Chapter Text
It was nearly midnight when the phone rang. Thomas was just accepting a cup of tea from Mrs. Patmore when he heard it, somewhat distantly, jingling in his pantry. At first, he wondered who might be calling so late; an emergency in the village, perhaps? God forbid, after all they’d been through, a call from Sergeant Willis? These musings left Thomas less perturbed and more… preemptively exhausted; it wasn’t until he put together just who might be calling him at this particular hour that he felt his stomach turn over.
Thomas thanked Mrs. Patmore for the tea—she still managed to look surprised every time he did so—and hurried off for the pantry, attempting to travel as quickly as he could without spilling it while also maintaining his dignity. He tried to force himself not to hope; the call was probably not for him, was probably just another bit of housekeeping to deal with at the end of a long day.
But on the other hand, if it was for him…
He closed the door with his free hand, set the cup and saucer on his desk, and positioned himself in his chair, readjusting a couple of times until he was properly upright. He took a small, measured breath, then picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Barrow?” Asked a familiar voice.
Thomas stifled a grin, felt his heart skip a beat. His suspicions had been correct.
“Mr. Ellis?” He asked, already knowing the answer.
“I hoped you’d still be up.”
“Still?” Thomas joked, feigning exasperation. “I’ve hardly just come downstairs!”
“I hope they’re not working you too hard there,” Ellis said, smile seeping into his voice.
“All part of the routine, Mr. Ellis.”
And somewhere many miles away, Ellis laughed. Some days, it ached to think about how far apart they were; it ached not to know the next time they might meet face to face. Not tonight, though. Connected by the phone line, Thomas was allowed to fantasize just for a while that Ellis was there with him, to pretend that he was chuckling right in Thomas’ ear instead of somewhere off in London.
If he hadn’t been religiously hanging onto Mr. Ellis’ every word, Thomas might have noted that the two of them had dispensed with formalities almost immediately. Talking to Ellis was like talking to someone he’d known forever—effortless, warm… even though they hadn’t spoken in weeks, slipping back into conversation felt as natural as anything.
“Listen,” Ellis started, tone more serious, almost businesslike. “I’ve just been granted some time off, and I thought I might go up to York, to see my parents. It’s only a couple days, mind, but I wondered if we might meet while I’m there. For a… drink, you know.”
Thomas’ heart skipped a beat. It was one thing to talk to Mr. Ellis over the phone every once in a while, but quite another to actually meet him in person. His receiver began to slip through sweaty fingers as he imagined with a thrill standing in front of Ellis again, touching him, even kissing him. These were the thoughts that had kept him awake practically every night since the staff from Buckingham Palace had left Downton, but they had always seemed lifetimes away… until now.
“Mr. Barrow?”
Thomas remembered where he was, who he was talking to, what had been asked. He forced himself to focus, reasoning that they wouldn’t be able to meet at all if he didn’t agree to it first.
“Yes!” He affirmed, perhaps a bit too excitedly, which he attempted to mitigate as he continued. “That is, yes, we ought to have a drink. Just tell me the dates, and I’ll work it out.”
Mr. Ellis paused on the other end of the line.
“Would you really?” He asked, softly.
Thomas couldn’t help but smile. Mr. Ellis was always so cool, confident, collected; yet it was moments like these that were Thomas’ favorite. The rare occasions on which Ellis seemed truly vulnerable were all too endearing.
“Mr. Ellis, I think I owe you a drink at the very least, after everything you’ve done for me.”
“Oh. Right, of course.”
He could have sworn that Ellis sounded almost disappointed. In his wariness of coming off as desperate, Thomas worried he’d settled into his familiar, aloof manner. He knew all too well that he was hesitant to be affectionate, hesitant to make himself vulnerable to rejection yet again. Reminding himself that he was far more hesitant, however, to risk losing Mr. Ellis, he hurried to add,
“And it doesn’t hurt that I would rather like to see you again, too.”
There was a pause on Mr. Ellis’ end, during which Thomas stopped breathing. This all felt so delicate. There were no prescribed social norms for men in their situation; it was a guessing game, a balance between being forward and being discreet—being circumspect. Thomas had learned the hard way the perils of favoring forwardness over discretion.
Luckily, this time it paid off.
“Well, I suppose you’re in luck, then, Mr. Barrow,” returned Ellis at last. There was that trademark confidence—it almost sent a shiver down Thomas’ spine. It was not often that other men risked such forwardness with him, and Mr. Ellis happened to be especially good at it.
He wondered for a moment if they might stay there all night; he figured he’d be content just listening to Ellis breathe over the crackling phone line, pretending he was right there in the pantry, remembering when he had been.
“Right,” said Ellis after a few moments, “I should say good night.” Of course, while Thomas fantasized about staying up all night, Ellis was going to bed—always the pragmatist.
Reluctantly, Thomas replied, “Good night, Mr. Ellis. And I’ll see you soon.”
***
Stepping into the cold Yorkshire air gave Thomas a bit of a shock after several minutes on the train. It was winter now; the air was pleasantly chilly at best and biting at worst. The sky stayed a mundane gray most of the time, and the sometimes busy streets of York were devoid of their fair-weather travelers.
Thomas, however, barely had time to worry about any of this; he spotted Mr. Ellis on the platform almost immediately. He forced himself not to grin like an idiot, although he was sure he came close as he removed his glove and extended a hand toward Ellis.
“Mr. Ellis,” Thomas said, although he wanted to say, “I missed you desperately,” or, “how handsome you look today,” or, “let’s run away together.”
Ellis took his hand, shook it—maybe even held on a bit too long. The touch sent prickles of gooseflesh up Thomas’ arm. There were a thousand exhilarating, unsaid words between them; yet Ellis, victim to several pairs of outside eyes, simply responded,
“Mr. Barrow.” How infectious his smile was.
Thomas could hardly believe he was looking at Mr. Ellis in the flesh, a vision that had monopolized his thoughts for weeks now. Yet here he was, brilliant as ever, and Thomas intended to relish in every moment they had together.
The pub was not too far from the station—Mr. Ellis had come to favor it over the years as he visited the city to check in on his parents. He’d booked the two of them a room for the next two nights. One room, Thomas couldn’t help but notice, when he surely could have afforded two. He thought with relief that if Mr. Ellis had gone off him, he was certainly hiding it well.
The main room was quiet, with a few patrons scattered about tables and at the bar. Just enough people populated the space to create a hum of chatter sufficient for private conversation.
Ellis bought their drinks, refusing to entertain any of Thomas’ protests. They finally settled at a corner table, nursing their beers and sharing coy, knowing glances. After a moment, Thomas asked,
“Have you seen your parents yet, Mr. Ellis?”
“I wish you’d call me Richard,” began Ellis. Richard.
Thomas smiled, nodded, and answered, “Thomas.”
“Thomas,” Richard confirmed. “And no, not yet. I only got here an hour or two before yourself, thought I might pop in on them tomorrow.”
Thomas smiled, which he found to be all too easy around Richard. The idea of him having parents, having grown up, having been young once—it was all delightful. He wouldn’t dream of saying it aloud, but there was a part of him that longed to study every detail about Richard, to learn all there was to know. That being the case, he couldn’t help but think how obligatory this all seemed—the drinks and the small talk and what not—when he, for one, would much rather be in their room, speaking freely; not fighting to blend in among the standard public house occupants. Who knew the next time they’d be able to see one another in person?
He privately hoped that Richard felt the same, although if he did, he didn’t let on. Circumspect, Thomas thought.
“How was the ride here?” Richard offered.
Thomas let himself deflate—only slightly—and answered through a polite smile, “I wish we didn’t have to talk about that.”
Richard looked amused, cocked his head in confusion.
“Only, there are far more interesting things I’d like to discuss with you, Mr. Ellis,” he pushed on.
Richard raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
Thomas suspected he was feigning innocence, yet played along anyway. He ventured to speak boldly.
“Well, we had a very… interesting conversation when you left Downton.” A conversation during which you kissed me. “Suppose we try something like that again.”
There was an undeniable kick of adrenaline that came with putting such charged words between them, evoking such an intimate moment. Thomas cast his eyes downward and took a swig from his glass in case his proposition didn’t land the way he’d hoped.
He looked up again in time to see that Ellis’ eyes were wide, but he quickly smiled again and muttered something about a “cheeky bugger…” before taking a drink himself. How right he was.
They sat in silence for a few moments, sharing knowing glances and biting their lips to avoid grinning like lovestruck schoolchildren. Eventually, Thomas conceded a return to small talk, content with having surprised Ellis.
“So what do you have planned while you’re here, Mr. Ellis?”
“Richard.”
“Richard,” Thomas corrected, with a placating nod of his head.
Richard waited a moment, then answered simply, “Dunno.” Then, inspecting his drink, “Thought we might… stay in, tonight. Unless you had something in mind?” Thomas suspected that by “staying in,” Richard meant a whole lot more than some reading and a cup of tea. He looked up at Thomas over the rim of his glass, awaiting a response.
Thomas willed his cheeks not to heat up, his palms not to start sweating. “Sounds alright to me,” he replied.
Looking into to Richard’s eyes just then was thrilling. It almost made Thomas grateful for the small talk; left to his own devices, he feared what ridiculous things might come out of his mouth. He had imagined expressing his adoration for Richard in far more detail than he’d have cared to admit; but he wasn’t sure he could confess to that at all, much less in the middle of a pub.
Couldn’t risk scaring him away.
Their room was simple, but not shabby: it was adorned with two beds, a small table, a dresser, a coat rack, and an adjoining bathroom. Thomas wondered if pushing the beds together was a viable option. Probably not, but one still looked big enough to share—that is, if things made it that far. Considering his past luck, Thomas was wary of being too presumptuous, even if Richard’s tone earlier had seemed resoundingly flirtatious.
Richard pocketed their room key and tossed his hat, gloves, overcoat, and jacket onto one of the beds, while Thomas lingered by the doorway, taking his time to follow suit and hang his overcoat and jacket on the rack. He found that now that they were actually alone, he was rather nervous. It wasn’t just the pressure of having to hide the nature of their relationship from the outside world; there was something about Richard that was unlike other men he’d been with. He’d had plenty of lovely nights with the odd sailor or anonymous pub-goer, but this was different. He didn’t want to say goodbye in the morning and forget Richard’s name by dinnertime—he didn’t ever want to say goodbye, in fact. So he waited for Richard to make the first move.
Circumspect.
The man in question did not disappoint. Richard made his way slowly across the floor toward Thomas, only stopping when their faces were inches apart. This was exponentially closer than they ever would have gotten in public. Thomas wasn’t sure what to say. He smiled, polite, nervous.
“Lovely room,” he near-whispered.
“Sure is.”
Richard performed a somewhat theatrical look around the room; Thomas watched him take in the minimal, modern decorations—hands in his pockets, feet planted confidently; yet with cheeks glowing a telling red. His eyes finally landed back on Thomas, whom he seemed to find more captivating than anything else in the room. The smile he gave was suggestive, spine-tingling, heartwarming; all at once.
“It sure is,” Richard said again.
With a contented, lazy sigh, he hooked his fingers around Thomas’ braces, one in each hand, gently tugging him forward. Thomas took the hint—Richard wasn’t being especially subtle—and laid his arms around Richard’s shoulders. It almost reminded him of his night in the makeshift dance hall, with his arms around another man. His heart raced now, too, as it did then. This was different, though—that had been exhilaration in the face of something new; being here with Richard felt all too familiar. And just about too lovely to bear.
When had he become such a soppy bastard?
“Thomas? You alright?”
Thomas snapped out of his stupor, trying not to melt at the endearing look of concern which Richard now sported.
“Sorry. Miles away,” he chuckled. Then, in a display of great confidence or perhaps just unashamed honesty, “I find you very distracting, Mr. Ellis.”
Richard mock-scowled. “Rich—“
“Richard. Right.”
“Right,” Richard muttered with a giggle and a nod. He took a slow step forward, pushing Thomas back against the door—gentle, but firm. Without looking away from Thomas, he locked the door, then returned the key to his pocket. Thomas hadn’t noticed him remove it.
“How very circumspect, Mr. Ellis.”
Richard let out a huff of air through his nose, a little laugh. “I always am,” he said, and then he kissed Thomas. And then they were kissing, and Thomas thought he might never breathe again.
When they finally pulled apart—just enough to look at each other—Thomas was reminded of when they’d kissed at Downton, and he had seen the usually coolheaded Mr. Ellis appear uncharacteristically disarmed, even breathless. Richard looked the same way now, blushing like mad and struggling to catch his breath.
And oh, so beautiful.
And just about eager enough to swallow Thomas whole, although Thomas was sure he was a virtual mirror in that regard.
They seemed to have a hundred conversations, just looking at each other, even though neither of them said a word. After watching Richard’s eyes dart back and forth between his own for God knows how long, Thomas felt Richards arms wrap around his waist, and they kissed again. They worked their way toward the empty bed, Richard walking backwards and only separating from Thomas when it was absolutely necessary in order to navigate. He made quick work of sliding Thomas’ braces off his shoulders, followed by his own; then, without skipping a beat, they sat side by side on the bed, flashing bashful smiles at one another as they rushed to remove their shoes and undo their buttons. When they couldn’t stand being disconnected any longer, Richard pushed a very disheveled Thomas back onto the bed, straddling him; as Thomas propped himself on his elbows to meet him for another kiss. All he could think to say was I love you, so he said nothing, and instead let Richard ease him all the way onto his back. They kissed, and kept kissing.
In general, Thomas wasn’t used to assuming such a passive role. But there was something so alluring and quintessentially Richard about his confidence and the way he held Thomas so close; he suspected he would let Richard do just about anything.
Seemingly embarking on a similar train of thought, Richard paused, looked serious, and asked, “Is this—Are you alright with this?”
Thomas privately rejoiced at witnessing another lapse in Richard’s collected exterior. Red-faced, sweaty, raw—Thomas felt a secret sort of pride at having been one of the few people allowed to see him this way.
“This,” Thomas answered, “Is excellent,” as he pulled Richard back toward him, and pressed a kiss to his smile until Richard returned the favor.
Shortly thereafter, Thomas’ outershirt was wrenched open and his undershirt removed; Richard peppered a volley of kisses down his chest and stomach that made Thomas’ breath hitch. With a self-assured, affectionate chuckle, Richard sat back on his heels and started to undress himself. Thomas watched Richard’s trembling fingers undo the buttons of his shirt before he began working off his trousers and drawers, while Thomas began to remove his own. It was terribly romantic, and also terribly erotic, and quite a bit more than Thomas was prepared to handle this early in the evening. Richard, however, showed no signs of stopping; nude, and looking rather like the most gorgeous statue that Thomas could possibly envision, he ran his hands up over Thomas’ chest and let their lips find each other again.
Thomas massaged one hand through Richard’s hair and laid the other on his back, thinking how much he’d like to hold Richard this close forever. He quickly stopped thinking that, however, and began to think of some other things, as Richard pulled a clever move; placing a knee between Thomas’ legs and nearly knocking the wind out of him. He parted from Richard’s lips and pressed their foreheads together, taking a moment to catch his breath. Richard admired him for a moment, his gaze tinged at first with concern and then, satisfied that Thomas was alright, an unmistakable adoration. He seized the opportunity to work his mouth down Thomas’ jaw and onto his neck, careful not to leave a mark—equally as careful to stir Thomas into a right frenzy.
Thomas wondered if the feeling of Richard’s mouth on his neck and Richard’s chest pressed against his and Richard’s knee on his crotch might actually cause him to combust. When Richard’s teeth found his earlobe, he couldn’t help but sigh out,
“Oh, God!”
Richard shushed him, but chuckled an adorable little laugh to show he wasn’t really upset, then carried on.
Being circumspect was very difficult, Thomas was learning, when you had a gorgeous man draped over top of you.