five conversations Sybil Crawley had in a graveyard (and one she didn't)

(Branson dies in an accident in 1916; Sybil knows he can always be found in the Downton churchyard. AU, 6 drabbles.)

i.

Sybil's never really liked words. Always actions; she writes the book of her life in gestures and pantomime, trousers worn and votes raised. Words are like water, too changeable.

(Save for something furtive in their glances and a perfunctory hand, into and out of the motor car, they never had anything but words.)

But what good are deeds to her? The things she would have done do not signify, for he is interred. She cannot fold herself up in his arms.

The words spill out of her in a cataract.

"Tom Branson," she sighs, "You fool. You great, noble fool."

ii.

She is hesitant, avoiding looking at both him and his grave. "I'm going to be leaving soon. Cousin Isobel has arranged for me to take a nursing course. In York."

He puts his hands in his pockets, and looks down. "How long will you be gone?"

"Two months. I'll be home with the wildflowers."

"It'll be quiet here."

"Silent as the grave?" Sybil says, too quickly.

Branson looks at her, as though she is the one who's impossible and translucent. "Best of luck. Milady."

She turns to leave, but halts on the path, and faces him. "I will miss you."

iii.

"I'm learning to drive," she says, laying the small wildflowers on the grave, "When I have time. It's not very frequent; I've been working so many shifts."

He walks up behind her; she flushes, whispers quickly, "I accidentally scratched the Renault today."

"She's not mine to drive anymore," he says, nothing save acceptance in his voice.

Sybil protests. "I'll always think of that Renault as your car. I made Papa keep her."

There's mischief in the corners of his mouth, as he smiles at her loyalty. "And how do you like driving?"

"Exciting."

"And?"

"Terrifying, at times."

They laugh together.

iv.

"I just want to talk, Tom."

(Tell me stories, stories that will not make me so sad, he hears her saying.)

"Daisy was here today," he begins, leaning back against his mossy marker, "Old Mr. Mason was with her."

"Are they – are they reconciled?"

"I think so."

"Poor girl," Sybil sighs, no stranger to her plight.

Branson knows better the edge that has made little Daisy Mason suffer, but won't disillusion her. Her sad look reminds him of her injunction.

"William was a good man," he begins his story, "And I'll never forget the day he struck Thomas down …"

v.

"I'm going away," she confesses, "For good. The war is over, the patients are gone. I won't spend my life in this place."

He nods, looks at his boot-toes, and at the winter's bleakness.

"There are great things to be done," he responds, "You were always too big for your family's house."

Sybil swallows her sadness, owns her reality. "I shall miss our conversations. Every day. I wish you could go places, with me."

If it means freedom and good works, I hope I do not see you for a long while, he thinks as he watches her walk away.

vi.

Sybil looks down at the disheveled soil, the fresh-dug grave. Her eyes are bright and spirit effulgent.

"What happens next?" she asks, "You've been dead for years. What am I to do with myself?"

"I've only been here since 1916, milady," he laughingly protests.

"You decided to stay. You must know how to leave, if you chose to remain."

He reaches for her hand. It's been thirty-five years, but he's as nervous as he was that fine August day, artlessly grinning at the Earl of Grantham's daughter.

"Let us go, then," he says. "There are great things to be done."