AN:I've written quite a bit of fan fic for Mass Effect, but have never felt the urge to share any of it. This, my first Downton Abbey fic, however, is different. Perhaps because I feel as though Tom and Sybil, my favourite characters, are being let down a little by some of the writing. In any event, here's my explanation for why Branson's habit of always watching Sybil in season two has been replaced by him always touching her in season three.
Life Line
He probably touched her far more frequently and far more publicly than was proper, he thought.
In the world they had built for each other in Dublin, this was not a problem.
They were newlyweds, after all, and so his touches were not commented upon, and so his almost constant need went unnoticed, the need to reassure himself that, yes, after six long years of watching, of wanting, of waiting, she really was there, really was at last by his side, and that he really could look at her, talk to her, touch her whenever he wanted - and that she really did want him to do all of those things, too.
But life was different here, at Downton.
Whether you entered the house through the servants' door, or were received out in front, greeted by a full lineup of family and staff, you stepped into a world where everyone spoke a lot without saying much of anything at all, where you stayed on your side of the line or suffered the consequences, where a man could put a price on honour and on the happiness of a daughter, and where problems disappeared with the flourish of a cheque book.
Well.
Some problems.
Not him.
Not then, not now, not ever.
Disdainful glances, hushed whispers, he cared not for either; no, he would stand fast and refuse to bend.
After all, he had discovered a new means of rebellion.
And so when he happened upon her signing out a book in the library, his arm would come up to curve around her waist.
As they stood together, talking quietly by the fire in the drawing room, his fingers would brush just for a moment against the curve of her cheek.
In the saloon, as he sat by her side trying not to be too visibly relieved by his successfully carrying on a conversation with Mary and Matthew that could be described as more as friendly rather than simply coolly civil,his hand would move to rest on her knee, and then he would find himself trying not to be visibly proud when she, in return, placed her hand over his.
Sometimes, through force of habit, he would dart forward, find himself about to hand Sybil into the motor rather than stepping back to let the new chauffeur do so.
When Mr Carson reluctantly served him brandy after dinner, he would still fight the urge to smooth back his hair, his fingers almost moving to make sure the buttons on his livery were done up properly and polished to a shine.
His father-in-law seemed to tolerate looking him in the eyes only slightly better than he tolerated the sight of his daughter's swelling stomach.
It had been hard to come to terms with the knowledge that there could be no more moments in which he caught Mrs Hughes shaking her head at some of his more controversial opinions, gave her a cheeky grin, and received an indulgent smile of her own in return.
Yet none of it mattered.
Not while Sybil's hand lay over his.
With that one touch, with that slight pressure, she joined him in his silent rebellion.
And together, they kept the world of "terribly flattered" at bay.