JOYEUX NOEL, MIMIJAG! 'Tis I, your Secret Santa, bringing your story request to you (and which, what a shocker coming from me, ends up being split into a few parts because I just can't write one-shots apparently). ANYWAY, I wanted to get part one out for Christmas Eve; hope to get the next bit done for Christmas, otherwise, it will get posted during the week! BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT! And that is true for anyone who reads this :oP

Mimi's prompt was: I would like to have some fluff between Tom and Sybil but not as an already formed couple. I want them to go there. (They already know each other or just met, your choice).

Well, an idea did come to me upon reading this, and I couldn't help myself. This story is rated T for now, but the rating will go up by the end (just so that you're aware). Anyway, again, I wish you, mimijag, a happy Christmas, and I wish ALL OF YOU, a very joyful, holiday season, and thank you, as always, for taking the time to read! HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Best Worst Christmas
by The Yankee Countess
for mimijag

CHRISTMAS EVE

"…But what are you going to do? You're stuck there, all alone, and it's Christmas!"

Sybil sighed and tried her hardest not to roll her eyes. "Plenty of people spend Christmas by themselves, Mama."

Cora Crawley frowned. "Yes, but those people have no choice! Whereas you do!"

"No, actually mum, I don't."

"Are you seriously telling me that there was no one you could have traded shifts with? No one in your program that lives closer?"

"Mama, it's not that simple! They told us months ago that there was a chance we would be assigned to serve a hospital shift during a major holiday, and mine just happened to be Christmas," Sybil explained with a bit of a shrug. She knew she was probably sounding far too casual about the whole thing and not indignant enough for her mother's sake, but she was tired, and her stomach was growling, and this conversation wasn't going anywhere. "Look at this way," Sybil attempted to reason. "It's good practice for when I become a doctor, because I'm sure there will be quite a few Christmases in the future where I have to work shift."

Cora did not find this soothing in the slightest. She stared back at Sybil through the Skype screen, a deep frown on her face. "Are you truly alone tomorrow?"

"Mama—"

"I would just feel better if I knew you weren't spending the entirety of Christmas by yourself."

"Mama, I'm going to be spending a bulk of the day at the hospital! I'll be surrounded by hundreds of people! I'm not going to be lonely."

Cora still didn't look pleased. "What about Tonya? Is she spending Christmas there?"

At the mention of her flatmate, Sybil sighed and shook her head. "No, mum, I told you, several weeks ago when I told you about staying here for Christmas, that Tonya was flying back to Ireland to see her family."

Sybil wasn't mistaken by the sudden hitch she heard in her mother's throat. "So you truly are alone…"

"Oh, Mama, please don't—"

"Oh I know, I know, I'm being silly," Cora groaned, before taking a tissue and dabbing at her eyes. "It's just…I haven't seen you since you left for Chicago in August, and I miss you, darling—I know you always roll your eyes at me, but…you're my baby, Sybil and you always will be, no matter how big you get, you'll always be my beauty and my baby."

Sybil swallowed back the emotional lump that was forming in her throat. Her mother always got like this around the holidays, but she was even more so this year since it was the first Christmas in either of their lives, when Sybil wouldn't be there. Guilt stabbed at her heart.

"We'll Skype again tomorrow," Sybil promised.

Cora gasped. "Oh! Oh yes, darling, yes—what time? Are you sure it won't interfere with your shift?"

Sybil chewed on her bottom lip. "It should be fine if we do it early…meaning early here. Like at roughly…" she calculated the time difference. "Two in the afternoon there?"

"Oh yes! Yes, that works! And your sisters will be here then—I'll make sure we're all gathered to wish you a lovely Christmas!"

Sybil smiled, glad to see that her mother had brightened at this bit of news. At least that was one present she could give. The conversation soon came to an end, as it was quickly approaching midnight back in England, and Sybil signed off and closed her laptop, flopping back onto the second-hand couch her flatmate had purchased who knows long ago. She stared up at the ceiling, making a face at some of the dirty water spot stains, before sighing and finally pushing herself up onto her feet. Well…now what? Here she was, Christmas Eve, with the entire flat all to herself. Suddenly, after that conversation with her mother, all the Christmas Eve plans Sybil had made for herself seemed bittersweet at best, even the Doctor Who Christmas Special marathon she had been looking forward to having all week. Actually, what sounded really good right now was a hot soak in the tub, something she didn't do as often as she liked when her flatmate was around. But seeing as how she had the place to herself…

With a determined nod, Sybil went and started filling the tub, adding some peppermint bath salts a fellow medical student had given her as a Christmas present, then rushed down the end of the hall to retrieve her laundry which she had started before her Skype conversation with her mother. She quickly threw her clothes into the dryer, save for two knit tops and her bras, which she brought back to the flat and proceeded to hang on the various radiators to help them dry faster. Again, not something she did when her flatmate was around.

One of the radiators was near a window, and Sybil peeked outside and gasped, her eyes widening at the big, fat snowflakes that were raining down. She remembered hearing talk about a Christmas Eve blizzard rolling off Lake Michigan and hitting Chicago and the surrounding suburbs, but the earlier part of the day had been bright and sunny and the temperatures seemed terribly mild for late December…

A shiver ran down her spine and she closed the curtains, glad she wasn't out in that mess. The snow was beautiful to see, but after living in the Windy City for several months, and being exposed to its radical weather changes, snow had lost some of its charm on her. With a shake of her head, she hurried back to the bathroom and turned off the taps, smiling at the smell of peppermint wafting up from the warm steam. She poured herself a glass of wine, grabbed a romance novel from the box she kept under her bed (what she liked to read when she could take a break from medical textbooks) undressed, and then finally sank into the warm, peppermint scented waters, a happy and contented sigh escaping her lips.

"Happy Christmas indeed," she said to herself. Despite the weather outside and the guilt she had felt after that conversation with her mother, it was turning out to not be such a bad one after all…

"…What about a later flight? Surely something will open up in the next few hours—the Red Eye even!"

Tom sighed and shook his head, despite the fact that his mother couldn't see him. "No, Mam, everything's canceled. Nothing's going out—all flights are grounded."

His mother made a snort. "I've been to Chicago, back in the winter of 1979, right after your Uncle Eamon got married—"

"Aye, Mam, I know—one of worst winters on record," Tom groaned, remembering this story all too well whenever he dared to complain about the weather—or remind his mother once again that he had chosen to do his Ph. D work at Northwestern University, just north of Chicago, rather than somewhere much closer to home.

"If planes could travel then, they can travel now."

"I highly doubt any planes traveled if things were as bad as you say they were," he muttered.

"Tom Branson, just because you're twenty-six years old and thousands of miles away, doesn't mean I won't put you over my knee for cheeky remarks like that."

Despite present circumstances, he did grin at that.

His mother gave a frustrated sigh. "So you're stuck there, then."

"I'm afraid so," he answered, somewhat glumly. He had been looking forward to a flight home and spending Christmas with his mother and siblings.

"I suppose the one bright side to all this is that now you can attend midnight mass…"

Tom stared at the taxi bay outside O'Hare International Airport, watching the various yellow cabs skid every which way. He'd be lucky to make it back to the flat in one piece before midnight.

"What are you going to do tomorrow?" his mother demanded from her end of the phone. "Your aunt and uncle aren't in town this Christmas, where will you go?"

Tom sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Who says I have to go anywhere?" he grumbled. "Why can't I just…stay where I am?"

"And celebrate Christmas all by yourself!?" she asked in a horrified voice.

Tom bit the inside of his cheek. "Well, Mam, I won't be by myself if that helps; Simon will be there—"

"Your flatmate?" his mother asked in surprise. "He was going to spend Christmas by himself?"

Suddenly all of his mother's concern had shifted to his flatmate.

"Aye, but there was a reason—"

"Well, as sad as I am that you'll not be here tomorrow, I am glad to know that you'll be keeping dear Simon company for the holiday."

Dear Simon. Tom rolled his eyes.

"Take him to midnight mass with you," his mother instructed.

Tom just sighed in agreement, not wanting to argue otherwise.

"And call me tomorrow!" she ordered, something he wouldn't dare to argue even if he wanted to. "But not too early—or too late, understand? Don't call when we're in the middle of having dinner."

"Aye, Mam."

"I don't know what you're going to do about dinner for yourself, tomorrow," she grumbled. "Everything will be shut, and you won't be able to get your hands on any decent food—"

"The flat is just next door to a Chinse restaurant."

"Like I said, you won't be able to get your hands on any decent food."

Tom bit back his laugh. Oh, Lord love his mother, but she did fret over the most miniscule details. "Mam, I need to go before this storm gets any worse," he told her, seeing a taxi skid to the curb. "I'll call you tomorrow, I promise—Happy Christmas!" he called out, not just to her, but anyone else that was nearby listening. He darted out to the cab and stuffed his suitcases back into the boot, before telling the driver where to go, and being sure to buckle his seatbelt as the cab lurched forward.

The journey without traffic would take thirty minutes at most, and while there were hardly any cars on the road, the snow made it that much more difficult, and after several skids here and there, Tom finally returned to Chicago's north-side neighborhood of Rogers Park…precisely eighty-four minutes later.

By now, the snow was even thicker, and the wind was really howling. He had seen a few snowplows and salt trucks out on the roads, but as soon as they managed to clear a patch of street, the snow just covered it back up. With gritted teeth, he lugged his two suitcases up the slippery sidewalk and into the building of his flat, then gritted his teeth again as he lugged the suitcases up the three flights of stairs to the top floor. If he remembered correctly, his flatmate, while staying there over Christmas, was actually going to be working on Christmas Eve, something he didn't wish upon anyone. He frowned as he thought about what the weather, wondering how his flatmate would get home later?

Tom turned the key into the door and found the lights in the front room had been turned off, save the tiny Christmas tree which was atop a small table near one of the windows that overlooked the street. His flatmate had left it on, wasting electricity, but then again, it was Christmas.

He was tired to carrying his suitcases, so he left them by the door, and proceeded to remove his snow-covered coat, as well as his soaked-through shoes. He gave his head a shake, grimacing as some ice crystals got under his shirt. He quickly peeled that off too, and…because he had the place to himself, unbuttoned his trousers and peeled them down his legs until he was only standing in his heather-gray boxer briefs.

"Shower," he muttered to himself. That was what he needed, a nice, hot shower. Picking up his wet clothes, and threw them atop a nearby radiator without looking, and padded down the small hallway to the bathroom, where the scent of peppermint wafted in the air. However, instead of questioning where the scent was coming from, he simply pushed the bathroom door open, his hand on the waistband of his briefs, in the process of tugging them down when he froze at the sight that greeted him, and then stumbled backward at her shriek.

"TOM!"

A wave of water splashed over the rim of the tub in her sudden effort to cover herself from his view. Tom himself quickly shut his eyes at the sound of her shriek and instinct had him backing out, however, the back of his leg hit the toilet and he began to lose his balance. He reached out for the sink in an effort to catch himself, but it was all in vain. He landed, hard, on his tailbone, causing him to grunt in pain. "Fuuuuuck," he swore, wincing as he attempted to roll over to relieve pressure from his bruised backside, only to discover that he had rolled right onto a puddle caused by her splash, and now the entire front of his boxer briefs were soaked (and it didn't help that the water felt cold on the tile floor; as if he weren't embarrassed enough).

He was groaning and attempting to sit up, sucking in a deep breath as he felt a spasm of pain in his lower back. The sound of water dripping and sloshing drew his attention back towards the tub, and then the next thing he knew, his flatmate (now covered with a towel) was hovering over him. "Oh my God, Tom—are you alright?"

He bit back the sarcastic answer he wanted to mutter, knowing that wouldn't help the situation at the moment, and instead just shook his head.

"Sorry, stupid question," Sybil muttered under her breath. "Where does it hurt? Show me, and rate the pain on a scale of 1 to 10?"

Her inner doctor was coming out, but what else would be expected? There were certainly some advantages to having a medical student as a flatmate. "Well, I'd say it's a 10, but even I know that's an exaggeration," he grumbled, and despite the helping hand she was offering, rolled away from her slightly and attempted to get up on his own two feet.

"Easy," she cautioned, noticing that he was still in a great deal of pain as he got onto his hands and knees. "Let me help you…"

He sighed, and reluctantly nodded his head, wishing he could be like her and wrap a towel around himself to hide the wet lower portion of his body. But Sybil was ever the professional, and despite the fact that she was standing there, dripping wet herself, with nothing but a thin, white towel wrapped around her body…

Tom swallowed and tried to look elsewhere. Despite the fact that the front of his boxer briefs were cold due to the water, it didn't seem that the temperature was having any kind of effect in keeping certain things from…reacting.

"I'm fine, honestly," he assured her as soon as he felt his feet planted firmly beneath him. He wasted no time in turning his body away before she noticed anything. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Me?" she asked, and when Tom looked over his shoulder at her, he noticed how she whipped her head up quickly to meet his eyes. Her cheeks were a dark pink, but that could have been due to the hot water.

"I thought you had a shift at the hospital tonight?"

Her face seemed to darken even more at his question. "I…no," she answered. "No…not…not tonight."

Those last words were practically mumbled. Tom frowned; he swore he remembered her saying that she was staying behind for Christmas because she had a hospital shift. Maybe she meant Christmas Day?

"But what about you?" she asked, turning the question back to him again. "Aren't you supposed to be flying back to Dublin?"

"The answer to that question lies in the word 'supposed'," he muttered, wincing ever so slightly as he began to walk out of the bathroom. "All flights out of Chicago are presently grounded due to weather."

He heard Sybil follow him. "But wasn't your flight scheduled for three this afternoon?"

"The storm was already pretty bad by then—although I'd say it's gotten steadily worse since…" He paused to look out a window at the snow covered streets below. There was no way a plane was going to fly into or out of the city any time soon. He looked over his shoulder at her again, and felt his own cheeks rush with heat when he noticed that she was looking at his arse. Sybil seemed to sense that he was noticing that she was noticing, and once again snapped her eyes back up to his face.

"Um…" she coughed and turned her face away. "You should put something on your back…like some ice or something to keep the bruising down."

Tom groaned at the word "ice". "I have some muscle cream in my gym bag; but honestly, Sybil, I'm ok…" She had gone into the kitchen (which was attached to their living room) and had opened up freezer to get some ice cubes. She turned back to him and his voice faded as his eyes couldn't help but follow a few random drops dripping down her neck…into the crevice of her cleavage…

"I'm going to get that cream," he muttered then, moving quickly and telling his body to stop doing what it was doing, and instead tried to imagine something entirely unappealing to calm it down. What was wrong with him? He had been sharing this flat with Sybil for nearly four months, and despite a few embarrassing moments here and there (who could forget that time her underwear got mixed up with his laundry?), he had never "suffered" from such a…reaction.

Not that he didn't think she was gorgeous, a man would have to blind not to notice that, but…well, she was his flatmate, and it just seemed wrong to think of your flatmate in such a way that would result in a hard-on.

Yeah, but you've never walked in on her wet and naked before, an impish voice inside his head attempted to reason. And while she had moved to quickly cover herself (and momentarily blinded him with her splash) he had still managed to catch a glimpse of her lovely curves. "Stop it," he muttered to himself as soon as he managed to shut the door behind him. He leaned against the wood and took a few, deep, calming breaths, before finally divesting himself of his wet underwear, and tugging on a clean pair, as well as some track bottoms which he typically wore to the gym. He threw on his Henley (after a quick application of the muscle cream to his lower back), and after a few more calming breaths, assured he had his body under control once again…finally stepped out of his room.

Sybil wasn't in the living room, but this didn't surprise him. She had probably gone to put some clothes on herself, which was a very good thing, as the towel she had wrapped around her body had barely been able to contain—

Damn it, stop! he ordered his body, as it once again began to "respond" to the delicious images he had seen not that long ago. The creak of a door alerted Tom that Sybil was emerging, and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw her head poking out from behind her door. "All better?" she asked, although he wasn't quite sure to what she was asking.

She means your back, you idiot. He swallowed and forced a smile, before nodding his head. "Yeah, it did the trick," he assured her.

At this, Sybil smiled, looking both glad and relieved, and Tom felt his heart lift at the simple expression. That was probably the first thing he had noticed about Sybil when they met: her smile. She had a beautiful, infectious smile, one that could melt the iciest of hearts. And despite their recent embarrassing encounter, Tom did feel himself relax. "Um, you want some tea? I was going to make myself a cup..."

"Oh, I'll make it!" Sybil told him, emerging fully from her room. She waved her hand at him, pointing to the nearby couch. "You sit down and relax—do you want Earl Grey? I think there's some still left…" she muttered as she began rummaging through the tea cupboard.

The tea cupboard. That was Tom's name for the cabinet above the stove where Sybil kept every kind of box and tin of Twinings she could get her hands on. She liked coffee in the morning, and the occasional cup of hot chocolate here and there, but tea…tea was her favorite, and she drank a minimum of six cups a day. There wasn't a tea she didn't like, from what Tom could tell. And where most people would wait until they had finished all of one box or tin before opening another, Sybil would drink a cup of English Breakfast one hour, then go back and make herself a cup of Lemon Chamomile an hour later, and then another hour have Green Tea with Peppermint. It was one of her many…quirks…that Tom found rather charming. Including now, seeing her move about their little kitchen in what he mentally called her "Christmas pajamas"—red and green plaid flannel, which looked a size too big for her. If he hadn't seen her in that towel earlier, he might not believe the curvaceous figure that was hiding underneath—

God, what is wrong with you? Indeed, what was wrong with him? This wasn't the first time Tom had seen her in those pajamas, and…well, alright, he couldn't deny that he did think she looked rather adorable in them. But again, that was just an extension of who she was. Who she is…

"Right, kettle's boiling," Sybil announced, turning back to face him, her hands on her hips. "Have you eaten anything this evening?" she asked, her hand seeming to reach for a nearby frying pan.

"I'm fine, really," he assured her, his eyes lingering on the pan momentarily, recalling how this past weekend, she had declared she was going to make them both a "traditional English fry-up" to celebrate the end of the semester, and how she had set off several smoke detectors instead.

Sybil made an excellent cup of tea, but she had a long way to go when it came to cooking.

"Actually, if you have any of those biscuits left…"

The shadow of disappointment that had briefly fallen across her face, changed completely at the request for some of the biscuits she had baked (also this past weekend). Again, another one of Sybil's "quirky charms"; she couldn't cook, but she loved trying. Thankfully, as he was pleasantly surprised to discover, she was a decent baker.

"I was thinking of making some more tomorrow," Sybil told him as she opened the tin and held it out for him. "Some festive ginger snaps, because nothing says 'Christmas' like gingerbread, or so Mrs. Patmore would always say," she giggled to herself.

Mrs. Patmore…oh that's right, her family's cook. That was still so surreal to him, the fact that Sybil was a member of the British peerage. It was something she didn't reveal until a good month after she had moved in with him. A letter arrived, addressed to "Lady Sybil Crawley", and Tom at first thought that whoever had written it, was simply having a go and sharing a private joke. But Sybil turned bright red when he showed her the envelope and the teasing note in his voice quickly died as he realized…it wasn't a joke, she really was a "Lady" in the aristocratic sense. And then she admitted everything, that her father was the Earl of Grantham, and their old family estate was up in Yorkshire, a place called "Downton Abbey", to which Tom googled and muttered, "fuck me!" upon seeing the massive estate.

Sybil did sound posh, or…as he imagined a posh person would sound (in the corner of Dublin where he grew up, you didn't run into many "posh" folks). But never, not once, would he have guessed her to be an aristocrat. She just…she just didn't have that sort of attitude (although to be fair, she was the first aristocrat he had ever met, so what kind of attitude was she supposed to have?). She wasn't stuck-up or snobbish, and she wasn't afraid to do her share of chores around the flat, nor was she helpless when it came to doing those chores. She might not be able to cook, but she knew how make a bed, fold laundry, and even scrub a toilet. Maybe he was the one who was out-of-touch? Maybe all earls' daughters were just like her?

No, he thought with a bit of a chuckle. No, there was no one just like Sybil…

Tom was suddenly struck by something she had said. "You're going to bake some more tomorrow?" he asked.

"That was the plan," Sybil confirmed with a nod, stealing a biscuit for herself as the kettle began to scream. She went to work removing it from the hot stove and carefully pouring the boiling water into their waiting mugs.

Tom watched, but his mind was elsewhere. "Will you have the time?" he asked. "I mean…how long is your shift tomorrow?"

Sybil paused, mid-pour at his question. "Um…no, that won't be a problem," she mumbled, her eyes fixed on their mugs as she finished pouring the last of the water. "Let that steep for a bit," she murmured, before turning her back to him to put the biscuits away.

Tom frowned. Something wasn't right; this was the second time he had made a mention about her hospital shift, and both times, she seemed to stiffen and avoid his eyes.

"I'm sorry about your flight," he heard her murmur. She was tidying up, but she did glance at him and looked truly sympathetic. "I know you were looking forward to being home for Christmas."

Tom sighed and nodded his head. "I was, I can't deny; I started to feel homesick ever since Christmas decorations began popping up, and it's only been getting worse."

Sybil seemed alarmed by this information. In truth, it was the first time he had voiced it. "Are you…were you thinking of…of staying over there, once you got back?"

Tom frowned. "Stay over there…?"

"Well, you just said your homesickness has been getting worse—"

"Oh!" he realized now why she had leapt to that conclusion and quickly shook his head. "No, no, I mean—yes, I do miss my family, but…like I said, seeing the decorations and adverts on TV, just make me miss Christmas at home, that's what I mean," he explained. "I have every intention of coming back and finishing my doctorate," he assured, before chuckling nervously as he tried to imagine how long that would take (years, but hopefully not decades). He turned his attention back to her and tilted his head to one side. "What about you?" he asked.

Sybil was reaching for her mug of tea, but paused and looked surprised by his question. "Me?"

Tom nodded, reaching for his own mug and taking a sip. "Aren't you going to miss Christmas at the castle?"

She rolled her eyes then. "It's not a castle—"

"Like hell it isn't," he chuckled, more so at the glare she was giving him. In the short time he had gotten to know her, Tom quickly learned how much fun it was, getting a rise out of her. But she could dish it out every bit as well as he could. "But let's not be distracted by semantics. So, aren't you?"

She was trying to pour some milk into her tea. "Aren't I what?"

Was she being purposefully thick? "I'm asking if you're going to miss being home for Christmas—in all seriousness, you haven't said much about Downton—"

"Because I didn't see the point!" Sybil all but snapped, causing Tom's eyebrows to lift in surprise. They had raised their voices to one another and lost their tempers to each other on a few occasions in the past, but…this was different. There was annoyance in her tone, but there was also something else, something…something that she was trying to keep buried, and hidden. Something connected to her life back in England…

"You don't see the point…" Tom repeated, watching her carefully. "Because you knew weren't going home due to your…shift at the hospital?"

Again, she didn't meet his eyes, but she nodded her head at his words and brought her mug to her lips, concentrating on that, instead. While he was trying to put the puzzle pieces that was his flatmate's aversion to Christmas back in England, he couldn't help but focus on her lips, which were blowing the surface of her tea. He especially couldn't help but notice how…prettily…they looked, when she puckered them…

"I'm knackered," Sybil suddenly announced then. Tom frowned at this and glanced at the clock over the stove. It wasn't even half-past nine. Even on mornings when Sybil had to get up before dawn, it was rare she would go to bed before midnight. "Anyway, I'm just going to, um…take my tea and go to bed," she all but muttered those last words. With her mug in her hands, she turned and padded out of the kitchen.

Tom felt disappointment fill his chest at her announcement. "Syb, I'm sorr—"

"No, I'm sorry," she interrupted, pausing just before she retreated into her room. She finally turned her head and looked back at him, and there, just briefly, Tom saw what it was, the hidden emotion she was trying to keep him and the world from seeing: guilt.

"I'm really sorry that you can't get back to Ireland for Christmas," she murmured.

He was sorry too, but he gave her a kind and gracious smile for her words. "Thank you, but…I'd rather be snowed in here on Christmas, than spending it at O'Hare."

The corners of her mouth curled upward. She looked over her shoulder at him and…he wasn't sure what it was, the way her skin seemed to softly glow by the light of their little tree, or the way her eyes seemed to shimmer, the blue in them more beautiful than ever, or just the way she simply smiled, but…for whatever reason, he felt his throat go dry and his heart slow until it's beating was echoing loudly in his ears.

"Merry Christmas, Tom," she whispered.

Somehow, by some miracle, he found his voice, and replied back, "Merry Christmas, Sybil…"

She smiled, and nodded her head, before murmuring "good night", and with her tea in hand, slipped into her room and shut the door. A long, shaky breath escaped his lungs then, and Tom felt his whole body sag from the unknown tension he had been feeling.

What was going on? Why was he feeling like this? Christmas, that's why; you're being overly sensitive due to the holiday, and feel sorry for yourself that you weren't able to fly back. That had to be the reason; after all, he had Sybil had been flatmates since August, and not once had he ever felt…

…Well, maybe, but…but it wasn't like that! He had been stunned when the bloke he come to see about the flat turned out to not be a bloke, but this was the 21st century, men and women could live together without any kind of romantic or sexual agenda…

"She is fit…" one of his so-called friends had muttered to him shortly after he and Sybil had moved in. He had looked at his friend with annoyance, and that annoyance only grew when his friend asked him if he was going "try" anything with her, to which he simply growled, "don't."

"Fine, but you're wasting a perfectly good opportunity. And if you're not interested, maybe you could put in a good word for someone who is—"

Tom never invited his "friend" back over after that.

He sank down onto the couch and stared at the blank television screen for a long time, lost in his thoughts. He had gone on a few dates since coming there, and had even at one point, brought a girl over with the intention of staying the night. However, while the two of them were sitting on that very couch, and things were starting to escalate to the point where he was going to suggest they move to the bedroom, that was when the door to the flat opened and Sybil came in, her arms full with two large grocery bags.

His flatmate gasped and apologized, while his date stared in shock, before turning and shoving him away from her. "You said you were single!" she accused.

Sybil, embarrassed for what she had walked in on and interrupted, looked horrified at the conclusion his date had come to. "Oh no, I'm Sybil, Tom's flatmate—"

"Whatever," his date muttered, standing up and fixing her blouse, before grabbing her jacket and pushing past Sybil. "If you were 'just' his flatmate, he would have said something," she turned her hateful gaze at him then. "And it wasn't like you didn't have enough opportunity to say 'oh by the way, the person I share this apartment with is a woman'!"

Tom didn't bring another woman back to the flat after that incident.

As for Sybil, Tom couldn't recall an incident when she had brought a bloke over to spend the night. They had never really discussed the "rules" about having guests stay. They both seemed to respect one another's privacy, and treated each other like "adults".

No, it was more than that, like…like equals, really.

But even though he couldn't remember ever waking up some morning and finding a guy slip out of the flat, he had met a few of Sybil's dates when they had come by to pick her up, and…while he kept all comments to himself, there were a few who he couldn't help but wonder why she was bothering with them, when within the first five minutes, he could quickly tell they were far, far out of her league.

And you are? Tom's face burned at the sudden question. Why was he even thinking about any of this? With a groan, he picked up the television remote and turned on the news, all of which seemed to be focused on the massive snow storm that was sweeping the region.

"…Snow isn't the only issue we'll be having this Christmas; meteorologists warn that a huge cold front will also be descending on the metropolitan area, with temperatures dropping to below freezing levels after midnight, and lasting until mid-afternoon Christmas Day. So if you are going out this Christmas, make sure to bundle up!"

A shiver ran down Tom's spine, and he looked towards a nearby window, shivering anew at the sound of the howling wind and the sight of snow pelting the glass. He took another sip of his tea, grateful for the hot liquid, and even more grateful that he had made the decision to come back to the flat, rather than wait the storm out at the airport.

He turned the television off, and lifted himself up off the couch. It was a quarter to ten, but the events of the day were finally starting to catch up with him. Like Sybil, he too would call it a night. So with his own mug of tea in hand, he went into his own bedroom and quietly shut the door, pausing when he heard the soft sound of music coming from the opposite wall.

Bing Crosby was quietly singing about dreaming of a white Christmas. Well, Bing was definitely going to be getting his wish. Still, hearing the music did make Tom smile; Sybil had been playing Christmas music every night in her room since December began. He remembered her "warning" him about this, that she hated hearing Christmas music played any time before December, but once the month began, she couldn't get enough of it, and especially liked to listen to it before going to bed.

…It was another one of her "quirky charms". He had smiled and even laughed when she had told him this, and he was smiling and chuckling softly to himself now at the memory. As much as he wished he was on a plane, flying back to Dublin, this wasn't so bad. Maybe this would turn out to be a good Christmas after all?

However, he would be questioning that line of thinking later, after he had finished his tea, turned out the lights, and settled under the warm blankets, the sounds of Sybil's music lulling him to sleep…before waking up and shivering to discover that at some point in the middle of the night, the heat had stopped working and the power was out.

To be continued...

UH OH! :oP

Also, they say "write what you know" and while I wanted to set this in America, I realized that I didn't know enough about Boston or New York to set the story there, but being a Chicago native, and having done some grad work at Northwestern, I went with that.

NEXT UP, how will Tom and Sybil end up spending Christmas? Will he learn the real reason why Sybil's being so secretive? And perhaps most importantly...what are they going to do when they can't ignore the cold any longer? ;o)