Author's Note: Ah, sleep-deprivation. The inspiration for today and the one thing that gives me the confidence to even try writing from Thomas Barrow's perspective. That, and the image of that poor man getting lovingly chased about by cats.

Warning: This is going to have hints of strong language.

Enjoy!


Forty Minutes Prior to Mr. Carson Discovering Mrs. Hughes and the Kittens


This was not meant to be Thomas Barrow's day.

Not in the least.

And, no, that wasn't all thanks to those kittens. They were only the icing on top. No, long before he crossed paths with them, he was already fending off the agony that came with getting only an hour of sleep. It wasn't the first sleepless night he'd had of late and it wouldn't be the last. And there wasn't even a good reason for it –– he just couldn't get to sleep these days.

But enough of that. So what if his lack of sleep had the under-butler banging into his bedroom door by mistake or nearly breaking his neck down the stairs? He would have happily taken all of that over what was coming next.

Because that was when it all went well and truly downhill.

He'd been downstairs. Standing in the doorway that led out back. He should have known it couldn't go well, given how the rest of the day had gone. But Thomas was determined for one thing to go right today. And standing in the doorway, taking a moment to bask in the cool breeze, that felt like it could go right.

That had been his first mistake. His second was taking his time getting outside. He should have been perched outside with a cigarette in hand by then. But there he felt an instinct, one that told him to linger in the door.

Stupid instinct, that was.

Of course, he hadn't realised that at the time. No, at the time, Thomas Barrow had been in the process of making his third mistake: taking a moment to close his eyes and catch his breath. Had he kept his eyes open, he would have seen the hellions as they approached. And he definitely wouldn't have let them dart in.

Something brushed up against his trousers, something decidedly warm and fuzzy and very not normal. Eyes shot open, any hope of things going right vanishing. But he still had to look down and see what was going wrong. If nothing else, he had to know how badly things were destined to go.

Upon looking down, Thomas realised all three mistakes at once. But it was too late to kick the things back outside. The blurs of black paused only to nuzzle his trouser before scurrying around him, dodging every attack.

"Get off me!" That was the worst part: if they weren't dodging his feet, they were circling him. Nudging him with their tails. Fixing him with fond eyes. Almost like they liked him. He may have a soft spot for children but that soft spot did not extend to cats!

Backing into the hall, Thomas wound his way through the downstairs, determined to get out of this with his sanity intact. But no one was around to help. And the bastards –– because they certainly were not kittens, not in his eyes –– were determined to keep at it.

Maybe he could trap them in the kitchen, catch them with one of Mrs. Patmore's pots. Better yet, take Miss O'Brien's old advice to heart and learn what other ways there were to skin a cat.

At that point in time, the man had convinced himself he was at his wits' end.

It was only after he destroyed–– that is, only after he made a slight mess of the kitchens that he realised nothing could be further from the truth.

Irately swiping off flour, in no mood to discuss the last seven minutes, Thomas cast another look about the downstairs. He contemplated calling for help, well aware of the ridicule it would ensue. But even if he had been inclined to ask for aid, there really was no one available.

This only led him back to a question he'd been wondering for years: why him? Why was he always getting the worst of it? And why was it, when he was at his lowest point, no one was around? Not even Baxter was there to offer a hand –– not that he would have accepted it.

A piercing encore of meows distracted the servant from his thoughts, a new plan coming to mind. Was it too desperate a thought to try and trap the things in a room? The boot room perhaps?

But the creatures wouldn't go near the boot room, no matter what he did. He cajoled, he chased, he even offered to lay down in the damn thing as if that would make a difference. But they refused to step in. It was as though they instinctively knew the truth: firstly, that the boot room was a trap; secondly, that the room was cursed for reasons even he couldn't explain.

So, the boot room was out. Could he get away with stuffing them in Mr. Carson's pantry?

Thomas chuckled at the image, imagining the look on the butler's face when he discovered his precious silver had been tossed to the ground, his ledgers and wine books all in tatters. Because these delightful things would be able to get into the actual pantry and make a mess of the lot.

Now, that could make all this worth it.

But that would also give him the sack, so there was no need to risk it. Besides, when he tried to kick them in the direction of the pantry, they hissed –– dodging it more than they did the boot room.

No, the only thing to do was to figure out where to toss the dam–– where to keep the kittens until he could think of an alternative. Of course, if he figured out a trap that would take care of them for good, all the better.

A door creaked in the distance, garnering the under-butler's attention.

He turned, watching a trickle of sunlight caress the entrance to Mrs. Hughes's sitting room. Now there was a room that didn't have too much to destroy. And she would be far more understanding than the butler, surely?

Obviously, it was desperation talking and not logic. He knew that. He could even admit that. But given the fact that he was still coated in flour and one of the things just dared to paw him for the thirtieth time, he was all for desperation.

Slowly, stealthily, Thomas made his way across the hall, keeping an eye on his targets all the while. Using every bit of military training he'd been given, he watched them follow his stead, the bastards meowing with great interest.

Almost there. The door opened just a bit more, as though luck were on his side. And those things were following, hopefully proving the old adage correct.

Well, no time like the present to find out.

Stepping over the threshold and into the sitting room, Thomas held his breath as he was followed in. They liked this room, two pairs of green eyes looking about as though it was a sanctuary for them.

Yeah, well, that was one way of putting it.

The man kept himself close to the door but not close enough to alert them to his plan. He watched them inspect the sitting room and waited for them to become distracted.

The moment they did, he bolted. In seconds, the door was firmly shut and he was going so far as to lean against it, sliding to the ground in relief. They could howl and hiss all they wanted, they were leaving him the hell alone.

Heaving out another sigh, Thomas closed his eyes once more.

"Mr. Barrow?" Blue eyes jolted open to meet a curious lilt. When the hell had he fallen asleep? Why the hell had he fallen asleep? Sure, he was having a bit of a rough time of it lately. But that was no reason to have fallen asleep outside the housekeeper's sitting room! "Are you quite well?"

Thomas cleared his throat, declaring himself to be fine.

Mrs. Hughes looked at him, not believing the man for a second. But her arrival into the house had only prompted another round of meows from inside, rousing her attention. He fiercely ignored any such noise, happy to act ridiculous if it meant he didn't have to deal with those things.

Then again, when she looked at him once more and tilted her head in curiosity, he gave up and told the whole tale.

Somehow, it was a comfort when the housekeeper finally offered her usual remarks as well as that customary, "My, my."

Of course, when she told him she would take care of everything and that he was to go upstairs to have a lie down, he felt much more than comfort. There was bewilderment that she was taking this on, shock she was ordering him to go upstairs, relief that she was willing to offer this, and an incessant denial over his need for aid.

She simply arched that damn eyebrow once again, gesturing for the servant to get a move on.

"And make sure to get some rest, Mr. Barrow." The woman lightly added, gently shooing him up the steps, "I doubt this has helped your health."

If anyone asked, he'd taken care of the kittens himself. He hadn't had a lie down. And he certainly hadn't tossed a weary smile of thanks at her, trudging up the stairs without further complaint.

Nope. Nothing of the sort.


Author's Note: *proceeds to duck off into the shadows because I haven't written Thomas Barrow's perspective in at least a year*

And now, we head back into the present moment!

As a reminder, in the present moment, Thomas is knocked out, Elsie is managing two injuries, and the kittens have yet to be caught. Which means a trap will have to be set –– looking at you, Baxter and your sewing thread…

Have a nice day!