A Hard Sacrifice
By: piperholmes
A/N: Wow! Thank you so much for the amazing response, both here and on Tumblr! I am completely floored. Thank you for reading, and an extra big thank you to those who reviewed! I hope this story continues to be something people enjoy!
I am trying to stick to show canon as much as possible, but there are aspects of Series 2 timeline that don't make sense (again, a big thanks to scarletcourt for all her work on that!) so some dates will be changed, along with a few plot points. But when I make a change I'll let you know. I don't expect too many but this is an AU so it's ok (even perhaps a little expected) that I change more than just Tom and Sybil's story ^_^
And finally, a GINORMOUS thank you to Repmet for her beta-ing and willingness to listen to me ramble on and her spot on advice!
April 1918
"Nurse Crawley."
Sybil turned at the call of her name, an open, easy smile on her face as she stepped closer to the young soldier.
"Yes Lt. Griggs?"
"Terribly sorry to bother you, but it seems my crutches have been moved out of my reach."
The man was not much older than Sybil, around 23, if she remembered correctly. His light brown curly hair, wide smile, and slightly blushing cheeks made him appear much younger. It was difficult to picture this affable young man shooting and screaming in the battlefield. But of course he had. They all had. The bandage and splint wrapped tightly around his lower right leg was testament to that. They had feared he would lose it, but it appeared to be healing, and they were taking every precaution to avoid the onset of an infection.
"Not a bother at all," Sybil assured him as she moved to his cot and around to where his crutches leaned against the wall.
She split her time between the hospital and Downton. When her home had been converted into a convalescent hospital it seemed her family had assumed she would give up her place on the hospital staff, choosing to work full time at Downton. For Sybil it had never even occurred to her. How could she give up something she had fought so hard for? Something that gave her a sense of purpose?
Wordlessly she held the crutches out to him, watching as he awkwardly pulled himself up. Neither commented on the strain it clearly put on his body, Sybil's gaze lingering on the floor, allowing him his dignity.
Finally, his breathing labored from the exertion, he found himself upright, his weight heavily held by the wooden crutches.
"Don't over do it," Sybil warned, her hands hovering about his body as a mother might a newly walking child.
Griggs laughed. "I suppose I never expected a walk to the door to be 'over doing it.'"
Sybil gave a small, sad smile. "War does seem to make everything topsy turvy, doesn't it?"
The young lieutenant didn't answer, he didn't have to. It was enough to glance about the once elegant drawing room, taking in the rows and rows of cots, servicemen far from home suffering from a range of maladies, their memories more cruel and cold as they thank the Lord that they were injured because it meant they weren't dead nor living in the hell of the battlefield to know the world would never be as it once was.
They walked slowly, each step focused on intently, which is why it surprised Sybil when he spoke again.
"You don't remember me do you?"
Her head whipped up, confusion evident on her face.
Griggs stopped his shuffling just as they stepped out into the pale sunlight on the Spring day, turning to look at her directly.
His easy, open smile was back.
"I'm sorry-" Sybil began slowly, her eyes scrunching up, the skin wrinkling as she stared at him, doing her best to recall some previous encounter.
"Quite alright," he assured her. "We've only met once, several years ago, before the war."
Sybil shook her head slightly, trying to place him. "During my debut season?"
His eyebrows went up in a look of mild surprise. "Yes, do you remember?"
Sybil felt her cheeks grow warm, feeling as if her answer was going to let him down in someway, but she couldn't pretend. "So sorry, but no, I just assumed it had to have been in London since that is the only place I've been where I met a number of young men."
She saw a flash of disappointment, or at least she thought she did, disappearing almost as soon as it had appeared.
"No," he agreed quietly. "Well, as I said, quite alright. It was a brief encounter, at Penelope Harpershine's ball. Lord Merton's son, Larry, introduced us."
Sybil thought back to all those years ago, to the feeling of juvenile excitement and the thrill of anticipation. She thought of all the smiling young men...
"Jerrod Griggs! You're Lord Stanthorpe's son!" she cried, the memory finding hold. "I remember now because when Larry made the introductions you joked that I should call you Jare the Spare."
She had laughed at such a silly comment, remembered now how his eyes had twinkled, and she had thought him quite handsome. She remembered too how she had hoped he would ask her to dance, but he never did.
A bit of the light dimmed behind his eyes, his smile growing forced.
"Yes," he said slowly. "Quite a ridiculous man I am I suppose, though not the spare anymore."
Sybil's heart sank at his words. She'd met his older brother as well, his name escaping her, but she did remember the same easy smile, the same happy demeanor.
"I'm so sorry," she said, wishing the words still had meaning.
He nodded. "I've thought about that night often, thought about how I wished I'd had the courage to ask you to dance."
Sybil's breath caught at his confession.
"Seems so silly now, to think about how nervous I was then to ask you," he laughed sadly, his eyes falling to his leg. "Now I'll never get that dance."
Sybil's lips pressed together, unable to prevent her feelings from showing. It was true, he'd never dance again. Even if his leg healed totally, the damage to the bone meant he'd always walk with a noticeable limp. But she heard what he couldn't bring himself to ask.
"You mustn't think like that," she admonished gently. "You still have a lot of life ahead of you and there are plenty of women who would be proud to love a hero."
The wounded warrior brought his deep brown eyes up to hers. "I regret never asking you to dance."
Sybil felt a pain move through her. "I would have said yes. I would say yes now, only…"
"Someone else already has?" he supplied when she hesitated.
Sybil allowed her silence to answer for her. A moment of panic came: what if he spoke to Edith, or the other officers, what if word got back to her family? Gossip ran rampant among the soldiers and staff. But those thoughts were fleeting, Sybil berating herself her paranoia.
"Well, whomever he is, I hope he realizes how lucky he is," Griggs smiled at her, then turning to gaze out across the vast expanse of the beautiful greenery of the estate, he quietly added. "And I hope he survives this war."
Sybil listened intently, her excuse ready in case she was caught, as she peeked around the corner. Her heart pounded in her chest as she forced herself to keep her breathing calm and quiet. She had been pleased when her parents had agreed to turn Downton into a convalescent home, but that had made sneaking about all that more difficult. The house seemed so silent and still at night, which always made Sybil feel uneasy. Even as a child she didn't like roaming the halls at night, preferring the safety of her room and bed. Sybil always had a wild imagination, and Mary could tell some of the most grueling tales of ghosts haunting the halls of old manor homes. It wasn't hard for her mind to turn every creak of the house into the moan of some wronged apparition.
Hearing a sound, Sybil ducked into a nook, hoping her dressing gown kept her hidden in the darkness. Soft voices danced about, a feminine giggle flitted through the air followed by a deeper chuckle, making it clear Sybil wasn't the only woman breaking the rules tonight. Soon the voices faded, and Sybil again began her progression through the big house and out to the chauffeur's cottage.
As she made contact with the cold night air she was grateful for the pair of old half boots she had saved from before the war. She kept them hidden in her room, so no one would find them and question why they were so muddy. She had made the mistake early in their marriage of wearing her normal house shoes, and found herself weaving a fantastic tale for Anna the next morning of hearing what she thought was a wounded animal outside her window and going to investigate only to find it was a scared kitchen cat that had run off as soon as she approached. The housemaid had accepted the excuse but Sybil had received a bit of a dressing down from her mother over the dangers of going out at all hours of the night by herself.
Without a sound Sybil slipped into the small dark cottage that Tom was lucky enough to not have to share since Pratt lived in the village with his mother. They had no routine, no set nights they spent together, merely, they relied on the opportunities afforded, so Sybil didn't expect him to be waiting up, rather she assumed he'd be in bed already.
The one rule they did have was that she must always wake him up, the same for rule applied when he managed to steal into her room.
Tonight however, she found him sitting in bed, a small candle burning as he read through the newspaper.
He glanced up at her, a smile readily appearing as she stepped further into his bedroom.
"Haven't you read that one already?" she asked, moving to slide under the blanket and close against his body.
Tom tossed the paper aside, not willing to waste this time together. "I have. But if I'm ever going to work for a paper I'm going to have to write like journalist. I need to know how they say things, how they present things, how they...I don't know, I need to sound like I know what they know."
Sybil's fingers played with his round chin, stroking and teasing as she listened to him. "You do know things, Tom."
He let out a breath. "Not enough."
He didn't wait for a response as he wrapped his arms around her, breathing her in. "I'm glad you're here my darling."
Sybil pressed her lips to the underside of his chin, then placed small kisses along his jaw, before bring her head to rest against his shoulder.
"Rough day?" he pressed, sensing her withdrawal.
Sybil sighed, her thoughts plaguing her with Lt. Grigg's face, his sad eyes, and his poignant words.
"I'm glad you're not going to war," she said without preamble, almost defiantly she added, "and I don't care if that makes me unpatriotic or selfish or...a coward."
She felt him stiffen at her words, prompting her to sit up, to look into his eyes, his face shadowed in the meek light. Despite the embarrassment she felt at her outburst she refused to look away, even as he frowned at her.
"What's brought this on?"
Sybil felt her control slip, felt safe enough to finally feel. She had gone through the day performing her duties, smiling at the soldiers. She had dressed for dinner, kept her breathing even as she swallowed down the fine cuisine they enjoyed even as boys died in trenches. She had participated in the light conversations, kept her face neutral as her mother droned on about how inconvenient it was to not get to use the library to write correspondents. Even in the seclusion of her own room she kept her lips pressed together, because pressure kept one from bleeding out.
But here, in his bed, with him, she didn't have to pretend.
Her eyes closed, small gasps escaping, tears coming easily and rapidly as her face crumpled.
A sob wrenched from her body before she blindly reached for him. Deftly he bundled her up, pulling her into his lap, cradling her tight as she cried against his shoulder. She had never cried like this before, and never in front of someone. Mary and Edith had always teased her for her tears, but Sybil had never minded. She didn't see tears as the weakness they did. But as she'd seen more and more gruesome and terrifying images of war she'd believed herself growing hard to it, moving from a lady playing nurse to being a nurse.
But she was also a wife.
Her body shook with the effort to rid itself of the strength of these emotions, her face growing wet and sticky and hot, fusing to the skin of his neck.
As she watched Griggs struggle to accept his new role in life, the loss of his brother, the loss of his youth, his leg, his hopes for the future, she feared she had become overwhelmed with the idea of life without Tom. Each soldier that had died had a family, perhaps a wife or sweetheart, dreams for a future. It all felt so useless, so pointless-and Sybil was no stranger to those feelings.
She realized he was speaking to her, soft words of love and comfort, and slowly she regained her composure.
"I love you," she mumbled, still buried in him, sniffling loudly. "I'm glad we didn't wait…I know it's not...it's not what we'd hoped or long for, but it's enough to be with you like this….that you...you asked me to dance."
She felt the fingers running through her hair still.
"Love?" The confusion in his voice brought a small smile to her lips.
Sybil just shook her head against him.
He held her a moment longer before untangling them to grab a small towel, dampening it with the now cold water that sat on his table, and tenderly wiping her face clean.
"I don't know what else to do," he admitted quietly, once he'd erased the evidence of her break down. "Are you...do you feel better now? Do you want to talk about it?"
Sybil again shook her head, her love for him filling the emptiness inside her. "No," she whispered, her throat raw. "I don't want to talk."
Slowly and deliberately she moved to straddle his lap, her fingers and lips caressing every inch of him as she worked to peel his shirt off, before her lips hovered over his.
"I want to show you."
December 1914
"You what?" Tom nearly squeaked.
"I want to show you," Sybil repeated patiently.
"Really m'lady, I don't think-"
"That's fine," Sybil interrupted. "Don't think, just do what I tell you, and can we at least drop the title while I'm here? Call me m'lady or Lady Sybil everywhere else, but here in the garage can't you just call me Sybil as if we are friends?"
Tom rolled his eyes. The problem wasn't calling her Sybil, the problem was he quite enjoyed calling her Sybil.
He sighed heavily. "Sybil," he began, emphasizing her name. "You really don't have to do this. I doubt I'll even attend."
"Not attend?" Sybil cried. "Why ever not? It's always such fun, the servants say so every year."
Tom had to press his lips together, force himself to remember that years of privilege weren't easily changed, though he did admire her efforts.
"I'm sure they do," he added dryly, not missing the way her eyes closed slightly, as if she sensed she'd said something wrong, but not yet willing to ask what it was.
"Did you not attend last year? You did work here then," she pointed out, her hands going to her hips.
"I was...under the weather," he said, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes growing wide as if to emphasize his point.
Sybil took in his rigid posture, the resistance in his eyes.
"You faked being sick!" she accused, merriment invading her tone. "You were too afraid to dance so you actually pretended to be sick!"
Tom scowled at her. "No. I had a nasty cold!"
Sybil's teasing grew into laughter.
"I'm not afraid to dance," he snapped. "It's as I told you, I don't know how."
Sybil swallowed her snickers, forcing her face to grow sympathetic. "Well it's as I said; I'll show you."
Tom hesitated.
"Oh please say yes," she pressed. "Otherwise I'll spend all night dancing with Carson or William. Poor William always steps on my toes. Besides with the war on who knows if we'll have the ball next year. I'm afraid it seems this conflict might stretch on a bit longer than expected. Everyone was supposed to be home by Christmas, and now we're headed into the new year."
With a shrug of surrender Tom tossed the oil covered rag he'd been using to clean the car onto the floor and reached for his driving gloves. "Fine. You can try and show me. But if, as I suspect, I'm total rubbish then you have to help me convince everyone that I'm too sick to attend again this year."
"Agreed," Sybil said, her face beaming. "Now, give me your arms."
Tom frowned. "You want to do it now?"
"We've only three days until the ball," she answered, shaking her head kindly, as if dealing with a naive temperamental child. "Poor Branson, so afraid of a little dancing."
His Lady was teasing him, challenging him, daring him.
Raising his left eyebrow, his lips pursed, he accepted.
"My hands are filthy. I'll leave my gloves on," he offered by way of acquiesce.
Neither commented on the awkward moment, as he struggled to place his hand on her back, Sybil having to tell him his hand was meant to rest against her upper back, not her lower. Both bore pink cheeks as his hand slid up the slight curve of her body.
Taking a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, Sybil transformed into a formidable teacher. "Right, now your feet."
For the next hour she taught him the basic steps of three dances, her favorite, as she told him brightly, being the waltz.
"It used to be considered so immoral and risqué," she explained, her voice growing soft. "Because the man held the woman so closely."
Tom offered a noncommittal sound, too busy focusing his energy on the steps. He feared he'd wind up giving William a run for his money, having lost count the number of times he'd stepped forward when he was suppose to step back, or had overestimated the size of her step, and waltzed right onto her foot.
He was so tense and anxious, trying to remember it all, he wondered how anyone found any enjoyment out of the exercise. Sybil was a hard task master, making him try again and again, but by the end of it he felt at least a little less silly, and even a little excited when he managed to get through an entire pass around the room without messing up too badly, earning him a full, toothy grin from Sybil.
"Well done Branson," she praised him, stepping away, sending a shiver through him as cool air replaced the warmth of her body. "I do believe you'll pass even Granny's nitpicking."
Tom suppressed a shudder at the idea of holding the Dowager as he had Sybil, but wisely chose not to comment, rather he teased, "So I'm to call you Sybil, but you call me Branson?"
Sybil's face flashed a moment of surprise, her normal wit and confidence seemed to fail her. "I...of course not...I just…"
Then he realized.
He realized what she wasn't saying, what she couldn't say.
"You don't know my first name."
He hadn't meant to sound so accusatory, watching as she winced, but he hadn't been prepared for the sudden, sharp stab of disappointment.
"I'm sorry-" she began, dropping her eyes, tension growing.
"Quite alright m'lady," he interrupted waspishly. He didn't know why he felt so angry, so...hurt. "I best get back to work."
Sybil merely nodded, quietly leaving him to his thoughts.
He spent the next three days avoiding her, regretting his anger, but still nursing his hurt. He wasn't entirely convinced he wasn't being unfair, but it needled at him, the way he wasn't a full person to people like her.
He was half a name.
He'd nearly decided to duck out of the servant's ball, but he'd made a deal with her, and he wasn't going to let her down.
Sybil fidgeted with the lace edge of her glove, nodding and smiling appropriately, as the conversation expected, but couldn't help her eyes from wandering to the entrance of the ballroom.
She hoped he'd come, even as the embarrassment over her faux pas still stung.
The music began and soon couples were moving across the floor. Sybil watched smiling as her Granny and Mr. Carson took a turn, opening the festivities. There was a noticeable shortage of men, allowing her the chance to just watch.
"You're not dancing?"
A thrill moved through her body at the sound of his voice, and slowly she turned to look at him. His hair was combed back, his faded suit ironed and, to Sybil, he looked younger and more at ease than he did in his uniform.
"I'm afraid I've not been asked."
Tom nodded, but said nothing, and Sybil felt a pang of disappointment. It seemed she wasn't quite forgiven.
Reluctantly she turned away from him, forcing her lips to stay upturned, keeping her expression light as she watched the couples finish the dance.
A general applause spread throughout the room as the first dance of the evening ended. The strings of a waltz tinkled through the air and Sybil feared her only chance to enjoy that particular dance was gone.
"May I have this dance, m'lady?"
Her eyes came up, meeting his, and she could sense the uncertainty he was trying to hide.
"Of course," she answered, enfolding her arm about his as he led her onto the dance floor.
Sybil's hand slid into his as his arm wrapped around her. They maintained the proper distance, their frame strong, faces neutral, gazes diverted. But still she couldn't help but feel that they all saw, that somehow they could tell. The warmth of his bare hand on her back seeped through the gauzy material of her dress, the only barrier between his skin and hers, sending a shiver down her spine. Her cheeks tingled and she knew they were betraying her, coloring her awareness of him.
The music started, and she felt him hesitate, the fingers of the hand that held hers tightened slightly. Sybil risked a glance, saw the ill concealed doubt in his eyes.
"Just as we practiced," she whispered, her own fingers subtly tapping the beat for him.
She felt him relax some, felt a pressure as he carefully pushed her back, leading her into the first step as they began to dance.
His movements were stiff as he focused on keeping the count and moving the correct foot, and Sybil couldn't resist giving his upper arm a small squeeze, drawing his eyes from their feet to her face.
"You're doing great...Tom."
The serious expression on his face gave way to a small, contented smile, and she could feel his shoulders fall, the last of his tension fading away. The music washed over them as he guided them around the floor, holding her a bit closer than he probably should, truly taking in the feeling of her.
She'd called him Tom, and he felt whole.
Tom decided he very much liked dancing.
Thank you for reading!
Coming Next Week:
"Sybil," Tom whispered harshly. "Sybil, love, wake up."
The heavy knocking on his door sounded again.
They'd slept late, much too late as he noted the bright light of the morning sun painting the room.
Sybil stirred beside him before flying up into sitting position, her face panicked.