Author's Note: Well, this fic has sat without an update for many, many months now, long past the time when I assumed that everyone would've already forgotten about it and/or given up on it. But then, some people on Tumblr mentioned it, said that they were still interested in it, and motivated me enough to update. I hope the huge delay hasn't built people's expectations up to an unreasonable degree; I'm afraid that after all this time this update will be underwhelming. But anyway, enough of my anxieties as a writer. I hope you enjoy this.

Ten days.

It had been ten days since Branson had last seen Sybil, ten days since he had driven her, her mother, and Lady Edith to the train station, forced to tell her goodbye without so much as a peck on the cheek in parting. Sybil had been woefully unable to finagle her way out of her parents' proposed trip to London, and Lady Grantham had been oddly insistent that it was high time Sybil started developing some friendships with appropriate men. Sybil had cried when she told him, and he had tried to reassure her, stroking her hair and saying It's only ten days, but in truth he had felt much more distraught than he let on.

For Branson, the days had passed in tedium, too dispirited to bother with the usual pleasantries with the rest of the downstairs staff. He kept to himself, wiling away the hours in his cabin reading and writing – or rather, attempting to; concentrating had seldom been so difficult as it was now. He worked on the motors, too, taking the engines apart and putting them back together again; he organized nuts and bolts and cans of oil; he went to the village each day to check for any news from Ireland. But mostly - more than anything - he thought of Sybil.

Restless and lonely though he was, Sybil's position was worse still; Bransoncould withdraw and wallow in his discontent, while Sybil struggled to maintain the futile charade of society life. Edith was sympathetic to Sybil's plight but could do little to ease it, and as such Sybil's ten days passed miserably, under the fog of a heavy dejection and increasingly insistent longing for Tom.

But now, finally, it was time to return to Downton. Stepping down from the train, Sybil broke into a wide grin when she saw Tom, who greeted her mother politely before daring a glance in her direction, returning her smile when Cora's back was turned. Sybil stepped towards him instinctively then, fully prepared to launch herself into his arms, before she was abruptly halted by a tug at her sleeve: Edith, who shot her a warning glance; her excitement at seeing him again had been so overwhelming, she had actually forgotten for a moment that theirs was still a covert affair. She sighed, loudly enough for her mother to notice, who turned to her then and said "Is everything alright, dear?"

"Oh, yes," she said glibly. "I'm just so glad to be home, that's all." She looked purposively at Tom as she said this; he held her gaze for a moment before turning to place some of their luggage in the car. He helped Cora into the vehicle, then stepped towards Sybil and reached for the valise she was holding, closing his hand around hers and saying with a low voice and penetrating look, "I'll take that, milady."

"Thank you," Sybil said softly, but she did not release her hold on the suitcase; instead she let her eyes wander over his face, reacquainting herself with his features, finally letting her gaze linger on his lips. Branson for his part seemed similarly transfixed, and they may have stood staring at each other for many seconds more if Edith had not said, "Oh, for God's sake," rolling her eyes and reaching between them to yank the valise from their hands. "We have to hurry, Sybil, remember?" she said. "Granny's coming for dinner, so we can't be late."

Branson stepped back reluctantly and helped both sisters into the vehicle. Within minutes, they were on the road back to Downton.

Back at the house, Sybil listened mournfully to the sound of the front door shutting behind them as they entered the grand foyer; she could hear the hum of the motor fade away down the driveway and knew that she was not likely to be able to see Tom again until late that evening when the rest of the house had gone to sleep. Sighing heavily and lingering near the entrance, Edith and Cora were halfway to the stairs when inspiration struck her and she called out after her mother:

"Mama, I've left my gloves in the motor. I'll just run down to the garage to fetch them." It was not a terribly clever ruse, but her desperation to see Tom outweighed her concern that her mother would recognize the artifice in this plan and become suspicious.

"Oh, don't worry about that, dear," Cora said dismissively, barely pausing. "You won't need them for dinner and we can send one of the maids for them later."

"No, really," Sybil insisted, already turning back towards the door. "It will only take a minute. Besides, I'd rather get them now while I'm thinking about it; otherwise I'll forget."

Seeing that Sybil would not be put off, Cora called after her daughter's retreating figure, "Alright, but don't dawdle or you won't have time to change for dinner!"

Sybil barely heard the last part of this sentence, but she scarcely needed to be encouraged to hurry. She ran as fast as she could manage, given that she was wearing a corset, and reached her destination in record time. The sound of her footsteps on the gravel startled Tom from where he was standing at his workbench, having just removed his hat and gloves, and he turned to see Sybil, flushed and panting, holding her side where a cramp had formed.

"Tom," she said, breathlessly, his name a plea and an exclamation of relief all at once, her face hopeful and eager and flushed from exertion. "I can't stay -" she added, her chest rising and falling quickly, "but I wanted to –"

The rest of her sentence was cut off as Tom closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, taking her face in his hands and kissing her desperately. Caught off guard and thrown off balance, Sybil stumbled backwards, falling against the side of the Renault, her palms squeaking against the cool metal door as she reached back to steady herself. His mouth was insistent against hers, and there was a certain hunger in this kiss that she had never seen in him before; she fisted her hands against the material of his jacket for stability, pulling him closer against her.

She had dreamed of kisses like this, rough and needy and without preamble. Yes, she thought to herself - this, this was how they would kiss when they were married. Everything would be different then; there would be no need for caution or restraint; they could be completely uninhibited, spontaneous, wanton. Perhaps he would come home from his job at the paper at lunchtime, and when he did he would kiss her like this, and he would rasp "I only have half an hour" – and they would stumble blindly towards the bedroom (or the sofa, or the kitchen); she would ruck her dress up around her hips and he would push into her with a little groan while she kissed at his neck distractedly – messy, hot, open-mouthed kisses; she would fumble at the buttons of his shirt and he would pause for just long enough to pull it off over his head; she would sigh, her nails scraping at his bare back as he thrust into her unstudiedly. Yes, when they were married, it would be like this…

But that future seemed a long way off yet, and until now, she had rarely seen him so impulsive, so unguarded. For the first time, she realized that even in all the reckless, ardent moments they had shared thus far, even in those moments of passion and abandonment, there was still some small part of him that he kept stoically in check; she knew that he did not want to overwhelm her, pressure her, or frighten her with the full force of his ardor, and she loved him for it. Nonetheless, she felt a warm rush between her legs and the color rise to her cheeks, having received this first glimpse of her Tom so unbridled – Tom as he would be when he was finally, at last her husband, unafraid to let her see just how powerfully, hopelessly under her spell he was. She thrilled inwardly at the rawness of that kiss, reveled in the idea that she had such an effect on him, because she recognized it as the same effect he had on her – that feeling of being half-mad, teetering wildly on the edge between self-control and reckless abandon.

He made a soft little noise against her mouth then, something between a moan and a sigh, and she was relieved to have the support of the car at her back, because suddenly her legs felt very unsteady. Finally, the need for air became too overwhelming to continue, and she wrenched her mouth away from his with a gasp.

For a long moment, all was quiet but the sound of their heavy breathing. Sybil's heart swelled at the look of earnest appraisal in Tom's eyes as he held her face in his hands, saying nothing, only letting his eyes travel across her features, as if he was looking at her for the first time. She felt his gaze sweep from her eyes to her lips and back again, before he dropped his hands and pulled her into a close embrace; with the car behind her and Tom before her, his arms wrapped around her, everything in the world was Tom, and nothing else mattered.

"I missed you," he said, very softly, closing his eyes and nuzzling his face against her neck, his lips just grazing the spot below her ear as he spoke; she could not be sure if the contact was purposeful or not, but in any case it made her skin tingle. Not for the first time, Sybil was amazed by the level of meaning he could convey in so few words. It was such a simple phrase, and yet in those three small words she intrinsically felt the acute loneliness he had experienced in her absence, at the same time that a familiar little shiver rushed down her spine at the unmistakable undertone of sexual longing in his tone, his voice a low murmur against her skin, husky and emphatic.

"I missed you, too," she answered, resting her chin on his shoulder and threading her fingers in his hair, holding his head closely against her, breathing in the familiar scent of him. They stood like this for a long moment, before Sybil was finally forced to admit, "I really can't stay."

He pulled back a bit then, nodding his head. "I know," he said. There was a beat, then he added, "Will you come to me? Tonight?"

"Yes," she breathed, closing her eyes and kissing his cheek like she had that night she had left him at that lonely roadside inn. "As soon as I can."

"Alright then," he said, disentangling from her reluctantly. "You'd best be off."

She nodded and turned, walking quickly towards the house, not looking back, every crunch of her footsteps on the gravel seeming to say Soon. Soon. Soon.

A soft, quick knock at the door of his cottage roused Branson from where he lay dozing on his small bed. He rose and hurried to it, his fingers fumbling on the lock in his haste, then flung it wide to grant Sybil entrance. She slipped in silently, pausing to wait for him just inside door while he locked and chained it behind them.

"Hello," she said quietly when he turned back to face her.

"Hello," he echoed, his voice low, then leaned in to kiss her, very softly.

"Shall we?" she asked, gesturing towards his bed; he nodded and moved towards it, sitting down before her and stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning his back against the headboard. Sybil followed, moving to lie on her side and curl her body against him, resting her head against his shoulder.

He stroked her hair absently for awhile and they both were quiet, as if simply basking in the feeling of being reunited. "Well?" he said finally, sighing as if reluctant to break the silence. "How was London?"

"Terrible," she said, rather bitterly.

"Really? Why?"

"Yes, really - because you weren't there. And because I had to pretend to be amused by people who aren't funny, and interested in people who aren't interesting, and concerned about things I couldn't care less about."

"I hope you won't mind me saying so," he said teasingly, "but that sounds like a fairly standard night at Downton."

Sybil sighed. "It is," she said. "But just because I'm used to it doesn't make it any easier. In fact, I think it makes it worse - I'm so tired of it all. I know it's what I've been raised for my entire life, but it's not who I am."

"It's a part of who you are," Branson said gently, then added hastily, "I don't mean the putting on airs and all that, but you are a Lady, and you always will be. You can't take that out of you any more than I could take the Irish out of me."

"You're right," she conceded, "but I don't want it to define me. I can't wait to have the chance to just be Sybil Crawley, for once in my life - not Lady Sybil Crawley."

"You mean Sybil Branson," he said, a note of joking in his voice. "That is, unless your plans have changed."

Sybil sat up so she could look him squarely in the eye. "Tom, listen to me," she said, with sobering gravitas. "I will be your wife, no matter what happens." She was not scolding, but she was clearly in earnest, passionately wanting him to understand. "You put your life on hold for me until I was sure I was ready. And I'm so sorry it took me so long," – he began to protest, but she shook her head and continued, "but I wanted to be sure – not that I loved you, because I knew that for ages – but sure that I could really do it, that I could give everything up to be with you. And you see, I am sure now. I have been ever since I told you yes, but this stupid trip to London made it clearer than ever. I don't want that life. I want a life with you - for better or worse."

Tom was grateful for the cover of darkness, because there were tears brimming in his eyes at this declaration of devotion. He collected himself for a moment, then when he felt he had regained his composure, very gingerly pulled her into his lap, circling his arms around her waist and kissing her lightly, first on her cheek, then on her lips.

"I love you," he said.

Sybil nodded. "I know." She leaned in for another kiss, reaching for the hem of his undershirt at the same time; they paused for long enough to let her pull it over his head, and when he reestablished contact with her he rolled them so they both lying on their sides, facing each other. Not breaking eye contact with her as he did so, he tugged gently at the drawstring at the neckline of her nightgown, pulling the bow loose and letting the material fall down off her shoulder, pulling the fabric away from her breast and palming it languidly, circling his thumb idly around her nipple before pinching it gently between his thumb and forefinger. Sybil squirmed restlessly against him, wanting more; he understood, pulling her closer and kissing her with greater urgency, letting his hand travel down her side and back up again, pulling the skirt of her nightgown with it on the return journey. Her legs seemed to fall open of their own volition, and he reached between them; the time apart had seemed so long, he felt almost as dumbfounded now as he had the first time he realized not only that she would let him touch her there, but that she wanted him to. He rubbed his finger slowly against the cool silk of her knickers, damp to the touch.

"Oh Tom, please," she breathed, that one little plea sending a powerful jolt through him, making his cock ache harder and more insistently than ever. "Please, don't tease me –"

He did not need to be goaded. Pulling her knickers aside, he pushed two fingers into her, reveling in how warm, hot wet, how tight she was; she moaned softly, squeezing his bicep with each punctuated little thrust of his fingers, and he bit at his lower lip and tried to concentrate on her, to listen to each little sigh and gasp and whimper. It was even more wonderful than he remembered, being with her like this, her breath falling softly against his skin, her inner walls clenching against his fingers, her hips rocking lightly against his hand.

He studied her face intently, stroking her slowly; her eyes were closed, a contended smile spreading over her face. "Oh, yes," she said, her voice just above a whisper as she kissed distractedly at whatever part of him was closest to her lips, which happened to be the area around his collarbone and Adam's apple, mumbling his name intermittently, encouraging him. She sighed, turning her cheek to rest against his shoulder, and said dreamily, off-handedly, "It feels so much better –" she paused for breath, panting shallowly, then finished, "-when you do it."

Branson froze, and within a few seconds the abeyance had pulled Sybil from the marvelous reverie she had fallen into. Branson's heart was thundering, wondering if he had perhaps imagined what she had just said. He knew with absolute certainty that no other man had ever touched her like this, and as such that could only mean –

He swallowed heavily and for a moment he was silent, his mind reeling. "You mean—" he choked, clearing his throat and trying again, "you mean you –" Oh Christ, maybe he shouldn't actually say it, but he had to know, wanted so, so desperately to hear it. His voice was low and hoarse with the next words, "you – touch yourself? - Like this?"

"Well," she said, trying to sound confident but faltering and continuing more softly, "yes… sometimes."

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, his free hand clenching reflexively into the bedsheets. If he had not been lying down he felt sure his knees would have buckled; the idea – no, not just an idea, the knowledge – that had just been presented to him was so arousing, he felt dizzy. Don't say it, don't say it, he told himself, but his stupid mouth would not listen to his brain, and he found himself blurting it out anyway, breathlessly, a choked whisper as he began to move his fingers inside her again:

"-Do you think of me?"

Sybil made a soft noise - a little sob of pleasure - and he felt her nod against his chest.

"Fuck," he hissed, the expletive slipping out unconsciously, and he pulled his hand away from her for just long enough to shove his pajama bottoms and undershorts down off his hips, frantic, delirious. "Touch me?" he rasped, a needy, poignant plea, his accent coming through thick and low – "Oh God, please –" and he could've wept with pleasure and relief when she reached her small hand out and closed her fingers slowly, tightly around his length. He gasped and floundered, pulling her onto his upper body, burying his right hand in her hair and kissing her roughly as she stroked him. Her dark hair fell around his face like a curtain, obscuring everything else in the world but her beautiful face; everything in the world was Sybil and her bright eyes and swollen lips and her wonderful, soft little hand doing maddening things to him, teasing and caressing and stroking, so good it almost hurt.

Sybil was straddling his leg now, and he could feel her warm and wet against his thigh. When he had taken his pants down moments ago, he had had every intention of immediately resuming his previous ministrations on her, but the position they were in now made that impossible at the moment, and moreover he was quickly becoming too mindless to do anything other than gasp and pant, squeezing and kneading her bottom obliviously.

"What about you?" she whispered against his neck. "-Do you… think of me?"

He grunted softly and there was a beat before he found his voice again. "Yes," he choked, nodding emphatically.

"And you… do this?" she said, her own voice sounding rather hoarse, little more than a low murmur.

"Yes," he wheezed again, feeling his balls tighten and nearly whimpering as she shifted against his leg, rubbing herself tentatively against him.

And then, she dragged her leg just a few inches further up his thigh, and her knee brushed softly against his balls, and he jerked reflexively, the muscles in his stomach twitching, and she did it again, deliberately this time, and then, just like that, he was thrusting deliriously into her hand, his throat virtually convulsing with great, choking gasps, and he was shaking and spilling fitfully onto her nightdress and his own stomach.

For a few long minutes, he was unable to form one single coherent thought, nearly deafened by the relentless hammering of his pulse in his ears. When he was finally recovered enough to make heads or tails of the world again, he felt immediately remorseful that he had abandoned himself to his own pleasure without ensuring that Sybil first had an orgasm of her own.

"Sybil-" he said weakly, pulling up his pants and rolling onto his side again, stroking her cheek gently with the tips of his fingers. "I'm sorry –"

She understood without further elaboration what he was trying to say, in that way that she had of seeming to catch his meaning with only the barest exchange of words.

"Hush," she said, kissing him softly and brushing a sweaty lock of hair away from his forehead. "Believe it or not, I think I love doing that to you just as much as I love you doing that to me."

"I'll have to try harder, then," he said lowly, smiling but with a hungry look in his eyes that told her he was quite serious. Then, as if to illustrate the point, he scooted down the bed and pushed her nightdress up around her waist, looking at her questioningly.

"Is this alright?" he asked softly, and she nodded; he hooked a finger into the waistband of her knickers and dragged them down her legs, then looked back at her face again, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he ducked his head and planted a warm, soft kiss high on the inside of her thigh.

She pushed his fingers into his hair and waited patiently for a few moments while he rained kisses everywhere but where she most wanted them, then finally could stand it no longer; she had made him plead (however unintentionally), so she supposed she could be prevailed upon to beg a little, too.

"Tom," she whispered. "Tom." It was an injunction, a command, and he was happy to oblige. Finally, he put his mouth on her – there – and she was so close, so aroused already that a few long, soft sucks were all the push she needed before she was quivering, her mouth falling open involuntarily as she dug her heels hard into the mattress, fisting his hair in her hands and whimpering feebly before she felt the pressure build to that perfect little peak and then, bucking fitfully against his lips, she knew that she was there, she was coming, harder than she ever had before, letting out a long, shuddering gasp, holding his face to her so tightly he could barely breathe. He hardly minded; he didn't think he could imagine a better way to go.

When she had finally stopped shaking, he crawled back up her body, kissing her still-exposed breast tenderly along the way. For several long minutes they were both silent, and her breathing went so steady and regular that Tom felt sure she had fallen asleep until, inexplicably, she began to giggle.

"What?" he asked, genuinely bemused. "What's so funny?"

Her giggling had turned into outright laughter, and it took her a moment before she composed herself enough to speak. "It's nothing," she said, smiling warmly, threading her fingers through his and pulling him so that he was lying on top of her, letting his weight press her back into the mattress. "I was just thinking about what it will be like when we're married."

"And that's funny?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her challengingly, still unsure of what she was getting at.

"Well," she explained, "I was just thinking how horribly unproductive we're going to be. At this rate, I'm not sure we'll ever find the drive to leave the house."

"Mmm," he murmured against her skin, kissing her neck lightly. "Don't you mean the bedroom?"

"A house has other rooms, doesn't it?" she teased, and he laughed out loud himself, a deep, throaty laugh, full of joy and a bit of amazement. Never - never in his most absurd, outlandish, improbable fantasies had he dared to imagine that Sybil might actually feel the same kind of consuming, confounding desire for him that he felt for her. He nearly shuddered again at the thought.

"So –" he said, wondering if he dared to bring it up again now that they had both regained their senses, more or less. "Do you really…?"

Sybil blushed and looked down, then glanced back up at him rather shyly, peering at him with unintentional coquettishness from beneath her lashes. "It's probably not like you think," she said. "I mean, I've tried – but it's just not the same as when you do it. I don't know, maybe I'm doing it wrong."

"Just the fact that you think of me, like that –" he said, pausing for a moment before continuing, shaking his head incredulously, "you don't know what that does to me, Sybil."

"Well," she said, running her hands over his back lightly, "it seemed like you were rather pleased." He laughed, because it was a gross understatement and they both knew it. Then she added, more seriously, "I'm so glad that I can tell you things like. Everyone always tries to make you think that women don't have sexual feelings of their own – or that if they do, it's wrong and something to be ashamed of – and then in the same sentence tell you about men and their 'needs,' and I always wondered why it was alright for them and not for women. I never believed that it wasn't – I mean, that a woman wasn't supposed to feel that way – but I never thought it could be like this, that I could just tell my husband straight out how I felt and what I wanted. "

"It's terribly un-English of you," he teased. "But then again, I always knew you were a free spirit." He smoothed her hair away from her face affectionately, smiling rather proudly at her, and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him with a happy sigh.

"When I was training to be a nurse, they told us that there were certain 'indelicate things' we might hear or see on the night shifts," she continued, "and that we were just to ignore it and pretend not to notice, and not to judge the men because they'd been away from women for so long. They said that all men do it, and I'd never really thought about it before, but from then on I always wondered if you did—and if you thought about me the way I thought about you."

"I did and I do," he said, slowly and quietly.

"'I do…'" she repeated sleepily. "I rather like the sound of that, don't you?" She smiled, snuggling closer against his side.

"I do," he agreed, and he meant it with everything that he was.

Author's Note: Well, that did even have any semblance of a plot, did it? Oh well. Some chapters are like that. Please, please, please review.