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novemberhush · 7 years

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Broken Windows

So I started this fic on New Year’s Day because it’s been a year now since ‘Downton Abbey’ ended and I’m still bitter about how they treated Thomas Barrow and this just came to me. Unfortunately I had to stop writing to go to work that night and it took me a while to get back into it so I’m sorry for how late in the month I’m posting this. But I figured as long as it was still January I might be able to get away with it. @makingmyownmagic @weirdglittergirl and @mr-barrows-cup-of-tea this is for you and anyone else who thinks Thomas Barrow deserved more. It’s hasn’t been beta read so all mistakes are my own. Trigger warning for brief mention of past suicide attempt.

Broken Windows

The last notes of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ were still floating tremulously in the air as Thomas slipped outside. No one batted an eyelid, of course. The old timers among the staff were long accustomed to seeing him slope off for a crafty fag and the handful of newcomers weren’t about to question the habits of Mr. Barrow, head butler.

What none of them knew, however, what none of them had ever known, was that these adjournments to the yard were often about more than just sneaking a quick ciggie. They were a retreat, not so pure and never simple, but a retreat nonetheless.

It sounded like a contradiction in terms, Thomas was aware. Going off alone to feel less alone. And yet that was the truth of it. He had known his fair share of loneliness. Christ, more than his fair share. And he longed for the closeness, the intimacy, of feeling connected to another member of the human race, and by extension, to all of humanity. But that had never happened for him, would never happen for him, he reminded himself. So when it came down to it, Thomas never felt more alone, more separate, than in the company of others.

For years it had made him bitter, having to stand by and watch as others enjoyed things he could seemingly never have. Love, friendship, understanding, the freedom to be who they were without fear of devastating consequences. Without fear of both persecution and prosecution. And he had nursed that bitterness. Fed it a drip at a time with the milk of human kindness turned sour, curdled by self-pity and self-loathing, anger, envy, scorn and contempt. Rejection. Loss. Despair. Loneliness. It all kept coming back to that word.

But life has a way of surprising us sometimes and Thomas had learned to let go of that bitterness. Had learned it only hurt him as much as it did others when it had caused him to lash out at them. Inevitably it had ended up hurting him more, pushing him even further from the embrace of his fellow man. For such a long time bitterness had felt like his daily bread, his only sustenance, but he had come to realise the only thing he had been devouring was himself.

Most people would probably think it had started with Jimmy, this thaw in the ice of his soul, but Thomas knew better. It began with the war and the suffering he had seen during his time at the front, and indeed, afterwards, back home when Downton had served as a convalescence home for the wounded. Thomas wasn’t sure if there were any atheists in foxholes, but there was certainly no one who wanted to be alone.

For a brief while, even amidst all the pain and terror and death, he had felt part of something. He had felt like a pane in the beautiful, multicoloured, stained-glass window of humanity (never mind that the window was mostly bloodstained at that moment in time), and not like the callous, cavalier boy throwing stones at the glass panes and laughing every time one smashed into its target, obliterating it to smithereens.

But, of course, eventually the horror of war had overridden the need to feel connected. Self-preservation instincts kicking in and stomping down on anything as noble and dangerous as fighting for the man next to you when the man next to you would probably see you hanged if he knew your true nature and you looked at him a little too long in a public lavatory back home. And so Thomas had raised that lighter and waited for the bullet that would take him home. He wasn’t proud of it, not then or now, but he had survived and that was the main thing.

Except now he wondered just what it was he had wanted to survive for quite so badly. Indeed he had tried to make his own exit not all that long ago, lying in the bath and watching the water turn red with blood, just like the ditchwater in the trenches after he had seen the soldier next to him lose half his head in a barrage. That day in the bath there had been no self-preservation instincts to kick in. He had just wanted to be gone. The hell they preached was waiting for him on the other side, if it actually existed, could not be as bad as the one that had been made for him here. Built by the hands of others, built with their bricks, but held together by his mortar. Hell was a dungeon and he his own jailer.

Or so it had felt. Slicing his wrists had felt like an early release. A pardon. He knew that wasn’t the case now, of course. He knew hurting yourself was no more the answer than hurting others. But what was the answer? Ah, it all came back to that one simple thing, didn’t it? Connect.

‘Only connect’, EM Forster (and Thomas had heard whispers he was one of his sort, too) had written. It sounded good, Thomas thought. Pithy and wise. But it only gave one something to strive for and no idea how to realise the goal.

Thomas had tried. Really, he had. First with Edward, but the connection had been too tenuous, the other man too weary to reach out and grab hold of Thomas’ proffered hand. Or maybe to keep hold of it would be more accurate.

Then had come Jimmy. Ah, Jimmy. The Golden Boy. Sunlight gleaming through the dirty, stained glass of Thomas’ soul, illuminating the crypt of his heart. His fragile, weary heart, so long hidden and deeply buried within him.

And there had been a connection. Thomas felt sure not even Jimmy would deny that now. But again it hadn’t been strong enough to last, at least not on Jimmy’s side. Thomas didn’t fault him for that (didn’t fault him for anything), there was no blame to be laid at his door. It was what it was, and it wasn’t to be, that was all. Jimmy had promised to write, but Thomas had known it was an empty promise, even as Jimmy himself hadn’t. He had known Jimmy would move on and he had made his peace with it. If Jimmy thought fondly of him every now and then, it was enough.

It hadn’t been for a while, though. For a while the bitterness had threatened to consume him again, making him hate himself and everyone around him with a renewed vigour. He hung his head in shame when he remembered the way he had treated poor Phyllis in the wake of Jimmy’s departure, when he had tried to change himself through useless, poisonous injections, and not reflection or self-analysis. When he refused all her attempts to connect with him, choosing instead to try to crush this gentle woman beneath his heel. But as another writer fellow had once said (Twain, was it?), “Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”

And this quiet little mouse of a woman had sprung up again every time, holding no grudge or resentment, wishing only to bring him into the fold, like the proverbial lost lamb. But he had been a wolf for so long it had been hard to change his spots. He huffed a quiet laugh at the menagerie of metaphors apparently running wild in his head. (Or was it a zoo of similes? Mr. Molesley would no doubt be able to tell him.)

Yes, Phyllis had been beaten down by life, again and again, he knew that better than most. Assuming the role of mother to her younger siblings when their own mother had died. Coping with poverty and a drunken brute of a father until the younger children were all raised and settled in positions of their own and she could escape herself. Going into service and working her way up to ladies’ maid. Only to be dragged back down by a conman named Peter Coyle, promising her the one thing she longed for most - love. Connection.

And then when he had manipulated her into stealing for him, he had deserted her and left her to face the consequences of their crime alone. She had come to Downton for a fresh start, grateful to her childhood friend Thomas for his help. And what had he done? Wallowing in his own misery, he had treated her as badly as the villainous Peter. Promising her a new beginning then holding her past over her like a weapon, waiting to cut her down if she didn’t do his will. But still she had stood firm and eventually Thomas saw someone he wanted to emulate, not eviscerate.

Not that he had seen the light or anything. There had been no light to see in his world for a very long time. Until inexplicably he found himself wanting to help some soft Southern lad with even softer eyes and had felt a spark of something deep within when he did so. Not a light exactly, but … definitely a flicker. Helping Andy out of trouble in that drinking and gambling den had made Thomas feel better about himself than he had felt in a long time. It was a good feeling. One he wanted more of.

Helping Andy secure a permanent position at Downton had provided him with another hit of something as addictive as cigarettes. Maybe this was what drove Isobel Crawley, this warm feeling of pride and satisfaction and contentment. Watching someone smile and knowing you had been instrumental in putting that smile on their face.

Of course, Thomas knew others would see it differently. See a predatory older man of a certain persuasion setting his sights on an inexperienced, unworldly younger man. But it wasn’t like that. Thomas wasn’t attracted to Andy. Well,… not at first.

He had still been too wrapped up in Jimmy to think about Andy that way when they first met. Besides, he was far too young and he wasn’t Thomas’ type.

But tastes can change. Especially once one gets to know someone, gets a glimpse of the warm, sincere, utterly human heart that beats within, laughs with them like they thought they would never laugh with anyone, and not in a cruel, mocking way, at the expense of others.

The expense of others. It seemed risible that Thomas should care so much now about doing nothing at the expense of others when so few had given him the same consideration.

It was the interference of others that had upset the equilibrium between him and Andy. He had never intended acting on his attraction. He had learned his lesson with Jimmy. But that hadn’t stopped them poking their noses in, some extracting a little revenge for past trespasses he had committed against them, others just for the hell of it, and some because they genuinely believed they were saving Andy from some terrible monster. And it had hurt how quickly Andy succumbed to their insinuations and outright accusations.

Thomas had tried not to let it show, but it leaked out of him, the ice within melting and threatening to submerge him in the cold water it left behind. Phyllis had seen him drowning, tried to throw him a lifeline, but he rejected it, full of misplaced pride and indignant at the thought anyone should think Thomas Barrow was a sinking ship.

Then something wonderful had happened. He had discovered Andy’s secret - that he couldn’t read - and while he took no pleasure in the lad’s distress and unwarranted shame, he saw a way to mend their friendship and get them back on an even keel. Late nights spent poring over the alphabet, forming words and a bond that Thomas felt sure was now unbreakable.

And then Andy’s secret had come out in front of everyone and that damned school teacher had offered to help him learn. Thomas had been happy with the suggestion - for about half a minute. Because the teacher had said their private lessons must stop, that they would only confuse Andy when he began learning with a ‘proper’ teacher. Thomas had tried to understand, tried to tell himself it didn’t matter now anyway. Their friendship had been salvaged and no longer depended on their lessons together.

But, of course, everything changed. They no longer had a secret binding them together. With that gone, plus work, lessons with the teacher and his interest in farming that Mr. Mason seemed keen to nurture, Andy no longer had time for Thomas. Literally, if maybe not figuratively, speaking. The nights had turned long and lonely once more. Lonely. That bloody word again. The spectre at the feast, always waiting to gnaw on Thomas’ bones.

He couldn’t help but notice the way Andy had seemed to start gravitating towards Daisy, too. Salt in the wound. But he tried not to wish either of them ill. Was well aware the old Thomas would have been quick to point out how neatly Andy’s interest in farming dovetailed with his interest in Daisy, a young widow in line to inherit a thriving farm. He knew, though, that was unfair. Andy was not the mercenary sort. He sought a better life for himself, yes, but he was not greedy or grasping or calculating. He did not use people. If he was after Daisy then it was because his interest was genuinely in her, and not what he could get from her.

(In the end, nothing had come of it. A few trips to the cinema and a picnic here and there, but they seemed to decide they were better as friends. This decision seemed to coincide with Thomas’ permanent return to Downton once he took over from Mr. Carson, but he refused to let himself hope that was anything other than a coincidence.)

The hits just kept coming after that, though. He couldn’t do right for doing wrong, it seemed, and he was told it would be wise to start seeking new employment. The search, however, had been a dispiriting one, and the thought he would have to leave Downton weighed more heavily on him than he had ever supposed it would. He felt himself more alone than ever, watching as others passed him by as if he had blended into the wallpaper and they couldn’t see him. All of which led him to that terrible decision and that day in the bath.

Afterwards, he had felt, well, he didn’t know what he had felt. Death wasn’t the answer, though. He knew that now. So he had dragged himself out of bed, found himself another position in another household and left Downton. He had still been miserable, of course, but he had resigned himself to the fact this was his life. It was all it was ever going to be, and it wasn’t going to change. He had accepted that, as well as the knowledge that hurting others wouldn’t make him any happier in the long run. And so he had decided to live out the rest of his life quietly, no more plotting and scheming, seeking only to keep going, to keep getting up in the morning and putting one foot in front of the other. And to not hurt others.

Maybe there really is a God, because not too long after he had made this decision he found himself back at Downton and through some miracle installed as the new head butler, taking up the position following Mr. Carson’s retirement. That had been a year ago, and now he was just coming to the end of his first Christmas in charge. It had been a resounding success, even if he did say so himself. Christmas Day had gone off perfectly, as had all the parties and dinners before and after it. The staff had worked like a well-oiled machine and done him and themselves proud, as he had not shied away from telling them.

It was funny, Thomas mused. He had always thought if he ever did find himself reaching the heady heights of head butler of Downton Abbey that he would go power mad, drunk on authority and ruling with an iron fist, making sure those below him knew exactly who was boss. Lording it over them and making life a misery for anyone who dared to step out of line. But it had come to him at a time in his life when compassion had begun to work its way into his system, when he had mellowed, matured enough in suffering to know he didn’t want to inflict anymore on anyone.

Gone soft, you daft bugger, that’s what’s happened, he thought with a wry smile. How else to explain his actions when he walked in on two of the hallboys in the boot room one day, locked in an embrace that was more than friendly?

The old Thomas would have relished the look of abject terror on both their faces, already plotting how to use this newfound knowledge about them to his advantage.

The new Thomas, however, merely warned them to find somewhere more discreet in future and when the younger of the two had cried that they had nowhere else to go, he had arranged it so they ended up sharing a room. Thomas Barrow playing Cupid, who would have thought it?

And if he had felt a pang in his chest that there had been no Eros to direct arrows of love on his behalf then he had buried it beside his bitterness and carried on. What else was there to do but endlessly carry on?

“Happy New Year,” he whispered to himself and the darkness surrounding him.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas jumped and cursed, burning his fingers on the last ember of his dwindled cigarette, startled from his reverie. The reverie he had been so engrossed in that he hadn’t heard the quiet footsteps of the young footman as he had approached.

“Christ on a bike!” he exclaimed, squinting into the night to discover the identity of the interloper. “Andy, is that you? What are you doing out here, sneaking up on people like that, you daft beggar?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrow, I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you heard me coming.”

“Scare me? You just about gave me a heart attack, my laddo!” My laddo?! Christ, I sound like old man Carson, Thomas thought to himself, somewhat amused at the idea. But all he said was, “No, I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Sorry, again,” Andy said, voice low and sounding rather forlorn now to Thomas’ ears. He cast his eyes downwards and scuffed at the ground with the toe of his shoe. Thomas refrained from remarking on the damage he was probably doing to said shoe.

He studied the lad for a moment. He seemed nervous. It was dark so it was difficult to be sure, but Thomas had the sneaking suspicion the young footman was blushing.

But why? All he’d done was startle Thomas a bit. Nothing to get red-faced about.

“Was there something you wanted?” Thomas enquired, intrigued. “Am I needed inside? Don’t tell me Mrs. Patmore’s been at the cooking sherry again!” he wisecracked, hoping to draw Andy from whatever thoughts seemed to be weighing upon him.

It half worked. Andy looked up briefly and flashed him a smile that reminded Thomas of coming back out into the sun after passing through a particularly long, dark railway tunnel, sudden and bright and breathtaking.

“No, nothing like that, Mr. Barrow. They’ve mostly all gone to bed in there.”

“Wise decision. We should probably follow suit, don’t you think? The morning will come bright and early, and a servant’s work is never done. We should rest while we can.”

“Yes, Mr. Barrow. It’s just … I just wanted to …”

“Yes? Wanted to what?”

“Wanted to say that was a really nice thing you did for Jack and Alfie,” Andy blurted out in a rush.

Thomas paused for a moment. Jack and Alfie? Ah, yes, the indiscreet hallboys. But what did Andy know of them?

“I … I don’t know what you’re talking about, Andy,” he stammered.

“It’s all right, Mr. Barrow,” Andy smiled, relaxing slightly. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“You never have to pretend with me,” he added, his voice even softer than usual. “You don’t have to protect them. I know what they are to each other and I don’t mind it. I don’t mind it one bit. I intend them no harm.”

Thomas studied him again, plainly and openly, and Andy let him do so, posture straight and open, face honest. Thomas saw no lie there.

“How did you know?” he asked. “About them, I mean.”

Andy smirked, “Let’s just say you’re not the only one who got an eyeful in the boot room.”

Thomas shook his head. “So much for being discreet!”

Andy laughed then, a sweet melody in the velvety darkness. “Don’t worry, it was before you let them room together. They have their own place now. Somewhere that’s just theirs.”

Thomas huffed a laugh of his own, tinged with a little of his former cynicism. “Aye, a tiny attic room, always draughty and with barely enough room to swing a cat.”

“Theirs, nonetheless,” Andy replied, so gently it made Thomas ache with tenderness for him. Then he frowned suddenly.

“What? What is it?” Thomas asked.

“Well, it’s just … I never did understand that expression. Why would anyone want to swing a cat??”

Thomas couldn’t help himself. A peal of laughter escaped him. And another one. And another one. He shook with it. Joy was an unusual state of being for him so he relished it while he had the chance. Andy just smiled at him, those soft eyes seeming to drink in the sight of a laughing Thomas before him, and delighting in it.

“Oh, Andy,” Thomas said, wiping tears from his eyes as he finally got his laughter under control, “you do my heart good sometimes. You really do.”

Andy stiffened. Those eyes fixed on Thomas and he felt as if they could see right through him, burning straight down into his soul.

“Do I, Mr. Barrow?” His voice was low, silky. And very, very dangerous.

Thomas could only nod, his own voice deserting him.

“I hope so. Because you do my heart good too, Thomas. And not just sometimes. All the time.”

Thomas swallowed. Thomas. Andy had called him Thomas, not Mr. Barrow. And Thomas had let him. Absently he wondered just how much booze Mrs. Patmore had put in that Christmas pudding and which of them was feeling the effects of it more.

“You’re so nice, you know. So sweet and kind,” Andy continued. Well, that answered the question of who was most affected by Mrs. Patmore’s heavy-handedness with the brandy bottle when making the Christmas pud.

“How much have you had to drink, Andy? Nice? Sweet? Kind? Not words many would associate with me, I'd venture.” Thomas attempted a wolfish grin, but could only muster a weak smile.

Andy took a step closer. Thomas took one back reflexively, self-preservation instincts kicking in once again. This was dangerous. This was very, very dangerous. He was afraid what might happen if he let Andy get too close. He was afraid what he might do. He had thought he had learnt his lesson with Jimmy. But right now all his schooling had left him.

“Well, they don’t know you very well then, do they? Not like I know you.”

He took another step forward, Thomas another back. The thought crossed Thomas’ mind that they were engaged in some strange, seductive dance. He wondered what it would be like to really dance with Andy. To dance with someone he loved.

“And I haven’t had a drop, Thomas. I promise. I know exactly what I’m saying, and who I’m saying it to. Thomas Barrow, the nicest, sweetest, kindest man I’ve ever met.”

Thomas snorted at that. “You haven’t met too many then, have you?”

“Only one that matters,” Andy responded instantly, decisively. Another step forward. Thomas took another back and hit the wall behind him. Nowhere left to go.

“You are, you know. Nice.” Another step forward. Thomas practically hugged the wall, praying he could somehow melt into it. Nice. How he would have balked at having that particular epithet applied to him before. Now he only wished he could live up to it.

“Why won’t you let me tell you how nice you are, Thomas? How sweet.” Andy’s eyes dipped to look at Thomas’ mouth. “I bet you taste sweet and all. Don’t you, you lovely man?”

Thomas couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and yet, he understood perfectly. He just couldn’t believe it.

“Give over, Andy. I probably taste more like an ashtray,” he answered, aiming for light, jovial, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

“Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out for sure,” Andy said, barely above a whisper, closing what little distance remained between them, pinning Thomas to the wall with his body.

“An- Andy! What are you … What are you doing?!” Thomas gasped out, voice strangled and choked even to his own ears.

“Something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time, but never had the nerve to before,” Andy answered, pressing closer.

“Andy, you have to stop this! It’s not too late to turn back. You don’t know what you’re doi…”

Fingertips ghosting across his lips stopped Thomas’ words in their tracks. He felt like all the air had been sucked out of his body at this one light, barely there touch.

“Do you know how often I’ve thought about kissing you? How often I’ve thought about this mouth? These lips?” Andy continued, unabashed. “What they would feel like against mine. Feel like all over my body. Around me as you lay between my legs and took me in your mouth, before I did the same for you.”

Thomas’ heart was thudding as hard as if he were back in the trenches. Fear and adrenaline flooded his veins. But he was fighting a different war this time. One against himself.

Andy’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Am I shocking you, Mr. Barrow?”

You can say that again, Thomas thought, wide-eyed, panting, sucking in huge gulps of air, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Trying to determine if this was all actually a dream. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep in the servants’ quarters, lulled into sleep by the combination of a busy week, full of long days and late nights, and an extra helping of Mrs. Patmore’s Christmas pudding.

“Did you think nice boys like me didn’t know about things like that? Didn’t think about them? You’d be surprised at all the things I think about. All the things I’ve imagined doing with you, to you. Things that could make you feel so good, Thomas. I could make you feel so good. Wouldn’t you like that, love? Wouldn’t you let me try?” Fingers trailing up from Thomas’ lips, teasing over his cheek, he slipped them into the silver at Thomas’ temple, smoothing back the hair there.

“Do you know how often I’ve dreamt of running my fingers through this hair? Of burying my face in it and just breathing in the scent of you?”

He did just that, nuzzling ever so gently against the now trembling underbutler. His warm breath caressed the shell of Thomas’ ear before he moved slightly lower and caught the lobe of his ear between his own soft lips, a moan that went straight to Thomas’ core escaping him as he did so.

Thomas heard himself whimper in response, felt his knees go weak, knew he would have hit the deck if Andy’s strong hands hadn’t closed around his waist in time, holding him up. He had never truly appreciated just how physically strong Andy was until this moment, when he realised the young footman was supporting his entire weight. God knows he wasn’t up to the task himself at present.

Then Andy’s lips, those wondrous, wonderful lips, were pressed against his ear again, and words Thomas had yearned to hear all his life, but had been sure he never would, were whispered directly into his soul.

“I love you, Thomas Barrow. More than I have ever loved anyone or anything else in my entire life. I think about you all the time. Your face, your mouth, your lips, your little pink tongue I catch a glimpse of every now and then, peeking out from behind those lips as you drink your tea or smoke a cigarette or chase a smudge of jam left behind from your toast.” Thomas could feel the smile against his ear as some scene he hadn’t even realised he’d had the starring role in clearly played out fondly in Andy’s head.

A light kiss then, to the side of his head as Andy continued to list everything he loved about the still doubting Thomas.

“Your hair’s even silkier than I imagined. Ebony shot through with silver. Like shooting stars in the night sky. I want to see how that hair would look after I’ve kissed the breath out of you and made love with you and ran my fingers through it again and again. I want to see what it would look like against my pillow. I want to see what it would look like when we lie together and I put my arms around you and you rest your head on my chest.”

Thomas was crying now. Hot tears rolling down the sharp angles of his face, dripping off his cheekbones, like rocks over the edge of a cliff. The telltale signs of a landslide waiting to happen, a flood threatening to wash away everything in its path, taking everything that had gone before with it, changing the landscape forever. Leaving something new in its wake. Something the stronger for having survived. Something ready to start living again.

“Oh, hush, now, my love,” Andy soothed, pulling back, but only a little, to take in Thomas’ weeping visage. Softly he wiped away the tears, a strong hand with a delicate touch, before placing butterfly-light kisses on both of Thomas’ eyes in turn. Eyes that fluttered open under the careful ministrations and found themselves locked in a gaze so intense Thomas felt seared through. Cool, ice blue meeting warm, earthy brown, icebergs melting in the heat of a volcano, leaving only steam in their stead.

Andy smiled. “There, that’s better,” he cooed. “Because I think about those eyes, too. Only they’re never crying in my head. They’ll never cry again if I have my way. Well, not in pain or sorrow or doubt, anyway. Only in joy. Happiness. They’ll be happy and light, they’ll wake up glad to see the sun and eager to see what the day brings. They’ll be full of fun and mischief and easy confidence. They’ll go to bed at night knowing they’re loved. I want to wake up to those eyes. I want to fall asleep staring into them, fighting with everything in me just to stay awake so I can look into them one second more, before sleep finally takes me and I tumble into dreams just to find those eyes waiting for me.”

A sob broke free of Thomas’ throat and he was pulled tight against the firm body before him.

“Do you know how I’ve longed to hold you like this?” Andy breathed, voice quiet, but no less urgent for that. “How I’ve longed to touch you, kiss you, tell you all the things you deserve to be told? I know I’m not good enough for you, Thomas. And I know I’m not Jimmy, or anyone else you may ever have loved. But I’m here, and I love you, and I want to take care of you. I want to make you happy. Do you think you could let me try, love? Do you think you could maybe love me back just a little bit? I’ll understand if you can’t, but, please, just let me look after you. Please?”

“Oh, Andy,” Thomas sniffed against Andy’s neck. “You think you like the way I look. That’s all. You don’t really love me. You don’t even really know me. If you did, you wouldn’t be doing this. You’d be getting as far away from me as you could and you’d stay there.”

“What? No! I could never leave you!” Andy let go his hold on Thomas’ body only to cup his face affectionately between his hands, eyes boring into Thomas’ as if to make them see the sincerity of his words.

“And this isn’t just about your looks! Although you are beautiful. The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Valentino and Douglas Fairbanks and John Gilbert and Ronald Colman and every other bloody film star aren’t a patch on you, Thomas! No, nor Garbo or Clara Bow or Louise Brooks either, for that matter.”

Thomas chuckled at that, unable to help himself, and Andy’s whole face lit up at the sound.

“Steady on, Andy. No need to lay it on that thick,” he mumbled, feeling himself blush at being compared to the most beautiful people in the world - and them being found wanting.

Andy shook his head and grinned, before falling serious again. “But I didn’t just fall in love with you because you’re beautiful on the outside. I fell in love with you because you’re beautiful inside too. And I know not everyone sees it. But I do. And Miss Baxter. Master George and Miss Sibby and Miss Marigold, they see it too. And children know these things.”

“Children know because they know how it feels to be ignored, to be hushed and sent away to their room, to the nursery, to boarding school, to wherever. And they know who sees them and makes time for them. Who listens to them and looks out for them and loves them. And that’s you, Thomas! They see all the good in you. All the beauty. All the love.”

“Just like I see it. Just like I saw it when you helped me out at 'The Velvet Violin’. Just like when I knew you put a good word in for me here. Just like I knew when you discovered I couldn’t read and you didn’t laugh at me or judge, but only offered to help. And you did all that without ever asking anything in return. Without expecting anything. You only ever wanted to be my friend. Even when I didn’t deserve your friendship. Even when I threw it back in your face because I was scared of what I felt for you. When I tried to make myself feel something even remotely approaching what I feel for you for Daisy and failed miserably. Well, I’m not scared anymore. Not of anything. Except losing you. Losing this chance.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Thomas sighed. “If you did, you wouldn’t ask. You’d know it’s impossible. It’s not a case of you not being good enough for me. It’s a case of you being too good. I’m trouble, Andy. I ruin everything I touch and I’d only bring you down with me.”

“No! That’s not true!”

“It is, Andy! Do you know what they say happens to my sort? They say we burn in hell! For nothing more than love! For being born a way we didn’t choose to be! I can’t condemn you to that hell with me!”

“I’m already in hell without you! Don’t you understand that, Thomas?! Every day, sitting back, watching you hold your head up high and walk tall and straight and proud. And all the time knowing how lonely you are, knowing you’re dying inside. Withering away without so much as a hand to hold or a shoulder to lay your head on. Without a tender look or a warm touch or a loving word. Without love, Thomas! And I have it all here, wrapped up inside me, all of it waiting just for you. You only have to want it! You only have to reach out and take it!”

“Don’t you think I want to?! It’s not that easy!”

“Yes! It is!”

“No, it’s not! It’s a life lived in the shadows, in fear, in a constant state of watchfulness. Wondering if anyone knows. If they’ve noticed anything. If they’re going to report you. It’s never resting easy. It’s always looking over your shoulder. Locking your door and your heart and knowing you’re done for if anyone breaks down either. It’s never letting them see where your heart lies, or they’ll burn it out of you! I don’t want that life for you, Andy.” Thomas was desperate now. Torn between what he wanted most in the world and trying to protect it. God protect me from what I want, he pleaded inwardly to a deity that had never answered his prayers before. Why should this time be any different?

“I know you’re afraid, Thomas.”

Thomas couldn’t help the cynical, cold edge to the snigger that bubbled up out of him.

“Afraid? 'Course I’m afraid. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Andy confessed in a small, broken voice. “But I’m more afraid of not trying. I know what they could do to us, Thomas. I know how we would have to live our life together, how careful we’d have to be. But we can do it. I can do anything if I’m with you.”

“I’m damaged goods, Andy. I’m a broken window, all jagged edges and only good for letting in the cold.”

“Good thing I’ve got my love to keep me warm then,” Andy replied, closing the distance between them and gently bringing his lips to Thomas’, hands still warm on Thomas’ face. Thomas found his own hands clutching frantically at Andy’s waist, holding on for dear life. Terrified that if he let go he’d just float away with this buoyant feeling that had arose in him. Or wake up to find it had all been some terrible, wonderful dream that would never come true.

“Besides,” Andy whispered against Thomas’ lips as he broke the kiss, “broken windows can be fixed.”

“But they’ll never be the same as they were,” Thomas argued, although he already knew this was an argument he was losing. He was finding it harder and harder to resist. All the fight was seeping out of him. He’d been fighting so long to survive without this and now here he could actually have it and he was still expected to fight? Why? Because other people said it was wrong? Other people who couldn’t possibly be affected by what goes on behind closed doors between two consenting adults? What was the point? Didn’t he deserve to be happy? Didn’t Andy deserve that?

Andy, who seemed so sure of what he wanted, of what he felt. Andy, whose arms were too warm and his voice too sweet. Whose eyes were too bright and his words too soft. How was Thomas to fight all that? Everything about him and what he was saying, what he was doing, what he was promising, was too close to what Thomas had always wanted, always yearned for. To what he needed.

“No, but maybe they’ll be better. And, anyway,” Andy placed another soft kiss on Thomas’ lips, “even broken windows let in the sun.”

“You’re my sun, Andy,” Thomas heard himself say. So their life wouldn’t be easy. That didn’t mean it wasn’t worth living.

“Then let me in, Thomas. Let. Me. In.” Andy punctuated the last three words with a kiss between each one.

“Andy … Andy, I …”

“Yes, love?”

“I love you, too! I love you so much! I love you. I love you. I love you,” Thomas chanted over and over again, pressing his lips to Andy’s mouth, Andy’s cheeks, his nose, his chin, his forehead, his hair, his ears, his eyes, his beautiful, beautiful eyes. To every part of him he could reach. The words 'I love you’ continuing to spill out of him, the dam broken and the torrent unabating. Now he’d said the words out loud, he wasn’t sure he could ever stop saying them.

Andy didn’t look as if that would upset him in the slightest. On the contrary, he smiled and giggled and cuddled and whispered back, “I love you, Thomas”, like he’d been saying the words every day, ten times a day, for years. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to say those words.

And maybe, just maybe, Thomas thought as his lips once again found Andy’s and they kissed the words 'I love you’ out of each other’s mouths only to return them there again later, it was.

#my fics #thomas barrow #andy parker #parkbarrow #downton abbey #fanfic

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