Jimmy felt, sometimes, that he existed- as a being- in square opposition to society. The funny thing about this opposition was that society had no idea- and Jimmy got along very well, being funny, or charming, or good-looking- or any of the tripe that it seemed that other people valued.

Jimmy himself did not value any of those things. He felt less than nothing about most people- they were good for a laugh, but he preferred to be on his own. Stupid people were stupid, and easily malleable- and people whose intellects equaled or eclipsed Jimmy's own could still be drawn in by good looks and charm. Those two things in combination could render a genius into a soft and obvious fool for periods of time.

Jimmy made snap judgements about everyone- and he was usually right- a rube was a a rube, and a sucker was a sucker- and there would always be a few of them around. Sometimes, however, his abrupt character evaluations were wrong. He had been incorrect, on a couple of points, when he had first arrived at Downton. He had been right about a few things, too: Mr. Carson disliked him, Alfred was easy to manipulate- but he had been wrong on the finer points. He had thought Miss O'Brien a rigid old sort, with a stern way about her- but ultimately kind- and he had been painfully wrong. And he had, of course, been wrong about Mr. Barrow.

Oh, Jimmy had liked Mr. Barrow a bit- but he had loathed him too, thinking for a while that Mr Barrow- Thomas- was one of those soppy, lecherous types. And lecherous about him. Lavender. Deviant. Smart, perhaps- but rendered stupid by his obvious infatuation. And far too forward. But eventually Jimmy realized it might not've been entirely Thomas's fault, after all.

And then there had been the whole debacle with Thomas appearing, as if by magic, in his bed- and after that they'd barely spoken for a year. But in that year Jimmy had gleaned a bit of information about Thomas, and discovered that perhaps the other man wasn't as soppy as he had originally thought. In fact he was supposed to have once been something of a villain, if the secondhand stories Alfred repeated to him- told by his evil aunt- were to be believed. Jimmy knew now that O'Brien was a liar, and yet some of the tales she told- Thomas dabbling in the black market, Thomas trying to seduce the visiting dignitaries- Thomas doing a poor frame-up of Mr. Bates- had a quality of truth to them.

It took Jimmy months to put together the reasons why his idea of Thomas Barrow was so remarkably out-of-step with everyone else's. But then- after Thomas had saved him from an ugly beating at the fair in Thirsk- the hard truth had shattered over Jimmy's head like a china plate. Or like a fist.

The really interesting thing- the thing that gave Jimmy pause- was that perhaps both sides of Thomas could be true. This idea occurred to him suddenly as he'd stared at Thomas's battered, bloodied face- and then Thomas had been lifted up and helped to limp away by many people- and Jimmy had stayed on for a moment, staring at the stone wall that Thomas had been slumped against as if it might divulge to him bewildering secrets. He is a villain, Jimmy thought. But he's a hero for me. How strange. I wonder why-

Jimmy had pondered it for a year, and he could've pondered it for a year more- if he hadn't caught sight of the pretty young couple embracing chastely by the carousel as he left the fair. The young man gazed into the girl's eyes, and- without taking his eyes away from her face- readjusted her gauzy scarf around her neck, a smile touching the corners of his mouth.

Watching them together, Jimmy had a sudden and profound idea: Maybe he loves me. Doesn't just desire me, but actually loves me.

It would explain a lot- Thomas's refusal to hear anybody slander Jimmy's name, and Thomas's behavior towards Jimmy- noble, heroic behavior that seemed in direct dissent with what Jimmy had learned about Thomas's basic character. So he's Lancelot for me and Mordred to everybody else, Jimmy thought. Strange. But they say all love is exception-making.

They said that, but Jimmy didn't know for sure if it was true. He had never been in love.

Oh, so many girls had professed to be devoted to him that Jimmy had lost count- but those were all flirtations that vanished with the changing of the seasons- and Thomas Barrow was a grown man- not a silly young girl, but a grown man- who seemed to have become hopelessly attached to him.

Jimmy had gone to visit Thomas as he lay in bed, recovering from his injuries. He hoped that the visit would relieve the pressing sense of guilt- the heavy-handed feeling of obligation that the sight of Thomas's beaten face had stirred up in him. It had been a success, after a fashion. Jimmy had gotten Thomas to admit to his to romantic sentiments in a minute and a half, without any cajoling at all, and so the mystery had been solved.

But the answer to the mystery- that is to say, the idea of love and the odd things it could provoke people to do- stayed with Jimmy, pushing itself in amidst his other concerns and making it hard to sleep.

It was uncomfortable, to have someone pining away for him- uncomfortable- but Jimmy knew with total certainty that if Thomas did, in the course of their newborn friendship, ever really get to know him, love would no longer be an issue.

Jimmy had never really articulated that thought to himself- the thought that he lacked some thread of decency that everyone else possessed- but still the idea sat there in his head, dictating his worldview as surely as if it were etched in stone. He existed in opposition to society- or perhaps in defiance of it- and that was Jimmy's grave, dark secret- so much worse than fancying blokes, or being a bad lot sometimes. Someone could love you after you'd been cruel to them, maybe- cruelty, Jimmy had ascertained from literature, being an indivisible part of love. However Jimmy wasn't exactly cruel, he didn't think- he was careless- and by that he meant he didn't care, not about anything or anyone in the whole world.

When he was a child Jimmy had liked to overturn rubbish bins just to see the ugly mess of them spilling out over cobblestones. Just for that- the pleasure of it- and the brief upheaval of the laws of society- and perhaps, in some spiteful little way, the knowledge that someone else would have to clean up the mess later. Let someone know that about me, Jimmy thought, and still profess to love me. I defy anyone to know me and still love me.

To hedge his bets, to take things that did not belong to him- to stack the deck of life in his own favor- these were things that Jimmy did- and if they were ugly things to do, well, it was an ugly world. Jimmy just wanted to make sure he got in a few good blows before life knocked him flat on his back. As it did to everyone, in the end.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" Alfred asked Jimmy in the hallway, the day after Matthew Crawley's funeral- and Jimmy thought he meant the great sadness that hovered over Downton, unbroken and ominous as the thunderclouds that obscured the sky above.

Jimmy shrugged, falling into step with him as they walked down to the servant's hall for a hurried breakfast. "I can't think of many instances where somebody dying is wonderful, can you?"

Absently Jimmy thought that he would read the paper to Thomas when he had a spare stretch of time. He was making it a point to visit Thomas every day. Thomas had struggled out of bed for long enough to stand, grey-faced, at Mr. Crawley's interment- but then he had limped back to his rooms and remained there. Jimmy had gone to visit Thomas, and give him the news of the world, much later- but he had been scarcely halfway through the articles on the front page when he had glanced up- only to realize that Thomas had fallen asleep.

For a moment Jimmy had sat, watching Thomas's battered face, unguarded in dreams. Then he rose, and left the room, turning out the lights as he went.

The memory swept back over him as he walked with Alfred into the hall, where everyone was assembled for breakfast in varying degrees of wakefulness. Carson was gruffer than usual, and had a list of additional tasks a mile long for everybody.

Of course Thomas was not at breakfast- but Jimmy would take a tray up for him directly after- a thing which he was also making a habit of. It wasn't out of some sense of obligation- well, maybe it was, a little- but it wasn't as much out of a sense of obligation as it was genuine.

"This weather seems so appropriate," Anna said, from Jimmy's left- but she wasn't speaking to him, and he didn't glance over. It was raining, but then, it rained sometimes, didn't it?

"Lady Grantham would like us to see that all the funeral wreaths are removed from the house before luncheon," Carson said, and Jimmy realized that he was being addressed. Across the table Alfred also gave Carson his full attention.

"You may begin after breakfast," Carson said, and together they nodded an affirmative. "Yes, sir," Jimmy said, keeping his feelings at being given additional work from showing on his face.

"I'll have the flowers taken to the church," Carson said, as if he were checking it off on a mental list. Jimmy had the urge to play with his cards- but he felt that any kind of frivolity, no matter how standard, would result in remonstration at such a delicate time.

"I'll need a little extra time for-" O'Brien was making some demand of Mrs. Hughes, but she fell silent, cut off by the appearance of Lady Mary in the doorway.

Jimmy clambered to his feet, along with everybody else, by reflexive habit- and so it was not until he was fully standing that he realized something was very off.

Lady Mary was not decent. In fact Jimmy could not recall a time when he had ever seen a woman so undressed- save for a few of the bawdier bars he'd been to on leave during the war. But those had been places to carouse with your comrades, drunk on liquor and the glorious feeling of still, somehow, being alive- and this was a world away from that.

The Widow Crawley stood in the doorframe, dressed in only her white shift, as though she had sleepwalked all the way downstairs. Jimmy could see her breasts through her nightgown, and was alarmed by the unselfconsciouness Lady Mary displayed. As if she had no idea what was going on. Around him, his colleagues stood frozen, unsure of what to do- and Jimmy saw that Anna was about to step forward, perhaps to lead her away- but then Lady Mary spoke.

"I can't sleep," she said, in a taut, worn-sounding voice- "Carson, I can't sleep- it keeps crying. The baby. George, I mean." She spoke only to Carson, as if she were unaware that other people in the hall. Jimmy looked more closely at her pallid, sharp face- and realized that she was weeping- although she gave little indication of it, save for the tears that coursed silently down her cheeks. There's something very wrong with her, Jimmy thought, the realization giving him a chill. He did not enjoy seeing people in the extremities of grief- it was too personal, and he came away from it feeling as though both the grieving party and he himself had been violated in some fashion.

For some reason Carson alone seemed utterly composed. With dignity he stripped off his own jacket- another first, Jimmy had never seen Carson so undressed, either- and wrapped it around Lady Mary's rigid shoulders, so that she was less exposed. Carson, too, disregarded all of the shocked witnesses in the immediately vicinity, and- without regard to rules- put a comforting hand on her arm. "I'm very sorry to hear it, Mi'lady," Carson said, in the gentlest tone Jimmy had ever heard from him- and Carson bent kindly over Lady Mary, who nodded mutely, as if he had answered for her some unspoken question.

"I really can't," Lady Mary said quietly, her voice breaking on the last word. "Why don't we go upstairs and discuss it?" Carson asked, pressing one hand to her back, and guiding her out of the hall.

"No- not upstairs- I don't want to be up there for another minute-" Jimmy heard her say, from the hall.

"That's perfectly all right, Mi'lady. We can take tea in my office, if you like-" then there was the click of Carson's office door, and Jimmy could make out no more of their conversation.

Everyone stood awkwardly around for another moment. Alfred caught Jimmy's eye, his face a mask of curiosity and concern.

"Well," Mrs. Hughes said, clearing her throat. "It's time we'd best be getting on with it." And she clapped her hands together, sending them all away to work- but still Jimmy did not miss the worried look on her face as he walked past her.

"What's going on?" Ivy demanded, the instant Jimmy made it back to the kitchen. Daisy and Ivy both stared at him. Across the room Mrs. Patmore stringently ignored them, but Jimmy could tell that she was listening, too.

"How've you even had time to hear any gossip yet?" Jimmy replied, under their scrutiny.

"O'Brien said-" Ivy began, and Jimmy scoffed. "Well don't listen to her," he answered, raising an eyebrow.

"Is Lady Mary going mad?" Daisy asked- at least she had the grace to ask in a whisper- looking decidedly worried. Mrs. Patmore had crossed the room to join them, and she snorted derisively. "Of course she isn't. Grief makes people do funny things, that's all."

"It wasn't funny," Jimmy said, darkly. He did not feel particularly like discussing Lady Mary's impending- or current- nervous collapse. "Is Mr. Barrow's tray ready?'

"Mm- almost-" Ivy said, and turned away from him for a moment, before placing the tray neatly in his hands.

Thomas was the only person Jimmy wanted to talk about the odd scene in the servant's hall with. He had worked here a decade or more, and he knew the family- so perhaps he could confirm for Jimmy that the whole episode had been as outrageously out of character for Lady Mary as Jimmy thought it was. She seemed a rather composed sort, usually. Jimmy didn't like her much- but there was something about her coldness he found admirable. She was certainly not a typical woman, if you believed in such things as a typical style of being.

Jimmy went upstairs, and knocked briskly on Thomas's door, before pushing it open. "Breakfast," Jimmy said. "Mrs. Patmore always give you the best food- I swear I think you're having the same meal as the family-" but he paused when he entered the room and Thomas did not stir.

Still asleep, Jimmy thought, looking at Thomas's face. His appearance and posture were so unchanged from when Jimmy had left him the night before that he had to pause for a moment and study Thomas, to make sure he was breathing. Don't you die, too, Jimmy thought, grimly. Thomas did, with his injuries and the hollows under his closed eyes, look as if he could have been a martyr from an old painting.

Jimmy debated waking him, but decided it was cruel- and he didn't have the right, anyways, seeing as how Thomas was lying there injured because of him. Finally he set the tray down on the desk chair, so that Thomas could have his food within reaching distance when he woke- and he made sure the covers were still firmly on the plates, so the food wouldn't be cold- and he cast one last glance up at Thomas, waiting until he drew another long, even breath- and then he turned to go.

And then he saw the book, peeking out from under the edge of the cot- a very handsome book, bound in blue, with no lettering on its cover. I wonder what that is, Jimmy thought, and paused, on his way out.

Not many of us ever get the chance to decide our fate- well, we decide it, of course, in a million little ways- but not in one great moment- not with one action- not in a way that we can look back on and understand. But later, when Jimmy looked back on his life- he saw that one moment, forever preserved, when he took a step backwards, away from the door- and turned- and walked over to the bed, to bend down and lift up the brightly-colored tome. That- that, had been, as they say, the moment of truth, when the circumstances of his fate had turned in his own hands like a coin.

With one eye on Thomas to make sure that he was not about to suddenly awaken, Jimmy opened the book, and flipped through it. It was not a book at all- it was a journal- Jimmy could see that the pages had been handwritten. A journal. If it's his, Jimmy thought, there's bound to be something in here about me.

It was shallow but it was true- now that Jimmy knew Thomas loved him, he wanted to know how and why. Why? Jimmy could not pretend to understand the other man's motivations for such a depth of feeling. Even if there's nothing about me in here, I bet there's plenty about him, Jimmy thought- and for some reason that made up his mind, and he tucked the book up under his arm. He's going to know you took it, a warning voice said, in Jimmy's brain- but he discounted the warning. If he says anything, I'll tell him I didn't bring up his tray and I don't know who did. But he won't say anything.

So thinking, Jimmy slipped from Thomas's room into his own- and hid the little blue journal under his mattress carefully, feeling a strange thrill as he did it. And then Jimmy had work, and for a few hours he was occupied with other things- but internally he kept returning to the book- again, and again- wondering what revelations could possibly be hidden within it.