Chapter Text
The soldiers who had invaded the house were rowdy, vulgar, uncouth oafs. And they were everywhere . They were inescapable. Wherever Thomas went – every room, every corridor, every stairwell – they were there with their noise and their language and their disgusting habits. Every time he retreated to a previously safe sighing place another would find him, would walk through him, would sit in him and make him heave and retch and gag.
And the gunshots! Every week, more gunshots from the grounds – startling him, making his breath come quick and short, and bringing his death to the forefront of his mind. It was intolerable, but short of waiting for it all to end (again), there was nothing he could do.
He'd been suffering for months now. Maybe even years – he tended to lose track of these things. But he'd been in hell ever since they'd waltzed in, and some pillock had stolen Thomas's bed.
The first time Thomas had found him lying stiffly beneath the covers, he had stood for a while in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. He hadn't thought of him as a pillock yet. In fact, the way his hands were crossed across his body reminded him oddly of Sleeping Beauty – only older, greyer, and moustachioed.
He had considered, then promptly dismissed, sleeping elsewhere – Thomas was far too good for a window seat or, God forbid, the floor. Bunking with another ghost sounded awful, regardless of the fact they probably had soldiers of their own to contend with. And anyway, the man couldn't see him, and it was Thomas's bed first. At least he'd had the decency to keep to one side.
He had spent the rest of his evening curled up, watching the gentle rise and fall of the man's strong chest, mind flitting between Isabelle and poetry and romance and true love's kiss, and softly parted lips and a moustache that fluttered with every exhale.
What he would give for a kiss of his own.
But then he had awoken with a jolt – a sick, twisted feeling heavy in his stomach. He had thrown himself over the side of the bed, retching and heaving on his hands and knees, trembling like a leaf in the wind when it was over.
He had turned back to look at the man in his bed, illuminated by the soft morning light spilling through the curtains. Sleeping Beauty had transformed, had become the slovenly beast; snuffling and growling, sprawled out on his front, drooling from his gaping maw.
There was no space for Thomas.
The next time the man had used his bed, Thomas had spent hours raging, in a futile attempt to make him go away.
He hadn't, and Thomas – exhausted to near tears – had fallen asleep beside him once more. He had, once more, woken up with a churning, roiling belly, and a deep disquiet in his very bones.
He was so, so tired.
The third night he'd decided not to risk the bed again, and instead had slept on the banquette in the window nook. Only to wake, again , when the pillock screamed. He'd thrashed about in Thomas's bed, muttering something incoherent about crows drawing crabs, before hoarsely shouting about a duck. What birds and crustaceans had to do with anything wasn't clear, but Thomas, frankly, hadn't cared, rolling over and ignoring him best he could.
And then , just as he was on the fringes of sleep, he'd jolted Thomas awake with another cry. Unbelievable. He'd clearly woken himself up, too, as he had then come over to Thomas's window seat and sat straight through his legs.
Not only had he been chased from his bed, but he was no longer safe in his room. Or even, as he learned over the next few weeks, the house. They were an infestation, and he could do nothing.
oOo
Frosty ground gave way once more to scattered blooms of snowdrops and crocuses, and Thomas' afterlife settled into the semblance of a routine.
Early mornings were spent watching the sun rise over the tops of the trees, casting long dappled shadows across the grounds. He was often joined by Robin, who would lie in the long grass and listen to the birds chattering away, and Kitty, who was pleasant company so long as she didn't mention her latest paramour amongst the soldiers. Mary, too, would roam at this time of day, waving her arms and chanting to bless the house (and curse the ungodly within).
The peace was usually broken by mid morning, when the infestation left the house to march around under the stern supervision of their circus master. This was, however, the most opportune time for a nap away from the rabble in his own bed.
Lunchtime brought the noise back into the house and sleep became impossible, so the ghosts would congregate by the well for discussions pertaining to the state of the house ("wearing boots on my hand-knotted Persian rugs…"), the state of the library ("the lack of respect–" ), and the state of the gardens ("ORF the LAWN!").
By late afternoon the grounds would become overrun again. The ghosts would go their separate ways to avoid being pelted through by cricket balls – and more importantly, the men chasing them.
Some days, Thomas stayed at a safe distance basking in the sunlight (he could almost feel the warmth on his skin) and watched the men whoop gleefully every time he jumped at the thwack of the bat.
As a child, after Sunday School, he would sit by the village green and watch the older boys play. To begin with, he had been too little to join in ("the little milksop wants to play"), and then later he was too skinny, too weak, too bookish and sickly and slow. And now these men taunted him with their joyful grins and healthy musculature and easy camaraderie.
Oh how he despised them.
Oh how he was lonely.
Other days, Thomas would make his way into the quiet rustle of the forest. This wasn't his favourite place to be – his delicate slippers weren't exactly appropriate and it was very easy to trip through the trees – but if he stayed near the fringes he could lean against one particular stump and compose sonnets in relative peace.
If only he had a pen.
The worst days though, were when the brutes lined up in the neighbouring field and fired their horrible guns. On these days, Thomas would drown himself in the lake. He didn't enjoy the muddy, murky water; the cold and wet passing through his body; the possibility of being attacked by crabs and fish – but when he was under, the pops and bangs were almost imperceptible. A much better place to clear his head than any room of the house. Besides, he didn't actually need to breathe.
Early evening was dinner time, and Thomas would take the opportunity to sleep again. He would be rudely awoken from his evening nap when his bed was purloined, and would spend the next few hours composing in the attic, avoiding increasingly raucous cheering from downstairs.
And then, the blessed silence of the night. He could wander the house unbothered and draw inspiration from wherever it chose to show itself.
There was one window in particular in which he could sit and gaze and sigh at the stars shining brightly in the complete darkness; the world bathed only in the soft glow of spirits long gone.
Sometimes their twinkle would lull him to sleep in the moonlight.
And the next day would begin much like the last.
Occasionally there would be a minor break in routine – When Humphrey's body wandered too close to the livings, Thomas took it upon himself to wrangle it away. He didn't like to watch as it fumbled around, inevitably passing straight through them – didn't like the way it bent over double and retched; didn't like the voiceless noises of increasingly obvious distress.
A major break in routine was rare but eventful – distant, discordant wailing would make the men drop everything and scramble to the basement, where they would stay until another round of wailing signalled them to come out. The plague ghosts would be forced out, then, and roam aimlessly until they could return home. Despite the plague sores and the wailing, Thomas relished this time. He relished the emptiness of the library; relished the emptiness of his bed; relished that he could exist in his favourite places in peace.
Even more rarely, a soldier would leave. Thomas only noticed because the others would stay up all night, disrupting his quiet time with their partying. He would hope beyond all hope that they'd leave one by one, and that the pillock in his bed would be next. It was always futile – a new man always took over, and the one who had stolen his bedroom never left.
oOo
One afternoon, from the relative safety of the lake, Thomas heard shouting. It was coming, as usual, from the house. This was not remarkable in itself, but the voices seemed different that day. Perhaps it was the tone – alarmed, quicker, and pitched higher than expected – or perhaps it was the footsteps which thundered up and down the stairs, or perhaps the doors slamming, but Thomas could tell that something was wrong.
The commotion led him to the drawing room. Treading carefully to avoid any livings, he worked his way over to the centre of the room where one of the soldiers had collapsed.
The men were, as he expected, useless. Running around like ants in an ant mill, not a single one taking control of the situation, while the man on the floor – his bedroom thief – gasped and coughed behind his perfectly coiffed moustache.
Thomas had only seen one death before. He had been there when Lady Button had caught her rakish husband between his two burly servants, and he had watched as she was pushed from the window. An unpleasant way to go, but much faster than his own, he had thought at the time.
This felt like it was taking an age.
The man was clutching at his stick, hugging it tightly to his chest, knuckles white and trembling. Sweat beaded on the line of his drawn brows. Another soldier was kneeling beside him, squeezing his strong shoulder, meaningless platitudes spilling from his lips in an attempt to alter the inevitable.
Time stood still – seconds stretching to minutes, stretching to hours.
He was sweating profusely – wheezing now – fear clearly visible in the tightness of his eyes as he turned slowly grey.
And then, just like that, it was over, and there was someone else with whom Thomas had to share his space.
oOo
The days following the death were unbearable.
His routine had been completely shot to pieces; the body had been removed but the men were still weepy and angry and took up all his best sighing spots with their moping.
And secondly, the thief was difficult. He was rude. He was argumentative. He was abrasive and reticent and uncommunicative and, most insufferably, even though it was now free of livings, he wouldn't leave Thomas's bedroom.
Although he couldn't physically block the door, it was as if he had barricaded himself in – any single foot inside and he would sit straight down on the floor, ignoring the creak of his knees, and repeat a nonsensical number until they left. Sometimes he added renditions of an obnoxious song about being a major general, which wasn't even correct given the pips on his shoulders.
He refused to believe he was dead, even when a live soldier walked straight through him; he had some delusion that "Jerry", whoever that was, had drugged him to "gather intelligence"; and he tried to sneak through the front gates on a daily basis, as if he could trick them into letting him out. All in all, he was clearly dicked in the knob.
And he was sleeping in Thomas's bed. As if Thomas hadn't claimed it more than 50 years ago when the eldest Miss Button had married and left it empty. Thomas couldn't even nap there any more.
It took weeks before he began to accept that he really was dead, and that this really wasn't all an elaborate hoax. And even then, it took an inordinate amount of Humphrey's wheedling, Kitty's cajoling and Fanny's coercing before he finally, finally , gave them a crumb.
"Captain Thomas Standish, Ma'am," he barked.
"Oh! Another Thomas!" said Kitty, twirling side-to-side with delight. "How lovely!"
Thomas scowled.
"We obviously can't call him Thomas," said Thomas. " I'm Thomas." And one was already the perfect number of Thomases, thank you very much.
Captain Thomas Standish gaped foolishly and the others began to mutter.
"How about 'Captain Standish'" suggested Humphrey from under the piano stool. It had a certain ring to it, even Thomas could admit, and he was about to say so when Fanny made a face.
"I could never call him that ," she said.
"Whyever not?" asked Captain Standish. "It's my name."
"Whyever– it's outrageous! Inappropriate! I am not some common whore, and I refuse to sully myself for a man whose name means Roger. Peter. John Henry –"
"Who?" said Robin.
"A fiddle stick," continued Fanny, her voice raising in pitch and volume as she looked around to see everyone gaping blankly at her. "A doodle! A yard! An instrument! A gentleman's middle leg!"
Not-Captain-Standish cleared his throat with a series of indefinable noises. "I think that's quite enough," he finally choked out.
"How about 'Captain Thomas'," suggested Kitty.
"But I'm Thomas," stressed Thomas, aghast. "He can't also be Thomas!"
"You be Thomas, still," said Mary, twisting her hands and nodding towards Thomas, "and he be Captain Thomas." She nodded at Captain Thomas.
Thomas grumbled a little more but begrudgingly conceded, and since there were no other objections, Captain Thomas he was.
oOo
Needless to say, it wasn't all that smooth. In the coming weeks, Captain Thomas would respond to 'Thomas', and Thomas would respond to 'Captain Thomas', and it was all rather nightmarish really.
It all came to a head when Thomas walked into the drawing room to hear Humphrey tell Kitty that he'd heard from Captain Thomas, who had heard from 'The Men', that the war would surely be won soon and that they were bound to be home by Christmas.
"Oh, how wonderful!" Kitty exclaimed. "I have to tell The-Other-Thomas!"
Other-Thomas. It was bad enough that he had stolen his bed – now that insufferable man had stolen his name . His very identity . He'd been relegated to ' Other- Thomas ' . Not 'Charming-Thomas', or 'The Great-Poet-Thomas', or 'Thomas-The-Handsome-One', or even his own bloody surname. He was the other one. The second one. Thomas the Lesser .
"I was here first !" His voice caught on the words, overcome as he was by his anger.
Kitty jumped and spun around.
"Thomas!" she exclaimed. "We didn't see you there!"
"Well, of course you didn't see me," he squawked, stomping his foot. "You're both far too busy mooning over perfect, charming Captain Thomas, with his uniform and all his men ."
"Oh I'm so glad you like him too," said Kitty, missing his point entirely. "He is quite charming, isn't he."
"Nobody appreciates me," he shrieked, throwing his hands in the air as he turned on his heel and stormed away.
Of course, just because it had all come to a head for Thomas didn't mean the others had noticed.