A/N: I realize I have my timeline off by a day, and that Mary's baby was actually born the same night Jimmy first went to Thomas's room, but this way worked better for the purposes of this story. I apologize, because I like to keep things as consistent with the show as possible! Thanks as always for reviews, which are so much appreciated! Suggestions are welcome too!

I absolutely hate waking up in the morning, and today was no exception. I was having the most incredible dream, when suddenly I became aware of Alfred's voice outside my door, telling me I'd overslept. In a panic, I jumped out of bed and made a mad dash to complete my morning washing up and dressing routine.

I was so late that I barely had time to grab a piece of toast before the servants' breakfast was cleared away, and then it was madness for the next hour while the upstairs breakfast went on. All the staff were in a tizzy with Lady Mary in hospital, and the news that she had given birth to a healthy baby boy.

When I had a chance to catch my breath, I realized I had absolutely no memory of the contents of the dream I knew had been just lovely. I could still remember the feeling of warm, safe contentment I had felt just after waking, but for the life of me, I couldn't recall anything else.

Maybe it'll come back to me later, I thought. I hope so. Then I put my thoughts aside. Now that the upstairs breakfast was complete, Mrs. Patmore had instructed Ivy to put together a tray for Mr. Barrow, who was having a lie-in this morning due to his injuries.

"I'll send one of the hall boys up with that just as soon as they've finished filling the coal bins," Mr. Carson told Ivy. "Alfred is still clearing the breakfast room."

There were men's and women's servants' quarters with a locked door separating them, so it wouldn't be considered proper for Ivy or Daisy to bring the tray up. Kind of funny to worry about that sort of thing when it's him we're talking about, I mused. Then I remembered my promise that I would check in on Mr. Barrow this morning.

"I don't mind bringing it up, Mr. Carson," I offered, and his bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. And no wonder. I had made no attempt to hide my disgust with Mr. Barrow from anyone below stairs. And for a whole year, Mr. Carson and the rest had watched me go out of my way to pointedly avoid the under butler with the unnatural ways.

"If you are sure, James," Mr. Carson said slowly and I nodded. It occurred to me that no one else knew the truth about Mr. Barrow's fight. They probably assumed that the village chaps knew what sort of man he was, and had beaten him for that reason. How then could I explain my change of heart? Should I tell everyone the truth?

My thoughts were still racing when I entered Mr. Barrow's room. We exchanged pleasantries, and although I felt a little awkward, I found myself relaxing and enjoying Mr. Barrow's company. He had changed a great deal since I first came to Downton, although it was still difficult for me to think of him as a person aside from his peculiar ways. As long as I didn't dwell on it, though, I could handle this new friendship.

As Mr. Barrow ate, I glanced around his room, noticing the lamps and framed pictures on the wall. Nicer than my room, but then, I was a footman, not an under butler. I had a strange feeling of déjà vu as I took in my surroundings, like I'd been here before, but not a memory of last night. It puzzled me, but I put it out of my head when I remembered Mr. Barrow didn't know Lady Mary and the rest of the staff were back early.

"Let Mr. Carson know I'll try to get down later to help see to dinner," Mr. Barrow answered. He didn't look like he was in any shape to help with dinner, not in the dining room anyway, with his face covered in cuts and bruises. I still felt badly about the whole thing, but since I couldn't find the right words of gratitude, I turned my feelings into a joke.

"Don't strain yourself," I teased. "You're not as young as you used to be, after all." Mr. Barrow's laughed.

"Not so very much older than you, and don't you forget it, but plenty wiser."

As I moved to take his breakfast tray, he swatted my arm playfully. In an instant, I was taken back to a year ago, when the then-valet would frequently touch me, putting his hands on my shoulders, touching my leg, and generally making me miserable. Each time he had touched me, I had looked around fearfully, wondering who had seen and what they were thinking. The memory made me jump back as though he'd hurt me.

"I'm sorry," Mr. Barrow said. "I wasn't thinking, Jimmy, forgive me." And he looked right miserable, too.

"No harm done, Mr. Barrow," I managed to say before stumbling from the room. I knew I should head straight back down to the kitchen with the empty tray, but I was too rattled. My own room was just down the hall and I slipped inside and lay down on my bed for a minute's rest. The wonderful dream started to come back to me in snippets, but they were so disjointed that I could only make out a hazy face with steely blue eyes.

Dowager Lady Anstruther, that's who it must have been in my dream. Wouldn't that be an interesting story to tell Mr. Barrow. My former employer, the young blue eyed widow who couldn't take her eyes off me, was proof positive that I wasn't THAT sort of man, whatever he may have first believed of me. Hadn't I proved my manhood by allowing her to lure me into her bed?

I'll have to tell Mr. Barrow about that sometime, I mused, wondering if such a story would shock or embarrass my new friend. Well, why should it? He'd been bold as brass when it came to his preferences, so why shouldn't I be? Reluctantly, I rose to leave my room when I met a breathless Alfred in the hallway.

"James, where've you been? Mr. Carson's in a panic!" I'd never seen Alfred so wild-eyed. "Something terrible's happened!"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm gone for five minutes and Mr. Carson wants my head on a platter, does he?" Bugger off, I'm coming."

"No, you don't understand," Alfred gasped. "There's been a terrible accident and Mr. Matthew was killed."

I heard a strangled cry from down the hallway and before I knew what I was doing, I ran back to Mr. Barrow's room, where I found him with his head in his hands, weeping. What was this? I guess it meant I was shallow, but although I felt truly sorry for my employers' loss, I couldn't imagine weeping for a man I didn't even know.

"It isn't fair," Mr. Barrow choked. "Mr. Matthew and I were in the trenches together. He was decent and kind. He didn't think he was any better than the next man, no matter his rank."

Never in all my time here had I imagined that Mr. Barrow had known Mr. Matthew so intimately. Maybe it was just another one of his disgusting obsessions, come to think of it.

"Did you…fancy him?" I dared to ask. "Is that why you're so upset?"

Mr. Barrow's red-rimmed eyes were hard, but his voice was shaky. "I don't fancy every man I meet, and it wasn't that way with Mr. Matthew, no. I respected him, that was all. I thought I was lonely here until I got to the trenches, and then I wanted to die it was so bad. Mr. Matthew was a little reminder of Downton, the only home I've got."

Once again, I was shamed into silence. Mr. Barrow buried his head in his hands again, and in his gut-wrenching sobs I heard all the loneliness of the world. Hardly realizing that I had begun crying myself, I found myself moving across the room. In an instant, I was comforting my heartbroken friend, putting my arms around him. I didn't care if Alfred walked back in; I needed human contact and the feel of Mr. Barrow's strong shoulders was strangely comforting.

I heard Mr. Barrow's gasp of astonishment and felt his arms tighten around my back, pressing me closer to himself. I hadn't been this close to anyone in so long, and I felt myself giving in to the sheer comfort of human contact. I breathed deeply and smelled soap and cigarette smoke.

Mr. Barrow's breathing was ragged and I felt the wetness of his tears on my shirt. We held the embrace for a long time, and I heard my own voice whispering, "It's all right, Mr. Barrow. It's all right."

Then I heard footsteps in the hall and the spell was broken. I pulled away and faced the door, where Mr. Carson stood, breathless and red-eyed himself. His face registered no shock at finding me in Mr. Barrow's room, both of us clearly crying.

"So you've heard," the older man said, and his voice was unsteady. "You're needed downstairs, James. We've many arrangements to see to today."

"Is there anything I can do, Mr. Carson?" Mr. Barrow asked. "And how is Lady Mary?"

"Not at present, Mr. Barrow," Mr. Carson said heavily. "She and the baby are physically well, but she is obviously devastated. Your grief does you credit."

Mr. Carson turned on his heel and left, and I made to follow him. But first I turned to face Mr. Barrow.

"Embracing you was like I embraced my father after my mother died," I said by way of explanation, and he nodded silently. "I didn't want you to think…that it meant anything else.'

"I understand." Mr. Barrow's voice was barely audible. "You'd best get downstairs."

I made my way toward the kitchen, not yet able to face the growing fear within me. The fear that being in Mr. Barrow's embrace, I'd felt momentarily like I was back in that heavenly dream that still eluded me. But it couldn't be. Because I wasn't THAT sort of man. I would rather die.