A/N: I wanted to include a couple more scenes to this chapter but I thought you guys would prefer a slightly shorter update over an even longer wait haha. Enjoy, and thank you for being so patient with me :)

Jimmy felt Thomas go loose and heavy in his arms. Asleep then. That was… good. Best he sleep away the drink for now, and make up for the rest he'd missed the night before. And best he not see Jimmy like this— whatever this was.

One thing he did know was that he ought to do something, while he still had his true body; he should clean up the glass and spilled alcohol, so Thomas wouldn't hurt himself or get into trouble with Carson. He should do it now, immediately, as there was no acceptable cause to linger in bed with Thomas now that he was sleeping peacefully.

He told himself this, and swallowed hard, and still did not move out of the bed.

Instead he looked at Thomas asleep in the low light. He studied his face so close to his own, and with his restored eyesight he traced the curve of his cheekbones and the arch of his nose and the way his lips curled upwards at the corners, even when he was not smiling. For a man who had lived such a difficult, lonely life, such a physical trait was—was— well, it was something, Jimmy didn't know what, only that it made a lump form in the back of his throat. And there was gray in Thomas's hair, too, that he hadn't noticed before. Thomas was getting older, and his jaw was darkened because he needed to shave, and there were bruise-like smudges under his eyes and lines of sadness drawn in his brow… and he had a small scattering of freckles, so faint they almost weren't there at all. But if Thomas were to travel someplace hot, perhaps they would come out in the sun.

Jimmy's chest ached. Distantly he watched his own fingers trace the path his eyes had taken: first across Thomas's dark eyebrow, then down to the cut-glass cheekbone and the red, soft, incongruously smiling mouth. He could feel chapped skin and the damp warmth of Thomas's breath on his fingertips.

He had never been so… aware of another human being's existence before this moment. Like everyone else in the world had been made of paper and Thomas Barrow were the only real, living thing Jimmy had ever touched. And he was beautiful.

Licking his lips, Jimmy leaned down closer to Thomas's face—so close he could count his lashes, so close he could breathe in the wintry- tobacco scent of him under the drink. He wondered if Thomas's mouth tasted anything like his breath, or if his skin had a flavor of its own.

Jimmy's fingers shook where they lingered on Thomas's soft bottom lip. He didn't know what he was doing, only that he had to do it.

But Thomas twitched in his sleep before Jimmy could reach him, his brow furrowing, and Jimmy inhaled sharply and jerked backwards, his heart thundering in his chest as if he'd narrowly escaped a bullet. Horror overcame him immediately, freezing away the dizzy-hot trance he'd been in.

What was wrong with him?

He'd almost done what Thomas had done to him, on that long ago night. And it was wrong—wrong when Thomas had done it and wrong if he did it to him now. Being helpless for so long must have driven him truly mad and then some.

Because he knew he wasn't like Thomas, and he didn't love Thomas as Thomas loved him. There was nothing wrong with Thomas being as he was— Jimmy knew that now— but there was certainly something wrong with Jimmy Kent. Possibly many somethings. He wasn't like other men, nor had he ever been like them. But, he wasn't like Thomas, either. He wasn't.

Was he?

There was certainly something wrong with him, Jimmy thought again, feeling ill. The last thing he wanted was to hurt his only friend with… whatever it was. Best he stay back.

As carefully as he could Jimmy slid his arm out from under Thomas and staggered out of bed like he were drunk himself, his body damp with chilly sweat. He tried to ignore the tremor in his legs and arms, and the inexplicable burn of tears on his cheeks and the way Thomas's dressing gown caressed his bare skin, making him flinch. He felt… but he didn't look down to confirm it.

Instead he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to calm his rioting body with the trick he'd learned as a cat, to take slow breaths and breathe in the scents in the air until he was steady.

But it didn't work. He couldn't smell anything over the burn of spilled alcohol, and he couldn't detect the rich bouquet of scents in the air that he had as an animal. And that… that raw, clean smell of Thomas's skin—the one laced with the sharper fragrance of cigarettes and aftershave and pomade that before had filled this room—that had been lost in the space between man and animal, only discernible when he was close to Thomas and he could not do that again.

Taking a breath now, with only alcohol fumes in the air, was like breathing in…sadness.

Jimmy groaned and clutched at his hair. He couldn't bear his own mind anymore. He dearly wished he could return to his old life, one that didn't require him to think much beyond work and whatever new picture was playing in the cinema. He missed being that Jimmy— so simple and easy. Here and now, the world was turned around on itself and everything was wrong.

But at least there was one thing he could make right, while he still had hands to work with. He knelt down on the floor to clean up for Thomas. Because at least that was something a good friend would do.

And he was determined to be a good friend.

Thomas woke suddenly, his stomach clawing its way up his throat.

A hand on his back helped turn him over so he could be violently sick in a bin. When he was done retching, the bin was taken away and now two hands were on him, one patting his back awkwardly while the other brushed his hair from his watering eyes. Then there was a cool damp cloth pushed into his limp fingers, and Thomas wiped his mouth with it and rolled back onto the pillow, dizzy and breathless. Now with his stomach settled it seemed his head wanted a chance to pain him, and a headache began to tighten like a bolt between his temples. He was hung over and yet still partially drunk, not at all a combination he enjoyed.

And he felt a presence beside him. Someone was touching his arm while the other was fussing with his blanket.

Jimmy?

Thomas's eyes flew open and met Jimmy's—Jimmy's!

"Are you going to be sick again?" Jimmy asked.

Thomas shook his head, slowly.

"Good. But you need water."

Thomas watched Jimmy—wearing nothing but Thomas's dressing gown—pour him a glass from the pitcher. He hadn't dreamed everything, then. Jimmy had truly returned to Downton. Jimmy was alive and safe.

"Sip it slowly," Jimmy cautioned.

Thomas sat up and swayed, but he managed to take hold of the glass and sip it without spilling. Jimmy resumed his seat on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed over his abdomen as if he too were feeling sick. His eyes were red-rimmed as they watched Thomas, his pretty hair loose and half-covering his eyes. He didn't look hurt—he looked beautiful. But looks could be deceiving.

"What in hell happened to you, Jimmy?" Thomas asked in a cracked voice. He was proud the question came out at all. "Were you kidnapped? We had the police here, you were missing for days, and I…I was…"

I were terrified you were dead. Thomas didn't say it.

Jimmy sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, avoiding Thomas's eyes. "I told you already, didn't I?" he grumbled.

Thomas didn't understand at first—then he remembered. Jimmy had said he'd been a cat for two days. That had been real, too? Oh dear.

"The magic spell, you mean?" Thomas tried to scoff but couldn't quite manage it in his current state. Instead he coughed and waved a hand, brushing the whole thing aside. "No, no— tell me what really happened, dar—ah, I mean, I'll help you if you're in trouble with someone. I'll help you get it all sorted."

As soon as he was finished speaking he winced. But Jimmy didn't seem to notice the almost-endearment. Instead he only asked for a cigarette, almost as if he hadn't heard Thomas at all, and this were just another nightly chat between friends. Thomas obliged, his fingers clumsy as he fumbled in his nightstand for a pack of Black Cats.

Jimmy didn't speak again until after he had a long pull and let it out into the air, slowly. "Been missing this…" he sighed, a humorless smile on his lips. "Can't have a fag when you haven't got hands."

"Oh, o' course not," Thomas agreed. If the situation hadn't been so grim and strange he would have rolled his eyes.

Still despite everything he had to fight the sudden urge to laugh—Jimmy was not hurt or gone away—and they were together again and Jimmy was playing a game. A cruel, ridiculous, tasteless game to be sure, but a game nonetheless.

Jimmy's lips pressed together stubbornly, as if he knew just what Thomas were thinking. "You'll see, you Doubting Thomas," he said darkly. "When the sun rises you'll see it, all right. Then you won't think it's such a bloody riot."

Thomas studied his face incredulously, noting the grim cut of his mouth, the ghost of fear in his eyes. It looked as if Jimmy truly believed all those mad things he'd said before. Thomas was about to protest when he noticed the dried blood on Jimmy's ear and neck. And not only that, but his fingertips had little cuts in them, too, fresh and bright red and he could see bloody red fingerprints on the cigarette. Jimmy's bare knees had marks, too, some of those still bleeding and staining the hem of the blue dressing gown.

What in bloody hell…? He was covered in tiny cuts!

"What'd you cut yourself up for?" Thomas asked, startled out of his fear for Jimmy's sanity. It was a testament to his sorry state that he hadn't noticed immediately.

Jimmy glanced at him, then down at himself as if he hadn't noticed, either. "Oh, it's only from the broken glass. Cleaned up for you a bit while you slept—it's nothing. It'll be more proof for you tomorrow, I suppose."

Thomas stared at him. He was certain the old Jimmy would not have been so cavalier about himself. Whatever had happened to him in the last few days had hurt him, and meddled with his mind. Thomas didn't believe that rot about magic spells one bit, of course. Something else must have happened— perhaps a shell shock episode of some kind, some temporary affliction of the mind that had confused Jimmy, made him think his dreams were real, perhaps. They needed to call a doctor…

But Thomas felt a chill go through him at the thought of doctors.

What would the Crawleys or Dr. Clarkson do if Jimmy told them the same story he'd told Thomas? They'd send him away to an asylum for sure and lock him up, or else they'd just sack him immediately. No one wanted a mad servant.

Thomas imagined Jimmy huddled in a lonely cell and immediately flinched away from the image. He had to keep that from happening. He had to get the truth out of Jimmy, find out where he'd really been, so he could work out some sort of plan. To keep him safe. To set his mind right again. Jimmy had no one to look out for him except Thomas.

Thomas felt sick again, but he swallowed past it and asked: "You got the glass out, at least?"

Better to focus on what could be done in the here and now, Thomas decided.

Jimmy picked at his knee absently. "I dunno. I did me best."

Thomas sighed. "Let's see it then. Hands first."

Obediently Jimmy held out his hands, palms up. Thomas wanted to scold him—it looked like he'd tried to cut himself as much as possible! He was a footman and a musician; his fingers were clever and not nearly so clumsy as that. But Thomas suppressed any comments and instead tilted Jimmy's hands carefully in the light, trying to see any glints of glass in the wounds. He had to remove the lampshade to see them, but they were there: three, very small slivers glinted in the skin. He'd need his kit, then.

Stumbling a little, Thomas moved off the bed and washed his hands in the washbasin, trying not to think of the war as he performed the familiar task. Then he retrieved his little-used medical kit from the closet and carried it to the bed. Jimmy watched him do it all with a peculiar expression, one Thomas didn't recognize.

"So you'll be my medic, then," Jimmy said.

Thomas felt a flush come over him, hot and cold, though he couldn't say why. He was only grateful he hadn't known Jimmy during the war. It would have hurt too much to see his darling love in the trenches, terrified, dressed in uniform and carrying a gun.

"Keep still," Thomas muttered. Carefully he bent over Jimmy's hands and used the tweezers to remove the glass, dropping the bloody shards into an ashtray. Shockingly, Jimmy did not flinch or complain, though Thomas's usual steady hands were wavering badly with drink and fatigue, and it must have hurt.

When his hands were finished, Thomas looked down at Jimmy's knees, which were even worse off than his hands. And what about his bare feet? If he'd been crawling around in the glass he'd probably stepped in it, too, the fool.

Thomas cleared his throat. "You need to lie down, so I can see your knees and feet."

Jimmy glanced at Thomas through the tangle of his hair, but did as he was told without protest.

Thomas tried not to find it erotic, Jimmy laid out on his bed, naked under Thomas's own dressing gown—but he failed. Even dizzy, even ill with drink and anxiety and exhaustion, Thomas still felt a guilty surge of desire go through him at the sight.

Oh for God's sake…

Thomas blinked quickly and focused on the task. Then it was all careful searching, picking the shards out of Jimmy's knees, then his feet. He had to use both hands on him, to keep the skin pulled tight. When all the glass was gone, he moved on to cleaning and bandaging the cuts—the ear first, then his fingers, knees, and feet. Thomas was perhaps overly-generous with the bandages, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted to be sure Jimmy was taken care of.

"Done," Thomas sighed at last. His head hurt, and his stomach was turning again. He sat down gingerly in the desk chair and longed for a bath and clean teeth, and sleep.

He looked at Jimmy and Jimmy was… red-faced. But before Thomas could wonder on it Jimmy sat up quickly and drew Thomas's dressing gown tighter around himself, as if he were suddenly chilled.

"Thank you," Jimmy said, but his voice was rough, and he wouldn't look at Thomas directly.

Thomas hoped he hadn't made Jimmy uncomfortable—but who was he trying to fool? He must have done, touching him and staring and nearly calling him darling. Good grief.

"Ah, you're welcome."

And then Thomas felt his stomach turn over again, and he knew he might be sick very soon.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Got to go to the washroom… stay here, please."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jimmy nod, and Thomas hurried out of the room immediately after, barely remembering to grab his bin of sick on the way out.

When he returned, empty and cleaner than he had been, Jimmy was standing by the window.

"The sky's getting lighter, I think. but I can't see the eastern horizon from here."

It took Thomas a long time to remember why that should be relevant, exactly. Even though he'd vomited again and his stomach had settled, his head still ached and he were bone-weary. All he wanted to do was sleep, come downstairs for breakfast in the morning, and see Jimmy over the breakfast table, their troubles behind them.

"You should go back to your room and rest," Thomas suggested. He didn't want to let Jimmy out of his sight but there was no helping it. "I"m done for, anyhow. I promise I'll— I'll help you properly tomorrow. We'll work something out together, what to tell Carson…"

Jimmy just shook his head, his expression sour. "Sorry, but I'm staying right here. And you're not going to sleep, either. You're going to watch me change."

Again with the cat-magic story. Instead of sounding ridiculous, however, Thomas now felt it sounded more terrifying than anything else.

Jimmy's not gone mad, not forever, Thomas told himself firmly.

He forced a smile, but it wobbled pathetically. "Alright, I'll… watch."

Jimmy sighed heavily, dropping his forehead into his hands. "There's so much I wanted to… but we're nearly out of time. I can feel it, somehow, under me skin…"

And he shuddered, as if he really could feel the faint lightening of the dark in the sky, in his skin. Thomas knew real fear when he saw it. He badly wanted to embrace Jimmy, to stroke his back in comfort, but knew very well he shouldn't.

"Thomas," Jimmy said shrilly, turning back to face him. Thomas watched in alarm as all the blood drained out of Jimmy's face. "Please, help me. Help me break this s-spell. What if I'm never myself again?"

Thomas's throat tightened. Oh god, Jimmy really believed everything he was saying…

"It'll be alright, Jimmy. You'll—-you'll come back, I swear it. I'll make sure you do."

He'd say anything to make Jimmy feel better, mad or not.

It worked, too. Jimmy smiled tremulously, the sky behind him no longer black. And outside the window, the first birds greeted the sun and— Jimmy Kent was gone.

Gone.

Thomas hadn't even blinked or looked away, but still he'd missed it— the moment of transformation. Where Jimmy had been standing not a moment before, now there was only Thomas's dressing gown lying in a blue puddle on the floor, stained bandages scattered around in loose tangles. And in the center there was the sand-colored cat, bunched up in a nervous crouch and looking up at him with miserable eyes.

Thomas's breath died in his lungs, and he staggered over to the wall and slid down it till he were sitting on the floor. If he didn't he'd fall over. The world had gone white and there was a ringing sound in his ears, like a gun had gone off too close to his head. Desperately he forced himself to breathe until it passed.

After what felt like hours, he opened his eyes again.

The cat— Jimmy— no, the cat, Thomas's brain insisted— padded over to him and sat between his sprawled ankles. Thomas stared at it, heart thumping. It had Jimmy's wound on the right ear, crusted with dried blood.

And it was… it did have a human expression, Thomas thought with a thrill of giddy horror. Its gaze was too direct for an animal's, the muscles in its brow an actual frown. And its eyes were the exact color of Jimmy's. Thomas had memorized it often enough, knew that color and the way it looked in every kind of light, every kind of feeling. It was Jimmy's color. He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed before.

"…Jimmy?" Thomas croaked.

The cat sighed— and placed a soft paw on Thomas's leg. The claws squeezed and then retracted, just the way a human friend might squeeze and release a pal's shoulder when he was feeling flinched, but it broke the shock enough for him to stand up.

"I've— I've got to lay down, now," he muttered, dazed. "Have to be up soon, so…I've got to lay down now…"

Without looking at the Jimmy-cat, Thomas lay down face first onto his bed and didn't move again until his clock chimed an hour later.

Thomas believed him.

Well, Jimmy thought so. Had to, anyhow. He'd seen Jimmy change right in front of him.

Still, it wasn't encouraging to see Thomas go so very white and blank, then to watch him collapse on the bed like that.

Jimmy wanted to curl up on the bed with him, like he'd been doing before. But now that Thomas knew it was him he felt somewhat… unsure. So instead he sat in the window and let the rising sun attempt to chase away his anxious shivering. He felt so hideously vulnerable in this form.

When the clock chimed on the bedside table, Thomas jerked upright and shut it off in a way that suggested he hadn't been asleep at all. Then, without seemingly any sense of shame he went through his morning routine as usual, stripping off and dressing again as if Jimmy wasn't there to see him.

Jimmy looked out the window for most of it, but eyed Thomas's bare back when his friend wasn't looking. And for a moment he was glad he wasn't in human form after all. Some things were… safer, this way.

When Thomas was sleek and presentable again he finally acknowledged Jimmy's presence.

"Jimmy?" he asked, uncertainly.

Jimmy stood up and nodded, trying not to wince as he put weight on his sore paws.

Thomas seemed to be struggling to look at him straight-on, but after a moment he managed it.

"We've work to do," he said.