Thomas carefully dabbed his face dry with a cloth and pulled up his braces. His face was sore, but it was manageable. The swelling had gone down a lot since the night before. It looked worse than it felt. He looked at himself in the mirror longer than usual, inspecting the scabs and bruises. A careful smile took shape around his lips. Thomas decided that he looked rather menacing. Now Alfred would definitely leave him alone. Plus, he'd always liked the look of some fine, white scars on an otherwise smooth face. It added to the mystery.

The family had been in Duneagle for days. Thomas hadn't really kept count. He had been wandering around the house, 'keeping an eye on things', as he liked to call it. He'd mainly been looking at artwork and furniture, and decided it might be time to pick a book from the massive library. He didn't often get the chance to read. Usually it was too dark and his eyes were too tired at the end of the day. He knew he was a little shortsighted and he probably needed spectacles to help with his sight, but vanity always took over. As long as he could do his job right and enjoy pretty little things, he wasn't about to tell anyone.

All dressed now, he made his way down the stairs. Daisy was clearing the breakfast table, only his plate still in position.

"Oh, Thomas! I was just about to bring a tray up after I finished this. How are you feeling today?" Her eyes were big and round as usual, and for moment he wondered if she had trouble seeing as well. He then decided the eyes went hand in hand with Daisy's character. Perfectly honest and always in awe of everyone but herself. "I'll get you some hot water straight away." She hustled to put all the dishes on a tray as Thomas sat down at the long table.

"Don't worry, Daisy. I have time," he hummed with a smile. He liked to look menacing, but it was hard to scare Daisy without feeling like a total twat. His chest tightened at the memory of talking her into lying. She shot him a quick smile and picked up the tray to take into the kitchen. Ivy ran a damp cloth over the wood.
Thomas lit a cigarette and absentmindedly whipped the newspaper open on the empty table. Much easier than sitting elbow to elbow, he noted. Right after he took a long drag from his cigarette, warming his lungs, Daisy came in with a tall brown teapot. She carefully poured him a cup.

"Thanks, Daisy. I'll bring you my plate and cup when I'm finished. I'm sure Mr Carson wants to use the table for silverware as soon as possible."

She nodded. He gave her another smile before she darted away. He noticed she was wearing a dark dress and wondered when she'd started doing that. He made a mental note to say something nice about it later on. He put his cigarette down on the edge of his ashtray and took a spoonful of porridge. It was lukewarm and stodgy. Four spoonfuls in, he decided that he'd wait until lunch. Thomas folded his newspaper and finished his cup of tea, scolding his tongue on the freshly made brew. He then loaded the cup on his half empty plate and put his cigarette back between his lips.

Daisy was washing off the plates.

"The black makes you look like a real business woman, Daisy. Will you be going to the farm again anytime soon?" She stared at him for a while until Mrs Patmore interfered.

"Thomas, what do you want from her? Leave her to her work. The family will be home for dinner and we have enough on our hands." She didn't even turn away from her stove to look at him. It made him smile, even though it hurt a little that he'd built up this reputation of always having a plan in the back of his mind.

"Of course you look radiant as ever, Mrs Patmore!" Thomas said before he left the kitchen. She was a a genuinely nice woman and had never judged him for his… defect. He heard something along the lines of 'did they finally beat some kindness in him' as he walked up the stairs.

Alfred pushed past him with an almost overflowing tray of silverware. He had a disgusted crinkle in his nose when their arms touched. Come to think of it, his mouth was always turned down in disgust when he saw Thomas. Jimmy followed suit, but smiled before continuing to watch his step as not to break any of the valuables before he had the chance to clean them. His hair fell onto his forehead as he looked down. Carson had insisted Thomas was foul for feeling attracted to the young footman, yet he allowed him to let his hair down like this every single day. Thomas had kept count. Thomas remembered a time when Carson had repeatedly called him in his office for two strands of black hair that didn't want to stay put the whole day. He'd now made it a habit to comb more pomade into his hair after lunch.

In the hallway he greeted Mrs Hughes. She had been storing Lady Mary's summer dresses in boxes to bring to the attic for the past two days. It was the end of September, so it was high time for heavier fabrics and coats again. The women had a mind-boggling amount of clothing.

Thomas found Isis in the library. Branson had gone out on the estate again. She sat up when he came in, ears perked. The dog loved him. He gave her a quick scratch between her ears and then began scanning the endless titles on the bookshelves. He knew very little about books. On the far left of the shelf at waist height, there was a horizontal stack of books. Those must have been the new prints Lady Edith had brought from her last visit to London. There were two very thick books, and one slightly slimmer one. Blue, with gold boning. He cocked his head to the side to read 'NIGHT AND DAY' and under the next bone 'VIRGINIA WOOLF'. The next two books had men's names on them. He grabbed the one on top and inspected it. The pages were gilt. Opening it up, he noticed the marbling on the first sheet of paper.

He pondered for a moment. This was an expensive, new book. But then again, Lady Edith had told him everyone was allowed to use the library as much as they desired. He now weirdly desired this particular book. He put it under his arm, cringing a little when he was abruptly reminded of all the tendons from his elbow to his shoulder. On his Lordship's desk, he found a sheet of paper which he folded in half. With pencil, he copied the title and author from the book, and added the date. He scribbled his name underneath and pulled a line under it. He went over it once more in his mind, but decided Lady Edith still had those other two books she could start on. He would start on this one. He placed his note on the now shorter stack of new purchases and darted out of the library.

Thomas usually liked female writers. He'd thoroughly enjoyed all the Brontë sisters' work, as well as this old political novel by Mary Wollstonecraft Sybil had given him one year for Christmas. But maybe that was because she had given it, and had carefully written 'From Sybil to Thomas. Christmas 1916.' on the first empty page. He kept it in his nightstand.

Downstairs, Jimmy and Alfred were polishing the already shiny silver.

"Mr Carson, honestly. How many times can you make them polish all the silver before they polish through it?" Mr Carson sat at the head of the table, one eye on his footmen and one eye on the newspaper in front of him. He barely looked up, raising only an eyebrow.

"Don't you have anything useful to do, Mr Barrow? You seem to be in good shape again today," he mumbled. Alfred snorted.

"I can walk and talk, but I'm still very sore, thank you Mr Carson," Thomas retorted. He sat down at the other end of the table and put the book down. He opened the cover, careful not to break the back. There was a title page, and on the back of it, it read 'TO VANESSA BELL BUT, LOOKING FOR A PHRASE, I FOUND NONE TO STAND BESIDE YOUR NAME'. Thomas smiled. He loved it when there was something so personal to a book. It immediately made him wonder who Vanessa Bell was.

"Maybe, now that you're walking, you could bring His Lordship's summer attire up, and his winter attire down. Mr Bates won't mind you taking over all those steps from him." Thomas sighed, sitting back and closing the book again. "James can help you carry, and in the meantime he can learn where everything goes," Mr Carson added. He looked at Jimmy for some kind of approval. Much to his surprise probably, Jimmy immediately dropped his cloth like it was burning a hole in his hand and got up with a smile.

"Yes, Mr Carson. I'd be glad to help Mr Barrow."

Alfred dropped his cloth as well. "What about all this then?" He gestured at the half-full table of cutlery and serving trays.

"Alfred, you two went through almost every piece of silver in the past week. I'm sure you can manage this last bit on your own," Mr Carson announced curtly. He clearly hadn't forgiven him for making the police show up at the cricket game. Thomas closed his book and stacked it under his arm again as he put his chair back under the table. There was no way he was letting this go. Working with Jimmy, who no longer despised him, and getting at Alfred. Whom he still disliked. He would have more time to read and smoke. Mr Carson would never let him wait on the family with the state his face was in.

Thomas strode up the stairs as fast as his sore legs would allow. Jimmy stayed slightly behind him.

"No one's home, Jimmy. You can take up as much space as you want." Being in service, you quickly learned not to stand in anyone's way, not to take up too much space in rooms or on stairs. You should always be around, but never make your presence obvious. Jimmy smiled and caught up with him, a smile taking over from a frown. His whole posture relaxed, and by the time they reached His Lordship's dressing room, he was joking around. Thomas laughed softly as he opened the closet doors one by one.

"First we can go through his dress shirts. Leave a handful of summer shirts here, for warmer days." He took the first shirt and put it on a chair.

"How do you tell which ones are summer and which aren't? They're white." Jimmy looked a little uncomfortable again, his arms straight by his sides. Thomas took a a different pile of shirts and held it out to Jimmy.

"Touch it," he ordered gently. Jimmy looked at him hesitantly, then checked his fingers for dirt before touching the white shirt. He slipped his index finger between two buttons and felt the fabric between his finger and thumb. "Winter shirts," Thomas nodded. He saw Jimmy had no idea what he was supposed to feel. Shaking his head, he put the winter dress shirts on the top shelf. "Should I show you some things a valet should know? Assuming that's what you want to do some day," Thomas suggested. Jimmy seemed to be caught off-guard by the offer.

"Like dressing?"

It was Thomas' turn to be a little surprised. "Sure," he uttered. "You- uhm- you'd lay the clothes out on his bed. And then in the morning, you hand the garments in the right order and do the fiddly things, like buttons and cufflinks."

"Show me," Jimmy insisted.

Thomas wasn't sure what he meant. "On you?"

"On you, then I can try," Jimmy said matter-of-factly.

Thomas blinked a couple of times. He felt his lips part, but nothing came out. He had to remind himself that Jimmy was doing this because they had made up. He had apologized. He had thanked Thomas for taking a beating, basically. Now he wanted to show Thomas that he meant it, that he hadn't just said it because he felt bad. And that is all, Thomas. He straightened his livery and cleared his throat.

"Yes, that's true. Then you can try it," he nodded, forcing out a smile. He felt it didn't reach his eyes, but for Jimmy it was enough. The blond man relaxed again, turning to the closet and taking out what seemed to be one of his three-piece suits.

"Does his lordship wear all these clothes at the same time?" He held up the vest.

"No, on Monday he wear just pants and then on Tuesday it's trousers without pants. What do you think?" They laughed. Thomas laughed wholeheartedly, his chest opening. Usually only the warmth of his first cigarette of the day could do that.

"Well then, what are you waiting for? I can hardly put these clothes over yours." Jimmy was waiting with a dress shirt in his hands.

"You should hand me the trousers first," Thomas hinted as he untied his shoes. Jimmy put the shirt back down and took the trousers instead. Thomas wanted to say something about the way he'd discarded the shirt, but smiled instead. He stood in front of the mirror in his underwear and socks, asking himself how he ever could have thought this was a good idea. His pale complexion also didn't help with the blushing.

Jimmy worked him through the pants and the shirt, braces and his vest. Jimmy stuck his tongue out working on the buttons. "'S hard when it's not on yourself," he muttered, more to himself than anything. When he'd finished the buttons, he grabbed a box of cufflinks and offered them to Thomas, beaming. This was easier than he had imagined, and so much nicer than avoiding all eye contact. The cufflinks were completely off. They were much too dressy to be paired with such a simple, grey suit. At least he'd thought about them. Thomas held out his wrists. Jimmy grabbed his hand and inspected it, keeping it much closer to his face than entirely necessary. "How did you do that?" There it was again, the disgust. It made Jimmy look ugly, the lines that connected his sweet nose to his beautiful lips turned hard. Thomas looked down at his hands. Some of his nails were split or torn, and his knuckles were pretty much raw. He couldn't bear wearing bandages, not anymore. He should have known better, with his experience. Constantly moving his fingers and bumping into things had kept his knuckles from healing altogether. They were rather sore, now that he thought about it. "You put up a fight, huh," Jimmy huffed.

Again, Thomas failed to muster up an answer. He managed a nod this time though. He didn't regret following Jimmy and taking his spot. He'd do it again in a heartbeat. That didn't mean that it hadn't affected him. It wasn't just the beating, it were the insults as well. He didn't normally care what people thought about him, but finding out that perfect strangers knew he was that one from Downton had hit a nerve. He'd only slept a couple of hours. He'd somehow managed to sleep through breakfast though.

"Thomas, are you quite alright?" Jimmy stopped fiddling with the cufflinks. Thomas nodded again. His lifted hand trembled. "No, you're not. You're as pale as a sheet. God, I'm sorry, I just thought this was a really good opportunity to learn." Jimmy shook his head an immediately took the cufflinks off again, putting them in the box. He stripped Thomas of the garments he'd put him in moments before and put them back in the closet.

Thomas found his smile back as he put his livery on. Not many people had made such a fuss about his well-being. He was also quite proud of how Jimmy had managed to put the clothes back.

Thomas left the room with his book. Jimmy held the door open for him. They headed downstairs, only to find Alfred and Mr Carson right where they left them.

"That was quick," Carson remarked.

"Tho- Mr Barrow is not feeling well, Mr Carson," Jimmy announced before Thomas had even made it through the door. Mr Carson raised one bushy brow, only to find Thomas looking at the floor. Thomas knew that this wasn't like him, to let other people talk in his place. Carson knew it too. That was the only way to explain why he immediately agreed to let Thomas get up to his room. Jimmy's eyes followed him up the stairs, making sure he was taking orders for once.

Upstairs, Thomas settled on his bed in his undershirt, and put his book on the nightstand. He closed his eyes and sighed. This could have been a nice day. He had someone to talk to again, and they had time to talk. He just felt so drowsy.

Thomas couldn't remember if he'd nodded off, but the soft knock on his door startled him. The door pushed open slowly, Jimmy coming backwards. The big tray explained why.

"I thought I'd bring your lunch up," he said, his voice soft. Thomas grabbed his book to make room. Jimmy set the tray down. "Mrs Hughes gave me this." He held up a tub of ointment. "She thinks you may be running a fever, from the shock." He twisted the cap off and gave the white goo a sniff. His nostrils flared. A chuckle escaped Thomas' throat. "You gave me a scare, you know. You were shaking like a leaf, thought I would have to catch you there," Jimmy joked. Thomas reached in the tub and dabbed a thick layer of cream over his hands, resting them on his thighs when he was finished. To his surprise, Jimmy didn't leave once he'd screwed the lid back on. Instead, he grabbed a chair and sat down next to his bed.

"I'm fine." Thomas smiled, feeling much more like himself again. He caught Jimmy staring at his hand. It must have been the first time he saw it without the glove. Thomas felt the urge to cover it up. He sat up, feeling a little uncomfortable with the other man's eyes on him. He couldn't put his hands together, because of the white goop on them. Instead, he put his injured hand on the side of his thigh, out of sight. "Sorry 'bout that," he muttered. "I really hate that glove - with a passion." Jimmy shook his head and held the palm of his right hand up. Thomas stared.

"Show me," Jimmy chuckled. "I'm not asking you to hold hands, don't worry." Reluctantly, Thomas held out his hand, catching himself still shaking a little. Jimmy carefully took his fingers as he'd done before, and inspected the raised skin. "It's not so bad," he then decided. "Look how light the outside is already."

Thomas huffed and brought his hand back to safety. "Easy for you to say. You don't have a damn hole in your hand," he hissed, probably coming across harsher than he'd intended. Looking at his hand now, he saw that Jimmy was right. With the way he was covering up all the time, everyone downstairs probably suspected he was missing a piece or something. There was a deep, round scar, but the edges had faded significantly now that he looked at it objectively.

"Could have been a lot worse," Jimmy hummed. Thomas recognized himself in the way Jimmy talked. Barely moving his lips, very little emotion in his voice. It was never the tone that did it, always the volume. "Could've been your head," he then added, his voice almost reduced to a whisper. "That would have been a bloody shame, Mr Barrow."

Thomas let out a soft laugh. He had been trying very hard not to see Jimmy like that anymore, but it was hard when he spoke so sincerely. It was the first time in a long time that someone cared whether he was alright or not. Anna and Mrs Hughes would ask every now and again. He didn't want to think badly of them. Jimmy had just occupied himself with making sure he was somewhat comfortable. He smiled as Jimmy got up again.

"I'll leave you now, I should be heading down for lunch anyway." He grabbed the ointment from the nightstand to put back in the first aid kit. "Give us a shout when you need something," Jimmy smiled, putting the chair back under Thomas' little desk. He didn't look at Thomas to see him nod. It was an order, not a question. He opened the door seemed to pause for a moment. "We can talk about the war, some time. If you want." Again, he didn't wait for Thomas' answer. He nodded a last time and quietly closed the door behind him. Thomas sipped his tea again, almost immediately feeling the sugar hit his blood. A couple of days ago, he was about to get the boot, he had no friends, and then he actually got a boot - in his face, amongst other places. He was feeling strangely optimistic now.