Chapter Text
It was past midnight and Button House was turned down for the night. All of its residents were asleep, save Thomas and the Captain, who were sat in front of the dim glow of the television set.
Earlier that day, Thomas had thought James was having a fit. He had been perched over Julian’s newspaper when he had made quite the fuss.
“Ah! Ah ah! It’s- oh, it’s brilliant! Alison? I say, Alison- where is she? Oh, I simply cannot miss- Alison!”
Thomas, who had been sat cross legged on the sofa, rereading the pages of Northanger Abbey Alison had left open for him, raised a brow. “What on earth is all this blabbering for, sir?”
“Ah, Thomas!” the Captain swivelled towards him as though just realising he was in the room, “Thomas, please fetch Alison for me, right away!”
Thomas half-scoffed, half-chortled. “Fetch her yourself!”
The Captain stomped a foot. “Blast!”
“Funnily enough, I’m not your slave, man. What is this all about, anyway?”
“‘Dunkirk: The Soldiers’ Story’ is on the television at 0200 hours, tonight! I simply must get Alison to record it for me!”
Thomas let out a bark. “That’s it? Christ, I thought it was something important…”
It was James’ turn to scoff. “Ha! Unimportant you say? Well, sir, you couldn’t be further from the truth! The Second World War is a crucial part of Britain’s history, it is what made our nation so strong, it is imperative that we-“
Thomas shook his head then, turning back to his book. “You have fun with that, then. I think I’d rather read these two pages for the twentieth time.”
James spluttered. “No, you simply must watch it with me! You have no appreciation for English history nor any patriotism to show for it-“
“I’m Scottish.”
“You’ve only lived on English soil for two centuries, man! You must watch it, I demand it!”
“You can't demand me to do anything! There’s not a chance in hell, Captain.”
There was no chance in hell, but maybe one in purgatory.
Thomas found himself in front of the television at far too late an hour. When James got a hold of her, Alison had reminded him that they no longer had the subscription to record TV programs and told him he would have to stay up and watch it live.
His late-night viewership was a testament to his willingness to watch the documentary, then, considering his usual rigidity with bedtime.
Thomas had tossed back and forth in bed for a short while before realising he was not going to fall asleep unaccompanied by his bedfellow. He had huffed as he made his way to the TV room, hoping he could at least sleep on the couch.
“Ah!” James had smiled, smug, as he walked in the room, “I knew you’d cave. Far too enticing, eh?”
He had just rolled his eyes, lay on the couch and buried his head on the other man’s khaki lap.
As anticipated, the documentary was hardly worth staying up for, but he could not deny the pleasant touches from James made it all a little worthwhile.
He hummed as he ran a hand back and forth over his head, threading his fingers through his curls. His eyes were shut, enjoying himself, and murmuring in acknowledgement whenever James made some comment on the brilliance of the program.
He reached up and plucked James’ hand from his head, and like he was a ragdoll, he then placed his open palm on his cheek. He held it there, his untouched writer’s hands relishing in the roughness of a soldier’s flesh, and the natural roughness of a older man.
Its heat, a rarity in ghost flesh, radiated through him. "So warm.”
“Hm?” James was able to tear his eyes away from his precious television as advertisements started to roll. He rubbed his thumb up and down Thomas’ cheek.
“Your hands,” his voice was heavy with the beginnings of sleep, “they’re so warm.”
“Ah. Yes, that’d be the… uh.” James coughed awkwardly, and Thomas was now wide awake. His tone was off.
“The what?”
James cleared his throat. Why was he suddenly so awkward? “Well, er, as I’m sure you recall, Tom, when I died…”
Thomas recalled it clearly, he had witnessed the entire thing. He was struggling to see its relevance in present conversation, however. “Yes?”
The words appeared painful to come out of him. “My hands… were held. Er, if you can recall. So they are… perpetually warm, I suppose, because of that.”
Thomas recalled once being sucker-punched in the gut by Pat, his fist firm and unyielding, the heat ripping through him with a sharp sting followed by a heavy, dull ache in his abdomen. He had keeled over, breathless, tears flooding his eyes.
Whatever this feeling was had to be far more painful.
Havers. Lovely, level-headed, love-of-James’-life Havers. Forever imprinted on his love, bypassing mortality, the one advantage Thomas believed to have over him. Nothing he could ever do, or write, or dream of could be more romantic, more poetic than that.
He sat up taut then, letting James’ Havers-branded hand drop from his face. He attempted to keep his tone even, but feared he sounded a little manic.
“Oh!” he grinned painfully at James, who had raised an eyebrow, “I see!” Was his voice high? It felt high…
An advertisement for adult nappies rang in the background. James frowned, worry in the crinkles on his forehead. “I’m sorry, Thomas-,”
“Sorry?” he cried, shrill, “sorry for what? That is lovely, really, how wonderful, he is always with you! On you!” He didn’t want to let on his distress, to discourage the Captain from sharing these things with him. The remains of his composure, however, were slipping through his fingers at a rapid pace.
“Tom-,” James put a hand on his arm, and Thomas practically flung himself away. Away from the warm, comforting touch of Havers. James gaped.
Springing to his feet, Thomas motioned to the television with a flourish. “Oh, look, the program’s back on! You don’t want to miss any of it!” he feigned a yawn, “ah, I’m so tired, I am going to retire to bed now. Tell me how it ends!”
Without another glance at the Captain, Thomas bounded out of the room.