Work Text:
Jimmy hadn’t cried since his mother died. That was nearly ten years without tears. It hadn’t been easy, especially not during the war, but he’d made it this far, and he wasn’t going to give in now.
“Jesus, Jimmy.” Alfred’s face was paler than usual. “That looks like it hurts.”
“Of course it sodding hurts, Alfred!” The shard of glass, long and jagged like a dagger, stuck out of Jimmy’s thigh, turning the livery around it dark and wet with blood. Jimmy gritted his teeth and dug his nails into the palm of his hand, determined not to show weakness. “Just get somebody, would you?”
“Who?” Alfred’s eyebrows furrowed in concern.
“Do I look like I’m fussed? Just go!” When he’d run off, Jimmy let himself groan. Cold beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and he wiped them with the back of his hand. He sat there on the hard stone path, contemplating his own mortality, until Alfred reappeared with Mr. Barrow in tow.
Of course he’d found Mr. Barrow. Alfred was worse than useless at the best of times, and these were far from the best of times. He couldn’t have brought Mrs. Hughes, or Miss O’Brien, or even Mr. bloody Carson. He’d brought Mr. Barrow, who looked Jimmy up and down as they rounded the corner. That’s right, you old sod, Jimmy thought, irritable and in pain. Have a good look. I’m damsel in distress, at your sodding mercy. Enjoy it while it lasts.
“What happened?” Mr. Barrow’s tone was brisk, his eyes flicking over the area.
“We was…we were cleaning the greenhouse windows,” Alfred said.
Mr. Barrow frowned. “That’s not your job.”
No, we were doing it for a sodding laugh. “Mr. Carson asked us to do it,” Jimmy said. His voice wavered. He cleared his throat. “Because the gardeners are down the other end of the estate, busy with the spring planting. He didn’t think it could wait.” That was what he’d said, anyway. In truth, Jimmy and Alfred had finished everything they could possibly do while the family was away, including polishing every article of silver to within an inch of its life, and the Devil would ice-skate in hell before Carson gave them so much as an afternoon off.
“I went in, to do the other side,” Alfred went on. “And Jimmy stayed out here. I barely touched the glass, Mr. Barrow, I swear, but it popped right out.” And smashed, a large piece of it embedding itself in Jimmy.
“Let’s get him away from here. It’s not safe.” Mr. Barrow came around, glass crunching beneath his shoes. “You get his feet, Alfred.” Mr. Barrow put his hands under Jimmy’s arms and picked him up. The two of them moved him away from the greenhouse, onto a patch of soft grass. Mr. Barrow lowered him very gently to the ground, while Alfred dropped Jimmy’s legs like they were on fire.
“Jesus, Alfred!” A renewed flash of pain surged through Jimmy. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
“Sorry.”
“Go into the house,” Mr. Barrow ordered. “There’s a medical kit in the hall. Bring it back out. Quickly!” He added, as Alfred loped away. When he’d gone, Mr. Barrow turned back to Jimmy. “Some people are no good in a crisis.”
“Some people are no good any bloody time,” Jimmy replied. He shifted. The glass moved with him, sending spikes of agony through his leg. “Damn it!” He ran a hand through his hair, purely to distract himself. It didn’t work. “Excuse my language, Mr. Barrow.”
A smile came to Mr. Barrow’s narrow lips. It stayed for an instant, then it was gone. “Believe it or not, I’ve heard worse. You’ll be all right, though. You haven’t hit an artery.”
“You know that?” Of course he did. Mr. Barrow had been a medic during the war, although Jimmy had always assumed that meant he’d carried stretchers and driven ambulances, not that he possessed any actual medical skill.
“Yes. But it’ll hurt like hell when I pull it out.”
A lump formed in Jimmy’s throat. He swallowed, but it didn’t go away. “Shouldn’t you get Dr. Clarkson?”
“I can if you like, but he’ll be out on his rounds at this time of day. It’ll be a while before he can get here.” Mr. Barrow looked at Jimmy. It wasn’t the way he normally looked, all doe-eyed and soppy and pathetic. It was professional, businesslike, a doctor surveying a patient. “Do you want me to send one of the boys--”
“No.” Jimmy snapped, before he could think about it. “Just get it over with.”
Alfred came back again, this time with the medical kit. “Ivy wanted to come with me when I told her you were hurt,” he said, as he passed the kit to Mr. Barrow. “I told her it weren’t a sight for tender eyes.”
“Mr. Barrow’s here, isn’t he?” Jimmy didn’t mean the words, and he regretted them as soon as they were out of his mouth. They were cruel and unnecessary, especially given that Mr. Barrow was trying to help him. “I’m sorry…” He began, but Mr. Barrow shook his head dismissively. That made Jimmy feel even worse.
It didn’t last long. “Take off your trousers,” he said, and Jimmy stared.
“I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Barrow looked at him, dead in the eye. “Jimmy, I’ll ask you again. Do you want me to send one of the boys to fetch Dr. Clarkson?”
“No.” Jimmy didn’t like Clarkson. He’d never had much to do with him, particularly, but whenever he came to tea he looked at Jimmy like he thought himself a cut above, like one of the family, which was rich for a country doctor.
“Then take off your trousers, as much as you’re able.” Mr. Barrow reached into the medical kit and pulled out a large pair of shears. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
Jimmy had never been so humiliated in his life. No, that wasn’t true. The moment he’d realized everybody—Lord Grantham, Mr. Bates, Mrs. Hughes, even Peter the bloody hall boy—knew what had happened with Mr. Barrow and thought he was the same, an aberration of nature, was the most humiliating of Jimmy’s life. This, lying on the grass beside the greenhouse, bare below the waist except for his drawers, his socks and his sock garters, was a very close second.
“Mr. Carson’s not going to be pleased.” Alfred looked at the mound of cut-up trousers beside them. The only scrap of fabric remaining on Jimmy was the bit speared there by the shard of glass, skewered like a butterfly in one of Lady Anstruther’s display cases. Jimmy felt like that, too, pierced by Mr. Barrow’s considering gaze.
“I’ll tell him it was a matter of life and death,” Mr. Barrow said. He rooted around in the kit. Anxiety, which until now had been overridden by pain, bloomed in Jimmy.
“You said it’s going to hurt.” It was a statement, not a question, but Mr. Barrow nodded. He glanced over again, from where he was gathering clean white bandages. This time there was a softness in his eyes. Jimmy would normally have been disgusted by it. Instead, a warm sensation touched Jimmy, and he felt almost comforted.
Again, it didn’t last long. “You should hold Alfred’s hand,” Mr. Barrow said.
“Not bloody likely. I don’t want him anywhere near me. He’ll only find some way to make it worse.”
“I said I were sorry…”
“Go stand over there, Alfred.” Mr. Barrow indicated a spot half a dozen yards away. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”
Alfred plodded away, shoulders slumped as if this was some great slight.
“Do you want to bite down on a stick or anything?” Mr. Barrow offered. The thought was disgusting.
“No. I can do it.” Jimmy was a man. “Just…don’t tell me when it’s going to happen.” The anticipation would be worse than the reality, it always was.
“All right.”
“Good.” Jimmy nodded. His heart was pounding, beating faster than it had since that night nearly a year ago when Jimmy had surfaced from sleep to find a man in his bed. To find this man in his bed. “I’m closing my eyes.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can, Jimmy.”
“Just do it.” Jimmy screwed his eyes shut. A second later, he was split with the most gut-wrenching, body-wracking pain he’d ever felt.
Jimmy’s eyes flew open, but his vision was blurred. Tears coursed down his face like he was a child and, just like like a child, he craved comfort. He reached out, blindly. Mr. Barrow was there, pulling Jimmy against him with one arm as he firmly pressed a wad of bandages against Jimmy’s thigh with the other. Safe in Mr. Barrow’s strong embrace, Jimmy let himself cry, tears of pain and of shock and of sheer bloody embarrassment. He forgot about everything else; nothing else mattered. Mr. Barrow’s cheek rested against the top of Jimmy’s head, his voice resonating through Jimmy when he spoke.“You’re all right. Don’t be frightened.” The words flowed over Jimmy like honey. “You’re all right, Jimmy.”
Of course he was. He was fine, and he was acting like an utter ninny. Jimmy sat up abruptly. Mr. Barrow moved away at once, keeping his hand on the rapidly reddening bandages.
“You did it.” Jimmy didn’t know why he should feel so surprised. The shard of bloodstained glass was out, on the grass beside him, and the agonizing pain had been replaced by a duller, more tolerable throb. “You actually did it.”
“I know my business.” A touch of haughtiness came to Mr. Barrow’s tone. Jimmy smiled.
“Clearly you do.” Jimmy had never doubted Mr. Barrow’s abilities in the house. Despite his utter lack of decency or common sense, Mr. Barrow was clever. Jimmy had always known he could do his job, that he could bow and scrape and serve with the best of them, but this was something else, a new side of Mr. Barrow—Thomas, his brain put in, for no reason Jimmy could discern—that Jimmy hadn’t suspected.
Thomas picked up another length of bandage. “Hold that there,” he instructed, authoritatively, and Jimmy put his own hand against the wad of fabric at his thigh. Thomas wrapped the bandage around and around, securing it with a pin. “I need to put in a couple of stitches, but we can do that inside.”
“Stitches?” Jimmy’s heart seized.
“Nothing you can’t manage, Jimmy.” Thomas smiled and, despite himself, Jimmy was reassured. It was astonishing, how quickly it happened. He’d never expected Thomas to have a bedside manner. Not a medical one, in any case, he thought, wryly. “We’ve got through the worst of it now.”
Maybe we have. Jimmy was deluged by thoughts. They bombarded him from all directions like artillery fire, but he couldn’t articulate a single one.
"I’m sorry,” Jimmy said, at last, as Thomas reached out to help him up. He let Jimmy stand on his own. It was Jimmy who steadied himself against Thomas’ sturdy body, wrapping an arm around Thomas’ waist and leaning into his warmth.
“Don’t be. You’re an excellent patient. You didn’t even vomit on me.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Not because of that.” Alfred was there, hovering, but as far as Jimmy was concerned, he and Thomas were alone in the world. He looked up, meeting Thomas’ gaze. “Thank you.” Their faces were in such near proximity that Jimmy could have leaned up just a scant few inches and kissed Thomas, if he’d had a mind to. He didn’t have a mind to, of course, not at all, but he was suddenly curious what would happen if he did, how Thomas’ mouth would feel, what he would do with his hands. Whether Jimmy would have to take the lead or whether Thomas would be the strong one once again, the one Jimmy could lean on.
A blush rose to Thomas’ cheeks, as if he could hear what Jimmy was thinking. Jimmy should have been humiliated by that, but he found, strangely, that he didn’t mind.
“I’ll go tell Mrs. Patmore,” Alfred said. “She’ll give you all sorts of treats when she hears what happened.”
“She’ll have to wait until I get some trousers on,” Jimmy replied, but Alfred was already gone.
“I don’t know,” Thomas said. His voice was unsteady, strangely, but he nevertheless smiled again.“Maybe you could start a new fashion trend.” It was a weak joke, a non-joke, but Jimmy laughed anyway. Thomas put an arm around his shoulders. As he guided Jimmy into the house, Jimmy found himself wondering, in an idle sort of way, what other previously unseen and unconsidered talents the man might possess.