What happened to Thomas Barrow ⎹ Downton Abbey⎹ Explicit 18+⎹ M/M⎹ Gay ♥ FanFic⎹

A Subtle Change.

When Emma asked Thomas what would be his decision, Thomas replied he would stay on, and take care of his Lordship.

Everyone seemed very content with this decision, except his Lordship himself. His Lordship didn't like Thomas and his slick black hair, his stiff and rigid way of standing up and doing things. He wanted to grab him and shake him. And now that he felt better, he wanted to be rid of him, so he could hire his own man. Or hire no man at all. And be free to do as he pleased. Sitting alone in the garden or listening to his pretty wife play the piano. Letting his mind wonder about in his memory gardens. Drifting to a better place, a place before the war, a place where his brother would inherit and Edgar would be around, a place without bloody Thomas.

He wanted nothing else. He wanted no one else.

It would be difficult to convince his beloved Lady Westforth, so the best way would be to drive the man away. When he was not absorbed in some of his regular reveries, that's all his Lordship could think about.

Getting rid of this slimy phony man. And quick.

*

Thomas would catch his Lordship glance at him from the corner of his eyes, his pale blue delicate irises locked on him, like two shards of broken glass. He was worried. Worried his Lordship hated him. Would want to get rid of him.

Since their return from the Abbey, both her Ladyship and Thomas had noticed a subtle change. Lord Westforth didn't seem so interested in sleeping anymore, though he would still require his treatment, and though he could still be drunk before lunch. Her Ladyship was very pleased, and claimed that "that was the plan all along", but Thomas feared this small change more than anyone at Westforth Place.

His Lordship was better, and lucid, more often than not. He would just sit peacefully and read. Or sit peacefully and smoke. Or sit peacefully and listen to her Ladyship read or play the piano. He really enjoyed sitting peacefully. The only moments where he didn't seem at peace was when he took notice of Thomas. Then he would sigh, leave the room, or frown and click his tongue, as he often did when irritated. That was what would happen on the good days.

Because of the subtle change, Thomas had realised something worrisome. His Lordship was better and lucid and that was all very well, but the problem was that, when he was lucid, his Lordship was, in fact, quite an arsehole. He would make snide comments to Thomas, usually when they were alone. He would criticise his work, mock his instruction at the Abbey, jeer at him and at his "stiff manners".

Thomas would find him smoking around a corner, fumbling with his cigarette, his other hand in his pocket. "What are you doing Thomas?" He would ask slyly, jaw clenched, his gaze sharp as a knife and as deadly too. "My job, Sir," Thomas would shrug, accustomed to it. "Go on, then." His Lordship would dismiss him with a wave, a dry smile. Thomas would shake his head and bear it with patience. After all, his Lordship was demented. He probably couldn't help it. He had convinced himself that Thomas was an enemy. They was nothing to do but bear and wait. It wasn't his fault. It was never his fault.

Thomas said he would refuse to be bullied. But his Lordship was extremely handsome and borderline irresistible with his pouts and his smirks, his humming and his sexy smoking. So Thomas felt an attraction he couldn't control. Dressing and undressing his Lordship had become a nightmare. If Lord Westforth assumed with a cruel satisfaction that Thomas's quiet discomfort when he was alone with him was due to his mean remarks, his prolonged stares and his chilling habit to stand a few centimetres away from him, he wasn't necessarily wrong. Though in truth, Thomas left his Lordship's room several times with a awkward growing erection.

Thomas was obsessed with Edgar, and had looked for pictures of him in the house, but there were none. He had dreams about him, dreams where he saw his Lordship and his friend locked in a fiery embrace. He had dreams about Edgar brushing his Lordship's scar with the tip of his fingers, before leaning in a kiss.

He finally caught a glimpse of him in her Ladyship's bedroom, among her cluster of photographs. He was wearing a lieutenant's uniform, and he looked happy. He had dark hair, a broad nose, dark eyes and chiseled lips. He was quite handsome. Not as intoxicating as his Lordship, but handsome. Thomas tried to imagine those two handsome men being childhood friends and nothing else. It made him snort. "It can't be," he muttered out loud.

He wondered if her Ladyship suspected that her husband was ... not a Lady's man. The thought excited him despite his affection for her. He worked himself up, driven by hope, convincing himself that his Lordship was like him. He could think of nothing else. He nonetheless suspected things to turn dramatic soon. It was the story of his life. And it appeared just so. His Lordship couldn't stand Thomas. It was painfully obvious. Any way he tried to look at it, his childish infatuation would only bring him trouble. Another unrequited love. Or worse. There was the threat of prison.

And then there were the days when Lord and Lady Westforth were so close together that Thomas could feel his chest tighten unmercifully with jealousy. They liked to dance, to hold each other very close. He would rest his golden head on her shoulder while she would rest hers on his chest. They would entwine their fingers together and whisper to each other beautiful and sad things that Thomas couldn't hear. He would come up in the morning and find his Lordship's bed un-slept in, so he had to come down and bitterly wait for him to ring him when he would be ready, and in those moments Thomas's imagination ran wild and made him sick to his stomach.

Weeks passed in that fashion and both men were getting sour. His Lordship had been snide and mean and still Barrow was there, lurking in the shadows, dressing and undressing him with his stupid manners and his even more stupid slimy hair. His Lordship found he was getting tired of being mean. He wanted Barrow out. And to sit peacefully and remember the old days.

Thomas would take it upon himself to ignore his Lordship's cruel comments, being determined not to be separated from him, making his day's worth when their hands would brush together accidentally, when the Viscount would smile dreamily as he turned the pages of some random book, or when he was too tired to be a bully, and that he would sit on his chair while Thomas would brush his hair, absently humming a tune, and everything was quiet.

He eventually realised that his Lordship was not able to get rid of him himself, and that he benefited from her Ladyship's apparent devotion to him. She pretended not to notice her husband's insane obsession with him. She failed to hear the comments and she overlooked the stares. She claimed that if was Thomas, indeed, who made his Lordship better.

"He doesn't seem to like me much, my Lady," Thomas said once, treating her with his polite, obliging servant smile, as he was handing out her gloves.

"As a matter of fact," she replied, as she slipped her fine hand into the glove, "hate is a strong motivator. So at least when he hates you he's not being awfully sad."

This is how things were at Westforth Place until Cousin Jane decided it was time for a visit.