So, yes, I haven't written fanfiction in a while. Hadn't had enough time/imagination to do so. I'd been considering creating a Sybil/Branson story ever since I saw them together for the first time, so I tried to see what I could do. This is (part of) what I managed to get. Any sort of comments will be very, VERY welcome. Hope you enjoy!
It was incredibly difficult for Sybil to hide her excitement. She took a deep breath and tried not to think too much about it before she rang the bell to call Anna. The maid seemed to be surprised with her specific request for a very simple hairstyle. Nervously, she added that helping a charity in the middle of a war was certainly not the moment for ostentation. Anna nodded and continued brushing her hair, but she could still see a hint of suspicion in her eyes. It could have been just in her imagination, but she trusted Anna; even if she were to think Sybil was plotting something, she would never comment or gossip about it. Now that Gwen had left to achieve her dream, she was glad she was the maid who took care of her. Sybil would hate to have somebody like O'Brien that close and could not think of a reason her mother was so attached to her.
Soon, she was at the door, with the plainest appearance she had managed to get, following the chauffer's instructions. He was there, holding the door open and greeting her with a very serious and simple: `Good morning, Lady Sybil.ยด He was very aware that her father, who had never again completely relied on Branson after the Count in Ripon, was near. To be honest, what Lord Grantham did, under no circumstances, trust was not Branson on his own; whatever his political ideas were, he was an excellent chauffer and a responsible and honest employee. What made him nervous was the combination of Branson and Sybil. He had his ideas, she had hers and the more time they spent together, the more those ideas sounded more alike, which seemed to encourage both to share them with the rest of the world every single day, which was, frankly, unendurable sometimes.
No sooner had they driven away from the building, Sybil's eyes met Branson's in the rear-view mirror and she couldn't help giggling.
"I hope milady realises this is a serious issue, and we could both get into unwanted trouble if anybody found out. I wouldn't like to be fired one week before going to war. That would be an enormous streak of bad luck," he said, a hint of bitterness in his smirk.
Sybil's smile fainted.
"Don't worry. Nobody will ever know," she assured him, ready to change subject. "Do you think this will do?" she enquired, pointing at her clothes.
Branson laughed a hearty laugh.
"It absolutely won't, milady. But there's a plan B, so there's no need to worry."
"Thank you so much, Branson! I know you're taking risks here. I promise I won't let you down and I will do exactly as you say. It won't be like Ripon. At all," she said, very with a very straight face. She had never completely forgiven herself for being such a foolish, thoughtless person and putting his job in danger.
It had been her dream for a long time. She had been reading, more and more eagerly, books about History, Politics, even Philosophy. The more she learnt, the more she wanted to learn. And after all that learning process, she felt the impulse... more than an impulse, she felt the NEED to be an active part of it. The first time, during a drive to the tailor, she gathered the courage to ask Branson to take her with him to a socialist rally, he almost crashed the car into a tree. And still, after he got off to check the damage, all he kept saying was: "insane... insane... insane."
As many times as she had tried with different arguments and different approaches (from batting her eyelashes at him to women's rights), he had refused to even discuss the question. Until that day in the summer of 1.915.
He stopped the car by a little cottage near the village they were going to. A couple was waiting by the door. Branson introduced them as his friends Luke and Helen Smith. Soon, Helen took Sybil towards her bedroom and gave them some clothes to change into. Sybil thanked her shyly, feeling bad for borrowing things from somebody who was obviously less fortunate than her in economic terms.
"Brandon told me milady did not probably have anything to wear that would let her go unnoticed at the rally," she smiled kindly, "this is not anything like what a Lady usually wears, but it will serve this purpose. If there's anything else Lady Sybil needs..."
"Please, call me Sybil. Even if we have just met, you are behaving like an old friend to me, shouldn't we talk to each other as friends, then?"
Helen left her alone in the room so she could get changed. The dress was a little too wide in some places, a little too narrow in others, but all in all it fitted her and it wouldn't get the extra attention her real clothes would in the rally. Helen's shoes, on the other hand, were too small and they were killing her. She decided to change back into hers. The dress was long enough to cover them and, besides, there was absolutely no point in living the thrill of listening to a live socialist speech if you had to spend the whole time suffering an excruciating pain which wouldn't let you give the speakers your undivided attention. With one look at the mirror (she was, after all, a young lady), she met Helen, Luke and Branson. The moment she saw him, she stopped in her tracks. He had changed his clothes too, taking off his uniform, and he looked much younger than usual. "Way too young to have to go to war", she thought.
He offered her his arm and Branson's friends and themselves walked to the village. During her whole life, Sybil would remember that day at the rally as one of the best she had lived through. She listened to the speakers, trying not to miss a single word, hoping she could really talk to someone about the things she was learning instead of having all the dull conversations of her everyday life. Soon, that would be the only kind of conversation she would be allowed to have. It was bad enough not to talk about anything interesting during the season in London (intelligent conversation frightened suitors, according to Grandma), but how was she going to survive when Branson left? How was she going to say goodbye to him? How could she be driven anywhere if he wasn't the one behind the wheel? How was she expected to even look at the car without her heart breaking for her friend being in such danger? How long would it take him to be back? Because not being back was simply not an option. She had absolutely forbidden him to die and she was nothing if not stubborn. He was standing next to her and, out of an impulse, she mimicked his gesture in the garden party the year before. She brushed her fingers softly with his and Branson took her hand. From the corner of her eye, she could see a smile curling his lips. He could probably see hers, too. In the middle of that silent gesture, she kept thinking that there was no one on earth she felt closer to. And they were taking him away from her.