**Author's note: Again, I'd like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed my story. Just a little something to clarify: a few people have asked me about the final word of my last chapter ("Blood."). It's not Thomas's blood. It's not physical. The blood is a part of the dreams and memories that Thomas has. Hope that helps! :)
Chapter Four:
Within weeks of their date, everyone in Downton knew how keen Alice and Jimmy were on each other. Whenever they were in a room together, the two of them flirted endlessly. A few thought it sweet and youthful; others, like Mr Carson, did not seem to really care for or against it, as long as they both did their work in a professional and undisrupted manner; Ivy, of course, was crestfallen, and thought it unfair that Alice–who had been at Downton for so short a time–had managed to grab the man Ivy herself had wanted; and then there was Thomas, who appeared pleased for them, but simmered with rotting envy within. If it were he and Jimmy touching and flirting openly, no one would think it sweet – they would be appalled and disgusted, and then the police would be called in to lock them both away.
Ever since the war, Thomas thought it unfavourably ironic the way relationships between men were perceived in general society versus in the trenches. In the trenches, men were expected to rely on each other, to look after and trust each other. It was their duty to commit themselves wholly to their comrades. The men had to risk their lives–and even give them–for other men; and that creates a bond that is not easy to define: beyond friendship, and in ways very similar to love. For when you are cold and alone and frightened in war, there is no one there to care for and comfort you except another man.
Outside the trenches, however, anything resembling male homosexuality was reviled. Children were raised to despise it and raise their fists against it; society pronounced it illegal; and those who were homosexuals quickly learnt fear, and how to hide themselves deep within lest they risk persecution.
Thomas was tired of hiding, though. He was tired of being forbidden love and affection simply because he wanted it from a man rather than a woman. He wanted someone to call his own beloved.
Jimmy let out an abrupt laugh, amused by whatever it was that Alice whispered in his ear.
But he could not have it. Society declared it so.
It was cold outside in the evening, and snow was falling in wet, thick flakes, the kind that leaves everything drenched and miserable. Thomas's breath misted in front of him, mingling with cigarette smoke. He was supposed to be helping with serving the Crawleys' dinner, but told Carson he was feeling decidedly unwell and slipped away outside.
He fell back against the cold stone of the house and let his legs give out beneath him, collapsing to the ground. He didn't care that his legs and backside were getting soaked through with slush and mud. He'd dealt with much worse in the trenches.
His old war wound ached a little, as it always did when it was cold. Thomas flicked away his cigarette, took off his glove, and studied the round, smooth scar that resided perfectly in the centre of his palm. He flexed his hand, grimacing as the stiff skin pulled taut and relaxed; then he pulled the glove back on. Seeing the scar reminded him of what he had done, how cowardly and shameful he had been, how completely incapable of suffering through the war, as so many had done.
A heavy, uneven gait reached Thomas's ears and brought him back to the present. It echoed from within the house and was moving closer; and so Thomas was unsurprised to see Bates come out of the back entrance. He was a little surprised, however, when Bates spied Thomas and walked toward where he sat.
"We were beginning to wonder where you'd got off to," Bates said, coming to stand in front of Thomas.
"Go away, Bates."
Bates peered about, at the snow falling silently in the courtyard, on the house, and on the barren trees in the distance. In the dark–the moon hidden behind clouds and everything so quiet–, Downton Abbey was like something from a gothic tale. All that was bright and lively and beautiful in the sun was now cast in gloomy shades of grey and black. The great house looked nearly deserted, despite lights glowing from a few windows. Bates looked down and studied Thomas in the dark, and he saw that Thomas had also lost his brightness–his haughtiness, his pride; but, unlike Downton, Thomas didn't seem like he would regain it when the sun came out again.
"You'll get wet and dirty," said Bates, gesturing with his cane at the muddy ground where Thomas sat.
Thomas shrugged. "Already am."
Bates went and leaned against the house next to Thomas, unable (and, admittedly, unwilling) to join Thomas on the ground. He said nothing for some time, unsure how to begin a conversation with someone he did not particularly like, and especially the conversation that he knew needed to take place. And so, casting aside all delicacies, he decided to get straight to the point.
"Thomas, what's the matter with you? You don't talk anymore, you don't eat, you do your work in a fog, and truly, you look like the dead. You pretend nothing is wrong, but the only one you're fooling is yourself. Everyone else can see that something's very wrong with you."
Thomas licked his stale lips and scoffed. "Why do you care? You don't like me, just as I don't like you. Oh, I do appreciate what you did," Thomas explained when he noticed Bates's jaw tense. "You saved my job, and probably my life too. But, let's admit, we've never been friends, and I don't think we ever shall be."
Bates chuckled dryly. "I agree." He studied Thomas again, and was a little taken aback by the dreadful vision his profile made in the night – all white skin and black hollows. Like a skull, a skull which turned and looked back at him, and opened its jaws and spoke to him.
"Then go away."
"Can't do that. We may not like each other, Thomas, but I'll put that aside when I see the state you're in. Everyone's worried about you, but they're all too scared to talk to you about it."
"And you're not?" Thomas reached into his jacket and retrieved another cigarette. "No, of course you're not," he mumbled as he struck a match.
Bates watched this and shook his head. "You smoke too much. More so since... Is it Mr Crawley, his accident?"
"No, though I do pity his child, growing up without a father." Thomas rested his head against the wall. "George, and baby Sybil. One without a mother, one without a father. The world can be so cruel at times."
"So what is it, then?" Bates pressed. "If it's not that, then what? It can't be Jimmy, he's not bothered you since that day at the fair. And I can't think that you'd be missing O'Brien."
"Mm." Thomas exhaled a stream of smoke. "You're not going to let it alone, are you?"
Bates shook his head. "And even if I did, Mrs Hughes has promised she would be after you next. I think I may be the lesser of two evils."
Thomas gave a brief smile, then sighed and conceded. "I can't sleep," he said in a low voice. "I have these...these dreams, these memories, that keep me awake. I'll go in for an hour, maybe two, but then they wake me, and won't leave me alone."
"And these dreams," Bates inquired, "what are they of?"
"Everything."
Bates raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean, 'everything'?"
"I mean everything. The war, the hospital, my mistakes, my regrets...everything."
The snow was starting to fall more heavily, layering the courtyard in white. Thomas began to shiver, his jacket having gotten damp and his backside going numb from the wet ground. He wrapped his arms around himself to try and warm himself up, though he knew it was really quite useless.
Bates was silent for a moment, thinking over what Thomas said, and hoping Thomas would explain more fully. But he did not.
"So by 'everything'," Bates gradually urged, "what you really mean is everything bad."
Thomas looked up sharply.
Bates ignored him and went on. "Look at what you said. The war, the hospital, mistakes and regrets. Where are the good memories? The ones you want to remember? You're stuck in the past, but only the bad memories. Why? What is so bad about your life?"
He realized too late he had sounded insensitive when Thomas lurched to his feet and faced Bates, his cheeks blanched from effort and rage, and his eyes flashing. "I didn't need to tell you anything," he hissed. "I don't need you to criticize me!"
Bates hurriedly put a hand on Thomas's shoulder, trying to placate him. "No, that's not what I meant to do." Thomas tried to pull away from Bates, but Bates tightened his grip. "Thomas, listen to me. I want to help you. We may not either of us like the other, but I pity you."
Thomas ground his teeth together, then slapped Bates's hand away. "I don't want your pity," he seethed, and stormed into the house, his hands clenched into fists at his side and his feet leaving dark footprints in the white snow.
Bates remained outside, puzzling over Thomas. Though things hadn't gone as he had hoped they would, at least now he understood a little what was happening with Thomas.
Mrs Hughes was waiting for him in the hallway when he went back inside.
"Did you find out the matter?" she asked when she saw him.
Bates nodded. "He can't sleep. Something from his past keeps haunting him."
Mrs Hughes furrowed her brow. "We all have things we wish to forget."
"I think he wants to forget more than we do, and he can't. I also think that, ever since the incident with James and his close-encounter with the police, his confidence has gone, and it's made him vulnerable."
"But you went to prison, and you seem to be doing fine."
"I have Anna, Mrs Hughes. Thomas has no one. That changes everything. Not to mention, I was innocent of my crime; and Thomas and I both realize that...men like him, they don't always do well in prison."
As Mrs Hughes considered all this, they walked together toward the servant's hall. It was noisy, with servants bustling about clearing away the last of the family's dinner and preparing their own.
"Is there anything we can do for him?" Mrs Hughes eventually asked, her voice hushed in the company of the others.
"I think he needs to see a doctor. He can barely stand up straight. He told me he's lucky if he is able to get two hours of sleep a night, and I don't think it's good sleep. I don't know how long it's been going on for."
Bates fell silent when they entered the servant's hall and he saw Thomas sitting at the table, his blue eyes glazed and cold and locked on Bates.