Work Text:
“Do you know how to skate, Daisy?” Thomas asks on a cold October evening, with his fingers around a hot cup of tea, sitting at their little table and staring out into the night through the window above the kitchen counter. His question makes Daisy jump where she is perched on the armchair by the fire, book almost thudding to the ground as her grip loosens momentarily.
“What?” She mumbles, thoughts still racing with formulas and measurements alike. Mr. Molesley had given her the book from his own collection, only two days ago, yet she was already halfway through.
“The hallboys-” He hesitates, clears his throat before continuing. “I heard the hallboys talking. They’re planning a trip to the fire pond tomorrow, to see if the ice is thick enough already to skate on…” He drifts off, letting the words hang in the air aimlessly.
Daisy hums and waits, eyes drifting back to decimals and the multiplication ladder.
“Made me wonder…” He continues after a moment. “I’ve never been on the ice before.” His voice softens, sounding somewhat lost. “My Da’ never allowed me to…” He doesn’t elaborate. His shoulders are rounded, voice uncertain, and it tugs at her heartstrings how much she has seen him like this these last weeks.
“I’ve never been actually.” She decides to reply, closing the book but keeping her finger between the pages. “I always thought it must be terrible fun, but no one ever wanted to teach me.”
He turns at her words, careful not to move his arms too much, as has become habit now, and their eyes meet. Something glimmers beneath the perpetual grey haze of his gaze, something that could perhaps blossom into something like curiosity when it would be nourished right, and she feels her lips lift at the sight.
“We could try.” Thomas says, voice wavering between confident order and insecure question. He tries so hard to find the right tone, is so careful in what he is saying and how he does so, ever since that fateful day, and even though he still has trouble landing on the appropriate tone Daisy appreciates him trying nonetheless. But then he adds a maybe, brows furrowing, lips pulling downward as his eyes drop to the side, gaze eerily intense yet empty. She knows that look by now, knows it’s the one he gets when he is close to a precipice full of hatred and self-hurt, pushing himself over by believing himself deserving of it.
Before he can lose himself, Daisy says: “We could. Why not?” His gaze finds her, lids blinking once, twice, three times to clear away the hollow darkness, and she can see gratefulness softening his features. “It can’t be that hard, with all the children doing it, an’ all.” She adds.
He nods, not-quite-a-smile on his lips, then turns back to the window.
Daisy pulls Thomas out of their cottage and into the village on her next half day. He’s sunken low again since that evening, dark thoughts pulling him under – she can see it in the way his brows are constantly knitted, the way he barely opens his mouth and has trouble getting out of bed – and he disregards what he had said with a huff now. He doesn’t want to go skating anymore, he says, that it wouldn’t change anything, would it?
But she persists, tempting him with a packed lunch including Mrs. Patmore’s brownies and her very own syrup biscuits, and eventually he gives in. It happens more and more, recently, him giving into other’s offers, and she is secretly very glad to see it. It’s just a bonus that he is so susceptible to sweet treats, the realm she is the most confident in, and allows her to fatten him up after he had lost so much weight, slowly but surely.
They get on the bus to Thirsk and settle in one of the hard wooden benches at the back. Daisy balances her basket on her knees, and Thomas looks out the window.
“Alright?” She asks after a while. He nods, not tearing his gaze from the scenery. The night had brought new snow, almost a foot or two, and it glistens brightly under the sun’s beams. The villages and cottages they drive by look pretty in white, dwarfed down and cozy, and the trees of the forests stand quiet and still underneath their heavy burden. Here and there a bird rustles in the branches, kicking loose a load, and it falls down like powdered sugar. It’s the first time Thomas has left Downton in a while and Daisy is glad the weather is as nice as that.
When they drive by a lake on the outskirts of a farm, they can see children skidding on the frozen surface. Some just run across, breaking into short-lived sprints to then slide over the ice, others have brought their skates. The metal glints in the light, and their laughter is loud as they chase each other from one shore to the other.
Thomas’ eyes are glued to the sight. He turns his head and leans forward, watching them until the bus rounds a corner and they disappear from their view. When he turns back around, Daisy sends him a grin.
“I didn’t know they were so bloody expensive-”
“Think of them as our Christmas presents to each other.” Daisy cuts him off. She has been smiling ever since they had entered the shop, wide and toothy and so very, very excited. She hadn’t thought about what they were going to do, not much at all aside from it being a nice little outing, something uplifting for the two of them to look forward to. A break from the worries at the abbey, perhaps. But standing in front of the counter and seeing the sleek and sharp and wonderful skates on the shelves had suddenly and irrevocably made it real – and now, with a cardboard box in her hands and a skip in her step, she notices a lightness in herself she hasn’t felt for a long time.
“…But I already have a Christmas present for you.” Thomas argues, looking to the side as they make their way down the sidewalk. She has linked her elbow through his, supporting herself as much as him while they shuffle through the snow.
“Really? What is it?” She asks, stepping around a snowdrift.
“I’m not gonna tell you, am I? That’d defeat the purpose of a gift.”
“Keep it till March then, and give it to me on my birthday.”
He makes an agreeing noise in the back of his throat. When he speaks up again, they are almost down at the bus stop, and his voice is low. “I’m not sure…where I’ll be, next March.”
She knows it’s a topic that needs being handled with care, so she thinks before responding. “But you know where you will be welcome, come March and every month after. Right?”
He nods, his eyes only meeting hers for a split second. He’s still hurting about it, and maybe rightfully so, and she can’t do anything to ease it. It makes her angry, somehow, but she swallows the feeling down.
The air around them has a heavy tinge to it on their way back, and not even Mrs. Patmore’s brownies can chase away the haunted look in Thomas’ eyes.
They had talked about what would happen, of course they had. Thomas’ resignation had been coming for a while, as bitter as it may sound. Daisy had feared the worst, irrational because of her worries, when she had heard of it first.
“We’re not moving, are we?” She had asked, breathless with nerves. She couldn’t stand even the thought of having to give up her position at the Abbey, of having to go and find work somewhere else when she had just managed to assert herself in the eyes of Mrs. Patmore, when she had just managed to balance her work and her studies.
“I don’t think I have the luxury to decide that.”
Anger had flared up inside her. “You can’t make me- I know we’re married, but you can’t make me. I won’t leave, I have rights!”
He had looked at her, eyes wide, baffled. “Daisy, I’m not making you quit- why would you even think that?” He huffed a breath, a sardonic edge to it. “Have I been such a bad husband?”
She hadn’t outright denied his words, had thought them more rhetoric than anything, and had focused on her own future now straightening out in front of her again. In hindsight, she believes she should have said a word or two – because despite the obvious lacking in the romantic department, Thomas had been rather a wonderful husband. At the very least, she could have done far worse than him. She should have told him, to make sure he knew it too.
When they arrive home from their little outing, Thomas is so exhausted he goes straight up to bed. He looks wan, the exertion and excitement of the day catching up with his still weakened body, and Daisy sets up a fire and puts the kettle on, so that later she can bring him a cup of tea. But it will take some time until the hearth is hot enough, and she knows exactly how she is going to use the free hour.
She doesn’t dare to venture out alone – it would feel like a betrayal, of some sorts, to just go and do it on her own now, when they’ve always talked about it and planned it (perhaps even imagined doing it) together – but she wants to try out their newest acquisition regardless. So, she takes the cardboard box with her through the house and out at the back, into their little garden. Neither of them had bothered to clear away the snow, and as she opens the backdoor the stony stairs leading down into the garden are almost drowning in it, the white powder right up to the threshold. She grins at the sight, plonking down on the first step and hiking up her skirts. Then, with bated breath and trembling fingers she takes the box upon her lap and lifts the lid.
They are still there, her skates, shiny and new and sharp. She wonders if she ever had something so new only to herself. It doesn’t feel like it, not like this. With reverence, she pulls them out, takes in every detail and curve, holds one after the other up to the light. Her lips have widened into a perpetual smile by now, and a surge of excitement rushes through her as she leans down to put them on. They fit perfectly.
She tests them out sitting first, leans back and forward, puts sometimes more, sometimes less weight on. She tries to figure out how to distribute it best, draws her feet up on the tip of her toes before rocking back onto the heels, feeling the metal through the thick leather sole of her boots and her woolen socks.
It’s almost dark by the time she dares to stand up. She wobbles around as soon as she’s upright, the skids suddenly thin and narrow underneath her, and as soon as she leans to the side she plummets down, right into the snow. It cushions her fall so nothing is hurt, and as she stares up into the slowly darkening sky a pearly laugh escapes her lips. It echoes through the small backyard, sheer delight chasing away the cold trying to creep into her bones. She wonders if Thomas can hear her through his window.
It takes them two more weeks to find the time – and nerve – to go skating. Daisy alternates between daydreaming about how wonderful it will be to finally slide over the ice on her new skates, and being so nervous at the sheer thought of having to learn something from scratch, something she doesn’t even know if she’s any good at, she feels nauseous. In the end, it is Thomas who says, out of the blue and with a slightly scratchy voice: “Let’s go now.”
It's an early morning, the sun still buried under the horizon, but they’ve both been awake for at least an hour. She had come down after twisting and turning in her bedsheets, sleep evading her for some reason or another, only to be met with Thomas’ hunched form in the dark living room.
“So you’re awake too?” She had whispered, not finding it in herself to lift her voice during the night. He had nodded, once, and the moon had thrown shadows so harsh onto his features, he had almost looked skeletal. Without another word, Daisy had gone into the kitchen to prepare two cups of milk, with a bit of honey in Thomas’, as warm as it was going to get over a quickly stoked fire. She had looked out the window before joining him, and had seen nothing but her own reflection, pale and a bit forlorn.
When she had lowered herself down on the sofa next to Thomas, she had been able to feel his gaze on her.
“Why are you up, then?” He had said, the words somewhere between a demand and a question.
She had shrugged. “Dunno, really. Maybe it’s the cold.” She had put her cup on the side table, then leaned over to give him his. “You?”
He didn’t answer, at least verbally. But even in the dark she had been able to see his hands move, fingers circling his wrists and pressing down, moving along the tender red lines that were now embedded into his flesh for eternity, and she could hazard a guess. It had taken a moment for him to notice the cup, and his fingers had trembled as he had reached out to take it. And then they had just sat there in silence, each dwelling on their own thoughts, right next to the other. (It hadn’t been half-bad.)
And then, when the first shadow of light blue started to creep up in the sky, Thomas had opened his mouth and said the words.
“Now?” She repeats, turning towards him wide-eyed.
He nods, then shrugs. “It’s not like we’re going to get anymore sleep anyway. And this time of day, there won’t be any lads watching us make a fool of ourselves.”
“Thanks for the confidence.”
He frowns and looks at her. “Are we ever going to do it?”
She’s quiet. Then she nods, and without another word they stand up, put their cups into the kitchen sink and go to change into warmer clothing.
Daisy is a trembling mess once they reach the pond. Her knees are weak and her heart pounds and she thinks this has been the worst idea they’ve ever had.
But Thomas sits down into the snow next to her, quite unceremoniously, and starts putting on his skates as if he has done it a thousand times before in his life. His actions speak louder than any words could have. She watches as he re-ties his boots, tightening them to cram the long ends of the shoelaces into the upper, before going for the skates and unbuckling them. Hesitantly she lowers down too, then, and carefully gets out her own skates. It’s hard to see in the grey twilight, sometime between night and morning, and the air is bitingly cold and so clear it catches in her throat again and again. Her fingers are slow, already cold and red underneath her knitted gloves.
Thomas is done with his before she has even put on one, but he doesn’t say anything and simply waits. When she has finally tied the last bow, making sure everything is tight and secure and nothing is in the way, she looks up to meet his gaze. An almost-smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
“Ready?” She asks, voice breathless. She doesn’t know if she is herself.
“Let’s do it.” He pulls himself up with the help of a low hanging branch – and promptly starts to wobble. For a second he looks like he might fall down the way he came, but then he gets his feet under his body and the skates under control, a concentrated look on his face.
Daisy swallows, memories of her first try in their garden coming back to her, and she eyes the snow around them. It’s not nearly as fluffy as it had been then, trampled down and icy. It would hurt, falling down onto that.
A hand in a black leather glove juts into her vision, and it waves impatiently when she doesn’t immediately take it.
“Come on-” Thomas says, waving his fingers. His other hand is still clamped around the branch.
She swallows, then reaches out to take his hand. Despite his impatience, his touch is gentle, guiding her securely up and giving her something to anchor herself on as she, too, begins to wobble. Her equilibrium is screwed, dancing along the line of balance like a ragdoll, and she all but throws herself forward to the tree Thomas is standing at. Her feet stumble along, half steps catapulting her forward until her palms hit cool bark. Breathless, she meets Thomas’ eyes.
“How are we ever going to get on the ice?”
Thomas turns, eyeing the shore. It’s not that far, not at all actually, a distance that would normally not take more than two steps. Now though, it seems like rather a challenge.
“Just…go. I guess.” He shrugs, and she can see, for the first time really, that he is just as unsure about all of this as she is. Yet, his eyes are trained on the frozen surface of the pond, only a few feet away. Something sets in his gaze and jaw, and then suddenly he is moving, taking a careful step forward. And then another. And another. And suddenly he lets go of the tree, latches onto her hand instead, and all but pulls her forward. They slide and slither down the last stretch, clumsy with their quick breaths painting the air around them white.
Then, the skids hit ice, and they stand still. A sense of anticipation builds between them, quiet yet heady. Daisy shifts her hand around in his, so that it’s more comfortable, and squeezes. He squeezes back.
And then they step forward.
Daisy barely goes beyond little tippy-toey steps, tripling like a mouse over the surprisingly smooth surface. It’s like nothing she knows, slippery and slidey, and she needs to muster up her whole concentration to keep her feet where she wants them to be.
Thomas has no such problems, or he solves them far quicker than she does. He dares to take bigger steps, tries different angles and ways to lean his body, falls a few times but stands up immediately again. After about twenty minutes he figures out how to distribute his weight on the skates to kick off without falling down, and then slide across the ice on one skid while the other prepares to deliver the next push.
He grows sure enough to pull her at some point, and Daisy hangs off him as they slide across the length of the pond. The sun, still hidden away, is starting to light up the sky, light blue with a hint of yellow, and she knows they’ll have to go home soon, to change and then go up to the abbey. Her daily life suddenly feels far away, like from another time, as the airflow brushes her hair out of her face and Thomas’ fingers warm hers through layers of leather and wool, while his skates skid rhythmically over the ice. She looks down, sees the snow and ice rush past her feet, and feels a grin spreading on her lips. She can’t help it, excitement and elation reaching up inside her as something becomes reality she has never dared so much as even dream about, something that had seemed out of reach for so long.
When she looks back up her gaze meets Thomas’. He is smiling, truly smiling. It’s the first time ever since that day, and Daisy is suddenly so happy she can’t hold it in anymore. A laugh bubbles out of her mouth, giddy and full of everything, and it echoes over the icy pond into the quiet morning, a harbinger of joy and, maybe, perhaps, more hopeful times.