A/N: This story was inspired by a post on tumblr made by the lovely Cherry Unicorn. Thanks for the prompt!

Warnings: Internalized homophobia. Rating may change in future chapters.

Jimmy came in late, dripping rainwater and rubbing his eyes.

He'd been out to the flicks tonight to see whatever was playing—it had been something about a princess—but he'd nodded off accidentally and missed most of the film. He wouldn't have fallen asleep at all, of course, if only he'd had someone to go with him, but after Alfred and Ivy had left Downton (and their replacements were insufferable ninnies) Jimmy had only Daisy and Mr. Barrow left to ask.

First Jimmy tried to invite Daisy—he rather liked her, though she had never been impressed by him— but she'd given him such a suspicious look that he'd thought better of it, and left her alone.

And Mr. Barrow… Jimmy couldn't ask him. Though they were the best of friends, inviting Thomas to the flicks was no longer possible. The one time they'd gone to the cinema together Jimmy had been hyper-aware of Thomas next to him in the dark, every breath he took and every movement he made, and the way he smelled…Jimmy hadn't been able to concentrate on the film at all, his mind had been so filled by perverse thoughts. He still couldn't remember what film they'd even seen.

It's only because Thomas is that sort, Jimmy thought bitterly, that he was putting ideas likethatinto my head—I'd never have them otherwise.

Try as he might and though years had passed, Jimmy had never been able to forget that Thomas had once thought himself in love with Jimmy.

Men couldn't truly love other men, of course, and Jimmy knew that. Thomas was a wonderful man but he was also a deviant, and deviants confused their misplaced desires for love. Out of this confusion and O'Brien's manipulation, Thomas had acted foolishly, and Jimmy had been vicious in return—but all that was long over with. Jimmy often reminded himself that Thomas no longer desired him, because misplaced lust notwithstanding, Jimmy must have surely burned away all want Thomas felt for him in that time before their friendship, when Jimmy had been so cruel and had tried to ruin him.

What was between them now was pure friendship: the right sort of affection men could have for each other.

On that long-ago evening when they had begun it, Thomas had all but admitted he cared for Jimmy in a way deeper than the physical, and had sacrificed himself for Jimmy to make amends. Even if Thomas still wanted other men, Jimmy was certain he no longer wanted him.

Thinking about such things disturbed Jimmy and made him feel uneasy, so he always tried to put them from his mind. Ever since his pursuit of Ivy had failed, however, these thoughts and others like them had been plaguing him more often than they had before. Their repetitive and pointless nature irritated him; he was even beginning to dread his half-days instead of anticipate them. At least when he was working he had something else to concentrate on. He'd never thought he'd want to workmore instead of less, but he did, and he hated it.

If he could only forget about the past and move on the way Thomas had, he would have his peace of mind back. As things stood now he couldn't even go to the flicks with his best mate without being tormented by unwanted thoughts.

Shivering in his damp clothes and feeling very sorry for himself, Jimmy wandered into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He needed something to warm him up before bed; he felt chilled down to his bones.

He reached for the kettle, and paused; there was already a steaming cup of tea on the table.

"Someone else down here?" he called. He'd thought for sure everyone had gone to bed by now. He listened for a few moments, but heard nothing, and no one came into the room.

Strange, he thought.

He turned back to the kettle, but suddenly it seemed a great chore to make his own tea when there was an untouched cup not three feet away. Jimmy studied it. He didn't recognize the china; it looked very fine, with little blue and yellow flowers painted on. The steam was warm on his face and smelled delicious; there was even a slice of lemon in it, floating down beneath the dark amber liquid.

That decided it. He was cold from the autumn rain, lonely, and in a foul mood; if no one was here to claim their fancy tea than it was his now, and their fault for leaving it unattended.

Jimmy sat down and took a cautious sip, closing his eyes to savor it…but as soon as the taste registered on his tongue he nearly spat it out all over the table. With difficulty he managed to swallow before he let out a nasty curse. The tea tasted horrible—like fish and some sort of pungent garden weed, nothing like the way it smelled at all. Disgusted, Jimmy pushed the cup away, and as he did a slip of paper fluttered out from under the saucer. Cramped, tiny writing was scrawled across it. Jimmy had to squint to read the words.

Drink this and you'll receive treasure beyond measure.

Jimmy scowled. What nonsense. Someone was probably playing a joke…one of the hall boys, no doubt; they'd always been jealous of him. He wondered what disgusting things they'd put in the tea to make it taste so bad. If it made him ill he'd get them all sacked, he really would.

"Alright, I drank your bloody awful tea," Jimmy said loudly. "You can come out now, joke's been very funny, you're very clever…"

But no one answered, or came out to laugh at him. He considered searching for the culprit, but even that seemed like too much effort at so late an hour. Tomorrow he'd find out who'd done it and get his revenge—Mr. Barrow could help him plot—but tonight all he wanted to do was sleep, and forget this dismal day.

Jimmy left the tea, muttering angrily to himself, and trudged up to the men's quarters. He couldn't wait to clean his teeth of the foul taste and fall into bed.

His footsteps slowed as he passed Mr. Barrow's door. Sometimes he did that without meaning to. There was always a part of him that kept telling him to go in to Thomas—and do what, exactly?—but he always forced himself to keep walking, to smother the little voice into silence.

Tonight the temptation was very strong, probably because he was so tired and felt so out of sorts, but with a grimace Jimmy turned away and went into his own room. He'd tell Mr. Barrow about the tea and the note in the morning.

After he washed up and got the fish-and-sour-weed taste out of his mouth, Jimmy curled up in his cold bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

Something was wrong.

Jimmy knew it before he even opened his eyes, all his senses prickling. He could hear so many things all at once—birds singing and animals rustling outside, the hall boys complaining in the washroom, people bustling around and making a racket downstairs, raised voices coming from the kitchen…

Why was everything so bloody loud this morning?Had he slept with his window and his door open?

Jimmy opened his eyes and sat up, annoyed at the day already.

The room looked… strange. Everything was faded, dull, and slightly blurry at a distance— the colors discernible but washed out to an almost-gray. Everything looked much bigger, too, like the proportions had been resized to fit a giant man.

What in the bloody hell was wrong with his eyes?

Bewildered, Jimmy blinked hard and shook his head, but his vision didn't clear. He tried to rub his eyes—but his hands and arms wouldn't obey him. Instead two long furry limbs rose up in front of his face, like the lion's he'd once seen at a traveling circus.

Jimmy cried out—or he tried to, but all that came out of him was a shrill yowl that scorched the back of his throat. It sounded nothing like his voice.

Terrified, he looked around for the lion, but it was nowhere in sight. Looking down at himself, he saw… not his body. He saw the lion's body—a tiny lion's body.

A… cat's body.

Mind blanking with shock, Jimmy fell out of the giant bed and dashed across the cavernous room on all fours, the movement effortless and graceful even as his heart tried to beat itself out of his chest. Without knowing how he did it he leaped up to his bureau that was now three times his height, and then he was standing on the bureau in front of his mirrors, which were now taller than he was.

In the mirror he didn't see himself: instead, there was a pale-colored cat with fluffy fur and long whiskers staring back at him. Jimmy reached out to touch the glass—but somehow his hand was a paw, attached to furry limb that was attached to his shoulder, and when his hand—his paw—met the matching paw on the mirror's surface Jimmy fainted dead away.

Of course I'm not a cat, he thought fuzzily as shadows pulled him down.This is just a dream… a horrible,very silly, dream.

Thomas will laugh when I tell him about it.

When Thomas arrived downstairs that morning, he found Mrs. Patmore in a state. She was huffing and puffing about ruined meal schedules and wasted food, her red face redder than ever in her fury. She seemed to be throwing away half of the contents of the pantry, while Daisy and the new kitchen maid helped her haul bags and sweep up piles of spilled sugar. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes presided over the chaos, identical unhappy expressions on their faces.

"It's mice," Carson informed him darkly. He said mice like one might say 'the black death.'

Thomas curled his lip in distaste, though a part of him couldn't help but feel a little amused. Anything that broke routine around here was a pleasure as far as he was concerned.

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "This is the first time in fifteen years we've had rodents in our kitchen…"

"It isn't mice, it's rats is what it is!" Mrs. Patmore interjected in a very shrill tone. She seemed to be taking the invasion of the pantry as a personal violation. "They've ruined fifteen pounds of sugar, five pounds of brown sugar, three loaves of bread and the goat cheese—who knows what else I'll find they've destroyed!"

"It'll be alright, Mrs. Patmore," Daisy said, attempting to placate her. "It's probably only mice and not rats. They're easy enough to get rid of and I'm sure—"

"Oh, well look who's an expert all of the sudden!"

Daisy scowled and gave a long-suffering retort; Thomas winced as Mrs. Patmore boomed something back at her. He decided it was too early in the day to listen to their bickering, and left the room to find a bit of quiet and a cigarette. He smirked, thinking of how he'd describe the scene to Jimmy later.

The rest of his morning followed its usual pattern—that is, until he was spreading jam on his toast at breakfast and realized Jimmy wasn't at the table with everyone else. Normally Jimmy was sitting across from him and on his second cup of tea by now. Thomas liked seeing him in the mornings— sometimes he was bright and fresh-faced, while others he was sour and bleary-eyed. Thomas enjoyed both incarnations.

Mr. Carson noticed Jimmy's absence just a beat behind Thomas. "…Where is James?" he asked the room.

Everyone looked up from their plates and glanced around, clueless.

"Perhaps he overslept, sir," Mr. Molesley offered. "It was his half-day yesterday…"

Thomas cut a glance at the older man. He was obviously trying to get Jimmy into trouble so he could be first footman, probably only to impress Baxter. Nice try, Thomas thought. But you'll pay for that one later.

Clearing his throat, Thomas lied smoothly, "I'm afraid Jimmy wasn't feeling well last night, Mr. Carson. I think he may be ill. Perhaps someone should go and look in on him, see if we need to call a doctor."

Mr. Carson sighed, his irritation cooling slightly. "Very well, Thomas. You go and see what is keeping him. If he is very ill…"

Thomas nodded and left the table, glad Mr. Carson hadn't asked anyone else. Jimmy likely was sleeping off a night of drinking and card-playing, just as Mr. Helpful had insinuated back there, but Thomas would cover for him and make sure he didn't do it again. Jimmy had better be grateful, too. Thomas was missing breakfast for him.

It was strange, though, he mused as he made his way up the stairs. Jimmy certainly wasn't the best footman Downton had ever seen but he'd never simply neglected to come to work before. Jimmy being this flippant about his job was stupid, really, and if he got himself sacked…

Thomas tightened his jaw and shoved the thought away.

When he reached Jimmy's door he knocked loudly on the painted wood, determined to scold him properly no matter how his heart weakened at the sight of him.

No response.

Sighing, Thomas knocked harder.

"Jimmy."

There was utter silence behind the door. Frowning, Thomas knocked a third time, even louder. "Jimmy? Open the door, please."

Again, he couldn't hear anything. Worried now, Thomas announced he was coming in. Perhaps his lie had been the truth after all and Jimmy was ill—autumn was well underway and with the falling temperatures came sicknesses.

Cautiously he opened the door a crack. Jimmy wasn't in his bed or his chair. Thomas opened the door wider and took a step inside, peeking around the wall to see the whole room.

That's when he saw it: a cat, lying on Jimmy's bureau. It mewled piteously at him without lifting its head, as if it were ill or simply too lazy to move. Astonished, Thomas stared at it. What was it doing in Jimmy's room? Servants weren't allowed pets.

The cat mewled again, batting a paw in Thomas's direction. It was rather small, with long fur the color of sand, a slightly scrunched-in face, and dark blue eyes. It looked very well-groomed, as if it belonged to a wealthy lord or lady—but there was no collar that he could see.

…Perhaps it belonged to Lady Rose? She might have gotten a new companion and neglected to mention it to the Crawleys, and by extension the servants. It seemed the sort of thing she might do. The cat could have wandered into Jimmy's room by mistake, and gotten shut-in somehow.

But where was Jimmy?

Turning to leave, Thomas decided to check the washroom for Jimmy and come back later to deal with the cat, but as soon as he turned his back the cat yowled as if terrified. Thomas stopped and looked back at it, wondering what was wrong with it.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind the cat stood up suddenly and leaped from the bureau, straight into Thomas's arms. He caught the cat automatically, stumbling backwards in surprise. As quick as anything the furry beast crawled up his chest, dug its claws into his livery, and tucked its head under his chin where it began to mewl loudly and pathetically, like some kind of crying infant.

"Ugh—get off!" Thomas reached up and tried to pry the cat off him, but it would not be moved. Its claws were stuck in him firmly, probably ruining his uniform, and when he tried to pull it away its cries became angry and desperate.

Annoyed and determined not to pity it, Thomas let go to see if it would drop to the floor and run off. It didn't, it just clung to him even harder, mewling sadly.

"Bugger…" Thomas muttered.

The cat trembled against him—it was obviously terrified. Unwillingly his heart softened towards it, and he sighed in resignation. He'd always been fond of cats; growing up, his father had kept one in the shop to keep mice away, and he'd spent hours earning its trust. But this fluffy thing was nothing like the sleek, wary animal he'd made friends with as a boy.

This cat looked like a vanilla desert come to life.

Still, in many ways Thomas preferred animals to people, and he did not want it to suffer needlessly. Best take it upstairs and see which Crawley it belonged to, he decided.

But first he had to find Jimmy. Carrying the cat with him, Thomas headed for the washroom, stroking the cat's fur despite himself. Jimmy had to be in there, and maybe he knew how the cat had gotten into his room, too.

But Jimmy wasn't there either.

Nerves tightened his belly as he tried to think of where else Jimmy might have gone. Hopefully Thomas had just missed him exciting the washroom, and even now Jimmy was apologizing profusely to Mr. Carson downstairs.

Just then a hall boy came around the corner. Ted, or Ned, or something. "Have you seen Mr. Kent?" Thomas asked.

The boy shook his head, staring in bewilderment at the cat in his arms. "Not seen him since yesterday afternoon, sir."

"Tell me right away if you see him."

"Yes, Mr. Barrow," the boy said, still staring. "But sir, why do you have…?"

Thomas waved a dismissive hand at the question and carried the cat downstairs. It continued to cling to him desperately, but at least the steady strokes he gave it had soothed away most of its trembling.

The Crawleys should be going into breakfast any minute now, he knew, so he made his way into the great hall, hoping to catch them on their way. He was in luck— Lady Rose, the Crawley sisters, and Tom Branson were all there, chatting quietly as they trickled towards the breakfast room.

Lady Rose was the first to spot Thomas with the cat. Her face lit up with surprise and delight, and she hurried over to him like an excited little girl.

"Oh, how sweet!" she exclaimed. "May I stroke her?"

Before Thomas could say a word the cat turned its head and hissed at Lady Rose, its fur bristling with outrage.

"Wherever did you find a cat, Barrow?" Lady Mary asked, drawing nearer to get a closer look.

Lady Rose was putting out her hand hopefully, but immediately the cat spat at her and swiped a paw in warning. She drew her hand back hastily.

"I found it wandering the men's quarters, milady," Thomas lied. For the safety of Lady Rose he neatly stepped back from her.

"It's a lovely color," Lady Edith observed.

Again Thomas tried to pry the cat loose, but it held fast and mewled in distress, so he stopped and stroked its back by way of an apology. Its fur was very soft, and something about the way it smelled was distinctly uncat-like, Thomas noticed.

"Does it belong to anyone at Downton?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so," Lady Mary said. "I'm afraid Papa doesn't care much for cats."

"Perhaps it belongs to someone in the village?" Branson suggested. "It might have gotten lost in the rain yesterday and wandered into Downton for cover. I could ask around, find out who it belongs to."

"Good idea, Tom," Lady Mary said.

"But what should we do with it in the meantime?" Lady Edith asked. "I'm sure Barrow here has better things to do with his time than watch over a stray cat."

"Well I would take her," Lady Rose said, sighing. "But I don't think she cares much for me at all."

Lady Mary squinted at the cat. "Its attitude is very male if you ask me," she said archly. "I suppose I could care for it for a while, or ask Mama if she would like to."

Feeling somehow reluctant, Thomas again tried to pull the cat off. It hissed angrily, but this time he ignored the sounds of tearing fabric and animal distress and kept pulling until the cat came free. As quickly as he could he pushed the bristling feline into Lady Mary's arms. As soon as she closed her hands around it the cat yowled furiously and shot back over to Thomas, where it crawled up his chest again and around to the back of his shoulders. It settled there like an angry mink wrap, back arched and claws digging in so hard Thomas felt little stings of pain. It hissed a warning at the gathered Crawleys.

Mr. Branson laughed. "It only seems to care for Mr. Barrow," he said.

The others chuckled, and Thomas couldn't help but feel a little smug that the cat preferred him over the upstairs lot. Perhaps it wasn't as silly as it looked if it had such discerning taste.

But what about Jimmy? Thomas needed to find him before he got into any more trouble, not spend his time babysitting a cat and chatting with the Crawleys about it. It was time he cut this conversation short, and the only way to do that was to volunteer to care for the cat himself.

"I can watch over him, milady," he said with his most deferential smile. "It's no trouble at all."

He could always change his mind later, he supposed, if the cat proved itself a nuisance.

"Are you certain, Barrow? We don't want to overburden you," Lady Mary asked.

Thomas wanted to sneer at that—overburden him indeed, obviously she meant 'interfere with your work'—but he only smiled some more and assured her it wouldn't bother him a bit.

"Besides," he added. "I'm sorry to say that Mrs. Patmore has found evidence of mice in the kitchens this morning; we may need this fellow's help to hunt them down. Perhaps it's perfect timing."

Jimmy didn't know what was happening. At first he'd been sure he was dreaming—then, after he'd blacked out in front of the mirror, he'd been certain he was very ill and hallucinating in some sort of fevered state.

Now he knew he was awake.

He'd had vivid dreams before, and he'd hallucinated in fever before, but this was nothing like those experiences at all. Everything was too strange, yet too clear all at once. But still, it couldn't be real, could it? Perhaps he'd gone completely mad, and in reality was gibbering to himself in some forgotten corner of a lunatic asylum.

The thought of madness—of being lost in his own mind— was even more terrifying than anything else he could think of, so he refused to entertain the thought further. Instead he chose to believe, for the moment, that everything was as it appeared to be: he, Jimmy Kent, had been transformed into a cat.

If he could have laughed, he would have. If he could have run shrieking out of his own skin, he would have. As it was he'd been in a state of shock since he'd woken up on the bureau to find it hadn't been a dream at all.

But how had this happened?

Was it that horrible cup of tea from last night, the one with the note? It must have been. Like Alice in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, he'd been dumb enough to drink from the mystery bottle marked "DRINK ME," and now he was paying the price.

But poisoned tea could not turn a human into an animal. Medicine was making advances all the time, but he was sure it couldn't do that—so, was it… magic? It had to be, but Jimmy wasn't even sure he believed in religion, let alone magic. He believed in himself first, and what he could see with his own eyes—and this… this was impossible.

Unless magic is real… all those stories Mother told you, the ones about the fairies and hobs and spirits… maybe they're true.

The concept wasn't quite as terrifying as madness, but it came very close. Jimmy felt his entire sense of the world threaten to shatter beneath his feet.

It was lucky, then, that he'd run out of time to contemplate it further.

Thomas had found him— Jimmy had been so relieved it had been Thomas and not someone else— and he'd carried him from his bedroom into the great hall. Then suddenly there were so many people, so big and loud, and Lady Rose tried to pet him and called him a she. Jimmy was overwhelmed, terrified, and furious. He felt even worse when Thomas immediately tried to foist him off on the Crawleys.

It was too much.

Jimmy, cat or not, did not want to be taken away with one of that lot. Only with Thomas did he feel a little safer. If Thomas tried to dump him off on one of the Crawleys again Jimmy would make him pay, he really would. With this thought in mind, Jimmy dug his claws even deeper into Thomas's livery. He'd never pull him off now.

"It only seems to care for Mr. Barrow," Mr. Branson said, amused.

"I can watch over him, milady," Thomas said to Lady Mary, speaking in that silky tone he only used with the Crawleys. "It's no trouble at all."

Relief flooded Jimmy at his words, making him lightheaded. Thomas wasn't abandoning him in his hour of need! Of course he wouldn't, he was Jimmy's very dearest friend.

"Are you certain, Barrow?" Lady Mary asked. "We don't want to overburden you."

"I will be alright," Thomas said. "Besides, I'm sorry to say that Mrs. Patmore has found evidence of mice in the kitchens this morning; we may need this fellow's help to hunt them down. Perhaps it's perfect timing."

Jimmy didn't hear much of the following conversation. Catch mice? Him? Jimmy was not an animal, he was a man! He was first bloody footman! Any minute now this—this spell, or curse, or whatever it was, was sure to wear off and he'd be back to normal; he was not going to catch those disease-ridden little beasts in the meantime. The very thought was repulsive. Jimmy felt horror pile onto horror until he began to feel he would be sick.

"You'll have to make yourself useful," Thomas said lightly. Jimmy jolted and realized they were alone again, Thomas carrying him back downstairs. "Or Mr. Carson will throw you outside and no mistake."

Jimmy tried to say, "No he bloody well won't!" but all that came out was an angry meow. The sound humiliated him, so he clamped his jaw shut immediately.

Thomas stopped walking and reached up, gently pulling Jimmy from his shoulders and back into his arms. "Don't worry, I'm sure Mr. Branson will find out who you really belong to. You'll be home soon."

Jimmy hid his face in the crook of Thomas's elbow. If someone from the village lied and said they were missing a cat, Mr. Branson and the rest of them could cage Jimmy up and give him to a stranger.

Thomas scratched Jimmy's head, then stroked his back as he started walking again. The touches felt nice, like the way getting his hair washed and combed had felt when he was a small child. They soothed Jimmy's misery a little—though it was strange to imagine Thomas doing this to him when he was a man. He firmly decided not to think like that.

Jimmy burrowed his face deeper into Thomas's livery, squeezing his eyes shut. A large part of him still hoped this was all a dream, one that he would soon awake from. He hated this, hated being helpless and silenced and small. Everything was different, too—even his senses. His vision was reduced and washed out while his hearing and sense of smell were so acute they were almost overwhelming. He could hear so much, smell so many new scents that he couldn't identify. Thomas, for instance, smelled the same: like wintery aftershave and cigarettes, only now Jimmy could smell so much more on top of that. There was the scent of his pomade, the mild soap he used to wash beneath the cotton scent of this uniform, even the mint he cleaned his teeth with mixed with the dry smell of the tea he'd drank. There was also the smell of his skin, something raw that he'd never quite caught before. This scent alone had layers to it, as if Jimmy were getting pages from a book of which he could not read the language.

Looking at Thomas now was also different. Firstly he seemed so much bigger than Jimmy, but more than that, all his colors were faded. The blue-gray of his eyes, the red of his mouth, the cream of his skin—all were washed out. It was almost like watching Thomas on a film screen. The color red, especially, seemed entirely lost to Jimmy now.

As for his cat's body… it felt strange, like he was wearing a fur coat while naked at the same time. There was a layer of fur between him and the world, but each hair and whisker was sensitive in a way his human hair had never been. He hated that, too—it made him feel itchy.

Much too quickly for Jimmy's liking, they reached Carson's office door. Thomas knocked and went inside, not giving Jimmy a chance to take a breath.

Mr. Carson was predictably flabbergasted when he saw Jimmy. "Thomas, what is that?"

"It's a cat," Thomas said.

"I know it's a cat," Carson growled. "What is it doing here?"

"I found it in the men's quarters," Thomas said. "I spoke to Lady Mary and it doesn't belong to anyone in the house. I suppose it wandered into Downton last night to escape the rain."

"Well, go on and send it outside, then. It's probably riddled with disease."

Jimmy tightened his claws into Thomas's arm despite himself; Thomas scratched between his ears in response.

"I can't throw it out, sir. Lady Mary asked me to look after it until they find out who it belongs to, and perhaps see in the meantime if it's a mouser."

Carson grimaced at the mention of the mice infestation. Jimmy felt the same way, only Carson wasn't the one being told to catch the little beasts with his mouth.

"Very well, Thomas." He sighed and waved his hands, like he was shooing the two of them out the door. "Just, just keep it out of the way and do not let it cause any trouble. I'll speak to Mrs. Patmore about letting it into the kitchen."

"Yes, sir," Thomas cleared his throat, pausing awkwardly. "…Has Jimmy been downstairs, yet?"

Carson frowned. "I thought you were looking in on him."

Jimmy felt Thomas's arm harden with tension beneath him. "He, ah, wasn't in his room. Or the washroom."

Carson rubbed at his temple. "Find him, and when you do, tell him he'd better have a good explanation for his absence or he will no longer have a place at Downton."

Jimmy felt like screaming. He couldn't lose his job, he just couldn't! He'd have to leave Downton… oh, why had this happened to him?

Thomas nodded and turned on his heel to leave, but Carson stopped him. "And Thomas, before you do anything else you must change your uniform. Your— guest has ruined it."

Thomas looked down at himself. Jimmy saw what Carson meant immediately: there was light-colored fur dusting the black fabric, and little holes and scratches marring the jacket and shirt—even the tie was crooked. Thomas's full mouth twisted with displeasure—Jimmy knew how he prided himself on his appearance— and Jimmy tensed unhappily. He hadn't meant to muss up Thomas's uniform! He'd been cursed, it wasn't his fault!

But, what if Thomas decided not to care for him now…? Jimmy needed to keep Thomas's affection in this new form or he might lose his only ally.

Thomas nodded at Carson again and left the office. As he walked Jimmy's mind whirled. What did people like about cats? He'd never had much experience with them. The only cat he'd known had belonged to Lady Anstruther, but he'd never had many dealings with it. Her cat had been called Sir Walter, and from what Jimmy remembered he'd mostly dozed on a silk cushion or sat on Lady Anstruther's lap to be stroked. Thomas seemed to like stroking him—was that all there was to it? Being soft, and sweet, and purring? But Jimmy didn't know how to purr.

He didn't know how to be a bloody cat because he wasn't one!

Jimmy prayed he would return to himself—any minute now. Or perhaps he had only to go back to sleep, since this transformation had happened overnight.

"You're a bloody nuisance, you are," Thomas sighed, confirming Jimmy's fears. His heart sank in dismay. Thomas had never said anything so dismissive to him when he'd been a man. Couldn't he recognize him on some level, sense that he was important to him? They'd been such good friends… maybe all Jimmy had to do was try to communicate somehow.

Thomas opened his door and closed it behind them. He deposited Jimmy unceremoniously onto the desk chair, the one Jimmy used when they played cards at night. Jimmy crouched down low, uneasy being separated from Thomas's body heat, and looked up at his friend. He tried to project his words with his eyes.

It's me, it's Jimmy! Please Thomas, help me!

But Thomas only looked at him dispassionately, in a way he never had when Jimmy had been himself. He'd always looked at Jimmy so warmly before, Jimmy hadn't even noticed it until it was gone.

Thomas pulled his tie loose and began to unbutton his collar, and Jimmy watched him blankly until he recalled that Thomas was supposed to be changing his uniform. Face prickling, Jimmy stared as Thomas removed the ruined jacket, then pulled down his braces and let them hang about his waist. He pulled off his collar next, then his fingers went to his shirt buttons and began to undo them. Jimmy looked away as soon as his bare chest was exposed, fixing his eyes on Thomas's bedside table instead. He felt hot and uncomfortable, like he was guilty of something.

Jimmy listened as Thomas washed his hands in his water basin. Suddenly curious about what Thomas's hand looked like without the glove, he peeked.

Thomas, shirtless, was an arresting sight, but Jimmy forced his eyes down to his hands and saw the scarred one bared for the first time. It looked…bad, like it had been very painful to receive. Jimmy wondered how exactly Thomas had gotten the wound; he wished he'd had the courage to ask when he'd still had a voice.

"I'll be back with water and food in a bit," Thomas said, almost as if he were talking to himself. He strode over to his wardrobe and opened it, finding his second uniform with ease. Jimmy watched him cover his smooth back with a clean undershirt, then follow it with the rest of his clothes. His trousers he didn't change; they must have escaped Jimmy's fur unscathed. Finally Thomas was fully dressed again, and Jimmy watched him slip on a spare glove as well, one that was black instead of cream.

Thomas gave himself a once-over in his wardrobe mirror, carefully adjusting his tie. He looked striking even blurry with his colors washed out. Jimmy liked looking at him—always had, but now it was doubly fascinating because Thomas wasn't putting on any sort of mask. He didn't know Jimmy could see him, didn't know Jimmy could read his naked emotions flickering over his features. Right now Thomas looked slightly unnerved, as if something were bothering him. Normally that sort of expression would have been tucked away out of sight, Jimmy was sure of it.

Belatedly Thomas's words—and their implications—registered.

Thomas was going to shut him up in here? Come back later with food and water? What was he to do in the meantime? What if he had to relieve himself? What if whatever creature had cast this spell on him came back, and transformed him into something even worse than a cat? He might wake up next as a fly, or a worm! He might be killed! Terror shook him down to the bone, and he began to tremble all over again.

Desperately he tried to say, "Thomas!" but all that emerged was another humiliating meow.

"Sorry, kitty," Thomas said, turning to face him. "I've got to find Jimmy and then I'll come back for you."

But I'm right here! Jimmy wanted to shout. Please don't leave me alone like this!

But Thomas couldn't hear him. Instead he made for the door and Jimmy couldn't help but panic, leaping down from the chair and dashing across the floor after him.

"Ah, no, get back—"

Jimmy tried to dart past Thomas's ankles but Thomas was too quick for that; gently he slid Jimmy back into the room with his foot and shut the door in his face.

No! Jimmy scratched at the door with his claws, knowing as he did it that it was a futile effort.

He listened to Thomas's footsteps recede down the hall, then stop.

"Jimmy? Are you in there?"

Thomas was knocking at Jimmy's bedroom door, looking for him. He heard Thomas open the door, still calling his name. A few moments ticked by while Thomas presumably looked inside, then Jimmy heard him swear and walk out again, this time heading for the stairs. Jimmy listened to his footsteps until they faded into silence.

He was all alone.

He wanted to cry, to scream— but in this body he couldn't do either.