"Come on Jimmy, it's going to be a brilliant party I swear it – Ivy said that they've really gone all out this year – they're got this new manager who's organised a load of really exciting stuff like this posh whiskey tasting stall and a fancy karaoke machine and everything! And there'll be loads of people there – you can get to know other people in the village, and,", said Alfred, lowering his voice and leaning across the table, "you might even find a bloke."
Jimmy rolled his eyes in answer and made a show of pushing the remainder of his lunch around his plate with a fork before spearing a piece of pasta, popping it in his mouth and chewing slowly. When he eventually swallowed, he raised his gaze to meet Alfred's eager look and said, quite simply, "No."
Alfred's face crumpled, and for a moment Jimmy felt a stab of vicious pleasure at being able to thwart his co-worker's plans. "Look, Alfred, I'm sorry, but getting rat-arsed on Glenfiddich in some poncey pub and singing 'We are the Champions' with a bunch of toffee nosed twats isn't exactly my idea of a stellar night out, and it's certainly not how I plan to see in the new year."
Across the table, Alfred stuck out his chin stubbornly and crossed his arms. "Oh aye? And what exactly is it that you plan to do tonight then?"
He had Jimmy there. Since the death of his parents and his move to Downton, Jimmy Kent hadn't exactly been the most sociable man on the planet. For Christmas that year Jimmy had ignored the one invitation to dinner that he had received from a distant cousin in Leeds, instead opting to spend the day alone in his tiny bedsit, wrapped in a blanket and eating microwaved lasagne while watching Coronation Street. In fact, that was how he spent most of his evenings. Occasionally, after work, he'd catch the train to York and find a handsome stranger in a bar who was only too happy to let Jimmy share his bed for the night, but he never saw any of these men again, even the ones that he promised to (but never did) call. Teetering on the edge of thirty of stuck in a dead end job in a tiny village in Yorkshire, maintaining a relationship of any kind just seemed like too much effort these days.
It didn't help matters that, (in Jimmy's opinion), the majority of Downton's small population were insufferable idiots. Apart from Jimmy himself there was Mr and Mrs Bates, the annoyingly nice couple who ran the local post office; Mr Carson and his team of tour guides who managed the Abbey, and the Grantham's - the stuck up owners of Earl's, the overpriced gastro pub which was hosting the party that Alfred was so keen to attend. There was also the staff of the Downton Tea Room, where Jimmy himself worked – apart from him and fellow waiter Alfred there was Mrs Hughes the owner, head cook Mrs Patmore, assistant cook Daisy and Ivy, a kitchen maid and the object of Alfred's affections.
"Well?" prompted Alfred after a minute of uncomfortable silence.
Jimmy pulled a face. "Maybe I do have plans, but if I do they're none of your bloody business", he lied. "And anyway, why do you want me to come with you? You're only going so you can try and convince Ivy to finally give you a snog come midnight. I don't see why I have to be there for that."
"Because", said Alfred emphatically, waving his arms in the air as if this provided some sort of answer.
"Because of what?"
"Because I don't want her to think that I'm just going because I like her, it might scare her off or summat, and if I go alone it'll be pretty obvious that I'm just there for her. But I thought, you know, if you come with me it'll just look like we're two mates going to a party together, and she might be more likely to –well" – he paused to wave his arms around again, a blush creeping up cheeks – "You know."
"Right, of course, flawless plan. Just a shame I won't be around to see it put into action."
Jimmy made to stand up, picking up his empty plate and starting to rise from his seat - only for Alfred, with a speed surprising for one with such a gangly frame – to lean across the table and grab his shoulders, bringing his face so close to Jimmy's that Jimmy could count every freckle on the taller man's nose.
"Just listen for once, will you? This might be one of the last good chances I've actually got to make Ivy my girl and I'll not let you ruin this for me, Jimmy. You. are. coming. to. the. party. Alright?", asked Alfred, digging his sharp fingers into Jimmy's shoulders, causing the blonde to emit a small yelp of pain.
"Alright, alright you bloody mad man, I'll come to the sodding party if it means that much to you!" Alfred smiled and released Jimmy from his iron grip. Jimmy rubbed his shoulder blades defensively and glared up at Alfred. "But don't expect me to enjoy it."
"I wouldn't even dream of expecting any such thing", Alfred replied cheerily. "I'll pick you up at eight. Come on, Mrs Hughes will have our guts for garters if we're late for the afternoon tea service."
He exited the staff kitchen, whistling a happy tune as he made his way upstairs. Jimmy didn't follow him – instead he slouched back in his chair, raising his hands to cover his face as he emitted a low groan. He was in for a long night.
The party was even worse than Jimmy expected. The Grantham's had laid on a lacklustre buffet of soggy sausage rolls and cheese and pineapple sticks stuck in a misshapen foil hedgehog – there was also a small quantity of cheap orange squash to be shared around the guests, but any real drinks had to be purchased from the bar at extortionate prices.
When Alfred and Jimmy had arrived, Alfred had made a beeline for Ivy. She and Daisy were perched on bar stools in a corner, sipping gaudy looking cocktails with small paper umbrellas – when Alfred hailed them, Daisy, (who Jimmy noted was looking even more sullen than usual), had seemed to perk up a bit, but Ivy had seemed unmoved by Alfred's presence – it wasn't until she spotted Jimmy that she started to smile, a faint flush colouring her cheeks. Jimmy groaned inwardly.
"Hi Alfred", said Daisy shyly. "I didn't know you were coming."
"Hello Ivy", said Alfred, a little breathlessly. "You look very, er, nice tonight.
"Hey Jimmy", said Ivy, fluttering fake eye lashes. "Have you got someone lined up for your midnight kiss, or do I still have a chance?"
"I'm gay", said Jimmy.
"Never say never", Ivy replied.
On the small gaudily tinselled stage in the centre of the room one of Grantham's daughters turned on the karaoke machine and started wailing along to "All by Myself", followed shortly by a cry of "Get off, Edith! You could smash glass with that voice", from the elder daughter.
"I'm going to get a drink", said Jimmy.
The bar was out of the question – even in his desperation to get some alcohol inside him to try and make the evening vaguely less horrific Jimmy was unwilling to pay nine quid for a watery beer. Instead he approached the whiskey tasting stall, and was just about to take a sip from a particularly pleasant smelling single malt when a shadow fell over his glass. Jimmy looked up – standing in front of him, rather too close for comfort, was a handsome if slightly sleazy looking man with a receding hairline and a cheesy grin.
"Hey", said the man.
"Hello", Jimmy said warily.
"Awful party, isn't it? I just nearly choked on a stale cheese stick. And that woman on stage sounds like some sort of small animal having a stroke. Are you a friend of the family?"
"Not really."
"I'm got a Mercedes."
"Good for you."
"It's got these really soft leather seats."
"Right."
"They're truly heavenly to sit on, you know." The man leaned in close to whisper in Jimmy's ear. "Especially when you're not wearing any clothes."
"Ok then", said Jimmy, and downed the whiskey. He grimaced. "Goodbye."
Jimmy walked briskly away from the stranger, ducking behind a faux marble pillar by the bar in an attempt to avoid any further interaction with the man. Peering around the side, he spied Mr and Mrs Bates by the karaoke machine, arm in arm and making a poor attempt to suppress their mirth at the rendition of 'Kung Foo Fighting' being performed by Henry and Peter, two of the junior waiters at Downton Tea Rooms.
"It's a rental, you know."
Jimmy turned around. Smirking down at him was a startlingly handsome, pale skinned man with dark, slicked back hair and invitingly red lips. Staring at him, it took Jimmy a minute to process his words.
"What's a rental?", he eventually asked.
"The Mercedes. He'll make you put a sheet down before he shags you in it. Just thought you ought to know."
"Wha-", began Jimmy, before he remembered the sleazy man by the whiskey. "Oh! Thanks, but don't worry – I wasn't planning on taking him up on his offer."
"Because you're not gay."
"Because he's a fucking creep."
The handsome man smiled. "So you are gay then."
Jimmy felt a rare heat rise to his cheeks. "Well, yes. Why?"
"The handsome man shrugged. "Just a question. You live around here?"
"Yeah – I work at the tea room. You?"
"I'm the new manager here, matter of fact. Thomas Barrow." He extended a hand.
Jimmy shook it. "Jimmy Kent, at your service."
"Enjoying the party, Jimmy?"
"Not really."
Thomas arched an eyebrow.
"Sausage rolls are soggy, drinks are overpriced and the entertainment is shit." Jimmy gestured to the stage, where Ivy was now murdering Abba's "Gimme Gimme Gimme a Man after Midnight" while Alfred nodded encouragingly from the sidelines.
"Old Grantham's fault, not mine", said Thomas. "He only gave me a tenner to spend on food, and his missus insisted on the karaoke. Don't think you're the only one who's not too impressed, mind – old Mrs Grantham looks like she's chewing on glass over there."
Jimmy followed Thomas' gaze to a small table near the stage, where an elderly woman with pursed lips and an elaborate hat was giving the evil eye to everyone around her.
"So", said Thomas, "Can I buy you an overpriced drink?"
"Alright then", said Jimmy. For the first time that evening his felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps this new year's eve wouldn't be quite so awful, after all.
Several hours and many overpriced drinks later, Jimmy Kent was smitten. Thomas Barrow was certainly notjust a pretty face; he was clever and witty and, much to his delight, Jimmy discovered that they shared a mutual dislike for most of the occupants of Downton – Jimmy was particularly pleased by Thomas' description of Mr Bates as "that smug bloody git."
By eleven thirty, Jimmy was feeling both pleasantly drunk and happier than he had in years – which is why – when Thomas lent in to kiss him halfway through Alfred's rather excruciating version of Rick Astley's 'Never Gonna Give You Up' – he responded with the kind of eager enthusiasm that he hadn't put into a kiss since he was a teenager. From across the bar there was a wolf whistle followed by a cry of "Get a room!" from Ethel, one of the rowdier tour guides at the Abbey.
Jimmy ended the kiss reluctantly. "Not a bad idea", he said, inclining his head in Ethel's direction. He lent in to place another soft kiss on Thomas' lips before moving his mouth to Thomas' ear. "Have you got somewhere we could go?"
Thomas grinned and stood up quickly. "Come on", he said with a saucy wink. "I've got a place in mind." He held his hand out and Jimmy took it – they wound their way through the crowded bar, fingers entwined, until they came to a door marked 'Staff Only'. Thomas opened it, and gestured for Jimmy to enter with an exaggerated bow. Jimmy laughed. "Oh, so he's a gentleman as well!"
Thomas smirked. "On occasion", he replied.
Through the door there was a steep flight of stairs – both Thomas and Jimmy took them two at a time. When they reached the top, flushed and panting, Thomas grabbed Jimmy's hand once more and Jimmy happily let himself be dragged through another door into a small office. A small office in which a muscular, sandy haired man had a pretty brunette woman bent over a desk.
Both Thomas and Jimmy stood stock still in shock for a few seconds, mouths opening and closing likes guppies, until the muscular man noticed them. "AH!"
The brunette woman glanced up, a look more of amusement than shock gracing her pretty features. "Oh!", she exclaimed, standing up and brushing down her skirt. "Hello Thomas! You know Tom Branson – he works at the garage in Thirsk."
Tom Branson, clearly far more uncomfortable with the situation than the brunette, raised a hand in an awkward greeting. "Err, right. Hello."
"Right, of course", said Thomas, "Mr Branson". Jimmy noticed that the ever present smirk had returned to his lips. Across the room, the woman's eyes moved between Thomas and Jimmy. She raised an eyebrow in a silent question.
"This is Jimmy. He works as a waiter at the tea rooms."
"Oh, of course! I thought I recognised you! Hello, Jimmy – I'm Sybil – Sybil Crawley." She smiled pleasantly.
"Right. Well, err, lovely to meet you". There was a moment of awkward silence. "We'll be going then", said Jimmy, gesturing awkwardly towards the door.
"Yes", said Tom Branson, who had grabbed a small filo fax from the desk and was attempting to shield his crotch with it. "That's probably for the best."
"Bye Thomas!" said Sybil brightly. "Still on for lunch next week?"
"Of course", said Thomas, inclining his head towards Sybil before shooting another smirk at Tom Branson. The Irishman's face flushed red, and he tightened his grip on the filo fax.
Thomas and Jimmy left the room. In the corridor outside, Thomas let out a snort of laughter. "Come on", he said with a grin, taking Jimmy's hand once more. "There's somewhere else we can go."
This time, Thomas lead Jimmy along a narrow passageway at the back of the building and into a small kitchenette come sitting room with a large red sofa. A large red sofa on which a naked woman (who Jimmy immediately recognised as Mary, Grantham's eldest daughter and karaoke heckler), was lying underneath two dark haired men, also naked. Again Thomas and Jimmy stood frozen like statues until, a few seconds after their entrance, Mary acknowledged their presence with a scream. The two men whipped their heads around to stare at the intruders, and Jimmy realised that he knew them – they were Tony Gillingham and Charles Blake, both regulars at the Downton Tea Rooms.
This time Thomas' mouth did not twist into smirk – instead it remained open while his eyes went wide and his face quickly drained of all colour. From the sofa, Mary Crawley was glaring at him with enough force to fell several trees.
"If you plan on keeping your job, Mr Barrow, I suggest you keep your mouth shut about what you've just witnessed", she said coolly. "Otherwise, you'll be out of Downton and on the first train to Manchester quicker than Edith can scare off a man. Understand?"
Thomas nodded stiffly. "Yes, of course, Mrs Crawley.", he said in a slightly strangled voice. He and Jimmy beat a hasty retreat.
Once at a safe distance, Jimmy turned to face Thomas. "Didn't her husband recently die in a car crash?"
"Yes", Thomas replied dryly. "Widowhood does seem to be treating her rather well."
They don't even make it into the third room. Thomas' hand is on the doorknob when they hear a low moan come from within – a low moan which – much to Jimmy's horror – sounded uncannily like Mrs Hughes. The moan was followed by a gruff male grunt, and Thomas snatched his hand back as if the knob was red hot. Both men backed away from the door.
" Thomas, you don't think – by any chance - that that's Mrs Hughes and Mr Carso-"
"Don't", Thomas interrupted. "Just don't."
With no more rooms left, they end up in a broom closet. It's dark, the only light coming from a dim bulb above their heads, and very cramped – there's not enough space for either of them to kneel or even turn around, so they end up pushed close together, trousers around their ankles, jerking each other off. Jimmy comes first, burying his face in Thomas' neck and sucking a love bite into the pale flesh.
Thomas follows shortly after, breath hitching as he pulls Jimmy into a deep kiss. Afterwards, they stand under the faint light for a minute or two, holding each other and panting. When they exit the closet, smoothing down their clothes, Jimmy takes a moment to admire Thomas as the older man busies himself with tucking in his shirt. Thomas' hair is mussed, a dark lock falling across his flushed face. On his neck, Jimmy's mark had already begun to turn a livid purple. Jimmy smiled.
As Thomas glanced up there was a cry from downstairs. "TEN!" "NINE!" "EIGHT!".
He grins back at Jimmy. "Nearly midnight. Fancy a snog?"
"Alright then."
"FIVE!" "FOUR!" "THREE!" "TWO!" "ONE!" "ZERO!"
This time, the kiss is soft and lingering – when they break away, Thomas flashes Jimmy his trademark smirk.
"Happy new year, Jimmy Kent."
"And to you, Thomas Barrow."
Thomas ducked his head, suddenly bashful. "So – you, er, fancy doing this again some time?"
"And by 'this', I'm assuming you mean that last bit, rather than the interrupting-our-friends-and-colleagues-mid-shag part."
Thomas grimaced. "Please, let's never mention that part ever again."
Jimmy chuckled. "Agreed. And yes, as for the last bit, I do fancy doing it again." He took Thomas' hand in his, his fingers tracing a line down Thomas' palm. "I really do."
And for once, he actually meant it.