Ripon, 1914

"Would you please have mercy on me?

I'm a puppet on your string.

And even though you got good intentions, I need you to set me free."

- Mercy, Shawn Mendes

It's boiling for a fight.

That's all Tom can think as he presses through the teeming crowd to reach her. He can feel the tension, the frustration, the anger crackling in the stifling air, and he wonders if she can feel it too. If she truly understands what she's gotten herself into.

The politics practiced in parlors is different, so very different, than the politics practiced in the streets.

Her idealism is what drew him to her, what makes him sneak her pamphlets and listen to her opinions and challenge her when he disagrees. He knows what is expected of her, but he doesn't want to witness her change. He can't bear it. She's meant to be more, so much more, than a lady on some lord's arm (as, he dreams, he's meant to be so much more than a lady's chauffeur).

But now her idealism, the idealism that he had helped blossom at the risk of his place, had led her here. To Ripon for the counting of the votes. And, whether she thinks herself one or not, she's still a lady.

And this is no place for a lady.

But she refuses to leave. "Don't be silly. This is the moment we've come from!" she shouts, so defiant, into his face before turning back to the platform. In that moment, he can no longer tell if her interest in politics is genuine or simply a rebellion against Downton Abbey and its suffocating rules.

He tries again, more insistent this time, yet she dismisses him again. He grew up in a one-room flat in Bray, but he's never felt more claustrophobic in his life. "Sybil!" he hears a familiar voice yell over the din, and he's surprised to see Mr. Crawley jostling his way towards them. Fury and fear mingle in his startling blue eyes.

Tom's not sure if he's mortified or relieved. Either way, he's the one who's in trouble (even though she tricked him, he should have known better; he should have seen it coming; he should have protected her from it. Politics can be raw, can be heated, can be violent).

When he turns, he sees men pouring into the courtyard, carrying beer bottles, bricks and possibly much worse. She holds herself, even when she thinks she isn't, like a lady, and she instantly becomes a target. The count is about to turn violent, and he has to protect her

The first man who reaches them grabs Mr. Crawley by the shoulders and thrusts him to the side. He then turns towards her—his lips curling into a sneer that shows his rotting teeth—but Mr. Crawley is faster, catching him off guard by throwing a (rather ungentlemanly) punch.

The second man circles them, but Tom keeps himself firmly between him and his lady. Something palmed in the man's left hand catches the light, and he curses in Gaelic when he realizes what it is. This will cost him his place. It may cost him his life. It will not cost her a thing.

The man lunges. She screams. He feels a sudden, sharp pain in his stomach, but he grinds his teeth against the howl building in the back of his throat. He tells himself it's nothing—the prick of a pin, the sting of a bee, nothing—as he shoves the man to the ground and kicks the knife away so he can't get up and use it on her (or another unsuspecting fool like him). One gloved hand goes to her waist, the other to his own stomach. He knows there must be blood, but he can't feel it through the thick, black leather.

A small mercy.

Mr. Crawley has also dispatched his adversary, and their eyes meet over her head. A silent understanding passes between them, and Tom tightens his hold around her waist even though it's improper and his Lordship would sack him on the spot if he saw them like this. "Sybil, we're leaving," Mr. Crawley orders, the finality in his tone unmistakable, and she complies mutely, her fire extinguished.

As they push against the swelling current of bodies to the Renault, to safety, Tom dully wonders why she wouldn't listen to him. When he had warned his Lordship would not approve after she stepped out of the Renault and into danger, she teased, "Really, Branson, I thought I gave the orders." It was meant to be a joke, he knows, between friends, he hopes. Now, it stings as badly as the wound hidden beneath his hand.

They make it back to the Renault without incident, thank God. He opens the door and stands to the side as Mr. Crawley helps her into the backseat and climbs in himself without assistance. Neither spares him a glance; Mr. Crawley has already begun to demand explanations that she probably can't give now, not after she witnessed what politics can really be.

After closing the door behind them, clenching his teeth against the wave of pain the movement brings, Tom makes his way to the front of the car to start the engine. He has to remove his hand from his stomach to do so, and he ignores that it comes back slick with blood.

He doesn't get any on the Renault, another small mercy.

Once he has the engine started, he hauls himself into the driver's seat with effort. He blinks once, twice, a third time to focus on the task at hand before gingerly peeling off his glove. They don't notice; Mr. Crawley is lecturing her about being "foolish" and "willfully putting herself in harm's way for no good reason." Then, he hears his name uttered as though it were a curse, but he hardly cares. His fate was decided the moment she disembarked from the Renault. With a grimace, he presses the glove up against his stomach, tucking it in the space between two buttons to ensure that it remains there over the course of their drive back to Downton Abbey.

It will be the longest drive of his life. Of that he is certain.

"Branson, what were you thinking?"

Tom has been driving for nearly 15 minutes before Mr. Crawley finally addresses him, and it startles him more than it should. He had tuned out their conversation, a skill acquired from being subjected to more than his fair share of the idle gossip of bored aristocrats who had never truly left school (though his pain is making difficult to concentrate on anything more than the road).

Before he can respond with the appropriate apology, that won't mean a thing in the end, she breaks in. And he's surprised, and strangely heartened, when she defends him with vehemence normally reserved for one of her causes. "Branson had nothing to do with it. Nothing. I told him what I told papa: that I was going to a committee meeting. When he realized what it was, he wanted to come straight back."

Tom allows himself, for the first time, to look back at them through the mirror. Mr. Crawley catches him and offers him a small, almost sad, smile. He's not quite sure if that's a good, or a bad, sign. "Is that so, Branson?"

"Yes, sir," Tom replies, and he returns his gaze to the road because he can't bear to look at her. Not right now, though he doesn't exactly know why. "I never would have taken her there, if I had known. And I'm sorry, sir. I…I should've realized the count was today. I just…I'm ashamed to say I didn't even think of it, sir."

He expects a reprimand and gets a chuckle instead. "You're hardly the only one who forgot, Branson," Mr. Crawley says. "The only reason I was there was because I was working late; I'd forgotten it was election night or I wouldn't have stayed."

Tom doesn't know what to say so he doesn't say anything. He finds himself biting his lip, a bad habit from childhood that he thought he had abandoned many years ago. His silence gives her an opening, and his heart skips a beat when she addresses Mr. Crawley. "I'm so grateful you did," she says softly, almost shyly. When Tom glances back at them (against his better judgment), he sees that she's gazing at Mr. Crawley with admiration in her clear blue eyes that he dreamed would one day be reserved for him.

He turns back to the road. He won't always be a chauffeur, but he is one today. And, sometimes, he's not so confident that the world will change fast enough for them.

At his old job, the mistress wouldn't let him drive above 20 miles an hour. Luckily, his Lordship never imposed such a restriction on him (and she had, once or twice, urged him to drive faster and faster still, her blue eyes shining with excitement). He eases down on the pedal once they reach the quiet country roads leading back to Downton Abbey, and soon they're cruising along at a comfortable 35. He'd go faster if he could, but he's starting to feel a little lightheaded. Better safe than sorry.

"Branson, what do you say?"

Mr. Crawley's latest query doesn't have a trace of accusation in it, quite unlike his first. Unfortunately, Tom had tuned them out again so he mumbles, keeping his bleary eyes trained on the road, "I'm sorry, sir. I missed that."

"Lady Sybil and I have agreed that it may be prudent to keep what happened today between us three," Mr. Crawley explains, and Tom resists the urge to peek back at them; besides, he can already picture the expression on Mr. Crawley's face as he stares at Lady Sybil (and she will always be Lady Sybil to him, he dare not forget it).

When he doesn't respond, Mr. Crawley continues, "While I'm not sold that she has learned her lesson, Lady Sybil tells me her father will 'skin you alive' if he were to find out. I won't have you lose your place over this, Branson, not when you're not to blame, not when nothing, truly, came of it."

Tom can scarcely believe what he's hearing. It seems too good to be true. And that's when he remembers that, yes, it is—something did come of it. Vaguely, he wonders if any of the blood has dripped on, and damaged, the upholstery. God, he hopes not; he'll pay for it out of his wages, and that'll set him back even more than he already is.

"Branson?" It's the first time that Lady Sybil has spoken to him since she dismissed him (and so easily too) back in the courtyard.

"Yes, m'lady?" He responds, doing his best to keep his tone neutral, professional. It comes out flat. Maybe it's better that it did, even though he did sense the concern in her voice.

"Are you quite alright?"

He dare not look in the mirror. His composure is starting to crumble, maybe it's that Mr. Crawley has delivered him from being sacked without a reference, maybe it's that it's beginning to sink in that Lady Sybil used him, maybe it's the pain, pure and simple. He dare not look in the mirror, but he does. She smiles, hopefully, when their eyes meet—like nothing has changed when, possibly, everything has.

"Better now, m'lady," he says, just as flatly as before, and her smile falters. Quickly, he catches Mr. Crawley's eyes and continues, though he can't find the words to truly convey how grateful he is, "Thank you, sir, for your kindness. I appreciate it, though I…I'm not sure I deserve it."

"Nonsense, Branson," Mr. Crawley retorts. "She lied to you. And I won't have you punished for her lie."

"Nor should he be!" Lady Sybil exclaims, though he hardly notices because Mr. Crawley's words, meant to sooth, sting. Sting far worse than the wound hidden beneath his glove. When she continues, he's surprised that her words are clearly aimed at him even though she's still addressing Mr. Crawley, "What I did was wrong, and I understand that. I do, and I'm so terribly sorry…I wasn't thinking; I was caught up in trying to see the count against papa's wishes, I told a lie without thinking of who I would hurt. I took ad-…"

She trails off, and for that he's glad. He can't bear to listen to her anymore, not when he can tell that her words are genuine and a small part of him wanted them not to be. Smiling ruefully to himself, he realizes that his heart may always belong to her, even though the world intends to do its worst to keep them apart.

"It's alright, m'lady," Tom replies softly, without thinking. She needs to know that he forgives her, and he has the feeling that Mr. Crawley isn't the type of accuse the help of speaking out of turn. "No harm done."

Harm has been done, but she needn't know that.

The sun is a sliver in the west when he finally pulls onto the driveway leading up to Downton Abbey. It's colder now than it was before (or is it, truly?), and he finds himself shivering in spite of his heavy, normally suffocating jacket. She's conversing amicably with Mr. Crawley—he hears a snippet about Lady Mary's many moods, a fragment about good old Isis, a dig at his Lordship's Tory sensibilities—and he's glad that they seem to have forgotten him. He's starting to think that he may have made a mistake, but he's resolved to keep them out of it. Mrs. Hughes will help him, if it comes to that. She won't judge, she'll understand, she'll make sure she (no, he means his Lordship, the entire family) never finds out what happened today.

Besides, it can't be that bad, he thinks as he slows to a stop in front of the house. He did drive all the way back, after all.

Before getting out, Tom adjusts his driving cap and, carefully, but with shaking hands, pulls his glove out from his jacket. It's damp, sticky, but he dutifully puts it back on, reminding himself not to touch anything with it. He then takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw, and opens the door.

When his feet hit the ground, the world lurches violently. He blinks against the growing fuzziness at the edges of his vision and sucks in another deep breath in hopes that it centers him. It doesn't, but he still makes his way to the back of the car on increasingly unsteady legs. He opens the door and, again, stands to the side as Mr. Crawley helps her out of the backseat and climbs out himself without assistance. Mr. Crawley nods to him, with a smile, and he nods back, with what he can only hope is a smile. He waits until they turn to leave to close the door, and when he does, he's almost brought to his knees by the wave of pain the movement brings.

To catch himself, he puts a hand on the side of the Renault. Then, it dawns on him that he used that hand. "Oh no," he chokes out as he wrenches his hand away, which only makes the world tilt.

A bloody handprint on the Renault is sure to get him sacked.

He's not thinking straight, if he's even thinking at all. The next thing he knows, he's stripped off his bloody glove and dropped it unceremoniously on the ground at his feet. Then, he's yanked off his other glove and begun to frantically wipe away at the handprint he can just barely make out in the waning light. "Oh please God no," he whispers as the blood smears but doesn't come out. It's not coming out, it's not coming out, oh God, and he doesn't know if he should go get a bucket of water, and, oh please God no, he doesn't know what to do if it doesn't come out because how, how, can he explain it and…

"Branson, is everything quite alright?"

"It won't come out," he hears himself whimper before he's registered that it's Sybil (Lady Sybil) who asked. She's here, and, oh God, what happened to keeping her out of it?

"What won't come out?" She asks slowly, a note of alarm in her voice. He ducks his head, unwilling, too ashamed, to look her in the eyes in his present state. And then, "Branson, is…is that blood?"

"Is something the matter?" Mr. Crawley has also doubled back, oh God please no, and he looks from her to him. He expects his gaze to return to her, but it doesn't. So he stands, silent, stiff, suffering, at attention, not registering that Mr. Crawley's eyes are brimming with concern because his own are trained on the deep blue sky to the right of his shoulder. "Branson, did something hap-…"

Mr. Crawley doesn't get to finish his question, but he still gets an answer (and the one he was probably dreading, too). Tom's knees give out, and he sags against the Renault. She cries his name—his given name, he realizes in a fleeting moment of clarity—and he has to get up, he needs to get up for her, but he can't, and suddenly, a strong arm is hooked underneath his armpit and around his back, and he's being hauled to his feet. He can't quite bite back a groan of pain, and he hears Mr. Crawley say, his voice strangely calm, "It's going to be alright, Branson. I have you. I just need you to walk with me to the house."

"We'll take him downstairs," she orders, decisively, and he's dully surprised when she takes his free arm and maneuvers it over her shoulders. He's about to protest, but Mr. Crawley says something to her that he doesn't catch, and they start to the house, and it's all he can do to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, again, again, again and again.

Oh, God, it hurts. And it will be more than a small mercy if he can make it downstairs.

"What is the meaning of this?"

The door stands open, but Mr. Carson looms in it, blocking their path. Tom stops, his pain replaced, for a moment, with blind panic, but they press forward, dragging him past Mr. Carson without a word of explanation. Once they're inside, she orders over her shoulder, "Carson, have someone fetch Dr. Clarkson. It looks as if Branson…"

When she trails off, Mr. Crawley provides, "Has been stabbed. So tell him to hurry."

Again, again, again and again. It's too much to keep moving forward, even though he knows that he has to, he needs to, get downstairs. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of misery. He can feel her beginning to strain under his increasingly dead weight, and he wants to tell her that she shouldn't be doing this (God forbid his Lordship see them now) but the words won't come. When he stops again, this time in hopes that maybe, by some small mercy, the world will turn right side up, he hears Mr. Crawley say firmly, "Sybil, go fetch Mrs. Hughes. Bring towels and a water basin."

"But T-Branson…"

"Branson won't make it downstairs. I need to look at him now."

"But papa…"

"We'll stand up for him, I swear. But, for now, we need to help him. Go on then."

She removes his arm from her shoulders, and her hand brushes tenderly against his cheek. Their eyes meet, and she mouths, I'm sorry, and he wants to reply, don't be but can't. Then, she's gone, and Mr. Crawley is easing him down to the ground right in the middle of the grand entryway, and, for the first time, the tears come. He feels them running down his face as he stares up at the ornate ceiling without seeing it.

All he sees is the pain in her blue eyes that he caused.

Mr. Crawley undoes button after button after button and then, finally, tears open his jacket. He doesn't bother with his vest, but he hears something rip(and there goes my best shirt, he reflects dully). Mr. Crawley produces a handkerchief, muttering something about how it will have to do, and presses it against his stomach. It hurts, and Mr. Crawley clearly realizes that because he offers him a tight smile and repeats what he said earlier, out in the darkness by the Renault when there was a chance that he would be right, "It's going to be alright, Branson. I have you."

His driving cap is still on, and, when he tries to sit up (to run) at the sound of his Lordship's voice echoing through the great hall, the brim slides down over his eyes. Panicked, now blind, he tries to sit up again, but two strong hands force him to lie down. He struggles feebly against their grip, his strength fleeing him rapidly, but he doesn't stop because he has to get downstairs before they see him, oh God, he needs to get downstairs so she isn't forced to explain what happened. Someone is asking him to stop, but he can't, not until he's freed, not until he's out of sight, out of mind, out of misery downstairs where he belongs.

"Carson, can't you keep him still?" he hears Mr. Crawley snap, and he sounds so very far away. There's a short reply, but he doesn't hear it.

The last thing he thinks before the world gives way to darkness is that Carson will never forgive him for this.

And neither will she.

...

When the world first returns, it's out of focus, hazy around the edges. He blinks against the fog but fails to dispel it. Things come back in fragments—a sharp pain, a tender hand on his cheek, angry shouting around him. None of it adds up. He needs to find out what's going on, but, when he tries to sit up, someone gently scolds him.

"Really, Branson, you need to stay still," the disembodied voice concludes, and he listens because it's her. He doesn't understand how, doesn't understand why, and he accepts that he must be dreaming (or hallucinating, more like it). After a moment, he hears a chair scrape across the floor, and then a hand cards through his matted hair.

When the darkness pulls him back under, he goes with a smile on his face.

….

When the world next returns, it's a little clearer. He can tell that he's in the servants' quarters, not his cottage, and he realizes that he's been divested of his jacket, vest and shirt. Gingerly, he reaches down to his stomach, and he feels heavy gauze under his fingers. Memories trickle back—a bloody handprint on the Renault, the sound of rain pattering on the window, a deep, grudging voice billing him as "the hero in all this" as a cup of water is held to his parched lips.

This time, when he blinks, some of the fog disperses. Emboldened, he sits up, but he falls back onto the pillow when he's met with harsh pain. It's as bad as before, and he clenches his jaw, tears flooding his eyes and fogging them yet again. He doesn't want to cry out, but he can't keep from whimpering, and suddenly someone is at his side. He hears something about bleeding, but he's already fading out again.

When the darkness tries to claim him, he fights it. He doesn't go willingly, but he does go quickly.

….

"You gave us quite the scare, my lad."

Tom manages a smile, makes sure it reaches his heavy eyes. It's the least he can do. He owes more, but it's all he can give right now. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes," he replies, and he's surprised that his voice is so hoarse even though he shouldn't be. Not after what he's gone through. "I…I didn't think it was anything at the time."

Mrs. Hughes chuckles lightly. "Well, that's in the past now. What matters is that you seem to have come through it."

"Not without help," he replies. It's true, he knows, he owes so many people his life. Mr. Crawley. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. William. Dr. Clarkson. Gwenn and Anna. And her. Sybil, most of all.

He remembers everything now, and Mrs. Hughes had filled in the gaps of what happened after he passed out in the entryway (which, evidently, sent his Lordship into a tirade for the ages, something that he was glad to have missed). "You tried so hard to leave us," she said at one point, and he couldn't help but wonder if some of the worry lines etched around her eyes were his fault or if they had been there all along. "First, it was the fever. Then, right when it finally broke, you split open your stitches. It was as if everything that could go wrong did." He could imagine, and he did; he could see the blood darkening his green jacket to black, his feverish tossing and turning in tangled sheets, the cold needle sliding in and out of his skin, and he had shivered at the images and thanked God that he had made it through.

"That's nice of you to say," Mrs. Hughes says, with a genuine smile that eases her worry lines. "Is there anything I can get for you? I have to get back to work, but I can bring you something before I do."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, but I'm alright," he answers, ducking his head. When he feels that her eyes are still on him, he adds, "I've been enough trouble."

To his surprise, Mrs. Hughes reaches down and takes one of his hands. He tenses but looks up to meet her eyes when she doesn't let go. Once he has, she sighs and says, "My lad, it's no trouble at all, and you're no trouble at all. There's no shame in asking for help when you truly need it. I hope you've learned that." Before the weight of her words can crush him, she continues, a hint of mischief in her voice, "Now, I'm sure you can think of a book or two you want to read while you're cooped up here. What would you like me to bring you to start?"

He relents because he knows that she's right. About everything. "I don't suppose his Lordship has a copy of On Liberty by John Stuart Mill?"

….

He doesn't remember falling asleep. One minute, he's reading about the tyranny of the majority, the next he's back in that crowded courtyard, watching those men pour in with their beer bottles, bricks and knifes, boiling for a fight. Mr. Crawley engages the first man who reaches them, but the second goes right after her.

He lunges. She screams. Tom watches, helpless, as she falls. There's blood everywhere, and, oh God, he drops to his knees at her side, but her startling blue eyes are open but blank, and, oh please God no, there's nothing he can do and…

He doesn't know how he'll live when she no longer walks the earth.

"Branson?" she says, and he starts at the sound of her voice because he didn't save her. She's gone, he failed, but the voice continues, more insistent this time, "Bran-Tom, wake up. Please. You're going to split open your stitches again at this rate."

Tom pries open his eyes. At first, he's convinced that he's still dreaming because she's sitting at his bedside, in his simple room wearing one of her lavish evening dresses, On Liberty resting open on her lap at page 47.

"M'lady?" His voice is thick with sleep. She smiles fondly in response, and he finds himself smiling back until he notices the relief in her blue eyes. Mrs. Hughes' words suddenly come back to him—you gave us quite the scare—and, before he knows what he's doing, he's begun to stumble, haltingly, through the apology that he owes her, "M'lady, I-I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean…never wanted to put you through that. I-I…know that his Lordship m-…"

"Oh, Branson," she cuts him off, with a sigh. There's something else in her eyes now, but he dare not allow himself to believe that it is what he suspects it is. "I came to apologize to you, and here you are apologizing to me when you did nothing wrong."

She pauses, a conflicted expression crossing her face, and continues only when he doesn't fill the silence, "You've been so good to me, Branson. You've opened a world to me that I didn't even know existed. You've answered my questions; you've given me pamphlets that helped broaden my horizons beyond this place; you've listened to my opinions even when it seems no one else will." She hesitates again, only this time the resulting silence is more charged than it was before. After taking a breath, she adds faintly, more to herself than to him, "Really, you ought to be a gentleman."

But he's not. He's the chauffeur. He won't always be, but he is now, and that's the only thing that matters. He knows it, and, evidently, she does too because she clears her throat and forges ahead, clearly schooling her tone to be more impersonal than it was before, "I told Hughes to let me know when you were awake so I could come and apologize. I told what I thought was an innocent lie, and it ended up hurting you terribly. I never meant for that to happen, and I'm truly sorry. Words can't express how so very sorry I am. I…I do hope that we can remain friends."

"Of course, m'lady," he says, lowering his gaze in a forced display of deference. Then, he swallows the lump in his throat and begins, trying to grasp at what little hope he has left, "I don't suppose…"

"Lady Sybil, her Ladyship was asking after you."

Mrs. Hughes stands in the doorway, and he wonders dully how long she's been there, how much she overheard. Lady Sybil gets to her feet and sets On Liberty on the nightstand beside his bed. She only offers him a small smile, and not another word, before she leaves.

"Be careful, my lad," Mrs. Hughes says, not unkindly, once she's gone. Tom finds himself staring at the wall over her shoulder as he tries, but fails, to maintain a blank expression. "Or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart."

There's no threat of the latter. Maybe, one day, she'll help him piece it back together, maybe after she's forgiven him for making her feel something for someone well beneath her station (and he's forgiven her for giving him what turned out to be false hope), maybe when they're not lady and chauffeur and no longer have to abide by Downton Abbey's suffocating rules.

One day isn't today, and that stings more than the wound that nearly killed him. But, even now, he already knows that he'll wait forever for their one day.

His broken heart still belongs to her. And it always will.

I began to watch Downton Abbey recently, and I fell absolutely in love with Tom Branson and Sybil Crawley's relationship. I thought the Ripon scene in Season 1 Episode 6 was especially powerful, but I always wondered how things would have played out if Branson was injured, not Sybil. This story is the result, and I'm very proud of it. Please let me know what you think! This is my first foray into this fandom, and I did my best to keep everyone in character and stay true to the show as things stood at that point. And, if this is well received, I may write more. ~Moore12