Chapter Text
“Surely there must be something you’d rather wear than your uniform, Captain” Pat prompted, though his hopes were in vain.
They’d all gotten through what they’d wear relatively quickly up until Pat asked Captain. Of course his answer wouldn’t change, it hadn’t in the forty years they’d been doing this club. In fact, Thomas couldn’t even remember a time when Captain commented he’d like to at least try some different clothing. It didn’t matter who walked through Button House, they could be wearing something that matched the man’s style perfectly and he’d still prefer his uniform. It was expected considering some of the soldiers Thomas had saw under Captain’s command. They were frequently scolded if their clothing had stains or the slightest tear, that’s how highly Captain held his uniform.
Thomas would rather wear anything than what he had on. Even his coat he’d discarded into Francis’ hands whilst reading to commence the duel would be nice. He distinctly remembered wishing he’d worn it in the moment because all the pacing made him feel chilly. He was looking forward to asking for it back, slipping the soon to be warm fabric over his moderately exposed arms due to the thinness of his long sleeves. That, of course, never happened as he didn’t make it that far.
He could imagine that dying in your favourite clothes would either be a great personal advantage or would make you slowly grow to despise it just from the amount of time spent staring at it. Heaven knows Thomas had damned his eyes from ever glancing in the direction of the bullet wound. The blood that felt fresh to the touch but no longer seeped from the hole in his flesh. He wondered momentarily if everything still function the same if he stuck his finger in.
He visibly winced at the thought and brushed it off as disgusting. Regardless of whether or not he looked at the wound, he failed to escape the sight of his own blood.
Truthfully, he had never been particular fond of blood when he was alive. He hated the smell of it when he ran too fast, the taste of it when someone making yet another mockery of his character and socked him in the mouth. He hated the feeling of it dripping slowly out of his mouth, agonisingly slow as he dragged himself inside and found his handkerchief. He’d soon learn not to forget it when going outside. Curiously, Francis was never around when these attacks occurred, only afterwards to lightly console and subtlety insult Thomas.
Blood would continue to be a prominent issue throughout his life. Whenever he accidentally cut himself on something or got into an accident with his horse, he absolutely refused to look at the injury. In fact, he wouldn’t even attend to them until a servant came out to help him. He’d get them to wash the crimson flood away before he could dare to look. So when he died with blood spattering his cuff, he had to learn to adjust. Because that’s what people did when they died in something they didn’t like. And Thomas believed he’d adjusted a lot better than anyone else possibly could.
“Negative, Patrick, I’m perfectly fine in my current attire,” Captain gestured to his torso with his swagger stick “it is a symbol of authority.” That’s what Captain seemed to be all about, authority and control. But Thomas had watched him the years he was alive in Button House and had put up with his ghost for much longer. He knew Captain liked morning jogs and watching the dew fall gently off the flowers as he walked past. He liked the smell of chocolate and the mechanisms of weaponry. He liked all these beautiful things wrapped in a violent and war ridden bow.
“What about an accessory, like an earring or a necklace?” Kitty suggested happily. Julian nodded with a smarmy look on his face “You’d look positively dashing with one dangling pearl earring.” That earned a snicker from Robin and a disapproving glance from Fanny. “Actually, he wou-“ Pat started but Captain shot him a look that could kill. “Don’t the badges count as an accessory?” Thomas had only been half listening up to the point he decided to chime in. He was propped up on the armrest with his usual distant look but now he was determined to reveal that Captain wasn’t as happy about his clothing as he said he was.
Captain huffed, clearly irritated and perhaps a bit vexed. “My badges are not accessories, Thorne, they are awards for my service-“
“For my country.” They all said simultaneously, finishing Captain’s sentence for him. He made a few indecisive noises before clearing his throat and tapping his heels instinctively. “Well, how about gloves, scarfs? Or are you more of an ascot person?” Pat asked.
“Let’s split up, gang” Julian covered his words with a cough. Captain tightened his jaw and that’s when Thomas knew he was really getting annoyed.
That had always been a telltale sign he was angry, that and his eyes narrowing at you like he was attempting to pierce you with his irises alone. It reminded Thomas of the familiar look his father gave him whenever he’d clearly lost in a fight and had lumbered inside to lick his wounds. His father had never been pleased with his lack of spirit. Fortunately that was solved now.
“No, I’m well-acquainted with the workings of my uniform and find it to be both sufficient in its purpose and exemplary in its impression it gives.” Captain gave one final nod before marching away, Fanny following in tow. The two of them instantly began whispering things to the other as they walked much faster than they should for their ages. Thomas had commented on that once and got grounded by Fanny for two days. The worst part was that he actually got stuck in it because Captain agreed he needed discipline and thus wouldn’t let Thomas leave his room.
After Captain and Fanny’s departure, everyone else dispersed. Robin swore he spotted another bear, Kitty wanted to go and frolic in the countryside and what not, and Julian wanted to have another go at the password for the adult channel. That left Thomas with Pat, and a snoring Humphrey who’d they’d forgotten was under the couch. Thomas didn’t disturb him as a small gesture of gratitude for being a human kickball. So really, the only person he could tell of his revelation was Pat. Perhaps their veganism stint had brought them a bit closer.
He straightened out his waistcoat absentmindedly as Pat seemed to have spaced out in the moments between everyone leaving. Thomas approached him with louder steps than normal to bring him out of his own head before talking. Pat had a brief expression of surprise “Oh! What can I do for you, Thomas?” He asked brightly. Thomas hand found his bullet wound, as if he was trying to protect himself from the vulnerability of the situation. “I thought of something I’d prefer to have with me over the clothing” He stated. Pat raised an intrigued brow, he’d always been such a good listener.
“A writing desk- my writing desk, to be precise, it was the most expensive thing I owned” He said wistfully like he didn’t have a million other expensive to fawn over. He’d been in near hysterics when his mother bought a nice pair of shoes. Pat hummed in agreement “I can see why you’d miss it, considering the desk in your room is a bit…”
“Decrepit?” Thomas inquired. “Right” Pat agreed. The desk in Thomas’ room was from Fanny’s time and had been thoroughly overused during her lifetime alone, not to mention the soldiers who wrote letters to their sweethearts at it afterwards. Or the politicians that drunkenly stumbled upon it while Julian was there.
“And my quills, I do miss them terribly, though keeping the pen knife at my desk was quite the hassle since I had to keep moving it out of the way, and that being said, quills were falling out of fashion by my time” Thomas furrowed his eyebrows like he’d forgotten that was the case. Like people still used quills as a commonplace item. He’d always had the swan feather quills and proudly shown them off to anyone who’d have listened. Which was nobody most of them time, except for the imaginary friend Thomas that absolutely loved hearing about his day.
“Maybe you could ask Alison to find you a feather or two for your room, to remind you of good times?” Pat suggested, but seemingly distracted by now spotting Humphrey snoring under the couch. Thomas was acutely aware of when he wasn’t being listened to. Or at the least the secondary importance. So he sauntered off without saying goodbye and Pat was still preoccupied with gently waking Humphrey.
***
Thomas had received his favourite quill from his mother. Camille Thorne was best known for her extravagant gifts but also her tremendous sorrow. Often times he would find her crying out in the garden, clutching her dress in fistfuls of garments like she didn’t want to be pulled from the earth, or swallowed up by it. She had times where she would speak to no others but Thomas and his father. Thomas’ parents had always been amicable, disagreed on few things and seemed to have reached an understanding. However, they didn’t have what Thomas considered love.
Love was too complex a feeling for it to have such a simply expression as pleasantries and occasional gifts. It was like a fire that burned relentlessly in the pits of your chest, it was the chill that went up your spine at the prospect of seeing the objects of your affection. It was felt in every breath, flowing in the air like an aroma of sweet tarts that Thomas enjoyed so much. It was the twitch of anticipation in your fingers and the hop in your step. The chance of receiving it is what got Thomas out of bed some mornings. Before the insomnia kicked in.
Thomas more felt pity for his mother, but he did love her more than he loved his father, he was more afraid of that man than anyone else in life or death.
On Hallows Eve, which was more Guy Fawkes’ Day in Thomas’ time, children and the poor received cakes and people were seen wearing masks and demanding beer. Not only did the masks absolutely scare the wits out of Thomas a boy, but the drunken men only horrified him more. He swore he mixed up the drinks and ended up drinking something with opium in it, but he could neither confirm nor deny that even afterwards. He was tired from the festivities and exhausted because he was going through writers block.
That only ever happened twice in his whole life, and never in death. The first time was that night, and the second was when his mother died. He couldn’t even look at a quill for months after her death. He hid them in a drawer on his desk along with all her jewellery he insisted on keeping. His father had tried to have it locked away with the rest of her belongings.
Thomas twiddled the quill clumsily, having not yet developed the dexterity. He found his mind unusually clear and void of ideas. It worried him, that he’d never be able to get his feelings down in words in a way that would effectively communicate to an audience his sadness and in turn earn him the praise he’d always wanted. He mulled over work that he finished prematurely to simply get reassurance he was good faster. Now he knew he was good, but younger Thomas was uncertain, his mind scattered.
His mother stepped quietly into his room, he’d eyes sunken with tiredness and skin pale with stress. The nightgown adorning her was a light blue. Her favourite colour, she’d tried to get Thomas to wear it but it made him feel like a child. He preferred the power that red asserted. She was disappointed. She sat atop the armrest of the chair at the foot of his bed and watched him from a distance, the space noticeably empty of the sound of quills scratching. She glanced between him and the window, catching the sun dipping below the horizon. Thomas hadn’t noticed the time passing.
“The sun is beautiful, isn’t it, Tom?” Her voice was whispery and melancholic. “It’s beautiful, but that’s in the eye of the beholder, it needn’t cultivate blame for personal opinion.” She suddenly arose from her perch and walked to the window beside Thomas, leaning on the windowsill. “It is beautiful, mother” He agreed.
“Promise you’ll write about it for me,” she turned her head towards him, like she was grounded from the space she’d been observing life from “promise you’ll write about my beautiful son, Thomas.”
He didn’t catch her words, not in the moment. “Of course, I promise.” He took her hand and squeezed it just a little. She shook her head “Not with that old quill, you’re meant for greater things, finer things.” She rushed out of the room to go and retrieve something. Thomas titled his head to get a look at the sun going down, the way it shyly went below the horizon to escape the day, and prepare for the next. Darkness sheltered all the world’s woes. His mother came back with a quill in her hand, a small smile graced her otherwise solemn face.
“Do you see it, Thomas?” She asked excitedly, crouching to be at his eye level. “Do you see the difference?”
He looked between the two quills and found that the one his mother handed him had a small black dot on it. “I do.” He replied firmly. She smiled wide “It reminded me of you, how special you are,” she brushed a strand of hair behind his ear “my special boy, don’t let anyone tell you anything different.”
***
“Thomas!” He startled awake at the yelling, clutching his wound and straightening his sore back from the uncomfortable position he was in, sitting at that old desk he wished was his. He looked up, wide-eyed, to see Fanny standing over him. She have him both a quizzical and analysing look before determine he was aware of her calling to him. “I said, it’s your turn to choose the film tonight and Alison has sent for you.” Fanny stated, holding a fistful of her dress in her hand. Thomas blinked a couple times and smoothed down his waistcoat, clearing his throat too reminiscently of the Captain. “Tell her I’ll be there as soon as the sun goes down.”