DISCLAIMER: I am not Julian Fellowes and I do not Downton Abbey. However, this is a modern AU and I own this wee storyline!

A/N: This is a modern AU based on Sybil Crawley and Tom Branson - or in this case, Sybil Grey. I have made this storyline so that Sybil married Larry Grey to save her family from losing their home. I hope to make this a long-term story, but I can only do this if all you lovely readers review this piece! You spur me on to write more - I'm rather nervous about my own writing, and so it takes a lot of guts for me to post up my fanfiction. Please review and please let me know if you have any ideas in which I can add to this story!


The sound of the car in the drive was an indication of his return. Sybil closed the book that balanced on her knees with a slam and rose from the crimson couch with vehemence. Her heart hammered in her chest as she pushed the collection of thick books underneath the coffee table. The sound of the car door pulled her out of her reverie and she stuffed her pens and markers into her classic brown satchel. His footfalls were profound on the gravel as she settled back on the couch with a little bottle of nail polish and quickly turned on the television in the corner of the room.

He entered the room to the muffled sound of some random show on the television. Sybil could smell the putrid scent of alcohol in the air and she knew without turning around that her husband was intoxicated. His breath was arduous and he fell against the door frame with a grunt. She put the bottle of pink nail polish on the coffee table and turned to welcome him with a careful smile.

"I didn't think to save dinner, but I can order a Chinese?" Her smile faltered as he did not react to her question. Instead, he stumbled towards the couch with a delirious smirk on his pompous expression. He fell onto her with his full body weight pressing down on her petite form. He crashed his lips onto hers and ensnared his fingers into her wild curls – however, these actions were not pursued with passion.

His nails sank into the flesh on her head and she winced at the contact. Sybil tried to push at his chest gently, but he was adamant on causing her pain. His breath was hot and clammy on her face and his hands wandered down to the button of her jeans. She could not bear the physical contact this time. She had endured it for the past few months, but the new bride could not stomach another evening with her husband.

"No, Larry…please, I don't feel so well," she insisted in her usual throaty tone. Her voice was laced with desperation as she pushed at his chest once more. It was like she was invisible; he had unbuttoned her denim jeans and his hand roamed over her little white pants. He hated when she wore those. She hated when he touched them. Sybil did what she often had to do and smacked him across the face – her hand stung from the contact with his cheek and she could feel tears well in her bright eyes.

"I abide with all your wishes, I provide for you like no man would…and this is how you treat your husband? A husband has needs, and still my own wife refuses to make love to me. Hmm, not quite what I wish for in a partner," he hissed in her ear. His fingers were snaked into her hair now as he pulled her head back until she whimpered.

Larry fumbled with his own trousers and had almost succeeded in pulling out his weapon of choice, until his mobile rang. He cursed in frustration and pushed his wife from him harshly until she fell against the couch. Sybil could feel her chest heaving with sobs as her husband answered his phone as he left the room. She could hear him shouting into his mobile in the kitchen and she quickly buttoned her jeans.

He had spent the evening with his old friends from Oxford. She assumed that most of them were now bankers, solicitors or accountants. The evening would be filled with expensive alcohol and cigar smoke in one of London's posh venues – no doubt he would have had their table cornered off so that no-one common could approach them.

Sybil had been married to Larry Grey for the past seven months and it had been the worst decision that she had ever made. No, it had not been her initial decision – not until her father had come out about his finance problems. Her family would lose Downton if she did not make an alliance with Larry – he had more than enough money to lend it out to her family, but it had come at a price. Sybil had been forced to enrol at university in secret; her husband did not approve of women bettering themselves. No, she was meant to spend all her money in Oxford Street.

Her nursing degree would remain a secret. There was no way that she could tell Larry about her aspirations for the future – before she had married him, she had wanted to travel. She would have travelled all over the world and she wanted to learn to ride a motorcycle. However, these dreams were no longer possible.

"I have some work to do at the office." Sybil turned frantically whenever she heard his voice from the door. He leant against the door frame with a bemused expression and brushed at the shoulders of his blazer. She knew that he had no work. She knew that he had a mistress since before their marriage. She knew that he was beneath her, and so he would not have married her. But still, he had never been faithful to her, and she was pleased that there was someone else to take the pressing heat of his body and to listen to the unsophisticated grunts that came from him during love-making. No, love-making was the wrong word – he had only ever fucked her. That would be the correct term to use when it came to having sex with Larry Grey.

"I think I will retire to bed now," she murmured. Her head was bowed so that her tear-stained face was concealed by her wild curls.

"I believe that it would be best if you stay in one of the spare rooms." She had expected the cold shoulder, and she preferred his cold shoulder. However, it was the lonesome life that made her suffer.

Sybil listened as her husband left the house in his usual foul mood. She waited until the headlights shone through the curtains until she moved from the couch. She retrieved her nursing books from under the coffee table whenever his car backed out of the drive. The muffled sound of the television was her only company as she poured over her books once more. She could still smell the delicious aroma of her cooking from the kitchen – well, it wasn't exactly her cooking. She managed to heat up some readymade dinners, but that was certainly an achievement for Sybil.

It was around an hour later that she started to make her way to bed. She clutched one of her books to her chest and a ridiculous yawn emitted from her lips. Peace for once, she thought to herself. Larry would be home late, if he even came home at all, and she could sit for as long as she wanted reading her books and listening to some political debates on her iPod – she had recorded them especially for bed. She wouldn't have to listen to Larry's complaints and instead could immerse herself in opinions.

However, as soon as her foot touched the first stair, the phone rang. Sybil deliberated over whether or not she should dismiss the shrill sound of the phone and continue to bed, but it could be one of her sisters and she loved all the calls that she received. Convinced that it would be one of Larry's business associates, she answered the phone with her usual cheerful "hello".

"Erm, hello? Is this the Grey residence?" The soft Irish lilt was unfamiliar to her.

Sybil immediately smiled for no reason at all. It could have been the confused tone of the Irish man, or it could have been the adorable manner in which he coughed nervously, but she could not explain her instant smile.

"Uh-huh, this is the Grey residence. If you're looking to speak with my husband, I'm afraid he is indisposed for the night," she replied with a roll of her eyes.

"I'm sorry for the late call, but I received a voicemail from your husband this afternoon. I am calling to let him know that I will be around in the morning at around seven," he mumbled in response. Sybil could almost picture the man rubbing the back of his neck nervously; she had no idea what he looked like, but still there was an unusual connection to him that she could not explain.

"Oh, well, I'm sure that is all fine. But I wasn't aware that we were expecting company? Do you work with Larry?" Sybil questioned.

There was a throaty laugh at the other end of the phone, but the Irish man soon coughed and excused himself.

"No, milady, I'm the new driver," he explained in an amused tone. She could feel his smile on the other end of the phone and it made her lips twitch.

"I didn't know that we needed a driver…" Sybil paused and suddenly cursed herself for her insolence. "I mean, I'm sure you are a wonderful driver and…oh, I'm rambling. My husband didn't let me know about your arrival," she explained.

"Don't fret, milady, it's quite alright. I hope my arrival doesn't put you out."

"None of that 'milady' nonsense, you can call me Sybil. And no, not at all, I would be pleased to welcome you to our home," she insisted with a small smile.

"Thank you, milady… I mean, Sybil…sorry. Well, I'll speak with you tomorrow…"

She could not explain the sinking sensation in her chest as the conversation came to an end, but she knew how unusual it would be if she sat and chatted to the driver on the phone before she even knew who he was. She felt the need to merely sit there on the staircase and tell this man her life story – perhaps he was like one of those attentive bar-tenders or friendly taxi drivers who you could spill your secrets to. She didn't want an explanation to these thoughts in her mind.

"Wait…I don't even know your name," she chuckled.

"Branson…Tom Branson. I'll see you tomorrow, milady."

Sybil must have mumbled a goodbye in response for she could hear him put the receiver down on the other end. She held the phone in her hand for a few moments as she looked back on the conversation – it was nothing special, and yet she could not dismiss the feeling of warmth when she remembered his soft Irish accent.

She went to bed that night with a smile on her face, for no entire reason.