Work Text:
The Long Bar, Piccadilly December 1915
Matthew slopped his drink onto the bar when his elbow slipped from the edge of the battered mahogany.
“Fuckity bollocks.”
He liked swearing. The words felt good in his mouth, round and heavy and cruel. He’d heard his fair share of swearing at school, on the rugger field and from the mouths of prefects dressing down a new boy lax in his fagging duties, but it wasn’t until he’d spent a week crouched in half a foot of ice water, fighting the rats for somewhere dry to lean against and sipping oily tea from dirt encrusted tin mugs that he’d realised the true pleasure of a well timed expletive. Now his mouth was dry, no matter how many tasteless whiskey sodas he downed, his hand trembled where it was clenched around his glass and he had almost cried in the street when a car back fired. No one from his old life knew he had any leave, and he was planning to keep it that way.
“Not like you sir, didn’t think the Crawley brood knew any four letter words, if you don’t mind me saying.”
A northern brogue came somewhere from his left. Matthew peered sideways, taking in the medical corps uniform, slick black hair and gaze just on the uncriticisable end of contemptuous.
“Oh, cock.”
Thomas’s lip trembled as he held back from smiling. He turned, signalled the barman to bring him a drink, then turned back to survey Matthew Crawley, heir to the Earl of Grantham, solicitor at law and Lieutenant in the North York battalion, slumped over the counter of the most notorious gay bar in Edwardian London. Thomas clasped his fingers around his drink, tapping an unsteady rhythm with a bitten fingernail.
“Good to see you too, sir.”
Matthew attempted to raise himself up to his full height, was hit by a wave of nausea and swiftly rethought this plan. He levered himself up enough to down the rest of his whiskey, before sinking down to rest his head on his arms.
“Tell anyone you saw me here. Like this. And I’ll … I’ll… do a really nasty thing. Okay? Horrible things.”
Thomas clapped a hand on his shoulder, very briefly, before tucking it back neatly around his glass. “Wouldn’t do a thing like that, sir. You know me. Trustworthy footman, loyal as a dog.” He snorted and sipped his Soixante Quinze, letting the gin and champaign wash over his tongue.
They drank in silence for a few minutes, or rather, Thomas drank, while Matthew tried to burrow further into his arms. His gut was churning, not just from the cheap whiskey. He’d always, well, known about Thomas. Everyone did. But he’d never thought about himself that way. It just, well it happened at school, didn’t it? It was one of those things. He’d sort out a wife eventually, if he made it through the war. Mary, Downton, it was all so terrible far away. His universe had reduced, fading down to just the drink in his hand, the next fag break, catching more than five minutes of sleep during a shelling. He allowed himself only to think of the precise moment he was in. Dreaming made you sloppy. He couldn’t afford to be sloppy. He had his duty, to his men, and that was what mattered. Anything else he did just disappeared into the vast realm of things not to think about. He wouldn’t think about the squelch of his bayonet sliding into the eye socket of a whimpering boy who was doing nothing more than wearing the wrong uniform. Or about picking strands of Corporal Bennet off himself after a direct shell hit. So why would he think about a hurried clinch in the black of a dugout, or a drunken fumble in the back streets of Amiens. It was his first leave in more than nine months, and he saw no reason to think about what he was doing now any more than what he’d been doing for the past two years.
Thomas’s voice cut through the low chatter of the bar. “Why on earth are you laughing?”
Matthew lifted his head from his arms. Thomas was eyeing him slant wise, the dim lighting casting deep shadows from his nose and cheekbones. Matthew watched him raise his glass to his lips, the bitten, red lips pressed against the glass, and a flick of tongue catching the last drops. He slid one arms off the bar, and pressed his hand to Thomas’s thigh. Thomas froze, glass halfway back to the bar. Matthew gave a squeeze, and Thomas replaced his glass with a thunk. His hand was gently removed from Thomas’s leg, the softness of the action at odds with the cold, steely expression on Thomas’s face.
“Where are you staying? I’ll find you cab.”
Thomas shoved his stool back from the bar and stood up. Matthew copied him, lurching slightly.
“Let’s not go to mine, yours is fine.” Matthew tried to take a step towards the other man, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. “Whoops.”
Thomas slid an arm around his waist, holding him up. Matthew could feel the tension in his muscles, tight as a bow string.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” said Thomas curtly. “Sir.”
Matthew knew he was going too far. The small part of his brain not soaked in whiskey was telling him there were some lines that shouldn’t be crossed. But his transport to Le Havre left at 10am the next morning, and a decimated platoon of teenage farm hands looking to him for answers was all that was waiting for him. Thomas had led him through the crowds in the bar, and onto the pavement opposite the statue of Eros. The air was crisp, the earlier fog all but dissipated. Thomas waved down a hackney, as Matthew pressed his face into his neck.
“Come on. I won’t tell anyone. It can be our little secret. I’ll promise to put in a good word with the Earl if you want your position back after the war.”
Thomas froze, quickly removing his arm and taking a step away from Matthew. His expression was unreadable, lips tight, eyes lost in shadow. The cab pulled up and Thomas automatically reached out to open the door. He held it open, falling into a formal pose, one arm tucked behind his back.
“Goodnight, sir.”
Matthew leant against the side of the cab, something coiling in his chest, threatening to break.
“Don’t be like that. It doesn’t mean anything. There’s a war on.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he could take them back. Thomas had let go of the door, only a life time of self-restraint keeping his arms by his side and his mouth shut. Without saying another word, he turned on his heel and stalked off through the evening crowds, hands balled into fists by his side. Matthew pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the cab window. His stomach was lurching, half from the drink, half from something he was working very hard not to put a name to.
The driver stuck his head out.
“In or out? It’s double if you throw up. Friday night rules. Sir.”
Matthew passed a hand over his eyes, shutting up each feeling as it came, tucking it away. He climbed into the cab, and shut the door on Thomas’s retreating form.
No Man’s Land, near Arras, December 1915
Matthew skittered down the side of the shell hole, service revolver clutched white-knuckled in his hand. He hit the muddy puddle at the bottom with a crack as his foot broke through the thin crust of ice on the surface.
“Shitting shit,” he spat, wiping the nervous sweat from his lip with his sleeve.
“Do they know you’re this foul mouthed back at Downton?”
The gun in Matthew’s hand shot up, levelled at Thomas, who was sitting on an unidentifiable mound of uniformed shapes that were the same colour as the mud. Thomas smirked, and brought his crumpled roll up to his lips. Matthew dropped the gun into his lap and pressed his fingers into his eyes.
“You might want to open with something a little more reassuring next time you find yourself in the middle of a battle.”
Thomas flicked his cigarette ash onto the ice. “How many Germans talk about your soon to be inherited country pile in a Yorkshire accent?”
Matthew shot him a look. “I’m a bit on edge, if you hadn’t noticed.”
Thomas snorted. His hand trembled and he brought his cigarette to his lips again to steady it. He had blood spattered down his front, smeared over the red cross on his sleeve.
“How did you get down here?”
Thomas looked at him through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “I decided after a shell blew off the arm of the man next to me and put shrapnel in the face of the man I was trying to save that I’d take a short break in the mud.”
A shell blast ripped through the air, sending earth scattering over their heads. Thomas flinched, a full body motion that shuddered through him.
“Buck up. We’ll be out of here soon enough.”
Thomas stared at him, but said nothing. Matthew shuffled around in the mud, picking his way over half submerged shrapnel and fleshy lumps he’d rather not think about.
“I think the snipers are to the north east, in the remains of the farmhouse. My platoon was leading a raid but I got separated from them.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“Wait until nightfall. There’s no cover this far along the line, so we’ll be sitting ducks if we try and move while it’s light.”
Thomas dropped his cigarette butt into the mud where it smoked gently.
“Do they teach you tactical planning in officer school?” Thomas picked a scrap of paper from his tongue. “Sir.”
“Yes, we attend regular - you weren’t serious, were you?” Matthew arched an eyebrow.
Thomas offered him a small smile, little more than a twitch of his lips.
“Yes. I suppose humour is the best response to this sort of situation.”
“I suppose so. Sir.”
Thomas offered Matthew a cigarette. They smoked together in silence as dusk fell. The winter night was quick to draw in, taking the last scraps of warmth with it. Matthew found himself glad of the heat of Thomas’s arm pressed against his. The other man was still trembling slightly, jerking at each chatter of machine gun fire. Thankfully there was little cloud cover that night, and the light of the moon and stars picked out the jagged landscape of no man’s land.
Wordlessly, Matthew signalled to Thomas to follow him. He awkwardly crept up the side of the shell hole, peeping out over the side. In the distance he could see the puffs of Archie smoke where an unseen aircraft was crossing the lines. It was quiet in their sector. The moonlight would help them make their way back to the British lines, but it would also expose them to any sniper fire. Thomas edged up beside Matthew, helmet slipping forwards.
“We head due east, my company is stationed in that direction. We had the wire cut to let out our patrol, we should be able to make it back through that way.”
Thomas nodded and his helmet slipped further forward. He shoved it back, irritably. His hand was still trembling. On an impulse, Matthew took the trembling hand, squeezing its ice cold fingers in his.
“I know you’re not a fighting man - “
“I’m not a coward,” Thomas intercut sharply.
“I know you’re not. But it’s alright to be scared. I am. Fear keeps you sharp. It’s your best weapon out here.”
Thomas snorted, but didn’t draw his hand away.
“We’re making it through this. I promise.”
Thomas’s lips twitched. “That’s the word of an officer, I take it.”
Matthew grinned, teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “Of course.”
With his hand still in Matthew’s grasp, Thomas stepped over the edge.
Medical Station, near Arras, January 1915
The shelling had intensified through the morning. A pals battalion fresh from England had been sent down to the lines the day previously, and one by one they were being brought back up, only sometimes whole. Thomas had been working through the night, mostly administering morphine and trying to stop the teenagers with their guts hanging out from screaming loud enough to wake the other dying boys. He dunked his hands in a mostly clean bowl of water, scratching the blood from under his fingernails. His head ache had been building for hours now, throbbing across his vision and making the bivouac tent swim before his eyes.
Blinking in the cold winter sunlight, he checked his cigarette pack and found it was empty. He paused for a while, feeling the icy wind cool the sweat on his forehead, before turning back into the tent; To see Matthew Crawley, perched on the edge of a cot while unbuttoning his shirt. He looked up, catching Thomas’s eye and smiled sheepishly. Thomas crossed the tent, and brushed the VAD nurse aside.
“I’ll deal with the officer, check the dressings on the patients brought in this morning.”
She nodded, sliding through the press of wounded soldiers and medical staff.
“Should I start this off by swearing?” Matthew asked, slipping his shirt off.
“Save it until I’ve checked these ribs. Sir.”
An ugly bruise was spreading around his chest and stomach, turning dark black and purple in places. His chest hitched with each breath, wheezing gently.
“Oh it’s nothing really.” Matthew blew the hair out of his eyes. “Hardly a direct hit. Just got in the way of a fellow who did get the direct hit. Went straight into a machine gun embankment. A word of advice, don’t try and tangle with anything made of metal. One tends to lose.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Thomas hesitated for a moment, then gently slid his fingers around the edge of the bruise. Matthew shivered, and Thomas put it down to the cold winter air. He heard the sharp intake of break as he carefully felt out the line of each rib, checking for any breaks. Despite the cold, Matthew’s skin was burningly hot. He glanced at his eyes, checking for the glassy look of fever but found nothing. Matthew was pointedly looking over his shoulder, pretending Thomas’s face wasn’t mere inches from his. Every now and again his eyes flicked up to Thomas’s. If he didn’t know better he would think Matthew was looking at his mouth.
Thomas took a step back.
“All done, sir. Just need to bandage you up and you’ll be alright to re-join your company.” He took up some supplies and set to trussing Matthew up like a Christmas goose. “Not much we can do about broken ribs. Strap everything in place and hope for the best. Any blood when you cough and you come straight back now, sir.”
Matthew arched his eyebrows. “Good gracious, it’s not as serious as that now is it?”
“As far as I can tell there’s only one break. Shouldn’t cause you too much trouble, but if you find yourself getting flung about again there’s the possibility it could puncture a lung.”
Matthew paled. “Good grief.”
Thomas smirked. “That’s very restrained of you, sir.”
“What?”
“I suppose we are in mixed company.” Thomas nodded towards the nearest VAD.
Matthew blushed. “Yes, I suppose I must unlearn my soldierly ways when all this is over.”
Thomas kept his face schooled blank and busied himself with the bandages.
“Oh come on now, Thomas. You must believe this is all going to be over soon.”
“Can’t say I find myself so hopeful, sir.”
“I suppose you do see the worst of it, here, in many ways.”
Thomas finished fastening the bandages and stepped away.
“It was kind of you to be so comforting when we found ourselves in great danger together. But this is my world - I mean, sir, that this is what I know about, this is my war. I don’t need platitudes to survive it.”
Matthew coloured. “I didn’t mean to imply - “
“No, sir. I know you didn’t.” Thomas hesitated, taking in Matthew’s absurdly crestfallen expression, his hair falling into his eyes and the tight grip of his fingers around the edge of the bed. “I’m finished with you.”
He turned on his heel, and left.
Medical Station, near Arras, three hours later
Thomas took a deep drag on his cigarette. He’d traded a fifth of whiskey hidden in the bottom of his pack for a crumpled box of woodbines. Night had fallen behind the lines, and the guns had mostly fallen silent. The only mechanical noise was that of the Rolls-Royce engine of a Bristol Fighter passing overhead. The shaking in Thomas’s hand had worsened throughout the day. He had dropped a tray of sterilised instruments and been ordered to the washing of bedpans for the rest of his shift. With the stilling of the guns, the steady flow of men into the medical bay had slowed to a trickle, and finally as the light began to fade, the last cases with any hope of recovery had been sent to join the hospital train, and those left behind had been dosed up on morphine and left to die quietly in their own time.
His shadow, cast by the light from the farm house where his unit was sleeping, was joined by another. He glanced over his shoulder to see Matthew approaching him, injury now invisible with his officer’s uniform back in place.
“I thought I’d come and say goodbye before I left.”
Thomas nodded, then held out the woodbines. Matthew slid one from the packet and held it to his lips as Thomas lit a match for him. He blew a thin stream of dirty smoke into the air before glancing back at Thomas.
“I - I do wish you’d call me Matthew. I think it’s only right after… well.”
Thomas stiffened beside him, pinching his cigarette between his fingers. “You are my commanding officer. And my social superior - to most people. You’ll be Lieutenant Crawley until this end of this and Mr Crawley after that until the world ends as like or not. It’s easy enough for the likes of you to want a bit of rough, to amuse yourself with the lower orders while it suits you. But my Character is all I have, sir. And the day I call you Matthew is the day I ruin my life.”
Matthew stared at him incredulous. He opened his mouth to speak then shut it again. Thomas took a drag of his cigarette to steady his hand.
“I’m sorry if I caused offence, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
Thomas nodded brusquely, flicking away the ash.
“I suppose I only meant … we’re both outsiders, as I see it. You know what I’m talking about. I don’t deny that I’ve been handed the easier lot in life, in many ways. I only hoped we might think of each other as allies. Or perhaps just a friendly face.” Matthew dropped his cigarette in the mud, and watched the dim glow at the tip fade. Cautiously, he put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder, and squeezed. “I’ve not behaved as I might, in the past to you. If - when this is over, perhaps you’ll remember what I’ve said here. You don’t have to have to handle things alone.”
Thomas dropped his cigarette after Matthew’s. He looked up, meeting Matthew’s eye, fighting to keep the tremor in his hand at bay.
“Thank you. Sir.”
Matthew smiled, a tight, stretched gesture. His fingers lingered a little too long on Thomas’s arm, eyes a little too longingly on his mouth.
“Goodbye, Thomas.”
He turned, and walked back to the farm house, silhouetted in the dim light. Thomas raised one trembling hand to his lips, to the ghost of a kiss that never quite happened. Balling the hand into a fist, and brought it swiftly back down by his side.
“Goodbye,” he murmured softly. “Matthew.”