"Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while."
He's sixty-three. His hair has turned from towhead to grey, his face is wrinkled, his hands shake.
He eats the same breakfast every morning, the same one he's had since 1920: a poached egg, toast (burnt almost to the crust), and black coffee.
She could never get the hang of frying them.
"Blast!" she sputtered from the kitchen. "I'll never get this right!" This was punctuated with a clang of the pan against their small stove.
"Love," he says with a grin—she's trying, Tom, be kind—-"you really don't have to do this. I'm perfectly capable of making my own breakfast." He strategically added a smile, the slightly crooked one, the one she'd never been able to ignore.
She pouted, her lip jutting outwards, like a true aristocrat's daughter.
"I'm your wife, Tom! I already burnt the toast! If I can't prepare an egg, how can I—" she abruptly stopped, then changed tack, and Tom pretended, for the moment, not to notice.
His eyes twinkled.
"Have you tried something a little simpler? Poaching, maybe?"
Sybil Saoirse Branson is grown now, married to a man by the name of Bryant, and she has a baby of her own.
The day she told him, he felt the blood drain from his face.
No. Oh, no, my darling girl.
She was braiding her hair by their small, cracked mirror in the flat.
The walls creaked, the windows were unglazed, and the floorboards were so slanted you could roll an apple down them. They loved it.
"Tom?"
"Yes, love?"
The crinkle of the newspaper echoed throughout the room. He insisted on reading at least two different periodicals, to keep "an unbiased consumption of the media".
"I know it's only been a while since we've wed, but-"
"But?"
She fiddled with the ribbon and then turned to face him. He was reclining on their small, shuddery bed with the bad box spring, and maybe they weren't in the most glamorous of residences and maybe her eyes were a bit tired (she'd been working extra shifts at the hospital), but still, Tom felt a tug in his heart. The same draw she'd always had.
"I'm….I'm pregnant."
"Pregnant?"
His eyes were wide as saucers.
She nodded briskly, toying with her hair again, still not joining him on the bed. She needed reassurance first.
"With…with a child?"
She sighed exasperatedly, but her eyes softened with affection.
"Yes, with a child, Tom. Our child."
She still looked nervous, but once Tom's face broke into a smile, she laughed. She climbed into his arms and laughed until she was gasping for air.
"Da, I promise he's been perfectly honorable. We haven't even kissed, I swear."
"That doesn't mean nothing's happening. It's taken far less for far more to occur, I'll have you know."
"There's a war on, Da. I hardly see him."
He'd have admitted it freely; he was glad Sybil could work at Downton when it was a convalescent home.
He couldn't get by with such little time. One could only deliver so many picnic baskets and messages.
After the Army had rejected him, he couldn't help but wonder what would've happened if he hadn't had that bloody heart murmur.
She certainly wouldn't have been able to walk into the trenches with him.
She wouldn't have been able to visit him, almost daily, to talk about Ireland and Sylvia Pankhurst and religion.
Sometimes, he'd think about reaching out, brushing back a stray curl of dark hair peeking out from beneath her nurse's kerchief. Sometimes he'd almost do it.
But then she'd look up at him through her eyelashes, all innocence and charm, and weight of his feelings, his inopportune timing, her shyness, would hit him like a load of bricks.
He figured he couldn't get her to change her mind if they'd barely even touched.
"Say hello to Grandda, Aidan. Say hello!"
His grandson in his arms waves a fat fist, nearly whacking him in the face with a silver rattle—a gift from his great-aunt, no doubt.
"He's a healthy boy, isn't he? A load of trouble, I'd imagine?"
Aidan crows something that could generously be attributed to as a greeting in response.
His daughter and her husband smile. Bryant reaches over, placing a hand over hers. She strokes it between her own idly, talking about school and work and newspapers, asking towards Aunt Mary and Uncle Matthew, while Bryant watches her, rapt.
He doesn't realize he's stopped smiling until she asks him why.
He takes her aside later, as Charlie (well, he calls him Charlie just to torment him, Sybil's constantly reminding him it's Charles) stops to make sure Aidan's warm and well-swaddled.
"Are you happy, love? Are you all right?"
She smiles, the light from the window falling across her face, and he's transported to a sitting room in 1915, her showing off trousers to the shock of the country.
"Oh, da. I love him so dearly. I can't imagine life without him."
"So you're sure this is what you wanted?"
"From the moment I met him. The war stopped us for a bit, but we're together now. And what was it you always were saying? It all comes down to love. The rest is detail."
She has her father's eyes, his wicked grin when she's up to something. Her hair, her face, her hands, though—-everything about her , really—-they're her mother's.
She's a comfort, a reminder, and a consolation, and he still finds her to be his life's greatest success.
He was so sure he'd turn bitter, but he couldn't look into that child's eyes each day and not feel some semblance of hope.
"Are you quite sure you'll be alright? We don't mean to stay at Aunt Edith's for terribly long. You can always send post to London. And if you're truly lonely, I can tell Aunt Mary to call upon you."
"If you have any mercy in your soul towards your doddering old da, you'd not do that. Don't worry for me, love. I'll be grand."
He kisses her forehead, her cheeks, touches her face. The same three, always, like a blessing. A ritual.
His daughter and her family step out into the sun of Dublin, a triptych.
Mother, father, child.
He can't get to sleep that night. He's tired, so tired, but his mind is whirring with memories.
The mantel is adorned with photos in tarnished, cheap frames. Some are older than others: a lanky schoolboy, a blushing debutante. Their wedding portrait.
He'd begged for them for the longest time, and now his eyes are swimming as he looks at them.
He hasn't cried in a long time.
For the longest while, it was hard not to. Anything could do it: a uniformed nurse, an old Renault, a girl with a marcelled bob. Pamphlets, gloves, ribbons.
The fire is guttering but warm, softly casting light on his face and the brass of the frames.
He's settling in his old chair, cracked leather and an uneven leg. He leans back, straining to remember now.
She wore blue the first time he saw her, the same color she wore when she left his world. Blue to match her eyes, the sky, the sea. A clear blue, fearless, with nary a cloud of doubt.
Her gloves were white, and her cheeks were flushed.
He's aware that his breathing is slowing, his grasp on the armrest loosening, but he's not anxious. He's not anxious at all.
Sunlight filters through the windows of the garage the same way it always did.
The Renault is gone for some reason, and so are his tools, his rags. The floor is clear, and the sun is bouncing softly and slowly across it.
The bench is in the middle.
She sits perched on the edge, like she's ready to leap off, leap into the sky and take flight. Straight into the unknown, brave as ever.
Her dress is simple, a little threadbare, and her hair is loose. She grins up at him mischievously.
"You're late, Branson. I'll admit, I'm quite put out."
He steps toward her confidently. His gait is steady now, his arms strong, His shirt is crisp against his skin and familiar as a bedtime story.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, milady. I had some work to finish."
"Don't we all? In any case, I simply can't let you out of my sight again."
"Were you waiting terribly long?"
She smiles, bright as a sunrise, and his heart lifts, full for the first time in decades.
She glides gracefully up to and towards him.
She tilts her face to his, waiting for a kiss.
"You know me, Branson. I'd wait forever."
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AN: Oh, the tears writing this fic caused me! I needed some serious pain relief after 3x05, and for some reason, Wesley's quote from the Princess Bride popped into my head. (To be fair, it's a very quotable film.)
These star-crossed lovers have been separated by worse things before-and Sybil can wait for Tom, too.
My feelings about Downton overall have changed pretty significantly, but these two will forever remain perfect and painful in my heart.
I don't know if anyone noticed, but yes, little Sybbie's husband is indeed Ethel's son, Charlie! They're so close in age and yet so different in background, I feel it would be a fascinating love story. I have a serious plot bunny in my head of the two of them meeting under Darcy & Elizabeth circumstances-hate, yet attraction, at first sight-and the ordeals that the revelation of Charlie's parentage and WWII would put them through. I'll be writing it when I get the chance; something that enticing can't go unwritten for too long.
Thank you for all the kind comments and reviews! This means so much to me!