Chapter Text
"Anything smaller than a good size pocket watch, I can't do much."
"But you can do a pocket watch."
"Haven't in a while," Thomas took good enough care of his own not to need to, "but probably."
Though he hadn't even done a clock proper in years, besides—mainly because he looked after the ones at Downton, too. Winding was a task to be delegated; taking the things apart was not. And they didn't have the right tools to do anything more than basic repairs, so good luck to them if anything got really broken... which, with proper care and keeping, none of them did.
Except this one, apparently.
Hidden away in a small little attic room that never got used because nobody with manservants came round anymore, it had gone quiet without anybody noticing. A failure on their part—those things ought to have been checked every so often, and if not the maids then Albert or Edgar or Andy or him, most of all, he was the last responsible, should have caught it before putting somebody in here.
"A man of hidden talents," Ellis said, an amused turn at his lips. His eyes smiled even when the rest of his face didn't quite, although he didn't seem to be very careful about keeping his feelings to himself in that regard. The man was too handsome for his own good—and probably for Thomas's, too.
Looking at him meant he wasn't looking at the job to be done, so Thomas ducked his head and turned in his chair, only to block his own light and need to shift again.
Electric lamps weren't quite as portable as the old kinds.
That was how this had used to be—daylight was best, but you didn't have it always, and there weren't always enough hours in the day to get everything done even if you did. So they'd had sconces on the walls and a paraffin lamp, and working in those conditions you had to be as quick as possible while still getting the job done to the highest standard, 'cause both wasting fuel and shoddy work would result in money lost one way or another.
He only ever missed it at times like these.
"Are they hidden?" Thomas asked, placing a screwdriver down and taking up a pair of pliers. He didn't think he imagined that Ellis was looking at his hands. "Or have you just not seen them cause you got here yesterday?"
"Two days ago."
"Not much difference."
"Double the difference, I'd say."
Thomas caught himself midway through a laugh, disbelieving.
If he were as brave a person as he used to be—half as brave a person, even—he would have gone and touched his face already, and then he would have known by now for certain. But he'd learned his lesson and grown out of that behavior, so all he was going to do was wonder. At least until he had a very good reason to do anything more.
What that reason would be, or look like, he hadn't the faintest. Once upon a time the suggestion they go some place together just the two of them would have been more than enough on its own. But today it hadn't been, and nor had anything else for that matter—how he'd taken to asking him just as many questions as he could stand (and somehow he knew exactly when to stop), how he liked to be in the same place he was. The way he looked at him. It wasn't necessarily subtle, but it was easy to second guess, too: why shouldn't he be outgoing with the only man around his age in the resident staff?
Besides, he was charming with everyone, the maids included—something which Mrs Hughes surely knew about but had not yet seemed to mind, at least where Thomas could see.
And the maids couldn't spend time in Ellis's room...
"I won't trouble them," Ellis added, "but would your staff know, if I asked?"
"What, that I can fix a clock if I have to?"
"Yeah."
Thomas nodded, but Ellis only raised his eyebrows, so he added, "Yes, I believe they would."
"Thanks for trusting it to an outsider, then."
He said it pleasantly.
Thomas said, professionally, "I really am sorry it was broken."
"If I'm honest I hardly remember to look at them, half the time," Ellis told him. "That's why I hadn't noticed til now, but I'll need it when His Majesty is here... Gets me into trouble."
He didn't sound like he minded trouble much, though. Perhaps that was something to tuck away.
"If it'd been anybody else of your lot they'd've scarpered."
"And you'd miss them terribly?"
Thomas laughed for real this time.
"They're not bad people," Ellis added. "I'll ask you not to think too poorly of them."
"Well, they could do with some manners."
"They've got plenty of manners," returned Ellis, and Thomas kept his focus on the pieces in front of him because he was suddenly uncertain that he could keep a straight face if he looked up. "It's who gets them that's the problem... Everybody thinks they get to decide who's worthy of respect and who's not."
"Even you?"
"Well, in my book most everybody's worthy of respect," he said, "but I won't say the same of sincerity."
Now it was Thomas's turn to raise his eyebrows.
"Anyway," Ellis said hastily, "I'm sure we'd all of us benefit if somebody took us down a notch."
"Then for your sake I'll see that we do our best to."
That made him laugh, but he didn't say anything more—Thomas was sure that he was watching him now, his gaze alternating up and down between his hands and his face. Self consciousness crept in where confidence would have, once, and Thomas became aware of his own tongue poking out of his mouth and the way he was squinting at the parts in front of him.
But surely he wouldn't be looking if he minded what was there to see...
Ellis fidgeted, drumming his fingers in a pattern on the table between them, then stopping and making to play with his shirt buttons instead.
Thomas had been purposefully ignoring that the man was in shirtsleeves, but he made it difficult, acting like that.
"In London we've got somebody comes in to do upkeep," said Ellis suddenly, taking the silence for his own. "Royal warrant—the shop's in Clerkenwell."
Humoring him, Thomas said, "My dad used to do that," then adding, though he didn't know why he bothered other than to boast about something that hadn't been part of his life for a long time now and never would be again: "I used to do that—not for royalty," though sometimes close enough, it had felt like.
He hadn't been allowed to go into those people's houses alone until just before he wasn't allowed into his own house.
With his dad knowing, at least.
What Dad never knew couldn't hurt him, and that had been exactly the way he'd liked it, at the time.
Now that he was older he wondered now and then if he should have. If it really was as clever and charming as he'd imagined it to be when it was happening; if it really was luck that resulted in his having the time to do those things without anybody looking after him or wondering where he was.
"Why'd you leave?" asked Ellis. He managed to make it sound out of the blue even when they'd just been speaking a moment before.
"Hm?"
"If you were brought up in clockwork..."
Thomas shrugged. "Factories could do it cheaper," he said, and though it was true, it hadn't been why—far as he knew the shop was still going back home, though it surely had changed and grown along the way.
Ellis didn't press: "My dad's a cobbler," he volunteered. "But I never learned the trade like my brother did, weren't meant for me—naturally I was taught the basics."
"You've got a brother?"
"I've got two."
When Thomas's own had died before they'd even come into the world.
"And you can't go for drinks with one of them?"
"Takes a special sort to be fond of other blokes' shoes," said Ellis glibly. "Wouldn't feel like a break from work."
Thomas didn't doubt that.
"But I would?"
"You will." The correction came with a handsome grin that put butterflies into his stomach. "You'll be a breath of fresh air, Mr. Barrow, I can assure you."
There was simply no way...
When Thomas looked up they met one another's eyes. Caught in the act, both of them. It lingered just long enough that it began to feel like a competition, who would end it first...
"How often do you make it home?"asked Thomas, breaking the silence but not eye contact.
"Not very," said Ellis. He turned his head away, so Thomas returned to looking down and in front of him at the clock he was meant to be fixing. "I miss them," which Thomas could not relate to, "and they miss me, Mum was elated when I told her I'd drop by—but soon as we're in the same room—then you'll know what mums are like, I expect, she always keeps me round longer than I've got time for, asking when I'll be home next, when I'll telephone, when I'll get married, the like..."
What exactly was he trying to do if he wasn't dropping hair pins?
Once again Thomas wished he were brave enough still to make the first move—but something about Ellis compelled him to be honest, and so instead he replied, "Mine died when I was fourteen."
"Oh, Christ, I'm sorry."
"You weren't to know..."
This continued their pattern: talk, silence, talk, silence; eventually Ellis said, "What did they do at Downton, for clocks, before you came along?"
"Well, the footmen wind them anyway, but I suppose they must've had somebody come in like you do for anything more than that."
"You don't know?"
"I've never put much thought into it." Thomas shrugged. "And I doubt they have, neither, seeing as I've been round to do it for them for so long."
"How long is that?"
"Why, Mr Ellis, are you writing my biography?"
Off his guard, Ellis laughed with a little less confidence than before.
"Started as a hall boy in 1910," Thomas told him, taking pity... Teasing was even more amusing than he'd remembered it being.
Just don't tease so much it puts him off...
"Seventeen years."
"Yes, well, there was a war in the middle of it."
"Right."
"I was at the house for a couple years when we were a convalescent home, but that's not service—wasn't meant to be, at least—I was only there 'cause I'd got wounded, mind you, I'd already been at Flanders."
"When did you join up?"
"First thing, as a matter of fact. Medical corps."
He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken about this to anybody.
"Medical corps," repeated Ellis—he was impressed, and stubborn though he intended to be, Thomas felt a swell of satisfaction at the response.
"Stretcher bearer."
"On the front?"
Had he not just said Flanders?
"Where else? —what about you?" Thomas asked, more to be polite than because he was interested in trading war stories. If they talked for too long Ellis would soon learn that there wasn't all that much to be impressed with.
Despite how many years it had been, thinking about the war still made him nervous, and nervous was the last way he wanted Ellis to see him... or maybe second to last, behind crying. Of course, if either of those things happened he could content himself with the knowledge that they were never going to see each other again, because why on earth would the other man bother?
"Never served," said Ellis. "Stayed on in the Royal Household, instead."
"Didn't pass the physical?" Thomas quipped, though he doubted with some distaste that had much to do with it.
"Was never called up in the first place—think it was due to the job, but I can't be sure."
He suddenly appealed to Thomas less.
It was stupid, in a way—he wasn't patriotic; he'd never believed in the war in the first place, and he took the first chance out he had, himself. A chance he'd made on his own because he didn't have the nerve to wait longer when he could've ended up dead at the pull of a trigger or light to a fuse without any say in the matter. If he were to be fair, he'd respect him for weaseling his way out of it.
But him never having been at all...
"Sounds like you've had consistency at least," he muttered.
"That's about all I can say for it," said Ellis.
Thomas supposed this was not the first time he'd had this sort of conversation, and he lamely changed the subject with, "So where've you traveled with the Royal Household, then, if you stayed during the war," and Ellis took him up on it.
What stories he had to tell—and clearly he enjoyed telling them. Thomas had never thought of service as involving far off places and things, at least not to the extent which seemed perfectly normal for Ellis... then, as a valet he may have seen things differently, and Thomas hadn't been that for years.
He'd wanted that for himself, once.
Butlers didn't get around much.
Talking with him was easy as anything—maybe too easy, if his instincts were wrong, but would he even ever find out?
Their evening came to a natural end when Thomas wrapped up the repair.
"Impressive," said Ellis, as they both looked at it, making sure it lined up with their watches and even the clock from Thomas's room for good measure...
And then he was almost sorry it was over, because he didn't want their time alone to end.
Maybe, just maybe, Ellis felt the same way, because as Thomas gathered his things he said, "You'll join me tomorrow, then?"
"Haven't got anything else to do," Thomas returned.
He'd meant it as a joke, but at the uncertain look in Ellis's eyes he added, "Of course I am."
His smile lingered in his mind for the rest of the night and most of the next day, too, and then he got to see more of it than he'd ever imagined he might, even with all of his daydreaming that had come before.
Because Ellis smiled at him as they left Downton, outside the post office, outside the station, getting out of the car, smiled at him as he took Thomas by the hand and brought him into his room, kissed him, made for the bed...
Up close there was just enough moonlight through the window to make out the time, because the clock worked perfectly now, of course... Two minutes to two, and Ellis was looking at him.
"Worried about the hour?"
"One of us ought to be."
Ellis laughed soundlessly, and with such ease that Thomas suspected he'd had plenty of practice.
What happened next happened like in a dream, each step they took expected, foreseen by the ones that came before it. Ellis touched him as if he knew him already, as if he'd been told exactly what to do and was following a script with the lone objective of pleasing him as much as possible.
In the morning, not in his own room, sun shining, he woke up to the comforting tick of the bedside clock, Ellis in his arms.