A/N: So here's a little fluff piece that I wrote in response to someone's prompt on tumblr (the prompt was "Sybil and Tom in the rain"), and that's all I really have to say, other than enjoy~
Sybil had less than a block to go before she was home when it started to rain.
It was hardly noticeable at first, just the same light drizzle she'd gotten used to since moving to Dublin, but she'd hardly gone another yard and the rain grew heavier. She was soaked within moments, despite her quickened pace and attempts to duck under what awnings she could find on her usual route home. She cursed herself for leaving home without an umbrella that morning, even though the skies had been the placid grey that promised fair weather on most occasions.
If you get pneumonia, it's all your fault, she told herself, rounding the corner onto the street where she and Tom lived and forcing herself into a run. It would warm her up a little, she decided, praying that she wouldn't trip and break a heel or twist her ankle as she ran through puddles.
At the door to her building, she pressed herself against the door, hoping to stay out of the torrential downpour as best she could, while she searched through her handbag for her keys. "Eureka," she muttered once she found them, wasting no time as she turned the key in the lock and let herself in.
Safely inside, she slipped off her shoes and placed them by the door, so she wouldn't track any mud into the building. Every part of her was soaked and dripping, but removing her shoes was the least she could do, seeing as it was generally frowned upon to strip down to your underthings (though Sybil doubted that even those were dry) in a public space.
As she made her way upstairs to her and Tom's flat (it was on the second floor of the three-story building, second door on the right), Sybil listed what she was going to do once she got home, primarily to distract herself from the sodden mess she no doubt was.
First, she'd put a kettle on for tea, then she'd change into dry clothes and hang her wet ones up to dry. She could decide was was ruined and what wasn't later, right now she just wanted to be warm. Last, she would settle herself in front of the small hearth with a book (she wasn't reading anything at the moment, so she would have to chose something), a cup of tea, and the thick wool blanket Tom's mother had given them for their wedding. There she would wait until Tom got home from work, which wouldn't be long now, she realized, perhaps just another half an hour or so.
"Good Lord, you're soaked."
Sybil turned around, her hand still on the doorknob, and found herself toe-to-toe with her husband. "Well it is raining cats and dogs outside, isn't it?"
"And you didn't think to bring an umbrella?" He laughed as he took in what was no doubt her disheveled appearance, his eyes bright with laughter.
"I didn't think it would rain."
Again, he laughed, and shouldered past her, placing his hand atop hers and opening the door. "Let's get you dry before you catch pneumonia," he said, helping her out of her coat and taking her hat. "I'll put tea on."
They sat together in front of the fire, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, with steaming cups of tea beside them on the floor. Outside, it continued to rain, and Sybil had long since fallen asleep, her head resting on Tom's chest.
Her skin was still clammy, and he knew her dark hair wouldn't dry for some time, it was so long and thick, but he didn't mind. There was nothing he would rather do than hold her as he was now, one arm wrapped around her back and the other keeping her head from lolling to the side.
A copy of William Butler Yeats's poetry lay open in his lap, open to one of his favorite poems, the words of which could not ring more true now.
Tom didn't need to look at the words- he knew them well enough that he could recite them and keep his eyes on Sybil's sleeping form.
"O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes,
The poets labouring all their days
To build a perfect beauty in rhyme
Are overthrown by a woman's gaze
And by the unlabouring brood of the skies:
And therefore my heart will bow, when dew
Is dropping sleep, until God burn time,
Before the unlabouring stars and you."
In his arms, Sybil stirred, murmuring something unintelligible about Tom being a poet before burying her face in Tom's shoulder and falling quiet once more.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this, and thank you for taking the time to do so!
A note on the poem: This is "He Tells of the Perfect Beauty" from "The Wind among the Reeds," a collection of poems published between 1892 and 1897 by W. B. Yeats.