"The secrets we keep"
Thommy.
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After Thirsk, despite their newfound friendship, Thomas is still madly infatuated. And Jimmy, because of their newfound friendship, learns things he shouldn't have. It's hard to keep things close to your heart when your heart is in your sleeve and you haven't even noticed.
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Tags:
Slow burn, gay panic, some angst, fluff, more angst.
Definitely internalized homophobia and period-typical attitudes.
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Brace yourself. This is a LONG one. Lots of internalized homophobia start here. Like, lots.
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Doing away with the formatting warning now. Just. Uhh... Spanglish.
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September, pt. I
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A month later, things had eased back into routine. Not out of any resolution or amendment on Jimmy's part, but out of necessity for the house to run proper; Mrs Patmore and Daisy simply couldn't do their work without ever talking to the first footman. Anna was too considerate, Mr Bates too polite, and the other staff, even if they could be much of a gossip, never figured out enough about the altercation to be able to shun Jimmy any longer.
In a way, Jimmy felt the distance from Mr Barrow had helped him a bit. The more Mr Barrow avoided him, the guiltier he felt. The guiltier he felt, the angrier he got. The angrier he got, the easier it was to fake joviality and disinterest on a topic that, really, he shouldn't care for as much as he did.
In response to Mrs Patmore's gossip, he'd changed tactics; gone from a quiet, haunting ghost in Mr Barrow's vicinity to a true little poltergeist, loud and busy and incredibly obnoxious. "If he won't talk to me, I'll ignore him and move on". But the truth is, Jimmy knew being obnoxious and pretending nothing had ever happened had a double purpose: diverting unwanted attention from the staff, while hopefully pushing Mr Barrow into paying him some. If he could exasperate the man to the point of confrontation, well, everybody knew Mr Barrow barely ever let go of the things he was pissed about.
Unfortunately, he was annoying Alfred more than anyone else with his new attitude.
- You're doin' it again – he'd grumbled as they polished silver in the servants' hall.
- Doin' what? – Jimmy asked, only half interested as he raged battle against the tiniest, most stubborn of stains on a steak knife.
- Bein' weird about Mr Barrow – Alfred said -. It's becoming quite the headache, y'know?
Jimmy scoffed, defensive. He focused his attention even harder on the tiny stain, determined not to let the comment get to him. That could spark gossip.
Alfred was looking at him intently, the strangest of expressions on his face.
- I think you had more of a chance t'patch things up when you were all contrite than now that you're doin'… well, whatever this is.
Jimmy tossed his cleaning rag on the table, exasperatedly looking back at his friend.
- I didn't do anythin'! Why's everyone always on my back about Mr- - -?
- You made a mistake, Jimmy – Alfred stopped him. He had never looked more serious in his life -. I've made some of me own, that I won't hide, but I wasn't makin' a circus about it afterwards.
- A circus?
- It's like you're doin' everything in your power to be everyone's gossip at all times. You're insufferable, mate. No wonder Mr Barrow and Ms Elise are keepin' distance.
Jimmy felt a metaphorical punch in the gut. He got up, cheeks burning with shame and rage. "Well – he said -, you would know about bein' insufferable". Then he left.
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"You're making a circus, and now you're angry with your best mate. Way to go, James".
Bedtime had come and gone, so had midnight, and still Jimmy couldn't sleep. He'd been tossing and turning around, hot and cold at a time, unable to bear the weight of the blankets but disliking it when he kicked them off. He was, truly and unavoidably, a victim of insomnia.
He groaned and sat up, scratching the back of his head and massaging his temples. In his mind echoed the words others had used to describe him: proud, insufferable, heartless… It all led him to the disillusioned expression in Mr Barrow's eyes as he accused him of something that had never happened, and his heart stung. He felt a mess, and he knew he was turning everything around him into one as well. He didn't remember ever feeling this confused in his life. "I need to talk to him".
Therein lied the problem. How would he manage? Alfred was right, he was burning bridges. Ms Elise would definitely not help him, and Mr Barrow would surely take no other intermediaries. Maybe if he tried talking to him directly? One more time? Somewhere more private?
Jimmy paused. His room was dark, fresh and quiet, but he knew it to be an illusion: every drawer hid a mess, every corner a secret. Much like himself, the exterior may seem neat but underneath reigned the chaos.
He couldn't take it any longer, he was beginning to hate himself for it. Two years ago, when Mr Barrow had sneaked into his room, he would have given anything to get rid of him and forget about it. He did try, of course. Except, it was never really him who'd wanted to do those things, was it? He'd been riled up against Mr Barrow, tricked by O'Brien into making private matters public (as they always ended up being in Downton), needing to act one way or another so as to avoid the slightest possibility of suspicion by association.
It had angered him to think people would see him a certain way, but he'd refused to admit where the anger came from back then. It wasn't Mr Barrow who disgusted or scared him, no, it was the second it took him to react, that one-second-too-long moment of hesitation. It wasn't the stolen kiss, or the subtle touching… it was his own willingness to let them happen. He'd convinced himself that he was enduring it to stick to O'Brien's advice and keep his job. He found safety in the idea of discomfort and disgust. But now he pondered, how much had he really endured? How much of that had he actually suffered through?
Whatever the answer was, it had been easy to hate on Mr Barrow. Until now.
Jimmy sighed, resigned. If there was one thing he had learned in the year that had gone by since Thirsk, is that he wasn't really repulsed by Mr Barrow, but he might very well be so by himself. Mr Barrow was who he was, alright, but Jimmy had always been Jimmy, and Jimmy was not that.
Why was he losing sleep over the chasm between him and Mr Barrow, then? Why did he yearn for his attention now that he'd lost it? Why had he unknowingly flirted and led him on, and then knowingly kept him around for so long? "Why did I kiss him?"
He was so confused; feeling hate and fear and pain so deeply…
How could he consider himself to still be himself if this crucial part of him were about to change? Not that it would, of course. But what if…
Sure, he'd done those things, but he hadn't liked them. And he for sure wouldn't like them if they were to happen again. It must have been time that tinted (tainted) his memories so. Remembrance was a dangerous, confusing thing. Reminiscences.
"If it happened all over again, I'd walk away. I'd run". Like Mr Barrow had run from the duke that one night.
Well, there was an idea. Surely he could deal with that, prove things to be right, not wrong, once and for all. He knew how this story ended. It was brilliant. Or maybe just desperate.
Forcing himself to act instead of think, Jimmy crossed the corridor that separated his door from Mr Barrow's, barefoot and quiet. He slowly turned the knob and stepped inside. Mr Barrow's bedroom was really dark, but he knew him to be a light sleeper. Most high-ranking staff were.
Standing with his back against the closed door, both hands still resting on the knob just in case, Jimmy called in a whisper.
- Mr Barrow? Are you awake?
Mr Barrow shot up in a second, alarmed and confused. Jimmy was relieved he hadn't tried to get close or he might have been taken for a robber.
- Mr Barrow?
- Jimmy? – he mumbled, incredulous.
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It was the first time Thomas had spoken Jimmy's name in weeks. He wouldn't have, really, had he not been still half-unconscious. He reached for the side table and fumbled until he lit up a candle. The light was not very bright, yet it blinded him all the same.
Jimmy was standing against his door, barefoot, his undershirt clinging to his chest due to sweat and his hair undone, falling in loose waves over his forehead. He looked beautiful, almost golden in the candlelight. Thomas reprimanded himself for thinking so.
- What're you doing here? – he hissed. Now he was fully awake he remembered to feel angry.
- I need you to do something for me.
The lad walked towards the bed and sat on the edge, his face neutral, his tone nothing but business. There was an arrogance to his voice that Thomas found almost off-putting. He was so out of his depth that he pulled back.
- I can't sleep – said Jimmy, annoyed -, I can't… live with myself like this, Mr Barrow. I'm so confused.
- I've no idea what you're talking about – Thomas had an inkling, to be sure, but he wasn't going to be stupid enough to assume the same thing twice, no matter how many years had passed.
- You've got to kiss me, Mr Barrow.
- What?
- I need you to kiss me so that when I despise it, I can hate you for it and go back to the way things were – he declared matter-of-factly -. You've got to do this for me, Mr Barrow.
- So that you can hate me?
- To get back my peace of mind – Jimmy shrugged, nonchalant, as if he was stating the obvious.
Oh, this one did it. Mr Carson had once described Jimmy as a "self-absorbed peacock", and it'd taken two years but finally Thomas had come to realize he'd been right. Jimmy was a selfish, cruel, entitled peacock indeed.
Thomas pushed his blankets aside, hot rage boiling in his blood.
- And what about my peace of mind, James? What about my feelings? The last time- - -!
- Well, this time I'm in your room and Alfred's snoring like a bear next door – Jimmy sneered -. Doubt you'll get fired for this.
He laughed? He'd just asked Thomas to volunteer his heart to be broken, and he laughed?
Oh, how Thomas hated him then.
- I'm simply asking- - -
- I know what you're asking. The answer's no – Thomas got up and headed for the door. Surely Jimmy would need all the help to find it -. Now get out.
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But Jimmy was not going to be refused.
In a moment that lasted an eternity inside his head, he decided that he would absolutely get his way. Mr Barrow had feelings for him, strong ones. He must have or Jimmy wouldn't have gotten away with so much for so long. He may have been hurt and resentful for the last month, but he'd just confessed to still be wrapped around Jimmy's finger. And, just as Ms Elise had implied that one time, Jimmy could ask anything of him and get it.
And he would.
He was ready to be cruel.
He reached out for Mr Barrow's hand before he made it to the door, freezing him in place with that one single gesture. It was his wounded hand. Jimmy had never seen the scar.
- Please – Jimmy didn't ask it. He demanded it, entitled, smug -. Please, Thomas.
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Thomas' wall of certainties fell down in an instant, his dignity and self-respect shattered.
His eyes went glassy, the pain of that one stolen kiss returning fresh and agonizing.
- Thomas – Jimmy insisted, his voice suddenly sweet.
He couldn't deny it. His name was a spell on Jimmy's lips.
Thomas closed his eyes and gulped, a knot of repressed, agonizing love forming in his throat.
- One quick kiss – he agreed.
Jimmy nodded.
Thomas stood in front of him, leaning down until their heads were at a height. When he placed his hands on the edge of the bed for support, to both sides of Jimmy's legs, he came so close that Jimmy actually recoiled a little. He looked so uncomfortable that Thomas' heart sunk.
"You don't want this – he realized -. You're sober and you don't want this. That's why you're here".
- At least close your eyes. Give me that little dignity – he said in a low, pained voice.
Jimmy closed his eyes with a frown.
Thomas breathed in deep, then placed a quick, gentle kiss on Jimmy's lips. Barely a brush.
He immediately pulled away and turned his head down, unable to bear the sight of Jimmy's grimace any longer. The lad had come here with an end result in mind, and no matter what he did or didn't do, Thomas knew Jimmy would walk out with the exact confirmation he wanted.
There was a moment of silence so prolonged that it forced Thomas to look up.
Jimmy stared at him with an undecipherable expression. And just when Thomas thought he'd be finally met with disgust and rejection, Jimmy pulled him into another kiss.
This one was passionate, filled with need. Jimmy threw his arms around Thomas' neck, let himself be pushed down on the bed. Thomas got a soft whimper out of him with his tongue, his hands finally burying in that soft, golden hair.
It was glory.
It was ecstasy.
Until Jimmy started to cry.
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Thomas pushed away immediately, alarmed. Jimmy's beautiful face had turned to a rictus of tortured agony. He sat back up, covering his mouth with both hands.
- It shouldn't be like this – he sobbed -. I shouldn't like this. This is wrong!
- Jimmy, I- - -
Thomas tried to embrace him, to comfort him, but Jimmy pulled away.
- No! Don't touch me. I don't want this! I can't want this!
He dashed for the door and vanished, leaving Thomas in absolute misery, standing alone in his room.
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Jimmy grabbed his chair and used it to bolt the door from the inside, his emotions on hiatus just long enough to coordinate brain with hand. He walked backwards to his bed, as if afraid that looking away would open the door and let Thomas (no, Mr Barrow) through. When he finally sat down, he buried his face in his hands and let himself bitterly weep.
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How could he pretend nothing had happened, when the whole story was written in his face? The reflection in the mirror showed him a broken man, with broken hopes and a broken heart. Jimmy hadn't felt this miserable since he resolved he would not go to Paris with Lady Anstruther's entourage.
But Downton had no time for broken hearts nor devastating, life-shattering revelations.
Since he'd wept and sobbed until he fell asleep, naturally Jimmy had slept in, and now Alfred was knocking on his door insistently, wondering what was wrong. At least it was not Th- - -Mr Barrow.
Jimmy moved the chair and Alfred almost fell face first into his room when the door gave in under his weight.
- It's so late, what happened? – he was genuinely concerned. Seeing Jimmy's face did nothing to appease his worries - I… last night… Did you cry- - -
- I'll skip breakfast – said Jimmy, his voice hollow -. Tell Mr Carson I'll be ready for upstairs, he needn't worry.
- Alright, I will.
Jimmy closed the door on Alfred's face.
When the red-head chap turned around, Mr Barrow was watching from his door, but he moved on as soon as they crossed looks.
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It was of little solace, of course, but at least tensions running high between him and Mr Barrow had become so common that no one remarked on it for the day.
Jimmy was avoiding him like the plague. How could he see him in the eye when he knew this was all his doing? When he hated himself so much for it?
He'd wanted to clear his doubts and clear as crystal they were now. That the final result had been the exact opposite of what he was hoping for was simply unfortunate. Moreover, it was cursed.
The night before played in his head again and again: his stubbornness, his surprise. He'd felt Mr Barrow's lips against his and it was warm and all-consuming. It wasn't hate that filled him but desire, like a long-suffered thirst that was met with the sound of a singing stream. One kiss didn't feel enough. "Maybe one more, to confirm – he'd foolishly thought -. This time I'll hate it". He'd been lying to himself: he didn't hate it in the slightest.
But then he couldn't let himself just like it either. It was wrong, it was shameful.
"I didn't like it – he swore to the mirror while he shaved -. I actually didn't. I can't. I won't".
And he wouldn't. He really, really wouldn't.
So there he was, avoiding Mr Barrow like the plague.
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They finally crossed paths in the linens room. Thomas had been waiting for a chance to talk all day long, despite Jimmy's insistence to escape him. He finally managed to catch him alone, pretending to look for some soap while Jimmy picked up his laundry.
There it was, the moment of truth. Thomas had been sure he would have so much to say when the time came, he'd even rehearsed it in his head, but now he was already there, next to Jimmy, waiting silently and patiently for the maid in the corner to finish her ironing and leave, he found his words freezing in his throat.
Jimmy had cried. He had cried in his arms. Thomas knew what he had to be going through and he didn't want to make it worse.
He took a deep breath in preparation, but even that gesture Jimmy brusquely cut off.
- There's no need to talk about it – he said, without looking away from his clean, neatly folded bed sheets.
- We can't simply pretend nothing happened.
- I can.
- Well, I cannot. Jimmy, you near got me fired for coming into your room that time, you accused me of doing so a second time, and then you just walked into mine.
They continued to not face each other. Jimmy breathed deep, in and out, clearly mortified.
- I shouldn't have. I'm sorry – his voice sounded so small it almost didn't seem his.
Thomas turned to look at him then, and it pained him so deep into his soul to see Jimmy like that: quiet, uncertain, afraid.
- How long have you felt like this? – Thomas asked, his voice a whisper.
Jimmy insisted on avoiding eye contact.
- I don't… feel like anything – he said. He was clearly trying his best to sound neutral and light-hearted, but despite his best efforts his voice trembled. Thomas couldn't take his eyes off him.
- You don't?
There was a pause during which Jimmy must have run through a thousand responses in his mind.
- I just want to forget about it – he said at last -. It's not happening again, alright? I was wrong – now Jimmy dared look straight into Thomas' eyes -. This is wrong.
"You are wrong, is what you mean". Thomas was familiar enough with that accusing tone, he'd heard it too many a time from people calling him twisted, wicked, foul. He looked away, mildly upset. It required him some effort to redirect the conversation.
- What were you wrong about, Jimmy? – his words had the desired effect on the lad, who blinked in confusion - You said "I was wrong". Wrong about what?
Truth is, Thomas knew the answer already, but he needed to hear Jimmy say it. Evidently he'd hit the nail on the head, for Jimmy blushed hard and stammered, unable to reply.
- Do you hate me? – Thomas went on. They were both surprised when the answer came near immediately.
- No.
Finally they were looking into each other's eyes, tension and confusion all manifest in their faces.
- Then what was last night about? – insisted Thomas - Why did you- - -
- I don't know – Jimmy cut him off.
- But you must know. There's got to be something, if you came into my room- - -
- I don't know.
With every word Thomas said, their eyes turned glassier. Jimmy was so clearly overwhelmed, but Thomas needed him to answer. Any answer. He took a step towards Jimmy, saw him gulp, his lower lip trembling.
- And that time after the fair…?
- I don't KNOW, Thomas, I- - -
Suddenly the door opened, forcing them to back away from each other. Mr Carson looked rather baffled to find them there.
Thomas swiftly regained his composure and grabbed a random bottle of suds.
- Well, here it is. So next time you know where to find it – he said with a fake smile and a stilted voice, before walking out of the room under Mr Carson's disapproving eyes.
Mr Carson then focused his inquisitive look on Jimmy, who turned pale, grabbed his linens and hurried out of the room as well.
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When Ms Elise came down after her Ladyship went to dinner, she crossed paths with Jimmy on the service stairs. He was unusually quiet, in a soft, antsy manner. It wasn't the loud remorse of previous occasions, when he was clearly vying for sympathy and attention. This was a sadness so deep that it made her stop to look at him as he walked past her without really seeing her. There was something so familiar in the heaviness the lad carried around, in the silent pain of his eyes. It gave her ample fuel to ponder.
Thomas had been unusually quiet as well, too preoccupied with something so important he'd made himself scarce during the day, even to her. But now she had good idea and good reason to pull him aside for a conversation.
- Let's go for a smoke – she said to Thomas when she saw him sitting quiet in the servants' hall, pretending to read the paper.
He looked at her confused, and she raised her eyebrows at him.
- I feel like trying a cigarette. Let's go – she insisted.
Then Thomas caught her meaning and stood up while taking the cigarette packet out of his pocket. They walked across the noisy hallway and went for the back door in the quick pace that she marked.
- Well, now you have to tell me what it is, because something clearly happened – she inquired as soon as they were out of earshot -. You haven't said a word all day, and James is looking like…
- Like he stole into my room and kissed me? – confessed Thomas, leaning his head down to light his cigarette.
Ms Elise was shocked. Wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock.
- I was more surprised than you are – said Thomas.
- Clearly not as surprised as he is. He looks miserable today. When was this?
- Last night.
He didn't feel like giving more details, overwhelmed as he still felt by everything. There was also a part of him that knew Jimmy would not appreciate it if he went around divulging the story of their midnight encounter.
- So he is interested – understood Ms Elise with a sad sigh.
She leaned against the wall, next to Thomas, and looked at the night sky.
- Why do young men lie? – she whispered to herself in an ironic tone.
- You're not telling me you knew all along.
- Oh, no. I was not familiar enough with him to tell, and he is so… prone to uncharitable interpretations.
- You never liked him.
- And you always liked him too much – Ms Elise paused for a moment -. And now he likes you back.
Thomas was quick enough to correct her.
- Wouldn't go that far.
- How else do you call this, Thomas?
- He's confused.
- Alright, you know this better than me – she conceded -. Have you talked about it? Properly?
- You think I'd be like this if we had? – Thomas took a drag so deep he almost burned half his cigarette in one sweep. He, too, looked miserable, much as he tried to hide it.
- He must feel something, and be absolutely terrified of it. My brother was too – she added in a murmur.
Suddenly, Thomas threw his cigarette to the floor and stomped on it, running a hand through his hair. He turned and paced like a caged animal, trapped within his mind.
- I need to talk to him – he said, desperation dripping in his voice -, but if I press too hard, I fear I'll push him away.
Ms Elise placed her hand on his arm, firmly, holding him still. Thomas inhaled deep.
- Then be patient – she told him -, and gentle, very, very gentle. Give him time.
- Time to change his mind?
Thomas' voice broke down, he couldn't help it. It prompted Ms Elise to hug him, softly rubbing his back and whispering comforting platitudes, like she might once have done for her brother. And even if that didn't make Thomas feel any better about Jimmy, it did make him feel less alone.
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How Jimmy wished there was somebody to hold him in his time of need. He hadn't missed his parents this much in years. He felt alone, and hopeless, and so, so lost. What would his mother say? Would she whisper his name in the sweetest of voices? Cup his face and kiss his forehead despite his protests? And his father? Would he pat his shoulder, tell him everything would sort itself out? Would he get along with Thomas?
"No, Mr Barrow".
Safe to say, Jimmy felt as if he sleepwalked the whole dinner. He was there, but he really wasn't. His every move was automatic and stiff, his semblance empty. Alfred looked at him extremely concerned, but Mr Carson didn't seem to mind so long as he did his job.
The conversation at dinner sounded muffled and distant in his ears. More noise than words.
- Robert, I've been thinking most carefully – said Lady Grantham -. I think I want a garden.
- We have a garden – Lord Grantham replied.
- No, we have a lawn. I want a cottage garden, behind the house. With rose arches and tree paths, and a shrub maze.
- Oh, a maze would be so much fun! – said the Lady Rose.
- A maze? – exclaimed the Dowager Countess - Who have you been talking to?
- Well, Ms Elise paints such vivid descriptions when she talks about the viennese gardens. And everyone is planting a garden these days.
- Not anyone I know – mumbled the Dowager Countess.
- Would it not be charming? To have George and Sibby grow up running amidst flowers, playing hide-and-seek? A garden has such a unique charm that a greenhouse simply lacks.
- If that is what you want, dear – said Lord Grantham, smiling to his wife. Then he turned to Mr Crawley -. Is it doable, Matthew?
Mr Crawley exchanged a quick look with Mr Branson.
- I think it might. The farms took off nicely this year, we're having a great harvest. We may not get the results of an austrian palace, but…
- Oh, I'll settle for something small, Matthew, I promise – said Lady Grantham with a smile.
- It'll take time – added Mr Branson.
- We still have a couple of years before the children need their garden to play in – added Lady Edith.
- I'll look into it – promised Mr Crawley -. We won't be able to do much until after the snows, though.
- Why bring this up now, mamma? – asked the Lady Mary - Spring is a long way.
- To be truthful I thought your father would be considerably harder to convince. I'd planned on insisting on it for months.
The heartfelt laughter that erupted through the table felt alien and incomprehensible to Jimmy. The only word he really caught from the conversation was maze, and that he wholeheartedly agreed with.
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"Are you sick?" Alfred asked non-stop for a full week. Every single time Jimmy denied it, but it made no difference in wiping the concerned expression off Alfred's face. He was kind enough not to inquire any further, not to mention anything else, and for that Jimmy was grateful. Still, it was exhausting to live day and night with the fear hanging over his head on whether or not Alfred (or anyone else, really) would find out about his heartache being connected to Mr Barrow's. Jimmy was trying his best not to catch anyone's attention, yet he knew his behaviour had to be doing everything but: he stuck out like a sore thumb. He didn't even have it in him any more to smirk or sneer or joke. He felt an empty shell, hollow.
And he couldn't sleep, because every time he closed his eyes, he saw Mr Barrow's face, felt Mr Barrow's lips.
He could manage his work well enough, at least, and somehow made it through with blunt efficiency and a fake smile for the lot upstairs. The only semblance of a consolation he had in that time was that Mr Carson seemed to like the quiet version of him (all diligence with none of the attitude) a lot better.
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Honestly, Jimmy, what were you expecting? Not to like it? You're in a fanfic, sweetie!
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Listen. Listen. I know Downton Abbey doesn't really do friendships and that Jimmy and Alfred probably hated each other's guts in a reprise of Thomas vs William character archetypes until both were kicked out of the show (haven't watched past season 3, remember? And will never), BUT the first ever Thommy fic I ever read was "Were you caught, stumped or bowled, or what?" by BillieJ on ao3 and they became friends in that one and you know what? I saw the light. That fic shaped me. Jimmy needs a friend. Thomas needs several friends and a hug. I have spoken.
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See you next friday!