It's a rushed morning, not because Thomas is running late, but because he can't for the life of him find his bloody glove. He'd taken it off the night before in the washroom, he's sure of that, and he would swear he had it when he came back to his room after. He doesn't remember specifically setting it on his desk like he usually does, but what else could he have done with it? It isn't there, though, and it's not in his wardrobe and it's not in any of his drawers. He'd think a thief had been in his room, but nothing else is out of place at all, not even the two shillings he has sitting rather recklessly on the desk. It's damned odd. And damned inconvenient, too, because there's just not enough time before breakfast to do a proper search and he hasn't the faintest idea of where he'd even start, anyway. No one, as far as he knows, has it out for him lately and he'll admit he's been a bit preoccupied of late with Agatha and the boy coming back into his life, but he doesn't think he'd been as remiss as all that. He'll have to pay attention, get back in the game, and also buy a spare glove, but none of that will help him today.
He ends up having to go down to the servant's hall without his glove. He keeps his hand curled in his pocket on the way down and he gets a few odd looks and Mr. Carson's raised eyebrow for it, but at least no one can see the bloody scar. He eats with his left hand on his knee, as well, and since it's Anna on his left and she doesn't make it a habit of looking into men's laps, he gets away with it. He must look a bit strained, though, because Jimmy on his other side nudges his foot and says, "Alright, Mr. Barrow?"
"Fine," he says through gritted teeth, then at Jimmy's hurt expression adds, "Having a bit of a rough morning, is all."
"Ah, cheer up," Jimmy says, knocking his foot again. "Can't be all that bad. 'Least you're sittin' next to me and not Mr. Bates."
Bates, at the far side of the table, doesn't hear it, but Anna does and she turns to look at them disapprovingly. Jimmy shrugs, unrepentant, but Thomas will admit that does cheer him up a bit.
After breakfast, Thomas cuts his inspection of the hall boys' room short and does a more thorough search for his missing glove than he'd had time for this morning. He hasn't long now, either, and he'll have to be in the pantry with Mr. Carson in ten minutes, but he's quick, tearing his room apart and looking behind every piece of his sparse furniture. A glove could easily fall behind a desk or under a bed, he figures, but it's not in either of those places and it's not anywhere in the room at all.
He'll have to hunt through the other rooms, then, but there's no time for that now. As it is, he's very nearly late for Carson. Both Jimmy and Oliver are lurking in the corridor for some reason, not together or as though they've been speaking, but rather more like they're both skiving off from actually doing any work (rather usual for Jimmy, Thomas will admit, but not so much for little Oliver). They both look up when he passes.
"Mr. Barrow!" Oliver says excitedly, but Thomas shakes him off.
"Not just now, Olly," he says quickly, still walking. "I'll come find you later."
Jimmy, Thomas notes as he knocks on the pantry door, looks rather put out about something, but he'll have to deal with that later, as well.
Thomas can't, of course, keep his hand in his pocket while speaking with Mr. Carson, not if he wants to maintain any shred of dignity. He can, however, keep it behind his back, which he does while he listens to Carson drone on and on about what needs done for the day. It's the Dowager, Mrs. Crawley and two vaguely important guests for dinner, Thomas notes gloomily, and even before that, Carson wants Thomas to stand in at breakfast. Just bloody perfect, Thomas thinks. Just what he needs is more chances for people to gawp at his scar.
Carson finally, finally finishes his rant with, "…and we'll speak later about the wines."
"Very good, sir," Thomas says as respectfully as he can manage and he hightails it out of there before Carson can get going again. He still has to do the walk-through of the main rooms to check that the fires are all blazing and tidy, and after that, he'll have to face the music.
Breakfast actually goes remarkably well, mostly because none of them at table even look in his direction and in any case, he can keep his hands behind his back again like he had for Carson. It's actually after breakfast that's the problem, because as the boys are clearing out the dishes, that oaf Molesley manages to trip on thin air and it's only Thomas quick steadying hands that stops him smashing all the plate he's carrying.
"Thanks," Molesley says, breathing hard, but he and Jimmy both get an eyeful of the mangled hand and neither tries to hide his staring.
"Be more careful, won't you?" Thomas snaps and pulls his hand back, puts it into his pocket, out of sight. Jimmy looks like he's about to open his mouth, but Thomas just doesn't want to hear what he's got to say on the subject, so he says, "And get a move on, both of you," and storms off to talk to Carson about the sodding wines.
It's a busy day, what with those two important dinner guests coming in, and Thomas only manages to speak with Oliver in the company of the other hall boy, who Thomas thinks might be named Albert or Arnold or something like that. He passes on Mr. Carson's instructions to them before the family's luncheon, and the whole time he's telling them about being gentler with the downstairs crockery and giving the cutlery more of a polish, Oliver looks like he wants to say something. He doesn't, though, and today Thomas doesn't have the patience or the time to work it out of him, so after the lecture he sends them off back to work. He'll talk to him properly tonight, he thinks, and gets back to his own duties.
Thomas manages to get through servant's dinner in the same way he got through breakfast, with the added provision of ignoring Molesley's occasional odd glance his way and Jimmy's rather more persistent looks. The rest of the table remains oblivious, however, right up until they've finished eating and Thomas forgets himself as he's standing up and reaches for a cigarette with his left hand. He doesn't even realize what he's done until Anna blanches at him then tries to cover it up with a polite cough. Others are not so polite, particularly that new redhaired housemaid whose name Thomas hasn't learned yet.
Thomas pointedly doesn't react to the staring, just turns his nose up and goes outside for a much-needed fag. It does the trick in calming his nerves and by the time he comes back in, everyone's gone off somewhere else except the hall boys. Oliver tries to get his attention, but this is the first free moment Thomas has had since this morning and he just nods to him as he makes his way up to the men's rooms, where he very, very carefully and quickly searches them. It's a wasted effort, in the end, though, because by the time he has to be back downstairs, he's discovered nothing at all except some very disturbing insight into Molesley's sleeping habits. When he gets back to the servant's hall, Oliver is nowhere in sight.
For dinner Thomas considers going to the livery and fetching a spare pair of footman's gloves, but in the end he decides he can't stomach the indignity of it. Instead, he simply stands with his hands behind his back for most of the meal, except for the parts that necessitate him using them to motion to the footmen. It's at just one such unfortunate moment that Lady Rose happens to glance his way, and Thomas knows this because she very quickly leans across to Lady Edith and says in what she must think is a whisper, "My God, look at Barrow's hand!"
The whole table hears her and most of them subtly turn to look. A lesser man would fidget or turn away, but Thomas holds himself rigid and still, even as he feels his ears start to heat. He waits until they've all gotten back to their conversations before he puts his hands behind himself again and he steadfastly ignores Carson's glare as he does it.
"A word, Thomas," Carson says after dinner and Thomas sighs and follows him into his pantry. The 'word' turns out to be many words in form of a blustering lecture on the dignity of the house and how the appearance of the staff is paramount to maintaining his lordship's good name. He doesn't quite say, "Keep that godforsaken monstrosity hidden," but it's a close thing, in Thomas's estimation.
"My apologies, Mr. Carson," Thomas says through clenched teeth. He doesn't mention the fact that it hadn't been his decision to steal his glove, nor does he point out that he's damned sure he was the only one embarrassed upstairs just now. He just has to keep reminding himself that cheeking Carson will do nobody any good and also that he's going to make whoever took the bloody glove pay dearly.
They both go out for supper, where Thomas has to put up with staring the whole entire meal. He doesn't bother to keep his hand hidden this time, not now that everyone's gone and seen the damn thing. In fact, he puts it right up on the table where everyone who glances his way is forced to see it and if he gets fewer looks that way, all the better.
After the dishes have been cleared away, Jimmy catches his eye and holds up the deck of cards hopefully. "Want a hand?" he asks, but Thomas shakes his head.
"Need a cigarette more'n I need to win your week's pay."
"As if you would anyway," Jimmy says scornfully. He pauses, as if he's considering something, then says, "I'll join you, shall I?"
Thomas shrugs and they go out into the garden. Jimmy bums a fag off Thomas but he stares intently when Thomas lights it for him with his left. "Could you not?" Thomas snaps, frustration at the whole terrible day getting the best of him.
"Sorry," Jimmy says softly, face falling, and he busies himself with his cigarette.
They smoke in silence for a few minutes, then Jimmy says abruptly, "Does it hurt? Your hand, I mean."
"A bit," Thomas says tightly. He doesn't especially want to talk about his scar with bloody gorgeous Jimmy of all people, but he can't quite bring himself to brush him off, either. "In the cold or if I've been lifting all day."
"Oh," Jimmy says. There's silence again as they both finish their cigarettes. It's only after Thomas has ground the butt under his heel that Jimmy does anything. He takes a breath, as if steeling himself for something, then says, "C'n I touch it?"
"What?" Thomas says stupidly, sure he's misheard somehow.
Jimmy blushes enough that Thomas can see the faint red of his cheeks even in the dim light. "Nevermind," he says quickly. "It's- it was stupid."
"No," Thomas tells him at once. "It's not. You can touch it… if you want to." If it were any other person, he wouldn't have even dignified the request with a response, but it's Jimmy, lovely Jimmy, and Thomas has always been soppy over him. He holds out his hand, the terrible scar visible perfectly in the moonlight.
Carefully, tentatively, Jimmy reaches out to touch. His hands are cold, but his fingers are gentle as he runs them over the bullet hole that's still disturbingly pronounced, even after all these years. He doesn't know if Jimmy can tell it's a coward's wound, but he thinks Jimmy, of all people, would understand why Thomas did what he did. They're quite alike, the pair of them, for good or for ill.
They stand there together under the waning moon, Jimmy caressing Thomas's hand with soft fingers for long, long moments until finally Jimmy looks up into Thomas's eyes. His face is open and his eyes are huge. Thomas opens his mouth to say something, he doesn't know what, but he never gets the chance, because just then the door opens behind them. Jimmy jerks back, dropping Thomas's hand like he's been burned.
"Jimmy, wait!" Thomas says, grabbing for his hand again, but Jimmy backs away, face closed off.
"I've got to go," he says quickly before he turns tail and all but runs back into the house.
Thomas rounds on whoever interrupted their moment, only to find Oliver, looking fairly terrified and very young. Thomas sighs, shaking his head, but his anger's gone.
"Hello Oliver," Thomas says, motioning him over.
"Hello Mr. Barrow," Oliver says hesitantly, stepping up to him. There's something off about his voice. He's not usually so shy with Thomas, not since that first night they walked together, but he won't even meet Thomas's eyes tonight.
"What is it, lad?" Thomas asks, not liking the look the boy's wearing. "What's got you so down?"
Oliver hesitates uncharacteristically long before saying all in a rush, "I'vegotyourglove."
"What?" Thomas asks, shocked. Of all the people in the house who might have stolen the damned thing, Oliver wouldn't have been on Thomas's list of suspects at all. "Why?"
"You dropped it," Oliver says quietly. "It was in the hall this morning when I was getting ready. I tried to give it back to you, but you were so busy today and I couldn't do it in front of the others cos they already think I'm… y'know, a bit off."
"Oh," Thomas says, thinking back on his day. Oliver had been rather insistent on getting him alone once or twice, but Thomas had been so set on finding the glove and hiding his hand that he hadn't had time to do anything about it. "Well, that's alright, then. Do you have it now?"
Oliver nods and fishes it out of his pocket. He hands it over and Thomas makes sure to let their fingers brush to give Oliver a bit of a thrill. It works right enough and Oliver smiles up at him shyly.
"Thank you, lad," Thomas tells him, slipping the glove onto his hand and relaxing completely for the first time all day. "D'you want a walk?"