy's cheeks and he became acutely aware that he still had his face pressed against Mr Barrow's chest.
"...Well," Mr Barrow started, his face now sporting the usual mask of indifference it always wore, "as you can see, I'm fine. So..." He motioned at Jimmy to get up. He must think I've gone completely insane, Jimmy realised, standing bolt upright and taking a large step away from the bed.
"Yes, of course," Jimmy stared at the wall behind Mr Barrow, avoiding anything nearing on eye contact. Mr Barrow struggled to shuffle into a sitting position, grimacing with the pain of a man with broken ribs and a bruised body. Without thinking Jimmy stepped in, hooking his arm under Mr Barrow's armpit and hoisting him up.
"Erm, thank you James," Mr Barrow said with a slight edge, "I can manage." Then, more softly, "Are you quite alright?"
"Of course!" Jimmy exclaimed with rather too much emphasis, "It's you I was worried about, I mean not worried, but just concerned, you know medically, just with what happened and with you still being laid up and all and after Mr Crawley went and died so suddenly with no warning or anything and I thought you might need a doctor? Yes maybe we should get Doctor Clarkson to look at you again to be sure because what would we do without the under-butler at Downton? Yes, we really should be sure that you're really alright because Thomas, you just cannot die."
"Jimmy," Thomas reached out at placed a comforting hand on his arm, "I'm fine. I'm definitely not going to drop dead anytime soon."
"Do you promise?" Jimmy said, his ever-emotive face drawn into a worried frown.
"I promise," Thomas smiled; a real, earnest smile, the kind that Jimmy was sure was reserved only for him. He never smiles at anyone else, not properly, Jimmy thought, but when he smiles at me it reaches his eyes and god, it's beautiful.
"Good," Jimmy nodded, regaining his composure a little, "I'm glad that's settled Mr Barrow. I better be off or I'll be late for breakfast. I'll bring you a tray." Jimmy turned to leave and had his hand on the doorknob before Thomas spoke.
"You don't have to feel guilty Jimmy," Thomas said in a low voice, "and you don't owe me anything. I asked if we could be friends and we are; you don't have to keep visiting me if you don't want to."
"Mr Barrow," Jimmy sighed, opening the bedroom door, "you're wrong. I owe you so very much. I'll be up with your tray soon."