Author's note:
I haven't published something in ages, but this ship has captured my heart ever since it was on telly for the first time, and even though Downton Abbey is not my main fandom, I decided to write a little something for Thommy, and I'm rather proud of this one. I tried another style once again. This story contains the slash pairing Thomas Barrow x Jimmy Kent.

I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Change

Any truth is better than indefinite doubt. - Arthur Conan Doyle

His long elegant fingers brush the keys of the piano in the servants' hall, touching them right where you touch them when you play. You don't see his face, you can't because his back is to you, but the whole posture seems to express sadness, melancholy. You don't know why, to be honest. He's been like that for a few days now and he didn't give a reason for that. It's curious, really, especially because you had thought that everything was almost back to normal between the two of you.

He presses one key, slowly, gently. He lets go of it, pushes it again. Then he sighs and puts his hand back in his pocket.

You take another sip from your tea cup, eyeing him. Today's newspaper is right in front of you but you can't concentrate on it. He is occupying your every thought. He doesn't turn around and smile at you like he usually does. It's weird, somehow, seeing him like this. You wonder – did you do something wrong? Is he alright?

He's simply staring at the piano, just standing there like a marble statue. A beautiful one at that, you have to admit. You swallow once, twice, brush a hand through your hair in a nervous way. You hope no-one noticed. You quickly scan the room – only Anna Bates is there, sewing something. She hasn't said a word to either of you, is too engrossed in her work. You clear your throat, torn between asking him whether he's fine and just keeping your mouth shut.

Anna looks up. 'You alright?' she asks.

You nod. 'Yes. Just a lump in my throat.' You fake a cough to prove your point. You look up at him to see if this little dialogue caused any reaction but – nothing. Anna is working on her sewing again. You desperately wish for a moment in private with him, though some months ago you would have fled the scene. You know that the two of you have grown closer, a lot, therefore it bothers you even more that you don't know what's wrong.

When you finally make up your mind to get up and start talking to him, the bell that connects to the guest suit rings. At that sound, he turns around suddenly and pushes past you, rushing upstairs. It's his job to take care of the guest that is staying at Downton this weekend.

You slump back into your chair and run your hands over your face, sighing deeply. You curse yourself inwardly for being such a coward when it comes to him.

Anna notices again, of course. She puts down her work and eyes you. 'You sure you alright?'

'Yes. Of course.'

She leans back, crossing her arms. 'Doesn't look like it to me, though. You've been acting all weird this morning.'

'Have not,' you protest, taking up the newspaper as a signal that you don't wish to continue this conversation.

'You worry, don't you?' she asks quietly, with a voice so soft and warm that you can't help yourself from looking up. 'It's about him, isn't it?'

'Him?' you ask, although you already know whom she's hinting at. When she finally says his name, memories come crushing back, and emotions that you have tried to suppress well up again.

'Thomas.'

Of course it's about Thomas, it's always about bloody Thomas!

That man came into your life, grabbed every conscious thought you ever had and ran away with them. What else could you possibly be thinking about?

'You should go after 'im, talk a bit, when the job's done,' Anna says. 'He looks like he needs the company of a friend.'

You decide to follow her advice. There'll be plenty of time in the evening. For now, you've got things to do yourself.

The clock chimes, it's ten in the evening. You knock at Thomas's door. Carefully. Quietly. You're not too sure if you actually want him to hear it. Your heart is beating incredibly fast. You're just so uncertain. However, he does hear it. The door opens soon after you knock. He looks at you in disbelief.

'Jimmy?' he asks, his voice husky and hoarse. You take a moment to let your gaze roam over his face and body, trying to find some clues as to how he feels. His hair is dishevelled, his eyes sleepy and red. His cheeks appear to be puffy and have a slight pink tinge to them. Did he... did he cry?

'What do you want?' he asks, staring at you with that intense gaze of his.

'I...,' you begin but you have to stop yourself. Yes, what are you doing up here? 'I just... I just wanted to check on you.'

Thomas raises his eyebrows. 'Check on me?' he repeats.

'Yes.' You look away, struggling to find the right words. 'You seemed a bit... different than usual today.'

Thomas mumbles something, something that you don't quite catch. But it sounds an awful lot like, 'I'm different anyway, so what.' You don't know this side of Thomas, and it makes you uncomfortable somehow. The Thomas you know is a scheming and cold person that, under certain circumstances and with the right people, can be an absolutely wonderful and dear friend. But you've never seen him like this – broken. He looks at you again, and you have the sudden urge to tuck a strand of his messy hair back into place.

You resist.

'I'm just worried,' you manage to croak out. Somehow that lump in your throat is back – for no apparent reason. 'About you,' you add when Thomas frowns.

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds. 'You shouldn't be,' is everything he manages to say.

'But I am,' you insist, 'because I'm your friend, don't ya see?'

'… Friend?', Thomas repeats, tasting the word carefully on the tip of his tongue, like it's a spicy, foreign dish that needs to be tested first.

You nod.

Silence falls between the two of you.

'Why would ya want to be my friend?' he asks.

'You saved my life,' you say, shrugging, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. 'And I like you. And I worry about you because I want you to be fine.' You look down. 'I want to be there for you, should you need me, cos that's what friends are for, ain't they?'

Fingers gently brush against your chest but you hastily take a step backwards. Too much, too soon. Thomas's face falls, he steps back, too. He tries to smile at you but it comes out forced and weak.

'S'alright,' he says, 'S'alright.'

But you both know it isn't. It's not like you didn't enjoy having him close, quite the contrary. You just don't know how to deal with this.

He looks at you again from underneath half-closed eye lids. He's wondering about what he did wrong, you realise. One corner of his mouth curls up, he nods at you and turns around, his gaze lingering on you as long as possible. Then he makes his way to the door, shoulders hanging.

This is definitely not the strong Thomas you know. He's vulnerable now, hurt, shy. You realise that he is just as scared as you, afraid to be rejected over and over again by the one person he truly loves. You remember that one evening that you joined him outside where he was smoking. He offered you a cigarette but you declined politely, smiling up at him. It was a nice night. And Thomas told you a bit about his past. That nobody really cared, that almost everyone thought he was foul. "I always tell 'em that I might be different," he had said, "but that I am not foul." He looked at you with those big blue eyes that usually are so cold. But they were warm and soft and a tad sad that evening. "But I'm starting to believe them." He looked away, then, and you didn't know what to say. You still don't.

So you say, 'Will you let me in?' and you realise that permission to step into his room isn't the only thing you ask for with this question. There is so much more in those five words, and it seems that Thomas understands. He steps back, opening the door a bit wider and lets you step in. The door closes behind you.

He looks at you expectantly. He wants you to say something, you can sense as much – but all the words seem to have gone. You don't know what to do or say, so you just stand there, staring at him, and he stares right back.

'Listen,' he says after a while, 'if there's nothin' you want, then you should probably leave,' and he goes to open the door. You quickly reach out and grab his arm, turning him around to face you.

'No,' you say, 'let me stay, please. There's... things I need to tell you, I just don't know how.'

He lets go of the doorknob, leaning against the wall. 'Go on, then,' he says with a sneer, and there he is, the Thomas you know. Cold, distanced, arrogant.

You take a deep breath, you clench your right hand. You have no idea how to go about this, you never have been in such a situation before. You always have been a realistic person, with collected thoughts, always knowing what to do, thinking rationally. And then Barrow waltzed into your life, and all of a sudden, everything has changed.

'I noticed you were acting differently today,' you start and he nods.

'So?'

'Stop bein' so defensive,' you complain.

Thomas crosses his arms in front of his chest. 'I'll be as defensive as I like,' he snarls, 'and there's absolutely no reason for you to worry 'bout me.'

You know there is, even though he doesn't want to admit it. You can see the pain in his eyes, in the way he stands there, the way his knuckles turn white because he's grabbing onto the fabric of his shirt with extreme force.

You're not sure why he is so upset. You don't dare to ask.

But you don't need to.

All of a sudden, Thomas slumps down against the door, the back of his head leaning against the wood. He squeezes his eyes shut, turns his head away from you and clenches his hands.

It's a matter of seconds, then you are sitting next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. This is Thomas opening up, breaking down, and it's too much for you to understand but you promised him you'd be there – so you stay.

'C'mon, you can tell me what's botherin' ya,' you say quietly.

Thomas doesn't say anything for a while, then it bursts out of him. 'For God's sakes, Jimmy, it's you!' He winces. 'I can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, not since I saw you for the first time, and you know how I feel but it's not gonna change anything. I tried to keep it under wraps for so long, but I jus' can't help meself anymore.' His lips press into a thin line. 'I have to accept that you'll never give me what I want, you said so yourself. I'll be alone, me. It's always been like that, and it always will be.' He shakes his head once, slowly. 'And there's nothin' you can do 'bout that, Jimmy, so please leave.'

He sounds so sad. So broken. So different from the Thomas you know. And it breaks your heart to see him like this.

'Actually,' you say, 'I've been meaning to tell you something since I came in here. Somethin' that might, well, change some things.'

He turns his head to look at you. A single tear is rolling down his cheek. 'An' what would that be?'

You don't answer right away. Instead you extend a hand and help him to get up. You can't stand seeing him like this, defeat, on the floor, shutting everyone out.

'It's just...' You clear your throat. 'Something's changed and I really don't know what to do with that.'

'What's changed?' His voice is quiet again now, almost a whisper.

'The way I see you,' you answer, equally quiet, and nothing has been hard to admit than this. He looks at you, head tilted to the left side, brow furrowed. He looks at you in confusion.

You can't say anymore. You don't know how. Everything you say could come out different, could be the wrong thing to say, so you decide to follow your heart and show him.

Gently, you reach for his left hand, twining your fingers together. It's not too much. The contact feels right. It's fine, you tell yourself, it's all fine. He looks at you, and his right hand twitches, wanting to reach out for your left. You hesitate but then you give the tiniest of nods. You let him. It's still all fine.

'Do you want this?' he asks, his voice trembling. You nod, to your surprise. You do want this, you really do. Thomas smiles and reaches up to cup your cheek. You lean into the touch, your eyes fluttering close. He grabs your wrist with his other hand. Your pulses mix, evidence of you two being alive, of this being real.

You don't know how long the two of you stand like this. It could be minutes, it could be hours. Time doesn't matter. What counts is Thomas.

And then Thomas leans forward, gently touching his lips to yours. Careful, shy, afraid. A fleeting brush of lips. The thoughts in your head start tumbling and whirling, and you are overwhelmed for a second there. Before you can grasp what is happening, that Thomas Barrow is kissing you, Thomas is about to pull away again, obviously afraid of having done a wrong thing.

But you react right then, keeping him in place by putting a hand on the back of his head. Your eyes flutter close at the touching of lips, a shiver runs through your body. Your lips touch with certainty but barely move. Thomas doesn't dare to go further, and you are too shy for now.

Thomas inhales when you exhale and together your find a rhythm, your very own rhythm.

And then you tilt your head to one side, giving Thomas more freedom, letting him explore, nip, touch and feel, and you find yourself enjoying this. This isn't foul, you realise, it simply feels right.

When you finally separate, Thomas touches his forehead to yours, eyes closed. A small smile is playing at the corners of his mouth. You wrap his arms around his neck and press a kiss to his brow.

'You should go to sleep,' you whisper. 'You need to rest. I'll still be here in the morning.'

With a last kiss you depart, turning around just before you close the door. And the look with which Thomas looks at you shows he indeed believes that you'll be there. And that he isn't alone.

Not anymore.