Work Text:
That evening, the residents of Button House had held a memorial service for Mary. In the orchard, they stood, remembering her. That morning, she had ascended, vanished without a trace. Without a trace of her mundane life, her cruel death, her centuries of ghosthood.
All that she left behind, Thomas supposed, was the bitter air of quiet in the house, the thick melancholy that coated the floorboards and made their footsteps sluggish.
Poor Kitty was inconsolable. Thomas had held her hand in the TV room, where he found her, folded over and weeping. With silent tears streaking his own face, he kissed her salty cheeks.
He longed to soothe her, wanted to use his natural prowess with the English language to muster up some words of comfort, but he could not. How could he, when he was hardly at grips with his own despair? He attempted: “What we did earlier was lovely, was it not? A fitting tribute to dearest Mary?”
Kitty looked at him, eyes swollen and face wet, and sobbed: “But… how can it be lovely if it never should have happened?”
Thomas did not reply then, because he could not pretend he did not share the exact same sentiment. Could a thing be lovely, truly, when it was following the loss of a dear friend? So, he guided Kitty’s head to his shoulder and quietly wept with her.
Amidst his melancholy, Thomas somehow found time to worry over the Captain. He had taken to running around like a madman (moreso than usual), waggling his ridiculous stick in everyone’s faces and refusing to sit still for even a moment. It was because he was grieving, as were the rest of them, even choking up at the memorial. Thomas had never seen him cry before, and had longed to reach over and hold him, to break their silent pact to not touch in the daylight. James had ignored him, and held Julian instead. He wondered if James had wanted him to do it, the way Julian had. Maybe he should’ve done it anyway, the pact be damned. Maybe he would.
Thomas strode out into the living room with gusto he had not felt all day, to find James bossing Pat around to assist with the cleanup of the children’s party.
“Chop chop, Patrick, not a moment to lose!”
Pat pushed his glasses onto his nose. “Well, I’m sorry, mate, but I’m not sure what exactly I can do to help! I think Alison would want some space, if anything…”
James shook his head with a grumble. “There’s plenty to do with the right attitude! For example-“
Exasperated, Thomas had dared to cross the invisible boundary, grabbing the soldier by the khaki sleeve. James froze, turning to him, swagger stick still upright, eyes wide. Thomas noticed Pat in his periphery, watching, wringing his hands. Make a run for it! Thomas attempted to telepathically convey to him, save yourself, I’ll hold him back!
“Thorne? What is this?”
Thomas bit back the hurt of being called that - he would contemplate it later, when he had more time - and muttered through clenched teeth: “Come, would you?”
James looked from Thomas to Pat, who shrugged, then back at Thomas. “Well…”
Still gripping his sleeve, Thomas walked him through the wall and into the library. They stood face-to-face, and Thomas dropped his hand. This proximity alone was a complete newness in the light of day, such a change from their usual careful tango of avoidance.
The Captain frowned. “What is the meaning of this, Thorne?”
“Don’t.” Thomas hissed. The man had held him all night, he would call him by his name, at the very fucking least.
James made a face. “Well. What is it? As you very well saw, I was in the middle of conversation with Patrick, and I do not appreciate-“
“James. Are you quite alright?”
The soldier looked down, then, at Thomas’ bloodstained palm resting on his wrist, almost on his hand. Thomas let it lay there, light.
He stared at it for a little too long, and Thomas wondered whether he was going to shove him off.
He didn’t. “W-well,” he cleared his throat, meeting his eye again, “Of course, I’m terribly upset by the loss of Mary-“
Thomas’ eyes were hot. “As am I.”
James then shook his head lightly, squeezing his eyes shut. “But we mustn’t dwell. There is much to do, and no time to mope. We must keep busy.”
Thomas wanted to scream at him and hug him tight. He settled for a tighter grip on his arm. “James, please,” he kept his voice low, for no one was to know he called him by his name, “It is hardly dwelling when she only left us this morning. You must allow yourself to-“
“To mope around all day, every day, like you? That’s hardly conducive to anything getting done around here, and I shan’t do the same, Thorne.” His tone was bitter, and Thomas was struck with a sudden chest pain.
He frowned, pulling back his hand as though it were burnt. His eyes stung. “You think me the fool, sir?” he growled, “Forgive me if I don’t parade around like some deluded lunatic who believes he can be of any use of anyone while he’s dead!”
James scoffed, mumbling a little before shaking his head and storming out of the room. Thomas wanted to scream. He couldn’t be helped. He attempted to punch the wall and his fist phased right through it.
He had skulked off and sulked the entire evening. He took his self-pity on a pilgrimage through to his sighing place, the roof, the woods. Sitting cross-legged in the dirt, back against an old oak, he hardly startled at fox that emerged from a bush, looked directly at him, and scurried off. Its scattered patches of dark fur reminded him of Mary.
He recalled the Captain’s cruelty in a wretched loop. An attempt at warmth outside the bedroom, met with a snipe and a bitter dig at his manhood. The words stung his chest his wound, his eyes. James, he had pleaded, with a grip on his flesh. Thorne, he had spat, irritation in the crinkles around his eyes. It was a rejection, a line in the sand.
The man could be so close in the dreamscape of night, with his arms curled around Thomas and a quiet story shared about a school bully or a television program. It was unfair, then, that Thomas had to feel this way now. It was the deep pit in one’s stomach, the subtle nausea of embarrassment. The sharp edge it gives one, the weapon to return cruelty in a way he doesn’t intend.
He hung his head in his lap. James had been unfair, yet so had he. He knew well that his bedfellow was a skittish animal, a landmine for the emotional repression to get the best of him and send him flying. And he was grieving, it was clear as day. Saddened by the loss of a dear friend, so stunted with his emotions that he expelled them the only (and very infuriating) way he knew how. Thomas puffed, dragged his sleeve over his wet eyes and looked up to the almost pitch-black woods.
Pride be damned, he thought, hurt be damned. Mary was gone, everything had shattered. He would not, could not end the day alone.
“Captain?”
The moonlight gave way to James’ silhouette in his bed, a statue of grey and khaki. He faced away from Thomas, and he could not tell if he was asleep, or pretending to be. The pair had many differences, but they were both rather capable sulkers.
In case he were really asleep, Thomas climbed into the familiar bed carefully, avoiding much noise. Gingerly, he threaded an arm over James’ torso, so he was holding him from behind. He nestled his chin on the crook of the Captain’s neck, burying his nose in the part of his hair that faded into flesh. This was close, even for them.
“I am sorry,” he uttered, so hidden beneath his breath that if anyone else were in the room, it would remain between them only.
James stirred then, bringing his hot hand to wrap around Thomas’, shuffling the back of his body into Thomas’ front. This was it, it had to be. The closest they ever were, they ever could be. His voice was quiet, yet uneven from the crying: “How can she just be gone?”
When Thomas had started weeping, he couldn’t say. He questioned whether the tears had ceased between the woods and the present. If he hadn’t been already, seeing the Captain like this was what pushed him over the edge. “I wish I knew, truly.”
They cried together, for a long while, clinging on to each other like it would somehow keep the other tethered to this existence. Like neither was willing to let go. There were no more words, because what could be said? It was the reason he could not write a worthwhile eulogy, the reason why James had snapped at him - some things just couldn’t be spoken.
After a long while, sleep crept up on him, and tears that would soon vanish began to dry on his cheeks. As he succumbed to his weighted eyelids, he thought he heard the distant whispers of an apology, and if he dared, maybe the lightest brush of lips and a moustache to his knuckles.