Notes: Since I started this story early in s5, I have kept Thomas's ailment chemical (as most of us assumed) rather than an infection, for the purposes of this fic.

When Thomas woke it was early morning, and the sun was streaming through the curtains. It had stopped raining in the night, birds were singing, and judging by the heaviness in the attic room it would be a warmer day than the one before. Thomas sat up gingerly. Since the treatment he'd been waking up in pain and nausea, but today he barely ached at all—had he missed his last dose?

Then he remembered Jimmy.

He looked for Jimmy beside him but found him gone—and for a terrible moment his heart fell like a stone. Then he caught the sound of crinkling paper under his nose as he moved, and found a small note pinned to his chest.

In Jimmy's untidy scratching it read:

I haven't gone off, I'm at the Grantham Arms. Meet me there tonight as soon as you can get away. And in the meantime rest and eat well. You're beginning to look like bloody Nosferatu.

Love,

J

Thomas reread the note five times before he felt he understood it. It was quite possibly the most romantic thing he'd ever received in writing, which was utterly ridiculous as men had penned him actual poetry before—but there it was.

In a daze Thomas pushed off the blanket he didn't remember using and stood up cautiously. His limbs were still a bit weak and shaky and yet, for the first time in a long time he felt almost… clean. More like his old self. He was even a little hungry, for the first time in ages.

After he dressed for the day, he very carefully folded Jimmy's note and put it in his left breast pocket.

After dinner that evening Baxter cornered him in the hallway.

"Have you stopped?" she asked in a hushed voice.

Thomas was slow to react. It was like he'd been underwater all day. It was a struggle to bring her into focus, but with an effort he managed it.

"What?"

Baxter's eyes were deep with concern. "I asked if you've stopped… it?" she repeated, more gently than before. "You ate all your meals today—I haven't seen you do that in weeks. And you're… you don't look quite so ill."

Thomas nearly snapped at her out of habit— she wasn't his bloody mother— but instead he bit his tongue and looked away, annoyed. He hated that he owed her for meddling, hated even more that she knew his secrets full stop.

Hated that he couldn't truly hate her, at all.

"Thomas…?"

Thomas turned to face her directly, his face hard. "You've meddled enough in my affairs," he said coolly. "I know you got into me room somehow and found Jimmy's address. I know you wrote to him about me."

Her brown eyes widened at the accusation, a lie obviously on her tongue. "I swear I—"

He held up a hand. "Don't. It's alright. I know you did it because you… care for me. Not sure why," he admitted. Since I've been nothing but nasty to you. "But I'm, ah, thankful anyway. This one time, only."

He'd never seen her look so surprised before; her mouth even fell open. Served her right, he supposed. The woman was meddlesome and tiresome in the extreme.

But… she had helped him, in the end.

"Just let me alone and stay out of me business from now on. And I'll do the same for you."

Baxter slowly closed her mouth and nodded, but there was a warmth in her face that hadn't been there before. Thomas wondered if they could become friends, one day.

Maybe.

A few hours later it was time for Thomas to meet with Jimmy, though he had no idea where the time had gone.

Oddly, he couldn't remember most of the day, though presumably he'd walked and talked and worked as he usually did, since no one had tried to sack him yet. His conversation with Baxter was the only thing he could recall with any clarity— that, and the persistent thought of Jimmy. He'd spent every waking moment since the morning thinking about him, reliving their conversation over and over, recalling their history with new eyes, trying and failing utterly not to speculate on what might happen next.

To think he was like me all this time, Thomas thought yet again, still dizzy with the revelation. But somehow this was not what he struggled with the most.

It was that Jimmy professed to love him.

Thomas was simply unable to wrap his mind around the idea. For so long he'd told himself nothing but no, not a chance, never never not ever don't even think it ever again, that he found it nearly impossible to stop, even now. Even after Jimmy's confession, and his kisses and his tender embrace.

A big part of him feared, too, that he'd arrive at the Grantham Arms only to find Jimmy gone, or that he'd never been there at all. If it hadn't been for Jimmy's note— which Thomas had reached up to touch often throughout the day— then he probably would have assumed he'd only dreamed their encounter the night before. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd had a dream like it, after all.

Baxter watched Thomas leave, where she sat with Molesley in the servants' hall. She gave him a look over her sewing, as if she knew something he didn't and was pleased for him. But of course that couldn't be so— not unless she'd seen Jimmy come or go last night, and had extrapolated based on the evidence… but that wasn't likely, surely?

But all thoughts of Baxter left him as soon as he stepped out under the darkening sky.

Jimmy is either there waiting for you, or he isn't.

Both possibilities had his heart fluttering unpleasantly, his stomach in knots. He simply had no idea what was about to happen. There were all those memories he had of Jimmy, and then there was last night and the tears and the kiss… and Thomas knew full well the danger he was in. He didn't want to hope, not again, and yet it filled him up anyway until he was utterly petrified.

But no matter what happens now, Thomas reminded himself. I won't use those drugs again. I won't try to change me nature. I am who I am. And anyway, I made someone a promise, didn't I?

Though still sick with anxiety, Thomas took some comfort in that.

It was still too soon when he found himself approaching the inn just as the sun sank behind the gabled roofs.

He paused in the street, and reread Jimmy's note one more time. Then he steeled himself and went in. He gave his name to the wizened innkeeper and was directed to one of the smaller rooms upstairs, where the old man mercifully left him alone at the door.

Thomas took in a shaky breath, his mouth dry as paper. All this seemed to have happened with alarming speed, he thought helplessly. Honestly, shouldn't he still be back at Downton having breakfast? How could he have gotten here so quickly? How had the day passed without him noticing? Damn, but he wished he'd thought to have a cigarette before he'd left. His nerves felt ready to snap.

He raised an unsteady hand to knock anyway, but Jimmy opened the door before his hand fell, spilling a wave of hot air over Thomas and into the hall.

Jimmy was barefoot, and dressed down to an undershirt and trousers. His gold hair was a tumbled wreck over his brow, nothing like his usual fastidious styling, and his skin was flushed in the blazing heat. Though his mouth was firm and grave his dark blue eyes were a little unsure, a little anxious. And he was unquestionably, unreasonably beautiful. Thomas looked at him and wondered if human hearts could simply give out from sheer exhaustion.

Wordlessly Jimmy took his wrist, drawing him inside the room's boiling inferno. He shut the door behind them and turned the lock, taking Thomas's hat and jacket for him and hanging them up on the coat rack, bizarrely solicitous.

The reason for the stifling heat became plain when Thomas noticed the large fire burning in the grate. Had Jimmy mistaken it for midwinter, and not late spring?

Thomas didn't know what to say except to ask about the heat, so he kept his mouth shut. Jimmy didn't say a word either, and left him quickly to pull something out from under the bed.

It was Thomas's box, the one with the treatment in it. He hadn't even known Jimmy'd taken it last night, and the sight made him flinch in unwelcome surprise.

"Jimmy, why—?"

Jimmy didn't answer, he just pushed the box into Thomas's hands, and Thomas took it on reflex. Then Jimmy gripped him by the shoulders and turned him bodily to face the fire in the hearth and suddenly he understood.

Jimmy had taken the box from him, and had lit the huge fire so he could destroy it himself. He hadn't been joking, last night, when he'd told Thomas to burn it.

Heart squeezing tight, Thomas only hesitated a moment before tossing the whole thing into the bright orange flames. It caught fire instantly and began to blacken at the edges. The sight made something hard and cold in his chest— something he hadn't realized was still there— loosen and let go. Behind him, he heard Jimmy exhale in a rush.

"I were going to do it myself," Jimmy admitted. "And damn you if you were angry afterwards. But I changed me mind. Thought you should do it, for— for you. Or something."

He sounded awkward and uncertain, and Thomas had never loved him more.

"Thank you, Jimmy," he said softly.

Jimmy's hands gentled their grip on his upper arms. "Can I…?" he asked, strangely tentative.

Thomas nodded, and he felt Jimmy sigh and lean into his back, his arms coming around to encircle Thomas's chest. It was unbearably, painfully sweet, to be held by Jimmy Kent. Always knew it would be, too, Thomas thought. He had to brush away tears after a time, but it was all so very good, nonetheless.