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“So…here we are,” Thomas says.
There is nothing else to say about it, when she is still held aloft in his arms, one step over the literal threshold of their new home. They’ve been in the cottage before, preparing it, but Mrs. Patmore had made it very clear that Daisy should have a chaperone whenever they were together in a private space, “before the ring’s on your finger and the world’s stopped making sense”.
She and Ivy had helped Daisy prepare the cottage, and most importantly the kitchen, that would be her married home. Mrs. Patmore has made it very clear that she disapproves “of this absurd idea”, but that she also supports Daisy to absolutely no end. There had been a real smile among her tears during the wedding.
But the wedding is over now, and the sun is just starting to go down, so that makes it the wedding night.
“Put me down, then,” she says, lightly smacking the back of her hand against Thomas’ chest, and he lowers her feet to the floor. It’s not a flowing gown, by any means, but her nicest dress (a gift from Mr. Mason) shushes softly against the stone floor and her smart shoes, with their small bit of a heel (a gift from Mrs. Hughes), click as she wanders around the entryway.
This house isn’t theirs. It belongs to the Crawley’s, just like every room that Daisy has worked and slept in since she arrived at Downton Abbey. Neither she nor Thomas are the sort of people who own land, and they will never be more than a sacking or a downsizing away from being booted out of this cottage. But that doesn’t change the fact that this place is in their control far more than their old rooms in the servants’ quarters. They can redecorate, put up pictures and paint the walls. They can keep private things in their room, things that, while legal, Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson would never approve of. They can have guests.
They can make love. If they are so inclined.
Thomas loosens the collar of his shirt; he makes a dashing groom, in a suit with just enough personality and flair to differentiate it from livery. Daisy wants to laugh at the two of them, standing in their Sunday best and studying the wallpaper. But being ridiculous has not made it all less frightening. “Would you like me to make a cuppa?”
“Might as well,” Thomas says, and he pulls out a cigarette. She has her way to soothe and he has his, though both of their hands are shaking slightly. The familiar actions of starting the stove and filling the kettle are comforting, even in a new kitchen. And she and Thomas have spent time alone together in kitchens before; this isn’t among the new territory yet.
She smells the smoke right behind her when he steps close. He sets a small glass bottle of whiskey on the table next to their waiting mugs. “It was a gift from Jimmy. If we wanted to toast the future.”
They have both already had a glass or two of wine at the wedding, but it’s not like they have work in the morning. Three days off in a row is a luxury that she hasn’t had since her last wedding (in “consideration for her grief”) and he hasn’t since he was recovering with his hand. The hand in question, wrapped in a slightly nicer version of his usual glove for the occasion, comes to rest on her waist as she pours a nip into each mug. He reaches around her with his other hand to grab the mug before she puts any tea in it, taking a sip straight. She is bracketed by his arms in a way she never has been before. William was always polite and kept his proper distance, until she was clasping his hand at the end. But Daisy supposes this is the “proper” distance now, for a husband and wife alone in their home. “To the future,” she says, and takes a small sip from her own mug.
The tea is finally ready, so she pours some in each of their mugs; the heat makes the whiskey smell all the stronger. Her busywork done, she turns in place to look at Thomas. He’s as handsome as ever, perhaps more so now that he’s truly hers. But she would have to be blind not to see the tension in his jaw and how his eyes dart around her face.
“We don’t have to do anything, you know,” she says. “It’s been a lovely day; let’s have our cuppa and go to bed- go to sleep, that is.”
“I want to try. If you’re interested, that is.”
She is and she isn’t. She has never thought of sex being all that big of a to-do, with how much fuss people make over it, but this, right now, is the time when it’s allowed. Maybe it will be everything that people say it is. Maybe it is worth people losing jobs, relationships, and reputations. Maybe married love between a man and a woman will be enough to make Thomas a different sort of man. They’ll never know if they don’t try.
Daisy leans forward against his broad chest, feels the heat of him through his shirt and jacket. When she’s this close, she has to crane her neck, almost looking straight up while he’s looking almost straight down at her. She would have to be on her tiptoes to have a chance of meeting his lips unassisted, but Thomas is a gentleman and leans down to meet her. Their lips meet for the second time ever, and Daisy’s thoughts are along the lines of “Huh”.
Thomas’ mouth is soft, and warm where he opens his lips against hers. It’s not nearly as wet as Daisy had always worried, though she worries that that might mean her lips are chapped. They shift their faces slightly, and she feels the brush of his stubble against her cheek. It must be strange for him, she muses, to not have matching stubble brushing against his. His hands come to her waist, resting right above the curve of her hips, and they sit there patiently. Daisy has spied plenty of people snogging in places where they thought they were hidden, and so often the man’s hands were moving and grabbing and squeezing. If Thomas wanted this more, would he be squeezing? Or is he being polite? Does he squeeze when he’s with men?
Thomas pulls away and looks down into her eyes, quirking an eyebrow. “You alright? You hardly seem here.”
“I’m here. Just thinking, is all.” He picks up his abandoned cigarette from the draining board, so she takes the moment to take another sip of her whiskey-laced tea.
“I hope I’m not that boring of a kisser.”
“No!” she gasps, laughing in surprise. He has always been good at making her laugh, even years ago when it had been her nervous giggle. “I was just wondering…if you kiss men like that?”
His body goes stiff against hers. “Daisy, I’m not going to kiss you like I do men. There’s no other men here. It’s just you and me.” He leans back in and presses his mouth back to hers, and there is some more heat this time, almost like anger. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her close and the length of her body is fully pressed against the length of his. “Let’s go upstairs,” he mutters against her lips. She doesn’t have any reason not to, so Daisy follows when Thomas takes her hand and starts walking.
The bedroom is right at the top of the stairs, the only small room making up the second floor. They haven’t had a chance to put things away or hang anything on the walls, but their suitcases sit in front of the dresser and the bed is clean and freshly made. With the ceiling angled on both sides, the bed becomes the focal point of the small room (not that she would have been able to look away from it regardless). The furniture is more modest than even the pieces in the servants’ quarters, but in a way that gives it more personality: worn curves instead of straight stark lines, the sense of a place to live instead of just a place to sleep. Daisy thinks she could get used to sleeping here.
For all the speed that he had climbed the stairs with, Thomas looks lost now. He fiddles with his tie, seemingly unsure of whether to remove it or not. Part of Daisy wants to ease it out of his hands and undo it herself, but she would have no idea how to handle the knot on a man’s tie. She decides she’s best left to her own clothing and slips out of her heeled shoes.
The problem occurs to her a moment later. She has never even dreamed of the luxury of a lady’s maid, has always been able to get in and out of her own clothing perfectly well, thank you very much, but Ivy had helped her with some of the ties and ribbons this morning. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to reach the hooks without bending herself in two, and that doesn’t feel like a terribly dignified look right now. “Um…Thomas? Could you-”
He’s behind her in a moment, his big hands deftly untying knots and unbuttoning buttons. “One thing I’m good at,” he says with a chuckle, though Daisy doesn’t imagine his hands lingered on the backs of the gentlemen he’s undressed in the past…unless they did. He slips the shoulders of the dress forward and Daisy steps out of it, so she is just in her camisole over a pair of knickers. Thomas takes better care of her dress than she would have, rebuttoning some of the buttons so that it hangs straight in the closet, arranging all of the ribbons just so. He stays turned towards the closet as he starts undoing his own clothes, hanging each article as it comes off. Their clothes look more comfortable next to each other than they do.
Thomas finally turns around, wearing a soft white short-legged union suit. Daisy can’t help but think that he looks ready to go swimming, and he might well be thinking the same thing about her. Her eyes flick down to his hips, and the rounded bulge that rests at the join of his legs. She hasn’t seen one of…those…since she was a child, bathing in batches with other children at the orphanage, boys and girls mixed together, and she’s certainly never seen a man’s. How is she supposed to react when she sees it? She suddenly wishes she had planned this out more and decided what to do, what to say. She’s been married for two hours and is already sure she’s doing it wrong.
He steps back and presses himself against her again, and it feels much more intense with this many fewer clothes. Their lips come together in another kiss and his ungloved hand comes to rest high on her waist. More on her ribs, actually, and moving higher and- oh. His hand is on her breast. Through her camisole, yes, but a man’s hand, her husband’s hand, is cupped around her breast. This is absurd, she must have been mad to do this, nothing about this makes sense, and she also doesn’t want him to take it away. Her own hands press against him, and her fingertips edge against a smattering of dark chest hair. Thomas’ other hand moves low, wrapping around her to grab her arse and pull her closer to him. She feels what she knows must be…that…pressed against her belly, misaligned with the difference in their heights. She supposes this is why people lie down.
Speaking of. She resolves to be the bold one and pulls back from the kiss. Thomas steps back hastily, hands off of her and held high in a flash, but he lowers them when he follows her gaze to the bed. “Do you want to?” he asks.
“Go on, then.”
They sit perched on the edge of the mattress, and leaning back in to kiss is both more and less comfortable like this. More in that their heads are much closer to the same level and her neck has been getting sore, less in that they are both twisting to the side to face one another. His one hand returns to her breast, thumb brushing over the tip, and the other hand presses into the blankets next to her. There is a strange hot feeling low in her gut, but she’s still not sure if that’s what everyone has been talking about. Though she will soon find out, one way or another.
They stay on the edge of the bed for several long minutes, separating and returning to the kiss, but soon enough Daisy is feeling anxious to get to what this is all about. The anticipation has been interesting, but this is starting to become ridiculous. She pulls back and before Thomas can say a word, she pulls her camisole up over her head and is there. Half naked. In front of a man.
Thomas’ eyes are wide and keep flitting between her face and her chest. He reaches out with a hand that trembles slightly, and she feels the service calluses rasp against her breast: it’s one of the only parts of her body that doesn’t have its own calluses or rough spots, and she feels every line and pit in his hand. He reaches out with the other, and the calfskin feels as smooth as silk.
“Do you want to- I mean, do you need to keep that on, or-?”
Thomas looks down at his hand like he hadn’t noticed it was still gloved. He hesitates before taking a breath and slipping it off. When he touches her, the scars feel raised and bumpy, but they feel like him.
Daisy won’t be the only one sitting bare, so she reaches for the buttons on his union suit. She fumbles at them, unused to this angle, and Thomas quickly takes over the job. He has to stand to slip the suit open and down his hips.
His…organ hangs between his legs in a patch of dark hair, matching the hair trailing down from his chest, connected across his stomach. It seems less intimidating than the many crude drawings she’s seen over the years; it’s more curved than a straight stick, and the texture looks like it might be soft. It twitches slightly when Thomas moves, and hangs at a loose angle out from his hips. His- stones? she thinks she’s heard them called stones before- don’t seem as prominent as people make them out to be, set back further between his legs. She can’t imagine what it must be like having those knocking around all the time when you’re trying to work. Seems damned inconvenient.
Thomas gives a pointed cough and Daisy realizes that she has been staring intently at his groin for far longer than is polite, if there is any such thing as polite staring at that sight. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “Here, fair play,” she adds, and shucks off her knickers. So they’re both naked. Alone. In a bedroom. And it is fair play, with how openly Thomas stares.
“So…do we…” She trails off and sits back down on the bed, hoping he’ll follow. He does, and it’s jarring to be touching his bare skin when they come together and kiss once more. Then there is a lot more skin touching skin when Thomas leans forward and she leans back onto her elbows, their chests pressed against each others’. The stubble on his face was a lot more scratchy than the chest hair now brushing against her. It’s soft, and oddly kind of nice.
They have to pull apart to rearrange themselves on the bed, stretching their legs out on top of the quilt. She lays down on her back and Thomas’ arms bracket her, hands pressing into the mattress. He swings a leg over her hips and his organ presses into the side of her hip. It feels somewhat firm, and the skin is as soft as it looked, but there is still a great deal of bend to it. How is it supposed to- she just doesn’t quite see how it’s supposed to be put to any use like that.
“Sorry. Sorry, give me a mo’” Thomas mutters. He stares daggers at the pillow next to her head and shifts his weight onto one hand, freeing up the other to go between them. “Just a moment.”
His arm starts moving and curiosity drags Daisy’s eyes downward. He’s got his hand wrapped around his thing and is moving it back and forth in short, jerky motions. A frustrated huff of breath hits the side of her face and he keeps making angry little grunting sounds.
“...what are you doing?”
“Shush,” he snaps. She can see the realization on his face that he’s being nasty, though. “Sorry. I’m just getting, uh, ready, you know?”
“Ready?”
“You…you do know that pricks get harder than this, right?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Oh believe me, they do,” he says, and a smirk briefly cuts through the frustration in the lines of his mouth. But it’s soon back, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight, like he’s concentrating on something with all his might.
“Can I help?” she asks.
“No, no. That’s not necessary,” he says quickly, eyes still closed. “Though if you maybe want to touch yourself? Get ready on your end too?”
Daisy’s mind flashes to a dozen times having her hand slapped as a child. If the matrons at the orphanage had hated anything, it was little boys and girls itching or touching themselves between their legs. Nasty, filthy, dirty things, they were. She remembers one girl who had kept getting caught at it, even when she should have known better. The spoon-shaped burn they left in the center of her palm had taken weeks to heal, weeping with blood and pus.
“Daisy?”
“Wuh? Oh, um, I’m fine. You can just- I’m ready, go ahead.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’ll- I’m just going to-”
Thomas’ fingers are much larger than her own, and feel huge when they’re between her legs, brushing through her hair. One finger presses slightly and her cleft is eased open, his fingertips touching her in a way that she has never been touched by someone else before. He spreads his hand slightly and Daisy feels splayed out and exposed. There’s something dry and sensitive about it, like rubbing a sunburn. She squirms at the odd sensation.
“Hold on,” Thomas says, and he pulls his hand out from between them and spits on his fingers. Daisy almost squawks in surprise and disgust, but his hand is back on her and she does have to admit that it feels better, a smoother glide of fingers on flesh. His thighs nudge hers apart and he takes his hand away from her parts and onto his and he lines them up together. The blunt end of his member nudges against her and he shifts his hips and- hmm.
Daisy is no longer a virgin, but it has yet to feel like her world is radically changed. Thomas pulls back and pushes himself into her another inch or so, and she supposes she expected more pain. There is pressure and it’s not the most comfortable sensation ever, but more like a sore muscle worked too hard, rather than being stabbed with something. Going by his expression, with his eyes screwed shut again, Thomas might be feeling more discomfort than she is. So far for her it just...is. She shifts her hips against the blanket, tilting them up, and he sinks in deeper with the same small in-and-out motions. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, gives one larger push, and their bodies are pressed flush together, with his- his prick- all the way inside her. She’s not quite sure what to do with her limbs, but a hug seems like a safe option, so she wraps her arms loosely around him. The long muscles of his back twitch and there is already a thin sheen of sweat.
Thomas blinks open one eye and looks at her. “Alright?” he asks on a huff of breath.
“I’m alright. Are you?”
“Yeah. Yes. I’m going to move some more.” He leans down to press a quick kiss to her cheek, somehow chaste in the least chaste of circumstances. He braces with his hands and starts moving in bigger ways, moving his organ in and out of her in larger strokes. It shifts her on the bed and she blushes when she realizes her breasts are bobbing with the motion. He notices too and spares a hand to grope at her chest again, cupping and squeezing the rocking flesh. It feels nice in a way Daisy can’t quite articulate, and something feels less rough when he next pushes into her. Wetter, perhaps? Something feels more slick, and she could see getting used to this.
But she is alone in that sentiment. Thomas’ hips stutter and jerk, and the thing inside her doesn’t feel as firm as it did minutes ago when it breached her. He pushes in again, something catches and bends, and Thomas pulls out of her with a pained “Fuck!”
“Are you okay?!”
“Ow! Fucking bollocks!” He throws himself down to the side and rolls onto his back on the bed. They both look down at his organ, which hangs more limply in his lap than it had before. A moment passes in silence. Then Thomas presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyes, arches his head back against the pillow, and growls. “Fucking fuck. Come on!”
Her arms instinctively wrap around herself, covering her bare bosom as well as she can. “What’s wrong? Did something not go right? Did I-”
“It’s not you,” he groans, hands still pressed into his face. “It’s me and my bloody, cursed, perverted prick that thinks its too good to fuck my wife on my goddamned wedding night.”
Another silent moment passes.
Then she has to say. “Your wife. You called me your wife.”
“...yes. You’re my wife now. I’m your husband…Christ.”
“Language,” she says reflexively. “Don’t let Mrs. Patmore catch you like that.”
She feels ridiculous the moment the words are out of her mouth, and Thomas peeks out from behind his hands to give her an incredulous look. “Do you think there’s anything going on here Mrs. Patmore would like?”
“She doesn’t even know about this,” Daisy points out. “Mrs. Patmore’s never had a wedding night, and we just have.”
Thomas’ laugh sounds like it leaps out of his chest against his will. It sounds so ridiculous and it’s all so ridiculous and Daisy is laughing and Thomas is laughing and they’re both naked and in their own home and have had too much whiskey, so why shouldn’t they laugh? Her insides feel odd and throbbing when she closes her legs and turns to lay on her side, like bread dough that’s been kneaded, and it’s just one more ridiculous thing that has her laughing until the tears start streaming down her cheeks and onto the pillows. Thomas rakes his hands back through his hair, now entirely freed from its pomade, and shakes his head. “No, I don’t believe Mrs. Patmore’s ever shagged a pouf before. That honor is all yours.”
She lightly smacks his chest with the back of her hand, because his words are just too absurd to say anything to. They both shake with the aftershocks of laughter, and her ring catches her eye, the small gold band standing out against the dark mass of his chest hair. It’s permanent now. It’s all real. And they have the rest of their ridiculous lives to try this again. “Let’s go to sleep,” she says.
Thomas looks at her aghast. “Without your nightclothes?!”
One of the first things Daisy learns about being married to a former-valet is that she will never go to sleep without a complete, meticulous bedtime routine again.