Branson was on thin ice, and he knew it. Much as Sybil had fought for his honour (hah.) Lord Grantham had made it more than clear that he needed to be very, very careful in his dealings with any and all of his daughters, keeping them safe from harm.
When Sybil had proposed going for a jaunt to town, he had agreed – it was a short journey, one they knew well, and he had checked the papers over and over to ensure that there was nothing of particular political note occurring.
Nothing, he was almost certain, could go wrong.
Except, of course, that it had, and he really should've known better than to think such things.
"Let's go the long way back home." Sibyl had proposed, eyes shining. It had been a particularly successful adventure, he was to understand – she informed him with glee of the books she had found, ones that her father may not necessarily approve of her reading ("If he asks, I'm going to say that they're yours.") as well as some that she thought could be helpful for Gwen in her quest for a new job.
He had trouble enough refusing her at the best of times, but when she was in this positively giddy mood he feared he could refuse her nothing. With a brisk nod and a smile, he took them in the direction that allowed them more of a view of the countryside.
"You're quiet today." She spoke softly, thoughtfully. "Is everything alright?"
"It's fine, m'lady." He'd assured her, not daring to speak to her for any length of time.
She had leaned towards him. "I won't really tell father they're your books. And you know that you're more than welcome to borrow them."
He chuckled at that. "Thank you, m'lady, but really, there's nothing bothering me."
Lies. Complete lies.
Ever since what he had come to think of as the incident, she had not left his thoughts. He had been aware that he was having feelings for her that he shouldn't be having since shortly after they first met, but to put it bluntly the girl was beautiful – given his inclinations, he'd be more worried about himself if he hadn't been attracted to her.
Being attracted was one thing; this emotion was quite another.
Speaking to her could only make things worse. Much as he was very much in favour of social change and had great faith in it, he knew that at present these affections could only bring heartache.
Especially since her father wasn't particularly fond of him after the incident. (Truth be told, he hadn't been that fond of himself since the incident – he'd had the same dream a few nights in a row now, where she hadn't survived, or where the mob had caught hold of her. He woke up in a cold sweat, panting, terrified, angry.)
She wasn't satisfied with it, leaning back into the seat, before she turned to him again. "You know, I don't blame you for what happened. Not at all. You saved me – you and Matthew."
There had been a pause, but all he could think to say was "Mr Crawley is a fine gentleman, I'll forever be in his debt."
She had tipped her head, looking at him questioningly. "In his debt?"
"Without him, I doubt I would've been able to save you." He fought to keep his voice under control, to sound measured and neutral. It wasn't working.
"Could you stop the car, please?" She had asked gently, and he (of course) had complied.
"You wish to stretch your legs?" He asked, before feeling her hand on his shoulder. He turned to her, meeting her eyes. "M'lady – "
"It wasn't your fault." She spoke gently, tenderly squeezing his shoulder. "Honestly. And as grateful as I am to Matthew, you were the one who carried me, you were the one who tried to help me in the first place. I know everybody else may be praising Matthew alone, but...I know the truth. Thank you."
He swallowed, hard, trying to keep his composure. It wasn't easy, when she was looking at him with beautiful, earnest eyes. He considered attempting to remain professional, to give her a nod and tell her it was just his duty – but she would have known that wasn't strictly true.
"I was terrified." He said, finally, honestly. "So worried that something awful would befall you."
"It didn't – "
"It did." He searched her face for a scar that he couldn't see, but he knew was there.
She hadn't spoken, just squeezed his shoulder again, her eyes not leaving his.
He knew that if he didn't break this spell, he'd do something he should regret (and, worse still, he knew he wouldn't regret it).
"Your father will never forgive me if we're late." He'd finally said, waiting for her to return to her customary back seat – the larger car had been the only option today, the other was in need of repair, and since it was only meant to be a brief jaunt Lord Grantham hadn't seen a problem.
She'd smiled slightly. "I can hear you better from here, it'll be alright."
He wasn't certain what would happen to his concentration, having her this close to him, but he couldn't really give this as an explanation if he did ask her to move. Reluctantly, he started the car –
Or rather, he attempted to.
It refused to start. It refused to move.
Of course. Everything had been going far too well.
He cursed under his breath in Gaelic, before realising that Sibyl could hear every word.
"Beautiful language." She commented playfully, smiling broadly at him.
"The car won't work." He informed her, looking around them, trying to work out where they were. "We're miles from Downton Abbey, and the nearest village..." He looked around again, mentally mapping the area, before cursing under his breath. "The nearest village is at least half an hour's walk."
"That isn't too awful – "
He shook his head. "I can't leave you alone here for an hour there and back – "
"I wouldn't let you, I'd accompany you!" She informed him tartly.
He shook his head again. "We can't leave the car here." He rubbed his eyes, before getting out of the car, and going to look at the engine.
He studied it, attempting to work out what, exactly, had gone wrong.
It was a hot summer's afternoon, and he was overheating – he removed his gloves, laying them on the top of the car, before unbuttoning his jacket.
"Would you like me to hold that?"
He turned, almost surprised to see Sibyl. He'd got so used to helping her down from the car that it hadn't occurred to him that she might not need his help.
"If you would." He found himself grinning at her, passing it over.
She smiled slightly. "I don't believe I've seen you without your jacket before."
He doubted she would again, when her father heard about it.
"Do you speak Irish, or is it just profanities?" She neatly folded his jacket, taking his gloves and placing them all safely on the front seat.
"Gaelic. And I speak a little, what my mother taught me." He met her eyes. Any other Crawley woman and he wouldn't ask, but since it was her – "Would you like to see how the car works? Or, in this case, doesn't."
She chuckled, almost immediately at his side.
He began to explain slowly, indicating what was meant to do what, how it all worked. She was asking questions, questions he hadn't always thought of, some of which made him think deeply before answering.
"So, what do you think went wrong today?" Her hat had joined his on the front seat, and despite the knowledge that her mother would have her hide she had undone her hair. All in all, she doubted she looked much like a lady at present – Branson, in his (mostly) clean white shirt looked much nobler than she did.
"I think she's overheated." He said thoughtfully. "Rather like we have."
"And how can we fix her – does she have a name?"
He frowned. "It's hardly my place to give her a name, she belongs to your father."
"But you care for her."
He looked up, met her eyes. "Yes. I care for her – I care for her a lot."
Sibyl felt her cheeks flush, eyeing him almost nervously now. He was about to apologise when she suddenly applauded. "Water!"
He stared at her.
"We have water. It was Anna's idea, what with it being such a hot day, she wanted to make sure that we'd have something to drink..."
He frowned slightly. "I'm not certain that there's enough – " He stopped in his tracks, realisation dawning. "Of course, we only need to actually drive to Downton. Too far to walk, but it isn't a long drive. Once we're back – yes. Lady Sibyl, you're a genius."
She grinned at him, rushing to fetch the flask Anna had insisted on. With great care, Branson found the pipe for the coolant, and cautiously poured it down there.
There was more than expected.
"Lady Sibyl. If your father asks, this never happened, but – could you be so kind as to start the car?"
Her expression was that of pure glee, and pure mischief.
He sensed that this could come back and haunt him, somehow.
The car started, and even went forward – luckily he had leapt out of the way, although the dirt nearest the wheels covered his previously-almost-white shirt.
"Tom!" Sibyl cried, although he swiftly lifted himself into the car.
He barely had time to glance at her, hands on the wheel. It was only later on that he realised that she called him by his first name, and he found himself wondering when she'd found that out, and how long she'd been thinking of him as Tom, not Branson. "Hold tight. This is going to be much faster than we're used to."
She frowned, although she held onto the seat. "Surely if you're not certain of how stable the engine is, it would be better to go slowly."
"I'm not certain how long this will last, to be honest – I don't want us stranded." He informed her, studying the road ahead with greater care than usual, thankful that there was nothing else on the road.
"This is all rather exciting!" Sybil enthused, still clinging to the seat, studying him.
He had to grin at that. "I'd prefer this to be under better circumstances."
"Maybe we could try it another time, when the car is less likely to overheat. Or in the grounds!"
"You're presuming that your father won't fire me for this."
She frowned. "I'm sure he won't."
He smiled wryly. "M'lady. Our clothes are a mess. We're late. You're sitting beside me. Your father isn't especially happy with me at present. If I were him, I'd fire me."
"I won't let him. You know I won't." She said gently.
He chuckled, driving them through the gates. "I think that's why I'm so calm."
It was Anna and Carson who met them – Anna quickly swept Sibyl away to help prepare her for the evening meal. Carson didn't lose his temper, he simply asked for Branson's explanation of events, analysing the engine, and (apparently satisfied with the story) allowed the man to go to his room and change his clothes.
Lord Grantham was beginning to wonder if he'd brought a curse down upon himself the day he hired Branson – much as he was more than happy with the man's skills as a driver (and, as it turned out, a mechanic) and even occasionally found him agreeable company, he was worried about his daughter's attachment.
Sibyl's first words to him were that their lateness was nothing to do with Branson, that it wasn't his fault, and that all the man had done was ensure the safety of both of them.
In truth, he was more understanding than they had anticipated – just as horses could let one down, motorcars could too.
Still. The next morning, he brought Branson before him, wishing to see what the man had to say. He gave an honest explanation, the same as his daughter, and it became clear to Robert that the young chauffeur had been as concerned for his daughter as Robert himself would have done.
It was simultaneously comforting and distressing.
"I told you that you wouldn't get into trouble."
He looked up from the engine he was maintaining – just a small service, to ensure that all was well, that nothing else had been affected by yesterday's heat. Sybil was beaming at him, looking utterly delighted, ridiculously proud of herself for protecting him.
She was so damn young.
"And you were right." He returned her smile, as she stood beside him, looking at the engine. "Was there anything in particular you wanted?"
She looked at him mischievously, and he was fairly certain he should rephrase the question. He didn't.
"Just to see how the car was. Since you value her so. Even if she isn't yours." She knelt as best she could to get a good view, almost falling over until his arm steadied her. She smiled slightly. "I don't think I'm suited to being a mechanic."
He shook his head. "You'd be a fine mechanic, just...not when you're dressed for dinner."
She glanced down at herself, almost surprised to find how formally she was dressed. "I suppose that may cause a problem."
"That and I'm not certain that the dowager Countess would respond very well to oil-stained gowns."
She laughed. "No, I do believe Granny would have my head on a plate."
"Ah, well, we definitely can't have that, can we?" He said gently, his eyes meeting hers, as they knelt in the shadow of the car.
She caught her breath, wondering if she'd fall down again, suddenly feeling a little dizzy. "I – no."
He frowned slightly – creases appearing in his forehead. "Are you alright?" He stood, bringing her up with him.
She held his arm, waiting for her senses to return. "Perhaps Anna tied my corset too tight." She lied. "I... I'll have to ask her to check."
"Do you want me to escort you?" He offered, expression serious, the shadow of worry in his eyes.
She shook her head. "No, really, I'll be fine."
The problem with summer evenings was the way everything stayed light – it was all too easy to lose track of time, only notice the late hour as the sky darkened.
The other problem was the way that the light played on her skin and the heat that somehow felt like it existed between them and them alone, not in the air. He was standing too close to her, he knew, too close for the comfort of anyone who wasn't the two of them. Not close enough for the two of them.
He was still steadying her, although she didn't need it.
"I – good evening, Branson." She said finally, letting go of his arm, smiling kindly, tightly, taking her leave of him, leaving him alone to the car.
He watched her leaving, wondering if the time would ever come when he could leave with her, side by side, arm in arm.
Sorry about the earlier formatting, I forgot that line breaks got eaten the second they got on here!