Thomas didn't know how he did it, but he did it.
Ten years after his disastrous visit to Downton, Philip had someone managed to entice Lord Grantham once again in his particular web of sticky charisma and good breeding.
During that decade, Philip had found his American heiress, a sickly thing whose fortune came from a biscuit company. She had died leaving him without an heir during the flu epidemic.
So maybe it was the fact that both Philip and Lady Mary had the same tragedy in common and could somehow bond. Or that Philip now had money and had less reason to sniff around the Crawley girls. Whatever the reason, Lord Grantham, being both soft and perpetually clueless, invited Philip for a weekend of shooting.
When Thomas saw his former lover emerge from the motorcar, his blood started pounding so loudly in his ears that he couldn't hear the pleasantries exchanged. He smiled inwardly and suppressed a silent laugh when Philip removed his hat to reveal an almost completely bald head while his own hair was still dark and thick with just a hint of silver.
Thomas had skillfully managed to avoid Philip for nearly a day until he walked into the dining room to check that everything was in order after the Crawleys had retired to the drawing room. He suddenly stopped short and his heart dropped to his stomach.
Philip was sitting alone at the table, as if he were expecting his old lover to come through the door at any moment. The underbutler reflexively nodded his head like he did whenever encountering anyone above his class and continued walking toward on the sideboard. He kept his back to Philip and busied himself counting the glasses, although Molesley had done it just moments before.
Philip swirled the last drop of brandy around his glass and spoke into it, "That little blond footman, he's quite the looker. Wouldn't you agree, Thomas?
"It's Barrow now, your grace."
"Hmmpf. Barrow. You always did have delusions of grandeur."
Thomas continued clinking the glasses in silence for a moment. Philip put his elbows on the table and his chin in both of his hands like a giddy teenager awaiting the latest gossip. "I've been absolutely dying to ask you. Why do you wear that ghastly glove?"
"War injury, your grace."
Philip snorted and asked incredulously, "War injury? Hmmm, now there's a story."
Thomas bit his lips shut and chose to ignore him. He arranged then rearranged the glasses, then did it again and again, moving them back and forth by just a quarter of an inch.
"So, go on then. I do so love tales of bravery."
"I lit a cigarette and was shot by a sniper. That's all," Thomas said to the wall.
Philip leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He said a bit too pleasantly,"And that sniper, he was such a good shot, that the bullet went right through your palm and missed every vital organ. You've still got all of your fingers, you can still use your hands, do your duties here. So very fortunate how that worked out, isn't it? You clearly had God on your side." He watched Thomas carefully to see his reaction.
Thomas liked to keep up the illusion that he was made of steel and marble and ice but his skin was as thin as an onion's. He immediately took Philip's bait, turned around and snapped, "What are you insinuating?"
Philip threw his hands up in mock surrender and said, "Oh, nothing at all. I've just never heard tell of a nice, tidy wound like that before. One might assume you did it to yourself?"
Thomas felt his cheeks redden and willed himself to stay calm. He slowly stepped toward Philip and said in his smoothest, coldest tone of voice, "Funny, I don't remember hearing word of your exploits on the battlefield."
"Me? Well, although I would have positively seized the opportunity to lay my life down for king and country, I had a bit of a medical condition, you see, and my physician penned a note saying that I was not fit for service."
Thomas narrowed his eyes and felt his composure slightly slip.
"What medical condition?"
"Turns out I've a bad heart, you see, and the stress would have simply been too much and poor mummy would have been out a son."
Philip stood up and approached Thomas, never breaking eye contact. He stopped next to him, his familiar scent tinged with something rotten filling Thomas' nostrils. The underbutler felt himself not consumed with longing but with pity; he didn't want to let Philip get inside his head anymore.
He chose not to speak of his two years of mangled legs and arms sawed off in a thick soup of blood and mud. Of miles and miles of guts, spilling from the bellies of men who were too injured to live but took too long to die. Of boys missing half of their bodies, and lying to them that they were going to be fine. And of grown men-sometimes a decade or more older than Thomas-spending their last moments crying in desperation for their mothers. For Thomas, hearing those eerie, almost animalistic wails was the worst part of it all.
Phillip put his right hand on Thomas' shoulder and leaned in so that they were nearly cheek to cheek. Thomas tried to ignore his warm breath on his neck, a sensation that in the past would have left him completely undone. He closed his eyes and tried to conceal the fact that he was breathing faster.
Philip sighed softly into Thomas' ear, "Besides, it was quite fortunate that I found a doctor who demanded payment in biscuits."
He then slapped Thomas on the shoulder like they were old school chums and left the room in fits of laughter, never looking back.
The next evening at dinner, it was quite the coincidence that there was an unseen ripple in the dining room carpet right by Philip's chair. It was completely an accident that Jimmy tripped over the aforementioned ripple and accidently dumped an entire tureen of mulligatawny soup all over Philip. And it was just pure luck that it happened under Thomas' sole watch because Carson had suddenly received a telephone call from a mysterious man claiming to represent his "Cheerful Charlies" other half, demanding his presence at the Grantham Arms that night … or else.
Jimmy received his punishment later that night when Thomas crouched between Jimmy's legs, his mouth hovering cruelly over Jimmy's aching cock, not even an inch away from his leaking tip. His lips so close, his warm wetness so near.
Jimmy was gripping the sheets with sweaty palms as he gasped and twitched and groaned with unspent lust.
Thomas made him beg. Beg for forgiveness. Beg for contact. Beg for release.
But Thomas could never be cruel, not with Jimmy, not with someone he loved. He surrendered and smiled, and took him slowly into his mouth with a sigh.