One-shot based on an anon prompt: when Tom gets conscripted, instead of protesting or enlisting, he becomes a fugitive, and since the ports are all being watched, he cant leave the country, so Sybil has to hide him.

Tom didn't have to open the envelope to know what was inside. He suspected that Carson knew what was inside as well, despite the butler's nonplussed demeanor when he quickly handed off the letter.

A letter from the British Army Offices. What else could it possibly be?

Tom stuffed it in his pocket and went on with his day. He had his lunch. He worked on the Renault's engine. He drove Her Ladyship into Ripon. He picked up the Dowager Countess for dinner. He'd had dinner with the rest of the staff. He'd driven the Dowager home.

Now, as he made his way to the cottage, he knew there was no escaping the letter and the facts contained therein. He, Tom Branson, would be expected to join His Majesty's Army and sacrifice himself to defend foolish promises made by foolish men who gave no thought to the lives of the poor nameless chaps whose blood stained the fields of Europe.

Tom did not believe in war or violence. History was littered with men he admired who lived and died by the pen. Great philosophers and thinkers who had changed the course of history through the force of their reasoned arguments, not the force of their bullets. And yet he knew that not all causes could be bloodless. At this juncture, with so much of his life still left to live, Tom might have been willing to risk his hide if the cause were his own, if the cause were freedom and independence for Ireland. But this was not that fight. More to the point, this was not his fight. And no matter if the king himself came after him, Tom Branson would not be compelled to engage in it.

What was conscription, after all, if not a reminder to the men of Ireland that they were not masters of their own fate. It was tyranny, plain and simple. Men of wealth could buy commissions and command other men to step in front of the oncoming fire, but such an option was not available for the working classes. Boys were told stories of the honor and glory of war, but Tom knew well that those tall tales were a manner of oppression. A way to stoke the pride of those who had nothing but pride to offer—pride and a body that could be thrown onto the path of the advancing enemy.

Tom's pride didn't need stoking. He didn't need to wear a uniform, nor be a soldier, nor bear a weapon. He didn't need to kill to feel like a man. He thought of the women who'd been passing out chicken feathers at the concert the family had organized to benefit the war effort. And he laughed at them again. There was no sense of knowing whom they thought they were helping. He felt no shame in not wanting to fight. He felt proud. Tom had no money, not enough that could save him from this fate. He was a lowly chauffeur whose protests would fade into the air before they made it to the ears of those he was most interested in hearing him. He held no power except over his own actions. He was being forced to take up arms against someone else's enemy, but he would rebel against that order. He would not take up arms and in that small decision lay his own personal revolution.

Thus, even before he opened the letter, his mind was made up. He would not go.

XXX

Tom stiffened slightly as Sybil approached, but he did not stop what he was doing. If anything, he wiped the water on the car with more ferocity than before. He loved her. There was no denying that now, but this, alas, would be where their paths would diverge. Even as he saw the obvious concern in her demeanor, he braced himself for what he'd have to do—push her away. He would level with her. He wouldn't leave under false pretenses, but he'd have to push her away.

Sybil, for her part, did not mince words. "Carson's told Papa you've been called up."

He sighed. "There's no need to look so serious."

"You'd think me rather heartless if I didn't."

"I'm not going to fight."

"You'll have to."

"I will not. I'm going to be a conscientious objector."

"They'll put you in prison."

The catch in her voice gave him pause.

"They have to catch me first," he said.

"I don't understand."

Here he stopped, though he did not look at her directly. "I'm to report next week. I'll use the time to pack up and make a plan. I'll take my leave here, I'll go to the medical, and once I'm cleared and given my orders, I'll run away."

Sybil gasped. "But they'll have your name—they'll be watching the ports for you to return to Ireland."

Tom finally turned to look at her. "I know I can't go back there now, and I'm truly sorry for it. But I can't do it, Sybil. I won't."

He saw tears pool in her eyes.

He'd been bold to call her by her given name, but what did he have to lose now?

Tom walked over to her. He leaned in and whispered. "The king may see Ireland as his, but he doesn't own me. Even if I can prove that fact to no one but myself, I will do it."

"And if they catch you?" She asked, her voice breaking.

"Then, they'll send me to prison, or more likely kill me. But I'll take that death a thousand times because it's on my terms, not theirs."

"What about me? Am I just supposed to forget you, forget everything?"

Tom stepped away and picked up the rag to focus on the car again. "You started to forget me when you said no."

"I never said no. I only said don't leave."

Tom turned quickly toward her in surprise. What did she mean by that?

But when he stepped toward her again, she ran away.

XXX

After dinner that night, Tom spoke with Carson. He told the butler he'd be leaving in a week. When he left for the medical exam, he'd be leaving for good. He said he'd use the time before he had to report to see his brother in Liverpool, but he'd not be coming back to Downton. The finality of Tom's tone took Carson by surprise.

"And after the war? Will you seek to return to your post?"

Tom smiled. "I'll not tempt fate, Mr. Carson."

The butler nodded and held out his hand. "Well, thank you for your hard work, then, Mr. Branson. His lordship and the family will be sorry to see you go. As am I."

Carson was of the old guard. He'd serve and love every moment of it until his death, finding dignity in the dignity of those whom he looked after. Though Tom did not agree with the traditions to which Carson clung, Tom had learned to respect him.

Tom took Carson's offered hand and shook it. "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

And that was that.

He would write to his brother tonight, then continue on with his duties for a few more days. But once he'd set foot outside this house, he'd be as good as a fugitive.

XXX

Tom didn't see Sybil the rest of that day. He'd been avoiding her, just as, he suspected, she was avoiding him. He knew he would regret not saying goodbye, but he wasn't sure he could face her or, in seeing her, face the possibilities of a life that he'd briefly allowed himself to dream about.

A life back in Ireland with her, he no longer working in service but as his own master, she as a nurse, and the two of them and whatever children came along all living together in a small cottage by the shores of Galway, where his own parents had grown up. He'd believed—allowed himself to believe for a brief moment—that that life might have been possible. But no more. He knew nothing of what the future would hold for him now, only that it would not be with her.

So after writing to his brother, he set out another piece of paper to write to her.

He had just set pen to paper when there was a knock on the door. He looked at the clock—it was nearly 1 o'clock in the morning—then walked to the door and opened it.

Sybil, wearing a coat and riding boots over her dressing gown, was standing outside his cottage in the pale light of the moon.

Before he could get a word out, she rushed in and started to speak quickly but calmly. "I know you will object to this, but I am going to help you. I have some money here that I'd hidden away as well as some old jewelry that I know for a fact no one will miss—"

"Sybil—"

"NO! Listen! Gwen once told me of an abandoned shed in the woods, just off the road to Moulton. It's just one room, but there's a small stove and cot there. She pointed to the path that led to it that day I took the governess cart to get her to a job interview, when the horse lost his shoe—do you remember?"

Tom looked serious, but nodded.

"She said her father took her and her brother there a few years back, told them he'd been a squatter there as a young man, before he'd found work as a farmhand on the estate. It was his way of showing them where he'd come from and from whence he'd escaped through hard work."

She paused for a moment, then took a deep breath and continued, "I don't know what state it's in, but probably good enough that you can fix it up and hide there. Take this," she said shoving the small purse full of all that she could give him, "and get as much as you can for supplies. You'll need an axe for firewood, a lamp and a kettle at least. Some books maybe. And pen and paper so you may write, perhaps, to pass the time. And food—preferably dried meat as it won't spoil. I'll find a charity to patronize in Moulton so I may travel there regularly, and we can designate a place to meet."

"Sybil, I—"

"Tom, you can't possibly believe that you can evade them on your own—without help. I can help you. Please, I must."

She stepped forward and put her hand on his cheek, their faces only inches apart.

"Why?" He asked in a soft whisper.

"Because I didn't tell you no. I only said don't leave."

"And if they catch me?"

"Then you'll have the death you want, and you'll know in those last moments that you weren't alone."

He let out a long breath, and a small smile formed on his lips, even as tears pooled in his eyes. Sybil smiled, and his response strengthened her resolve.

"But they won't catch you because we'll outsmart them, you and I. I wouldn't believe it possible for anyone else, but I know we can. Together."

"When the war is over, whenever that is, they'll still look for me. I'll have to change my name, my identity."

"That doesn't matter, as long as you remain who you are to me here." Sybil put her other hand on his heart.

Tom dropped the purse onto the floor and pulled her all the way into his arms, holding her and the dreams that now seemed possible again as tightly as he could. He felt her shift in his arms and then pull back. She looked at him, with those lagoons for eyes of hers and then, standing on the tips of her toes brought her lips to his.

XXX

Hours later, she'd return to the house undetected. He tore up the letter to his brother and wrote another telling Kieran that he'd be gone soon and, if God permitted it, would return some day.

Days later, he'd leave the house, get his exam and be cleared for duty. Their plan set in motion.

It wasn't easy.

The police came looking for him. Sybil learned to ignore her father's commentary about cowardly men who could not stand to face their fate. Such words didn't bother her, because Tom's actions, in her eyes, were the bravest of all. He would decide how he lived, and no one else. It was a lesson she hoped she would be able to apply to her own life eventually.

It was hard when fall and winter came, but she brought blankets and thick clothes for him to wear.

He lost weight. But he didn't lose his strength, mental or physical.

He wondered whether he could go on some days, but then he'd see her, her hands full of food and books. And he'd kiss her.

She'd come on the motor and easily evade Pratt, who was always content to wait in the Moulton village square for her without question. She'd come on the cart sometimes, when Lynch could be convinced that she could manage on her own. And she'd come on her horse, her cheeks pink from the sting of the wind on her face.

Two hunting parties came dangerously close to finding him, but he'd grown adept at making the shed look like it was abandoned though it was the only home he knew.

The following spring, using his mother's father's name, James Connelly, he began working in a small mechanic's shop in Moulton. He'd sometimes hear gossip about the convalescent home at Downton Abbey, but he knew to keep his head down. The man he worked for was a kind and understanding Scot, who never asked why a young, fit man was not on a battlefield in Europe. A father of four, he'd lost his oldest to a war he did not understand and would not judge anyone who did not want to meet the same fate. It was obvious to him that Tom's skills were not those of a lad who'd grown up alone and penniless. After a month, he offered Tom a room above the garage.

Tom was hesitant about leaving the refuge he and Sybil had made for him, but she encouraged him to take the help, her generous heart, as always, believing the best in people. And she'd been right.

The night Tom showed up at the garage with all of his belongings in two suitcases given to him by Sybil, it was empty. He walked up to the room where he was to make his new home and smiled, with a happy sigh, as he laid down on the small bed. When he put his head on the pillow, he felt something underneath it. Lifting the pillow, Tom saw a sheet of paper.

It was the fallen son's birth certificate.

It was a way out.

Neither man acknowledged what had passed between them.

When Tom had earned enough, he paid for passage to New York. The garage owner was not surprised to see him go.

Leaving her wasn't easy, for he knew he could never return, but promises were made, hushed but full of hope.

Years later, when the war finally came to an end, she joined him there. It was in defiance of her parents' wishes, but with the support of her American grandmother, who had always been her favorite and who always found a way to help them.

It wasn't a cottage on the beaches of Ireland. It was a small three-bedroom flat on the south end of Manhattan Island, above a Jewish bakery, where they woke to the smell of fresh bread and bagels every morning. Where they were surrounded by artists and bohemians who lived life as fully as they intended to.

Where their children grew up.

Where the neighbors knew them as Mr. and Mrs. John Murray.

Where only she ever called him Tom.