Downton Abbey:

Guy(s) Night

by Mirwalker

Chapter Six: Un(der)covered

He was good, to be sure. And Daisy was as impressionable as she was innocent. But even Thomas was going to quickly exhaust excuses for secret, extra and off-hour meals. And any influence he had with the scullery maid, could be easily blocked by the presence of Mrs Patmore or Mrs Hughes. And Mr Carson or Mr Bates would love the chance to catch him pilfering food and corrupting the young girl. Even his own confidant, O'Brien, would demand an explanation for his sudden interest in room service; she was already overdue for updates, and would only be put off for so long.

Nonetheless, tonight he'd successfully played his 'disrupted schedule' one more time, to sweet-talk his way to a plate of leftover lamb and some assorted vegetables, and a pot of tea. Only half-feigning exhaustion, he headed to bed as quickly as he could, knowing his lack of stamina might well be a topic of gossip at the bottom of that stairwell.

At the top of those stairs, he looked about before knocking and entering his own room, even though he knew he was the first staffer up this night. "Ian?" he whispered, as he flicked on the lamp, set the tray on the side table and locked the door.

Glancing about, he caught a few blond locks poking out like fringe from under the bed throw draped over the easy chair in the corner.

"Ian?" he whispered a little louder, squatting beside the chair and gently pulling back the duvet.

Curled up inside the borrowed, too large nightgown, Ian slept at an awkward angle in his upholstered hiding place. He'd clearly been trying to remain covered, while not putting pressure on either his swollen eye or injured shoulder. For all his contortions, and the wheeze from his open mouth breathing, he looked remarkably peaceful given the circumstances.

"Ian," Thomas called again, after a moment's observation, "I've brought some dinner."

While there was no reaction to the voice, Ian started awake instantly at Thomas' touch.

"It's alright; you're fine! It's just me, Thomas…"

The panicked pallor faded quickly, giving way to a sheepish smile and then a coughing fit for the sudden scare and exertion.

Thomas looked nervously at the door, comforting Ian as he comforted himself that any overheard coughing would just bolster his 'too tired' excuses. "Easy now. Let's get you to the bed. I've brought some tea and dinner."

Ian sipped at the tea handed him, and nodded thanks as his breathing eased.

"Eat something, before it gets cold."

"Thanks, but not really hungry."

"Ian, you need to eat. To get your strength up."

The secret boarder stabbed a few bites from the plate, clearly more from obligation than interest.

Thomas knew he'd devoured the sandwiches this morning, but having had nothing else since dinner time the night before, he should be hungry. The poor appetite was another un-good sign. "Do you need to visit the toilet?" he thought to ask, as it had also been a day since he'd had that chance.

"No, thank you," Ian shook his head. He paused, and looked up at Thomas through bruise and curls, confessing with guilty speed, "I went earlier. I'm sorry; but I couldn't wait. I made sure no one was around. It weren't hard to find, and to get back quick."

Thomas' own palpitations eased swiftly, as he realized he couldn't really blame the man. Ian'd said he was careful. And, how could he be angry at that face… He took a deep breath, refocusing on what was important, "You're sure you weren't seen?"

Ian nodded and coughed, seemingly relieved to read Thomas' passing irritation. He took the opportunity to offer, "Not that I'm not grateful, Mister Thomas, but why are you bein' so kind? I've no way to pay you for your troubles; and I know takin' me in, hidin' and feedin' me… It's put you out."

"Well, first, I'm just 'Thomas;' no need to call me 'Mister,' no matter how fancy I'm dressed…" Speaking of, Thomas stood and took off his work uniform, turning his back as he put on pyjama pants. He spoke as he changed, "And second, it may surprise you to know, that I know what it's like to get beat up, chased. I remember wishin' someone had helped me. So I'm glad I can help someone when he needs it…"

Rejoining Ian on the bed, Thomas modeled eating a piece of potato. From his own experience, and in fact, his own usual approach to doing favors, he realized Ian had also indicated he was expecting Thomas to demand payment. "I want to help, Ian; and you don't owe me anythin'. You won't. But… I could help better, if I knew a little more…"

He saw the brief pause in Ian's eating, accompanied by a soft cough. "I imagine you've good reasons for not sayin' more; we all have our secrets. But, part of my job is to keep the family's secrets. You're lucky you were found by a professional!"

Ian returned his smile, amused if not entirely comforted by the assurance. Clutching the warmth of his tea, he reciprocated a little of the risk he knew Thomas had already taken. "What do you want to know?"

Relaxing a little at this connection, Thomas smiled back, thought a moment, and then asked, "Your accent is northern, but not exactly Yorkshire. Where are you from?"

"Manchester."

So that's one piece of evidence confirmed. And Ian didn't seem eager to expand on the answer unprompted. "And you were travelin' in Yorkshire…?"

"Goin' to Newcastle."

That made some sense. "In the middle of the storm?" he asked, trying to sound more dubious than judgmental.

Ian stopped eating, clearly reaching a limit of hunger or comfort. "It weren't my decision," he admitted more quietly.

"Were you travelin' with your family?" Thomas risked, knowing the conversation had quickly reached a delicate point.

"No," Ian stared at the plate. "No family."

"I can tell this is not easy for you. I'm sorry; I shouldn't push." Try more direct honesty, with a little reversal. "If we're to trust one another—after all, I've brought a stranger into my room, into my employer's home—then you should also know a little about me. My name is Thomas Barrow; I'm originally from outside London. Me mum was a seamstress; me dad, a clockmaker. I have a sister, and, if I do so say myself, quite a gift for cricket…," he grinned, and gave Ian an expectant look.

Ian looked genuinely distressed, sniffling and swallowing as he seemed to weigh whether and what to share. Shivering, he finally explained, "I don't have much to tell really…"

"How old are you?" Thomas helped, starting with something relatively innocuous.

"Eighteen," Ian stated. "Roughly."

"Roughly?" Thomas smiled, downplaying the oddity.

"I grew up in a children's home. They didn't know when exactly I was born…"

Oh. That was unexpected. "Well, what date did they celebrate for you? Good enough for a party…!"

"They didn't celebrate," he corrected simply.

Oh, indeed. "What's your family name, then?"

"What does it matter?" was the somewhat defensive answer.

"Well, I would like to know if I'm sharin' my bedroom with the heir of Jack the Ripper, or an on-the-run Austro-Hungarian prince…" Thomas tried lightening the darkening mood.

Ian joined him in an out loud laugh that quickly devolved into another coughing fit. Thomas removed the abandoned dinner, and sat behind him, firmly patting his back to help loosen and clear his ability to breathe, and thus to keep talking.

"I'm cold, and tired; but none of those," Ian was finally able to share, with less mirth and no confidence.

"You're burnin' up, is what you are," Thomas felt his forehead. "You've caught cold bein' out in it all so long..." Another glance around the room for what might bring comfort, but not end the interrogation. "Will you trust me?" he asked, realizing there was one way to achieve it all.

Focusing on careful breathing, Ian nodded, warily.

Leaving Ian sitting at the foot of the bed, Thomas grabbed the duvet off the chair, and propped the pillows up against the headframe. He explained as he turned off the light and got into bed, "We'll have to share again, at least another night." He got comfortable sitting against the pillows, and then reached out to Ian. "Come, lay back against me. We can keep each other warm, and keep you upright to keep those airways clear."

He could tell Ian hesitated, tensing at the suggestion. "Mister Thomas…"

"It's just 'Thomas.' And I don't know what other people have demanded, or taken, from you," he deduced from his guest's backstory and wariness, "but I am not askin' or expectin' anythin' more. I promise. One shout from you, and I'm out of job and on the streets myself," he reminded the power balance was more equal than it might appear. "And, I'll be trustin' you not to elbow me in… sensitive areas either."

Ian didn't move at all for a moment; his raspy breath didn't change in rate or location. Then, slowly and carefully, he inched back, and let Thomas guide him into lying back against him, and then cover them both with the blanket.

Checking "Is that alright? Doesn't hurt?" Thomas wrapped his arms around his bunkmate, and let him settle in.

"Officially, my family name is 'Colson,'" Ian further trusted after a few moments. To head off the likely question, he quickly added, "No lie."

But not a 'G' either… "See, that wasn't so hard. Nice to meet you, Ian Colson."

Thomas considered asking other questions: About the trip to Newcastle, and the travelling company, and the attack. But he didn't want to interrupt the night's quiet closeness, and the evening's budding bond. He would have to get answers soon enough; and they would have to make some decisions about going forward from the untenable current arrangements of housing, clothing and feeding, probably tomorrow.

"Ian?" he whispered, just to check that he was still comfortable.

No response beyond a regular, raspy inhale and exhale from a point roughly above his heart.

So it was to be another night of less than ideal sleeping circumstances. Tonight he'd try to sleep sitting up, and try not to roll, drop or get sick from the other person on top of him. Never mind get caught doing nothing.

But his neighbor was warm, not cold, and was less of a stranger this night; they had built some rapport. And within that relationship, he didn't mind the close quarters. In fact, somewhat surprising even to him, given how rare was sharing his bed, much less with so attractive a man, was that it wasn't… arousing. For all the trouble and risk, he felt no less and no more than simply content to have that handsome person need and trust him.

Feeling sleep coming on quickly, Thomas placed a gentle kiss in the nest of curls at his chest. "Good night, Ian Colson."

There was still much he didn't know; but that seemed not as bad as what he usually didn't have: the simple comfort of a peaceful presence with him.