Hello ff. Long time no see. This is for the S/T Secret Santa Fic Exchange and the lovely person I am writing for is the wonderfully talented foojules. I'm sorry this is massively late. Work has completely taken over my life and I'm going to clock well over 40+ hours this week for what seems like the 50th week in a row. Anyway, I hope I did your prompt justice and Merry belated Christmas!
o o o
Tom Branson shivered and pulled his sweater tight against his chest as he sat comfortably at his desk in The Standard's office in north London. Piles of drafts were scattered all across his small corner cubicle, waiting to be thrown out. His Masters Degree in Journalism and his Excellence in Journalism and Reporting plaque, both given to him by the University of College Dublin, were hidden away and gathered dust behind his computer monitor. Tom stared at the blinking cursor, sighed, and clicked send. It wasn't his best work, but it would run regardless.
10 AM. One article down. Four more to go.
Tom rubbed his face and dragged his hands down his cheeks, two day old stubble scratching his palms. He looked up and caught the sight of the byline of one of his countless drafts.
Tom Branson, Junior Political Reporter.
He reached over, crumpled the paper, and threw it in the garbage, missing completely as a young lanky ginger passed by.
"You alright?" the young man asked.
Alfred, the new office assistant, worked odd jobs to pay for culinary school. Although he only came to The Standard's office three times a week, Tom struck up a good friendship with him.
Tom glanced back and hid his frustration as best as he could.
"Yeah. Fine."
Alfred stepped into the cubicle and looked behind him to make sure no one was there. He lowered his voice, making sure Tom was the only one who could hear him.
"I shouldn't be telling you this, but that mystery journalist is coming in today," he said as discreetly as possible.
Tom raised his eyebrows slightly, expecting something more than office gossip.
"Apparently, he's got some business with Gregson and he has to come in person. Overheard him on the phone the other day." Alfred continued.
"And?"
Alfred face changed slightly. Disappointment? Distain?
"Bloke's getting Carlisle's old job." he finished.
Tom figured it out. Pity.
Once touted as one of Ireland's most promising young journalists coming out of uni, Tom could only shake his head and laugh at his situation. After a year and a half at The Standard, he was still at square one. He was still grinding out an immense amount of articles everyday to get nowhere.
Maybe leaving Dublin wasn't such a good idea. Dublin probably changed in the year he was gone, right? Anyway, he hadn't seen his mam in a while. It would be nice to see her.
Tom rubbed the back of his neck.
"I'd like to meet him," he said flatly.
"Why?" Alfred asked confused.
Tom sighed and bit his tongue, trying to hide his obvious disappointment. Richard Carlisle was the head of The Standard's political section, as editor and as a senior reporter, until he quit to start his own newspaper. The position had been vacant for three months and during that time, Tom had done everything in his power to prove that he was qualified for Carlisle's old position: working 50+ hours a week, offering to proofread his colleagues articles, and churning out an ungodly amount of articles every day. Hell, he even brought his degrees and numerous accolades in to post them all over his cubicle.
Turned out, he only needed to write one article a week under a pseudonym. And he only started submitting a year ago.
"I've read his articles. We have the same views on everything politically. I'd just like to see what he's made of," Tom said.
"And you're not bitter you lost the job to him?"
Tom crossed his arms, shoulders slumping. He thought of the anonymous writer's articles. Tom didn't want to admit it out loud, but they were good. No, they were more than good. Left-leaning as The Standard allowed, harshly critical of the aristocracy and, at times, hostile towards the conservative upper class, the anonymous writer's articles shook Tom to his core. Not only were the articles passionate and extremely well written, they could educate and infuriate, a balance the majority of his colleagues over the years could never find.
Tom joked once to Gregson that it would incite riots if people actually read the newspaper.
"He's clearly doing something better than I am. I don't want to stay a junior reporter all my life. He figured it out. I could learn from him." Tom said, justifying the decision in his head.
Alfred shook his head in disagreement.
"Fuck him and Gregson. Everyone here knows you deserve that job. No one here works harder than you, not even Gregson. He's an idiot for not promoting you. Some random-"
"Hello?"
An unfamiliar raspy voice of a woman interrupted their conversation.
The scent of lilacs and warm vanilla wafted in the air and intoxicated Tom.
Both heads turned to see a young woman standing next to Alfred. Mesmerizing steel blue eyes, full pink lips, and dark waves that fell to her shoulders. She was easily the most beautiful woman Tom had ever seen. Her lips turned up at the corners at the sight of Tom. He opened his mouth to try and say something but all he could do was gawk at her like an idiot.
Breathtakingly stunning.
"I'm sorry, but would any of you gentlemen happen to know where Michael Gregson's office is?" she asked as she switched her gaze between him and Alfred.
"It's down that way. At the end of the hallway." Alfred pointed.
A pink flush started to creep into her ears as she smiled, thanked them, and headed towards Gregson's office.
Tom swallowed and felt his pounding heart beat in his chest. He had seen his fair share of beautiful women in his life crossing the street, on his phone, or naked in his bed, but they were nothing compared to her. She was an absolute dream.
"You here?" Alfred asked as he waved a hand over his eyes.
Tom blinked a few times.
"Yeah," he mumbled.
He could still smell her perfume as it lingered in the air.
Alfred smiled and looked back to see if he could still see her. She disappeared as she entered Gregson's office.
"Isn't Gregson dating that earl's daughter? She sounded posh, didn't she? Think that might her." Alfred deduced.
"You're probably right." Tom said, disappointed once more.
. . .
Sybil sighed as she left Michael's office. Three hours and no agreement had been reached. She rubbed her temples as her stomach growled under her sky blue summer dress. Her normal lunch hour had come and gone and she was getting increasingly agitated with each passing minute. Michael suggested they go out to lunch to have a break and casually talk, an invitation she politely declined.
She frowned. Hungry, tired, and frustrated. What a way to spend her day off.
Sybil kept her head down as she made her way to the elevators. Rushing to get away from Michael as quickly as possible, she didn't notice the man carrying a bottle of water in his armpit and balancing a cup of soup, a bag of crisps, and a sandwich in one hand while scrolling though his phone with the other until it was too late.
"Oof!"
"Ugh!"
The wrapped sandwich ungracefully fell to the floor along with the unopened bag of crisps.
"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry. Let me help you." she said apologetically.
She picked up the sandwich and crisps and stood back up.
"It's fine. I still have my soup so my lunch isn't a total waste," the man chuckled, "Plus my sandwich and crisps are still unopened. And even if they weren't I still would try and salvage what was left. No harm, no foul."
It was one of the blokes from earlier. The cute one who only seemed to stare last time. Her heart started to pound faster. A simple smile made her heart race. He was much more attractive up close. He was as handsome as they came. Thick brown hair she could run her hands through and broad shoulders with a broad chest to match. She saw that the sleeves of his sweater were pulled up to his elbows and noticed that his sweater barely fit over his upper arms.
And his accent. She melted.
Sybil always had a thing for Irish guys.
"Sorry. Hello. We met earlier. I'm Tom."
He put his phone in his pocket and reached his hand out. Sybil shook it, feeling the roughness of his palm. She left go, but still feeling the residual heat of his hand still tingling in hers.
"Sybil Crawley."
Nanoseconds passed as Sybil realized she was staring at him for what seemed like ages. She quickly looked around him as her neck became warmer and warmer.
"It's very nice to meet you," Tom said.
Praying that her blush would keep at bay, she kept the small talk to a minimum.
"Likewise."
Another few seconds of silence passed. Neither moving so Sybil tried to start a light conversation.
"So-"
"Do-"
They both chuckled at the gaffe.
"I'm sorry. Go ahead," Tom said politely.
Sybil pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and began again.
"Do you work for the newspaper? It's just that I saw you earlier and…"
She chided herself. Of course he works for the newspaper. Why else would he be here? This is The Standard's offices after all. What else-
"I do. I'm a junior political reporter," Tom explained.
A shot of adrenaline rushed though her body.
"Tom? You're Tom Branson?"
He smile widened at her recognition as her heart leapt out of her chest.
"The one and only."
She couldn't believe it. She was meeting THE Tom Branson.
"I've read all your articles. They're really quite good. I loved the piece on corruption at the local level in Ireland. Very rousing. And your article on the state of American politics was truly eye opening. You should write more."
Sybil watched as his eyes widened.
"Thank you. I sit at a desk for hours on end so I forget from time to time that people actually real what I write," Tom paused, "But I can't do much more than I do already. Not as a junior reporter anyway…"
Sybil followed his eyes as he looked away and stared at an empty enclosed office at the far end of the long stretch of cubicles.
"…Especially when the editor and senior reporter is going to be some anonymous writer who never shows his face around here."
Sybil snapped her gaze back at Tom. What did he say?
"Editor?"
Tom shook his head slightly.
"That anonymous writer who only submits one article every week to our newspaper is apparently getting the job," he said coolly.
So that's what this was all about. Gregson.
Curious about what he thought about her writing, she pushed the conversation a little.
"What do you think of his articles. He must be very good to be offered a position like that."
Tom refused to meet her gaze.
"Honestly, they're absolutely brilliant…"
An immense feeling of pride washed over her. The person who inspired her to write called her writing brilliant.
"…That's why I'm so angry. I could learn a lot from him, but I don't know who he is…"
She wanted to tell him that the "he" he was talking about was actually a "she," but that would come in due time. He would know later today if she had her way with Michael.
"…And he's as left as they come. I think we would get on pretty well."
Sybil grinned. Yes. I think we would.
He finally looked back at her smiling face.
"You were here to see Gregson? How was that?" Tom asked.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
"Long if you ask me. I stepped out for a lunch break. You know Michael. He's a bit stubborn. He always wants his way and won't bend until you meet his demands."
Tom shrugged his shoulders as his face fell.
"So senior reporter huh?" she said to herself.
"Apparently."
She laughed sardonically.
"We'll see about that."
Tom looked at her quizzically as she motioned to the elevator.
"Well Tom, I hope I'll be seeing more of you," she smiled as she handed the forgotten sandwich and crisps back to their rightful owner and realized her mistake.
"In the newspaper of course," she followed.
"Thank you," Tom said, slightly disappointed.
. . .
They parted ways at the elevator and Tom wanted to slap himself. Eat off the floor? Come on. You don't admit that to someone you just met.
Tom arrived at his cubicle and sat down on his chair. He opened the lid of his soup and pulled out the plastic spoon from his pocket. Sybil. Sybil Crawley. The one who reads his articles. The only person he knows outside of the office that actually reads his work. He smiled. She was his audience.
He was about to take a spoonful into his mouth when Alfred appeared once again at the entrance of his cubicle.
"Hitting on Gregson's girl? You dirty dog!" Alfred joked.
Tom turned around, forgetting about his lunch and his thoughts about Sybil for a moment to defend himself from the ginger giant.
"Feck off. We were just talking."
Alfred laughed and walked out of the cubicle, but not after getting the last word in.
"Didn't look like it from the way you two were looking at each other."
Tom cheeks burned. He wasn't that obvious was he? They were discreet looks at her every once in a while, not stares. Wasn't it?
Tom worked the rest of the day, but kept an eye out for Sybil, hoping he could catch her on her way back in or out to thank her for reading his work. He secretly hoped he could ask her out for a drink. She said she wanted to see him, but only in the newspaper. Maybe they could be friends. Could he be friends with his boss's girlfriend? His idealistic side said yes. They were mature adults who could carry on a platonic relationship. His realistic side said no. His 27 years of experience with the opposite sex was proof enough. Tom worked though the rest of the day, making sure that all the articles he submitted were on point. He had a loyal audience of one and he didn't want to disappoint her with mediocre journalism.
He also kept an eye out for the anonymous writer, but no one ever showed up.
Around 4:30, Gregson sent an ominous e-mail about a big announcement to the entire office and to stay until 5. Tom's heart sunk.
It was 4:55 when Tom gathered his laptop and multiple drafts and placed them in his laptop bag. He shut down his desktop and saw his degrees hiding behind the screen. He couldn't help but think that all those hard years paying for uni and grad school by himself as a mechanic and chauffeur were for nothing as long as he stayed a junior reporter. He left his cubicle and stood at the front of the office with everyone else, waiting for the Editor-in-Chief. Minutes later, Gregson emerged, blazer left in his office, tie slightly askew and the first button on his collared shirt undone. He looked tired as he stood at the front of the gathering crowd, voice booming to the reporters in front of him.
"As you know, Since Richard Carlisle has left us, the position of the senior political reporter has been vacant. I'd like to introduce to you to the new senior political reporter and the new politics section editor…"
Tom held his breath and looked at his shoes.
"…Tom Branson."
He looked up confused.
"What?"
A seemingly endless stream of congratulations, hugs, and well wishes bombarded Tom who was still shocked that he had gotten the job. Gregson never mentioned any sort of promotion when they spoke, especially him taking over Carlisle's old job.
Gregson whistled to get the attention of everyone in the room and all eyes went to the front.
Sybil was suddenly standing next to Gregson, smoothing out the skirt of her dress and standing tall. When did she get there?
"Ladies and gentlemen please. I also have another surprise for you. To fill in Branson's vacancy, the anonymous writer has agreed to come forward…"
Tom's eyes darted between Gregson and Sybil.
"…Staff, I'd like to introduce you to Sybil Crawley, our new junior political reporter."
Tom was floored. It was her all along. Sybil laughed and locked eyes with Tom.
"Actually, I haven't agreed to come forward to the public. Just all of you."
Tom's head was spinning.
Sybil Crawley.
. . .
Sybil smiled and exited as inconspicuously as possible. Even though her identity had been revealed, she didn't want the world to know who she was. She made her way to the elevator and wished the doors would already open. She heard Gregson call out her name and decided that the elevator was taking too long. She turned around and pushed the door to the staircase. She heard the door click behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally.
Although she would only be writing for the newspaper part time, she couldn't help but be excited. She would be working under Tom Branson. THE Tom Branson.
She was taken by surprise when the staircase door opened behind her and revealed her new boss on the other side.
Tom Branson.
. . .
Tom struggled to escape the crowd to reach Sybil, but the claps on his back and various hugs slowed him down. He saw her exit to the staircase and jogged towards the door, hoping to reach her in time. He pulled the door open right as it shut and found her standing alone on the landing. He stepped through and let the door close behind him.
"Hi" was the only thing he could say. Nothing else came to mind.
She smiled prettily, but said nothing.
"You leaving?" he asked as he approached her.
"I am."
"I'll walk you down."
The pair started to descend the staircase from the seventh floor. Their steps echoing and filling the silence.
"So you're the anonymous writer then," Tom stated.
Sybil's laugh reverberated through the bare concrete walls and into his bones.
"Would you have ever guessed?" She said in-between chuckles.
"Honestly no. But if I spent a little more time talking with you, I would have figured it out eventually," he responded.
Sybil turned her head to his and slowly and raised in eyebrow in skepticism.
"Really?"
Tom thought for a moment and scrunched his nose.
"Maybe."
Sybil and Tom shared a laugh as they passed another landing, slowly but surely winding their way down.
"Can I tell you something?" Sybil asked.
Tom nodded and gave a low mumbled yes.
"I didn't know Michael was going to offer me that job until you told me earlier. It took me by surprise. And when he did I was furious," she admitted, "He kept pushing me to join the staff as a full time reporter and I told him I didn't have the time. He told me I had talent that shouldn't be wasted as a health care worker. I hold him you were much more suited for the job, but he said, and I quote, 'Tom is perfect for the job, but I want to see my daughter. I will do anything to see her.' Its disgusting."
Sybil shook her head as Tom's eyes went wide. Gregson could be critical, but he didn't know Gregson could be so callous.
"I'm a nurse. I love my job," Sybil continued, "and I'm excellent at what I do. I'm not a reporter and I certainly don't have the qualifications to be one."
Without thinking, Tom replied, "All you really need is one."
"Which is?"
He didn't mean to say it out loud and he couldn't bring himself to answer that question, knowing full well what he implied was out of order and none of his business. Thankfully, he didn't need to.
"Ah no. I'm single," she said with a hidden smile, "And he's more of my sister's type. Well, used to be my sister's type. He's trying to be her type again, but I don't think it's working."
She snickered.
"Is that how you got your article to run every week?" Tom asked.
"Let's just say that I'm a pawn in their never-ending custody battle for my niece," she said in a bitter tone.
Wanting to keep the conversation light and not take more of an awkward turn, she bravely asked, "What about you?"
"Me? No. None of my nieces are in custody battles."
He laughed as Sybil playfully nudged his arm, amused at his joke.
"No. Single as well. My last girlfriend was a teacher. It got messy when some kids caught us in the parking lot of the school though."
Sybil giggled as Tom's face turned slightly pink. The possibility of dating Sybil made Tom's heart race. Or at least a drink. He took a deep breath in. Not now. Later. Maybe.
"How did you get into writing then?" he asked, curious about her interest in journalism.
"It's funny actually. It was you."
"Me?"
Surprised and flattered, Tom stopped on a stair. Sybil, a few steps ahead of him turned back and leaned on the wall.
"I love getting my newspaper delivered every morning. The smell of a freshly printed newspaper brings me back. Of course it was The Daily Telegraph. I wouldn't go near it now."
Both exchanged a knowing smile as she continued.
"Anyway, I read the Politics section religiously every morning before my shift at the hospital and I stumbled across your first article for The Standard. I don't remember what it was about exactly, but I remember feeling so angered after I read it. You write with such passion and integrity. Something I hadn't seen from Carlisle's articles in a while. I wanted to see if I could do that too."
Tom felt like flying. His entire career he wondered if his writing ever made an impact or if he was screaming at a brick wall. Her admission validated the reason why he was still in London. People were reading his articles and taking action.
"What about you though?" he asked as they moved down the stairs.
"Me?" she asked incredulously.
"You're writing is incredible. Your voice comes though the words and commands the page. I can tell you that there's only one other person in the office who can do that."
They glanced at each other and Tom gave a wink. Sybil snorted and shook her head with a smile.
"You're also very unsympathetic to the plight of wealthy aristocrats," he said half-jokingly, half serious.
"Am I?" she said exaggeratedly, "Funny how life works out."
Tom bit his cheek for a moment.
"So the posh accent is real?"
It was more of a statement than a question. Not an accusation, but an observation.
She suddenly grew quiet.
"I don't like mentioning it. None of the other nurses at the hospital know either and I'd like to keep it that way," Sybil replied.
"Why keep it a secret? Being a Lady isn't all bad."
She rolled her eyes as they reached the second floor landing. She stopped as Tom took another step down and faced her, eye-to-eye. She inhaled deeply.
"Being told you received all the good things in life through privilege and not hard work is horrible. I'm grateful to both my parents for putting me and my sisters in great circumstances where we could achieve success with minimal effort. I am truly lucky to have them. But when my hard work and dedication becomes undermined by both my and my parents position in society, it seems as though I skated by on my title and my parents wealth. Nothing else."
She passed Tom down the stairs as Tom followed behind her.
"I grew up so disconnected to society, living in the countryside in Yorkshire. I never truly learned about the world until I started going to uni and I wanted a job that could make a real difference in the world to prove that I was more than a Lady. That's why I became a nurse."
Tom could only nod in agreement. Her frank confession about her family made him briefly reflect on his own and his life. Growing up in a working class neighborhood in Dublin, Tom wanted more than his world was offering. Though there was nothing wrong with getting a job at the docks or at the factories, it wasn't for him. He worked hard to pay for his school and worked hard to be the best in his class. Though it didn't seem to be enough for the big newspapers in London who looked down on his working class Irish background.
The pair reached the first floor and headed towards the glass door exit to London's busy streets.
Before they could leave, she stopped him at the door, holding him back by the upper arm. Firm, but gentle. A smile grew on her face as she spoke.
"I can't believe I'm talking to you. It's unreal. I've admired your work for so long, it's strange to have a face and a voice to match the words."
Tom raised an eyebrow.
"Strange?"
She put her hand on his forearm. He could feel her the warmth of her fingers through the thin fabric of his sweater sleeve.
"Not in a bad way or anything. I just didn't expect…"
She looked away for a moment and her eyes met his once again.
"I wasn't expecting you."
Tom laughed as Sybil's face fell and her hand slipped from his arm.
"What is it?"
Tom pushed the door open gestured for Sybil to step though.
Once outside, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and grinned at her.
"I wasn't expecting you either," Tom said with a chuckle.
Tom blinked and observed her in the afternoon sunlight. The suns rays bounced off, bathing her in gold. A gust of wind hit both of them, rippling her skirt and tousling her hair. He caught a whiff of her perfume once again. Lilacs and warm vanilla. She pushed back another lock of hair behind her ear and looked at him. He was absolutely certain there was no other woman in the world more intriguing, smart, complicated, or as beautiful as she was.
"Going down this way?" he asked as he nudged his head behind him.
She shook her head and pointed in the other direction.
"No, I'm taking the Underground."
This was it.
"Well Sybil Crawley. It was a pleasure meeting you. And welcome to the team."
"You as well Tom Branson. And congratulations."
Ask her now.
"See you tomorrow?"
"See you tomorrow."
He watched as she turned around and disappeared into the crowd. He could still smell the lilacs and warm vanilla in the air as he turned around and started to walk.
Tomorrow then.