Downton Abbey:

Guy(s) Night

by Mirwalker

Chapter Eight: Broken

"Oh my god," Cora exclaimed, clutching at her dressing gown, as she and O'Brien came to the head of the staircase, only to find Robert and Carson huddled over the prone Edith on the landing below.

"Mama? What's happened?" asked Mary, tying up her own gown as she came to investigate.

"Mary? Mama?" Sybil called as she came up the gallery from the other direction.

"Robert?"

"She seems to have taken a tumble down the top flight. She's dazed, but doesn't appear to be injured, thank goodness," he tried to assure everyone, himself included.

"O'Brien," the Countess took charge, "fetch the footmen and Mrs Hughes. And have someone send for Doctor Clarkson."

Her lady's maid nodded and headed to the service staircase, where she guessed the commotion may have already attracted some downstairs attention.

"Carson and I can get her to her room," the worried father didn't quite ask, as he and his trusted butler coaxed the confused young woman to her feet. "That's it, Edith… Just have someone bring the medicine box."

Edith turned to her father, as he tried to support her on one side. "He was there... plain as day."

"That's fine," he dismissed, coordinating with the older man, who was working hard not to grab or touch the lady too freely. "Carson, just take her; decorum be damned."

"Did none of you see him?" Edith asked almost drunkenly, as they carried her up the stairs, almost upright.

Never approaching a lady from below, William bounded out of the service door on the gallery, as the housekeeper hurried up from the main floor, explaining, "We've sent a hall boy running ahead to the village, and another to dispatch the car."

"He was right there," Edith pointed to where William stood as they approached him.

Looking guilty and confused, the younger footman glanced behind, unsure of what he'd done, or of whom she was speaking.

"I know you don't believe me; but he was there, calling to me! Beckoning, really!"

"Who, Edith?" Cora followed behind, at the head of the growing retinue. "Whom has she seen?"

"The man from the storm," the moment's focus shouted, wrestling free and throwing open the service stair doors, as if to go looking. "Where has he gone? He was just here."

"Not this again," Robert cursed as he waved over Carson and William. Firmly taking his daughter by the arm, he all but dragged her the rest of the way into her room.

"Only he's a beautiful, damaged angel now. Or inviting me to be one. I couldn't tell, I was so shocked to find him…," she trailed.

Waving her other daughters back to their rooms, and letting a bewildered William slip past her into the hallway, the lady of the house forced a smile on her face and paused before closing the bedroom door behind her, "William, please show the Doctor up here as soon as he arrives. Mrs Hughes, will you ask O'Brien to bring me something simple to slip into; and let Mrs Patmore know that luncheon may be a little delayed…"

O'Brien hesitated only for a moment before turning down the male servants' hallway. Normally crossing that line was off-limits in either direction. But the family and senior staff were well busy on floors below, even if the shouting in the stairwell had moved on. And hadn't her Ladyship sent her to find 'the footmen,' plural?

So, she knocked softly and quickly threw open the door to Thomas' bedroom. Beside its unexpected chill, and the duvet crumpled over the sitting chair under the window, it appeared quite neat and normal. But it was empty. No footman. He hadn't hidden here.

She seethed in place for a moment, deprived of catching him napping, or worse, when he ought to be working; when she was working. Begrudging his disappearance, and respecting him for its success at the same time, she heard the faint splash of liquid down the hall.

Glancing again that she wasn't about to be caught down the men's side, she moved quietly back to the bathroom; and placed her ear nearly against the door. She could just make out a low groaning and the odd, long shushing, between louder, longer cascades of poured water.

"Thomas?" she called, as she tried the door. "Are you in there? Are you alright?" The door was locked.

The pouring sound stopped as if startled, and then continued, trailing off.

She tried the door again.

"Obviously there's someone in here," Thomas' strained voice said. "What do you want?"

"Lady Edith's had a fall on the stairs… His Lordship's asked me to find you."

Another brief pour of water.

"Well, please tell Mister Carson to inform his Lordship that I am sorry for the inconvenience; but I have been taken ill myself. You're hearing me trying to clean off."

She tried the door once more, trying to being careful about it; but it squeaked nonetheless.

Another brief flow of water. Then silence. And then the door opened just enough for a shirtless, dripping wet and ruddy footman to stick his head through. "Misses O'Brien," he hissed, "Shall I get sick on your person as well, to prove to you and Their Downton Majesties that I am not in a condition to provide service to you, him, Lady Edith or anyone beyond meself?" He wiped the back of his hand across his chin.

"I didn't mean…," she tried to explain.

"Of course not," he softened. "But would you be a dear, and grab me a towel or two from my nightstand? Excuse me…," he suddenly hiccupped and closed the door quickly, before the gurgle of falling liquid again echoed in the room.

Not appreciating the threat or the request, she nonetheless couldn't argue that he'd not looked well for a while, certainly looked ill now, and so shouldn't present himself to the family in his current state whatever the details or need. And, he had just instructed her to go through—to go into his room…

"I'll be right back," she assured a little louder, through this door, before heading to back to his.

Once inside, she noted the short stack of towels by the bowl and pitcher at his nightstand; but she took her time walking around the room to it. Without touching anything, she gave everything a more careful inspection than her previous surprise entrance. The laundry hamper had a pair of long underwear atop the pile, so she moved on quickly. Beyond the plush chair and fallen duvet, a washcloth and chamber pot sat in the corner; she didn't check whether the latter was full.

Almost disappointed there wasn't something more incriminating, O'Brien realized that Thomas seemed to have kept his room rather tidy, while also preparing for, or coping with, any unexpected… physical urgencies. It had been too long for a hangover to last; so it wasn't that he'd sampled too many spirits on his graveyard shift two nights previous. He must really be ill, finally caught in a cycle of retching and washing alone at midday. Not surprised that the simple explanation had seemed so implausible given their history of schemes, she peeked quickly into the wardrobe and under the bed, just to make sure she hadn't missed evidence of something more interesting.

Finding none, she sighed at the dull normalcy of the moment, picked up two towels, and headed back on her magnanimous errand of mercy.

When the expected knock and voice returned, Thomas bent over the side of the basin, and shifted the water he was pouring on Ian over his own head instead. Quietly shushing the groggy bather with a finger to the lips, he hurried to the door, rubbing his face to dry and redden it as he stepped.

He opened the door just enough to half-smile a thanks and reach for the towels O'Brien held up to him.

"Are you sure you don't need some help yourself?" she asked, with some genuine concern for her smoke and scandal companion. Not that she specifically want to provide that assistance; but he did look dreadful.

"I just need to get cleaned up, cooled off and then to bed," he thought aloud. "Perhaps William could bring me a dinner tray when there's a spare moment tonight?"

"Are you sure you want to be eating?" she wondered. If you're not keeping it down now…

"Gotta keep me strength up; so I can save the Earl's crazy daughter some other time…," he tried to smile.

"You do that," O'Brien encouraged, in as genuinely concerned a tone as she seemed capable of showing.

"Thank you again," Thomas shared back. "Don't let them work you sick too…"

As she nodded and headed away, he closed the door quickly, but gently. Exhaling silently, he turned back to the basin, knelt beside it, and scooped another cup of water over the lethargic Ian. Seeing his 'ghost' had not gone flush again, he gently placed his hand on the damp forehead, then neck, and then chest –all feeling cooler to the touch than when he'd first hauled Ian up here.

"Thomas?" Ian opened his good eye, and smiled weakly on finding the familiar face.

"Quiet now, don't strain yourself. And let's not call attention to there bein' two of us in here."

Ian nodded, the rest of him remaining completely still in the cold water bath. "I- What…?"

Thomas explained in a whisper, as he poured another cooling draught around Ian's shoulders. "It seems you got a little delirious in your fever, came downstairs lookin' for me, I suppose, and stepped through the first door you came to. Thankfully, I was just comin' up the service stairs to deliver Lady Edith's bag, when I opened the door to find you standin' there on the gallery callin' out to her… She shrieked. I shrieked. And then I threw you over my shoulder and ran up here before anyone else could catch sight of you."

He ran a handful of water through Ian's hair, letting his concern and relief into his voice. "I've never known anyone so hot as you were. It scared me, honestly… And so I just dumped you here and hoped the standin' buckets might help break the fever…"

"Sorry to worry ya," Ian blinked, or winked. It was hard to tell with the swollen bruise and dripping hair. Either way, it was sincere, and charming.

"Just don't do it again," Thomas smiled back, happy for the small sign of improving health. "Are you feelin' better?"

The affirmative nod was clear.

"Well let's give it another few minutes soakin'; and then we'll sneak you back to my room for some rest until they bring me dinner. I don't have any more spare sleepware, so we'll have to cinch you into somethin' else."

Then we'll have to figure out a more permanent fix for clothing, housing and everything else. We both can't 'be sick' indefinitely; and who knows what complications Edith's ongoing visions will have on house affairs.

And to help shape all those solutions, we'll need some more fundamental answers about who our common vision is...