AN: Thank you as always for the reviews, follows and favorites! Filling in some of the missing pieces here...

November 1919

Tom opened his eyes to see bluish light filtering around the drapes. Reluctantly, his arm made an expedition from under the covers; he groped for his watch on the bedside table, shivering as the frigid air hit his skin. He brought the watch close enough to read: still early. For once.

He burrowed back under the comforter and rolled into the center of the bed toward his wife. Sybil was dead to the world, curled on her side facing away from him, breathing evenly. He spooned his body around her, enjoying her drowsy warmth. Maybe he'd be able to get back to sleep. He needed it.

After several minutes Tom realized it was no good; his brain had clicked into its daytime mode, cataloguing the tasks to be done that day, calling up necessary information. People he needed to talk to; a bill that must be paid. He moved his limbs, working up the willpower to leave his comfortable cave; he could build the fire and make some tea, anyway. Sybil stirred when he did, and he gave her a peck in the general vicinity of her ear. "Go back to sleep, love."

"Whutimezit?"

"Early. Plenty of time. Go back to sleep."

She gave a groan and a mighty stretch and rolled over to smile sleepily at him. She put her arm round his waist underneath the coverlet, rubbing his back.

"We could have breakfast," she suggested. "I could do a fry-up."

"Jesus Christ, no." The words came out before he thought. Sybil had gotten better in the kitchen over the past months; however, "better" was a relative term. Sometimes her cooking was even edible. Sybil shot him a withering glare, and Tom backtracked, smiling winningly: "Ah, there's no need for you to get up yet, darling. I can make us breakfast." He was a competent though plain cook; he'd once admitted to Sybil that during his employ at Downton it hadn't been a rare occurrence for him to have the same thing for dinner four or five nights running. After all, when one was anxious to get to a bit of reading, thinking about what to eat was just a waste of limited free time.

Sybil smiled back, satisfied with that. "I think tea and toast will do me fine," she said. "I'm not feeling very hungry." She sat up and pushed back the covers. "I'll build up the fire, though. Least I can do," she overruled when he started to protest. She shivered. "Times like this I rather miss having Daisy around." She swung her legs over the side and let herself down, wincing when her feet touched the icy floorboards, hurriedly shoving them into her slippers and wrapping her dressing gown around herself. "Ugh," she groaned, giving her head a little shake and bringing her hand up to her temple.

"You all right?"

"Mmm. I got dizzy for a second. I think I stood up too fast." She pattered into the front room and busied herself with the fire; in a few minutes she was back, shedding the dressing gown and practically levitating back into bed once her slippers were off.

Tom yelped when she brushed against him with her cold toes. "Arrgh! Don't put those things near me!"

"But I'm cold!" She cried plaintively, pressing her feet to his calves and reaching out for him with her hands as well. He caught them with his own before they could land anywhere too sensitive, and began to rub warmth back into them. He'd just have to grin and bear the feet for now, he supposed. Once her hands were warm again he eased one of her feet off his leg, massaging the arch with his thumb. "Mmm. That's lovely," she groaned.

"What've you got today?" He asked.

"Seven to seven. Can you manage dinner on your own?"

"'Course."

"How about you?"

"I've got to be at the Four Courts before nine. Trying to catch one of my sources, get him to do an interview on background at least." Tom was working on yet another story about people who had disappeared, people on whom there was officially no information. Like many of his articles, it would dance precariously on the line between legal and illegal. "Mr. Shea said yesterday I'm like a terrier with a rat," he said, with more than a little satisfaction. Coming from the city desk editor, this was high praise.

Sybil smiled. "You really love this job, don't you?"

"It beats languishing for years in a garage waiting for someone to make up her mind about your marriage proposal."

"Ouch!" She pushed at his chest playfully. "Well, I know how you like being good at things."

"I'm trying to be good at it. I really am." Sybil's heart swelled at how humble, yet hopeful, he sounded, and she stretched over to give him a kiss.

"You are good at it. Dedicated to telling the truth, whatever it may be."

"Hmph. If the censors would let us," her husband complained. He slipped out of bed to make the tea.

Sybil pulled the covers back up over her shoulders and lolled, taking a few moments to act like the lady she'd once been. She'd never for a minute regretted leaving Yorkshire, but if she were there right now, she thought, she probably wouldn't even be awake yet. There'd be a roaring fire in the room and it would be lovely and warm, and only after the sun was well up would she ring the bell for Anna to come help her dress. She'd go down to an English breakfast -

A wave of nausea suddenly overtook her at the thought of kippers and soft-boiled eggs, and Sybil was barely able to grab the chamber pot in time to catch the contents of her stomach. When she'd finished retching she slid the johnny back under the bed and lay back, disquieted.

Maybe it was just a stomach flu. No cause for alarm, she assured herself. Experimentally she sat up, breathing deeply through a milder bout. Now that she thought of it, she'd felt rather poorly for the past fortnight or more. Nothing serious: just a lack of energy and occasional dizziness, an "off" feeling.

Tom reentered the bedroom bearing the tea-tray. "Breakfast in bed for milady," he said, and Sybil rolled her eyes gently at him. She didn't mention the vomiting, though she was surprised he didn't smell it: she certainly could. Oh, God, the symptoms were just piling up. Nausea; malaise; increasingly acute sense of smell. She tried to think back to when her last period had been and couldn't remember one coming since it had started getting colder. She'd been so busy. September? Had it really been that long? Oh, God.

"You all right, love?" Tom asked, having climbed back into bed with her, carefully so as not to upset the tea. "You look a bit peaky." He regarded her with some concern. "Maybe you'd better stay home today."

Sybil smiled as brightly as she could. "Don't be ridiculous, darling, I'm perfectly all right." She tried a nibble of dry toast, a sip of tea. They went down all right, so she took a larger bite.

Tom still looked dubious but tucked into his breakfast with an appetite. He chattered volubly on various topics: a dinner invitation from one of his colleagues for that Friday, how they should spend their first Christmas together. Sybil heard little of it. "I don't suppose you'd want to go to Downton," he said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. When even that failed to get a reaction he laid the back of his hand on her forehead and frowned, finding it cool. "Love, you're barely even here right now. I'm not letting you out of this bed today."

Her eyes, wide and dazed, fixed on his face. "I think I might be pregnant."

A spear of pure animal shock-it wouldn't have been inaccurate to call it terror-went through him, instantly followed by elation. "Truly?" he cried, bouncing up and grabbing her by the shoulders. "Do you really think so? - damn, I've spilt the bloody tea - " he turned toward the overturned teapot, then changed his mind and gathered up his wife in his arms, kissing her over and over.

"Well, I'm glad you're happy about it," Sybil remarked drily.

"How could I not be? My darling, what's the matter?" There were tears welling up in her eyes.

It wasn't fair. They'd talked about it; they'd agreed they wouldn't have children right away. But nature had other ideas, apparently. And here was her husband, so damned satisfied. He'd got what he wanted, Sybil thought nastily.

"Never mind," she snapped, slamming herself down into bed and rolling away from him. She lay on her side, furiously swallowing the lump in her throat, listening to him gather up the breakfast things and put the tray on the bedside table. Then he cozied up to her.

"Sybil." Good God, wouldn't he leave her alone? "Sybillll." His hand touched her shoulder and she slapped at it as if it were a fly.

She opened her mouth. "Just go to work!" She yelled. "Just -" and then she couldn't talk anymore because she was sobbing too hard.

Gently, Tom held his wife and made reassuring noises, and she let him. Finally the storm began to show signs of letting up.

"It's not fair," Sybil whined. "It sounds terribly childish, but that's all I can think."

"I know it's not how we planned it," Tom told her quietly, his lips to her ear. "It's not how we wanted it."

"It is what I wanted. Just not yet." She sniffled. "I'm sure I'll be perfectly happy once it's had a chance to sink in. What else is there to do, really?"

Tom kissed her ear and they lay quiet. After a moment he asked: "Do you remember us talking about a baby, not too long ago? What were the names we said?"

"Connor for a boy."

"Mm hmm."

"I don't think we'd decided on a girl's name."

"You had a whole list of them. We'd have to have an army of babies to use them all."

Sybil chuckled, feeling a bit better. "I'll have to see the doctor," she said. "To confirm it." But in her heart she knew: she just knew. It all fit.

"Of course." He held her tighter. "Sybil?"

"Mm hmm?"

"It's going to be grand. You'll see."