Chapter Text
PART ONE
"Well, Mr. Barrow, I'll say goodnight."
Thomas nods, but although he opens his mouth to return the sentiment, the words somehow stick in his throat. Ellis looks at him, waiting, hand poised on the door handle. His bedroom is closer to the stairs they've just climbed; Thomas's is further along the corridor, a few doors down in fact, and Thomas finds himself wishing they were closer together. Not that it would make any difference if they were. Not that there would be any point. He just knows he is sorry for the parting. More sorry than he can put into words.
Say something, for God's sake. You had plenty words to spare before, in the car and outside and downstairs. Going on and on about gratitude and being cut from the same cloth and 'you and me against the world'-
"Mr. Ellis, er..." He glances left and right, even if he's not exactly sure why. It was very late when they got back, everyone had already gone up to bed and the attics are almost eerily quiet, the doors all closed and the rooms' occupants sound asleep. Under any other circumstances, he would have hoped to find someone still up, Miss Baxter or Mrs. Patmore or Mr. Molesley even, anyone who could have told him how the dinner went. If the phone call from the post office had achieved its purpose. But as things stand, and after the night he's had, he's relieved he won't have to face anyone until the morning.
Ellis is still waiting patiently for him to find his tongue again, mouth curved into a mildly expectant smile. He is ever so nice, Mr. Ellis, an agreeable chap if ever there was one, but he is also quite difficult to read, and it occurs to Thomas that as much as he would like for him to save this awkward moment for the both of them - preferably by leaning across the gap and kissing him - that is not going to happen this time.
What did you think, though? That he'd be hoping for a shag with a man who left him in the lurch to go dancing with someone else? He'd have to be some sort of saint. Or really fucking desperate.
"Mr. Ellis," he reiterates, and he takes off his hat to emphasise the point he wants to make, "have I told you yet that I am so very dreadfully-"
"... So dreadfully sorry that you walked out with the first bloke who made eyes at you and sent me on a wild goose chase across town just to make sure you saw Downton again?" His smile never wavers, and it is Thomas who can't hold eye contact at this point. "You may have mentioned something of the sort."
Thomas flinches and drops his shoulders, finding a random point on the floor to stare at while he gets his bearings. Ellis doesn't speak with malice - he hasn't known the man long, but he knows that's not in his nature - but his words sting all the same.
"You have every right to be upset with me, Mr. Ellis." What I don't get is why you're not, not as much as you could be. "I should've just stayed put. The pub was nice enough. Inconspicuous. Good beer on tap."
Mr. Ellis makes no response, and Thomas wishes that he would. He rambles on, "It's not that I wasn't looking forward to our night out. I was. More than I think I wanted to admit. It's a rare occasion for me to grab a pint and talk to someone, as mates. I didn't even care if you were like that or not, I thought we might get on either way." Somehow he finds it in himself to look up from the floor and meet Ellis's gaze, making sure to keep his voice low just in case anyone is still awake to overhear. "I waited over two hours in that place. Sitting at the bar with only my beer for company. The barkeep was giving me looks, other patrons too. The longer it went on, the more I imagined they were talking about me. I felt like a right idiot, a sitting duck. I don't know why, I wasn't doing anything wrong. But I felt people looked at me and just knew. Being like me, you get paranoid sometimes."
"I know the feeling," Ellis says softly, and Thomas is grateful for the reassurance. It gives him the strength of heart to plunge forward.
"Look, I know it was stupid to leave with Webster when I didn't know the man. But I wanted to get out of there so badly by that point. And I guess... I guess I assumed you'd forgotten about me." The final confession is the hardest to make. It makes him feel small, and he hates that, but it is important to him that Ellis should understand. Cringing slightly, he waits, feeling like he is teetering on some sort of edge.
Voilà and presto, Mr. Ellis, I have bared to you my soul. I hope you can appreciate the privilege.
Ellis is no longer smiling, but there's a softness in his eyes that's come to the forefront in the last few moments. "Forgotten you?" he asks. "Is that likely, giving the arm-twisting I had to do to get you to go out with me in the first place?"
Ellis is quite the master at the spoken word. Thomas is fairly certain he isn't trying to make Thomas blush, and yet that is exactly what ends up happening every time.
"You didn't twist my arm," he protests. "I wouldn't say that."
"Made me ask more than once, though."
"Only because I thought you were making sport of me the first time," Thomas blurts, and then immediately wishes it unsaid. Mr. Ellis's composure cracks, brow furrowing as he observes Thomas a little too attentively for his liking. Thomas wishes he would take off his hat; the wide brim of his fedora casts shadows on his face, making him even harder to read in the already poorly lit corridor.
"Mr. Barrow," he finally says softly, "you don't think much of yourself, do you?"
"Haven't got much reason to," Thomas mutters. "I'm not the man you like to think I am. That is, I'm trying to mend my ways, have been trying, ever since-"
He abruptly stops, grasping his left wrist in his hand. It still bears the brunt of the damage done by the razor, and he swallows as he remembers the emotional agony that brought him to that act of desperation, the astonishingly gentle care he'd received from some of the people he'd treated the worst, the long slow climb back to health and hope. Keen-eyed Mr. Ellis doesn't miss the gesture.
"We all have our scars, Mr. Barrow," he says gently, and Thomas can't tell if his choice of words is coincidental or deliberate. "I certainly won't judge you for yours."
"You might be the first." Thomas drops his hands, letting his arms hang by his sides. He realises he's muttering at the floor again and makes an effort to lift his head. "Please, just... tell me if you accept my apology. It would mean a lot to me if you did."
"If that is the case, Mr. Barrow, of course I will gladly say it, even if I feel an apology is not owed. I did keep you waiting longer than I meant to. Please believe I was never angry with you, only scared for your wellbeing." He does finally take off his hat, and Thomas breathes a sigh of relief at seeing the old Ellis emerge. "So please rest easy, and let's end the day on a positive note. I would much rather see you smile than frown."
Thomas sheepishly takes the hand Ellis - Richard, his name is Richard, it says so on his card - holds out to him, shakes it, and for a moment they just stand there like that, hands clasped in the space between them.
Is this how friendships are forged? With a chat, a shared secret or two and a handshake to seal the deal?
Thomas eventually does manage a smile, releasing Ellis's hand against his own inclination. "I wish we could have talked more. But I suppose I should let you go to get some sleep. It's been quite a night for both of us."
There is a moment's pause, and it looks as though Ellis might be about to say something, but eventually decides against it. He nods. "Good night, then, Mr. Barrow."
"Good night, Mr. Ellis."
By the time Thomas gets to his room and chances a look back, Ellis has already gone.