#winningnotcaring

[ifoundyourmistake]

"'But Your Honor, I Googled it twice' is even less of an acceptable courtroom maneuver when it hasn't been invented yet, puppy." - winningnotcaring

“Oh come on, you don’t trust me to keep my hilarity in the right era?” 

[ifoundyourmistake]

You Simply Must Meet Thomas || Winningnotcaring (Mike, Thomas, & Harvey)

It had been an interesting few months. 

No, Thomas corrected himself as he sat in silence on the morning train, glaring at any who dared stare, it’s been hell. And it had--a slow hell, a kind of steady drowning. His entire life had seemed to be like that: two steps forward, eight steps back, every bit of planning and conniving and scheming only getting him far enough along to survive; only getting him enemy after enemy. 

A reputation.

There’d been Jimmy, but even that...even that was bittersweet, and even that was gone, now, too. 

Thomas absently rubbed his wrist, his thumb running along the still fresh, still red, still tender scar and stared out the window in a kind of anticipatory blankness. It was a survival mechanism he’d developed many years ago: don’t hope, expect the worst, and plan accordingly. It was what led him to create plot after plot to save his back, what led him to always have a way out if he could manage it. This had been the first bite he’d gotten on his latest plan to keep him above water, but it had come with...rather poor timing, and had come when he had given up hope on getting any bites at all. 

Sending in his references at all had been more of a habit than a real hope. 

And yet here he sat, on the morning train as instructed, fighting to keep the hope and excitement a part of him still wanted to jump with at bay. It was more difficult than usual, however: the reply sent by Mr. Specter had caused a bit of a stir in the old house, upstairs and downstairs alike, eyebrows lifting and muttering wafting about the corridors. 

Thomas had heard a distinct whisper about falsifying references, but for once in his life, he hadn’t fought back. He’d held the telegram in his hand like it was a fragile, fragile lifeline and had told Mr. Carson rather than asking him that the under-butler would be leaving for London on the morning train. 

After the mess with dismissing the man and then finding him in a pool of his own blood, they weren’t likely to say no. 

Not long later, Thomas found himself on Gracechurch Street, staring up at the building he was supposed to meet Mr. Specter in with something like anxiety flickering over his features. He knew this was it: this was his last chance. If no one else had answered, no one else was going to. 

He only hoped, as he knocked on the (surprisingly less lavish than obviously possible) door that this American fellow was just as crazy as rumor had it. 

Because if they were...he might actually have a chance.   

[ifoundyourmistake]

Sarah you need to take a look at this.