Happy New Year! Here, at last, is part 2. I'm going to start working on part 3 right away, so hopefully sometime this weekend, it will up *fingers crossed* Thank you so much for those of you have read this story so far; it's a lot of fun and I am enjoying the romantic comedy elements ;o) You have may noticed that I went ahead and "upped" the rating to M as things start to "heat up" in a manner of speaking. And without further ado...


'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

Sybil Crawley had the rare gift of being able to stay up late, and then rise early the following morning without a great deal of trouble. However, that didn't mean she preferred "early mornings", she was just able to adjust to them if the need arose. No, waking up before dawn wasn't the difficulty, it was going to sleep before midnight that was the struggle.

Sybil sighed and stared up at the ceiling of her little bedroom. She had strung Christmas lights along the edges where the wall and ceiling met, and right now their light was all that illuminated her room.

It was peaceful, really. Despite the sound of ice and wind, pelting the glass of her tiny window, she felt calm and serene inside this little space, her tea nestled in her hands, lying atop her stomach.

Yet despite that peace, she still didn't feel remotely tired.

She had left her book in the bathroom; perhaps later, when she was sure Tom had gone to bed, she would go and retrieve it. She knew he was still out there, she heard the sound of the TV coming through one of the room's thin walls. He had the news on, which was pretty typical for him. Tom didn't watch a great deal of TV, but when he did, it was the news. It was a…"quirky charm" of his, as her American grandmother might say. And it made sense, this love for the news; after all, his master's degree was in political science.

She remembered him telling her that he preferred the local news stations to the national ones, and since living in the US, he certainly preferred the news on channels like PBS over the bigger-name stations, like CNN. And PBS would show BBC World News late at night, so she imagined he would be staying up till then, at the very least. No, she would not be emerging from her room any time soon.

Sybil sat up a bit to take a sip of her tea, frowning at the luke-warm temperature of the liquid (tea was best when it was piping hot). Fantastic; not only was she unable to go and retrieve her book, but she couldn't leave to reheat her tea. Of course…this was no one's fault but her own, she knew. She was being stubborn, and pig-headed, but she was also proud (she had enough Crawley in her for that). Tom would either continue with his questions, or simply look at her with pity (or possibly annoyance). Either way, she just wasn't up to seeing or speaking with anyone right now.

Setting her tea aside, Sybil reached for her ipod, which was hooked up to some speakers near her bed, and put on her Christmas playlist. Oh the irony, when Frank Sinatra began singing to simply "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…"

"I think we've had enough of that," she muttered, as she skipped to the next song (Winter Wonderland) and the next (It's a Marshmallow World in the Winter) and the next (In the Bleak Midwinter)—good grief, how many of these songs were about snow? She was tired of skipping, and so decided that no matter what the next song was, she'd let it play…and laughed to herself as Bing Crosby's voice filled her ears.

"I'm dreaming of a White Christmas…"

No need to dream, they were getting a white Christmas whether they wanted one or not.

"Just like the ones I used to know…"

Sybil smirked to herself at hearing the line. She supposed every child (at least those that grew up in the northern hemisphere) yearned for a "white Christmas". She had been no different, though only on a handful of occasions could she recall there being snow on Christmas morning. Most of her childhood Christmases were gray and damp, the very opposite of what you would print on a seasonal postcard.

"…I'm dreaming of a White Christmas,
With every Christmas card I write…"

This song was depressing. It sang of picturesque winter scenes and nostalgic cheer. It had been written during the height of WW2, and Sybil imagined all the soldiers hearing it and longing for those Christmases of the past. But the past was never as "picturesque" as one's mind made it. Which was why so many people were often disappointed when they tried to recreate it. It just didn't work, because the reality would never be as "perfect" as the memory.

With a groan, and despite her earlier resolution to let the song play out, Sybil rolled over onto her side and reached out to hit the next song on her ipod.

"I'll be home for Christmas—"

She quickly turned the ipod off.

The living room was quiet, she realized. Had Tom already gone to bed? She glanced at the clock next to her bed and frowned. Granted, she tried to reason, he had had a full day, waking earlier than usual to get his things together before leaving for the airport (and the flight that would go to nowhere). He was probably exhausted, if not physically, then emotionally at the very least. Her heart broke for him, and not for the first time; she knew he had been looking forward to this trip, that he missed his family and his home, as he had revealed just a little while ago, to the point where she thought perhaps he was telling her he wasn't going to return? And he still might not. Despite his "promise" that he would come back to Northwestern to finish his doctorate, he very well might change his mind. He might realize that he missed Ireland too much, missed being around his family and old friends; he had only started his doctorate program, he could easily transfer what he had done so far to another school, one much closer, one actually in Ireland…

The thought depressed her greatly. Which rather surprised her, somewhat. She liked Tom, she liked him very much, she liked to think they were more than "just flatmates", but good friends as well. She still smiled whenever she thought about their first meeting, how she had come to look at the apartment, wanting to have a place of her own (in a manner of speaking) that wasn't part of campus housing, thinking that the potential roommate she was meeting was another med student (the landlord had used the words "student doctor"), not to mention female, but...no, that wasn't the case, not at all. She had walked into the flat, a bit out of breath from climbing the various flights of stairs, her brow sweaty due to the August heat, and nearly crashed into the stocky, broad-shouldered stranger, who happened to be checking the fuse box just on the inside of the apartment.

They caught each other and stared with wide-eyes at one another, both a bit taken aback by the sight of the other (and the closeness of their bodies). After righting themselves (and a few mumbled apologies) it suddenly began to dawn on the both of them that they were the potential flatmates for this place.

Sybil's first instinct was to say "no" (actually, her first instinct was to grumble at the landlord for not being clearer when they had spoken over the phone), but…why not? So what if he was a "Tom" and not a "Tonya"? This was the twenty-first century, men and women could share a living space without having…anything…between them. Her cheeks burned at the thought, but she gave a shake of her head, swallowed the somewhat nervous lump in her throat, and extended her hand to him and introduced herself, surprising the both of them again when they heard each other's accents.

A half-hour later, they were sitting in a nearby coffee shop, "interviewing" each other to see if this could actually work. Another half-hour later, they were both laughing and smiling and sharing all sorts of stories, and Sybil knew, that yes, it could.

However, as tonight had proven, that didn't mean there weren't…awkward moments, every so often. Her face still burned at the memory of walking in that one time, and finding Tom and his date at the time, snogging on the couch. She had gone on a few dates herself, since coming to the states, but nothing serious, and certainly nothing serious enough that she wanted to bring a guy back to her and Tom's flat, which was just as well, because on those occasions when her date would come to pick her up, they always seemed a bit…uneasy…that she was living with another bloke. And they certainly never seemed to completely believe her, when she insisted that all they were to each other was flatmates. Their landlord certainly seemed to believe they were a couple (and it eventually got the point that both Tom and Sybil gave up trying to correct him otherwise).

Perhaps it was only a matter of time before one of them walked in on the other while in the bath? Sybil blushed as she remembered sneaking into the bathroom while Tom was in the shower once, to grab some mouthwash, and staring momentarily at the outline of his body, hidden by the closed shower curtain, but the shadow quite visible, and her eyes only widened as she noticed one his hands, squirting some soap onto a washcloth, and moving it down his chest, his stomach, his pelvis, until he reached…

Sybil groaned and rolled over until her face was buried against her pillow. These were not welcome thoughts. Oh God, and when he walked in on her this evening, how much of her had he seen!? Enough, that was the answer. Certainly more than she had seen of him, recalling how he had entered the bathroom with every intention of peeling his boxer briefs down, only to stop when he saw her and she shrieked in surprise. And then he had fallen, and while she tried to grant him some privacy and look away, she couldn't help but notice the bulge in the front his underwear…or the contours of his arse from behind. And made only more obvious, since he was soaking wet below the waist…

And OF COURSE, he turned around and caught her staring. God, she had been beyond mortified, even more so than when he had walked in on her in the bath! Because as embarrassing as that was, it was an easy mistake, one she couldn't exactly blame him for, since she hadn't been expecting him and he had assumed she was working at the hospital. But what excuse could she offer for…blatantly staring at his arse?

Enough! Sybil gave her head a shake and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, preparing to push herself to her feet. She needed to distract herself from…whatever was going through her mind right now. And Tom, from the sound of things, was in his room, so it was perfectly safe to take her cold cup of tea to the sink, and grab her book from the bathroom—

Heat flooded Sybil's cheeks as she recalled her abandoned book. She had just gotten to "the good part", where the two lovers were meeting in secret, in a laundry closet of all places, and they were desperate for one another, and the hero needed her, needed to give the heroine pleasure, needing that more than his own (clearly a work of fiction, right there), and had just snaked his hand beneath her skirts and between her legs, capturing her moans with his hungry mouth—

Sybil clamped a hand over her own mouth. Did she just…?

All the while this was happening, the hero was pressing his body against the heroine, his arousal more than obvious, and now, of course, Sybil's mind was once again taking a leisurely swim through the gutter, as she recalled her flatmate's body, and…

Sybil closed her eyes and took a great gulp of the cold tea, her face contorting in disgust, but her mind and body grateful for the…distraction. Food, that would help. A snack always did the trick when she needed to take her mind off something. And even though she had vowed not to pick up another text book until the New Year, was there really any harm in getting a jump start on her second semester classes?

I can't believe this; it's Christmas Eve and I'm actually contemplating on studying. Yes, but it seemed to be a good, sobering solution to distracting thoughts. No, not "distracting", though they were that, but UNWANTED thoughts! Tom was her flatmate, her friend, and…and that was all! He was his own person, and…and not something for her to objectify or…or fantasize—NO! No, she wasn't even going to finish that train of thought, because…just no!

She took another gulp of cold tea, before finally standing and moving purposefully towards her door. However, upon reaching it, she quietly opened it and tentatively poked her head out, just to make extra sure he wasn't sitting on the couch and reading, as he sometimes did.

No, the room was dark; even her little Christmas tree had been unplugged.

Sybil rolled her eyes. The tree and how long it should remain plugged in was a sensitive subject between herself and her flatmate. Tom didn't like that Sybil sometimes left it plugged in when no one was around, but she didn't like it when he would just randomly go up to it and unplug it, even when she was in the room with it. He'd argue that it had been plugged in for six straight hours, and she'd argue that he was exaggerating, and then he would insist that he wasn't, that she had plugged it as early as four, and she would argue and say, "well that's when it gets dark outside!", and they still had yet to reach a compromise. And…alright, so Tom was the last person up, so she supposed she couldn't get too annoyed with him for unplugging the tree, HOWEVER…it was Christmas Eve, and the tree always remained lit throughout the entire night. Or at least Sybil believed it should.

Somehow, these present thoughts about Tom were helping Sybil with overcoming her previous ones. Good, this was the Tom she needed to remember, the stubborn man who was frightfully full of himself. She found herself smiling, and with a bit of a mischievous grin, marched over to the tree and plugged it in, her smile only widening further as it once again illuminated the little corner of their flat.

Sybil folded her arms across her chest and gave a proud nod to the tree, before turning her attention now to the windows, noticing how ice crystals were forming on the glass. Still, she could see enough of the world outside, the huge, fat snowflakes that were carpeting the streets below. Sybil shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Oh, she hoped everyone out there had managed to find shelter of some kind. And…in all seriousness, while she was sad Tom was unable to make his flight, she was glad he wasn't in the middle of this mess, be that in the sky, or stuck at the airport.

Now, her thoughts were warming to him again, though these were not "lustful" thoughts as she had been having earlier. Sybil's smile grew tender as she thought of her flatmate and friend, and a strange, comforting warmth began to spread as she thought about spending Christmas Day with him tomorrow. Tom wasn't a self-proclaimed Whovian the way Sybil was, but he did enjoy the show enough; perhaps he would like to join her with her Christmas-themed Doctor Who marathon tomorrow? And she would make those gingersnaps; she grinned as she recalled the way his eyes had lit up when she mentioned them. And she'd make that fry-up again, she knew she could do it this time without setting off the smoke detector—

The lights on the tree blinked for a second…then blinked again…and then…went out completely.

Sybil frowned. Surely they couldn't have burned out? She bent down to inspect the outlet, thinking perhaps the cord had fallen away from the plug, but…no, they were still plugged in. Sybil's hand moved to a lamp, flicked the switch to get a better inspection—

Nothing.

Oh no.

She flicked that switch on and off at least three times, but just like her Christmas tree, it too remained dark.

A shiver coursed through her body and her arms instinctively wrapped around her. This is bad…

"Tom!"

Her eyes moved back to the windows and another shiver ran down her spine as she watched the ice crystals form. "Tom!" she called again.

She heard him stumble, and then curse, and then mutter, "what the hell!?", which no doubt meant he had just tried to turn on his lights and discovered that nothing was happening. Finally, the door to his room opened, and he gracelessly emerged, eyes narrowed in an effort to see in the dark.

"Syb, what's going on?" he questioned. Despite what he no doubt knew already, he still reached for a lamp.

"The power's gone," she told him, hugging herself a little tighter.

Even though she could barely see his face, she could tell that his eyes had widened at her words.

"Gone?" he repeated, still fiddling with the light switch.

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Stop that," she groaned. "Yes, it's gone, it's out—the electricity, the heat—"

"When did it happen?"

"Just now!" she exclaimed. "I had just plugged the tree back in—"

"You plugged the tree back in!?" Tom interrupted, his voice going from confused to irritated. "WHY would you plug the tree back in!?"

Sybil stiffened at his tone. "This isn't my fault," she muttered through clipped lips.

"Your bloody tree probably blew a fuse," Tom muttered, moving away from the wall and crossing the room to the apartment door, where their flat's fuse box was kept.

Sybil's mouth hung open at the obvious accusation. "It did not!" she defended.

"You know how much power that thing sucks up?" he growled, as he tried to make his way through the dark.

"Tom, this wasn't caused by the tree! This is a proper power outage—"

"FUCK!" Tom swore, tripping over something on the floor and nearly colliding with the couch. "SYBIL!"

"WHAT!?"

"My foot's tangled on something!" he snarled, and reached down to rip whatever had tripped him, off his foot. "I can't see a thing!"

"Well neither can I, so shouting isn't going to do any good!"

Tom ignored her and was trying to disentangle himself from whatever it was. "It's…clothing? Did you have a tank top lying around out here? One of the straps is stuck around my ankle."

Sybil made a face. "Why would I have a tank top…" her words faded as she realized what exactly that it was he had caught around him. "DON'T MOVE!" she ordered, and without another word, surprised them both by getting down on her hands and knees and crawling across the floor to where he was, feeling around for her bra.

"Sybil, what are you—HEY!"

"OH!" Sybil gasped, her body colliding with his leg, nearly causing him to lose his balance again.

"What are you doing!?"

"Trying to get this thing off you!" she growled.

"Trying to get me killed, more like," he muttered.

She ignored him and reached out, her hand patting the ground, trying to find—

"SYBIL!"

"What!?" She whipped her head up in irritation, and gasped when her brow made contact with his groin.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck…" Tom groaned, this time not stopping himself from collapsing backwards onto the couch.

"OH!" Sybil gasped, her hands flying to her mouth and her face burning brightly in embarrassment. Oh God, she had just…head-butted him.

"Oh God, Tom, I…I'm so sorry—"

"Just give me a minute," he groaned, sucking in a breath through his teeth. She couldn't see him clearly, but she imagined his hands were protectively cupping…well, obviously.

Surely he could see her in the dark? Her face must look like a flaming red beacon. "Um…hold still," she mumbled, finding her bra at last.

"That won't be a problem," he muttered, waiting patiently as she untangled the undergarment from his foot and ankle at last. How had it ended up on the floor? Oh God, she had forgotten that she had hung her bras on the radiator to dry, after taking her laundry out. Oh God…she had forgotten that she had put her clothes in the dryer at the end of the hall! They were in there long enough, surely they got dried? But both the washer and dryer on their floor looked like something out of a Flintstone's cartoon than the latest appliance. And it wasn't uncommon for her to have to run the dryer twice in order to—

"Sybil?" Tom interrupted her thoughts. He was starting to sit up again, but she noticed that he had frozen still.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just…um…" he swallowed. "Where's your head right now?"

She frowned. "My head? Why do—oh." Could the earth swallow her up now, please? "Um…it's alright," she assured him, backing away from him quickly, her still somewhat damp bra, wadded up in her hands.

Tom got this feet once again, and with stiff, tentative steps (she wasn't sure if that was due to the darkness or because of his "injury") he finally made it to the fuse box.

"Shit," he sighed.

"What!?" Sybil stiffened.

Tom sighed. "I need a flashlight."

"Oh…ok, um…is there one in the kitchen?" she asked, rising to her own feet once more.

"No," he sighed and looked over his shoulder back at her. "But there is one back in my bedroom."


Sybil was right; it wasn't a blown fuse, as he had hoped. After finally finding the flashlight (which was on a shelf in his closet, which naturally was the darkest part of his entire room), Tom ventured out of their flat and into the hall, knocking on the various doors of their neighbors, only finding one other person there (everyone else had gone home for Christmas) and they confirmed that their power was gone too. They also told Tom that a call had already been made to their landlord…and that it had gone straight to voicemail.

Fantastic.

"Maybe it's just temporary?" Sybil murmured, more to herself than to him. They were both in the living room, Sybil huddled on the couch with a blanket she often snuggled herself up in when she watched TV. Tom had just delivered the news about his conversation with their neighbor.

"I mean, it's not too surprising when you consider the wind and the snow…" she went on. "And I'm sure the city is aware, and already has people working on it…right?"

Highly doubtful, especially considering that it was Christmas. However, he didn't want to dash her hopes, especially since he shared them, and so mumbled back, "yeah, I'm sure you're right."

Neither of them seemed convinced.

Sybil pulled the blanket around her body a little more tightly, the gesture making Tom wish he had a blanket of his own. It hadn't taken long for the temperature in the flat to drop considerably. And it wasn't helped by the sound of the howling wind outside.

"What are we going to do?" Sybil whispered after a long pause.

Tom looked at his flatmate, his vision having now adapted to the darkness of the room. Despite her earlier attempts at trying to be optimistic, she now sounded quite worried, frightened even. Something squeezed inside his chest, and moved away from where he was standing and calmly approached the couch.

"We can't do anything until morning," he reasoned. "By then the storm will have passed, so…so if worse comes to worse, we'll…" he was going to suggest that they would find a hotel somewhere, but the very idea of the suggestion caused his face to warm and his heartbeat to quicken.

Why? It's not like you're suggesting that the both of you…

He shifted a little uncomfortably from where he stood.

The rational part of his brain (the part that thankfully didn't seem to be ruled by his penis), argued (rationally) that they might have a difficult time, finding a hotel that could take them in. Not to mention he didn't know of any hotels close by, and the fact that they would have to find some form of working transportation to get them to one…

"Like you said," he broke the silence at last. "I'm sure someone somewhere is working on the problem, and by morning, we'll have the power back."

Sybil tugged her blanket even tighter to her body. "Morning seems like such a long way off…"

Indeed, it did. And judging from how cold they were both already feeling, it was going to be a long night.

"We'll just have to layer up," Tom announced. "And…try to get some sleep." Because really, what else could they do?

Sybil looked at him as if he were mad (yes, he could tell that, despite the darkness). "Sleep!?" she all but squeaked.

Tom nodded his head. "Aye, what else can we do?" They had no power, what else could be done other than sleep?

Heat flooded his face as a different sort of answer filled his head. Right before he had left for America, Kieran and his wife had had another baby, one which Kieran liked to proudly tease was the result of cold, winter's night, when they too had lost power. "Because what else is there to do?" Kieran had barked with laughter, before being swatted across the chest by his wife.

Of course, the thought of pregnancy had a bit of a sobering impact on Tom's recent lustful thoughts, to which he was rather grateful. Honestly, what the hell is wrong with me?

"What about you?"

He hadn't realized Sybil had been speaking to him. Tom blinked and looked back at her with confusion. "What about me?"

Sybil groaned and he swore she had rolled her eyes at him. "I pointed out the fact that your room faces north."

His brow furrowed. "Aye…?" What was she getting at? Whatever it was, it seemed quite obvious to her.

"Tom…that's the coldest side of the building!" And the wind was directly hitting it.

Tom swallowed and looked out the window, though there wasn't much to see, due to the thick ice crystals that had formed across the glass. But the sound of the wind was enough to make him realize that she wasn't wrong.

"I'll be fine," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

"Tom…"

"I'll be fine," he repeated, forcing a smile though he wondered if she could even see it. Yet even if she did, she'd probably not believe him, after all, she wasn't stupid. "I will," he repeated once more, determination in his voice. "Like I suggested earlier, I'll just layer up, throw on an extra blanket—"

"You don't have an extra blanket."

She was right, he didn't, but she didn't have to know that. "Sure I do," he lied. He wasn't exactly sure why he was lying, but he didn't want her to worry about him, which was clearly what she was doing. He certainly didn't want her to suggest that he take a blanket from her.

Tom could see that Sybil was frowning, and without warning, she rose from the couch, and with body still cocooned by the blanket, marched (as best as she could) across the living room, until she reached his bedroom door. "Hey—" But she ignored him and pushed herself right in.

"Oh my God!" Sybil gasped, and Tom's own eyes widened as a cloud of air could be visibly seen escaping her lips.

"It's like a freezer!" she gasped, and just as quickly, shuffled herself out of the room. "You're not sleeping in there."

Tom's eyes widened at her announcement. "Syb…it's my room—"

"It's a meat locker!"

"You're exaggerating," he groaned.

"Hardly," she snorted. "Tom, you'll freeze if you sleep in there!"

"Well where else am I supposed to sleep?" he retorted, and then realization began to dawn on him as he noticed the way her own eyes immediately fell to the ground, in an almost bashful manner. He also realized then just how close they were both standing…

She can't be seriously suggesting that I…that we…

"Fine," he somehow managed to croak.

Sybil's eyes snapped back to his. "Fine?" she repeated, her own voice a squeak.

Tom didn't look at her; instead he stepped into his room to grab the duvet from his bed. It might be a good thing that it's so cold…

"I'll sleep on the couch," he told her, trying to keep his teeth from chattering as he spoke. He turned around to face her after grabbing the duvet and pillow, and…was it his imagination? She looked disappointed…

No, that's YOUR sick, twisted imagination, he chastised.

"Well…good," Sybil finally mumbled, pulling the blanket around her shoulders even tighter. "Good," she repeated. "I feel much better, knowing that you won't freeze to death in your room."

Tom rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but chuckle just a little bit. "I'm moved by your concern," he teased. "Although I don't know…I mean, isn't there that urban legend that should one's flatmate dies, they pass all their courses for the semester?"

Now it was Sybil who was rolling her eyes. "That's not funny," she muttered, trying to quickly squash the bubble of laughter that attempted to escape her throat. "Besides, the semester is already over."

He did laugh at that, as did she, and just like that, things felt right between them, or rather, "normal" again.

"But will you be warm enough out there?" Sybil asked, genuine concern returning to her voice.

"I will," he assured her. I have to be, because the only other alternative…well, there is no other alternative, he told himself. "I'll be fine," he promised, before settling himself down on the couch and tucking the blanket around him.

Sybil still didn't look convinced, and before he could say anything, she removed the blanket she had wrapped around her and quickly laid it over his body.

"Syb, I'm fine, you don't—"

"Just hush and accept it," she ordered in a manner that Tom wouldn't dream of arguing. Dr. Crawley is in the house, he mused.

She tucked the blanket around him, like properly tucked it into the couch cushions, to the point where he could barely move.

"Syb, I appreciate this," he muttered as he tried to loosen his legs a bit. "But…I think it's too—"

"If I ever do meet your mother someday," she interrupted, moving up from his feet to his shoulders, and tucking those ends thoroughly into the couch cushions. "I'll have to ask her if you were this difficult when you were a child."

A smile spread across his face as he imagined that scenario. It should terrify him, the thought of Sybil and his mother talking about him, exchanging stories, trying to make him blush, and most likely succeeding—

Why was he thinking about this?

Sybil wasn't his…his girlfriend. She was his flatmate—alright, more than that, she was his friend, a good friend, he liked to think, but even so…

However, what was so wrong with a friend (no matter their gender) meeting with one's mother? He knew he had friends back in Dublin who liked to try and get under his skin by teasing him along with other members of his family, how was this any different?

Maybe because you haven't told your mother that "Simon" is in fact, "Sybil"? And for all the arguing he had done about this being the 21st century and that a man and a woman could live together without any sort of expectation or agenda, seemed to mean very little when admitted that he hadn't told his mother the truth about his flatmate because he knew that his mother would frown upon the idea. A man and a woman living together who weren't related or married…she'd cross herself and light several candles to the saints if she knew the truth.

Or was that simply the excuse Tom gave, as to why he hadn't told his mother, or anyone back in Ireland, about Sybil?

"Tom?"

He looked up and held his breath; her face was hovering close, and despite the darkness, he could see her eyes quite clearly. Had he noticed before, how deep and blue her eyes were? Or how lush and pink her lips looked? Yes.

"Tom?"

He swallowed. "Sorry, I…" he tried to move his head slightly, and frowned as he realized the blanket was tucked to just under his chin. "Syb, I can't move."

She looked rather pleased at this. "That's the point; this way your body heat will keep you snug and warm—"

"And instead of hypothermia, I'll die from hyperthermia," he groaned, trying to, at the very least, wriggle his arms free.

"Stop that!" she admonished as he struggled against her work.

"Sybil, this is ridiculous, I…I look like a burrito."

She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "You…you do not," she tried to argue, though he could see the merriment dance in her eyes, and hear a bubble of that laughter escape her throat, despite her efforts.

"At least let me keep my arms free," he muttered, trying to sound stern, when he couldn't help but grin a little as he listened to her. "I don't want to be trapped here, in case I need to use the toilet in the night."

"Oh, fine," she groaned, and leaned over him to help loosen the blanket around his shoulders.

Her hair fell across his face, tickling his skin. She smelled like peppermint. She was close again, his eyes were drawn to her lips, and he couldn't help but wet his own, as he found himself imagining what they tasted like…

He tried to tear himself away from such thoughts, and made the terrible mistake of lowering his eyes, only to find himself looking down the slight open gap of her pajama top, offering him the delectable glance of the slopes of her breasts…

…He remembered how they rose above the water in the bath, round and full, a little bigger than he had imagined, creamy-colored, and crowned with dark, pink nipples, glistening with peppermint-scented suds…

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make the image go away, praying that the tightness of the blanket would prevent certain things from responding, or at the very least, from being noticed—

"Alright, is that satisfactory?"

Tom opened his eyes. She was leaning away from him now, and sitting up straight. He was both relieved, and disappointed.

"Are you alright?" she asked, frowning. "You look as if you're in some kind of pain…"

"I'm fine," he quickly assured. "Fine, just…glad I have some circulation back in my arms."

She rolled her eyes, but laughed, seeming to buy his explanation.

"Well, don't complain to me if you get cold in the night," she muttered, before rising from the couch completely.

"I doubt that," he muttered back. Thanks to the thoughts running through his mind, cold was the furthest thing he would be feeling. He pushed thoughts aside (as best as he could) and instead, focused on her. "Will you be warm enough?"

She nodded her head, though he did notice how she was hugging herself. "I have a nice, thick jumper, and my duvet is heavier than yours," she reasoned.

Fair enough. "But who's going to tuck you in?" he couldn't help but tease.

"Ha, ha," Sybil groaned, but she did giggle too, although was unable to mask her shiver.

"Alright, I'm fine, Dr. Crawley, but go take care of yourself, before YOU freeze to death."

"Yes sir, Prof. Branson," Sybil mock-saluted, before turning to go…and then paused, and looked back at him.

"What?" Had she forgotten something? Why was she—?

All thought left him as she lowered her head and brushed her lips against his brow. "Goodnight," she whispered, before rising to her full height once more, and before he could reply, retreated quickly to her own room and shut the door.

Tom swallowed, his skin tingling where her lips had touched. That was a first. "Goodnight," he whispered back, though he doubted she could hear him. How could anyone hear him right now? Surely the beat of his heart was drowning everything else out…

To be continued...