Hey look, more fix-it fic! This is set at the end of 2x04, just before the concert. I had to write it when I found out that a scene where Branson apologises to Sybil had been cut from the episode. Still betting on Branson, haters to the left, etc., etc., etc. The title of the fic is a lyric from "If You Were The Only Girl (In The World)", the song sung so beautifully during the concert scene.
"Lady Sybil, might I have a word?"
Sybil stopped short, her hands gripping the handles of the wheelchair in front of her. She turned and looked over her shoulder to see Branson standing in the hall, holding his hat. Her family and all of the officers were filing slowly into the library, caught in small, chatty groups in the hallway. Branson stood out, his green livery dark against the crowded, shuffling sea of uniforms.
"I'm very busy," she replied tightly. "With my work."
Branson frowned, looking down at his hands. "Please, milady. It'll only take a moment."
Despite herself, Sybil softened. "Very well," she said with a roll of her eyes. She lowered her voice. "Meet me in the stairwell just there. Only you had better make it very quick. The concert's about to start."
Branson nodded and turned on his heel, disappearing into the doorway she had indicated.
Straightening her back, Sybil walked on, guiding the sergeant in her charge into the library and finding him a place amongst the officers gathered for the concert. Once she had him settled, she walked out of the library and, glancing around her, stole into the dark servants' staircase, and ran straight into Branson's chest.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, backing into the door as it closed behind her. Branson took a step back.
"Sorry, milady," he said.
"You're not the least bit sorry," Sybil said, crossing her arms over her chest and glowering at him. "You knew I'd be coming through the door in just a moment. You did that on purpose."
"I am sorry," Branson insisted. "I'm sorry about a few things."
"Is that so?" Sybil asked with what she hoped was great disinterest, sighing and glancing to the side of his head. It struck her that she must look rather like Mary at this moment. She let go of her elbows and clasped her hands in front of her, staring down at the toes of her shoes where they poked out from under her blue skirt.
"Please look at me," Branson said, his voice low. Sybil forced herself to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry," he repeated earnestly. "I'm sorry I said what I did. You're a wonderful nurse. I know you work hard, and that you've sacrificed a great deal to do what you're doing."
"You mustn't belittle the work that I do, Branson," Sybil replied. "It's very important to me, and whatever you think of the war, I don't deserve your scorn. I would never do that to you. I would never say that your ambitions aren't worthwhile." Branson nodded, and looked down, his expression contrite and faintly miserable. "If you're trying to win me over, implying that my work is little better than a barmaid's is no way to do it."
"You're right," Branson replied. "But I only said what I did because I was frustrated with you, with all of it. That you're not content to sit back and enjoy the privileges of your class is one of the things I love best about you."
Embarrassed by his earnestness, this time it was Sybil who looked away. She cleared her throat, uncertain what to say.
"And I'm sorry that I've upset you by saying the things I've said to you, about us. You must know, I don't wish to make you angry or upset, at me least of all. I only want you to be happy."
"All right," Sybil replied. She could hear the soldiers in the hallway, milling about as they meandered into the library. Her father's voice rose above the din, and was followed by a chorus of hearty laughter.
"But I'm not sorry I've told you my feelings, and I'm not sorry I have them." Branson was looking at her once again with that cocksure frankness of his that so unnerved her. What business did he have, being so sure of himself? It was maddening. She wanted to tell him to stop revealing so much. It wasn't right, or proper, and she didn't know what to do with him.
"You say you want me to be happy," she said. "What if I told you that I don't feel for you what you say you feel for me, that it would make me happy if you never spoke to me of these things ever again and remained my friend only?"
Branson regarded her for a moment, frowning. "I suppose I'd try to do as you asked. But I wouldn't believe you that you feel nothing for me."
"Oh, would that we were all blessed with such powers of perception as you apparently are!"
"Am I to think you're indifferent to me, after everything that's happened between us?"
"Well," Sybil faltered, "not indifferent, I suppose, but -"
"You suppose you care for me as a friend, is that it?" Branson tilted his head at her, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. "I see someone taught you how to let an over-eager gentleman down easy. Did anyone teach you how to see what's in your heart? Or are all you aristocratic lasses raised to be as cold and heartless as your sisters?"
"Don't tell me about what's in my heart," Sybil replied sharply. "And don't be smug. You think you're being clever, as though this is an argument you're winning, but you're not. You're just being horrible."
Branson gaped at her for a moment before his mouth snapped shut and he looked away. He fiddled with the band of his hat. "My ma always said I was no good at apologies."
Sybil couldn't help it; she exhaled a surprised laugh. "She did?"
"Yeah," Branson replied, chagrined. He reached up and scratched his jaw. "Never could let a thing go if I thought I was in the right. Like a dog with a bone. It's just – I think that you're capable of so much more than folding bandages and making sure a pack of pampered officers have empty ash trays, clean sheets on their beds, and fresh decks of cards. You're clever and passionate, and you don't shy away from work, from the uglier things in this world, and there are places where you could make a real change. That's all."
"All right," Sybil said, taking pity on him. "I accept your apology."
"That's what our life together would be," Branson continued. "You see that, don't you? It would be hard work, but we could make a change in this world, you and I."
Sybil sighed. She was exhausted by his persistence on the subject. "I wish you would let it be. The harder you push, the sooner the day will come when we won't be able to see each other at all, not ever. I wish you would stop making this more difficult than it has to be."
"What do you mean?" Branson asked, frowning.
"I mean that I want to be your friend, but if you insist on pursuing these feelings you say you have for me, it will only end badly. Someone will find us out and -"
"There's a simple solution to that, milady. Run away with me. We'll marry, and then no one will be able to separate us."
"Can't you see it's not as easy as all that?" Sybil asked, exasperated. "Can't you see how much you're asking me to give up, when I don't even know how I feel about you? You may be sure of my feelings, but I'm not. You... Why, you're not risking anything! Not even your job, because you know I won't give you away."
"I've told you, your family –"
"My family will come 'round, yes, I know," she interrupted impatiently. "You've said that. But you don't iknow/i that. And even if they did, what about my friends? Everyone I know? I would never be welcome amongst them again, not really. I barely know you, Branson. That's the truth. You may think you're in love with me, but is what you feel right now enough for an entire marriage, for the rest of our lives, when my family and my friends cast me off with nothing but the clothes on my back, and your family resents me for being a pampered English girl? Would it really be enough, Branson?"
"That's a very dim view of it all," Branson replied, his brow furrowed and his expression troubled. "But maybe it won't be like that. Maybe -"
"Maybe!" Sybil whispered urgently. "Maybe! That's all you ever think, Branson, is maybe. You think because you can imagine a different future that means it's going to happen. But it's not, Branson. It's not."
"What's turned you into such a cynic?" he asked, his voice shaded by bitterness. "I thought you believed that I'd make something of myself. Was that not so?"
"Of course not," Sybil replied firmly, placing her hand on his forearm. "I believe without question that you will make something of yourself. I've never doubted that. Unless you languish away here at Downton, because of me. I cannot believe it's as easy as you're making it out to be, giving all of your beliefs, your ambitions up to stay here."
"It is easy," Branson insisted. "It's easy because I'm doing it for you."
"But I don't want you to do this for me. Can't you understand? That you have such convictions, such ambition, that you want to change the world – why, that's what I love about you -" Sybil stopped short. "That is, that's what I admire about you."
Branson went very still, staring at her, and Sybil was struck with a strange urge to run away from him. She bit her lip and forced herself not to look away.
"You say you don't think my love is enough for a marriage," he said, his voice low and serious. "But I've loved you since the first time I drove you to Ripon. I've loved you every day since then, every moment. That's more than what many marriages are built on. You won't ever have to doubt for a moment that I love you, and if you do, I'll move heaven and earth to prove it to you." He paused, gazing at her with such sincerity it was almost painful to view. "If you're afraid to say it, you don't have to be. I would never hurt you, Sybil."
Sybil pressed her hands into her waist and dropped her gaze to the floor. "It's difficult to believe that you can keep a promise such as that."
"I would never hurt you," he repeated.
"It's better for us both if I don't let myself," she whispered. "It's much safer this way, don't you see? If I tell you I love you, we'll both be lost, because I don't know if I can do as you ask and run away with you. I don't. And so if I tell you I love you, I'll break both our hearts."
"You don't have to protect my heart," Branson said.
"Yes, but I want to. And I must protect my own heart. So I'm very sorry, but I don't have an answer for you, Branson. Not the one that you want. And I don't know how I feel about you."
Branson sighed raggedly and ran a hand through his hair, making a mess of it. Sybil didn't think she'd ever seen it look anything less than tidy, not even during the melee at the counting of the votes in Ripon. He glanced up and caught her looking at him.
It was not fair that Branson should be so handsome, so earnest and true, so bright and loyal, so frustratingly stubborn, when he was also nearly the last person on earth with whom she should fall in love.
"You know," he said after a moment, his eyebrows raised in what he likely thought was an innocent expression, "there's one simple way to find out once and for all how you feel about me."
"Oh really? And what's that?" Sybil asked, although she suspected what he was about to say.
"Kiss me," he replied.
Sybil rolled her eyes. "I know you think you're very clever, but I sincerely doubt it's as simple as that."
"It might be," he said. "Come now, what could it hurt? I've already told you how I feel and been rejected. Once more won't kill me. I'm strong, I can weather it."
A smile tugged hard at the corner of Sybil's mouth, and she stifled it. "You're quite ridiculous, you know."
"That may be," Branson replied. He took a step towards her, his voice dropping low. "Kiss me, Sybil. Then you'll know."
His eyes were bright in the dim stairwell, and Sybil found she could not look away. She stepped forward slowly, almost as if compelled by some force outside herself, and leaned up on her toes to kiss him. Neither of them closed their eyes until the very last second, when her lips met his.
Branson went stock still, and Sybil had to place her hands on his arms to keep her balance. The kiss was quick, little more than a brush of her lips against his, and then she pulled back to see his expression. He opened his eyes and gazed down at her for a brief moment before his eyes dropped to her lips.
Grasping her upper arms in his hands, he kissed her, pushing her up against to the wooden door behind her. Sybil gasped, her hands grasping the front of his jacket as he pressed himself to her.
It felt to Sybil that there was no barrier between them at all. She was sure he must be able to feel how hard her heart was pounding, and her face burned with embarrassment. Branson tilted his head, his thumb brushing softly against her jaw, and Sybil felt her scalp prickle, sending goose bumps across her skin. She shivered.
Branson pulled back to look at her, but did not let go. He gave her a measuring look, and for the first time since Sybil had known him, his expression held the slightest measure of uncertainty.
"Well?" he asked. "Shall I give it another go?"
"I don't think that will be necessary," Sybil replied. As she took in the expectant, hopeful look in his eyes, she knew that with a word she could wound him terribly, could destroy his hopes and his dreams for their future together. But she found that she could not. And in that moment there was no protecting either of them; there was no going back, regardless of the cost.
Sybil leaned forward and kissed his cheek before wrapping her arms around his chest and pressing her face to his chest.
"Oh," Branson exhaled. His arms went around her back and he held her close, his face buried in the angle where her neck met her shoulder.
"This is very dangerous," Sybil said after a moment, pulling back to look at him.
"I know," Branson replied, his mouth quirking up in a smile. "It's a bit exciting, isn't it?"
"Exciting!" Sybil scowled. "Honestly. Exciting for you, perhaps. You're not the one who's liable to be disowned."
There was a noise then from down the stairwell, and a glimmer of light as one of the downstairs doors opened.
"Someone's coming!" Sybil whispered.
"Go on," Branson said. "I'll follow in a minute, once you're in the library."
Sybil made to open the door, but Branson stopped her, holding onto her hand. He pulled her back and kissed her once, quickly.
"For good luck," he said.
Sybil found herself without anything to say. She ducked out the door and closed it behind her.
Hurrying into the library with the last straggling officers and housemaids, Sybil found a place at the back where she might catch her breath, sheltered at least somewhat from prying eyes. She could only guess how flushed her cheeks must be.
"Nurse Crawley," called one of the other nurses from the front of the room, where Mary and Edith had arranged a little make-shift stage. "Might you give me a hand with these blankets?"
Sybil walked to the front of the room and took several blankets from the other nurse, and began distributing them to some of the officers. Edith took her place at the piano and began to play as Major Bryant took the stage, performing a series of magic tricks.
Sybil tucked a plaid throw around the legs of a sergeant sitting in the front row, and then moved out of the way to return to the back of the room. As she walked up the centre aisle, she caught sight of Branson standing there, his eyes trained on her, as they always seemed to be. Sybil met his gaze and walked straight for him, coming to a stop at his side and turning around to face the front.
As the assembly clapped for one of Major Bryant's tricks, Branson tipped his head just enough to whisper to her without giving them away. Not that anyone was watching, Sybil supposed, her eyes landing on the backs of her parents' heads, and Granny's.
"So do you forgive me, then?" he asked, his breath disturbing a loose curl by her ear.
"Yes, I do," she whispered, still facing forward. She nearly jumped when she felt him take hold of her hand, lacing his bare fingers with hers.
"The world would be a much better place if everyone were as good and patient and thoughtful as you, milady," he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
"We're none of us perfect," she replied softly, squeezing back. She didn't need to see his face to feel the smile that dashed across it.
"No, but you come very close," he said.
Major Bryant finished his act, and Mary stood as the room filled with polite applause. Branson released Sybil's hand at the same moment she released his. They all clapped, and Mary's high, clear voice filled the room with song.