So I originally posted this on my Tumblr ( Fortuitous-occurencess) back in June as part of Tom and Sybil romance week. (Credit to yankeecountess for the inspiration!) It's also my first piece of Downton fanfiction, so I hope it's not too shabby! It's set in the canon universe but with a few small changes to the timeline. Enjoy!

It wasn't often that Sybil felt down, but after an exhausting conversation over dinner with her father and granny, where each and every belief that she had was mocked and torn to pieces, she was defeated. She wasn't exactly upset, nor was she angry, really. She just felt frustrated.

She didn't normally let their opinions get to her. Sybil Crawley, proud suffragette, faithful ambassador for her fellow women's rights, never gave up.

But this time had been different. Papa's look of disapproval, and the way he had spoken to her, as if she was stupid, as if she was some silly little girl living in a fantasy world, had made her question whether she was fighting for the right thing.

She remembered the political rallies she had coerced Branson into driving her too, cheering for the liberals, voicing her opinion with as much courage and dignity as she could muster over the jeers of the men around her. Her first count, however badly it had ended, was still a landmark event in her life, and Sybil had always anticipated there would be many more counts and rallies to come.

But should she want that? Should she want more for herself? Or should she be resigned to a life of subjugation, married to some Earl, forever destined to be seen but not heard?

In reality though, it wasn't about whether she wanted it, but whether or not it was inevitable.

As Sybil lay on her bed, pondering all that Papa had said and all that had led up to this moment, she knew there was only one person that she could talk to, who would understand what was going through her mind.

*********
He wasn't surprised when she came to the garage that night. He'd had a feeling she would, having heard from Carson about the tense atmosphere over dinner, sensing in his tone the Butler's disapproval of the youngest Crawley sister's 'radical' political beliefs. Tom had thought it best not to mention who it was that was encouraging these ideas - after all, he was already on his last warning after the incident with the army general.

But there was something different about Sybil tonight. Her fight was gone, her free spirit, one of the things that Tom loved most about her - and by Christ was that one of many - seemed to have disappeared.

"But what if Papa is right, Branson? What if the Tories are the best thing for the country? Is all we've been fighting for just silly idealism?" He heard the frustration in her voice as she spoke, noticed the slumping of her shoulders as she stood, deflated, her eyes downcast towards the floor. It took a while for him to think of what to say - he wanted to help her find her feet again, give her something to hold onto, not just patronise her like her family had done so many times before.

"When I first came to England," Tom began, "I hated it. I hated the idea of living on the same soil as a government that had oppressed my home country for hundreds of years. In my mind, every British person was personally responsible for the atrocities that had been wrecked in Ireland. That was until I met you. You made me question everything that I had previously believed the British to be, and everything I believed the aristocracy to be. I realised that although the country of Britain was responsible for Ireland's oppression, that didn't mean every British person supported it, just like although the landed gentry rules the working people, not all of them believe that is how it should be. Questioning your beliefs does not mean that they're wrong, it just means you have the maturity to see the world from another point of view. It means you're growing, learning. It's something even the best politicians cannot do." He finished with a small smile.

"Well, I don't know about politician, I still can't even vote yet," Sybil replied.

"Yes, but you will do, one day. See, even the fact that you're talking about there being the possibility of all women getting the vote shows you've not given up." As Tom said this, he saw a trace of a smile appear on her face for the first time that evening.

"I guess you're right. Oh Branson, I am so glad I have you to talk to about these things. I fear I'd go mad if i didn't have anyone else that understood me. Or even worse, I'd start thinking like them."

"I'm glad to be of help," Tom said. He looked back towards the newspaper he'd been reading before she came in, assuming the conversation to be over.

"I hope that I can be of help to you too," Sybil continued, taking him by surprise.

"How do you mean?" He asked, curious.

"Well, you know I can't give you an answer yet, not until I'm ready. But I can give you something else."

"Like what?"

"Like this," And just like that, Lady Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, kissed him, Tom Branson, an Irish chauffeur with barely a penny to his name.

It was all that he'd ever dreamed of and more. Her lips were soft, so soft, and he could feel the heat of her body against his, smell the perfume on her neck, a comforting scent of roses and fresh linen. It would be an understatement to say that at that moment Tom Branson was in heaven.

All too soon she pulled away, lips curling into a smile as her hands ran through his hair, down past his neck until they came to rest on his shoulders.

"I must go now. But I'll come back tomorrow night - that is if you want me to?" Sybil inquired, looking at him for a reply. But for once he was speechless, and could only nod.

Then she reached up, placing her lips against his ear, and whispered: "Thank you for waiting. It won't be long now."

And she was gone.

Sitting up in bed, unable to go to sleep, Sybil knew of two things she was sure of.

The first was that no matter what her family said, regardless of how much they nagged, she would stay true to her beliefs.

The second was that she could never marry someone she did not love, never allow herself to be seen but not heard. She already had someone who would listen to her, who believed in her and everything that she stood for. Her fellow silly idealist.

He was waiting in that garage for her answer, and Sybil knew now what that was.