I would like to express my particular thanks to AragornsQueen from the S/B thread over at FanForum, whose encouragement and assistance were of no minor importance in bringing this about. This is my first fic in years but then Sybil and Branson are a rare ship and utterly worth it!
Walk Before You Run
Years in the waiting and this is what it feels like. Not in the least what she expected, thoughts of tasks and decisions yet awaiting her attention overrode everything else. Nurse Sybil Crawley, at this moment presented to the world, turned to depart after the ceremony. Her eyes however, kept returning to the retreating back of Branson. Could so much promise and turmoil be wrapped up in one man? A heart's knowing conviction, a fear's doubt. Not anywhere in her experiences in London, Yorkshire or training had someone come even close to the instinctive connection she had with him. To realise it freely, out there...
"Sybil?" She turned with a start as a hand gently shook her shoulder. "Sybil dear, I was wondering if you would be able to join us for dinner this evening?"
Had her mother seen what so drew her gaze? "No mama, I must work late as we are temporarily short staffed."
"Is Major Clarkson struggling to meet the requirements here? I could always -"
Sybil broke in. "No mama, it is just the system. It will hopefully be resolved tomorrow."
"If you are sure?" an orderly loitered noticeably in the doorway, no doubt with a message for her daughter. "Oh you know best I imagine." Lady Grantham smiled warmly down, unable to hide her pride.
"I have to go," and with a nod from the most determined of the Crawleys, Cora was left to consider which of the house's pressing demands could most easily be tackled next.
00000
Stirring a scant amount of sugar into her tea Sybil looked over at her father, he seemed unusually distracted this morning. The deep set frown upon his face softened only when the new maid went to pour for him. There had once been a time when Sybil knew the names of all those who worked at Downton, no longer.
"Papa, I have a favour to ask of you? It is on behalf of Major Clarkson."
"What does he want of us now?" His Lordship responded with more than little asperity.
Sybil's jaw tightened at the clear affront to the hospital. "Following the armistice yesterday I was telling mama about us waiting on new replacements, transfers delayed in reaching here amid the chaos of the system. Two are due to arrive today."
"That is good news surely."
"Yes of course, except for that their train is arriving earlier than scheduled. The designated transport is taking some of the hospital's patients to establishments nearer to their homes. So…" Sybil conveniently neglecting to mention that the next part had been her idea. "Do you suppose that Branson could take me to collect them from the station?"
Mary looked up and across the breakfast table at her younger sister with a curiosity than verged on suspicion. All appeared to be routine, a common enough hitch in the scheme of things. "I was hoping to…," which was as far as she got before her mother interrupted.
"Certainly Branson will take you." Lady Grantham confirmed the approval of her husband with a glance in his direction, for which there was no dimer at any rate. "When would you need to leave?"
"At 10 o'clock?" her tone one of innocent inquiry for to sound eager would be to betray desires best kept hidden.
"Carson? If Branson could be informed?"
All grave formality, the butler inclined his head, "as you wish m'lady."
"Thank you mama, it will be a great help."
"That is my fervent hope my dear. We simply don't see enough of you, with the war over I was thinking we might plan a visit to your Aunt's in London."
Sybil's face remained one of pleasant gratitude; however her mind closed down at the prospect. Both what such a trip would entail for her, and how this differed from the future she dreamed of were unavoidable truths.
Lord Grantham was brought out of his distraction by his wife's words, hasty indeed and would remind her so. In the event he was beaten to the punch.
"My part in helping those from the front is not likely to end right away mama, travelling to Aunt Rosamond's would be impossible."
With a placating smile her mother addressed some question to Edith the discussion rom thereon taken up with standard commonplaces and estate matters.
Upon leaving Sybil couldn't help but catch the headline on the page facing away from her father. "ALLIED POWERS CONTEMPLATE INCREASED COMMITMENT TO RUSSIAN EFFORT," would that she were with Tom right now.
00000
Branson wiped a leather chamois across the shining bonnet of the car sending an infinitesimal speck of dirt on its way. He couldn't help the wry smile that crossed his face, as when the time came to leave Downton he would likely never be in a position to take pride in such a vehicle again. A crunching sound had him swinging away from his attempts at perfection to behold one who in his opinion, was already there. Nurses' uniforms were made for practicality over flattery: hair concealed as it was, silken skin efficiently hidden. Presently a pair of eyes with a sparkle he'd known all too rarely in recent weeks although longed for like a drug, focused on him.
"Ready, m'lady?"
"As much as I can be," Sybil said in a somewhat distant tone.
Branson sensed a double meaning in the words but there were to be no more it seemed, not here anyway. Seeing Lady Grantham in a first storey window as he walked around the car to open the rear door he gave himself a mental check, no acts of inappropriate friendliness now Tom. This be the stage for the perfect chauffeur.
Once out of sight of the house there was a welcoming lessening of tension between them, something which had only grown since taking the wheel. A nervous air had come over Sybil; she opened her mouth meaning to speak only to close it again in. Branson checked the road ahead was clear before returning his attention to the mirror once more. She ran her tongue over her top lip, a task he would gladly aid her in if she would but ask it of him. An absurd grin began to break out across his face.
"What is so funny?" Sybil accused.
This morning a burgeoning excitement had dominated all else, she couldn't remember the last time more than a few minutes alone with him had even been possible. Now the moment was here, uncomfortable silence abounded. Until that ludicrous smirk took hold, and the mischievous glint to his eyes. "Sybil Crawley, you will maintain your indignation and rigid composure!" Whoops, no she wouldn't.
He could tell she was smiling when she next spoke. "Tell me, what is it?"
"Maybe later, first what have you got in that bag, lunch?"
"Well yes ass it happens, but also this." With a light chuckle Sybil reached into an obviously ancient satchel and pulled out a copy of The Times, immediately reading one of the articles aloud for him.
"An unnamed source at the War Office has hinted at plans for a more proactive approach to the 'Russian problem'. He refused to speculate on the numbers of forces involved except to remark that they would be suitable to confront the challenges of all foreseeable threats." A noticeable pause and folding of the page before: "The Admiralty would not confirm whether elements of the Mediterranean Fleet were being moved to northern waters."
All joviality had flown replaced by that political fire that had drawn him irresistibly to her all those years ago. "Tom, I can understand why we fought Germany and its allies as tirelessly as we did even if the callousness of our own military leaders shocked me as much as the enemy's. But this…have they not had their fill, can they still lust for war so?"
Her use of his name and the thrill it brought him should be his overriding emotion, if he did not also share her passion.
"Which "they" do we speak of? The men latterly in the trenches or those who sit behind their desks in London? It shan't matter though not in the long run. The Bolsheviks have gained too much of a hold over the country, their opponents disunited by vested interests and strained by the past years."
"I suppose." Sybil knitted her brows together lost in thought. "So many will have hoped for and end, for the sun on their faces without the guns' thunder. Still it is to be denied them."
A gap in the hedgerows ahead meant that for him at least the melancholy was but short lived. Branson looked outside to see the sun shining. The chill was awakening more than uncomfortable he mused. He pulled out his watch which was showing its age now, "Yeah we can make it."
"Did you say something? Why are we stopping?" Sybil looked about her in confusion.
"Not at all, it struck me as a fine place to enjoy some refreshment and the clean country air." The Irish brogue exaggerated somewhat.
Initially taken aback and concerned that they would be late Sybil soon disregarded such nonsense, her trust in the charmer looking amusedly back at her allaying any such worries. It was a pleasant day for November after all, almost terrible waste not to. Might this be the time to ask Tom?
"Ten minutes no more, or after that even your daredevil driving won't save us."
"Right you are m'lady, I'll just get the table cloth and pocket sized Carson out from under the seat here, amazing how quiet he's been." The peals of laughter which signalled her exit a music better than that of any soprano. Could he truly be blessed with a lifetime of hearing such a wonderful sound?
He had a cheese sandwich, she a scone Mrs Patmore had baked last night. The two of them shared the flask of tea.
The view was one for daydreams. Unless you were standing there brushing shoulders with love of your life, though only one of them had actually admitted to the fact up to this point. Sybil sent a sideways look in his direction, his face in profile as he lifted the mug to his lips. The smile of affection which crossed her own, quite involuntary. He did look exceedingly smart today, the equal of any officer. That being said, under an engine with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, well-used muscles bunching beneath the fabric of his shirt…
"It is a fine mug I agree, would you like it?"
Sybil looked away from him with a rosy flush to her cheeks that could not be entirely attributed to the cold. "Would it come hand delivered?" She said attempting to regain both composure and the initiative.
"Absolutely, by the very owner himself." The flirtation still playful although carrying an edge neither could recall.
Was she letting down her emotional barriers at last? They hadn't talked like this in months if not longer. When he looked back however, she wore a wholly serious expression.
"Do you" Sybil took a deep breath and tried again. "Do you intend to go to Ireland itself or work for the cause politically here in England?"
Branson put his mug down with a force that if not for the topic of conversation, he should have been most worried for the damage caused to the Lordship's priceless Renault. A sharp look in her direction and she was simply staring levelly at him, patiently waiting for his answer. Breathing out heavily he wondered which was the right one to give, the one that carried awful risk or the one that might cause her to think him hesitant?
He could not lie to her. "Ireland eventually," he waited for any visible reaction but there was none so he continued. "There is a group with a branch in London; they have set themselves up as mediators so to speak. Ireland deserves better than the bloodshed and brutality that the French employed, nor are the Russians any confirmed teachers. We must choose our own path to the freedom we seek, but fight we shall."
Sybil was overwhelmingly proud of Tom then, too much so even for she found an unusual interest in the blades of grass surrounding the toe of her left boot.
The silence stretched and Branson became increasingly depressed. Well that was it he thought, you chose the wrong. Does she desire him to pick up a gun and charge at those who months earlier had been laying on beds in Downton?
Raising her head slightly Sybil saw a smear of oil behind his thumb, she reached out tentatively with her forefinger and touched it before looking up at him under lowered lashes.
"You should know Tom, that I have sent a letter to an old friend from my days training to be a nurse. Mrs Hacksworth, a matron and instructor who currently works at a hospital in York."
"Mrs Hackswoth eh, readily willing to cut aspiring students off at the knees I shouldn't' wonder."
Sybil's cheek twitched slightly but soon controlled the urge to smile, wanting him to have no doubt as to her sincerity. "She also has the influence to determine assignments and transfers." His anxiety was now tangible, literally so for he took her caressing hand in both of his. "Depending on when I wished to leave there are positions available in London, and Dublin."
Branson stared into her eyes like a man drowning in their depths, and no finer way to go he decided on current experience. That was until he saw Sybil full of more emotion than he could hope to comprehend, switching her gaze between his intent eyes and lips parted with the shock of her revelation. A mere three inches apart now and he felt his hand at her back pulling her into his embrace, her eyes closing as he leaned down…
"Oi Oi! NICE FOR SOME."
Sybil and Tom broke apart as if scolded from their closeness, the army lorry now fifty yards down the road and increasing with a trooper waving thumbs up out of one window.
In their hearts they both had the answer they'd waited years for, if not their fulfilment.
The End
I do hope that it was at least passably amusing for you. Feedback is much appreciated.