Butlerbarrow - Blog Posts

Jimmy stood in the doorway, his usual confident demeanour softened by concern as he looked at Thomas. He took a step inside, closing the door gently behind him.

"Ah, Mr. Barrow, you know me well enough. I don't need much of an excuse to avoid working," Jimmy replied with a lopsided grin. He moved closer, pulling up a chair beside the bed and sitting down, his eyes scanning Thomas's face and the still-healing bruises with genuine worry. "How are ya holding up?"

He leaned back in the chair, trying to appear casual but unable to hide the tension in his posture. "Can't imagine how boring it must be, stuck in 'ere all day. I brought you something to read, thought it might help pass the time," he said, pulling a small book from his pocket and placing it on the bedside table. He wasn't about to admit, he'd popped down to Thirsk to buy the book as he had nothing in his own room to lend to the male.

Jimmy's expression softened further as he met Thomas's eyes. "I know it's been rough, what with everything that happened… and, well, how I've been. I'm sorry, Mr. Barrow. I truly am. But I'm 'ere now, and I wanna help in any way I can. You need anything, you just let me know, alright?"

He reached out, a hesitant but warm gesture, patting Thomas's arm lightly. "And don't worry about the work. Mr. Carson won't miss me for a few minutes. Besides, Mrs Hughes said that I could come and see you."

after the events at the thirsk fair thomas was healing up well, although he had mostly been sleeping for the first few days. a week in, the smaller of his cuts had begun to heal, bruises turning from angry purple to a sickly shade of yellow. it would be another three weeks before he could fully return to work — his cracked ribs ensured that, the pain down his left side was still almost unbearable at times, the skin still tender, mottled purple bruising in the shape of a boot betraying where the thugs had kicked him.

still, for all the pain and trouble, at least thomas had gotten something out of the whole affair. jimmy kent was to be his friend again... after a year of snide remarks, cold shoulders and avoidance that hurt almost as much as the physical beating he'd recieved at the fair, each and everyone one like a punch to the heart... things were okay now, between them, things had been set right. and that had to account for something, at least.

but, right now, thomas was bored. a week of bedrest and he had seen enough of his small attic room to last a lifetime. he wanted to get up, he needed to shave, he wanted to have a proper bath, he wanted something to do. sitting up was a struggle, the metal cot groaned and creaked under the shifting of his weight, aching muscles screaming in protest as the underbutler slowly moved, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and bracing himself for a moment. the pain in his ribs spiked and twisted, causing a sharp hiss to escape from between his teeth — his stomach churned and he felt sick, worried for a moment that he'd become reacquainted with his breakfast...

there was a short knock at his door before it opened, and thomas glanced up at his vistor, his friend, and couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at his lips, small and questioning.

❝ ... jimmy...? shouldn't you be workin'? ❞

plotted starter ~ jimmy kent ; @littledaydreamers

A gentle voice cut through the darkness, but Robbie was too distressed to hear the man's words. He clutched his head in his trembling hands, sobbing as he rocked back and forth. "They're dead. They're all dead." He whispered, his voice a broken echo.

The soft glow of a lamp illuminated the space, casting a warm and comforting light. Robbie felt the bed dip as the male took a seat next to him, trying to calm him. With the man's soothing words and gentle touch, Robbie finally met his gaze. "They're all dead. I watched them die, one by one." He repeated, his voice strangled.

thomas barrow made a habit of being a self-centered man, he wouldn't deny it. he had learnt, from a young age, that if there was no one else to look out for him then he could only trust himself. his reasons for volunteering as a medic had been, in part, selfish ones. his medical training had spared him active military service for the first few months of the war, and he had believed, as everyone else had, that the whole thing would blow over quickly. he would have left the army with newfound status and a possible change in profession. that was the plan at least... how naive that young man had been.

the war had changed him, changed everything — the footman turned medic, now managing the makeshift convalescent home that had taken over downton, working alongside members of the very family that he used to serve. he was no longer at the front, but thomas had seen firsthand the horrors that these men had returned from. he knew the destruction, the death, the pain and suffering, the desperation. he felt a duty of care; underneath that egocentric, individualistic mindset, thomas barrow cared about the poor souls. if he could ease their plight in any way, he was glad to.

a shout drew the lance corporal's attention — night terrors were becoming increasingly more common in the soldiers that passed through his care... depression, shell shock, post-traumatic stress disorder, was it truly any wonder when they had been through hell and back?

❝ hey now, easy there. you're alright, sir. ❞ he started, coming to the soldier's bedside as he jolted awake. speaking in gentle, hushed tones, a hand rested on the man's good shoulder, thumb rubbing in soothing circles as thomas tried to meet his gaze. in the soft lamplight, sharp grey hues searched the soldier's own slightly vacant stare, as the medic continued — with a string of comforting words and a grounding touch, he tried to bring the other out of whatever nightmare plagued his mind.

❝ you're alright, just breath for me, nice and slowly, sir, that's it. you're safe. ❞

Closed starter || @butlerbarrow He dreams of being back in that trench. He dreams of all the bodies of his comrades. He dreams of their hands grabbing at him. Dozens of them were gangly, gaunt, and pale, with an air of death. They pull at him, dragging him down into the mud until he can't breathe. His own hands reach for the surface, clawing at the phantom fingers grasping his body. Everything is cold, black, and silent except for the muffled, anguished screams. Robbie thrashed in the bed.

His eyes snapped open, a strangled cry escaping his lips. He sat bolt upright, gasping for breath, his chest heaving with the terror of the dream. For a moment, the darkness of the room seemed to mirror the abyss of the trench, the silence punctuated only by the echo of his own ragged breathing.

Robbie was back in the convalescent home, the sterile white walls a stark contrast to the dark, muddy grave that haunted his dreams. The bandages on his shoulder and back felt like a second skin, a constant reminder of the hell he'd escaped. His head throbbed a dull ache that echoed the head injury he'd suffered. He could still see the faces of his comrades, their screams swallowed by the deafening roar of the explosion. The smell of cordite and burning flesh clung to him, a phantom stench that wouldn't leave.