Burn with the Brightest Flame
By: piperholmes
A/N: Coming out of fanfic retirement to post a story for Rock the AU Weekend. A bit of Branson fluff for all my friends on Tumblr who are suffering right along with me as 3X05 airs in America tonight. Hope you enjoy, and it wouldn't be me if I didn't point out this isn't beta'd! ;)
"Oh, you're back," Mrs. Hughes' Scottish tone sounded as Tom Branson made his way through the door that led from the downstairs kitchen.
Tom merely nodded, waiting for the set down about using the servants' entrance rather than the front door, but only received an exasperated sigh.
"You've missed dinner, and Lady Sybil thought you'd be hungry so she asked that be sent up when you returned," the housekeeper explained.
"There's no need Mrs. Hughes. I can run back down and get it," Tom offered, as he always did.
Mrs. Hughes shook her head, as she always did. "You look done in my boy. Go on up, get out of those dusty clothes. I'll send Daisy up with a tray."
"Please don't bother, I had a sandwich on the train. I'd rather just get up to bed," he pleaded.
An answering nod was met with a small smile and Mrs. Hughes turned to leave.
"Mrs. Hughes," Tom called out, pausing her progress. "Are they all still in the drawing room?"
"Everyone but Lady Sybil," Mrs. Hughes answered. "I believe little Miss Branson needed her mother's attention."
At that Tom's eyebrow went up.
"Nothing too taxing," Mrs. Hughes hurried to alley. "The baby wouldn't settle."
He wasn't nearly as bad as he had been right after the delivery, when every cry, every sneeze, every hiccup sent him into a nervous fit, but he was still quite new to fatherhood and he doubted if the constant lump of worry would ever leave his stomach. Hearing his baby girl was in distress was enough to push his weariness away.
"Thank you," Tom threw over his shoulder as he bound up the stairs.
A glance into the nursery revealed it was empty, nanny gone for the night, if she could be called a nanny. It was a young girl whose father worked on the estate. She often stayed in the evening to watch the baby while Sybil and Tom ate dinner, and twice a week for a few hours in the morning while Sybil helped at the cottage hospital. Robert had offered to hire a full-time nanny but neither Sybil nor Tom wanted that. Tom needed to provide for his family, and between his wages as the estate manager and Sybil's from the hospital, they could afford to pay the girl themselves. It was a small victory but he needed those these days.
Moving into his and Sybil's room he heard them, squealing and laughing and splashing, in the connecting room. His brow furrowed. It was much too late to be giving the baby a bath.
The door was opened some, enough to peek through, and his panic fled.
His girls were taking a bath.
Sybil's face, animated with glee as she lifted and lowered a round pink baby in and out of the water, laughing at each delighted squeal that emanated from the child. The five month old kicked and splashed the water with chubby legs.
Tom watched as one splash went high, hitting the baby in the face. She flinched, stunned.
"Oh my dear," Sybil cooed, tucking the baby under her chin, "Did that water splash you? Mean old water."
After a tight hug, Sybil waylaid any tears by kissing the baby over and over again along her neck, once again eliciting the child's tinkling laughter.
"Isn't it a bit late for a bath?" he asked quietly, not wanting to startle them, as he pushed open the door and moving into the room.
A damp warmth surrounded him, and the smell of his wife's soap teased his nose.
Pure, unadulterated joy pervaded his heart when his wife turned her smiling face to him and his daughter kicked wildly at the sound of his voice.
"Do you hear your papa?" Sybil laughed. "Did you miss him as much as I did?"
"Of course she did," Tom answered with mock affronting, kneeling down next to the tub, reaching out to stroke a soft cheek.
Turning to his wife he leaned further, not caring that his tie was dipping into the water, as his lips met hers in greeting. It had been three days, three days since their last kiss. Three days too long; and only accentuated by his wife's wet naked body lounging before him.
"You're back," Sybil whispered, not caring to be stating the obvious, simply enjoying the impact of the words.
"I'm back," he grinned. He was caught unaware as his daughter grabbed a hold onto his tie and gave a rather strong tug. His own laughter joined theirs.
"Hello to you too, my love." He placed a much sloppier, much louder kiss against his child's cheek. "Now, tell Da why you're up so late. Mrs. Hughes said you wouldn't settle. I thought I told you to behave for your ma."
"We had a bit of an upset tummy," Sybil answered, her voice sing-song. "She was sick all over her crib, herself and poor Emily, then on me."
Tom's gaze sharpened as he stared at the happy face of his daughter. "Should we call Dr. Clarkson?"
"I don't think so," Sybil said bringing her knees up to lean the baby against. "She was fussy all day but after she got sick she's been all smiles. Mama said that sometimes baby's just get a sour stomach."
Tom nodded, not quite convinced, but trusting in his wife's expertise.
Sybil's fingers reached out, wetting the few strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead as she gently pushed them back. "You look tired. How did it go?"
His shoulders slumped.
"Tom?"
The baby's plump smooth lips widened in a yawn, and Tom stood, grabbing a towel.
"Come'ere my darling," he said as Sybil handed him the wet child. He wrapped her tightly, not wanting her to grow cold, and held her close against him.
"Would you dress her?" Sybil asked, allowing him his silence. "Since the water's here I will wash my hair."
"Of course," he replied over the now fussing baby. "And then…then we'll talk."
After a shared look Tom left her to finish her bath. He stripped off his coat and wet tie, and set about getting his daughter ready for bed. The fire was going strong, built by one of the maids, and Tom moved close as he dressed his tired baby. Her fussing was growing louder and he hurried to get her clothed and warm, hoping she wasn't going to be sick again. Thankfully, as soon as she was dry and wrapped tightly in her wooly blanket she quieted, snuggling her body into his, wedging her face against his neck. He swayed gently side to side, humming a lullaby he'd learned from Sybil.
He heard movement behind him and turned slightly to watch his wife maneuver about their room, silently pulling on her night dress. She came to him, her smile soft and full of love as she kissed her baby on the head, careful to keep her wet locks back not wanting to risk droplets hitting the sleeping child.
"She's asleep," she whispered.
The young father smiled but made no move towards the cot the baby slept in. Instead he carefully sat down in a nearby chair, perfectly content to hold his baby and watch his wife kneel by the fire to dry her hair.
She glanced up at him, her cheeks pink from the heat. "So?"
Tom leaned his head back with a sigh, "So."
He swallowed hard, staring up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. The quiet stretched between them, and he knew she wouldn't beg him to speak to her; she simply expected it and would wait.
He felt small.
He felt unworthy.
He felt a failure.
"I didn't…I didn't even get an interview with two of the papers, and the other two didn't feel I was suited for the job," he confessed, feeling as if those dancing shadows were really just laughing at him, mocking his humiliation.
He couldn't look at her. His wife was a comforter, a nurturer, and he wasn't sure he could handle her care.
But she knew. She knew he was avoiding her, and she knew why. At first, it had bothered her, the way Tom always sought her during an argument, reaching for her hand or placing a kiss against her cheek. That was not how an argument was carried on; one did not seek affection while one was standing ones ground. Yet Tom could never end a fight without some form of contact. It had annoyed her excessively, but it didn't take long to understand. He wasn't as unaffected by their class difference as he liked to believe. It wasn't about whether or not they loved each other enough or not; it was about him feeling good enough for her. He had withstood the shouting and incriminations, but had not come out unscathed. Her strong willed, brave husband had his vulnerabilities. She could see it now, hear it, feel it.
"Alright," she said slowly, using a towel to wring the excess water from her hair. "Their loss. What's next? Are there any more papers you'd like to apply to in London, or do we look else where?"
At this Tom huffed, his cool blue eyes finally seeking hers. "Would it matter? They all hear the accent and are suddenly 'not interested' and if by some miracle they are interested they find out why I'm no longer in Ireland…" he trailed off.
He couldn't say it.
"Then we'll find someone who is as interested and invested in Irish freedom as you are," Sybil declared resolutely; her aristocratic upbringing her basis for the belief that if one wants something badly enough one would get it. But he wouldn't accuse her of privilege. She wasn't a naïve Lady meant to grace the arm of some powerful husband. She was his wife, the woman who had been willing to forsake her life of wealth and riches to marry him. She wasn't naïve, merely use to getting her way.
"You think England's just teaming with liberal papers that support the Irish cause?" he teased.
"Don't make fun of me," she answered back, her voice firm.
"No," he sighed, shifting the baby away slightly from his skin, feeling it grow sweaty from her heat. "Maybe…maybe I should just focus my efforts on the estate manager position. I know we said we'd only give it a year, but perhaps it would be best to—"
"To what?" Sybil interrupted sharply, "to give up?"
He stood abruptly, feelings running through him too powerful to keep still. He couldn't have an ugly conversation with his beautiful daughter in his arms. Turning away from his wife, he moved to the tiny bed and carefully placed the infant down, waiting to ensure she wouldn't wake before crossing to the wardrobe. He yanked off his shirt, the shirt he had pressed that morning to try and impress an editor.
Lot of good that had done.
He was tired and angry, and it didn't matter who or what he was angry at anymore, he was just angry.
"My shoes are wearing thin," he said suddenly.
"What?"
He sat on the bed and pulled off the offending wear, holding them up, showing her the fraying threads and thinned souls.
He could tell by the way her back straightened and hands came together that she was losing patience. "And?"
He didn't answer, not yet, simply finished dressing for bed.
"I know you're frustrated," Sybil offered, her voice husky, "and I know you're worried about the future, I know because I am too. But I won't let you give up. If being the estate manager is what you want to do because you love it and it makes you happy, then fine, let's discuss it, but if being the estate manager is simply the easiest option and you're not willing to fight for what you want, then I don't care to know you."
With that Sybil stood, intent on hanging the towel to dry, but as she passed him, his hand reached out, grabbing her wrist.
"Your father would pay for my new shoes," he pointed out quietly, his eyes filled with shame. "He's paying for our food, for the baby clothes. We live here in this house, his house, and anything we do manage to have enough money for is still paid for by him because I'm back to working in his employ. I've lost Ireland. I've a wife and baby to care and provide for. I promised you I would make something of myself, but I don't know how anymore. I feel so overwhelmed by it all. Please Sybil; just tell me what you want me to do."
Sybil dropped the towel to the floor and moved to him, sitting next to him on the bed, sliding his hand away from her wrist and down to her palm, a palmer's kiss.
"Oh my love," she breathed, "I would take this pain from you if I could, but no. I won't tell you what to do. I won't let you hide behind me, or take away your responsibility to making choices for your own life. This is a hard situation, with hard decisions that need to be made. But we're use to that right?"
He gave her the barest of smiles.
"What I want is for you to be happy, for you to be true to yourself. Sometimes a hard sacrifice is needed for a future worth having," her words carried the impact of a memory, the feelings of hope and desperation that had plagued him for so long. She pressed her hand more fully against his, her wedding ring warm. "You believed that once, and you made me believe it. You've made me a few promises Tom Branson, but the only one I care about is the one you made on our wedding day. You promised to be my husband and my love, and I answered your promise with one of my own, to be your wife and to cherish you. No matter what happens, we will not fail at that."
She pressed her lips to his forehead, allowing them to linger against his skin. "Now come to bed, and let me show you what you mean to mean, and then we'll talk, like we use to, wrapped up in each other and lazy, planning a future worth having. We've been blown off course but the only failure would be to give up, to surrender."
"And we Bransons never surrender," Tom acknowledge, even as he allowed her to push him back onto the bed.
"Never," she promised.
The end
Thanks for reading! Hope everyone has survived the horror of this week's episode as unscathed as possible! My darling Tumblr friends deserve so much for helping me deal with it!