Thomas knew that the day was destined to be tiresome. Akin to the ache felt in the joints of those afflicted with arthritis before the onslaught of heavy rain, he too felt an overall malaise settle over him in expectation of oncoming tripe. It was an ability that he had acquired long ago, bred from years of being miserable whilst working in an oppressive atmosphere alongside people who, generally speaking, were intolerable examples of the human race. Thomas understood the signs and what they would portend. He was so proficient in anticipating looming shite that he could see this on the horizon well before the sun even rose. In fact, his suspicions were raised as soon as he heard Alfred clear his throat every few seconds in the most repellent manner two days prior – suspicions that were confirmed (and therefore his talent vindicated) less than twenty four hours later, when both Alfred and Jimmy were laid up in bed with some sort of mutant head cold that reduced the two grown footmen into useless and snivelling examples of mucusy children.

And so it was with the practiced air of the downtrodden that Thomas accepted their absence, resigned to the fact that their ill health naturally coincided with the arrival of two visiting earls. He would not be happy about it, however, and nor would he try to hide the fact despite secretly appreciating that the reality of quarantining Alfred and Jimmy to their own bedrooms meant the chances of him being infected by their disgusting condition were greatly diminished. Thomas took great pride in staying healthy, and he didn't need to inadvertently inhale an errant sneeze to put all of his work to waste.

His discontent was still, astonishingly, a surprise to everyone else around him when he opened his mouth to air his grievances, which only further served to cast a shadow on the acumen of his fellow servants. He was busy with his own duties – was he expected to just gladly take over for the two inept footman like a happy soldier? Well, as a survivor of the front, he could assure everyone that there was no such thing as a happy soldier, and that he could guarantee no one else would be jumping at the chance to help him with his tasks should he be too weak to fulfill them on his own. Except, of course, Mr. Carson, who would surely take it as an opportunity to prove to everyone how useless the position of under-butler truly was, even if it meant that he ran himself ragged into another heart attack.

Thomas, on the other hand, was not surprised to be reminded by Carson that though he was technically the under-butler, he was also technically one of the only remaining male members of staff still on his feet, and as such he was expected to shoulder the responsibility of serving whilst everyone else recovered – if he knew what was good for him was an unspoken but heavily implied threat. Well, technically Carson was a prat, but Thomas didn't spend his days saying it all the time.

But even his uncanny ability to forecast disappointment could never have accounted for the monumental cock-up that was currently unravelling.

Carson stopped him in the hallway, catching Thomas whilst he was on his way to the silverware stores. "Mr. Barrow, I've just been informed that Lord Cuttingham will be arriving without his valet. It would seem as though that he too has caught the same illness Alfred and James have now."

Thomas blinked, not liking where this was unquestionably headed.

"You will have to act as valet to him during his stay," he continued, his tone unapologetically frank.

Thomas didn't know what to be more offended by, the butler's unrelenting task managing or the privilege of this visiting earl who just assumed he could expect anyone to dress him upon his arrival. He was busy enough as it is! "Excuse me, Mr. Carson but—,"

Carson raised his hand to placate him, but Thomas saw it for the insulting gesture it truly was, "And before you start, I know, but I can't very well ask anyone else to do it."

God forbid that he do anything himself; Thomas supposed it was already too much that the butler would be serving at dinner.

"It is a regrettable state of affairs," His face creased into something similar to actual remorse – surely in anticipation of the mad house Downton would become this afternoon – before setting back into its natural severe wrinkle, "but unfortunately it is also unavoidable. And unless you want to forever besmirch the abbey's reputation, you will somehow manage it."

Thomas nodded, setting his lips in a pout that he knew made him look like a petulant child, but he didn't care. He was not looking forward to valeting Lord Cuttingham.

Having spent less than all of five minutes alone with the man, Thomas had come to understand him as a chatterbox. His matured look of fine, pointed features and severely parted hair was at odds with his seemingly boundless energy.

"It's a terrible state of affairs. Poor Goodman, he was in quite a state when I left today, but of course I couldn't let him travel whilst he was feeling so poorly." Lord Cuttingham smiled good-naturedly as he offered his cuffs to Thomas.

While Thomas busied himself with the cufflinks, he continued, "It's the worst thing to work when you're under the weather, don't you think?"

Thomas doubted that the earl ever had to work a day in his life, but he nodded in agreement, "Yes, m'lord."

"Yes, dreadful. So you see why I couldn't have my own valet. It would be cruel and unusual punishment. To him and to you as well, surely. Robert has informed me your own footmen have become ill as well. You needn't another wheezing mouth downstairs with you all. I couldn't bear to think my man has made anyone sick."

Thomas turned around to gather the gentleman's jacket from the clothes horse, and let his mind begin to drift to the list of things he still had yet to complete for the evening's dinner – a list that continued to grow longer the closer it came to the meal – a list that made Thomas want to retire to his bed and weep until it was all over. Thankfully, Lord Cuttingham continued to natter on, requiring Thomas only to nod or murmur his agreement when the other stopped to take a breath; the under-butler doubted that the earl even realised he was being ignored at all.

He stepped back after he brushed the last of the lint from Lord Cuttingham's shoulders, preparing to nod his farewells to the man before he left to greet Lord Grantham.

"So I thank you, Barrow, for stepping in. I do appreciate it," Lord Cuttingham held his eyes and smiled genuinely, momentarily blinding Thomas with charmingly green eyes and teeth that were astonishingly white. Thomas blinked rapidly in surprise before he remembered to grab for the door.

"You're very welcome, your lordship." He watched as the other slipped through and walked down the hall.

What an odd man. Thomas shrugged; he could get used to this.

Thomas sunk into his chair wearily after he had seen to Lord Cuttingham before bed. He had promised himself a swig of scorchingly hot tea and a smoke before turning in himself. He found that most of the others had a similar idea.

"So how do you find that Lord Cuttingham?" Anna asked when he found a seat at the table.

"He seems like an alright chap," Lord Jeffrey's valet, a Mr. Camden – who was of a similar colouring to Jimmy – offered in Thomas' place, "from what I gather from Goodman's letters."

Thomas shrugged and breathed out a plume of smoke, guessing it was more or less true.

"I hear that they've been friends for years," Ivy interjected, placing a freshly brewed pot in the centre of the table. She nodded at the table, "that they met at Eton together."

Thomas was suddenly aware of the majority of eyes inexplicably turning towards him. He lifted his brow incredulously. What did it matter to him where they met? It was bound to be one incredibly privileged place or another – they were all the same to him.

"He seems nice enough," Thomas admitted between a drag, "talks enough for the both of us, but seems to appreciate what I do for him."

"And that's all you could ever ask for," Bates interjected with his face arranged as if that was something to be ashamed of – as if it wasn't something that Bates already enjoyed with Lord Grantham. Thomas set a heavy-lidded look towards the man.

"It is," Thomas stood and downed the remaining tea in his up, enjoying the way it burned his throat and warmed his belly, "And with that I'll be turning in. Good night, everyone."

Having restored himself with some tea, the fatigue of the day appeared, settling deeper into his bones with each step he took closer to his room. If he didn't go to bed now, he'd likely fall asleep on his feet.

He wandered through the corridors in a bit of a daze, eyes stinging with exhaustion. Thomas barely paid attention to his route towards the attics, as it was a path that he followed countlessly over the past decade. He dragged his feet in an attempt to conserve as much energy as possible before he could lay down, limiting his range of motion to only what was necessary. Halfway up the stairs, however, this strategy worked against him as his toe struck the ledge of the step when he didn't lift his leg quite high enough to clear it. At first he thought he had caught himself, but in an attempt to avoid landing face first into the wooden stairs, he overbalanced and tipped backwards. He watched as if in slow motion as his hand just missed the handrail, and he fell in the most ungainly and painful way possible.

He landed at the bottom with a wheeze, staring at the cracked ceiling, remaining motionless as his brain caught up with the proceedings and his nervous system took an inventory of his well-being. He groaned when his internal catalogue determined that yes, the natural state of wooden stairs was sharp and solid, and, conversely, the natural state of his body was soft and yielding. Therefore, according to his body's maths, everything was damaged, and he curled in onto his side as the pain started to flood in.

Surely, he had broken something.

Or several somethings.

Several very important somethings, and when he pushed himself into a crouched position, he realised they were mostly situated in and around his backside; Christ, his tailbone was on fire. Thomas panted as he clasped the bannister and pulled himself up unsteadily onto his feet. His body reverberated with the force and ensuing shock of his fall, making him feel brittle and bruised. He pressed a hand against his arse as he attempted to get his rapid breathing under control.

Thomas felt a burning flush mark his cheeks and quickly looked up and down the stairwell. Releasing a breath he hadn't realised he held, he thanked every saint he could remember that no one was witness to that. Regret, embarrassment, and shame were not altogether unfamiliar to Thomas; however, he never appreciated an audience.

With a sigh, he looked up to the top of the stairs and not for the first time that day cursed his luck. He began to ascend them with the determination of a man intent on the ceaselessly nothingness of sleep, keeping the railing tightly clutched within his hand.

What little sleep Thomas was able to enjoy was not enough to miraculously cure him of his aches and pains. In actuality, he was convinced that the position he held while sleeping only served to strain his already battered muscles. He let out a low whistle when he caught sight of himself in the mirror whilst dressing. A deep blue – nearly black – bruise encompassed the small of his back and deep into the cleft of his arse, making all of the other welts and marks laughable in comparison. Now having seen it, his backside felt even worse.

Once dressed, he evaluated himself in the mirror again. At least he had avoided causing any obvious injury to his face during his mishap on the stairs. Thomas shuddered to think of what Carson would end up doing if he showed up to breakfast with a shiner. The man was at his wits ends as it was.

He drew himself to his full height and pushed his chest out, staring at his reflection. He only flinched mildly as his bones grated uncomfortably against each other and his skin pulled annoyingly. He nodded; he could do this.

He could not do this. Just walking through all the halls and descending all the stairs left Thomas winded, grinding his teeth to contain any embarrassing noises. It was bad enough that he resorted to limping slightly by the time he reached the dining hall for breakfast. He was so engrossed in his own misery that he failed to notice the look of interest and concern that graced the majority of people's faces at his entrance.

He hissed as his bum pressed against the hard surface of the chair and looked up in alarm when a hush of silence descended on the table.

"Are you alright, Mr. Barrow?" Anna asked.

Thomas smiled thinly, "Just slept wrong, I think."

He didn't care for the aborted chuckle he heard from the end of the table and sent a scowl towards that way. A bubble of anxiety percolated within; could he be certain that no one had seen his tumble down the stairs?

When no one opened their mouth to ridicule him, he figured that perhaps he misheard the clearing of someone's throat for a giggle – a benefit of the doubt that was unimaginably charitable from his point of view, but, seeing as more staff was dropping from this tenacious illness each day, it seemed likely.

He kept to himself quietly for the remainder of breakfast and snuck off early when Lord Cuttingham's bell rang before anyone else's, unaware of the look of concern shared between Carson and Mrs. Hughes as he left. He managed to reach his gentleman's room in more or less a reasonable amount of time.

"Are you quite alright, Barrow? You're limping worse than a pirate!" Lord Cuttingham exclaimed and exaggerated, Thomas bared to note, mentally of course.

"I'm fine, thank you, m'lord," Thomas murmured, preferring to concentrate on the motions of dressing the gentleman, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"I do hope you're feeling well. Robert needn't another ailing staff member. You mustn't let them overwork you, you know. The key is to not to overtax yourself! If you're injured you shouldn't push. My uncle once woke up with a limp once, and, the stubborn bugger, he ignored—"

Thomas stopped listening. He took a deep breath, barely containing his sigh. This man was a complete and utter twit and the world was cruel.

Thomas supposed he would have to become accustomed to the phrase "are you alright" today, as it was repeated to him several times before luncheon.

But he couldn't very well admit to everyone that he tumbled arse over tit the previous night. It would bruise his ego darker and more permanently than his backside. It had already taken a thorough beating when the glasses set on his tray vibrated noisily when he served drinks to the family and their guests. His limp had become noticeably worse throughout the day until, he mused darkly, he should ask Bates for a spare cane.

"Barrow," Lord Grantham stopped him as he lifted a glass of whiskey off the tray, "is everything okay?"

Thomas started at the seemingly genuine concern lacing the earl's words, but bristled when the older man continued, "Will you be able to continue on to serve tonight?"

The under-butler lifted his chin ever so slightly as he met the earl's gaze, "Of course I will be, my lord."

"So there won't be any problems?" Lord Grantham frowned and looked across the room towards Lord Cuttingham, who was caught up in an animated conversation with an unenthused Branson. Following his gaze, Thomas wore a look of detachment even though he felt insulted at the insinuation that he couldn't dress the man because of a mere limp, painful as it was. Had the earl forgotten that he even continued to employ John Bates?

"You needn't worry, my lord. Everything is fine." At that, he turned and continued to serve the others in tandem with Carson, who was lowering himself to such duties because of the footmen's continued absence.

At lunch, both Alfred and Jimmy had decided to grace the table with their presence. Thomas wished they didn't, as they sustained a near constant sniffling throughout the meal. It was putting him off his food.

At least he wasn't the only who was feeling miserable today, if the stormy twist to Jimmy's face was to go by. What Thomas couldn't figure out was why he kept sending it his way. Certainly Jimmy didn't blame him for his illness; it had been – undeniably – Alfred who infected him as well as a couple of the hall boys. Thomas' hands, for once, were absolutely clean.

"I thin'guh I cab manage tonighd, Mr. Carson," Jimmy declared, his voice only breaking twice over the short sentence, "I cab valet Lord Cuttin'gu'am's."

Carson arched an eyebrow as exasperation coloured his face, "We've managed so far without your help, James. Mr. Barrow will remain Lord Cuttingham's valet for the remainder of his stay. You will neither be valet nor footman to anyone until you are well enough to speak normally."

As much as Thomas would enjoy relinquishing the duty of valeting Lord Cuttingham, he found himself nodding along with Carson. He doubted even that man would find it hard to remain cheerful with Jimmy snotting all over his jackets. He frowned when he found himself under Jimmy's glower. What on Earth was eating him? He wasn't the one working triple time whilst others laid about in bed.

Thomas decided to mind his own business for the remainder of the evening; he was busy enough and, between absent staff members and visiting guests, everyone else was behaving unusually enough that he would rather keep conversation to a minimum. That of course could only serve as encouragement to Bates, who stopped Thomas near the staircase.

He blinked away tears when the valet's vice-like grip crushed at a tender part of his arm. He looked deliberately between Bates' hand and his pudgy face.

"Can I help you, Mr. Bates?"

"You ought to be more careful, you know," Bates finally released his arm and lent on his cane, "You may have the support of the people who matter, but it won't do bandying it about when there are visitors."

Thomas stared at the older man, unmoved, mostly because he had no clue what he was talking about. Perhaps he had come down with fever.

"I wouldn't want to see anything untoward happening to you."

Thomas' eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. Bates had definitely caught whatever Jimmy had and was delirious. Before he could construct an appropriate response, Bates shook his head with an irritated laugh, "I don't expect you to listen to me, but I do wish you would be a little less foolish."

Thomas watched as Bates continued down along the hallway. He didn't have time to dwell on this bizarre tête-à-tête – the dinner gong had been rung, and he was expected upstairs to dress Lord Cuttingham.

On his way towards the room, he ran into Mrs. Hughes in the hallway. She too must have forgotten he was now working for two people and decided Thomas had nothing better to do with his day than to converse in corridors.

"Is everything," she paused with her eyebrows raised, "alright?"

Thomas didn't care for the way she delivered her words as if they weighed of cast iron, deliberately and slowly as if she was worried their very utterance would crush him. There was insinuation deposited deep within those words, and he couldn't chip away at their true meaning. It immediately made him suspicious, for no one merely asked how he was. And yet today, he had lost count of how many times he had heard it.

There was always an angle, and Thomas prided himself in usually being astute enough in recognising it. Unfortunately, today, he was at a disadvantage, for he was absolutely lost. He narrowed his eyes.

"Why wouldn't it be?" He was at the end of his tether, and if he wasn't careful, he might say something he would regret.

"Surely, I wouldn't dare to guess," she answered, "but if it wasn't, I would hope you know that my door is always open."

Clearly, Thomas decided, Mrs. Hughes was having a conversation unto herself. He supposed it would happen sooner or later. Senility was common amongst people of her age, even in the most agile of minds. The alternative – that she was talking about something the he wasn't aware of – was far worse a fate than her declining mental acuity.

He grimaced in a poor excuse of a smile and repeated what he had been saying all day, "Well, thank you, Mrs. Hughes… but I'm quite alright."

She only nodded sagely, and looked briefly at the door to Lord Cuttingham's door. He opted to purse his lips instead of saying anything more. He watched with a frown while she continued down the corridor, her key ring jingling tinnily with each step.

What on Earth was going on with everyone?

Miraculously, Thomas found a moment to himself between the dinner service and the servant's tea. He elected to enjoy a moment of peace in the courtyard and sneak a smoke or two before he was expected anywhere. As he shrugged into his coat, he noticed that Mr. Camden had a similar idea.

He held the door open for Mr. Camden before gingerly sitting down on the stacked boxes. His tailbone screeched in complaint.

"So you've made Lord Cuttingham's acquaintance, eh?" The valet asked knowingly, an infuriating and obtuse lilt tinting his speech.

Thomas was quiet for a beat and said slowly as if speaking to a simpleton, "Well, I have been his valet for the past two days." Perhaps Lord Jeffrey's valet was slower than he looked.

The other pulled his cap down as he smiled ruefully into his lap, "Yeah, but, you know… Goodman tells me things you know."

Thomas shook his head and stated flatly, "Bully for you." He sucked fiercely on his cigarette, hollowing out his cheeks. Was everyone determined to be peculiar today?

Mr. Camden finally looked at Thomas, pinning him with a hard stare, his speech awkwardly at odds with his unrelenting gaze, "You don't know…. that… Lord Cuttingham is – well, you know? Of the lavender persuasion?"

Thomas let his mouth gape. He hadn't even thought. His insides twisted as realisation dawned bright and quick and everyone's behaviour slotted into place.

They thought—

That he—

With—

He shuddered. All those shared glances with Lord Cuttingham now took on a whole other meaning. He had just thought the other man was being nice. The man was affable enough even though he was a bit of a knob. Despite himself, Thomas hadn't thought it proper ignoring the earl's cheerfulness, but it had been innocent in origin – honestly. Even when he had been undressing him, never once did Thomas even casually think of him in any other way than work, which, was surprising considering he wasn't unattractive for an older man – much more so than Lord Grantham anyhow – which was besides the point because nothing was even happening between them even though he had alarmingly white, straight teeth and glowing skin and clear, green eyes.

Had he missed a chance?

His stomach flipped when he remembered Lord Cuttingham's wink over the table during the dinner service that had preceded Carson's coughing fit that had left the butler red and panting and Lord Grantham disgruntled. Oh god, and everybody thought they knew.

Thomas felt sick to his stomach.

He flicked his cigarette over his shoulder and jumped to his feet, heedless of Mr. Camden's shocked 'hey!' called out behind him. He stalked into the dining hall as well as he could with his chronic limp, glad for once finding the room full.

"Whatever you lot think is happening, is not happening, and I would appreciate it if you all stopped gossiping about it." He fumed, eyes wide, barely waiting to enter the room before starting his rant.

Daisy gaped, "Wha'?"

"Never you mind, Daisy." Mrs. Hughes cast a warning glance at Thomas.

But he was on a roll and didn't care that he looked like a loony in front of them. A man had to assert himself, "I wouldn't do… that," He adjusted his vest, "Need I remind you I am the under-butler? I am a professional."

He pointedly ignored Bates' flamboyant eye roll and the fact that it wasn't too long ago that he had been doing exactly that with a duke, no less.

Leaving no time for a rebuke, he left the others looking gobsmacked and his perpetrators slightly shame-faced.

"What was he on about?" he heard Daisy ask innocently as he rounded the corner and leaned against the wall.

As if it wasn't enough that the staff pitied him for just being the way he was; now they were concerned that he received a bumming so violent as to leave him limping for days. Thomas felt a flare of crimson prickle at his face.

The true injustice was that this was the closest thing he's had to sex in years.

It wasn't until he was halfway towards his bedroom that he recalled the look of hopeful relief that graced Jimmy's face.