For Good

Part 1 of 4

By: piperholmes

A/N: This was suppose to be just a oneshot but it refused to conform to what I had imagined it to be so now you get a four part story. This is just my imaginings on future family interactions between the Crawleys and the Bransons and the effect it has on the children. I've resisted naming any of Tom and Sybil's children just because I hate the idea of being out of cannon, but it was necessary for this story. I went with a name that I know other author's have used but it was always my "go to" name. Thank you to those who continue to show support—it is absolutely appreciated—and please enjoy! (Oh, yeah, as always this isn't beta'd so my apologies for any horrid typos or grammatical errors)

"Robert Thomas Branson! Stop it this instant!" Sybil Branson ordered sharply.

Her eyes grew huge at the sight before her, her five year old son—almost a perfect miniature of her husband except for the plump lips which were so obviously hers—stood boldly in a massacre of words as a sea of white pages littered the floor.

He glared at her, but dropped the book he was holding and stood immovable in the middle of his grandfather's extensive library.

"What…what are you doing?" Sybil demanded quietly, her tone more shocked than outraged. Her father's books lay scattered about the room and it seemed clear her oldest was responsible, but surely there was a plausible explanation for such uncharacteristic and outlandish behavior.

Her son just stared at her defiantly, his expression hard, making him appear much older than his five years.

"Robbie I asked you a question," she pressed, wishing she could adopt the age-old stance of hands on her hips, but her three year old son, Alfie, clung to one hand, and her hips were well hidden by her large rounded belly. Sweat tickled the back of her neck and she could feel her patience waning. "What happened?"

"Nothin'" he grounded out, his Irish accent thickening.

"This is not nothing," Sybil pointed out, her own words clipped. "Did you do this? Did you pull all these books off the shelves?"

She could see her son's chest rising and falling rapidly, his breath coming hard. He pressed his lips together tightly but finally nodded.

"Why?" she pleaded.

His only answer was to look away from her, blinking his eyes rapidly.

"Robbie," Sybil called, stepping toward him, her voice softer, maternal. "Please, my love, talk to me."

She saw him begin to relent, his shoulders falling, but voices drifted in from the hall and his body stiffened.

"No!" he shouted at her, surprising Sybil and causing Aflie to jump. Robbie's face immediately clouded, and she could see regret shining in his eyes but the tight press of his jaw refused to budge. This was not her loving, obedient, playful son.

Before Sybil could respond the voices from the hall grew louder and soon her father and grandmother had entered the room, much to her consternation.

"What…?" Sybil heard her grandmother begin, but seemed at a lost for words—a first in Sybil's experience.

"Sybil?" her father intoned, reminding Sybil of her own childhood indiscretions. She turned to face her parent, knowing the stern expression that would greet her.

"What is going on here?" he appealed in his most commanding voice.

The young mother took a deep breath, unsure how to approach the situation; knowing her son was responsible but not willing to open him to the grand derisions of the Earl and Dowager Countess.

"I'm not quite certain yet Papa but I…"

"Robbie, explain at once," he interrupted, turning his ire onto the young boy.

The only response he received was Robbie's back straightening defiantly.

Sybil watched as her father's eyes moved over the mess; books fallen open, pages flying in the slight breeze from an open window, their gentle flapping the sound of a flag blowing in the wind, a room of white flags and her son standing stoic at the heart of it all.

"Robbie, answer me," Lord Grantham appealed sternly.

"I won't!"

"Robbie!" Sybil chastised, truly bewildered by her son's actions.

She heard her grandmother sigh dramatically before offering, "Perhaps the boy was confused on the purpose of shelves."

Sybil could only roll her eyes. "Honestly Granny."

The matriarch shrugged. "Well, how am I supposed to know how often the child has frequented a library? I was under the impression your…home didn't boast one."

Her stumbling over the word home effectively communicated her thoughts on Sybil and Tom's humbler abode, and Sybil could feel her own ire growing, as well as the ache in her back intensifying. She wasn't in the mood to face the same arguments and insults today.

"Alfie," she said, turning her attention on her baby and instructed, "Please go get your father. I believe he's upstairs working."

At the mention of his father Robbie's eyes widened and he slowly shook his head. Sybil ignored it and continued her request to her other son. "Tell him Mama needs him in the library and it's important."

Alfie nodded fervently. "Yes Mama. I go get Da an' tell him it's in per tant." And, casting his brother a sad look, he set off, his chubby legs awkwardly moving to carry him as fast as they could.

Sybil looked to her other son. "You will apologize to your grandpapa, and then begin picking these books up."

Robbie turned from her.

"Did you hear your mama?" Robert snapped, moving towards the boy, reaching to place his hand on his namesake's small shoulder.

Robbie whipped around, stumbling backward on the books that littered the floor. "No!" he again shouted, and, once he had found his footing, dashed around his grandfather, passed his mother, and slid behind his great granny to the door.

"Robbie!" Sybil called after him, wanting to run after him, help him, love him, protect him, punish him, anything but watch him disappear. Even if her aristocratic upbringing hadn't frowned on it, Sybil still wouldn't have been able to chase after him. This latest crossing to Downton had been the most difficult for her. Normally her seafaring legs were strong, but this time, with this baby, she had been almost overwhelmed with sickness and poor Alfie had suffered nearly as badly. It took a lot to keep a smile on her face while she cared for the sick baby who, despite Tom's love and devotion, really only wanted his mother. Three days into their two week visit and Sybil was finally starting to feel a bit more like herself, but she doubted very much if the little life insider her would appreciate another jostling.

"Is that an example of the infamous Sinn Féin I've heard so much about?" her Granny quipped innocently, except Sybil knew her Granny was never innocent.

"Sybil?"

She looked to see her husband, a bit breathless, standing in the doorway, holding a panicked Alfie.

Tom's right brow lowered, sending the left high up his forehead as he surveyed the room and the occupants. "What in the world happened here?"

"That's exactly what I'd like to know," boomed Lord Grantham. "I was just in here with Mr. Murray not ten minutes ago. I come back and find Robbie in the middle of this great mess."

"Robbie? You think Robbie did this? Certainly not." Tom scoffed, his defenses immediately engaging.

This was met by a stony glare from her father and Sybil knew she would have to intercede. "It seems so Tom. He told me he did it. Now he's run off, and I'm worried about him. He was so upset."

"He was upset?" Lord Grantham scoffed. "Look at my library. I don't know how you allow your children to behave in your own home, but this isn't Ireland and he cannot be allowed to act so wild and destructive."

Tom's expression tightened and Sybil could almost see his back go up at the imperious tone. She could feel her own indignation rise at the insult. She knew it wasn't directed at Robbie, not truly. He may not see Robbie often, a few weeks out of the year typically, but as his grandfather he knew there was no question that this type of behavior was foreign to the young boy's temperament. No, her father was trying to insult her husband, her way of life—just more of the same implications.

Sybil pressed a hand to her forehead briefly, pushing away wisps of her dark hair that always curled so rampantly when she was pregnant. "Papa," she groaned, disappointed by the same old arguments.

Her gazed locked with that of her husband's and she could see her barely contained indignation reflected in his eyes. Years of interaction with her family had taught them, shaped them, and strengthened them. With each thinly veiled insult, moments of condescension or even outright ridicule, they had forged on. They had learned to read each other better, knew when the other needed rescuing, a calm hand or a touch of reassurance, or even when to stay out of it. They had also learned to fight the fights that needed fighting and let everything else go.

Their son matters more than a war of words with the Earl, rehashing the same tired topics.

She watched Tom's jaw work as he swallowed down his anger, his gaze not leaving hers, drawing from her silent plea to help their child. He nodded and set Alfie down.

"I'll go find him," he promised, his eyes purposefully avoiding his father-in-law, cutting him out.

"Perhaps…perhaps I should help," Lord Grantham ventured, his own anger cooling, perhaps regretting his verbal attack. Seeing Sybil's hand go to her face, so like she had all those years ago, had pricked at his conscience. He swore with each visit he was going to be more accepting, more forgiving, but his resolve seemed to always desert him when faced with his former chauffeur, leaving the wound open and sensitive, driving him to appear the great ogre. He often justified his behavior with the excuse that he only need think of this man, the man who had stolen his daughter's future, a few weeks out of the year; surely he could not be so greatly punished for losing his cool so infrequently.

"No thank you, m'lord," Tom replied stiffly, the deference leaving his lips so easily, a rote response that Lord Grantham had never bothered to offer the chance to eliminate from the vocabulary of his former employee. "I will fetch him and see that he his properly dealt with and this is put right."

After ruffling Alfie's dark hair, instructing the child to stay with his ma, and trading a final, knowing look with his wife he set off to find his oldest son and find out what had motivated such an outburst.

Alfie, now no longer concerned with the goings-on of his brother and the adults, set about jumping over the books, leaving the three adults to shuffle awkwardly.

"You know," the Dowager began, her raspy voice conveying the warning of scandal. "I have heard of this kind of behavior before. A dear friend of mine had a son who began shouting obscenities uncontrollably and they had to institutionalize him. Quite unfortunate, I believe the young man died there."

Lord Grantham sighed, his eyes pleading heavenward.

To be continued…

Thanks for reading and stay tuned to find out what is going on with the Branson's first born!