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Footman in Training	By : imdirty Category: 1 through F > Downton Abbey Views: 2654 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey and am not making money from this story. And I'm hoping I'm doing this disclaimer thing right :)

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The kitchen was aglow with spring sunlight reflecting off copper pots and kettles. The servants worked together to clean and polish all the dishware and silver before Lord and Lady Grantham returned to Downton. Thomas stood over a pile of silver, his body warm from the sun. His jacket was replaced with an apron, his sleeves covered with black cloth to protect him from the polish.

Eric had tried desperately to garner some acknowledgement from Thomas during breakfast, but Thomas served him the same as every other person at the table. Thomas wanted to leave him longing. Would he write? A new naughty penpal could be a nice. His body became even warmer as he thought about the night before.

“You look sunny as this day, Thomas,” Mrs. Patmore observed. “To what do we owe this rare good mood?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Patmore, you know I love a backhanded compliment.”

“Seems to be about the only kind of compliment you get around here,” Mr. Molesely chimed in.

Thomas enjoyed the banter. Even as the butt of a joke, it still made him feel he belonged to this motley group.

“Can I help?” Price asked, returning from picking up flowers from the gardener. Mrs. Patmore took the flowers from Price and directed him to Thomas.

“I think you can help Smiley with the silver, there’s enough to keep ten men busy for the rest of the day.”

Price hung his jacket, donned an apron, and rolled up his sleeves. “Smiley?” he asked, picking up a rag and standing on the opposite side of the kitchen island from Thomas.

“They just like to have a go at me,” Thomas said, sliding a wooden crate of knives across the island to Price.

“Your feelings don’t look too hurt,” Price said, smiling himself.

“And while we’re asking, what are you so happy for? A good evening perhaps?”

Price shrugged, still smiling. His eyes briefly met Thomas’s.

He was like an oblivious, happy golden puppy, Thomas thought.

“What do footman do these days to entertain themselves after hours?” Thomas asked Price.

Price squirted thick gray liquid onto a rag and began polishing the knives. “Hmm… play cards, read books, write letters? I can’t imagine it’s much different than what an under butler does.”

“Maybe not this under butler,“ Molesley commented.

Thomas pointed a fork at him. “Watch yourself there.”

The men continued to work on the silver while the kitchen staff washed the dishware, and the hallboys and maids dried and returned things to their rightful homes.

Thomas watched Price out of the corner of his eye. Price chewed his bottom lip as he worked, his evergreen-colored eyes focused on his task. Thomas found his eyes resting on Price’s forearms, the muscles dancing as he polished the knives.

“Am I doing it wrong?” Price asked, noticing Thomas watching.

“No, you’re doing just fine.”

“I’m just not sure what to think when you’re watching me.”

There was a brief silence.

“I’m responsible for training you,” Thomas said steadily. “It’s my job to watch what you’re doing.”

Price looked up. “Of course, Mr. Barrow. I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

And with that comment, Price’s grip slipped, and his index finger caught the edge of a knife. He grabbed the injured finger with the opposite hand and scooped it to his chest, but there was already blood down his hand, his arm, and onto the island. Silverware and dishes clanged as several of the staff rushed to his side.

“I’ll help him, I’ll help him,” Thomas said, pushing through the others. “I was a medic, unless you all forgot.” He held Price’s arm above his head and led him to the small room off the servants’ hall where the staff polished shoes. “First aid kit, please!” Thomas called to no one in particular.

A hallboy brought the kit to Thomas. Thomas and Price sat knee to knee, Price’s injured hand resting in Thomas’ gloved hand.

“I’m getting blood on your glove.”

“I have spares,” Thomas said, though his tone wasn’t as reassuring as the words. “You cut yourself pretty deep, David. Not sure how useful this hand will be when his Lordship and her Ladyship return tomorrow.”

Price sucked air through his teeth as Thomas pinched the wound closed.

“You need a couple soutures. This will hurt a bit but won’t last long. Squeeze your other hand into a fist to help distract from the pain.”

Thomas wiped Price’s finger with iodine and prepared a needle and thread.

“You were a medic?”

“That’s how I got this,” Thomas said, nodding to his hand. “It’s a tad worse than yours. I suppose you were too young to serve.”

Price laughed. “No, I wasn’t too young. I served. Maybe you assumed I’m young because I’m a second footman at the age of twenty eight.”

Thomas held the tip of the needle by Price’s wound. “I based my assumption on appearance, not position,” he lied.

Price squeezed his fist while trying not to whimper as Thomas made six slow, small, careful stitches into Price’s skin. “I really am sorry I bled on you,” Price admitted between gritted teeth, “but more sorry if I let you down. This job is important to me. Bad enough to be second footman when I should be further in my career. Worse if you recommend they make me hallboy.”

“And why would I do that?” Thomas asked, tying off the final stitch. He wiped Price’s finger again and examined his work.

“Not that you would, that’s not how I meant it.” Price met Thomas’s eyes. “I don’t want to ruin this opportunity.”

“Mr. Carson is the one you have to impress. Though I could muck things up for you if I were so inclined.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t do that.” Price leaned closer to Thomas and turned Thomas’s gloved hand over, frowning at the blood. “I really am sorry about that.”

Thomas became acutely aware that his knees were against Price’s, their hands together, their faces mere inches away. Price was even more attractive up close; high cheekbones and a strong jaw, fine nose, lips like two pale pink petals.

Thomas swallowed. “No need to apologize, I’ll get another when I’m done cleaning up here.”

Price ran his thumb over Thomas’s glove. “Can I see it? Your hand?”

Thomas opened his mouth to respond, but Price pulled his hand away and looked over Thomas’ shoulder at the doorway.

“So this was the cause for commotion,” Mrs. Hughes said, taking in the first aid kit strewn on the counter, bloodied men, and sewed-up finger.

“I’ll be more careful in future,” Price said, a golden puppy again, smiling up at Mrs. Hughes.

“Well no more knives for you today, that’s for certain. Thank you, Mr. Barrow, for patching him up.”

“Welcome, Mrs. Hughes. May I leave you to help with the gauze while I go clean myself up?”

Mrs. Hughes clicked her tongue as Thomas left without awaiting response. “I know you’re supposed to be learning from him, David, but perhaps you could impart some wisdom when it comes to manners.”

Thomas headed straight up the stairs to his room. He shut and locked the door and stared into his mirror. Price’s blood was on more than the glove. Though the apron Thomas wore saved most of his shirt, there were drops on his collar and chest. He wet a washcloth and dabbed at the drops. He took a closer look at the glove and sighed at the blood soaked into the raw edges of fabric.

Thomas sat on the edge of his small bed, pulled off the glove and tossed it in the corner. He rubbed the back of his hand the same way Price had a few moments go. He examined his scars; scars he’d spent hours staring at over the years. Was Price morbidly curious? Was he trying to bond over having also served in the war?

A knock on the door brought Thomas out of his head. “Yes?”

Baxter opened Thomas’s door and peaked her head in. “Do you need me to sew another glove for you?”

“Why not, I’d appreciate it if you could save me the trouble.”

Baxter noticed the discarded glove on the floor. “He sure got you good.”

Thomas fetched a clean glove, put it on and stretched his fingers. “Indeed he did, Baxter.”
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Footman in Training