So I know this archive is basically dead, but I rewatched Crimson Field during my exams and have been struck by the writing bug for it again. This is going to be a series of scenes that may eventually resolve themselves into a plot, because I adore the friendship between Tom and Miles - it's absolutely hilarious and fantastic. There probably will end up being Kitmas and the other characters may turn up at some point. Enjoy! xox

September 1907

{try defying gravity}

The world as Thomas knows it begins and ends as he steps off the train, clutching his worn carpet-bag in one hand and directions to the medical school in the other. The noise is incredible, filling his ears with nonsense buzzing and shouting, and he has to blink several times to take in the scale of the station, the people who seem to know exactly where they're going pushing past him in a landslide of suits and dresses and stiffupperlip don'tlookaround expressions.

"You alright, son?" one of the guards says, moving up the great sooty beast that ploughed its way south through the night and the English countryside. Thomas briefly considers saying yes, but the unintelligible instructions on his ragged bit of newspaper and the unfriendliness of everyone's faces forces him to change his mind.

"How do I get to King's College?"

"South and Central London Railway – the station is by the arch outside, get off at Borough and you'll be right on top of it."

"Thank you, sir," he says, and the guard nods, ambling off down the length of the train and whistling a cheerful tune. Thomas takes a deep breath of soot and London scented air and begins to walk.

The college spikes the sky on its towers, and he forces himself not to be intimidated as he walks up the front steps. It'll only be daunting if he lets it be daunting, he thinks, skirting around a crowd of students in sharply creased black suits lounging in the front entrance. A few of them spare him a glance, frowning at the threadbare patches on his trousers, the fraying cuffs of his jacket. Heat stains the back of his neck, but he refuses to duck his head. He's had enough of that back home, the judging glares, the cracked knuckles, the whispers about some people around here are getting a bit too big for their boots don't you think, lads? At least this lot don't look like they'll attempt to beat him if he looks at them the wrong way.

"How can I help you, sir?" The voice is drawling, upper-class, every syllable dripping with public school and disdain and elitism. Thomas turns, looking up at a very tall, very thin man with a bowler hat under his arm.

"Good morning," he starts. "My name's Thomas Gillan. I'm a new student here."

The man purses his lips. Irritation crawls up Thomas' spine. Honestly, just because his accent and clothes blare Scottish and scholarship doesn't mean that the man needs to pull a face like a sour lemon as he looks down at a long list of paper in his hand. He takes so long that Thomas begins to wonder whether he has got the wrong place, whether he should just turn around and leave and never come back to this building with its unfriendly English porter and judging English students.

"Yes, yes," the man mutters to himself eventually. "Mr Gillan. Room 44, The Quadrangle. Let me find your key and then you can unpack," another raised eyebrow at the bedraggled carpetbag, "and settle in. Lectures start tomorrow morning at 9am sharp. If you have any problems, come and find me – my name is Mr Clark, ask for me at the porter's lodge."

"Thank you, sir," Thomas forces himself to say.

"Here it is. Follow me."

Once Mr Clark has talked abruptly through the rules – no girls, no alcohol, no vandalism (another spearing, pointed look. What is it about him that makes people think he's going to cause trouble? He worked too hard to get in here to ever dream of throwing it all away) – and left, Thomas sits down on the bed, looking around at the room that's going to be his for the next three years. It feels strange, having this much space all to himself without a Ma, Pa, Catriona, Edme, Roderick and Alec to share it with.

A knock on the half-open door jerks him out of his thoughts, and he turns, instinctively hiding the carpet-bag behind him on the bed. "Hello?" he calls.

"Hello, neighbour." A boy sticks his head around the door, grinning in a way that promises mischief. His dark fringe flops into his eyes. "Golly am I glad you're here, it was getting boring being all on my own. I'm Hesketh-Thorne, Miles. What's your name?"

"Gillan, Thomas," Thomas says shortly, wary of that teasing smile.

"Oh, you're from Scotland?"

"How did you guess?"

Miles laughs. "You must have had a long journey. I've never met anyone from Scotland – we should go to dinner together and you can tell me all about it."

"We're just the same as all the rest of you," Thomas murmurs, trying to sidestep the dinner invitation. God knows he doesn't have enough time or money to spend enjoying himself. Miles steps into the room and sits himself down in Thomas' chair without being invited. No, he thinks. Sits is the wrong word. Miles lounges, leaning one elbow on the arm.

"Well thank you for clearing that up for me, Tom. Can I call you Tom? Only my brother insists I call him Thomas and it's bound to get very confusing very quickly – he's here too, last year, the lucky devil. Have you got any family here?"

"No."

"Oh that's a shame – I'm sure my brother will be happy to show you around too. What do you say?"

Miles' enthusiasm is so bewildering compared to the reserve and glacial, contemptuous looks of everyone else Thomas has encountered here that he feels the walls he spent hours and hours building up on the train creak and sway and tumble. You're just a kid from the Glaswegian slums – it's not like any of those public-school arses will want anything to do with you.

"Alright," he says. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, neighbour. Now how about we go find some lunch and explore?"

That evening they walk back to the college together with the cold, white starlight dripping from the trees, tired, but with the excitement of their explorations still buzzing through their veins. It's been a good day, Thomas thinks, so much better than what he thought it might be when he woke up in the dawning morning with Alec and Roderick snoring on either side of him. Lunch at tastefully tatty places that Miles has been taken by his older brother, then wandering down side streets and talking about medicine (to Miles' great disgust) and then falling into a companionable silence that suits them both – him so he can mull over his new ally (friend?) and Miles so he can flirt with every single vaguely attractive woman that passes them.

As they reach their corridor, Miles turns to him, holding out a hand to shake. "Well, my dear fellow," he says in a tone that can only be described as pompous, "I believe this is the start of an era. We should do that again sometime."

Thomas is forced into a laugh, and Miles grins triumphantly. "I knew it! I knew I could get you to laugh!"

"Goodnight," he says. "See you tomorrow."

"Bang on my door if I'm not awake in time," Miles says as he unlocks the door to his own room. "I'm dreadfully afraid I'm going to oversleep and miss the first morning."