Downton Abbey 1. A Fair Shake

1. A Fair Shake

It doesn't really sink in that she's really left her old life behind and started afresh until she's settled into her new position. Her new _job_. The word makes her pause and smile at the strangest times. Especially now, when she's elbows deep in laundry from the extended care patients' rooms on the third floor. Bridget, the other new girl, laughs at her when she notices.

"You'd think that you've gone and changed the world instead of Mr. Kerry's soiled sheets!"

Sybil grins back at her. "Perhaps I am simply pleased by a job well done."

Bridget splashes some water in Sybil's direction, giving her apron a good soaking. Sybil sticks her tongue out at her friend, and they continue to chat as they go about their tasks. As they work, Sybil's mind begins to wander.

Sybil hasn't told anyone where she's from; it's nice to be known simply as _Mrs. Branson_ rather than _Lady Sybil_. She'd had enough of that in her lifetime, thank you very much. It's rather liberating to be treated like the rest of the nurses at the hospital. If she's being totally honest, it's rather nice having a secret, even if it's not so much a secret as a slight oversight. Tom knows, of course. His mother and his two sisters also know, but none of them would ever let on that the newest addition to their family was anything other than young English miss from the countryside.

When she was first learning nursing back in England, the constant haze of her social status hung over her head, coloring every moment. She was judged just because of who she was – an Earl's daughter. If it wasn't some remark from another student, it was one of the training nurses doubting her ability to put a kettle on. She would always be grateful for Mrs. Patmore and her lessons! Even when she proved herself competent (if not good) at her work, there was an unnerving way that a room would suddenly go deathly silent whenever she entered it. The way that eyes followed her around, as if waiting for her to make a mistake . . .

Now, ensconced in the mask of her semi-anonymity, people perk up and include her in all manner of their conversation. She has _friends_ here, and not at all the kind she had back in England. The women she'd known since girlhood had never been more than acquaintances, not really. She'd once broached the subject of women's rights to Elizabeth and Jane, the two to whom she'd felt the closest, and they'd acted as if she'd suggested they put on trousers and join the army! Fair weather friends of the highest degree, she and Tom had run into Elizabeth and Jane in Ripon, only a day before sailing for Ireland. Sybil had been delighted, and asked her dear friends to tea one last time before she left. The young women had made quick excuses to extricate themselves from the awkward situation of talking to a girl who was marrying a _chauffeur_, of all things.

The women here, though, are different. She feels free to speak her mind, and she revels in the camaraderie they share. It's so very, very different, but it's wonderful.

If she really thought about it, the situation might bother her. Small secrets aside, Sybil hates hiding things, she hates lying, even if it's only by omission. After all, why shouldn't she be able to tell people who she really is? Why shouldn't she be proud to come from such a noble family? Because of them, she learned how to be a nurse in the first place. Because of them, she discovered her passion for politics. Because of them, she met her husband in the first place. How can she not be grateful for these things?

If she's being fair, however, which she always strives to be, she could never reveal her precise origins to anyone here. There's far too great a divide between the two countries, one that she as an English woman can barely overcome as it is. And so, though it makes her feel terribly guilty in the dead of the night, she glosses over the more important details of her girlhood. She's from a small town with a beautiful estate (where she was born and raised). She has two older sisters back in England (one of whom is engaged to a very wealthy newspaperman). Her parents doted on her, the youngest (but barely to speak to her now that she's run off with the chauffeur).

She detests lying. It's why she forced herself to ignore Tom for so long – if she had admitted it to herself, it would have felt like lying every time her mother introduced her to a new suitable gentleman. It would have still felt like lying when she left nursing right after the war. It would have felt like lying when she let go of his hand every time he had helped her from the car . . .

Sometimes she worries that everyone can see right through her, that they all know where she comes from, despite her precautions. Tom has told her a number of times that the people she's around day in an out wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a Londoner and a Mancunian, but she's never sure. Is her accent just a bit too noticeably posh? Does she avoid talking about her childhood home a bit too thoroughly? Is that frown the doctor turns in her direction performance related or is he puzzling over something she said?

Sybil shakes herself and changes the direction of her thoughts. She'll take things as they come – one moment at a time. She loves everything about this wondrous new land she's found herself in, right down to her raw hands at night. It's so very _good_ to lay down in bed with her husband at the end of the day, weary in the best possible way. She loves being able to work, to do something she knows she's good at_._ It's so very glorious to dress herself in the morning, make herself breakfast, make sure that her husband has something to eat for lunch. She never dared to hope or dream that she could feel so free. The sheer ordinary feeling she had of her new life just so very . . . perfect. Nothing anybody ever did or said could ever spoil it for her.

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_Many thanks go out to MrsBates93 for her beta of this fic! If you enjoy, please take a moment to review!_


	2. A Nap

2. A Nap

Sybil really likes her mother-in-law. Mrs. Branson (_Kathleen, dear_) is loud and open, and she emits a real presence whenever she is in a room. She's the kind of woman that Sybil hopes to be one day, and she's most certainly the kind of woman that her parents wouldn't know how to approach. She speaks her mind, and she's taught all of her children to do the same. This very likely contributed to Sybil's positive opinion.

Tom and Sybil arrived in Dublin on a cloudy day, and he'd led her straight to his mother's home, a spring in his step, very nearly giddy. She fell in love with Tom all over again that afternoon, as he'd barely contained his excitement over seeing his family, his mother in particular.

Sybil had never really thought about it before, that Tom had a family. She knew that they existed, he had mentioned them in passing, but there had never really seemed any reason to find out more about them. Not because Tom wasn't important enough, but they'd never really had enough time alone together to talk about their plans, much less what his family was like. More pressing concerns, like passage to Gretna Green had dominated their conversations.

Sometimes, it felt like she'd not known Tom at all before their first aborted attempt to run off together. She'd been so nervous on their way to Gretna Green; she could still feel her heart pumping, her mind racing as she struggled to find something, anything to talk about that avoided the obvious. It hadn't even occurred to her that he was struggling to do the same, he was always so good at finding the words to express himself, until he'd placed her luggage at the foot of the bed, turning to her with a half-grin, and said, "Well, then. Now what are we supposed to do?"

Sybil had been taken aback at first. Surely, he couldn't mean . . .! Her surprise must have shown on her face, for just as quickly as he'd said it, Tom had turned the most delightful shade of red, and with widened eyes and an outstretched hand, "Oh, for heaven's sake! I didn't mean it like that! I just meant . . ." He had trailed off as Sybil had laughed then, dispelling the awkwardness that had arisen during the long drive and which had settled above them well and truly. The worst of it was when Tom finally worked out just how he ought to sign them in at the inn.

And then, before she knew it, she was in his arms, pressing her lips to his, immersing herself in his scent, all trees and cars, it was a foreign spice to her. The groan which had released itself from the back of his throat when she kissed him made Sybil felt truly powerful, _wanted_. Tom had pulled her flush against him, and for the first time, she could really feel him, all of him, and it made her want more.

It felt so perfectly right to loosen her arms from around his neck and trail her hands across his shoulders, down his chest. His own hands were moving too, and they caressed the nape of her neck, her back, her waist. Sybil could barely breathe, could hardly even think. Whether conscious or not, she'd somewhere decided not to care, and she embraced the fire that rose up inside her.

She'd never been kissed like this before, never even dreamed that this was an option from her meager (and quite clearly naïve) experiences. Even in her innocence, she recognized that this was not simply kissing. This was what she'd heard whispered about by the other nurses in the training program. This was the sort of thing she'd glimpsed on the edge of every social gathering she'd ever attended, what she'd seen wandering through the eyes of Mary when she stared at Matthew when she thought no one was looking. This was wanting, _needing_, and the best part of all was the she _could_.

He was perfect. His skin, the slight saltiness left over on his tongue from some forgotten snack. He'd stepped backward a bit to sit on the edge of the bed, dragging her with him, and she'd discovered that she quite liked sitting in Tom's lap. Their caressing grew emboldened then, both daring to touch and grasp in places where they'd carefully avoided before. Her head fell back in his embrace, as he trailed sweet, hot kisses along her jaw and down her throat. She could feel him, pressing against her thigh. Even though she recognized it for what it was, she could not for the life of her remember why it should concern her. All she could feel was Tom, all she wanted to feel was Tom . . .

It would have been so easy, then, to tell the niggling voice in the back of her head to go away and leave her in peace. To let herself drown in his taste and touch. But Tom had been the strong one, dragging his mouth from her, holding her face between his hands and carefully placing kisses on her forehead as he took several deep breaths.

"That will have to be enough for now, milady." Tom looked as rueful as she felt, and he'd gently pushed her to her feet. Sybil had turned to allow him some measure of privacy to compose himself, and if she'd been a bit overzealous in her assertion that "Nothing happened!" when her sisters burst in not so long after, well, they hadn't commented on it.

Even now, learning to make soda bread in her mother-in-law's kitchen, it was enough to make her flush. Just over two months into their marriage, and Sybil was yet to find that either she or her husband had tired of the other's presence. Though she'd been feeling a little tired as of late, something about his sudden closeness after a day apart could wake her from the deepest slumber.

"Something amiss, my dear?" Kathleen asked from across the small but tidy kitchen, as she reached for another packet of flour.

Sybil smiled, "Oh, not at all. Just caught up in my own thoughts."

Kathleen just smiled and turned her eyes skyward. "Newlyweds!" She scoffed, then peeked down into the large bowl where Sybil is mixing the bread. "Now, be careful with that! If you overmix it, we'll all be regretting the day I left you in charge of it . . ."

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_Thank you for reading! I've got an outline for this, and bits and pieces here and there written for it, but I'm not quite sure where all of this is headed. I hope to update at least once a week from here on out. The rating, incidentally, should come in to play more fully by chapter 4 or 5, depending. _

_Thanks to MrsBates93 for her beta! She's made this story so much better with her careful eye! _

_I really do appreciate feedback, and I'd love to hear what you think!_


	3. Tea

3. Tea

It's very late, or possibly very early, depending on how you look at it, when she wakes up rather suddenly. All she wanted was a very strong cup of tea. She knew that if she got up to address the urge, she would be tired when she went to work today, but her desire could not be dissuaded by such thoughts.

Sybil shifted a bit so that she was on her side, looking over at her husband. She wasn't quite sure if she was hoping for him to wake up and fix the tea, or simply for him to be awake, but he was fast asleep and snoring lightly. She smiled down at him, his hair ruffled in the moonlight, and she took a moment to smooth her hand over his head. He's so beautiful, asleep like this, and her heart ached to look on him - she doesn't often get the chance with both of them working.

Their mornings here in Ireland were so much different from her mornings back at Downton. They rose together, often early, though rarely did they make it out of bed immediately. Early on, she'd fixed both the tea and their lunches, but lately she'd been delighted to see that Tom had proved to be a deft hand in the kitchen. Perhaps it's her oddly shifting schedule, but the tiredness of the past few months had not gone away. She adored that her husband had noticed and had been helping out more without a word from her.

"_Not that he hadn't been already_," she thought as she pulls on a dressing gown, covering herself.

It's just her and Tom here, but she couldn't manage to walk about their flat bare as the day she was born. That is quite unlike Tom, who had given her something of a surprise that first morning, four months ago. Such things amused her now, and she added them to her mental list of things that had never even crossed her mind in her life before.

She padded her way quietly to the kitchen; she waited until she was safely out of the bedroom before turning up the lamp. There was no sense in spreading her insomnia around.

She fell quickly into the routine of making a pot of tea, while her mind started to wander again. She couldn't help but think about Mrs. Patmore back at home, and their long past lessons in the kitchen. She viewed those moments now as another sort of beginning to her new life, and she would always hold them close to her heart.

The kettle had just boiled, and as she poured the water and waited for the leaves to steep. She could already taste the bitterly sharp flavor she'd been craving.

"Awake already?" Tom asked as he shuffled into their kitchen, rubbing his neck vigorously. He'd taken the time to pull on his own dressing gown, though it was tied loosely.

"Oh! You startled me!" Sybil whirled around to face him. For a moment, she was distracted by the wide expanse of bare chest that his state of undress afforded her, until her courtesy returned, "Join me?"

From his self-satisfied smirk, he'd obviously noticed her distraction, but chose not to comment. "Please." He came to stand by her, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "What's going on in that head of yours?" He tried to mask the question in a playful tone, but she could hear the concern in his voice. Tonight was the third night this week that he'd found her up at all hours, making tea in the kitchen.

She smiled at her husband as she passed him a mug from the counter behind her. "Oh, just thinking about how different my mornings are here, I suppose." She felt a bit silly, but remained true to her resolve to hide nothing from her husband.

Tom chuckled. "For me, too." He placed his mug on their small table and took the milk from the icebox. He offered it to her first, but after her expected refusal, he swirled the last bits of the milk into his tea. As it always was with them, the mood begins to shift, and he leveled a heated gaze at her. "In the very best way, of course."

Sybil blushed a little, thinking of their frequent morning encounters, but she does not shy from meeting his eyes. "Well, that too, of course, but I just meant the . . . quiet, I think." She waves a hand around the small kitchen. "All of this, the calm, you . . . If I'd wanted tea a year ago, I would have woken up a maid first."

Tom leaned back against the counter next to her, sipping his tea thoughtfully. "You're not suddenly regretting it, are you? I know this isn't . . ."

She cuts him off. Though she'd told him a thousand times, she knew that Tom still worried that he couldn't provide her with enough. She knew full well that the apparition of her father trying to buy him off still dwells in his consciousness, and she does her best to dispel it.

"Oh, Tom, surely you know better than that! You must know what I meant!" She smacked him lightly on the arm. "I like making tea for myself." She turned her gaze up at him. "I like making tea for you." She put her teacup on the counter, did the same with his, then moved to stand in front of him. "After all, were we still in England, I couldn't do this."

She reached up, twined her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

She'll definitely be tired at work today.

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_Sincerest thanks for those who have reviewed so far! I appreciate them so much! It's been a while since I've been so enamored of a ship, and it's wonderful to see that there are other people who agree with me. I love the other ships on the show, but there simply isn't enough Sybil/Tom! _

_Thanks go out to MrsBates93 for her work as beta!_

_If you've got a spare moment, I would love to hear what you think!_


	4. A New Dress

4. A New Dress

Well, it had to happen sometime.

She's been noticing it for a while now, just in the little things, but she's been afraid to admit it to herself. She's very, very good at ignoring things which were of great importance, a fact to which her husband can attest. As she goes back over the past few months in her mind, she knows the signs have been there all along.

First, it was the tiredness, coupled with the sleeplessness, which she's been blaming on holding down a job and being a newlywed. Then, it was the quantity of tea she's been drinking (blamed in turn on the tiredness). On top of that, she's been quite cranky lately, even going so far as to snap at Tom for no reason at all (obviously, she's been drinking too much tea). She's come up with every excuse to try and deny the symptoms, but there really is no way around it.

This morning, standing in front of the mirror Tom bought for her, she's discovered that her dress won't close, no matter how much she tries. She can almost feel her mind turning, wrapping around on itself, as it attempts to come up with a reason for it. Perhaps she hasn't been walking as much when she's at work. Over the past five months she's gotten herself into a routine and doesn't waste time trying to figure out how to make things work efficiently. She's a real nurse now, not a nursemaid to drunken soldiers, and she knows her hospital like the back of her hand. Or perhaps it could be the way that her mother-in-law feeds her several slices of hot buttered bread with Sunday dinner. The weekly dinners at Tom's childhood home are very dear to her, but she always eats far too much of what Kathleen puts in front of her. Or even . . . !

But, no. It really isn't any of those things. There's nothing to do but admit it.

Sybil Branson is pregnant.

Methodically, she closes the hooks on her dress that she still can. Luckily, it's only the hooks around her middle that don't meet, and her apron covers the gap conveniently. She's just adjusting her handkerchief when Tom walks into the room.

"Are you ready yet? I'd like to arrive a bit early today; I've some catching up to do." Tom stops abruptly on his way out of the room, frowning a bit. "Are you feeling all right?"

Sybil forces herself to smile and say, "Of course. I think I might be coming down with something, is all." She adjusts the front of her apron a bit, then grabs her cloak and lets Tom button it around her shoulders.

"Well then," she says with forced cheerfulness, "I'm ready if you are!"

Tom rattles on about his new article the entire way to the hospital, but she can barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other, much less participate in his conversation. She can tell that Tom notices (he always notices when it's anything to do with her), but he knows better than to press the issue. He's still worried when he leaves her at the nurse's entrance, but he kisses her all the same and wishes her a good day.

Her day passes in a haze, and for the first time that she can remember, Sybil does not perform up to the standard that she's set for herself. The worst of it is when she's assisting a doctor with a young boy who's broken his arm. His mother stands in one corner of the tiny examination room, and all Sybil can think to do is stare at the woman's worried expression, wondering how long it will be before she herself is on that side of the table. She feels disconnected from her body, as if she's somewhere else, as if she's _someone_ else entirely, and it takes a near shout from the physician before she snaps herself out of it.

By the time Tom comes to meet her for their walk home, she's started to accept that it's really happening, but she can't imagine how she's going to tell him. In deference to her mood, they've forgone their usual walk-home conversation, for which she's grateful. Otherwise, she's sure that she'd blurt it all out in the middle of the street for all Dublin to hear. Despite her best efforts, there are parts of her that will always be so very upper-class.

She wonders how her mother told her father about her own impending arrival. Does one tell their husband differently when they are expecting their first child? For that matter, was there a special way that one was supposed to tell their husband? Should she just come out and say it? Is she supposed to wait for a special moment? What if she waits until dinner, and then blurts it out over the peas? She grips his hand harder and leans her head on his shoulder.

Tom takes this as his cue, and he lets go of her smaller hand to lay his arm around her shoulders. They don't walk this way often, but it makes her feel so calm to have him wrapped around her as they walk home. She wonders how many more walks like this they'll have. She wonders how long she'll have before she has to leave her job. She wonders if she'll ever be able to go back . . .

They arrive home far too quickly, and Tom helps Sybil out of her cloak. She realizes suddenly that the moment is very nearly upon her; her apron was bloodied today, and she's wearing her friend's spare one over her dress. The borrowed apron does not cover her dress as well as her own does, and the deficiency in her dress is very apparent now.

Tom doesn't understand, and when he fingers the gaping fabric at her waist, he tries to make light of the situation. "Feeding you too well, are we? Always knew you'd take to Irish suppers!"

When she doesn't respond, his smile fades and he squints a bit at her. "Is this what you've been feeling so ill about these couple of days? You've got to know I think you're beautiful, Sybil." He says it with such honesty, with such fervor that it brings tears to her eyes.

Tom takes her into his arms. When he sees the tears start to fall, and he tucks her head under his chin.

"There now, sweetheart. It's nothing to cry over. We'll have someone take the dress out a bit and all will be well."

Sybil sobs in force now, though she's not sure precisely what she's crying for – her dress, her job, or Tom's sweet words. Tom leads her to their bedroom, where they sit down on the bed. He doesn't say much, just lets her work out whatever she needs to with her tears. His patience with her is the worst part; she knows how excited he's going to be, she knows what a great father he's going to be. She just doesn't know how she's going to go back to being the sort of woman who's caught up inside a house all day . . .

She gathers herself, finally, and she pushes away from Tom, just a little.

" _Just tell him!_" she thinks silently to herself.

"We're going to have a baby." There. She's said it.

Her expectations are met. She can see it in the little, half-gasped grin he directs at her. Tom is thrilled by her news, if a bit bewildered by the suddenness of it all. It reminds her of nothing more than the night she'd finally made her decision. Yet again, he shows her why she made the right choice in running away with him.

"We can talk to Ma as soon as you like about taking care of the babe after she's born. I'm sure the hospital will take you right back." He says happily, beaming at his wife.

Sybil grins then, swipes a quick hand across her eyes, and throws her arms around Tom's neck. She never should have doubted. They're going to make this work, just like everything else.

She's so busy feeling so completely, perfectly _perfect_ that it takes a long minute for his words to sink in.

"Wait just a moment, Tom Branson! What do you mean by 'she'?"

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_HUGE thanks to my beta, MrsBates93 for wrangling my fic into something a bit more readable! She's also fixed up the earlier chapters of this as well, so take a look back through if you're interested. _

_Please take the time to review – I'd love to hear what you think!_


	5. Him

_As promised, this story has now earned its rating. Please let me know what you think! I am very nervous about this chapter - it's been years since I've even attempted to write anything of the kind! _

_As always, many thanks to my beta MrsBates93 for her efforts! All mistakes are my own!_

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5. Him

Sybil has been finding it increasingly difficult lately to spend any time in public with Tom.

Take tonight, for example. Sybil had asked him all week to take her out, "Somewhere, anywhere, Tom!", she said to him on Saturday night, and so he'd obliged her. Though the Murphys themselves know about Sybil's condition, the combination of the cut of her dress and her long cloak ensure that no one could tell simply from looking at her. This wouldn't last long, however, and Sybil knew that soon she would be reduced to staying at home for the duration of her pregnancy.

Dinner at the Murphy's flat was a lively affair, with four young children and a very heavily pregnant Valerie Murphy bustling back and forth between the stove and the table. Sybil assisted as best she could, but the older woman had it down to a science and could cook and serve dinner for eight whilst holding on separate conversations with both the adults and two of her children.

It's after dinner that the difficulty arrived.

Sybil was in the kitchen, drying dishes and making idle chat with Valerie. She'd only just met the woman that evening, but they got along well, and the conversation was easy. Tom and Denis were friends from work; both of them were keenly interested in politics, and Sybil found herself deeply engaged in their conversation more than once during the evening.

Tom's loud laugh moved her attention from drying the dishes back to the other end of the room where he sat, sipping whiskey at the table with Denis. She could not tear her gaze from the sight of Tom, sitting back in his chair, with the youngest Murphy fighting sleep on his lap. She could not put her finger on just why, but the image was enough to make her throat dry, and suddenly all she wanted was to be elsewhere with her husband. Anywhere else, as long as it was someplace private. Sybil could barely restrain herself from leaping across the room, grabbing his hand, and fleeing for home. Her impulse control honed by her rigid upbringing, Sybil turned away from him entirely and took several deep breaths to calm herself. She could wait it out. She hoped.

As it happened, the children were ready for bed by the time the dishes were put away, and the adults said their goodbyes in short order. Valerie truly was tired, Sybil could tell, and though Tom and Denis would have happily talked through the night, Sybil feigned a bit of the same.

They were on their way out the door when another, stronger swell of desire flooded through her. Tom's thumbs grazed her cheeks as he fastened her cloak around her shoulders, which had elicited a quiet gasp from her. She leveled a pointed look at her husband, and this time, she knew that he felt it too; she could see the spark of desire ignite in his eyes

They're out the door not long after with promises to return the favor of dinner soon. Sybil feels some momentary worry about how she's going to manage to cook for so many, but she knows that it will be some time before Valerie would be able to leave the flat. Besides that, Sybil has been spending more time with her mother in law now that she's not working, and Kathleen is sure to have some handy tricks up her sleeve to teach Sybil about cooking for a group.

Tom and Sybil walk back to their own apartment swiftly, and for her, at least, it seemed to pass in a haze. Her entire world has narrowed down to the feeling of this man next to her, his hand pressed in hers. She hardly even registers that they've come to their building, when Tom pulls open the door to the stairs for her. He, luckily, had more of his wits about him, and he nods in greeting to the neighbor they pass on their way up the stairs.

She didn't want to talk, and from the way Tom's been quiet and focused, she could tell that he didn't either. His hand rests on the small of her back as he unlocks their door, and she can feel a slight tremble in his touch. The desire between them is half love, half lust, every bit of it urgent.

The very moment they enter the flat, Tom has her pushed up against the wall, and his left hand hitches up her skirt while his right fumbles with the door bolt hurriedly, so they will not be interrupted.

Her cloak hits the floor first, and a moment later his jacket follows. He lifts her up then, hands under her thighs, and she wraps her legs tightly around his hips, impatiently thrusting against him. She's lost her shoes somewhere, but it doesn't matter. Nothing has ever tasted better than his tongue on hers, nothing has ever felt better than his body so close. Sybil can't quite work out how to breathe properly, and it leaves her gasping in between his scorching kisses.

She tears at the front of his shirt, desperate to feel his smooth skin. A button pops and lands with a ping somewhere on the floor, and Sybil vaguely realizes that she'll be annoyed with herself for it tomorrow. Right now, though, all she can think about is how much she wants to feel him next to her, inside of her, and the thoughts are simply not enough.

Tom's hands and mouth are everywhere as they rock against the wall, and Sybil squeezes her legs tighter around him, urging him on, the rough friction of his trousers pleasing against her center.

"Oh, Tom, please!" She begs, but it has no particular force to it. She only wants, needs, _desires_, and as long as he's there with her, touching her, she knows she'll find her release.

He snakes one hand down between them, brushing momentarily over the growing swell of her belly, and he pauses, meeting her eyes in silent question. He's been softer, gentler with her lately, and their lovemaking has lost some of the frenzied madness it had in their first months together. She's missed it dearly, if she's honest, and tonight is the first in many that he's let some of that restraint go.

She nods her assent, and his hand continues along its way.

Eyes still locked, he smoothes his hand along her inner thigh, then slips inside of her knickers. She's glad that he's supporting her weight; otherwise she would have collapsed by now. Sybil groans in frustration as he avoids the one place she wants him to be, which elicits a wry, wicked grin from her husband.

At long last, he puts her out of her torment and slips a finger inside of her, then two, and uses the heel of his hand to rub against her. Moaning, she writhes against him, so caught up in what he's doing to her that her legs come undone from his waist and slip to the floor. He steadies her, both hands now on her hips, and even that touch feels like a brand, though it is so different from what he was doing only seconds before. She wants him, now.

Tom clearly feels the same, and he sweeps her in for another forceful kiss, all lips and teeth and tongue. She kisses him back just as passionately, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and flinging it aside.

She's no longer even thinking by the time he tugs her knickers off and props her up on the kitchen counter, nibbling along her jaw and neck. He's finally unbuttoned her dress, and together they make short work of slipping it off over her head, baring her to his heated gaze.

His mouth then moves to her breasts, gently sucking, then biting, and Sybil can feel the wetness in her center grow. She arches against him as he rubs his hardness against her, and she realizes, disappointed, that he's somehow managed to keep his trousers on all this time.

Determined to rectify the situation, she moves her hands to work on the buttons at the front of his trousers. He hisses when she at last frees him, and she grasps him hard in her hand while licking the sensitive spot behind his right ear. She's got him panting now, and she knows that he's been with her every step of the way.

Then, he's at her entrance, and slowly, so very slowly, he enters her, and Sybil forgets to breathe. It's as if they are the only two people in the world, and this is the only moment they've ever had. He's so deep inside of her, and when he moves she can feel the world shift beneath them.

She clings to him, sucking on his lower lip, breathing in his breath as he breaths in hers. They move slowly at first, then gradually increase their pace. Someone's moaning very loudly in the background, but by the time Sybil realizes that it's her, she simply doesn't care, she just wraps her arms around his neck and uses her heels to match his rhythm.

It's not long before they're both coming apart at the seams, and she buries a shout in the crook of his neck. It's over far too soon, but the pleasant, floating feeling she's got right now will surely accompany her to sleep tonight.

Her hair is a complete wreck. She can feel that half of her hair has lost its pins and come down from the curled style she'd fixed earlier. Tom notices, too, and he takes a moment to pick the rest of the pins out, freeing her curls so they fall down to her shoulders. She never feels more beautiful or more loved than in these moments right after when they're so close together and he looks at her like she's made of everything wonderful in the world.

Time marches on, though, and they can't stay in this position forever. So he presses a kiss to her lips, then her forehead, and finally steps back from her. Just as reluctant for the moment to end as she, he kisses her again, lingering for another long moment. He looks as relaxed as she feels, and a lopsided smile accompanies his motions as he carefully presses yet another kiss to the bump on her belly. She shivers then, just slightly, partially from his gesture, but also because she is noticing the cold now that her mind isn't occupied by other more pressing matters

She slides down to the floor, and they walk hand in hand to their bedroom, where Tom tucks her under the duvet they'd bought together just after they married. He pauses a bit to pull off his shoes and trousers before joining her there, and when he does, she moves close beside him and throws her arm across his chest.

She's just begun to drift off to sleep when she feels the press of his lips against her hair and hears a whispered, "I love you, Sybil Branson."

She smiles.

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_Well, what did you think? :)_


	6. Freedom

_For those of you following along, I'm sorry that this is a week later than usual. We had to put my cat to sleep two weeks ago, and it's taken a lot out of me. I just couldn't find the words to write anything before now. Thanks for sticking around!_

_Many thanks go out to MrsBates93 for her beta. Thank you! All mistakes are my own!_

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6. Freedom

Sybil has been going slowly mad kept up in the flat all day, every day. To a body accustomed to daily physical labour, the endless hours of sitting are unbearable.

She'd already scrubbed the flat from top to bottom. Twice, in fact! She'd cleared out the cupboards, scrubbed the floors – she'd even washed the walls! She'd caught herself debating the merits of washing the ceiling two days ago, and she'd only given up on the idea because she wasn't certain how she might accomplish such a task in her delicate state.

She'd bristled when the doctor had first used that term – "delicate state". As if she were a little flower or a glass trinket designed to be kept on a shelf and taken down for dusting once a week. As if she were useless except to be looked at.

Sybil certainly did not feel delicate, quite the opposite, in fact. She felt strangely powerful to have a life, another person, growing inside of her. A person who would arrive in a few months' time, a person who would grow up and one day be a man like her Tom. And she was the one who was going to make that happen! It amazed her, invigorated her. It made her want to rush outside and let everyone in all Dublin know that she was going to be a _mother_!

But instead, she'd been forced to leave her position at the hospital. She'd been forced to remain indoors for the most part, only venturing out in the presence of her husband. She'd spent the better part of the past month washing and rewashing the household linens and learning how to bake bread on the odd day that Kathleen Branson could find the time to visit her.

Sybil wanted to be useful, and it pained her to know that she simply _wasn't_ while she was cooped up here. Yet, it was necessary, and though she'd fought against it, she knew that it simply wasn't safe for a young, pregnant Englishwoman to walk alone in the streets of Dublin. Though it annoyed her to no end that other girls in her position might still be allowed to do the shopping or take a walk with friends, Sybil was not like the other girls, and there was precious little she could do about it.

It wasn't safe for Tom either, though he tried to hide it from her. Denis Murphy had joined up with the IRA, and from what little she'd pried out of her husband, he was pressuring Tom to volunteer as well. He hadn't, and Sybil didn't think he would, but that didn't change the fact that no one in the city was truly safe from the violence that erupted almost daily.

They'd argued about it the night before, after they'd finished eating.

"There was fighting outside today." She tried to say it nonchalantly as she cleared the last of the dishes from the table.

Tom pushed his chair back and he rose to help her with the washing up. "I'd heard that something happened. I didn't realize it was so close to our flat, though." He gently moved her aside from where she stood at the wash basin.

Sybil accepted a towel from him, and she began to dry the dishes as he washed. "Right outside the window. There were shots."

Tom dropped a plate then, and it shattered on the floor.

They both began to speak at the same time.

"Look what's happened now . . ."

"Are you all right . . ."

Sybil bent to pick up the larger pieces of the shattered ceramic plate, and she let Tom begin again.

"Are you quiet all right, sweetheart?" Concern was evident in his voice as he helped her up, a hand at her elbow.

"Yes, of course. Nothing happened in here! When I went to the window, though, I saw three men lying . . ."

She looked at her husband, intending to see his interested eyes staring back at her. It was not the case.

"Sybil! How could you be so stupid?" He raged at her, in a way she had not seen since she'd so unfortunately suggested that the English weren't "at our best" in Ireland. She'd been living with Tom long enough to know that he meant well and that she could diffuse him with a few well placed words. That evening, however, she was not willing to put up with the brasher side of his nature.

"Stupid! You think I've been stupid? The Black and Tans were outside our window, Tom! It's hardly my fault the damned IRA decided to ambush them!"

Tom had gone bright red. "But our child, Sybil," he said through clenched teeth. "You must think of the safety of our child! If something had happened to you . . ."

And there was the crux of it, she knew. "I will not change who I am because I'm pregnant, Tom! I cannot listen to shouting and gun shots outside my window without looking to see if someone needs my help. You know that! I'd thought it was something you loved about me!"

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, and leaned into the counter before he spoke. "I do, at that, Sybil. But I can't lose you." He looked at her then, eyes rimmed in red. "It's bad enough that I have to see it every day. That I have to sidestep bloodstains on the sidewalk on my way to work. I never wanted to subject you to that."

She softened at the look in his eyes. "You aren't, Tom. You can't hold yourself accountable for the actions of others."

He exhaled with force. "But it's because of me that you're here. You can't deny that." He moved to her then, and put his hands on her shoulders, touched her face, then her stomach. "It's because of me that you, the both of you, are stuck here when you could be safe in England. You could . . . Maybe you should . . . " He trailed off, and she could tell that he knew he'd said the wrong things. All he wanted to do was protect his family.

She pushed his hands away. "Should what? Return to Downton?" She scoffed. "Don't be absurd! What would I do there? Wait around idly while being waited on by Anna? Let Grandmama tell me about what I've 'missed' since I was away? Listen to my father tell me how he knew I'd be back?" She turned away, throwing the piece of plate into the bin.

"Sybil, I . . ." Tom moved up behind her, and she could feel the heat from his body on her back in the cold room. He tried again, speaking more calmly this time. "Maybe we could try London instead. I could find work at a paper there. I'm sure I could get a good reference . . ."

She turned around and found herself face to face with Tom's chest. She took his hands in hers, then looked up into his eyes. "No, Tom. Even if with a reference, Carlisle would make sure that no relation of Mary's would find work at a London paper. We're here, for better or worse."

He took her in his arms then, tucking her head beneath his chin. "I just don't want anything to happen to you. I could not live with myself if it did." He kissed her forehead. "I want you, the both of you, to be safe."

"We are living in a changing world, Tom. I don't think that anywhere can truly be safe." She took a step back, still in his arms. "But I know you, and I know that you wouldn't be happy anywhere else. I know that you've wanted to be in the thick of this since the very moment it started, and it would break my heart if I were the one to tear you away from it."

They'd let the argument go then, and focused instead on cleaning up the shattered plate and putting the kitchen back to normal before turning in for the night. They hadn't made love that night, but instead clung to each other in the darkness, reassured by the vital presence of each other.

She'd missed his departure for work that morning, but judging from the hour Tom should be arriving home any moment. She'd promised herself all day that she would try last night's conversation again, that she would be calmer this time. She knew they could work together to find an arrangement they both found acceptable. Perhaps a flat further from the city centre . . .

A knock came at the door, interrupting her train of thought. Sybil frowned; she wasn't expecting anyone.

When she opened the door to see Denis' conflicted face, she knew that something had happened.

"Mrs. Branson, I'm sorry to be the one to bring you the news, but your husband . . ." He trailed off, swallowed hard, and Sybil forgot how to breathe.

"Tom's been shot."

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_If you've read this far, I'd love to hear what you think! I really appreciate any and all feedback – even the negative stuff!_


	7. Her Sisters

_Thank you to all who've reviewed the previous chapters! I get so excited when I read a new review!  
_

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7. Her Sisters

It's been over a week and yet Tom still hasn't opened his eyes. He just lays there, motionless in one of the better wards of the hospital where Sybil used to work. He's worryingly pale, and the hollows in his cheeks appear to deepen every day. Sybil does not dare to think how much he looks like the soldiers she cared for during the war.

She sits beside his bed every day, holding his hand as she reads to him. She doesn't read anything in particular - the newspaper, books she knows he loves. The doctor told her that the sound of a loved one's voice can bring patients back to the land of the living. Sybil, having seen it in action herself, knows that it's good advice, so she reads until she's hoarse.

Sometimes, she talks to him as if he had simply come home from work and was having a cup of tea while she readies dinner.

If she pretends hard enough, her heart doesn't break when he does not respond.

Each day, she comes and sits in the hard chair next to his bed, not relenting in her task. Kathleen brought her a cushion on the second day of her vigil, but Sybil has hardly noticed the difference. Her attention is so acutely focused on this room, on the man who sleeps so very still in the bed next to her, that the whole world could disappear outside the door and she would not notice.

If it weren't for Kathleen, Sybil would not have left his bedside at all. Every evening, though, Kathleen gently nudges her away from the hospital and puts her daughter-in-law to sleep in her husband's childhood bed. Sybil doesn't know where Kathleen gets her strength, but she's grateful for it.

There's a soft knock at the door, but it does not register in Sybil's clouded mind. If it's not a doctor or a nurse coming to check on Tom, then it's his mother or one of the countless faces she does not know who come each day to pay their respects and ask if there has been any change. She resents the latter most of all; it's almost as if Tom is already dead and there isn't any hope at all that he might finally awaken and return to her and their child. Some of the visitors, she knows, stare accusingly at her while they offer up their condolences. One red haired young woman in particular properly glared at Sybil, as if Sybil somehow fired the gun herself.

Sometimes it feels like she did.

Then there's a hand on her shoulder, and Sybil lifts her head and stands to greet the visitor.

She blinks hard, confused, not sure if she's seeing clearly. She's wanted to see her sisters so badly these past few days that she wonders if she's simply conjured up the image.

When she doesn't say anything, just stares, the one that looks like Edith says, "Your mother-in-law called us just after it happened. We came immediately."

Then Mary adds, "Oh, Sybil!"

Sybil breaks down then, and she begins to sob. The dam finally burst, all her grief and fears wash over her. Her sisters have come all the way from England to see her, and something inside her now is forced to acknowledge the situation she's in. Ireland has been something of a dream until now, a place apart from reality where she and Tom have been living in idyll.

To see Mary and Edith here means that the situation is just as bad as she's feared, possibly worse. She hasn't seen her sisters since the wedding, she's barely heard from them, and if they are here now it means that her dream world is over. It means that it really is Tom asleep in that bed, he was shot, and the doctor is right. Tom simply may never wake up.

She feels her sisters' arms go around her, and she buries her face on a shoulder. It's good to cry, and she can feel some of her pain slip away with the tears.

At last, she comes back to herself. She does not cry prettily, she knows this well, and she's sure her face is red and puffy, her eyes bloodshot. Mary hands her a handkerchief and does not comment on the puddle that Sybil has made of her left shoulder.

Instead, her eldest sister smiles and exclaims, "Mother told us you were going to have a baby, but I didn't expect that you'd be so . . ." Mary trails off as she makes a vague gesture with her hands, obviously debating what she should before settling on, "So, so . . . far gone!"

Edith joins in, too, with, "How far along are you?"

Sybil smiles a bit for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Even if there's nothing else in her life to be happy about, she's ecstatic about the life growing inside her. Her unborn child has been her sole source of comfort in these dark days, and she does not know how she would find the will to move one foot in front of the other if it weren't for the baby. When she lies awake at night, staring up at the ceiling, Sybil cannot quite stifle how wonderful it feels when the baby kicks. To feel Tom's child moving inside of her makes her feel as if part of him is moving and active.

Sybil dabs at her eyes and replies, "About six months, maybe seven. We've been told to expect an arrival in June." As if in response, the baby kicks then, and Sybil brings her arm around her belly.

The three make the kind of small talk they've been trained from childhood to make, scrupulously avoiding the subject of Tom. Instead of asking why it was her sisters who came alone, Sybil asks if they enjoyed the crossing. Instead of telling them about that terrible day, she asks after Granny and Matthew.

It's Mary who finally brings up the topic Sybil knows is already overdue.

"Father wants you to return to Downton."

Sybil takes a sharp breath and a step away from her sisters. "I hope you know better than to think I would leave Tom under any circumstances, much less like this." She flings an arm in his direction, and she can feel a familiar anger building up in her chest.

Edith says, "I don't think he means it that way at all. He just wants you to be safe, Sybil."

"We all do," Mary agrees. "That's all any of us have ever wanted, darling."

There's real emotion in her sister's voice, but Sybil can't bring herself to believe it. The situation she finds herself in is reminding her far too much of that night long ago when Mary and Edith came bursting into a different room, across the sea in a different country.

Sybil scoffs and moves to the small window that overlooks the street. "I will not leave him." She hugs her belly. "_We_ will not leave him."

She can almost hear the look that is surely passing between her sisters behind her back. It's Edith who tries again.

"Mary and I have taken a room nearby. We're going to stay as long as it takes . . ."

Sybil cuts her off, whirling around. "As long as it takes for what, pray tell? Until he's . . ." She cannot bring herself to say the word, so she starts over, the fight gone from her voice. "I will not leave him."

Tears are threatening again, and both Edith and Mary seem to know better than to interrupt their younger sister again.

"I am so very glad that both of you are here, truly I am. But you must know that there is no force on this earth that will take me away from his side. If your only mission is to convince me otherwise, you might as well leave now."

Mary smiles sadly at her. "Yes, I understand that. We both do." She exchanges a look with Edith. "What I think we meant to say was that we intend to see this through with you, no matter what happens. No matter what you decide to do."

"Yes, exactly." Edith nods her agreement, smiling.

Sybil doesn't know what to say to that, so she lets their words hang in the air. She refuses to think ahead. She does not think she can bear to think about what might happen in these next few days.

After a long silence, she asks, "Where are you staying? You are, of course, welcome to stay at our flat. It's quite a bit smaller than what you're accustomed to, but I think you would both be very comfortable there."

Falling back again on their upbringing, they are polite once more, and their conversation moves into discussion of arrangements.

Edith is on her way out the door to hire a coach when Sybil hears a rustle from behind her, and she turns away from Mary to see Tom struggling to sit up, his eyes squinting from the light, brow wrinkled with confusion.

He tries to speak, more of a croak really, his voice harsh from disuse.

"What's all this shouting about, then?"

Sybil laughs.

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_As always, many thanks go out to MrsBates93 for her beta. All mistakes are mine!_ _If you enjoyed it (or didn't), please take the time to review! _


	8. Normalcy

_This took longer to write than I intended. I hope you guys are still around and reading! Thanks as ever go to MrsBates93 for her beta. All mistakes are mine!_

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8. Normalcy

Sybil was grateful that her sisters had returned to England and Downton two weeks ago, once they'd seen that Tom was going to recover. Tom had already been embarrassed enough by the situation, and she was glad that they've been able to spare him further. Though he's doing much better, and they've even gone for short walks, he's still weak, and he's been getting winded so easily.

Tom had been very, very lucky, she knew that. The bullet that hit home had passed cleanly through his side, and in fact, he had sustained more trauma from being pushed to the ground and knocked unconscious than from the bullet wound. Though it was unlikely they would ever know who fired the shot that laid him low, in the end it did not matter whether a Black and Tan or an IRA soldier was responsible – Tom had been shot.

Once Tom had woken up, they had talked again about leaving Ireland, more seriously this time. Neither of them wanted it, not truly, but it was time to face the simple fact that they had the means to leave a dangerous situation. Loathe as they were to entertain the notion, they could return to England and raise their child in comfort and safety.

As it was in those desperate months before they'd married, it was Mary who'd convinced them to do what they did not wish to do.

"Sybil dear, you can't put this decision off," Mary had said in the midst of dinner the night Tom came home. "If you wait much longer, you'll be traveling as three instead of just two." She'd punctuated her point with a solemn look at Sybil.

The worst of it was that Sybil knew that her eldest sister was right. It wasn't just that Tom had been shot or that her child was growing more and more every day, it was also the general fear and unrest of the city around them. How many times would there be near misses? How much luck could two people have?

Later, after the dishes were cleared (with the combined help of a bemused Edith and a horrified Mary), Sybil helped her husband into bed, and they'd talked, finally, seriously, about their options.

"I want us to return to England, Sybil." There was no accusation or anger in his voice, Tom just spoke calmly and earnestly, so unlike their last conversation.

This time, somewhat deflated, Sybil agreed. "I know we must. I've known it for weeks now." She looked at him. "Perhaps I was not ready to admit it. Not yet. Not until . . ." she trailed off.

Tom had smiled ruefully at her. "Until I was shot. Yes, I remember." He'd then touched her cheek then and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I know that I'll find something when we return. How many newspapers in England can claim such a writer?" His voice changed then, and quite grandly he added, "A poor Irishman, married into the English nobility, wounded in battle by terrible rebel forces . . ."

Sybil cut him off with a giggle. "Hardly in battle! Walking down the wrong street hardly qualifies you for that boast!" She smacked him lightly on the side.

Tom grinned back at her, kissed her, and the decision had been made.

The next morning, over breakfast, they broke the news to her sisters. Edith had simply smiled kindly, and asked when they planned to make the trip. And if Mary had looked a bit smug, well, there was nothing anyone could do about that. Her sisters returned to England a few days after that; Mary because of her rapidly impending nuptials, and Edith as her companion.

Once her sisters had left, it had taken over a week to take care of the arrangements, as they'd been somewhat hindered by Tom's health. Sybil did what she could on her own or with her mother-in-law's assistance, but there were some things that simply required the presence of her husband.

At long last though, meager belongings packed and goodbyes said, Sybil and Tom had made their way hand in hand out of the city.

Their trip across the sea was rough, and the crossing that Tom had last taken with the wind in his hair and a skip in his boot, he spent hunched over a bucket, trying desperately not to wretch.

He was not successful.

Sybil spent most of this crossing in a reversal of their roles at home in Dublin only a few months ago. Before, he had been helping her through bouts of morning sickness (and afternoon sickness and evening sickness), but now she was the one tending to her husband, rubbing his back and handing him a cloth to wipe his mouth. It was hard to see him so transformed from his former self. Even the rosy color that had finally begun to return to his cheeks in the past week was gone, replaced with a green-tinged pallor that worried her.

But they'd made it safely and soundly to the shore, and then to the train.

Sensing her own mood, the baby had begun to stir, kicking ever harder as they drew closer to Downton. It was strangely comforting in a way. It made Sybil feel as if the three of them were all in agreement about the entire situation. Before long, though, the quiet and gentle rocking of their car had Sybil nodding off, and she had quietly fallen asleep on Tom's shoulder.

"Sybil, sweetheart, wake up!" Tom had gently nudged her awake. "We've arrived."

She yawned widely, trying and failing to cover her mouth with one hand.

"Come on then, sleepyhead!" Tom slipped his book into his satchel and helped Sybil to her feet.

Sybil was surprised that none of her family had come to meet them at the station. It was an unexpected slight, one she found difficult to interpret. Had it been her alone, would her family have met her at the station?

A sallow faced man in a familiar green uniform met them as they helped each other from the train. He'd introduced himself as Evans and then led them to the car. Sybil exchanged a wry grin with her husband at the introduction; Evans was the polar opposite of Tom – short, wiry, and dark haired, he obviously had several decades on her husband.

As Evans stowed the luggage in the trunk, Sybil leaned toward Tom's ear and whispered, "I wonder at the chance for this one to run off with one of the Lord's daughters! Edith has yet to find a husband." They'd grinned as the motor departed the station.

"I myself worry more about you and your fondness for flirting with chauffeurs!" Tom joked.

Sybil smirked, "Alas! I've always found it very difficult not to! There's just something about that uniform! All stiff collared and buttoned up . . . !"

Sybil squeezed his hand tightly, and she scooted a bit closer. Indeed, there was something about that particular uniform (she wondered idly if it was the same one), but her flirting had always had more to do with the man inside of it. She idly wondered at her chances of seeing Tom in it again . . .

Sybil glanced forward then, just to see what Evans thought of their banter, but she was disappointed to note that he was the very model of a proper chauffeur and he'd not even batted an eyelash. His lack of reaction underscored how very, very odd it was to be driven around in the back of the Renault by someone other than her Tom.

Sybil quickly turned her attention back to her husband then, continuing the light conversation as they rapidly approached their former home. She knew the situation was just as difficult for Tom as it was for her, if not more so. What awaited him on the other side of this last short leg of their journey was ever so much more uncertain than what awaited her. She'd kept up correspondence with her mother over the past year, but Sybil had not heard anything directly from her father, and it had wounded her when they did not come over for the wedding. Though her mother promised otherwise, Sybil was not sure how welcome they truly would be at Downton.

At long last, yet somehow far too soon, she caught sight of the spires of her former home in the distance. As they slowly made their way up the drive, dark clad figures could be seen assembling out front.

She nudged Tom. "Here we are then. Are you ready?"

The same wary look in his eyes, he replied, "As I'll ever be."

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_If you're still reading, I'd love to hear what you think! _


	9. A Walk

_I'm sorry this took so long to get to you all! I've been quite busy with work lately, and I've been traveling a lot, so there hasn't been a lot of time to write. This chapter's extra long though, so I hope it's worth the wait!_

_Sincerest thanks to those of you who have been reviewing - it really makes my day when I see that people out there are reading and enjoying! Thank you so much for your feedback!_

_Also thanks to the keen readers who caught my mistake - thank you very much! It's fixed now, so here's hoping there aren't any others lurking!  
_

_And last, but certainly not least, many thanks, as ever, go to my beta MrsBates93 - any mistakes are my own!_

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9. A Walk

Tension. There wasn't a better word for it. Every interaction since they've arrived has been positively laced with it, and there hasn't been any indication that it's going to stop.

The first sign of it was when they'd stepped out of the car. Sybil's heart was in her throat, but she attempted to swallow it as she greeted her parents. Or, rather, her mother and sisters. Robert Crawley was nowhere to be seen.

Cora was delighted to see her daughter, that much was very apparent by the wide smile that stretched across her face. If Cora was at all resentful of her son-in-law's presence, she did not make it known, and she greeted Tom with the same brief hug and sincere smile that she gave her daughter.

The couple were quickly bustled inside, leaving their luggage to the staff. It was very easy for Sybil to fall back into the patterns of her childhood, and she'd obviously coached Tom well; he gave no outward sign that he was anything other than the finely bred gentleman he appeared to be.

He saved that for after they'd been shown to their chambers to dress for the evening.

"And does milady need anything else? P'raps we should send up a maid or three to help milady into her gown?" Tom spoke in a high pitched, affected accent as he helped Sybil into her borrowed dinner dress. It was snug and quite out of fashion, having been fitted for her mother during her most recent pregnancy.

"Oh, enough of you!" Sybil smacked him in the arm with a grin. "You'd think you'd never been at Downton before!" She bent a little to get a better view of her hair in the vanity mirror.

Tom's gaze turned more serious, and he replied, "Never like this."

He finished closing up the back of her dress, and then smoothed his hands over her shoulders, brushing away imaginary lint.

Sybil rested one gloved hand on his, stilling his motions. She turned, twining her arms around his neck and hugged him as close to her as she could with her belly in the way.

"You're doing fine, Tom. Everything will be fine. You've nothing to worry about."

Tom raised his eyebrow at that, but chose not to comment on it, and instead he focused on kissing his wife. Far too soon, a knock came at the door and Anna poked her head in to announce dinner was ready.

Her father finally made his long overdue appearance at dinner that evening. Tom had just helped Sybil into her chair and was taking his own seat when Robert slid into the dining room. As if nothing was wrong, he'd announced, "So sorry to be running late. Had a terribly important meeting. Unavoidable, really."

After a tense dinner, she did not see her father for most of the following day either. She did not see him at breakfast, and she discovered that he'd left early that morning for some business or the other in town. His actions were beginning to grate on her nerves. Did he think that he could somehow avoid Tom for the next month while he looked for a job? When her mother announced that Matthew and his mother were due that afternoon for an informal shooting party, Sybil resolved that she would find a way to talk to her father, and soon.

Knowing full well that Tom would not be able to participate in such sport, Sybil had announced that her legs were "feeling restless" and that she simply could not wait another moment to go for a walk through the gardens. Though her mother had protested loudly, Sybil eventually won out, citing her own work experience.

"I'm sorry, darling." Sybil squeezed Tom's arm tightly as they walked slowly along the path through her favorite garden.

Tom laughed, a bit ruefully. "It's all right. We knew what we were expecting when we came here." He dipped and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "And honestly, it hasn't been as bad as all that. They didn't even laugh when I spooned the soup toward me!"

Sybil laughed. "I thought a vein in his forehead would burst when you slurped!"

"Oh, you know I couldn't resist!" Tom was quite familiar with the dining etiquette expected of him at a lord's table, he'd spent some time as a footman before being hired as a chauffeur, but he was never the sort of person who could stop himself from baiting people.

Sybil smiled at her husband, and they continued to walk.

Half an hour later, Sybil was too tired to go any further, so they'd returned to the Abbey. By the time Tom had helped her up to their room and out of her shoes and dress, Sybil was more than halfway asleep, and he proceeded to tuck her under the covers. As she drifted off, she heard him say something about reading a book.

By the time she awoke, the afternoon sun was hanging low in the sky outside her window, and Tom was sitting across the room, newspaper spread. Her husband's brow was furrowed in concentration, a look she knew well from his time at the paper in Dublin.

"Anything worthwhile?" She asked, pushing herself into a seated position.

Tom looked up then, replacing his frown with a smile. "Hello, then! Did you sleep well?" He put the paper down and moved over to her side of the room.

She nodded. "I'm still not used to being this tired all the time. It seems difficult to believe that I can only be on my feet for such a short time!"

Tom sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand over her belly. "Not even here yet, and the little one's already tiring you out!"

Sybil rubbed the last bit of sleep out of her eyes, and her stomach took that as a cue to rumble. "Did I miss luncheon?"

Tom smiled at his wife. "It came and went. Anna left a sandwich for you, though, if you're feeling up to it." He gestured at the tray sitting on a low table near to the door.

She could feel the baby moving around inside, and rubbed where a foot was poking into her rib. "Yes, I think I ought to. The baby certainly wants something." Tom brought the sandwich over to where she sat and handed it to her.

Sybil smiled at him between bites of her sandwich. "It's a bit . . . surreal, all of it, don't you think? Being here, like this . . ."

"As if nothing in Ireland were real." He spoke very flatly, in a tone that Sybil hadn't heard from him very often, and she wasn't sure how to interpret it.

"I didn't mean anything . . ." she started, but he cut her off.

"No, no, all I meant was that I understand what you mean." He shifted closer to her on the bed. "Dublin was, _is_ wonderful, but I often felt like it couldn't be true. Having you there with me, both of us doing what we loved."

She nodded. "It felt like we were waiting for the other shoe to drop." She touched his side, where he'd been wounded. "And I suppose that it did."

Tom stilled her hand and brought her fingers to his mouth. "No sense in worrying over it now, love. We've enough to consider as it is." His gaze shifted then, grew heated. "For example, I rather think that we've got at least another hour before we need to dress for dinner."

Sybil liked the direction of his thoughts. It had been far too long. "And what do you propose we do with that time, Mr. Branson?"

"Well, Mrs. Branson, I suppose we could . . ." Sybil tugged on his shoulders as she lay back on the pillows, taking him with her, then effectively silencing him with her mouth. Serious discussion could wait.

* * *

She finally cornered her father in his study after the evening meal. That strongly worded discussion was long overdue, and Sybil had had enough of putting it off.

He looked up from a book as she walked in, placing his spectacles on his desk.

"Sybil, shouldn't you be resting? Where is that husband of yours?"

"He's off with Matthew, discussing politics. And I had plenty of resting up this afternoon. I slept for several hours." She left out the _other activities _that they'd engaged in this afternoon.

Sybil took a deep breath and tried to calm herself before moving on. She didn't relish the reaction her next words were sure to cause.

"I'd like to talk with you about Tom, if I may."

There. She'd gotten it out, at least.

Her father did not look surprised at her words. Evidently, he'd been expecting such a talk as well. Unfortunately for the both of them, the content of the conversation was clearly very different in his head than in Sybil's.

"Well, Sybil, dear, I'm afraid at this point it is far too late . . ."

Sybil's jaw dropped. "Surely you can't be serious? That's not at all what I've come to talk about. I wanted to ask where you've been these past two days!"

She recognized that she was probably over-reacting to her father's statements, but coupled with his demeanor since they'd arrived, it was too much.

"Sybil, please, I don't want to argue about this with you. I fully understand that you've made your choice." He walked over to where his daughter stood. "Now please, sit down, for me if not yourself."

She allowed her father to help her into a chair, but her ire was still not entirely cooled. "I just want you to see me as a person capable of making her own decisions." She restrained herself from glaring up at him.

"Sybil, I . . . I do respect that you are capable of making your own decisions."

"Then why can't you accept that I'm married? That I intend to stay that way? In case you haven't noticed, Papa, we're going to have a baby!"

"I've noticed. And I do accept it," he snapped back. "You're here, aren't you? I've allowed that . . . _man_ back into my home. And I'm glad that you're happy, Sybil. I truly am."

"Why are you acting like this, then?" Sybil cried. "Your coldness isn't just hurting Tom; it hurts me as well. And what about after the baby comes? Will you acknowledge our child with the same regard you give Tom?"

Robert sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can accept that you're married. And I'm absolutely delighted that I'm going to be a grandfather." Sybil raised an eyebrow at that.

Her father noticed and continued, "Oh, I am. It's been many years since you were a child, and I am thankful that your grandmother will live to see great-grandchildren."

He took a deep breath then. "What I'm having trouble with is a son-in-law who gets himself shot while my youngest daughter is . . . is . . ." Robert gestured at her belly.

Sybil was speechless for a long moment. She couldn't believe her father was that obtuse! "Tom didn't ask for it! He wasn't even involved!"

"I hardly think that someone with his politics managed to get himself in such a situation through no fault of his own! He's an anarchist, for heaven's sake, Sybil!"

"A socialist, Papa." Sybil forced herself not to roll her eyes. "And you aren't suggesting that he somehow _deserved_ what happened to him? He was on his way home! He was just walking home, to me! I wish you would see that Tom wants nothing but the best for me! He would never do anything that would take him away from me!"

Her father had nothing to say at that. He just stared at her, disbelief, rage, and worry all mixed up in his eyes. Unwilling to back down, Sybil stared right back at him, waiting him out.

At last, Robert spoke, sounding defeated. "I don't mean to upset you, Sybil, especially in your condition. I am doing my best to accept these . . . developments. I only ask that you recognize that what you ask is not an easy task for me."

He looked at her then with a tender look in his eyes, one she remembered from her childhood. "You are my youngest, Sybil. I had thought to have long years before I saw you wed. Surely, I expected that Mary, if not Edith as well, would be long married before my youngest daughter would find a husband!" The corner of his mouth turned up, very nearly smiling. "And I most certainly did not expect to see you married off in such a fashion!"

For the first time, Sybil felt sympathy for her father's reaction. She allowed herself to look at the situation from his perspective – his youngest daughter married to a former employee of the house, pregnant, and returned from Ireland with her wounded communist husband. It was a wonder they were having this conversation at all!

"I know that, Papa." She sighed. "But do you think you could try just a little harder? Maybe talkl to Tom once in a while? In return, I promise to keep Tom from baiting you."

Robert let out a chuckle. "Ah, so he was then, with the soup the other night. Your mother didn't think so, but I suspected that he was having me on. But, yes, I will try."

Sybil looked at her father, wary. She wanted to believe that he would try harder to treat Tom fairly. It would mean the world to her that the two most important men in her life got along. She had thought, once, that she'd already secured that future. But then the wedding had come and gone, and with scarcely a word from her father . . .

For the sake of their child, though, Sybil would try. She would believe her father. She would let that glimmer of hope bloom again in her chest. Perhaps this time would be different. Perhaps, just as it was with both her and Tom, her father did not entirely accept what happened in Dublin as reality. Perhaps now that he was confronted with the reality of her choices, he would begin the process of moving past his prejudices and truly accepting Tom into their family.

Perhaps.

* * *

_I would love to hear what you think! _


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Downton Abbey, Drama, Romance