"Merry Christmas," Jimmy slurred in Thomas' ear. He was very drunk, everyone was in the servant's hall, and Thomas was worried. Oh God, he's so stupid when he's drunk. What if he gives us away? He was already standing much too close to Thomas, much too close. Close enough to elicit some conspiratorial smiles from that confounded Bates and his marred-by-association wife.
"Jimmy," the under butler said in a warning tone.
"Yeah, Thomas?" the footman slurred. "Look, I'm damn tired of hiding."
Shit. "Jimmy!" he hissed again, trying to drag the younger man out of the hall.
"Hey, everyone!" the footman yelled.
Thomas' face was turning red, as he tried to stop the ticking time bomb. Now that everyone was looking at him, he couldn't very well drag Jimmy up the stairs. Not if wanted to keep that night out of everyone's heads.
"Everyone! I'm in love with Thomas Barrow and he's in love with me. I thought you should know. You know, with all the other couples around here." He gestured drunkenly to the Bates', and to Alfred, who was leaned against the wall talking to Daisy.
Everyone in the room was staring at Jimmy with varying amounts of shock and disgust. Thomas realized with relief that Mr. Carson was not in the room. Oh thank the Lord.
O'brien looked positively gleeful, and she glanced up to see if Mr. Carson had heard, and her face dropped a little when she realized he wasn't there.
Any possible ways to do any sort of damage control slipped Thomas' mind. He was out of practice with lies and scandals and things like that. Never thought I'd regret that decision. Taking a deep breath, he looked coldly at Jimmy. "Go to bed, Jimmy. Just go."
The silence of the servant's hall was palpable, and made the words resonate. Thankfully, though, the footman listened, and went up the stairs, stumbling loudly as he did.
What a Christmas. Just when I thought I had the chance to be happy... "Huh," he said instead, lighting a cigarette, putting on a show of confidence and grace. "Funny the things people say when alcohol is involved. From the mouths of footmen."
"Is it...true?" Alfred asked, in pure disgust.
Thomas took a deep breath, and lied smoothly, "What do you think, Alfred? He was just being cruel is all."
Mrs. Hughes was chuckling to herself, and Thomas glared at her, then addressed the staff. "I trust that Mr. Carson will not be hearing a word of this?" As under butler, the power to say these things flowed easily from his mouth, but the bite behind only came at times like these. He looked at each person individually.
"What is it that I will not be hearing of, Mr. Barrow?"
Thomas jumped. Godfuckingdammit.
He faltered, but Anna (bless that woman!) spoke up. "It's nothing, Mr. Carson. Just that our James may have had a bit too much to drink. We sent him up to bed."
Carson nodded at the believable (and partly true) story. It wasn't a lie, exactly.
Feeling sick with his good luck, and with his anxiety, Thomas gave Alfred, the almost-but-not-quite-as-drunk-as-Jimmy-Molesly and a couple of the hall boys significant looks, then stepped out for a bit of air, saying behind him as an afterthought, "Fancy a smoke, Miss O'brien?"
Such familiar words. For years, he'd said them pretty much every day. But it had certainly been a while.
They stood silently together, and for a moment, Thomas was able to pretend nothing had happened between them. Yes, she was vindictive bitch, but he missed her snark and subtlety. Jimmy was...amazing. He was everything Thomas had ever wanted and more, but he didn't have the same wickedly terrifying sense of humor his old friend had.
Focus, Barrow! The task at hand! Damage control, damage control!
"I could get you sacked now," she began, then realized how to cut him up more. "Both of you."
"No, Miss O'brien," he said in a sarcastically amiable voice. "You cannot. Not without coming down with me. I know things, remember." Her ladyship's soap. Thank God she'd told him when it happened. It was the reason he still had his job, and probably a few other things besides.
"I'll get you."
"I've no doubt you will." But today, he had won. And today was all that mattered. He was done with schemes and scrambling and threats. He had what he wanted. He was happy.
She dropped her cigarette in the snow, turned on her heel, and stormed back inside.
Alone, finally, Thomas was able to think about what had happened back in the servant's hall. Anger and fear gripped the man's chest and stomach. Without warning, he was violently sick into the snow.
"Fuck you, Jimmy," he muttered. "Fuck. You." Thomas kicked at the snow in a rage if emotions and therelackof, then took off running, still muttering curses. "I love you, Jimmy, but fuck, you're so careless and stupid." Jesus, I'm one to talk about careless and stupid.
Cold and tired and tasting of vomit, Thomas collapsed. Sobs of helplessness wracked his entire body. Even when he was happy, even when when someone loved him, he still had to act and hide and pretend.
He wasn't mad at Jimmy. He was mad at the whole damn world. He was mad that what had been said was cause for alarm. Mad that because he loved someone, it was wrong. But he was not mad at Jimmy. (The only other exceptions to this hatred of the world were Anna - why again, was she with that blasted Bates? - and Lady Sybil. Or rather, the memory of Lady Sybil. Of Nurse Crawley. And possibly Daisy.)
Calming down, Thomas crunched through the now back to Downton. We're still going to have a talk, though. In the morning. His mind wandered to his poor love, probably passed out by now, but he hadn't had a glass of water before going to sleep...he was going to be very hungover.