Chapter Two: Thomas

Sometimes, Thomas thinks the universe must owe him something. His love for men, his working class origins, his constant proximity to and total distance from a better life, the war, Miss O'Brien, and, most recently, a fucking split lip. It isn't fair. It isn't right. If this were a novel, he thinks, there would have to be a turn; the chapter would have to end and a new one begin. Well, he thinks, glancing at the book by his bed, maybe not if the novel were by Mrs. Wharton. The house of bloody, fucking mirth, that's what Downtown Abbey is, and he's the chief fool.

He throws himself down onto his bed. His tiny bed; a child's bed he thinks, a hospital bed. Of course, the Crawleys probably think he should be grateful even to have a bed. Time was they probably made all of their servants sleep on pallets on the kitchen floor. He doesn't like Branson, but sometimes he thinks he had the right idea in the old days. Set fire to the lot of them and run for dear life. Of course, then he'd be out of a job. Maybe the world will be different one day, he thinks, but how bloody long would that take?

He sighs and lights a cigarette. He used to steal wine when he felt this way. Used to creep down into the cellar, nick a bottle or two, and drink it by himself late at night. A small rebellion and something to numb the pain into the bargain. He's not as brave as he used to be, though. Back then, he only thought he had bad luck. Now he knows it for sure.

He reaches up to the split in his lip. It's not bad, really. Mrs. Hughes said she thought it would disappear in no time, though why he should listen to her he doesn't know. He likes Mrs. Hughes well enough though, these days. He remembers how kind she'd been to him when he thought he'd be dismissed without a reference. She takes in strays, Mrs. Hughes, he thinks. When he'd managed to stop crying – God, how he hates to remember it – he'd asked her why she was being nice to him. "You don't even like me," he'd said.

"Oh, Thomas," she'd sighed. "I might if you'd ever allow it."

He takes another drag on his cigarette. He's tried to allow it, sort of. He sees now that, most days, Mrs. Hughes isn't any more impressed with the Crawleys than he is, and that helps. He smirks. He'd thought strict Mrs. Hughes would be appalled by what he is but, once he'd thought it through, he'd realized that Mrs. Hughes had probably always been over the moon to have at least one footman she didn't have to worry about with maids.

Not like Jimmy and Alfred. Fighting about Ivy, no doubt, Thomas thinks. It's stupid. Jimmy may not be…may not be like Thomas, but any idiot can see he's not really interested in Ivy. Any idiot but Alfred and, Thomas supposes, Ivy. There'll be an end to it now, though, Thomas thinks. If Thomas knows Mrs. Patmore, her ability to keep her thoughts to herself likely imploded with the soufflé that had been ruined by the fight. She'll have sat Ivy down and told her what's what. All bluster, Mrs. Patmore, Thomas thinks, but she doesn't miss a trick.

She'd known about Thomas from the first moment he'd set foot in the kitchen looking to find Mr. Carson to enquire about the open second footman position, he'd wager. On his third day at Downton, he'd overheard Mrs. Hughes telling Mrs. Patmore that she was worried about the new second footman.

"He's too handsome for his own good, if you ask me," Mrs. Hughes had said. Thomas had smirked at that. "The house maids won't talk about anything else. And the kitchen maids-"

"Don't you worry about the kitchen maids," Mrs. Patmore had said. "They're mine to worry about. And if I were you, I wouldn't worry about the house maids neither. The only thing they're in danger of with that one is looking very foolish."

Thomas had had to leave the doorway before he'd heard the rest of the conversation, but he doubted Mrs. Patmore had thought there was nothing to worry about because she'd formed a high opinion of his character. It had worried him for a time, back then, but nothing had ever come of it and he'd more or less forgotten that Mrs. Patmore likely knew him for what he was.

Mrs. Hughes worries about the maids with Jimmy now, Thomas thinks. She thinks Jimmy is silly and vain and, just for tonight, Thomas is inclined to agree. He knows Jimmy had only hit him on accident, but still. Thomas has had enough grief off of Jimmy to last a lifetime.

They're friends now, after a fashion. Thomas still notices the way Jimmy's chest presses against his shirt and how his smile lights up his face, but he tries not to let it matter so much and, sometimes, he succeeds. They play cards together occasionally and smoke outside together and laugh over the foibles of the other servants.

It's not smart, Thomas knows, but he can't seem to help it. Not just because Jimmy is handsome, but because it is nice to have someone to snicker with again. He is in a foul enough mood this evening to admit that he had missed O'Brien, and badly. He hadn't really believed they'd fall out until there was no going back. She had been funny, O'Brien, and, Thomas thinks, almost fond of him. She'd really gone out of her way to help him during the war, and, though it had benefited her too, and he'd been grateful, in his way. She'd looked out for him, he thought, until Alfred came along and she'd had someone more important to pay attention to.

He wishes he could hate Alfred properly, but it was like hating poor, dead William. It just wasn't worthwhile. He would hate him though, if Jimmy was sacked over this business. It didn't seem likely, but you could never be sure. Mr. Carson doesn't like Jimmy. He never has, but, Thomas thinks, he'd disliked him even more since Lord Grantham had promoted him to first footman to keep him quiet about Thomas. Lord Grantham isn't all bad, Thomas supposes, for a toff. He'd been, well, not exactly kind to Thomas, but still…

Anyway, Mr. Carson has never quite forgiven Jimmy over the whole incident, Thomas doesn't think. He'd never say it out loud, but it makes him just the tiniest bit happy. He knows Mr. Carson is mainly angry that Jimmy (tricked into in by O'Brien, of course!) had tried to blackmail him. Sometimes though, Thomas likes to pretend that Mr. Carson's dislike for Jimmy is in part because of what he'd tried to do to Thomas.

Christ, when had he become so pathetic? Had he always been?

He shakes out another cigarette, but, before he can light it, there is a knock on the door. Mr. Carson, Thomas imagines, come to tell Thomas he expects him to be vigilant for any more fights. Well, if there are, Thomas is bloody well keeping out of it. More injuries are the last thing he needs. Annoyed, he puts his cigarettes down. Mr. Carson is always hinting that Thomas shouldn't smoke in his room, though he's never forbidden it outright. Thomas doesn't want to push his luck with the butler any farther.

He glances over to the wooden chair where he'd draped his coat and discarded shirt. He supposes Mr. Carson will disapprove of Thomas opening the door in his undershirt, but it's late and, for once, Thomas can't be bothered to do anything about his appearance.

Sighing again, he pulls open the door to reveal Jimmy, rather than the butler. Surprised, Thomas looks him up and down – he can't help it – and takes in Jimmy's red knuckles and bruised cheek. It looks painful, but not too bad. Of course, Thomas thinks bitterly, when does Jimmy ever look bad? The other man's shirt is open, revealing the undershirt beneath, and it is all Thomas can do to focus on his face. His stomach does a revolting leap and Thomas narrows his eyes. He wishes it had been Mr. Carson, after all.

Jimmy, who seems to take Thomas's ill-concealed appraisal in stride, holds up an open bottle of wine, raises his eyebrows, and nods towards Thomas's room. Without thinking, Thomas moves out of the doorway. "Where did you get that?" he asks.

Jimmy pushes past him and closes the door behind him. "Nicked it," he says sullenly.

"Jimmy, I don't think-" Thomas starts, staring at the closed door, but Jimmy cuts him off.

"I didn't mean to hit you. I'm very sorry. Truly, I am," he says, looking down at the floor.

"'s alright," Thomas says, and it is. "Just a scratch that will be gone in no time."

Jimmy looks up at him. "You came out of it better than me, that's for sure." Jimmy grabs Thomas's only glass, sinks into Thomas's armchair, pours the wine, and reaches out to hand the glass to Thomas, keeping the bottle for himself.

Thomas is still standing by the door. He crosses the room to take the glass from Jimmy and, after a moment's hesitation, sits down on his bed. He can feel Jimmy's eyes on him.

"How are you, then?" Thomas asks. And what are you doing? He wonders. Jimmy hasn't come to his room since Thomas had been stuck in bed after the beating.

Jimmy smiles tightly. "Not out on my ear, yet. Just 'a disgrace to this house, his lordship, and the mother who bore me,' apparently. According to Mr. Carson. And you?"

"Twisted by nature into something foul, according to Mr. Carson," Thomas says. What the fuck had he said that for? He's always saying things he doesn't mean to say around Jimmy, even now.

But Jimmy only laughs. "Well, at least Mr. Carson was holding nature responsible. Whereas I have nothing to blame but my own 'vanity, pride, and insolence' for this 'disgusting and wholly unnecessary display of violence.'"

"I wouldn't worry," Thomas says. "Mr. Carson likes being disgusted. Gives him something to do in his spare time."

Jimmy laughs. "Well, he's not keen on me and never has been and that's a fact."

"I've managed to soldier on," Thomas says, taking a sip of the wine. It's excellent.

"It's different," Jimmy says. "You annoy Mr. Carson like, like a nephew he enjoys scolding or something. He hates me. You should have heard him, 'I shudder to think what would have happened if Mr. Barrow hadn't intervened.'"

Well, Thomas thinks, at least he may have managed to gain some points with Mr. Carson. Doesn't hurt to keep proving the need for an under-butler. "What does he think would have happened if I hadn't stopped you?" Thomas asks, amused.

"Dunno,"Jimmy says, shrugging. "He was sort of overcome by horror at that point. You know how he gets. Maybe he's afraid we would have broken some of his lordship's crockery. God knows how this house would weather such a shock."

Thomas laughs at that. "And Alfred?"

"I told him Alfred started the whole bloody thing, saying stupid things."

"What did Mr. Carson say?" Thomas asks.

Jimmy smirks. "That Alfred would know better than to say something like that again."

Not the reaction Thomas would have imagined. "What did he say?" Thomas asks.

"Alfred?" Jimmy is looking at him suspiciously.

Thomas raises his eyebrows. "He said something and you hit him?" Thomas says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Jimmy blushes. "It's alright to be surprised. No one knows better than you what a coward I am."

"I don't think-" Thomas starts, but Jimmy waves him off. "Don't need to go defending me. Not with your lip like that. We both know I'm no fighter. I'm lucky you were there and no mistake."

"You were on top," Thomas says. And now you're in my room, he thinks. Why?

"We both know that wouldn't have lasted long," Jimmy says, taking a swig of wine. Thomas, trying not to focus on Jimmy's lips on the rim of the bottle, drains his own glass. "Alfred may be a clod but he's stronger than me. And so are you, come to think of it."

Thomas is curious, now. "What exactly did Alfred-"

"You should ask, Thomas," Jimmy says, cutting Thomas off, his voice low.

"What?" Thomas says.

"You should ask what I'm doing here, Thomas," Jimmy says, still not looking up. "I know you're wondering."

"Right," Thomas says, unnerved. Jimmy never call him Thomas, but, somehow, this doesn't seem the time to correct him. "What are you doing here?"

Jimmy looks up then. His face is scarlet underneath the bruising and his eyes are wide. He stares at Thomas for a long minute and then he stands up, putting the wine bottle on the floor as he does so. Thomas feels as if he is frozen and Jimmy crosses the room to stand in front of him.

"I'm here for exactly the reason you hope I'm here," Jimmy says, his voice quiet.

Thomas looks up at him. A thousand different scenarios cross his mind, each more unlikely than the last.

"Jimmy, I don't-" but he can't seem to find words. The other man is too close and he can't think. Or rather, he can, but all he can think is –

Jimmy reaches out, putting a finger against the cut in Thomas's lip and Thomas can't breathe. Jimmy can't mean…He can't be… This has to stop. This is madness. And suddenly Thomas is annoyed. What is Jimmy playing at? He grabs Jimmy's wrist and pulls his hand away from his, Thomas's, face.

"I don't know what you think," Thomas says, his voice a low hiss. "But-" He expects Jimmy to jump back. To make excuses. To claim Thomas is misunderstanding the situation. Well, Thomas thinks, that last would bloody well be true. He doesn't understand this situation at all.

"I think you were right, after all," Jimmy says, staring at Thomas's hand, still wrapped tightly around Jimmy's wrist.

"Right?" Thomas asks.

"Don't make me say it, Thomas." Jimmy says softly. "It's hard enough without me having to say it."

"Jimmy, I don't know-" Thomas starts again.

"Of course you bloody well know!" Jimmy says, his voice louder and angrier. "I'm sure everyone's fucking talking about it. About why I hit Alfred," Jimmy growls.

"Ivy-" Thomas tries again, still aware of Jimmy's proximity.

"What the fuck's Ivy got to do with it?" Jimmy tries and fails to pull his wrist from Thomas's grasp. Thomas had forgotten he was holding it. He lets go and, to his surprise, Jimmy sits down on the bed beside him. He leans forward, his shoulders shaking. He's laughing.

"Jimmy," Thomas says quietly, "Jimmy, when you fell, did you hit-"

Jimmy shakes his head. "You must think I'm cracking up," he says, not looking at Thomas.

"Well," Thomas says. Yes, he thinks. This is out of character for Jimmy, Thomas thinks. Or, he supposes it is. He's known the other man for two years and yet, somehow, he still can't seem to quite get the measure of him. And that's trouble. "Maybe you should go back to your room and-"

"Mrs. Patmore didn't tell you," Jimmy says looking at Thomas.

"Tell me what, Jimmy?" Thomas asks.

And then, before Thomas can register what is happening, Jimmy is pressing his lips to Thomas's. Thomas has never been more shocked in his life, but his body reacts immediately, even if his brain is far behind. His lip hurts – it might be bleeding again – but who cares? It is wonderful. It is what he has always hoped for. Jimmy's lips on his, Jimmy's tongue in his mouth, Jimmy's body pressed against his. Thomas puts one hand on Jimmy's jaw and his other, his injured hand, just above Jimmy's elbow. He pulls the other man closer. It's too fast, the reasonable part of Thomas's mind says, you'll scare him. But Jimmy moans softly and Thomas can't think anymore. Not about anything but the man beside him and the desire pulsing through his body.

Eventually, Jimmy pulls away and wipes his mouth, staring at Thomas wide-eyed. Just like that, Thomas feels the panic set in. Jimmy's going to leave. Going to go to the police. Going to hit him –

And Jimmy is raising his hand, but it is just to run a finger along Thomas's lower lip. "You're bleeding again," he says in a whisper.

"It doesn't matter," Thomas says, his voice just as quiet. "Jimmy, I don't understand."

"Neither do I," Jimmy says.

Thomas nods. He doesn't know what to say.

"Thomas?" Jimmy says, and Thomas realizes how tired the other man sounds. How late it must be. "It was about you."

"What?"

"What Alfred said. It was about you."

Thomas blinks. He doesn't know what to make of that. He knows what he wants to make of it, but he's not sure that it's altogether wise. "You hit Alfred for saying something about me? Why?" he asks in disbelief.

Jimmy ducks his head, a blush spreading down his neck. Thomas wonders how far down that blush spreads. "Why do you think?" Jimmy mutters.

"I didn't know that you-"

"Well, now you do," say Jimmy collapsing backwards on to the bed with a sigh of frustration. Thomas tries not to think about that. Tries not to think about bulge he'd seen in the front of Jimmy's trousers before he looked away. "And so does everyone else. Mrs. Patmore knows and now she's the proof."

"What?" Thomas asks, deliberately not looking at Jimmy.

"I heard her telling Mrs. Hughes a few months ago there was no need to worry about me being alone with Ivy. She didn't know I was listening in. She said….she said if Mrs. Hughes was 'so idle that she had time to be worrying about staff not under her direct supervision, she might have an eye to all the time that silly flirt spends winding up Thomas and that's the truth of it.'"

"I'm sure Mrs. Patmore meant that I might-" Thomas says, feeling wretched.

"Mrs. Hughes said you'd never make the same mistake twice and Mrs. Patmore just laughed and said that it was me who wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Mrs. Hughes told her to stop being foolish, but she said it. God."

Thomas let out a surprised laugh.

"It's not funny, Thomas. It means we'll be sacked. It means prison. During the war, it meant-"

"They won't say anything, Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes." Thomas cannot believe this conversation is happening. It is as if it is happening to another person. "They knew about me from the start and they never said nothing."

Jimmy sits up, looking at him doubtfully. "I suppose. And Alfred's too stupid to see the nose on his face."

Thomas reaches out for Jimmy's hand. He can't help but be surprised when the other man doesn't flinch away.

"Thomas?" he says. "Just because you were right about me it doesn't mean…I mean, we can't….not right away. I haven't…I just…I need to get used to it, is all." Jimmy finishes awkwardly.

Thomas nods. "Of course," he says softly. "I wouldn't…." he doesn't know how to finish the sentence, but Jimmy seems to take his meaning and nods. Thomas leans towards him and kisses him slowly, carefully. When he pulls away, Jimmy sighs again.

"I'm going to go to sleep," he says. "In my room," he adds quickly.

Thomas nods. "Will this have happened this way tomorrow?" He asks. What a stupid thing to say, he thinks.

"Yes," Jimmy says, ducking his head. "I won't kick up a fuss again. Goodnight, Thomas." His smile is nervous, but it's there. Thomas smiles back.

And then Jimmy's gone. Thomas take a deep breath and looks at his clock. Half an hour. Half an hour was all it took for the world to become a different place. Perhaps, Thomas thinks, the universe does owe him something. Perhaps it means to pay up.