Chapter 4

The snow began to melt two days after Thomas and Jimmy returned to Downton. It rained on the third day, washing the world around the abbey into a watercolor of grays and browns and blues.

Thomas watched the snow disappear from his bedroom window, pressing his fevered forehead to the cold glass and trying not to feel.

He'd fallen ill after his night in the shed, of course.

His head pounded, his chest and throat ached, and his temperature was high, but mostly he was simply exhausted to the point of immobility. He slept for almost 15 hours that first day, not even registering humiliation at having to be carried to his bed by the hall boys and Tom Branson, who had driven him back to Downton in one of the Crawley's sleighs. It was one for the history books, to be sure, but as it was Thomas was far too ill to care about any of it.

Despite the severity of his condition Dr. Clarkson told everyone in the house not to worry. He prescribed bed rest, hydration, and plenty of proper food.

"You're lucky to be alive," Dr. Clarkson told him after the examination. "That footman of yours saved your life— and your fingers and toes, come to that."

"I know that," Thomas muttered back, delirious and half asleep already. "He's brilliant…"

For once in his life Thomas was a good patient and spent most his recovery sleeping. During his waking hours he did his best not to think, but it was difficult when his bare skin was marked up by Jimmy's mouth and nails and fingers, small wounds that were slow to heal. Thomas loved them, and dreaded their eventual fading.

Every day of his convalescence he waited for Jimmy to come to see him, but he never did. Thomas wished that didn't hurt so much. Instead the hall boys brought him his meals, and anything else he asked for came from the new footman or Mr. Carson.

The isolation weighed on Thomas very quickly once the fever lifted. Even the ticking of his pocket watch, usually such a comfort to him, began to grate on his nerves in the silence of the room. It was all very lonesome—books and magazines only went so far. Thomas was a bit embarrassed at himself for how much he missed Jimmy, too. He even began to have dreams about Jimmy coming into his room at night, just to check on him and stroke his hair, but that was wishful thinking on his part and he knew it.

It's only been a few days, Thomas thought with a bitter smile. You're ridiculous.

On the fifth day he went back to work, relieved to rejoin the world even if he were still a little weak. He didn't know what would happen between he and Jimmy now—friends, Jimmy had said—and Thomas had promised not to romance him. But how could they go on as they had been, as if nothing had changed? Thomas had to see Jimmy, if only to find out.

When he arrived in the servants' hall that morning he was greeted more warmly than he ever had been in his life: Mrs. Hughes fussed over him and asked how he was feeling, Mrs. Patmore patted him on the back, and Daisy snuck him two chocolate biscuits under the table. Even Mr. Carson seemed pleased to see him up and about, though he didn't fail to mention how reckless acts of heroism were not something those in service should aspire to. All in all, though, it seemed to Thomas that nearly dying in an act of heroism did wonders for one's reputation. It was quite nice, really.

When Jimmy came in Thomas had to struggle to keep his countenance.

"Oh, there's your hero now, Mr. Barrow," Mrs. Hughes teased, rolling her eyes over her teacup. Jimmy's eyes flicked up at her words and found Thomas immediately. He froze mid-step, but recovered quickly and looked away from Thomas again, shooting an inexplicably nasty glare at Mrs. Hughes.

Jimmy did not look right, Thomas realized after a moment. His hair was limp and his eyes were dull, and he hadn't done up his collar quite right. Was Jimmy still not well? Mr. Carson had told him Jimmy had recovered days ago, but perhaps he was wrong; lying about his health was certainly something Jimmy might do, if he had what he thought was a good reason to do so.

"Nearly late to breakfast again, James…" Mr. Carson drawled. "And what is your collar doing?"

Jimmy ducked his head and muttered an apology, his hands flying up to fix his collar. Then he sat down in his usual place across from Thomas, his back unusually stiff.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said, staring over Thomas's left shoulder instead of looking at him directly. "Very glad,"

Thomas nodded at him, his heart aching in his chest.

"Well, Mr. Barrow," Mrs. Hughes said, interrupting his thoughts. "Are you going to tell us about your ice adventure? We've heard all about it from James, of course, but I expect the young ones won't be easy until you've told your side of it…"

Thomas forced a smile. "Well, I suppose I might tell of it," he said. "If Mr. Carson doesn't mind such a conversation at breakfast…"

Mr. Carson looked disgruntled, but one look from Mrs. Hughes silenced his objections, so Thomas told the story—heavily abridged, of course. He didn't tell them about Jimmy tearing off his wet clothes, although any idiot should know it was the only way he would've survived, and he skimmed over being under the tarp with Jimmy. Instead he described in detail the horror of the cold, and how heroic Jimmy had been, diving across the ice like that to save him. It had been like a scene from a film, really, with Jimmy as the dashing hero.

Jimmy mostly picked at his food while Thomas spoke, a carefully neutral expression held up over his features. However, whenever Thomas described something particularly brave or intelligent that Jimmy had done and the others chimed in to praise him, Jimmy stiffened into something resembling an ice sculpture, his mouth twisting into faint shapes of disgust. Thomas would have guessed Jimmy would love all the attention and admiration… so why didn't he?

Something was very wrong with him, Thomas thought. Something more than just what had happened between them.

Mrs. Levinson and her son arrived at Downton not two weeks after Thomas's return to work. There were extra tasks to be done for everyone, and more people crowding both the upstairs and down—it was all just barely controlled chaos.

For once Thomas was grateful for the added distractions; it helped keep him from completely losing his head over Jimmy who, Thomas could see, was not feeling right in himself at all. Thomas didn't understand why, though. The inner workings of Jimmy's mind remained as mysterious as they ever had been. Sometimes Thomas reviewed the facts in his head in an attempt to understand, but he didn't get very far with it.

He hadn't imagined Jimmy's tears or his desire; Jimmy cared for him and wanted him, without a doubt. Sometimes the joy of this knowledge carried Thomas through his days as if he were floating on a cloud, and he felt almost happy. More often than not, however, he felt as if he were bleeding internally.

Jimmy loved him, but something held Jimmy back from choosing him, even though it seemed to be against his own will. Jimmy had explained why in the shed but he hadn't really explained anything, or so Thomas thought later. He bitterly regretted not being in a sound state of mind at the time, as his memories of the conversation post-lovemaking were somewhat hazy. He had a feeling he'd forgotten something important that Jimmy had said. He was sure it wasn't just the fear of being caught that frightened Jimmy, and held him back. Sometimes Thomas wanted to go to him and shake him, ask him why, and tell him there were ways for them to be together and happy even in this world, and not to be so frightened…

But Thomas did his best not to concentrate on his own feelings. Jimmy's wellbeing, his job, perhaps even his sanity seemed to be at risk.

If Jimmy had been off before, with his drinking and bouts of melancholy, then now he was positively falling to pieces. At least before he'd maintained his outward appearance—he'd play piano, make disdainful remarks, tease the kitchen maids—but now he rarely spoke at all; it was like all the fire in him had burned out. He drifted through work, he never played piano, he didn't laugh or complain or scoff or read the newspaper…he barely even ate anything at dinner. As for the drinking, Jimmy only did it in his room now, alone, which was hardly an improvement.

Perhaps the strangest change in him was his newfound temper. He'd had one all along, to be sure, but now he snapped in anger quite often—especially if anyone talked of the ice rescue or called him a hero. Thomas wasn't sure why he should object to these compliments; who didn't want to be called brave? But object Jimmy did, quite passionately, until eventually everyone learned to stop mentioning it in his presence.

And it wasn't just Thomas who was worried: everyone downstairs had noticed something was wrong with Jimmy.

Even Mrs. Hughes, who had never been a great fan of Jimmy's, told Mr. Carson that perhaps Jimmy needed to see Dr. Clarkson again.

Thomas tried to get through to Jimmy, of course.

If Thomas coaxed him just right, he could persuade Jimmy to play cards in the servants' hall, but that was the extent of his success. Ever since that night Jimmy never allowed himself to be alone with Thomas: that meant no more evening smokes or trips into town, and no more visits to each other's rooms for a drink and a chat. He was very careful about it: if he and Thomas happened to find themselves alone, even somewhere public like the servants' hall, Jimmy would get up and leave without a word. Thomas desperately wanted to talk to Jimmy alone, find out exactly what was troubling him so much, if it was anything he had done, but he was terrified of overstepping his bounds with Jimmy in such a fragile state of mind. Thomas had seen Jimmy shatter that night in the shed and it haunted him. Edward Courtenay hadn't been nearly so demonstrative with his feelings and look what he'd done to himself… not that Thomas really thought Jimmy might harm himself, but it still felt much too dangerous to risk any pushing.

Sometimes a part of Thomas wondered if Jimmy needed him to push; perhaps if Thomas came to him and held him, then all this depression would lift—Jimmy loved Thomas, after all—but Thomas rather thought not. Jimmy's entire life seemed to have suffered since they'd made love, anything more could very well finish him.

I should wait for him to come to terms with it all, Thomas told himself. He wanted me to be his friend, and until he tells me otherwise that is all I shall be.

Still, Thomas desperately wanted to help Jimmy, even if it meant he couldn't have him, but he had no idea how to do so.

It was nearly February by the time it all came to a head.

Thomas was just passing by Carson's office after dinner one night when he heard Jimmy's voice within. Naturally he stopped to listen. Visits to Carson's office rarely meant anything good, and Jimmy had been getting into more trouble than usual lately.

"—You've even been neglecting your appearance!" Mr. Carson was almost shouting. "And I never thought I'd say that about you, James."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," Jimmy said stiffly, but underneath Thomas could detect a tremor in his voice. Jimmy was rather frightened of Mr. Carson at the best of times, and now the old codger was shouting at him? Thomas's hands tightened into fists. Can't you see he's having a hard time? Thomas thought angrily.

"Sorry won't make up for your slovenly ways and bad temper as of late," Mr. Carson said darkly. "And as for the disaster this evening…! You're lucky her ladyship and the dowager countess stepped in to defend you, if they hadn't I would've thrown you out with a very bad reference indeed, do you understand?"

Thomas sucked in a breath. What in bloody hell had Jimmy done?

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Jimmy said quickly. "I'll do better in the future, I promise."

There was a long pause, and then Mr. Carson heaved a sigh. "I'm not entirely without sympathy, James. I know something's been troubling you these past weeks… ah, now, I don't need to know what it is— in fact I'd prefer not to know— but whatever it is I want you to get it sorted and put away. Personal matters should not interfere with your work here, not ever, do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson,"

"Good. Now, tomorrow I want to see a flawless performance. If you set one toe out of line again, be it tomorrow or a year from now, I'll find a replacement and don't think I won't. Working for a great family like the Crawleys is a privilege and an honor, and you would do well to remember that and be grateful."

"…Yes, sir."

Another sigh. Then Thomas assumed Mr. Carson made a shooing motion with his hands because Jimmy's footsteps started for the door. Thomas sprang back and hurried over to the stairs, making as if he'd just started to go up for the night.

Jimmy opened the door with his golden head bent down. When he looked up and saw Thomas, his tight expression briefly crumbled before he dropped his gaze and made to rush past him. Thomas considered letting him go only for a moment—but enough was enough. Waiting hadn't done any good, so it was time to try something else.

"Wait," Thomas said. It was only one word and softly spoken, but it stopped Jimmy dead in his tracks. "Come to my room with me, I need to talk to you. Please, Jimmy."

He braced himself for the inevitable refusal, but it never came.

"…Alright," Jimmy said.

Shocked but infinitely grateful he didn't have to argue, Thomas led Jimmy up the long staircase in silence. He glanced at Jimmy only once and found a curious expression of relief in his face, as if a great pain had suddenly been lifted from him. The sight made Thomas's heart turn over.

Once they were safely in Thomas's room he shut the door, watching Jimmy warily. The younger man wasn't even looking at him; instead he drifted over to Thomas's window and peered out, his posture loosening until he was slumped against the windowsill. Now Thomas could see what Mr. Carson had meant about Jimmy's appearance—his jacket was creased, and his usually neat hair was mussed on top.

Thomas had to swallow against the memory of fisting those loose curls in his hands while Jimmy kissed him.

"It's snowing again," Jimmy said, sounding tired.

Thomas coughed. "Yes, according to the old men in the village we've had the worst winter Yorkshire's seen in fifty years or thereabouts."

Jimmy nodded, keeping his back to Thomas, and the silence stretched out between them awkwardly.

Thomas shifted uncomfortably, his chest tight. He couldn't believe he'd finally got Jimmy alone only to talk about the sodding weather. What he wanted to do was take Jimmy in his arms and kiss him until all the shadows went away, and Jimmy lit up and shone like the sun. He'd always seemed bright like that to Thomas, before. Now he was like a ghost of himself.

Holding in a sigh, Thomas sat down in his desk chair and lit a cigarette. "So, care to tell me what happened at dinner?"

Jimmy groaned and dropped his head onto his folded arms. "I knew you heard that."

"I did," Thomas said without shame.

Jimmy sighed. "…It were so bloody stupid,"

"Was it?" Thomas drawled. "I would've never guessed."

This got Jimmy to turn around at last, a breathless little laugh escaping him. "Like you can talk," he said. "I've heard some interesting stories about you, Mr. Barrow,"

"I think I've told you most of them."

Jimmy smiled at him, and for a moment he looked like his old self. Thomas's heart warmed. But as quickly as the expression appeared on his face, it fell away and he looked pale and drawn once more.

"I yelled at her ladyship's mother," Jimmy admitted on a breath.

Thomas nearly spat his cigarette out. "What? What'd ya do that for?"

"Well, I didn't exactly think it through, did I?" Jimmy grumbled. "It just came out before I could stop it."

Thomas couldn't believe Carson hadn't murdered him, let alone let him keep his job. "But—why?"

Jimmy looked down at his feet. "She—she were pestering me, asking me questions that weren't none of her business!"

Thomas gaped at him. "Like what?"

Jimmy huffed angrily, crossing his arms over his chest. "First she was going on about how handsome I was, and if I were courting one of the kitchen maids, and how she couldn't find footmen in America as handsome as me—"

Thomas shook his head, not getting it.

"—and then everyone started talking about me saving you from the river," Jimmy said, and this time Thomas could see something in his face that looked like…fear? Shame? "I'm so sick of them always talking about it. And she said, 'oh, a brave hero and a rare beauty, how wonderful!' or some such nonsense, and I just… I snapped. I told her to keep her bloody mouth shut because my life weren't none of her business!"

"Bleedin' Christ, Jimmy!" Thomas swore. "That weren't nothing, what in hell… you could've been thrown out!"

Finally Jimmy looked appropriately fearful. "I know, I know!"

"Then why did you do it? What's so bad about someone calling you brave and handsome? You are those things."

Jimmy's mouth worked, but no sound came out. Finally he said, in a very small voice: "But I'm not, Thomas. I'm really not."

Thomas shot to his feet, suddenly afraid Jimmy might topple over. He'd gone very white. To be safe Thomas carefully guided Jimmy onto his bed and knelt down in front of him. It occurred to him that here might be the answer to Jimmy's bizarre behavior as of late— his depression and strange, out-of-place bursts of rage. But he had to tread softly, lest he frighten Jimmy away.

"Why's that, then?" Thomas asked as gently as he could.

Jimmy swallowed. "I'm… I'm not attractive, really."

Thomas had to work very hard not to scoff, or laugh. He sensed if he did Jimmy would bolt. "What's not…" he stopped and cleared his throat, then tried again in a more level tone. "Why do you think that?"

For the first time Thomas wondered if Jimmy weren't actually mad.

Jimmy looked away from him, his face pinched in misery. "I—physically I suppose I look alright, when I smile and do my hair and that," Jimmy said. "But… but if you could see my real face—when what I'm thinking shows up in me looks, I mean, or when I'm feeling… f-feeling things that I always feel, I'm ugly. I'm really quite ugly, Thomas. Didn't you see it when I was so cruel to you before? My face gets all twisted…I'm not a good— I'm not kind, and I'm not strong or even very clever, and I'm… I'm a coward. A selfish, bloody coward."

Thomas stared at him, speechless. He'd never heard such utter rubbish in his entire life, and yet he could see that Jimmy believed it wholeheartedly.

"During the war…" Jimmy said tremulously. Thomas's heart seized just at the word. Jimmy never talked of the war. "I didn't kill anyone. I couldn't shoot worth a damn and I was useless at everything else. I—I cried every night, and every day when no one were looking— I prayed others would die if only I could live—"

"Jimmy!" Thomas interjected, horrified. "None of that makes you a coward, darling, that's—that's different, that's war, and anyway everyone did those things! Everyone, at least once, and if they say any different now then they're lying.'"

He took Jimmy's hands in his, and squeezed, willing Jimmy to believe him. "And remember what I told you I did?" he asked grimly. "You said you didn't think it were cowardly, were you lying?"

Jimmy shook his head, eyes bright with unshed tears. "But me dad were brave—he fought and he died a hero. And—and you're brave, Thomas. You're the bravest man I've ever met."

Thomas didn't understand this. All these terrible things Jimmy believed, all these terrible, ridiculous things that were eating him up inside—and yet, he still thought Thomas was the bravest man he'd ever known? Thomas was no coward and he knew it, but he certainly wasn't some kind of knight from a fairy story, either. He looked after himself always, and didn't give a toss about most other people. But to Jimmy he was something greater than he was, and that was… strange. Strange and wonderful and humbling.

"Jimmy…" Thomas said softly. "You are brave. You are. You saved me from the ice, didn't you? You knew just what to do to save me, and you risked your own life to do it. It were one of the bravest things I've ever seen. And it was clever, and it was kind…"

Jimmy's mouth trembled, but no tears fell. He seemed to be holding them back by sheer force of will.

Thomas waited for him to speak, but when he didn't Thomas asked, "Are you saying the reason you've been acting like this lately isn't because of me, and what happened in the shed, but because you— you hate yourself? You think you're cowardly and… ugly?"

Thomas wasn't sure which was more absurd.

Jimmy sucked in a ragged breath at Thomas's words, then let it out in a rush and shook his head. "You've only got part of it right."

Thomas smiled at him a little. "Could you try to explain? Because I don't understand…"

Jimmy wiped at his wet eyes and stood up shakily. "If I'm going to do this then I need a drink."

"No," Thomas said firmly, also getting to his feet. "You've had enough these past weeks to last you a year or more."

Jimmy glared at him, but Thomas was not alarmed. Nasty looks suited Jimmy better than crying ever could, and if Thomas had his choice he'd take Jimmy's teeth over his tears any day of the week.

Before Jimmy could storm out of his room in search of his own liquor, Thomas produced a cigarette and a bottle of wine from his bedside cabinet.

"You just said no drinks," Jimmy grumbled, taking the cigarette and watching Thomas pour them each a glass.

"It's only wine," Thomas said easily. "And we're each only having one, so sip it slowly if you want it to last through this conversation."

Jimmy took the cigarette and held still while Thomas lit it, considering this. Finally he sat back down on the bed, the lines of his body tense and brittle.

Thomas sat in the chair again, watching him take the wine and drink it before he spoke. "Is this what you mean by your face twisting up?" he asked after a long moment. He hadn't meant to ask that first but it was too late to take it back now.

Jimmy flinched, and glanced uneasily at himself in Thomas's vanity mirror. "A—a bit." He admitted stiffly. "But it's worse, a lot worse sometimes."

Thomas shook his head. "Well, I don't see anything bad about it," he said frankly, waving his cigarette for emphasis. "You're always beautiful, you know, and when you make those nasty faces they only make me love you more."

"Ha!" Jimmy snorted in derision, his cheeks flushing. "You're a lying bastard—"

"I'm not," Thomas insisted firmly. "I like them— ah, as long as they're not directed at me, I like them. They make me happy. Sometimes I remember them later and smile, or… or I think about taking you to bed until you forget why you were making those faces to begin with."

Jimmy gaped at Thomas, his cigarette frozen halfway to his mouth. His blush visibly darkened.

"Of course I don't like it when you're unhappy," Thomas amended quickly, feeling heat in his own skin. "Now that I know you better, though, I think I can tell the difference between your contrariness, or your disgust, or when you just despise someone, from the times when you're—upset."

Thomas shifted uncomfortably. He wished Jimmy would react, or at least take a breath. He was as still as a statue, sitting there with ashes falling off his cigarette. "So what's the other bit of it then?" he asked. "You said that was only part of it."

Jimmy let out a long breath at last, and ran both hands through his hair in agitation. Then he downed his wine in just a few pulls, leaving the glass empty.

"What d'ya think?" he muttered. "The rest of it's you, of course."

Thomas frowned. "But I've kept my promise. I've been your friend and I haven't done anything—"

Jimmy's hands went up to cover his face, and he leaned forward until his head were nearly pressed to his knees. "Christ, Thomas," he groaned. "It's nothing you've done, you don't have to do anything for me to—it's just that I want you so much it's driving me mad."

Oh. Thomas sucked in a breath, his heart tripping over itself.

"Jimmy, you can have me, always—"

"No I can't, I'm not brave enough to live that sort of life, always hiding—I never planned to love anyone, ever, not ever, did you know that?"

Thomas shook his head, speechless.

"I knew for certain I wanted you not long after you kissed me, but I thought I could change it—I mean, I didn't think I was really that sort—or if I was I could just ignore it for the rest of my life and it wouldn't be so bad— I thought it would be better if you were just gone."

Thomas couldn't breathe. Jimmy's eyes were wet again, and his voice was starting to break, but a damn seemed to have burst in him and the words kept coming. It was as if he were sitting at confession, and telling Thomas all his sins.

"But then you and your bloody heroics!" Jimmy growled. "After you saved me at the fair I couldn't ignore you anymore, and we became friends and I—I loved you, and it was so much worse than just wanting you—and now I feel so miserable, Thomas, I keep dreaming about you dying in that river, and I don't think I can live like this anymore—I feel so sick, every day I feel so sick—"

Suddenly Thomas's arms were around him, and Jimmy didn't know if Thomas had pulled him in or if he'd simply collapsed against the other man. He felt weak and drained and broken, as if he were grieving, as if being apart from Thomas were a kind of death.

"Then don't," Thomas breathed into his hair. "Don't live this way anymore, darling. Change it. If you're not happy then do something to change it."

Jimmy shuddered, his tears running like rivers down his face. He hated himself for weeping. "But I'm a coward, Thomas, remember?" he whispered.

"Nonsense," Thomas kissed his temple. "You're brave."

Jimmy shook his head. "I'm not. I'm frightened of so many things…"

"Bravery isn't about not being afraid; it's about choices, just like everything else." Thomas told him firmly. "We only get one life for ourselves, so to make it a happy one we have to seek out what makes us happy, and do what we must to get it. We have to choose it, even if it's frightening or difficult."

Thomas's hands were stroking his hair and his back now, and it felt so lovely it made Jimmy tremble. Thomas's words were not nearly so soft as his hands and his lips: they were sharp and piercing and reverberating in Jimmy's head like canon fire. He wanted to run away again, but he didn't have the strength to leave Thomas's arms a second time.

"All my life it's been difficult for me," Thomas murmured. "Like everyone else I've tried to make the life I wanted for myself— but the world traps me in, doesn't it? It tells me I can't have love or anything else I want, just because of the way I am. I could just roll over and be a victim, couldn't I? It'd be easier, in a way—less frightening, certainly. I could just stop trying. But I'd never be happy like that, so I don't choose that."

Jimmy laughed into Thomas's shoulder. "It's that simple, is it?"

Thomas kissed his hair. "It is to me."