A/N: the majority of the Branson stories that I've been working on for the past few months have been one angst-ridden train after another, or they're full of incredibly delicate scenes that force me to really concentrate on writing. This, on the other hand, was written in one sitting after I actually saw the Oxford "First Kiss" video a few months ago, and then I found it hiding on my desktop at last. It's a fluffy little bit of stuff, and I dedicate it to all my fellow Branson fans who have stayed so loyally by my side. You know who you are xxx

Enjoy!

The sun was barely yawning its way over the horizon when Tom left the gym, and the air was still chilly. A bitter October wind snapped at his cheeks, and he zipped his hoodie up to his chin, shivering. Droplets of hair were dancing merrily down his neck as though enjoying freezing on his skin, and the weather seemed to have woken up in a bad mood, for the sky promised heavy rain and no chance of any warmth. There were times when he really loathed attending university in England.

Trainers squelching in the grass, he started across the lawn towards the lights of the dining hall, glimmering in the distance. His stomach was whining like a kicked puppy, and his mind was full of thoughts of hot coffee when another body collided with his side. He yelped at the impact.

"Tommy, my man, where've you been?"

"Morning, Thomas." he groaned in response, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand. Thomas Barrow chuckled, looping an arm around the shorter man's neck and tousling his hair.

"Early bird gets the worm, huh?"

"I was training." Tom replied. "Rowing starts in a few weeks."

Thomas wrinkled his nose. "You smell of chlorine. Were you swimming?"

"Yeah, and the pool was bloody freezing."

"It's not in the afternoon—you know, that time of day when sane people train."

"And the time of day when it's most crowded."

"You just like getting up at the crack of dawn, you mad bastard." Thomas scoffed, relaxing his grip on Tom's throat and letting his arm hang around his mate's shoulder. Tom shrugged.

"Can't seem to kick the habit."

"Try harder, it's a bad one. You look half-dead."

"Full of compliments as ever, I see." Tom rolled his eyes. "Didn't you say last week that you were going to try to be nicer to people?"

"Only in Drama class." Thomas corrected him.

"Right—only where you can impress a certain blond with your charms, huh?"

Thomas groaned. "Never should've told you about him, there's no living with you these days."

"You're a coward, do you know that?" Tom elbowed him in the ribs. "You like the guy! Go and talk to him once in a while!"

"Too obvious. I like to be mysterious." Thomas swung his arm back to his side and began to dig around in his shoulder bag, brow furrowed. Tom groaned inwardly. It had been two months since Thomas had pointed out the slim, golden-haired object of his affections, and the dark-haired smoker was still no closer to making a move, despite the fact that his crush was wildly popular with both the men and women of Oxford. He hadn't been attached to anyone yet, but it surely wouldn't be long, with his sunny looks and lopsided smirk.

"If you're too mysterious, he'll be snapped up before you even learn his name." Tom remarked, voice forcibly casual. Thomas didn't answer, but the crease between his eyebrows furrowed all the more. Tom bit the inside of his cheek. It wasn't like Thomas to be nervous about approaching boys; usually, he was all swagger and cocky smirk, and they jumped at the chance to so much as hold his hand. Why he was suddenly so tongue-tied about a pretty blond boy was a mystery, and it rankled Tom like a sore tooth. "Thomas—"

"Ah, shut up about it for a minute. I'm being nice, remember?" Thomas bared his teeth in a forced grin. "I'm devoting my morning to your love life, now thank me for it, damn your eyes."

"My love life?"

"It's a joke, Tom. When did you last go out with a girl? Or a boy—has your taste changed?"

Tom snorted. "September. I took Bridget Mahoney to the cinema."

"And Bridget Mahoney didn't even kiss you for it." Thomas rolled his eyes. "You need some TLC, my friend."

"Why do you care about my love life all of a sudden?"

"You're my best mate!"

"And therefore I know that you're an opportunist who never does anything for anyone unless there's some sort of reward involved." Tom planted his feet and folded his arms, raising one eyebrow at his friend.

Thomas slapped a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Tommy boy!"

"Spare the dramatics and just tell me what you want."

Thomas bit his lip. "Fine. You know the "First Kiss" video?"

"The what?"

Thomas stared. "When were you last online?"

"Last night, reading The Guardian."

"I'm not talking about newspapers, I'm talking about YouTube!"

Tom shrugged.

"Twitter? Tumblr? Facebook?" Thomas' eyes grew wider and wider with each shake of Tom's head. "Holy shit, I didn't realize you switched majors to Professional Hermit!"

"I've been incredibly busy this past month—"

"Details of your sordidly incorruptible life do not interest me." Thomas snapped. "The "First Kiss" video documents pairs of strangers kissing for the first time, and since it was uploaded, every university in the world has started copying it."

"Including Oxford?"

"We planned it yesterday in Film; everyone's going to try and document as many as possible—"

"No, oh, please no."

"Come on, please?"

"No!" Tom resumed his pace towards the dining hall. "I can't believe anyone would agree to that, no!"

"You need some—"

"Having some stranger's tongue halfway down my throat is not TLC, you git! No, I won't do it!" Tom sped up, leaving his friend behind. He heard a long-suffering sigh behind him.

"Oh, Tommy…I didn't want to have to do this."

"Do what?" He whirled on his heel to see Thomas shaking his head, mouth drooping, as he reached into the pocket of his hoodie. "What are you—"

His jaw plummeted as Thomas waved the contents of his hand in the air. "Are those…those aren't…"

"Two tickets to the U2 concert next week? Yes, my boy, I'm afraid they are."

"How the hell did you get those? They're sold out!"

"Ah, yes, well, you remember that ginger I had a fling with, a few months ago?"

Tom frowned. "Alfred Nugent? The intern?"

"The very same. Sweet boy. Well, he's working for the McHann Concert Hall just now, and I may have rung him up last night."

"And he just gave those two you?"

"Well, I might've mentioned that I was planning to attend, and couldn't wait to see him. I might've proposed sneaking into his ticket manager's box for a snog. And he might've audibly retched at the idea and promised me two tickets if I'd come 'with another freak', rather than ruin his precious reputation."

Tom's stomach twisted. "Did that bastard actually say that?"

"Oh, yeah. He'll claim he's straight until his dying day, even though I'm still cleaning my blue sheets after he came all over them—anyway, the point is, I've got tickets to a show. And since I'm currently single, I'd give the second ticket to my best mate…"

"If I kiss a random stranger."

"We'll make sure she hasn't any infectious diseases!"

Tom's face fell into his hands. "Oh, God, I hate you."

"Go to confession this minute, you blasphemer."

"You're grinning. I can hear you grinning." Tom informed his palms.

"Like the Chesire Cat."

"If you ever actually read Carroll, I'm a monkey's uncle." Sighing, Tom straightened. "Alright, you prat. I'll do it."

"HA!" Punching the air, Thomas slung his arm through Tom's and yanked him onward. "C'mon then! No time like present!"

"Stope whining, it's your own goddamned fault that your feet hurt." Thomas snapped, flipping his fringe off his forehead and glowering at the muddy-colored sky overhead. "How do you know everyone on this campus?"

"I'm in a lot of clubs." Tom groaned, leaning against the wall of the library. He shifted his weight from right to left, trying to relieve the ache in his feet.

"Tell me about it. Damn you for being such an outgoing bastard." Thomas grumbled. "Four hours, and not a single stranger for you to kiss."

Tom let his head fall back against the wall. They'd walked all over the campus, first for an hour after what had to be the fastest breakfast ever eaten by a human being, then for three hours once their classes ended for the day, through spitting rain and permanent chilliness. His socks were soaked through, his stomach was complaining again, and he was desperate for a cup of tea. He rolled his gaze sideways; Thomas' eyeliner was running, and his shoulders were slumped.

"Come on." he said, heaving himself upright. "Let's go back. I'll make some tea, and we can watch Doctor Who for the rest of the night."

"Yeah, let's." Thomas sighed. "Tennant may be able to assuage my disappointment."

"Whenever you start talking like a nob, I know you need sugar." Tom pulled his friend off the wall and in the direction of the dorms. "We'll get something at the dining hall."

The two men trudged along the pavement, around the corner, and towards their initial starting point across the lawn from the dining hall. They were passing the front doors of the library when a voice hailed them.

"Hi, Thomas."

The dark-haired man didn't even raise his gaze from his feet, just lifted two fingers in an exhausted salute. Tom trudged onwards. What'll I have for dinner…Thai? No, I had Thai on Wednesday…Chinese? Chinese might be good…

"How about Chinese tonight?" he inquired. When there was no answer, he turned.

Thomas had stopped in the middle of the pavement. His entire posture had transformed; he stood erect, head up, eyes suddenly afire with excitement. When Tom raised an eyebrow, Thomas beckoned him back with rapid fluttering of the hands. Tom returned to have his arm seized and was swung rapidly around to face the front doors of the library.

"Tom Branson, Sybil Crawley." Thomas exclaimed, frog-marching them towards the young woman sitting cross-legged on the broad stone border of the steps. "I don't believe you've met."

"Oh, good God." Tom mumbled under his breath.

Sybil looked up at the sound of her name. She was halfway through a passage detailing the precise nature of a gangrene-infected knee, and was wrestling to keep her lunch inside her stomach. It was jarring to see Thomas grinning like a maniac, striding towards her with one hand wrapped firmly around the forearm of the man beside him.

"Sorry?" she asked, rubbing her forehead. She could feel knots tying themselves together beneath her temples. Her eyes were smarting after three sleepless nights, and her stomach ached. She wanted to go back to bed, curl up under the covers with a pound or two of chocolate, and cry over some God-awful romance movie. But tomorrow, Dr. Clarkson would be bringing the first-year medical students before an untouched cadaver and expect them to be able to correctly identify all parts of the body's muscles, tendons, major veins, bones, and organs, as well as the cause of death. She had no time for self-pity, and certainly no time for Mother Nature's sadism, so she'd hauled herself off to the library this morning and was making do with yoga pants and a Thermos full of tea.

"This is Tom Branson, my best mate." Thomas announced, pulling the other forwards. Sybil pulled her lips upwards in a smile and reached down from her perch to shake hands.

"Sybil Crawley. Pleasure."

"Likewise." His fingers grasped hers, and her eyes, which had been sneakily eyeing her book, shot upwards as sudden warmth flooded her skin. Oooh…

He was a few inches shorter than Thomas, and clad in worn jeans and a grey hoodie. His skin was sprinkled with a few cinnamon-colored freckles, locks of shaggy hair the color of dark honey fell over his forehead. His eyes sparkled like midnight stars, the brightest blue she'd ever seen.

"Tom here has a…a proposition for you, Syb."

"Oi, don't pin this one on me." Tom protested, elbowing Thomas and releasing Sybil's hand. Her fingers shivered, cold. "It was his idea." he informed her, looking up at her with those brilliant eyes, then back at his mate. "Go on. You tell her."

"Ugh, fine." Thomas smiled at Sybil, sweet as a cobra. "How're you, Syb? Bit tired?"

"Is it that obvious?" she quipped.

"Your hair gave it away."

"My hair?"

"It's flat." Thomas raised a knowing eyebrow. "That means it hasn't touched a pillow in a few days. Have you been spending a few nights at the library?"

"Guilty as charged." Sybil shoved a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The usually sprightly curls hung limp and defeated. "I'm too busy for a nap."

"Lord, you're just like Tom here." Thomas shoved Tom's shoulder, playful. "Up at the crack of dawn, he was, and off to the gym to train—he's on the rowing team, don'cha know—didn't even have breakfast…isn't that impressive?"

"If you're planning to get me to go on a sympathy date, you can save your breath. I'm going to ace this test tomorrow, then I'm sleeping straight through the weekend." she said firmly.

"Nope, it's better than that!" Thomas grinned.

"Worse." Tom insisted. He offered a conciliatory smile at Sybil. "Um, do you know the "First Kiss" video?"

She nodded; Gwen, a grinning, bubbly mix of strangers-kissing-induced emotions, had forced it upon her last Tuesday.

"Well, Thomas is trying to recreate it."

"Come again?"

"He's trying to recreate it. Here. At Oxford."

Blood flew into her cheeks. "What?"

"That sounds exactly like what you said this morning!" Thomas moaned, shoving Tom's shoulder. "Why is everyone so opposed to the idea of kissing a stranger?"

"One, infectious diseases. Two, gross. Three, personal boundaries. Four, common courtesy and self-respect. Five—"

"Rhetorical question, Syb." Thomas snapped. He glowered at her, then swung his burning gaze toTom. "Come on, you two!"

"I don't want to." Sybil snapped. "I don't like forced intimacy, and this is the most intimate thing to do in public—"

"Well—"

"Shut up, Thomas, it's the most intimate thing you can do without being arrested, and it seems uncomfortable and awkward, and frankly, I know you've never had to worry about this, but we girls have to worry about being groped by strangers when we walk down the street, let alone this! No, you're insane, I won't do it."

"Oh, please." Thomas begged. "It's a contest in Film to see who can get the most couples on film, and the prize is fifty pounds, and I'm flat broke, please."

"NO."

"Syb—"

"No." She gazed narrow-eyed at Tom. "You can go get your quick thrills somewhere else."

"That's not why I'm doing this!"

"Oh, really?"

"I'm…" Color flooded his cheeks. "I…I love U2."

"You—what?"

"Thomas has two tickets to the U2 concert next week, and he'll give me one if I do this."

"You're doing this for a concert ticket?"

"Listen, I've never seen a concert, ever, and U2 is my favorite band. This is practically a once-in-a-lifetime chance for me, and yeah, I'll kiss a stranger if I have to."

"A stranger?" Sybil could feel herself starting to grin. "Not even a stranger girl—you'd kiss a strange man?"

"For U2, anything." he declared, hand held over heart in a dramatic pose. A snigger escaped her mouth.

"Live a little, Syb?" Thomas pleaded, batting his eyes. Her smile disappeared; he was smiling ever so slightly, as if to say 'we got her!'.

"The inherent subjugation of women to the roles of men's sexual playthings as exemplified in the setting of a man asking a strange woman for a kiss and she feeling obliged to accept is not an opportunity to 'live a little'." Sybil hissed, glaring at the two men. Thomas actually shrank backwards, wincing. Tom's eyes widened.

"Damn." he whispered after a long moment of silence. Sybil's gaze flew back to him. A tiny smile curved the corner of his mouth. "You're incredible, Sybil Crawley."

She lifted one eyebrow. "Because I refuse to be objectified like this?"

"No, because you speak your mind. It's impressive, not many people do." He took a step closer. "Sybil, I swear to you that I respect you more than I can describe in one sentence, that I find you admirable beyond description, and that I shall convey my regards physically in the most gentlemanly way possible."

She lifted one eyebrow. He held up both hands in surrender. "I will only touch your head, waist, and back; nowhere else. I give you my word."

Oh, Lord, I must be insane to even consider this! She lifted her chin. "I have neither showered nor slept in a bed in three days. I just finished drinking black tea, and I'm a mess in every sense of the word."

He snorted. "You're gorgeous, don't be ridiculous. I'm a sopping mess; I've been rained on all day."

"Oh, you're stunning, don't be ridiculous." she parroted. There was a distinctly warm blush rising in her chest—he'd called her gorgeous. Oh, what are you, twelve?

She tapped her chin faux-seriously, weighing her options. On the con side of the list, there was objectification, possible humiliation, her crippling self-esteem due to her distinctly unappealing appearance, and the possibility that Tom Branson was not a man of his word. On the pro side, there was the possibility of a bit of fun, the fact that he'd signed himself up for any discomfort—he'd seen her, after all, and was still gung ho—her fairly impressive skills as a kisser, and her martial arts training—just in case. And he was ridiculously attractive. And clearly intelligent. And looking incredibly fit in his post-workout, rain-soaked state.

"Oh, what the hell." she sighed, slapping her book shut. Uncrossing her legs, she stretched out her cramped limbs.

"Can I lend a hand?" Tom asked, holding his arms up to her. She reached for his hands, but he placed both on her waist and smoothly lifted her down and onto her feet. She could feel shoulder muscles flexing beneath her hands.

"Oh, smooth." Thomas remarked. Tom rolled his eyes.

"Set up the camera and stop giving us marks, Thomas."

"Fine, Casanova." Rolling his own eyes, Thomas opened the straps of his bag and withdrew stand and camera. Sybil focused her gaze on his hands as he erected the stand, trying not to shift her weight. Her palms felt sweaty, mouth dry. Standing straight, head up, she was only a few inches shorter than Tom. She left her hands draped loosely upon his shoulders, and his stayed, soft and warm, on her waist. His breaths were warm on her cheek. Her head spun, and she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek.

"So, how has your day been?" he inquired, voice light.

Her head swung around and she blinked at him. "Sorry?"

"Go easy on me, there's no guidebook for casual conversation at these moments." he said with a shrug.

"I believe the classic course of action is whispering sweet nothings in my ear." she quipped.

"Remind me to try that next time."

"Will do…Casanova."

"Oi, not you too!" he whined as Thomas snorted with laughter. "And hush, you moron!"

Sniggering, Thomas switched on the camera, and Sybil felt her stomach flip upside-down at the glowing blue light on the front of it.

"Alright, whenever you're ready." he said. Sybil swallowed.

"Ready?" Tom asked. His voice was soft, and it sent velvety shivers down her spine.

She thrust her chin up and met his gaze unflinching. "Indeed."

She waited for his lips to descend to hers…but they didn't. instead, his left hand lay soft on her waist while his right reached up. Two fingers stroked her chin softly, then tipped it up. Her eyelids slid shut as her chin rose, and he pressed his mouth to hers.

Oh. Soft. Warm. Smooth. She inhaled, and his smell of chlorine, honey, tea, paper, oil—oil?—made her head spin. She pressed her lips to his, harder, wanting more. When his lips refused to move, and the only movement from him was an abrupt expanding of his chest—oh, yum—as he breathed in, she slid her hand from his shoulder to his neck, wrapped her fingers in the neckline of his sweatshirt, and yanked him closer to her. Her other hand slid up into his hair, parting the wet strands and trailing her nails over his scalp until he shuddered. His arms flew around her waist, pulling her tight against his chest, his mouth opened—oh, so hot and wet and delicious!—and he pulled her lower lip between his teeth. A moan escaped her as she kissed him back, mouthing his upper lip, tracing it with her tongue, wrapping a desperate arm around his shoulders and tugging on his hair. Closer. Come on, closer.

He obeyed her silent plea; his hand slid up her back to pull the knot of her hair free of its bun and down around her neck. His grip was desperate, his tongue slipping eagerly between her teeth and stroking the roof of her mouth, and she whined. Calloused fingers stroked the smooth skin of the nape of her neck and she wriggled closer, holding him tight.

"Ahem."

The blurry back of her mind recognized Thomas' huffy cough even as she ran her fingernails over Tom's scalp again and twisted her head to suck his tongue deeper into her mouth. He was more than happy to oblige. His hand traced her back from shoulder-blades to hips in smooth, warm strokes that mimicked the movement of that truly incredible tongue.

A piercing wolf-whistle cut through her mind, but she only wrapped both arms around Tom's neck. Her chest was burning with lack of oxygen, but she stubbornly held on, dropping a peck on his lower lip before finally, reluctantly, pulling away. When her eyes opened, she was staring directly up into glazed ice-blue orbs. His chest was heaving against hers, his lips bruised and deep red, glistening. His hair was thoroughly, delightfully ruffled, and his arm was tight as steel around her waist. His grin matched her own.

"For the record," she said, made bold by the dazed expression on his face. "I enjoyed that."

"Funnily enough, I think I got that message loud and clear." he rasped. With difficulty, he removed his fingers from her hair and traced them along the lines of her cheek instead. "And I know I enjoyed it as well."

"Really?" It seemed ridiculous to ask, when his pupils were darkening more with every second he held her, but she took immense pleasure in the speed of his nod.

"Well, ahem." He straightened somewhat, cleared his throat, but didn't let go of her. She didn't release him. "Miss Sybil Crawley, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, indeed."

She blushed bright red. His grin was crooked, blissfully lopsided and wonderfully cheeky.

"It's Lady Crawley, actually." Thomas piped in.

"Lady?" Tom's eyebrows skyrocketed.

"No." Sybil said firmly. "Well…no, I'm not discussing that. Right now. Not now. No, definitely not now, no—"

"You're babbling." he remarked unhelpfully, smiling.

"Well, my brain's a bit scrambled at the moment, do excuse me!"

His lips curled upwards in a genuine smile. Dropping his head, he knocked his forehead gently against hers. His nose brushed hers. "So's mine."

And just when she thought she couldn't blush any redder…

"Well, Sybil Crawley, would you do me the honor of allowing me to make your acquaintance more…thoroughly?"

"Thoroughly?"

"I was thinking of come method involving coffee…a bookstore…conversation?"

Her heart leapt upwards, pulling a smile into her cheeks. "Were you?"

"Mmm-hmmm." His fingertips tickled her jawline. "After your test tomorrow, of course."

"Wow." Slipping free of his arms, she stood on tiptoe to retrieve her book and notebook, tucked her pen behind her ear, and crammed her phone into the pocket of her overlarge sweater. "Smart, a very talented kissed, interested in actual dates, and considerate."

"Amazing that he's still single, isn't it?" Thomas remarked from behind the camera.

"You forgot to mention my good lucks." Tom quipped, offering Sybil his arm. She couldn't contain the grin spreading across her cheeks.

"So I did."

"You shouldn't even bother—you're the good-looking one in this pair." Tom said firmly, flicking the tip of her nose with his forefinger. "And the smart one…and the excellent kisser."

"Enough, I'm getting a cavity just listening to you." Thomas groaned. Tom smiled vaguely at him.

"Enjoy Doctor Who tonight, Thomas. I'm buying Sybil Crawley a cup of coffee and a snack, then I shall remain at her command for the rest of the evening's activities."

"I hope you're flexible, then." Thomas said, rolling his eyes. "Because I've seen her in yoga, and my God—"

"And why should we be flexible when studying very hard for a very important exam, Thomas?" Tom demanded through his teeth. His eyes were narrowed in a warning.

"I think I've discovered a new euphemism." Sybil winked at Thomas, grinning as Tom's cheeks flushed. His body, pressed lightly against her side, hardened.

"Come on, I'm getting you away from Thomas before we enter the cheaply crude section of the conversation." he said, pulling her onwards. As they passed the camera, he slipped his hand into Thomas' pocket, withdrew two slips of paper, and waved them before Sybil's nose. "What do you think—next Friday, McHann Hall, U2?"

"And when I go there, I'll go there with you." she said with a wink. Thomas slammed his forehead against the camera. Quickening their strides, Tom Branson and Sybil Crawley strode down along the pavement through the spitting rain towards—Chinese? Gangrene? Doctor Who, U2, and coffee dates? And oh, so very much more!

A/N: see, this is (sort of) what we could have had, if not for the damned Fellowes. Look what a magnificent couple you destroyed, you evil overlord! LOOK!

Thank God for fanfiction, or we'd have gone collectively insane by Season Two. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this little excursion into the Branson-centric corner of my brain! Reviews are much appreciated!