new beginnings - 'the way a puzzle might'
Title: the way a puzzle might
Author: alemandine
Rating: pg
Character/s: Thomas Barrow
Word count: 263
The dawn is sharp, frost picks out the corners of the yard; each box, stone, piece of machinery crackles with tiny ice crystals as the low sun clicks its tongue around the edges of things, feeling them out, bringing them forward from the night.
Thomas sucks deep on his cigarette, letting it burn right to the tips of the fingers on his good hand, where they poke through the ends of his glove. He lets the smoke slide out the corner of his mouth. It hovers, sentient, mingling with the early sun. Behind him, the house begins to shudder itself into life and Thomas hears Mrs Patmore shrill for Daisy.
Life is a funny thing, he thinks, mind moving through possibilities. Never quite seems to go his way. To fit together the way a puzzle might, under surer, more delicate fingers. He imagines the way Lieutenant Courtenay’s fingers might have brushed over his own, or lingered briefly at the point of his cheekbone. He allows himself this, this tiny brief image, and it isn’t really about Courtenay at all, because he’s dead and buried and gone to ground with mealworms slurring all the flesh from that pretty face by now. Thomas isn’t sentimental. It’s about remembering the way the world can open up, about knowing and cataloguing those chances, and the importance of keeping those chances in view, because the future is something to be interrogated for chances. For new beginnings.
And now he’s Lord Grantham’s new valet. And if that isn’t a bloody good chance, he doesn't know what is.
Mods, could you help me out with a tag for Thomas and an author tag? Many thanks. Very much looking forward to being part of the community.
Author: alemandine
Rating: pg
Character/s: Thomas Barrow
Word count: 263
The dawn is sharp, frost picks out the corners of the yard; each box, stone, piece of machinery crackles with tiny ice crystals as the low sun clicks its tongue around the edges of things, feeling them out, bringing them forward from the night.
Thomas sucks deep on his cigarette, letting it burn right to the tips of the fingers on his good hand, where they poke through the ends of his glove. He lets the smoke slide out the corner of his mouth. It hovers, sentient, mingling with the early sun. Behind him, the house begins to shudder itself into life and Thomas hears Mrs Patmore shrill for Daisy.
Life is a funny thing, he thinks, mind moving through possibilities. Never quite seems to go his way. To fit together the way a puzzle might, under surer, more delicate fingers. He imagines the way Lieutenant Courtenay’s fingers might have brushed over his own, or lingered briefly at the point of his cheekbone. He allows himself this, this tiny brief image, and it isn’t really about Courtenay at all, because he’s dead and buried and gone to ground with mealworms slurring all the flesh from that pretty face by now. Thomas isn’t sentimental. It’s about remembering the way the world can open up, about knowing and cataloguing those chances, and the importance of keeping those chances in view, because the future is something to be interrogated for chances. For new beginnings.
And now he’s Lord Grantham’s new valet. And if that isn’t a bloody good chance, he doesn't know what is.
Mods, could you help me out with a tag for Thomas and an author tag? Many thanks. Very much looking forward to being part of the community.