So Close
By: piperholmes
A/N So all the spoilers have just about made my head fly off my body. I can't tell you all the fanfic ideas that have been bouncing around in my head. This was an idea I had at the beginning of the summer and would have loved to turn it into a multi-chapter story but with real life I know I'd never have the time to write it. So when I saw the scene from the trailer (the tearful embrace/amazingly intense kiss scene) I figured I could turn my idea into a sort of "spoiler speculation prequel." Which I'm sure makes no sense but I should have been in bed two hours ago (my babies are going to be up early!) but I've been trying to get this finished since Wednesday of last week and just decided to push through. As you can imagine this is NOT beta'd.
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Pablo Neruda
"An urgent telegram for you Mr. Branson," Carson's deep, resentful voice whispered in the young man's ear, startling him.
Tom turned from his dinner plate to see a ridiculously oversized silver tray baring a small folded piece of paper nearly shoved under his nose. For a moment he could only stare at it, his breathing deepening as his stomach tightened. Receiving a telegram while visiting his wife's ancestral home couldn't possibly carrying good news.
His hesitation was beginning to draw attention, most significantly from his wife who sat across and down from him. For the first time in his life he was grateful for the aristocracy's incomprehensible practice of having a married couple sit as far away from each other as possible at the dining table. He fought the urge to tug at the neck tie his sister-in-law's new husband, Matthew, had loaned him. Mr. Carson raised a bushy eyebrow at him, frowning. Tom reached out as quickly as he could to snatch the scrap of paper, hoping no one saw the way his fingers shook.
"Thank you Mr. Carson," he managed to force out and, turning to the occupants of the table, quietly excused himself, purposefully avoiding his wife's observant and concerned blue eyes. She knew. She knew what that tiny folded piece of paper represented.
Heading out into the main floor of the huge house Tom faltered, the paper burning his skin, realizing he wasn't sure where he was heading. He had no real safe haven to escape to, not here, not where his worlds collided in spectacular fashion. His wife was his only refuge but until he knew the contents of the telegram, he refused to allow himself to hide in her embrace. Instead, he slipped into the library and broke the seal on his fate.
Stoically he returned to the table, ignoring the curious looks, and mechanically began picking at his food. It tasted of dust, clogging his throat, striving to choke him. He could feel her willing him to look at her, but he was too afraid to give himself away. The tenuous hold on his world wouldn't be able to withstand her tender, imploring look.
The conversation at the table buzzed around him distantly, nothing making sense, as if he were buried deep underwater. Believing himself considered rather insignificant among the grands seated at the table, he was therefore surprised to hear the rich American voice of Sybil's grandmother cut through the chaos, "Not bad news I hope Tom?"
He was so surprised by the inquiry, so used to being ignored, that as he looked up he knew he failed to hide his anguish for a moment, but it was long enough.
"Surely it can't be that bad?" Mrs. Levinson pressed.
"Tom, what is it? What's happened?" Sybil demanded, seizing the opportunity her grandmother's inquiry had presented.
Finally looking to his wife he could only shake his head, still not sure how he was even going to tell her. He clenched his jaw to keep his words in, being overwhelmed with the secret poisoning his mind. It was too late for that though. He could see the change in her body, the pressing of her lips, the tensing of her fingers on the fork and knife she still held.
Could he do this to her? Here? She would need her family, his family too now, their family. For one insane moment he felt like laughing at the absurdity of the thought: the Crawleys; his family.
"We'll discuss it later," he told her, surprised at how strong and calm his voice sounded when his insides were screaming.
He should have known his command would be met with a stony expression and the imperious rise of her eyebrow. He felt his heart clench. How he loved this woman. How he loved and hated that look on her face, the one that told him she wasn't about to back down. It was the face that had led to any number of arguments in their marriage, but it was the face that had fought for him, had made their marriage possible.
Conversation at the table had stopped, all listening intently, and without apology if the wide interested eyes of the Dowager were to be any indication.
"Tom, you're beginning to scare me," Sybil said slowly, deliberately, striking him where she knew he was weakest.
Glancing around the table he oddly wished Mary and Matthew weren't on their honeymoon. His unexpected friendship with Matthew had bolstered him and helped put him at ease in this great house. It was funny to think of him as an alley, as if they were fighting a war, but it certainly felt like that at times. The Irish Socialist and the English Heir, it defied all logic. But that was the path Tom had chosen when he fell in love with Sybil.
Lord Grantham stared hard at him, Lady Grantham frowned, Edith blinked owlishly at him and the two grandmothers, so different in temperament and ideologies, wore matching expressions of concern.
"I have to return to Ireland," he finally declared, his voice betraying none of the fear that ran rampant in his chest. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Sybil echoed. "But we're not set to return until next week."
With a deep, weary sigh, he slowly stood and moved around the table, doing his best to ignore the eyes that followed him. How he longed to make them disappear, to make the whole damn situation disappear. He just needed to touch her, to feel her warmth.
Kneeling next to her chair, he took her fingers in his hand, playing mindlessly with her wedding band. "I know, my love, but we aren't going."
He couldn't say it, and he watched her face, seeing the moment it became clear to her.
"No," she said simply, pulling her hand away. "You're not going without me."
"They've arrested Jeffrey and Darren," he confessed softly, doing his best to soften the blow. "And they're looking for me."
His heart broke at the small gasp that slipped through her beautiful, plump lips.
"Who's been arrested? Who's looking for you?" the Dowager interjected, her voice a little shrill.
Sybil said nothing, only continued to stare at him, her brow furrowed in a way he hadn't seen since before they were able to confess their love to the world.
"Some colleagues of mine at the paper," Tom explained, never taking his eyes of his wife. "The RIC is losing control in Ireland. The Dáil are really beginning to make their presence known so, in an effort to reassert power, the British are targeting and arresting republican activists."
"I won't let you go," Sybil promised suddenly, as easily as if they were talking of the weather, giving no heed to her family's presence.
Tom closed his eyes, shoring up his strength.
"I won't hide from them," he asserted, his gaze colliding with hers.
"If you go back they'll arrest you," Sybil informed him, as if he hadn't considered that, as if it wasn't the first thing that came to him when he read the telegram. Except she knew he had thought of that, knew that was the outcome. "Tom," she chided, her voice gaining strength and panic, "you can't possibly be considering going back."
He was spared answering by Edith's interruption. "Is there any chance they've made a mistake? Surely they cannot arrest him for printing articles."
Tom was spared answering by Sybil's frantic voice, "Of course it's a mistake and they shouldn't be able to arrest someone for speaking the truth, but they do. You don't know what it's like over there. They arrest people, they hassle them, they hurt them. Both sides are hurting people." She turned from her sister to plead with her husband. "There's no accountability right now. If they arrest you…I…I may never see you again."
Tom stood, roughly shoving a hand through his hair. He couldn't, wouldn't, do this with an audience. His jaw tightened and his eyebrow went up.
She turned from him, picking up her knife and fork, completely disregarding his silent plea. "You aren't going," she said with finality, not caring that she knew he hated that tone, the "Grantham" tone.
Yet it wasn't anger that fueled his quiet whisper of her name. Her heart ached as his did.
She shook her head.
"Sybil," he again whispered, reaching around her to gently stay the hands that were now agitatedly cutting at a potato.
She froze at the contact and he heard her breath catch.
"Sybil, you know I have to go," he said gently, feeling some of his own fears alley as he strove to help her understand. "If I stay here, if I hide here, then it's as good as saying I don't really believe in everything I wrote, that I was wrong. That when it comes down to it I wasn't willing to stand up for what I know is right."
Sybil's shoulders dropped, her silverware clattering to the plate. He wrapped her tiny hand in his own and gave a tug, pulling her up and into his arms. She responded immediately, instinctually. Wrapping her arms around his neck she buried her face against his skin.
He held her.
"I don't have a lot to offer you or our child right now," he acknowledged, bringing a hand to grace over the resting place of their baby, "but I can keep you safe. I can be the man I always wanted to be for you. I want our child to have a legacy to be proud of, an Ireland to be proud of…a father to be proud of."
His wife lifted her head, her eyes intent on his face. "So you'd leave us, you'd leave me?" she pressed carefully. It wasn't anger, she couldn't be angry at him, not for this. He was the man she married, the man she loved. His convictions, his passion, his integrity, all were a part of him. It was difficult loving a man who was fighting to change the world, but love him she did.
He felt his will begin to weaken, his resolve to shaken.
Knowing the power she had over him she had a choice to make. Could she keep him here and deny him the man he was, or let him go to be the man she loved?
Pressing her nose against his cheek she breathed, "I would tie you to me."
Tom gave a low chuckle. "I am tied to you Sybil Branson; heart, body, mind and soul."
She grazed her lips where her nose had been, stepping away from him, clasping his hand in hers. Turning to her family she offered, "Clearly Tom and I have some things to discuss, if you'll excuse us."
Lord Grantham's disapproving stare made his feelings on the matter apparent, but for once he chose not to comment, merely standing and awaiting his daughter's exit. Tom didn't risk looking around the table, didn't think he could stomach the sadness of his mother-in-law's eyes, the tension of the Dowager or even the pitying sign of support from Edith. Instead he allowed his wife to pull him from the room.
Wordlessly they moved passed Mr. Carson, who opened the door, for once sparing Tom the accusatory glare. As they moved through the hall they heard the Dowager erupt with a myriad of comments but they were beyond caring. They didn't stop until they stood inside their bedroom.
Still Sybil said nothing as she moved to the vanity and lifted her necklace off and removed her hair pins, all the while watching him watch her. Soon she was back at his side, helping him remove his jacket and tie.
"Sybil?" he tried but she silenced him with her lips, the barest of contact but still a powerful command.
Her fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt and slowly she pushed each orb from its home. Her delicate fingers shook slightly but she determinately worked her way down, freeing him.
Tom had a million things he wanted to say to her, to promise, but there wasn't enough time. There could never be enough time. Instead he allowed her to undress him. And when his torso was naked he could stand by no longer, he had to tell her.
Catching her hands in his as they rested against his chest, he sought her gaze. "Sybil," he said simply.
She blinked up at him, her eyes glassy. He suddenly found he could not speak. He, the writer, the avid reader, did not have the words.
Her lips pressed together for a moment as they stared at each other, foolishly feeling the need to capture what had been memorized long ago. And finally a girl, who had been blessed all her life, freely offered her forgiveness to a boy who had been rejected time and time again.
"I know Tom."
He heard her voice break on his name.
"Do you?" he pushed urgently. "Do you know what you mean to me? What our life together means to me?"
A single tear rolled down her cheek, but she didn't turn from him, rather she nodded. "You show me every day," she told him.
Tom leaned forward, brushing his lips to hers before deepening the kiss. Releasing her hands he pulled her tight against him, his arm encircling her and his other hand cupping her cheek. He could feel her hands moving up his body, stroking and caressing. His own hands began exploring, and working to remove her dress.
As the material fell to her feet she broke the kiss, her breath leaving her body in powerful puffs that warmed the skin of his face. Her eyes, which had been closed, opened, piercing him. "You won't go, tell me you won't go."
"I won't go," he promised, and for the first time in their marriage they agreed to a lie. The truth simmered and festered below but on the surface they embraced the lie that allowed them this moment together. The lie gave them the freedom to caress, stroke, and cry out for each other.
Tom guided their bodies to the bed, peeling away the layers as they went. Naked and entangled, he made slow, tender love to her, worshiping her body. She clung to him, held him, urged him. It was no shattering, wild release but rather a quiet sigh, a small gasp, a moment of simple vulnerability.
Afterwards, as they lay wrapped together, her hand on his as he palmed her growing belly, they talked. Well into the night they laughed, teased, remembered, planned, dreamed and kissed. Sleep pulled at her, beckoning her and she fought the temptress' song as long as she could but her pregnant body was exhausted and as Tom's voice rumbled in his chest, just below where her head rested, she closed her eyes and listened to his Irish voice whisper her to sleep.
When she awoke, sunlight was beginning to fill the room. It was meant to be a beautiful day and Sybil couldn't understand that.
He was gone.
Gripping the pillow, breathing in his scent, she saw the note baring her name. At that moment the spell of the lie was broken and Sybil began to grieve. The tears in her eyes blurred his words but she didn't have to read them to know what he wanted to say to her.
Pulling her tired body out of bed, throwing on her nightgown and robe, clutching Tom's note to her, she stormed out into the hall and after a quick, harsh knock opened the door to her parents' room.
Sybil was surprised to find Lord and Lady Grantham sitting up in bed awake, and even more surprised to note they weren't surprised at all to see her.
"He's gone," she informed them, her statement made more pitiful by the swollen red eyes and pale skin.
The pair in bed looked at each other briefly before her mother answered, "Yes, we know."
"I've no money to follow him," she added uselessly. They already knew that, and they knew what she was asking.
Lord Grantham stood, walking to her. "You'll stay here Sybil. You'll be safe and your baby will be safe."
Sybil began to shake her head. "But Tom—"
Lord Grantham interrupted her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "You'll stay here Sybil because you're my daughter and I want keep you protected. And also because your husband stood where you are standing now, not an hour ago, and made me promise to keep you here."
Sybil felt resentment rise in her blood. "So it's been decided? I will play the woman in the tower while my knight goes to fight the dragon?"
"He said you'd say something like that," Robert admitted begrudgingly. "Said it was part of the reason he loved you so." He dropped his hands from her, and Sybil could see how uncomfortable he was growing.
She wanted to be strong under his scrutiny but her loss was beginning to consume her, and she could feel her throat tightening. Swallowing hard, she forced out, "How could you let him go?"
On this her father stepped back, standing straight, assuming the title he'd been born to wear. "Because sometimes a man must go to war."
Sybil scoffed at the absurdity of it all. Her husband gone to face the demons and her father's eyes finally bearing a modicum of respect for his son-in-law. She swayed slightly, overwhelmed by it all. She felt an arm slip around her waist and met her mother's calm, affectionate blue eyes. The desire to bury her face against her mother's chest gripped at her, and flinging herself into her mother's arms, she wept.
As her mother's fingers soothed through her hair, following the path Tom's had taken hours earlier, Sybil was caught by the firm warmth of her father's hand as he pressed awkwardly, yet somehow, comfortingly against her back. She couldn't remember the last time she had been held so tightly by her parents.
Lifting her head to face her father, her voice firm and unshaken, she swore, "You will bring him home to me."
Lord Grantham saw his daughter and knew he was lost. "I will."
Thank you so much for reading! Like I said this is mere speculation based off ten seconds of the trailer, and not even necessarily what I'm assuming is going to happen. Just my fangirl mind going into overdrive. I really had to fight to keep Sybil from walking to Ireland, but I wanted to be sure and not make Sybil a 2012 female. Also, I imagine I have made SEVERAL historical/cultural errors (Jonathan, you're probably pulling your hair out by now!) but perhaps I distracted you all by mention of naked Tom and everyone is willing to forgive me? Maybe…maybe…no?