Jimmy slept badly. The sound of rain battering against the windowpane had kept him tossing and turning restlessly all night, his brain full of half-formed questions and non-existent answers. Consequently, he'd overslept and only just managed to scramble down to breakfast on time, head aching dully with lack of sleep.
As he slid hastily into his seat at the busy breakfast table, he could feel Mr. Carson's disapproving glare on him, and wished he'd had the time to comb his hair more effectively. He knew he knew he looked awful; his golden hair was rumpled, his jacket askew, and his eyes were weighed down with a purple sleeplessness that was as bruising as the questions which had plagued him into the early hours of the morning.
"Sleep well, James?" Mr. Carson asked pointedly as Jimmy hurriedly helped himself to tea and toast.
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Carson," Jimmy lied, gulping his tea too quickly and scalding his tongue. He winced, setting the mug down and brushing his dishevelled hair out of his eyes. It was only then that he noticed Thomas' gaze on him. Thomas was sitting in the seat opposite, the morning newspaper spread out in front of him— but his eyes were on Jimmy. The moment Jimmy met his gaze, Thomas looked away as if he'd been burnt, the smallest tinge of colour on his cheekbones as he turned the page of the newspaper, his long, pale fingers fumbling slightly.
Jimmy had used to feel intensely uncomfortable and guilty whenever he caught Thomas looking at him, but now it was something subtly different— something that wasn't entirely unpleasant, even though it made his stomach twist. Part of it was that Jimmy liked knowing Thomas shared more of himself with Jimmy than anyone else; it made him feel more justified in wanting to understand the other man better. But the other part— Jimmy just didn't know. It was as confusing as Thomas himself.
"Stop daydreaming and finish your breakfast, James. You're late enough already." Mr. Carson's voice cut sharply through Jimmy's wandering thoughts, making the latter jump and hurriedly take another bite of toast, his eyes sliding back to watch Thomas reading his newspaper as he chewed. Thomas had seamlessly smoothed the hint of colour from his face and his expression was as carefully smooth and impassive as ever, not the slightest trace of emotion left on it. Jimmy suddenly realised that the only time he ever caught a glimpse of emotion on Thomas' face was when it concerned himself; out of everyone, he was the one closest to Thomas— and yet he still didn't really know him at all.
Jimmy still wasn't quite sure why it mattered so much to him to try and understand Thomas. Perhaps it was because Jimmy had always liked to think that he never needed to learn anything because he already knew it all— but when it came to Thomas, he could no longer ignore the fact that in actuality, Jimmy knew and understood painfully little of the world.
Before he'd met Thomas, Jimmy had found it endlessly easy to put people into boxes— but Thomas was different. Every time Jimmy thought he'd got him figured out so that he fitted in one place, Thomas would do or say something and Jimmy would be forced to realise that the other man was something else entirely. It was endlessly frustrating; Jimmy hadn't failed to understand something since he was a child, and he hated the helplessness of the feeling. It made him feel as though he was ten years old again and crying over the snow in his hands that no longer existed.
"James, are you listening to me?"
Jimmy jumped at Mr. Carson's irritated tone and dragged his gaze from Thomas, whose eyes were still on the newspaper in front of him.
"Sorry, Mr. Carson. My mind was elsewhere," Jimmy apologised guiltily, draining his cup of tea and standing up hurriedly.
"Yes, I could see that," Mr. Carson said sardonically. "Alfred is already upstairs. Go and join him— there's plenty to be done before Lord Gillingham arrives this evening, and I won't tolerate laziness. Or untidiness, for that matter. Make sure you've made yourself more presentable by the time our visitor arrives."
"Yes, Mr. Carson," Jimmy sighed, trying in vain to straighten his jacket and push his hair into some kind of order.
Across the table, Thomas folded up his newspaper and looked up briefly at Jimmy, eyebrows raised slightly.
Jimmy couldn't help but grin fleetingly at him before hurrying from the servants' hall, catching the smallest of smiles in return before Thomas' expression slipped back to its careful impassivity.
It was a feeling of great resignation that Jimmy ascended the stairs to find Alfred; he suddenly had the feeling that today would feel even more endless than the last one before he got the chance to talk to Thomas properly. He'd been hoping to after breakfast— but it looked as though once more, the questions would have to wait.
By the time luncheon was served, Jimmy was in a foul mood. His headache had been considerably worsened by working tirelessly since breakfast at the same time as trying to tolerate Alfred, and his lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him. The only thing which had kept him from shouting at Alfred had been the prospect of talking to Thomas in the servants' hall over lunch— but when Jimmy flung himself moodily down at the table, the seat opposite him— Thomas' seat— was empty. Jimmy frowned, ignoring the plate of food in front of him, even though his stomach had been growling for the past several hours.
"Where's Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy addressed the table at large, but it was Mrs. Hughes who replied.
"He went into Ripon after breakfast on an errand for his Lordship," she said briskly, buttering her slice of bread. "He won't be back until late this afternoon."
Jimmy was acutely surprised at the disappointment that sunk like a stone in his stomach, and he dropped his gaze to his plate, no longer particularly hungry.
"Actually, James, that reminds me—" Mrs. Hughes took a sip of water and looked down at Jimmy from the head of the table. "Mr. Carson wanted a brief word with you in his office."
Hoping fervently that he wasn't about to get a telling off, Jimmy left his plate of untouched food and rose from the table, making his way along to Mr. Carson's office. He paused for a moment outside before knocking hesitantly on the door.
"Come in."
"You asked to see me, Mr. Carson?" Jimmy asked as politely as he could manage, poking his head around the door.
"Oh, yes— come in, James," Mr. Carson replied, putting down the silver he had been polishing and looking up. "Mrs. Hughes tells me that you and Alfred have finished with the entrance hall, so I would be much obliged if you could go down to Ripon this afternoon to run a couple of last minute errands. Lady Edith is taking the motor down shortly, so you should be able to get a lift with her if you wish."
"Certainly, Mr. Carson," Jimmy agreed, feeling his stomach leap hopefully at the possibility of catching Thomas in the village. It suddenly struck him how ironic the situation was; before they'd become friends and Jimmy had wanted nothing more than for Thomas leave him alone, the other man had seemed to be there constantly— and now that Jimmy wanted to speak to him, he had become irritatingly elusive.
"Well, thank you, James. I'll let Mrs. Hughes give you the details and I'll see you at dinner," Mr. Carson said briskly. He looked up at Jimmy with a slight frown. "Make sure you don't dawdle in the village— come straight back once you've finished the errands."
"Of course. Thank you, Mr. Carson." Jimmy bowed out of the office, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face as he went to fetch his hat and coat.
Dusk was beginning fall in the village, icy and forlorn in contrast to the bittersweet vibrancy of the leaves and Jimmy was certain that he'd missed Thomas. He'd already lingered in the village longer than necessary in the hope that he'd run into him, and was now shivering with cold and in danger of being late back. Consequently, it was with a sinking feeling of disappointment that he trailed back in the direction of the house, past the churchyard, where he suddenly caught sight of a familiar figure, leaning against the wall and smoking silently. His stomach leapt hopefully and he hurried over, across the leaf-strewn street.
"Evening, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy grinned slightly breathlessly, stopping just in front of him. Thomas looked paler than ever in the dusk, shrouded in tendrils of smoke and the ugly shadows of the church.
"Jimmy," Thomas raised his eyebrows in greeting, looking mildly surprised. He paused, taking a long drag of his cigarette and blowing smoke out expertly into the cold air in front of him. "Shouldn't you be working?"
"I was sent into the village on some last minute errands after lunch. I'm just heading back now— d'you want to walk with me?" Jimmy asked hopefully, drawing his coat more closely around him against the icy October twilight.
"Is that your question for the day?" Thomas smirked, smoke curling from his mouth.
"Is that yours?" Jimmy countered, grinning.
Thomas rolled his eyes, smiling slightly. He threw his cigarette to the leaf-strewn ground and crushed it beneath his heel. Jimmy watched him as he exhaled the last of the smoke from his lungs and turned his gaze to Jimmy, elusive and icy grey in the dwindling light. "Come on, then."
"What?" Jimmy blinked.
"You just asked if I would walk back with you to the house," Thomas reminded him evenly, amusement colouring his tone slightly. "And no doubt to pester me with more questions."
"I'm not pestering you," Jimmy said indignantly. "But I do have a question."
"Out with it, then," Thomas raised his eyebrows.
"Let's walk for a bit first," Jimmy decided. "Come on."
"As you like," Thomas replied, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat as they walked slowly away from the church and started down the lane to Downton where amber leaves lit the stark trees like flames.
"So, I assume you survived the morning with Alfred?" Thomas asked conversationally after a few moments of walking in silence, their footsteps crushing the fallen leaves that scattered the lane. "You should have seen your face when Mr. Carson told you that you were to work with him."
"It was a close thing," Jimmy admitted with a wry grin. "I swear to god, a couple more hours and I'd have had to kill him."
"I doubt Mr. Carson would have taken kindly to that. Murder would be far too much scandal for the house," Thomas remarked lightly, making Jimmy laugh.
"God forbid anything that brings scandal on the house," Jimmy joked, shaking his head. "Even a teaspoon being out of place."
They fell into a companionable silence for a while, broken only by sound of the leaves splitting beneath their feet. The air was sharp and biting as they walked, and Jimmy was interested to see the tiniest bit of colour sting Thomas' pale cheeks, just as it had that morning over breakfast. It made the other man look less formal, more human somehow, with his jet black hair ruffled by the bitter breeze and his grey eyes sharp against the reds and oranges of the falling leaves; ice that cut through the flames.
"What else did your mother used to play on the piano?" Jimmy asked eventually, when Downton was a smudge on the horizon, and Thomas' cheeks were stung red with the cold.
Thomas looked at him in surprise, as if he hadn't expected Jimmy to remember their discussion several nights before. He hesitated for a moment, slowing slightly.
"Old folk-songs, mainly," he replied after a moment, gaze lost on the darkening horizon. "She used to sing, too."
"Did you ever learn?" Jimmy asked curiously. When he thought about it, he could easily picture Thomas' long, elegant fingers creating chords and melodies— but he supposed they were damaged, now. Thomas never took his glove off his left hand. Jimmy had touched it once; gently brushed it with his fingertips when Thomas reluctantly revealed what happened. He remembered how he'd never been sure whether Thomas had snatched his hand away because it hurt him or because Jimmy was touching him.
"Yes," Thomas replied impassively. "She taught me."
"Why don't you ever play now?" Jimmy frowned, shivering as a particularly sharp gust of wind stung his skin, unsettling the remaining leaves on their trees.
"It makes me sad," Thomas said simply, glancing at Jimmy with unreadable, startling eyes. They were so grey against the flames of the trees and the starkness of the dusk it was almost painful; they stole all the colours around them.
They walked in silence for several moments, footsteps rustling the fallen amber leaves which shrouded the path like burnt paper, wind whipping round them. Jimmy was surprised to realise that the vague presence of Thomas walking alongside him was inexplicably reassuring; he could feel the slight warmth of Thomas' body beside him and taste the heady smoke and cologne on the numbingly cold breeze, and it made him feel a sudden pang of affection for the other man.
"Why does it make you sad, Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy couldn't help himself from asking quietly, watching Thomas intently. Thomas stopped walking, black hair making his impassive expression almost shockingly pale in the dwindling October light. He almost smiled— his lips quirked slightly, but it didn't reach his eyes, which stayed as sad and grey as the kind of snow that falls in the dark where no one can see it.
"I thought the deal was that we had one question each day," he remarked coolly, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps mathematics isn't your strong point, Jimmy, because I'm fairly certain I just answered three."
"You didn't answer them properly," Jimmy scowled, crossing his arms across his chest. "But fine. You can ask me an extra one if you like."
Thomas smiled slightly. "No thanks, I'll stick to the rules."
"That'll make a change," Jimmy quipped, watching Thomas' mouth quirk slightly in amusement. "Go on then. What's your question?"
Thomas didn't reply straight away, instead he pulled another cigarette from his pocket and lit it, hands clumsy with cold. Jimmy watched him, wondering vaguely what Thomas looked like without his hair slicked back, whether it would soften the sharpness of his features or only extenuate them through contrast. He wondered whether the smoke had stung Thomas' lungs when he'd first taken up the habit like it stung Jimmy's; whether he'd started the habit just to share someone's company the way Jimmy had. Jimmy never smoked alone.
"Why did you suggest this?" Thomas asked slowly, smoke curling from the words that made Jimmy come to a halt in the bitter dusk.
"Suggest what?" Jimmy asked uneasily, regarding Thomas in confusion.
"This whole asking questions business," Thomas clarified, watching Jimmy carefully. Jimmy could feel the smoke from Thomas' cigarette stinging at his lungs as it curled through the air between them.
"Why not?" Jimmy shrugged, evading the question. He deftly took the cigarette from Thomas' fingers. They were always surprisingly soft as well as warm; they should have been calloused from years of hardship the way Thomas was, but they were always smooth and pale. Jimmy took a long drag of the cigarette, trying not to choke on the smoke that burnt at his lungs and overwhelmed him. Thomas' eyes didn't leave him, bright from the bitterness of the wind.
"You can't answer questions with questions, Jimmy."
"Well, what if you don't know the answer to a question?" Jimmy demanded, all the smoke coming out of his lungs in a rush and clouding the air between him and Thomas. He handed the cigarette back abruptly, still feeling the warmth of it on his lips as he started walking again.
"I can't figure you out, Mr. Barrow," he mumbled as Thomas fell into step with him. "I'm trying, but I just can't."
"Do you need to?" Thomas asked evenly.
"Yes!" Jimmy exclaimed. "I hate not understanding."
"Well, get used to it," Thomas said quietly.
"I don't want to get used to it! I can't. If I can't understand something, it bothers me until I do. Normally it's easy to understand things—"
"Easy to understand things— or easy to pretend you do?" Thomas cut in, grey eyes slicing through Jimmy and making him shiver uncomfortably. He shook his head, exhaling heavily and watching it curl up into the air to mingle with the smoke of Thomas' cigarette.
"I just wanted to… I just wanted to try to understand you. Even if it's just the tiniest little bit," Jimmy said slowly, not looking at Thomas but instead watching the way the leaves beneath his feet cracked and split into amber fragments. "I don't know why I need to. But I just do."
Thomas didn't say anything as they continued to walk in silence towards Downton, but as they neared the house, he drew closer. Jimmy jumped at the light touch on his wrist, but Thomas was just silently offering him the last of his cigarette. His cheeks were stung red from the cold, his hair tangled by the wind, his eyes illuminated by the dusk, and Jimmy didn't think he'd ever seen Thomas look so human.
"Thanks," Jimmy mumbled gratefully, taking it and once again being surprised at the soft warmth of Thomas' long fingers. "How are your hands warm? It's bloody freezing."
"You know what they say," Thomas shrugged impassively. "Cold hands, warm heart— I'm sure it works the other way too."
Jimmy, smoking Thomas' cigarette as they crossed the drive, couldn't help thinking that nothing was less true— but he didn't say anything as they crossed the yard and returned to the bustle and noise of the kitchen which suddenly seemed like a different world.
Even though he was exhausted from lack of sleep the previous night and working all day, Jimmy didn't go up to bed until well past midnight. Even Thomas had departed before him, leaving Jimmy to mull over his thoughts and the piano. As he played fragments of song, he kept seeing Thomas' fingers dancing over the keys instead of his own. When had Thomas stopped playing? Was it after he injured his hand? Or was it when he came to Downton when he took up smoking?
Jimmy only had a few more fragments of Thomas than he had a couple of days ago, but somehow the more pieces he had seemed to make the overall picture even more blurred than it had been when he'd known nothing. Everything he'd found out just led to further questions, and Jimmy felt as though he hadn't really understood anything more about Thomas at all— it was as if asking the questions only made him realise how little he truly knew the other man— and how much he wanted to.
He couldn't stop hearing Thomas' careless remark about cold hands and warm hearts, and was poignantly reminded of how Thomas had never, ever resented him or been cruel to him— even although Jimmy had tried to ruin him. Thomas might come across as cold and sarcastic most of the time, but Jimmy felt certain that he wasn't that way at all. Maybe it was just easier for him to be that way, like it was easier for Jimmy to kid himself he understood everything because the alternative was too scary to face.
"Jimmy."
Jimmy jumped wildly, fingers clashing on the notes as he whirled around in surprise. Thomas himself was standing in the doorway of the servants' hall, hair ruffled.
"Bloody hell, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy recovered himself slightly, raking a hand through his hair and letting out a breath. "You didn't half scare me."
"Go to sleep, Jimmy," Thomas said quietly. "As much as I enjoy your piano playing, I highly doubt that Mr. Carson will at one o'clock in the morning. And you look dead on your feet."
"I was thinking," Jimmy said honestly, rubbing his aching eyes.
"A highly dangerous occupation," Thomas remarked coolly, raising an eyebrow.
"Don't I know it," Jimmy replied ruefully, getting up wearily and picking up the lamp from the table. "You're right, I do need to sleep. How come you're still awake?" he asked curiously as he followed Thomas out into the hallway.
"Someone was playing the piano," Thomas said evenly as they ascended the stairs. "Quite beautifully— but loudly, nonetheless."
"Why did you really stop playing, Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy persisted as they reached the landing of the men's quarters. Thomas stopped outside his door, facing Jimmy, his face hollowed out by the dim yellow light of the lamp Jimmy was holding. The soft light made his eyes look more vivid than ever, poignant and grey.
"Sleep, Jimmy," Thomas said, and his tone was almost gentle. He regarded Jimmy for a moment in the flickering lamplight, and then quietly went into his room, closing the door behind him softly and leaving Jimmy standing out alone in the darkness of the hall with unanswered questions swirling round him once more.
It took him several moments to realise that Thomas had called his piano playing beautiful— and several more to realise that he was smiling in the darkness.