Downton Abbey:

Guy(s) Night

by Mirwalker

Chapter Fifty-one: Torn

As he had each night since returning from London, Thomas sat on the cold floor of his room, torn. Alone save the half-empty bottle of wine he cradled, neither the bare chair nor the empty bed promised any needed comfort, only painful memories.

For prone or sitting, asleep or even awake, the dream never left him, and never changed: In the cold, complete darkness, he could see a sliver of light in the distance. Running desperately toward it, he would draw just near enough to see Ian clearly in the doorway, smiling and waving him on. His heart was pumping, full and hopeful; his love had come back to him again!

But each time without fail, as he grew close, something or someone would appear directly in his path—usually a family or staff member asking or demanding something frivolous. Occasionally, the withered Baron Greenhalgh, or drunken Bowers, or even mousy Tutwiler would beat him to the door, enter ahead of him and barricade themselves in. But whatever interfered, and no matter how hard he tried, the door gradually, surely and firmly closed before he could reach it; and Ian was lost to him again.

Sometimes, he was simply left in the darkness, lost and alone. Others, he found the door and beat himself uselessly against it, taunted by the knowledge of how close he'd come. And more rarely, usually after a stirring Sunday sermon, the solitary darkness erupted into fire—such that even the opposite of excruciating dim and chill offered him torment. Every outcome was its own agony; like his real solitude, the dreamed pain was always and absolute.

Even awake, he found little relief. When Ian had simply been away in London, he'd seen glimpses of the familiar figure in corners and shadows of the house; but no such comforts deigned to appear now. Daisy finally accepted that the time of Crawley biscuits had passed; but other foods remained linked to whether and how they had been snuck upstairs, or out to the cottage that he never visited again. And every temptation toward the courtyard became a battle between his tobacco requirement and his more unquenchable need for a visitor he wouldn't find there.

Curled tight, tipsy and drowsy, in his midnight room once more, Thomas was keenly aware that no time, no place, and no state of consciousness or distraction had or would bring him any peace. Ian, and all he'd meant for Thomas, was gone.

Obviously he'd known hardship and had dreams before Ian; but after that Guy Fawkes Night, the challenges had seemed weaker, and the possibilities had been greater, brighter and better. And so their loss was all the harder. Ian's chorus that he deserved to be happy competed cruelly with the fact that his greatest source of happiness had been taken from him as abruptly as it had arrived. His life was as empty as his bed and bottle.

And hadn't he promised, repeatedly, to follow Ian quickly? He'd gotten as far as placing the burial plot deed atop his dresser, easily found and followed through should he find the will to finish himself. He doubted they'd miss him here, but hoped they'd honour the contract, if not the wish it suggested. His father wouldn't have him in his birth family's tract; and he'd rather sleep beside Ian anyway. How he wished to be with Ian again…

Staring at the unused bed where they'd first laid together, he recalled confessing how he'd recognized strength in the stormy survivor, and hoped it might be a trait he shared. But, true to the more honest nature he feared, Thomas remained too cowardly to try ending his struggle and joining his love on that hillside outside London.

Too sad to go on, and too weak to stop, Thomas fully expected to spend the rest of this night, if not his entire life torn between acting on his bottomless bitterness, and being good enough to somehow earn an eternal rest with Ian.

Having burned his professional bridges in London two months earlier, Thomas' persisting agony led him to recklessly proposition a visiting diplomat from the Ottoman Empire. Knowing nearly nothing of the foreign man, land or culture, his only thought had been escape—for the night, or perhaps longer. So desperate to escape at least this place, if not this life, he'd been fortunate Mister Pemuk did nothing more in response than demand his help in accessing Lady Mary's bedroom. Unwanted, and now at risk, Thomas obeyed, only to be lucky again that the foreigner had quickly taken Thomas' advance and involvement to his grave.

Not so fully escaping implication in the disappearing wine and cash below stairs, and still no happier eighteen months later, Thomas volunteered for medical service as the new war began. He wasn't keen on fighting or dying to be sure; but he hoped opting into the support role early would keep him from being drafted into the front lines later. And, beyond the appearance of quick and voluntary valour, he'd surely gain some new, useful skills beyond his already fluent metal polishing and marching on command.

After two years of witnessing and cleaning up after the horrors on the continent, the cost of his relocation and education had become far too high. Giving thanks daily that Ian had not lived to be involved, shoulder or not, Thomas found no succor in being trapped in close quarters with only other young men. What might have been a quick fantasy at first, had become an endless nightmare of blood, mud, guts and screams. There were days—or nights—he could not tell waking from sleeping; the lonely torment was constant, tangible, and unwanted.

A chance trenches tea with the Downton heir reminded him that there were alternatives to this unwanted, literal dead-end path. Recalling Ian's belief that fires could guide one home, he kissed the worn sketch ever in his pocket, and raised his lighter late one night—as much as he could bring himself to do in order to follow. And five months later he had made his way back to Downton, with a new uniform, new glove and new role to show for his adventures.

Negotiating that complementary position with the Granthams and Mister Carson was challenging, but freeing in ways Thomas had never known. While not out-ranking the butler or the family, he wasn't beholden to them as he had been before the war. He saw Lady Sybil in particular had blossomed into her own woman, and more a supporter. Awkward cooperation with Mrs Crawley was ultimately avoided when Lady Grantham reasserted control of the house as convalescent home. And his uptick in outlook dared rise even higher, when he met and encouraged a young, recovering officer who seemed to appreciate and want his company…

But, he was a Barrow after all, and thus not destined for happiness. Edward took his own life rather than be parted from him; touching, but alone-making still. With yet another reason to escape Downton, the unofficial market for surplus war material offered a way to leverage the last of Greenhalgh's blood money into a better life. But his dream was more detailed than his inspection of the goods; and this design at independence and opportunity was torn down around him.

The Spanish influenza opened a chance for him to prove his utility to Downton again; but their desperate need, not genuine want, of him was exposed within a year, when they passed him over, again, promoting the lower-ranking Alfred as Matthew Crawley's valet. That the quick-climbing footman was O'Brien's nephew also cost Thomas his only understairs confederate. Grief and grievances mounting, Thomas drank, and seethed, and often wondered whether he shouldn't have just stood up in that French trench. One more regret for his growing collection.

In May 1920, another light and wavy-headed boy had arrived at Downton, and rekindled a passion he'd thought eight years buried. Daring to hope, and honestly more than a little desperate, Thomas sought a much needed ally in Jimmy, if not a student, if not precious more, especially with the sudden death of Lady Sybil. But, torn between better sense and base desires, his need blinded him to O'Brien's obvious setup; and true to himself and untrue to Ian's memory, an attempt at rare human contact left him outed, outcast and a potential criminal. Mercifully, the Earl and Jimmy were better people than the entire O'Brien clan combined; and Thomas, his position and his freedom survived, leaving him still present but shunned in most ways beside continued employment.

It wasn't until the following late summer that Thomas was literally torn up over his complex history. He and Willy recognized one another immediately on the county fair pitch. However, unlike the wretch who'd set upon Ian nearly nine years before, Thomas didn't have a gang of ready mates to rally against an old adversary; no other soul in the world knew anything about the cad's sins or his own heroics. He took some satisfaction that the Downton staff beat the brigands at tug-of-war, but realised instantly that they were eyeing the new blond in his life, as much for retribution as for his foolishly flashed wager winnings. So, while they took turns beating him under the bridge, Thomas merely smiled for Jimmy's escape, and for the poetic justice that these same hands might now relieve him of his sufferings and perhaps reunite him with another favored boy.

Not yet finished with him, however, life granted him a reprieve and some respect in the house for his brave rescue attempt, a friendly, if platonic, relationship with darling Jimmy, and a permanent respite from Nanny West, O'Brien and Alfred in short order. While no one recalled his loss to a horseless carriage when their heir was killed in an auto accident, Thomas' own winning streak continued as he was able to place a beholden lady's maid near the Countess, to visit America in Bates' place, to implicate the uppity Branson over an inappropriate bedroom gallery tour, and to rescue Lady Edith from a potentially deadly fire.

But most memories were short; and gratitude was fleeting. Baxter was more obstinate and independent than he'd expected. A different bedroom tour exposed by the same fire sent Jimmy down the drive, never to return. And the next eighteen months would only add to his ample woes. Alone again despite his best efforts to create connections, he had grown tired of trying. A nondescript advertisement in the back of a magazine promised him quiet relief from feelings that had only served him ill; but his persistence with the quack release only made him actually ill and all the more pitied by the pious. Despite his years of selfless service, the crest and Carson announced him superfluous, unwanted; and the latter took every opportunity to withhold compliment or comfort. With no other prospects beyond service, his searches repeatedly found only disinterest or decay—unwanted. And despite saving the guest footman from the cantankerous Denker in London, his attempt to tutor Andy brought only scorn and distrust from the butler, and an outright dismissal by the interceding village teacher.

Every effort ignored, every attempt spurned, every fault exposed, Thomas found himself again in an all too familiar place. After fifteen years' service at Downton, he sat alone on the floor of his room needing sleep and consolation, and finding none. Though purchased honestly, the bottle beside him stood unopened; it could offer no adequate quantity of distilled distraction. He had served and survived a war, a beating, open wounds on palm and posterior, a fire, false friends and endless unrequited loyalties; but, finally, finally, all the fight had emptied him fully. The precious pages scattered around him in the dark were all that remained of his few truly happy weeks, more than a dozen years earlier. Every moment of hope and every defeat in the interim had made him think immediately of a stormy night, an unexpected arrival, and a joy he had devoted himself to instantly and entirely. Especially in recent years, during his latest trials, he had occasionally doubted that distant reality, had begun to believe such handsome happiness could only have been a dream before the nightmares since. He was tired, and unwanted, but no longer torn.

As he settled into the same tub in which he'd saved Ian, Thomas opened his wrists, closed his eyes, and waited on a reunion long overdue. I'll follow, quick as I can.

A/N: Tried to cover and connect a lot of character history in this chapter; hope the tour is followable, recognizable and storyline correct (even if not mentioning every event). It sets up next and likely final chapter-presuming there's no movie to add canon!

Also, am considering a title change, as a phrase popped out to me in a re-read that I like better, and perhaps better suits the narrative arc/conclusion. If I do change it, I'll just add the new title for a while, to ease recognition...