II. Friendship
"Sybbie," he whispers. He pats the blanket that is wrapped around his daughter. Their daughter. The only child Sybil will ever have. He bites his lip and pulls his gaze away from the sleeping newborn. He should be more joyous, he knows this. However, he sets the baby back in the crib in fear she will remind him too much of his dead beloved.
With resignation, Tom slips out of the room to rejoin his in-laws. The already uncomfortable atmosphere combined with the salt and bitterness that comes with grief has kept Tom on edge. He knows the reason he still sleeps in a luxury bed in Downton is because of his daughter. Her name is Branson, but she has Crawley blood in her. In fact, all Lord Grantham seems to see is the Crawley side.
In an effort to turn to a new page, the women have started rattling about the christening. Tom has half-listened, objecting in between glasses of scotch.
Edith brings the subject up again in the morning. So began the bickering. Enough was enough, he decided.
"Sybbie should be Catholic like her father," Tom protests. He watched Lord Grantham's expression continue to sour. Tom would not let the man push him farther into the dirt. Baptism was the first sacrament and fundamental.
The bickering continued. The protests were from Lord Grantham as Lady Grantham would weakly intervene. Dinner was made worse as the argument took center stage
"Sybil said she had no objection to the baby being Catholic." Tom swiveled to stare at the eldest Crawley sister.
Lady Mary sat primly, her face cool as she addressed her father.
"Did she really?" breaths Tom.
Mary blinked and looked at him. He was not quite sure why she spoke up. This was of no benefit to Lady Mary to have one less member of the Church of England, her own denomination. Mary blinked again. "Yes."
They stare at each other and Tom searches for some part of Sybil in her. The only resemblance to him seems to be their dark locks. Mary turned away from him, back to Matthew who smiled at her.
Tom licked his lips and sipped the wine. It seemed they would call on Father Dominic after all.
/
Matthew chats with him in the library about almost anything. He also confides that Lord Grantham's pride costs rifts between them as well.
"He's quite stubborn. Though I suppose that is the Crawley way," the blond comments.
Tom laughs, drawing the attention of the family. They gather often together and the mourning slowly gives way. Tom's heart still hurts. There is a part of him gone that will never come back. A part of him he will one day forget. No, he will never forget his darling Sybil. But the feeling of knowing that she existed just as much as him will slip away.
Tom shifts back to Matthew.
Mary walks over to them, eyebrows raised. "Have I missed a humorous story?"
"Darling, you miss nothing," Matthew replies.
Mary preens at this before her chocolate eyes focus on Tom. "How are you today?"
There is no chill in her voice. Her eyebrows are relaxed and her lips turn up just the slightest. Tom coughs. "Fine enough thanks to Sybbie."
"I certainly hope we may be of help also. Are you still adamant about the Nanny?"
Tom coughs again. It is not forced conversation. It is not talk of cloudy skies or fashion. He smiles slightly. "Yes, I want to see how things go for now. Thank you though, for taking an interest."
Is that appropriate to say? Her lips turn down, almost pouty. "Of course! She is my niece. I would like to make sure she is healthy and happy."
Tom nods. "Of course. Good."
The thought strikes him as he stares at his sister-in-law in the red dress. She is going to be Sybbie's godmother.
/
"I do feel bad you will be left alone in this enormous house," says Matthew. "I mean; these people are strangers to me as well."
"Yes, but you are the future earl, not me."
Matthew grumbled as the family headed towards the car. Mary appeared next, her hand on her hat to stop the wind from doing damage. "I trust you that Downton will be managed well."
Mary is pregnant, her stomach poking out despite the loose clothing. She stares at him, lips pinched. Matthew says she is quite upset at him for suggesting they stay put. "Of course, milady." He says it as a joke because the situation seems like one.
This earns him a smile and he glimpses her white teeth. "Thank you… Tom."
She smiles again and blows a kiss at Sybbie. She is still smiling as she climbs into the car beside her husband. He waves to all of them and sighs as he heads back in. Perhaps it is the pregnancy, but he hopes Mary is becoming a warmer person.
/
The statement is repeated several times before Tom can form the words to acknowledge what's said. Matthew Crawley, future Earl of Grantham, is dead.
The words "car", "milk", and "quick" slip into Tom's ears. He tries to process the information. He knew they had rushed back. Mary was having the baby, no, she just had the baby. The family is in chaos and Tom stands there, in the middle of the hurricane.
"Mary does not know," Lord Grantham says.
Tom pictures her, smiling and climbing into the car in determined fashion.
He has lost his other ally. She has lost her heart.
/
She does not venture beyond her room. Not even for George. They have a son, a small blessing to the family in the middle of the tragic crisis. The line will continue inside the family with George Reginald Crawley.
The baby's crib is added to the nursery, but Sybbie does not seem to mind. Tom ventures over to the boy daily, hoping to provide some comfort in his mother's absence. Little George Crawley cries though and Tom knows he must talk to his sister-in-law.
He approaches the subject around tea. "You need to take in an interest in something."
"I'm interested in George."
"Are you?" he asks. She does not take offense, her eyes set in the same gaze.
"I will be."
Tom sighs and earns a look from Lord Grantham. Matthew made him estate manager, but now Tom feels like an outsider again.
/
At some point, Tom has become a confidante. He doesn't quite understand why. He bickers with her father more than anyone in the house. He is polite to Edith, her "enemy". True, he now has separate attire for dinner; but he does not hesitate to let them know he finds it all silly. He does not gravel at her feet when she walks into the room. He does not back down under her heated stare. When her lips press together, he does not stop. Perhaps he does not run his mouth like his younger years, but he will not succumb to their political beliefs. Tom is not her ideal friend. He is not from her world. Yet, she confides to him and visits tenants with him on her arm.
All of it almost makes him forget he hated her. But not quite.
They are walking the grounds of Downton; she dawns a purple dress that is the lightest shade he has seen her wear in a while. The wind frees a dark brown curl as she stares ahead. They are both quite tired after spending time in the nursery. Tom thinks back to the image of Sybbie settled against Mary's chest. He does not want to let that picture go, ever.
"You are quite silent today. Has Papa truly worn the great Tom Branson out?" she asks. Her gaze is still forwards and her strides remain the same. His lip curls up at the easiness in her tone.
"Never."
"Hmm."
He glances again at her. A smile plays on her face for the briefest of moments. He never knew her happiness would mean so much to him.
"I used to hate you," he announces. There's a quick moment after where his breaths cannot escape. He is weary as she stops to stare at him.
She focuses on a tree behind him, before meeting his eyes. "I know. You did not have the art of subtlety."
He feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment and excitement. "Well, I was not raised to hide feelings."
He curses internally. His younger self is making an unneeded appearance.
She lets out a short laugh. "To show is to lose the upper hand. Though even if you were raised among us I would say you would not possess subtlety."
"Oh?" He's a bit insulted. Does she think him incapable of thriving in her world?
"Yes. It's not in your nature."
His building frustration is replaced with warmth. Mary's compliments are not often bestowed; while he is not sure if her comment is meant as one, he does not care.
She goes on. "You would not be Tom Branson if you decided to mask emotions."
His heart beats harder.
/
He enjoys joining the chorus of laughter over men trying to gain Mary's favor. They all stumble forward with the same ignorant thought: Mary can be controlled.
His amusement ends faster than others' when he sees the distain in their eyes as they grasp his hand. He will never be one of them.
But they do provide amusement and the outward grieving is done. Mary packs up the black and purples. The colors become happy again.
She enters the nursery, her cheeks flushed from the weather, in a pretty blue dress. It's got intricate detailing and Tom knows it must cost a fortune. But she settles onto the ground, allowing Sybbie and George to climb over her, wrinkling the fabric. She does not seem to care as she strokes her son's cheek. She is something.
/
"I do not think I am ready to marry again."
"Then don't," he replies.
She eyes him with a warmth that is becoming familiar. "How easy you make it sound."
He thinks of his love, Sybil. How her arms wrapped around his middle; how she would press her lips to his with vigor. Shaking his head, he eyes Mary. "No, I know it's quite the opposite."
Mary's face becomes strained. She grabs his hand and he stumbles. "Of course you do. There's no one in this moment that understands me more than you. And how insane the idea, that we are friends? How beautifully insane."
/
There's a woman, Ms. Sarah Bunting. She represents everything Tom once was, in female form. She speaks without restraint and bickers with the Crawleys.
He keeps her around as a friend. He sees the way they eye her. Cora puts on her faux smile, in an attempt to make peace. Robert looks pained. Mary and Edith watch from afar. Mary. Her eyes linger on Sarah's form and he wonders if this is it. He's brought this outspoken, aggressive woman into Downton to led her debate them.
She puts on that familiar face, walk, and talk. And for a moment he wonders how he ever let her have a place in his heart. He stops there. This is Mary. The Mary who sobbed over Matthew for six months straight. The Mary that kisses his daughter's cheeks and picks out dresses for her. The Mary that sneaks glances at him when Robert says something they disagree with.
But then dinner happens. And it is a horrid affair that ends in him feeling hurt and ashamed all at once. It feels like the beginning, except there is no Sybil in his room to settle him down.
He cries that night. He sees their faces over and over. "Fuck," he whispers. He hears Mary and the word "friend" over and over. "Fuck," he says again.
/
"I am going to take the job offer in America." He says it in a rush.
They are hurt. Robert begins talking about Sybbie staying. Tom refutes the idea. He's taking Sybbie and he is going to America.
Cora and Edith say nothing. Their heads hang lower than before he spoke.
He dares a glance at her. She eyes him with a look of utter betrayal. She rises and exits. He leaps up after her.
"You should have told me," she says, back to him.
"I did."
She whips around, a slim, pale fingers points at him. "You know what I mean, Tom Branson."
His shoulders sag. Behind the anger, there is hurt. "Mary—"
"Don't you dare," she replies. She stalks off and he decides to let her go. They will have to talk later. She has to see. She has to see why he has to do this.
When they see each other later, she is pleasant. He pretends as if it's not all an act.
/
For a bit now, Rose has prattled on about a man named Atticus. Tom blew it off as Rose being Rose. He's fond of the girl, but her wildness has not escaped his memory. She is also kind though and so he indulges in listening to her talk.
And then they are to go to Brancaster. The word sounds too posh for his mouth. He does not wish to go, but the idea is downed along with a glass of scotch.
"This should be interesting," Mary murmurs.
He eyes her, eyebrow raised. "In a good way?"
"In some way," she says.
As it turns out, it is. Atticus is nice, but his father is a bit too proud for Tom's liking. Among their other guests is a man named Bertie and a man named Henry. They come from humbler backgrounds which he can relate to.
Henry is drawn to Mary and Tom takes a spot as spectator. She seems indifferent to him at best as she sashays away to speak with others.
"That butler is quite rude to you," she says.
"It's nothing."
"No," she says with a frown. "It's unacceptable."
"Really Mary, leave it."
She lets out a huff and sips her wine in response. He watches the liquid stain her already red lips. His heart flutters as he raises his eyes back to her determined gaze.
/
This is what happens after you drink a Berry Sangria from Starbucks and have a successful day of shopping. You get another 1k words out. So, obviously this time-hopped but I couldn't fit everything. Sorry. I'm so pleased with the response to this three shot. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
To the anon who was shocked and excited that there's Brary fanfics, fandom, and name. Yes, we exist! We are on tumblr if you search through the tag. There are other fabulous stories on ff net.
This is kind of rushed, so I apologize. I just got back from shopping, and I'm going out again. Please continue to review. Next chapter is the final chapter. I'm sure you can guess what's coming, but ah non-canon is always fun!
Find me on tumblr: mrsmarybranson
P.S. you may have noticed the name change. Same person, same stories… I just wanted to honor Hamilton.