*Sits up… rubs eyes… "Oh crap!"*

I'm not dead! I'm so, so, so, so sorry! I've been really unwell, and haven't had the chance to write ANYTHING for like… ever. And I'm so sorry that I've kept you all waiting. It won't happen again – at least, I'll try my hardest to make sure that it doesn't. There aren't many chapters left of this thing, and I just wanna thank all of you who plan to see it through to the end.

Sparki: I own nothing!

"Liar!"

Sybbie smacked his fingers, and with a grimace, Thomas moved his hand away from his cards. Her dark eyes eager, Sybbie flipped over the playing cards, to reveal Thomas' set of three, completely unrelated digits. Sitting back in her chair, she smirked triumphantly. "I knew you were lying," she said. Thomas raised a brow.

"And how did you know that?" he asked. Sybbie's smirk grew.

"Because," she replied, "you already lost two aces, and I have one." She lifted the card in question, and twirled it between her fingers. "Remember?" Thomas crossed his arms about his chest.

"No," he admitted, "I don't."

"Mr. Barrow!" Carson's voice boomed through the parlour. Startled, Thomas glanced up, and Sybbie dropped her card. It fluttered quietly to the table.

Carson stood in the doorway, his slug-like eyebrows raised so high, they were nearly buried within his greying hair. His eyes bulged as they fixed upon Thomas, sitting casually in a chair at the table, with Sybbie Branson occupying the other.

"Mr. Barrow," the butler thundered once more, "what is going on here?" Thomas glanced at Sybbie, and rose to his feet. "Nothing, Mr. Carson." Carson gave something that resembled a laugh and at the same time, was not unlike a snort. "I seriously doubt that," he scoffed. "Did somebody declare a public holiday? The king perhaps?" Thomas struggled to remain expressionless.

"Mr. Carson, I-,"

"It was my fault," Sybbie interrupted. "I asked Thom – uh, Mr. Barrow to teach me 'Liar'. He… uh… said he was very… good at it." She clasped her hands behind her back. Mr. Carson gave a huff.

"Yes, I do suppose that 'Liar' would be an appropriate pastime in which for Mr. Barrow to invest his energies." He addressed the little girl, but his words were intended for the older party. Thomas shot the man a cold smile that only served to darken the ice within his eyes.

"I'll be on my way then, Mr. Carson." He gave Sybbie a slight bow. "Miss Branson." Sybbie pulled a face, hidden safely from Carson's hawk-like gaze by Thomas' form.

"It really was my fault, Mr. Carson," Sybbie said as Thomas made to leave. She lowered her head, and her voice. "I'm sorry." As Thomas watched, Carson's severe expression softened.

"You'd best run along, Miss Branson," he said to the girl. "I'm sure Master Crawley would appreciate your company." After gazing once more at Thomas, Sybbie gave a nod. "Goodbye, Mr. Barrow," she sighed, and scurried out the door. Thomas couldn't help but smile; as soon as her grandmother was out of sight, Sybbie didn't walk – she scurried. It seemed to him that the little girl couldn't get around quickly enough; everywhere she went, her mind was one step ahead.

"Barrow." Carson's tone was clipped. "I suggest you-,"

"Papa!"

Sybbie's scream echoed throughout the hall. Rushing past Carson, Thomas hurried from the parlor, just in time to see Sybbie throw her arms around a wheelchair-bound Tom Branson. The Irishman looked haggard; his face was so pale, it appeared as a shade of pale grey. But as he embraced his little daughter, his smile lit the darkness like a lantern. He wrapped Sybbie up in his arms, and for a moment, it seemed that he would never let her go. Standing tall above the seated man, Alfred stared down at Branson, his gaze unflinching, as though he expected him to collapse at any moment. Jimmy stood in the doorway, Branson's meagre bag clutched in his hand. Thomas shot him a brief glance; the footman only lifted his brows, confirming his own confusion. Thomas tore his gaze from Jimmy's, and turned once again to Sybbie and Branson.

"Oh my love!" he whispered into her dark curls. "My girl – Sybbie, my girl!"

Thomas felt something stab at his heart; something small, and yet as sharp as the blade of a razor. He pushed it away quickly, and after fixing the most sincere smile he could manage upon his lips, he made his way towards the pair.

"Mr. Branson," he addressed the man. "Welcome home. It's a relief to see you well and safe." He heard his own voice; clipped and professional. Sybbie didn't even glance at him. Pulling away from his daughter reluctantly, Branson looked up, and returned Thomas' smile. "Not so well, Thomas," he sighed. "But home…" His smile broadened, and touched his eyes. "Yes." Thomas nodded, but he felt his own smile wavering.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, "I'd best get back to work. Welcome back, Mr. Branson." Tom nodded. "Thank you, Thomas," he said, but already, his attention had returned to the little girl who all but lay in his lap. Thomas nodded to no one in particular, and turned away. As he did, Mrs. Hughes hurried into the entry foyer, her knuckles clutching her skirts. "Mr. Branson!" she exclaimed. "Welcome home." As she reached Thomas, she glanced up at him. In a lowered tone, she asked, "Does Mr. Carson know about this?" Thomas only shook his head, biting back a heavily-loaded 'no'.

As Thomas left the hall, he heard Mrs. Hughes scolding the footman: "Alfred! Move Mr. Branson from the doorway! James, bring that case into the parlour – honestly!" Usually, such antics would have amused Thomas; today, they fell upon deaf ears.

He should not be jealous; Tom was Sybbie's father. For so very long, Thomas had wished for something to come along and make the girl truly happy. But now that it had arrived, Thomas felt as though he had lost something – something important and vital to sustaining the person that he was slowly becoming. It was as though something inside of him – something that had only just begun to bloom – had already reached the end of its life. And more than anything, Thomas feared the cold that would once again envelop him when that something was gone.

He shouldn't be jealous.

But he was.

Jimmy's fingers brushed across the ivory keys; a slow, melancholy tune that made Thomas want to cover his ears, or strangle himself – which ever option would drown out the sound immediately. He took up his untouched dinner roll, and threw it across the room. It caught Jimmy on the ear, and the younger man jumped, startled. The music stopped abruptly, and Thomas sighed in relief. Jimmy turned, and glared at Thomas, who glared right back.

"Play something cheerful, would you?" he muttered. "It's like a bloody funeral in here." In response, Jimmy plunked down upon the piano, and launched into a jolly, upbeat piece, clearly designed to make people want to dance. But the opposite effect was evident in Thomas; he sunk lower into his chair. After a moment, the music came to a halt once again, and Thomas heard Jimmy making his way towards the table. He sat across from Thomas, and stretched out, his feet brushing Thomas' as he did. He was waiting for Thomas to say something; to give him something to respond to, but Thomas remained silent. He said nothing, and Jimmy sighed.

"Would it be worth asking you what the matter is?" he asked. Thomas mirrored Jimmy's sigh. "No," he finally replied. There was no one else in the servants' hall; they were alone. Thomas heard Jimmy sit forward. He felt the younger man's fingers brush his knuckle, and slowly, he glanced up. Jimmy was studying him, a strange look upon his handsome face. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but had long ago decided not to. His hand had not left Thomas', and Thomas had noticed. And though he would never admit it, he enjoyed the warmth upon his skin. But all the same, he couldn't ignore the way that Jimmy was staring at him.

"What?" he asked. "If you need to say something, just-,"

"I love you."

The only sound Thomas could decipher was the blood, pounding in his ears. He could see Jimmy; eyes wide and fixed unflinchingly upon his face. The tips of his ears had turned red, and Thomas wanted to laugh, but he couldn't. Instead, he lowered his head, and pulled his hand from beneath Jimmy's. He heard Jimmy exhale sharply.

"Thomas?"

"I wasn't…," Thomas struggled to find the words. "I wasn't expecting 'I love you'." Jimmy gave a small chuckle, and slowly, rose from the table. He walked unhurriedly to Thomas' side, and stood behind the seated man.

"Neither did I," he said quietly. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to Thomas' head. For a moment, Thomas stiffened. But then, slowly, he allowed himself to accept Jimmy and his declaration. He wasn't yet sure whether or not he was prepared to return the sentiment; either way, the unexpected acceptance was – for the time being – more than enough for the both of them.

But even Jimmy's love couldn't wipe the shadows from Thomas' mind. All he could think of was Sybbie, and the loss that he felt, every time he remembered her throwing her arms around Branson.

Reviews would be wonderful, guys!