Author's note

This story was written as part of the Sybil x Tom fandom Secret Santa fic exchange, convened on Tumblr by repmet (thank you for organising it!).

I received a prompt from crystabelshalott as part of that fic exchange. She requested a Sybil x Tom fic set in an AU based on the BBC TV show "The Hour", with our lovely couple as a pair of crusading TV journalists, fighting to uncover the truth about corruption in the society they live in, while denying the truth of how they feel about each other. I love that show, and the protagonists Bel and Freddy, so needless to say I rubbed my hands in glee at the thought of bringing this idea to life. :)

Crystabelshalott - thank you for the prompt! I hope you enjoy my version of the story you asked for, and I wish you a wonderful Christmas and New Year!

Thank you also to magfreak, who kindly created the fantastic manip I've used as the cover art of this fic.

London, the early 60s

"Stand by, studio. Places please, everyone! Four, three, two, and cue Tony..."

"Good evening, everyone, and welcome to 'The Hour'."

Sybil dropped her hand to her side – they were off and running.

"Miss Crawley, Miss Crawley?"

"Yes, Daisy, what is it?" Sybil turned to see her secretary hurrying into the production booth.

"Call for you on line one."

"Thanks. Hello, Mrs Hughes – Sybil here... Yes, we've got it covered. Tom is ready to roll with that story, he got here about fifteen minutes ago."

She listened intently. "Yes, I'll be sure to let you know. Thanks again for the call."

Putting the phone down, she pretended to wipe her brow, smiling at her colleagues. When the head of BBC News called, she always had to be at the top of her game.

The evening's broadcast went smoothly enough, despite Tom's last minute arrival with the key story in his pocket. Sybil wasn't going to let him off scot free, however.

"Well done, everyone, a great show tonight. Tom?"

"Yes?" He had been heading out the door, on his way to the pub, and turned around at the sound of her voice with a rebellious look on his face.

"I hope I don't need to remind you that arriving with five minutes to spare with the lead story isn't acceptable on this programme! If you try that trick again, I'll cut you and drop in a story of a chimpanzee doing something clever."

"Yes, Miss Crawley, sorry, Miss Crawley," he replied in a singsong voice, perfectly calculated to annoy her. Then he gave her a wink, slung his jacket over his shoulder and began walking away.

Just as she was heading back into her office, he stopped, looking back at her with a smile. "Coming for a drink, Mrs Peel?"

She returned his smile and walked down the corridor to take the arm he had offered her. "Only if you're buying, Mr Steed."

"At the Golden Fingerbowl or any place you go
You'll meet your Uncle Max and everyone you know..."

Sybil and Tom were sitting together on a couch by the wall, heads almost touching, deep in conversation. Gwen approached them, waving a bottle of scotch around. "Who needs a little drinkie?"

"I'll have one, cheers," Tom said, clearly not quite sober himself as he held out his glass. He was turning back to Sybil when another man approached her, brown hair brushed back from his face, confident set to his shoulders.

"Can I tempt you, Miss Crawley?"

"Don't mind if I do." They walked out onto the dance floor.

"Now, come on, you've been avoiding me. What do I have to do to get you to take my phone calls?" he asked, swinging her expertly into a tango as the music blared through the smoke.

"That's not true, I'm not avoiding you. I'm just very happy at the BBC, I'm not interested in moving."

"Ah, but you see – it's my job to find the best, and you are the best. What will it take to get you to jump ship and come and join me at ITV?"

"More than you've got to offer, I'm afraid."

He looked into her eyes, smiling. "I'm patient, I can wait."

When Sybil came back to sit down at the end of the dance, Gwen raised a quizzical eyebrow at her.

"Who was that man you were dancing with? Quite a dish, my dear."

"You know him, don't you? Tom Bellasis, head of current affairs programming at ITV. He's been trying to get me to take a job there, but I love 'The Hour', I don't want to move."

"Ah ha, that explains a lot. But speaking of Tom," Gwen looked around to check who was listening, "did you see the way our Tom was watching you dancing? If looks could kill! I think he has a little crush on you, sweetie."

Sybil couldn't help blushing. "Don't be absurd! We've been friends forever, but he doesn't have those kinds of feelings for me. Not at all."

Gwen drew on her cigarette and narrowed her eyes as she blew out a stream of smoke. "Say what you like – I know what I saw."

Thomas Barrow was holding the phone receiver between his ear and his shoulder as he poured himself a drink.

"And she's also involved with... whom? Oh my word, this is a tricky one, old chap... Don't worry, I'll do my usual cover up, you'll come up smelling of roses. The BBC won't go near this with a ten foot pole, I'll see to that... Let's talk tomorrow about a statement to the House. Meet me in the lounge at ten."

He put down the phone. A sinuous smile curved his lips as he lit a cigarette. I'm always the one they call when it's getting really ugly.

That week's episode of "The Hour" carried a fairly bland statement of goings on in the House of Lords.

"The Secretary of State for War, Lord Merton, has denied any impropriety with the model, Edna Braithwaite, after allegations were made yesterday by an MP in the House of Commons of an affair between the two.

In a personal statement to the House today, Lord Merton, 55, categorically denied the accusations and warned that he would not hesitate to issue writs for libel and slander if the allegations were made outside Parliament.

He said: 'There was no impropriety whatever in my acquaintance with Miss Braithwaite and I have made the statement because of what was said yesterday in the House of Commons by the Honourable Member whose remarks were protected by privilege.'"

"Miss Crawley? It's Mrs Hughes' office on the line. Mr Barrow is here, and they want to see you." William poked his head around her door.

"Thanks. Any idea where Tom is this morning?"

"Sorry, no. I'm only his assistant, he never tells me anything."

"You should try being his producer!"

They shared a rueful grin. Sybil grabbed her suit jacket and left, smoothing her hair as she took the lift to the top floor.

A quick knock – "Come in... Ah, good morning, Sybil. You know Mr Barrow, of course?"

"Yes, of course. Good morning, Mr Barrow. How are things in Westminster?" They shook hands.

"Going swimmingly, as ever." Thomas' smile didn't reach his eyes. "Mind if I smoke, Mrs Hughes?" Without waiting for an answer, he sat down, lit a cigarette and began to speak.

"Just a routine check in. What kind of Government stories are you planning to run in the next few weeks? I want to make sure we're all on the same page."

Sybil pretended to pause for thought – as ever, she had everything at her fingertips, but there was no need to give away too much too soon.

"Well, let's see. There's a new social welfare Bill coming before the House, we're working on a piece about that and how it will impact everyday families in Britain. We've also heard about a new Defence contract on the Clyde, possible sweetheart deal with the unions, so we're following it up. That's about it, I think."

"Nothing more at this stage, then?"

"No, nothing else of much interest."

"Keep it that way, my dear." Thomas stood up, stretching like a cat. "Must dash, no rest for the wicked." He left the two women looking at each other in confusion.

"What on earth was all that about?"

"I have no idea, Mrs Hughes. I know the Government likes to keep tabs on us, but really I have no idea what he had thought we might be covering."

"Have a word with Tom, will you? He may know something, you know what he's like when he gets wind of a scandal."

"Will do. Is there anything else?"

"No, thank you, that's it. Keep me posted." She waved Sybil out.

"Tom – in here, please."

Tom lifted his head from his desk, where he had been typing furiously, and ran his hand through his thick, fair hair which had fallen onto his forehead.

"Now? Can't it wait? I'm right in the middle..." He stopped, seeing her glare, and stood up to come into her office.

"All right, what's so bloody urgent?"

Sybil closed the door behind him and leaned on her desk, ankles crossed, arms folded.

"Have you heard about any scandals brewing in Westminster? Thomas Barrow was in today, acting very secretive, and it all seemed very fishy to me. I thought you might know something."

"Mmm, maybe. There were some rumours about Lord Merton's statement not being completely kosher. I'll do some digging." He absentmindedly picked up a pencil and started chewing it.

"We need to find out more. The Chief Whip owes you a favour or two, time to call one in."

"OK, I'm onto it. Fancy a drink later?"

"No thanks, I'm meeting someone."

"Oh, a hot date, is it, Mrs Peel?" A cheeky grin curved the corners of his mouth.

"Don't be daft, I'm just meeting a man about a dog." Sybil felt flustered. "Anyway, I don't need to account to you for my movements!"

"All right, then – if you say so. Have fun, don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Tom left her office with her pencil in his pocket and a look on his face she couldn't quite explain.

"OK, everyone! Production meeting will now come to order."

Gwen, sitting up the back chain smoking, banged an imaginary gavel and grinned shamelessly.

"Yes, thank you for the contribution from our illustrious foreign correspondent!" Sybil pretended to frown at her friend.

"Now, what's on the list for this week's show? Tony?"

Tony was leaning back in his chair, legs flung out wide, arms folded behind his head.

"Now, come on, Sybil, I've been a bit busy this week with promo shots and public appearances. Mabel is livid about it, I've missed dinner every night this week one way or another. You can't really expect me to be out there finding stories too!"

"God forbid I should expect you to earn the huge salary you get paid!"

He wagged his finger at her in his most patronising manner. "Now, now, be fair, my dear girl. I can't help it if the British public loves me, can I!"

The "cat that got the cream" smirk on his face infuriated her even more. She turned away from him, trying to hold in her feelings, knowing Tony Foyle was the star of the show and that it was her job to keep the "talent" happy.

"Anyone else? Gwen, how about you?"

"I've been hearing rumours about the Soviets being ready to blast a man into space and beat the Americans, so I'm looking into it. There's also something on the wires about troop movements in Cuba, but I'm not sure what's going on there yet."

"Let's run with the space race piece for now, OK?"

Gwen nodded, lighting another cigarette.

"All right then. Tom?"

"I've got something I'm working on. A bit hush hush for now. Should know more soon." He held a finger to the side of his nose.

"Are you serious? This is the production meeting, nothing's hush hush here!"

"If I told you, I might have to kill you," he deadpanned.

"Really, sometimes I could wring your neck, you're absolutely infuriating! All right, you've got until tomorrow afternoon to brief me in full. In full, mind you!"

He tugged his forelock – "Whatever you say, milady."

"Tom?"

"Yes?"

"Bugger off."

Tom was working late that evening when the phone rang.

"Take my advice, Branson. Drop this story, and drop it now, if you know what's good for you. Consider yourself warned. I won't tell you again."

The phone went dead.

Tom knocked on Sybil's office door late the following night.

"Got a minute?"

"Barely. I'm trying to get ready for a budget meeting in the morning, and these numbers are making no sense."

"It's important, Sybil." For once, there was no joke in his eyes, and she knew he meant it.

"Come in, take a seat."

He sat down, but he couldn't stay still, knee jogging up and down.

"Well, what is it?"

"I've stumbled into Pandora's box with this Merton thing. Christ!" He ran a hand through his hair, and she was surprised to see it shaking.

"What is it? You know you can tell me anything."

He looked up at her, blue eyes troubled, and she felt her heart give a strange, trembling beat.

"It's huge. If we were to break this story, we could lose our jobs. Hell, the entire show could be pulled off the air..."

Sybil crouched down in front of Tom, taking his hand and looking into his face. "That's what we do. That's what you and I have always done together, you know that. Tell the truth, without fear or favour, whatever the consequences. It's our responsibility, Mr Steed."

He lifted his other hand to her face, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, eyes locking with hers. "I know, Mrs Peel. But this... well, it could impact someone close to you, too."

"Who?"

"Your father."

She hesitated a moment. Very few people at the show knew of her connection to the Prime Minister, and she preferred to keep it that way.

"That doesn't matter. Yes, he is my father, but if something is wrong in the government he leads, the people have a right to know. After all, he's accountable to them. That's in the job description."

Tom's hand was still resting on her cheek, warm against her skin. Sybil found herself leaning into his touch for a moment before she realised what she was doing. Then, she broke his gaze and stood up.

He cleared his throat. "OK, here it is, you asked for it. Lord Merton's statement to the House was a lie, and I can prove it. He did have an affair with that model."

"You have evidence for that?"

"Yes, William and I found it. We staked out the girl's flat and got pictures of him with her. But that's not the worst of it."

"There's more?" Her eyes were wide.

"He's not her only lover. We also saw her with Igor Kuragin, the Soviet diplomat and suspected spy."

"Oh, my God! So if Lord Merton told Miss Braithwaite any State secrets..."

Sybil couldn't finish her sentence, thinking of the ramifications of what she had just learned. Tom was right – this was by far the biggest story that had ever come their way.

This could bring down the Government.

"You need to keep investigating this. We need to bring out the truth of this story."

"Yes, you're right. As usual." He stood up.

As he was walking towards the door, his hand brushed against her hip. Trying to move away from him, she slipped. Instinctively, she grabbed for his shoulder and looked up at him. His arms came around her and that same fluttering beat of her heart made her blush.

An endless moment passed – Tom still holding Sybil, his unfathomable eyes still fixed on hers. This time, it was he who looked down and pulled back abruptly.

They both laughed awkwardly, trying to break the tension.

"So, are we clear on what we are doing?"

"Aye, aye, cap'n." He gave her a mock salute.

"Be careful, won't you?"

"Always."

Sybil was pacing back and forth in Gwen's office.

"Where the hell is he? It's only half an hour till we go on air. He's meant to be doing this bloody interview with Lord Merton, he set the whole thing up!"

Gwen leaned forward in her chair, pouring herself a drink as she did so. "Don't worry, you know what Tom's like. Sometimes he cuts it a bit fine, but he'll be here!"

"I know, I know. But I've got a bad feeling... Maybe I should brief Tony, just in case."

Sybil poked her head out the door. "Daisy, can you find Tony for me, please?"

"Right away, Miss Crawley."

Tony appeared in a few minutes. "What's up?"

"I might need you to cover this Lord Merton interview. Come with me to my office, I'll talk you through it." Sybil stood up and looked across at Gwen. "Let me know if you hear from him, won't you?"

Forty minutes later, with still no sign of Tom, they were broadcasting live, and ready to go with the interview of the year.

Tony was, as ever, cool and calm as he introduced the story. "We're joined in the studio this week by Lord Merton..."

Tony can handle this, thank God, but where the hell is Tom?

A few minutes in, just after Tony had confronted their guest about his statement to the House, the phone rang. Sybil picked it up herself.

"You've got to take this interview off the air. The head of the BBC has pulled the plug. Stop it, stop it now, for goodness' sake!"

"But Mrs Hughes, we talked about this story. This is what 'The Hour' is all about. This is what we do!" She struck the desk with her free hand as she spoke.

"If it were up to me... but it's not. This is way above my pay grade now. Take it off!"

Sybil took a deep breath. "I'm really sorry, but I can't do that. I won't do it. If you want it off, you're going to have to do it yourself."

She put the phone down, with a rueful smile on her face – There goes my career! – just as William came racing into the production booth, his face white.

"Sybil! For God's sake, you've got to come with me!"

"What is it? You're scaring me!"

"It's Tom, I just found him outside... he's hurt, badly hurt."

She felt her heart turn over in her chest, and she had to gasp for air – somehow, she'd forgotten how to breathe. Then, without a backward glance, she ran downstairs after William, chanting to herself. Please God, let him be all right. I will do anything as long as he is all right, please God...

Sybil found Tom in the car park, lying on his back, badly beaten. One of his eyes was swollen shut, his jaw was bruised and blood was pouring down his face from a cut on his cheekbone. His arm lay at a funny angle, and he was barely breathing.

"Heaven knows what kind of internal injuries he's suffered!" William had knelt at his boss' side.

She barely heard him. "Tom, Tom, can you hear me? Can you hear me?"

No answer.

"William, what happened, what happened to him!" Her face was distraught.

"I don't know, I haven't got a clue. I just found him lying here like this when I popped outside for a breath of air a few minutes ago. Looks like someone dumped him out of a car – see, tyre tracks."

"Has anyone called an ambulance?"

"On the way. Police, too."

Sybil grasped Tom's hand, pressing it to her lips and then her breast, tears pouring down her cheeks.

"Tom, please, listen to me. You're going to be all right, I promise. I'm here, I won't leave you, I'll never leave you..."

To be continued...

A/N -

Part 2 will come soon, as I don't want to keep you in suspense for too long over Christmas!

A couple of notes:

As you may have guessed, the political scandal at the heart of this story is based on the Profumo affair in the early 60s, where the British Secretary of State for War, John Profumo (in a statement very close to the one I used above), initially denied romantic involvement with a young woman, Christine Keeler, who was also seeing a Soviet naval attaché, Captain Yevgeny Ivanov, at the time. You'll see some of the aftereffects of this scandal in the second chapter of this story.

As mentioned, I love "The Hour", so I kept a couple of the motifs of the show in this story:

- I used the nicknames - Freddy and Bel call each other James and Moneypenny in "The Hour", which I love, so I chose (with help from Mr CM) the lead characters from the 60s British TV show "The Avengers", Mr Steed and Mrs Peel, as nicknames for Tom and Sybil to call each other, as they seemed very much in the same spirit as the original.

- I also used the poem "somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond" by e.e. cummings, which is a part of Freddy and Bel's love story in "The Hour" (check youtube for the video called "Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands" where Freddy quotes it to Bel), as the source of the title of this fic.