This one is LONG. I just couldn't stop myself, every time I felt I got close to the end, I found there was something more I wanted to write. Ugh, I apologize if I over-wrote, but at the same time, I felt it was kind of necessary. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and I hope you don't mind me dragging Christmas on with this story. I anticipate at least one more chapter after this one, no more than two. But anyway, thank you for the lovely feedback!

CHRISTMAS DAY

Sybil rubbed her hands fiercely together, trying her best to get the blood flowing through them once again. She held them up against the flame of the sputtering candle which she had lit a little over an hour ago, but the warmth it radiated was minimal at best. "This is mad," she muttered to herself, for the umpteenth time. She moved away from the candle and crossed the living room to one of the windows, taking the sleeve of her coat and rubbing against the glass furiously to wipe away the ice crystals. What's taking so long? She bit her lip and tried her best to scour the city streets below, but it was near impossible. How long ago has it been? It shouldn't have taken more than ten minutes—fifteen at most! What if something had happened to him? Why had she allowed him to go out on his own? She should have accompanied him at least! She should have—

The door to the flat practically burst open, causing Sybil to jump. "Tom!" she gasped, relief washing over her as her flatmate shuffled inside, snow coating his legs up to his thighs, his entire body shaking as he shook of his scarf, coat, and the various jumpers he had put on before leaving.

"Believe it or not…" he panted as he shuffled out of his wet layers. "It feels downright tropical in here, compared to out there."

He collapsed into a nearby chair and began to tug on his boots. Sybil quickly scooped his scarf and coat up off the floor, gave them a good shake to rid them of any excess snow, before draping them across the counter in their kitchen to dry. Under normal circumstances, the radiators would be the most likely place for such things, but as Sybil's cold and stiff bras could attest, the radiators were not ideal at the moment.

"I should have gone with you," she muttered, coming to help him with his boots.

"No point," Tom told her through gritted teeth as he managed to free one of his feet. "They're closed."

Sybil paused in her task and looked back at her flatmate, the little hope she had dying, like the sputtering flame in one of her old candles. "Closed?"

Tom sadly nodded. "The sidewalk hasn't been shoveled, and the parking lot behind the building has yet to be touched. I don't even want know what the alley looks like," he groaned.

It had been Tom's idea to go and see if the Chinese restaurant at the corner of their little street was opened. If so, they would go and feast on as many hot dishes as their wallets would allow, and try to figure out what to do next, all the while sitting and enjoying the working warmth of their surroundings. But alas, not even the family that ran the restaurant had dared to leave their home after such a storm.

With the last boot wrenched from his foot, Tom collapsed back onto the chair with a rather glorious "flop", and took a deep breath, glad to be rid of his snow-covered clothes. However, he was soon coughing and sputtering and making a face. "What…in God's name…?"

"Oh," Sybil knew to what he was referencing. "My candles," she explained.

Tom's nose crinkled and his eyes seemed to water. Before he had left to see if the Chinese restaurant was opened, Sybil had lit a few candles which she kept in her room, all of which were unscented. However, there wasn't much left of those candles; they were practically stubs in the jars that contained them. And she remembered a few she had in a box, two pumpkin-scented ones she had gotten back in October, plus a few holiday scented ones that she had gotten on clearance at one of the nearby shops. She lit all of them, and placed them around the flat. Their glow (in Sybil's opinion) was welcoming, and offered a bit more light to the flat, but the scent…well, Sybil now understood that scents like peppermint, spruce trees, and pumpkin, just really didn't go well together.

"You'll get used to it after a while!" Sybil attempted to reassure.

"Think I'd rather freeze," Tom muttered, lifting himself from the chair and wandering over to another end of the flat, away from the scented candles.

There was a bit of a tense silence then. Things had been awkward after they had woken up this morning (that was a lie; things had been awkward ever since Tom walked in on her while she was in the bath last night), but this wasn't the same as "avoiding one's eyes" out of embarrassment or "sexual confusion". No, now the awkwardness stemmed from Sybil's confession, which she had made a few hours earlier, when Tom had found her crying. He had tried to be helpful, she knew, offering her a "silver lining" and suggesting that she simply take her charger with her to the hospital and ring her family and explain the whole situation as to why she had been unable to skype like she had promised. But as nice as his suggestion had been…it didn't matter, because as she had tearfully told him, there was no "assigned hospital shift", as he had believed—as her family had believed! There never was…

Tom's hand, which felt so wonderful and warm, running up and down her back in an attempt to soothe her as she cried, stilled at her words.

"You…don't…have a shift at the hospital…?" he slowly repeated.

Time to come clean, she silently reasoned. "No," she sighed, and with great reluctance, eased herself away from him and out of his warm, comforting embrace. "No, I…I never had."

Tom looked confused. There was a deep wrinkle on his forehead, and he was frowning. "But…but I thought you said that…that you were staying in Chicago because—"

"I know," she interrupted. He didn't need to repeat what she had said, because she had said it! She had told him, just as she had told her family, that she couldn't come back to Downton for Christmas because she had been assigned a hospital shift over the holiday, and the assignment was more or less, set in stone.

She was standing now, with her arms folded across her chest, one of the bed's blankets draped over her shoulders, while Tom remained seated on her bed, still looking like he was trying to put pieces of a puzzle together.

"There's no hospital shift," he repeated again.

Sybil sighed and shook her head. "No, there isn't."

"And…you said there never was one," he added.

She did her best not to roll her eyes. "That's right," she confirmed.

There was a beat of silence, and then Tom murmured, "So…there was nothing to prevent you from going back to England, then?"

Sybil sucked in a deep breath, and managed to croak out a watery, "no," before closing her eyes and fighting off the tears that stung her vision.

She felt terrible; truly, truly terrible. She imagined her mother, arranging for everyone to gather around the family's Christmas tree in the Downton library, setting up the laptop and making sure everyone was seated in such a place so they could all be seen by the computer's camera for when their skype chat began. She imagined her father muttering "typical Sybil" when she wasn't online at the time she had promised, her mother telling him to hush, and waiting patiently…and then wondering what was keeping her when five minutes became ten, and ten turned into half an hour. She could kick herself for not charging her phone, because she had a feeling there would be at the very least, a dozen missed calls and at least half a dozen messages left by her mother, wondering where she was, if she had overslept, if she was having computer issues, why she wasn't answering her phone, to call back right away, no matter what, and each of those messages growing more and more frantic with every passing hour.

Her mother wasn't a hysterical woman, but perhaps because she was now living thousands of miles from home, and would always been seen as the "baby" of the family, her mother always seemed to be a near-constant state of worry about her if she didn't hear from Sybil on a twice-weekly basis at the very least. And after that tearful goodbye of yesterday, all the guilt for the lies she had been telling for the past month (longer, if you counted her lying to her family about Tom being "Tonya") had finally broke her.

A part of her foolishly thought she would feel better for at least telling him the truth. But she didn't. If anything, she felt worse…

Tom hadn't asked for an explanation, and while Sybil knew he was curious, she was grateful that he didn't push her to learning her reasons for why she lied. Instead, he quietly rose from her bed and murmured she was welcome to use his phone if she changed her mind, and left her to herself. It had probably been for the best, Sybil reasoned, but she couldn't help but miss him dreadfully. She also couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking, now that he knew she had made up this story. She suspected she had lost some of his respect (which seemed to hurt more than the guilt she was feeling for choosing to avoid her family on Christmas Day). When she did eventually emerge from her room, she found Tom in their kitchen, going through the cupboards, and pulling various items out and placing them on the counter.

Her eyes spied the tin of biscuits she had baked last weekend. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a cup of tea right now. But anything hot that required the use of the oven or stove was out of the question.

There wasn't much in the refrigerator, and honestly, the flat was cool enough, Sybil didn't worry about the items inside spoiling. Still, Tom withdrew the milk, murmured that it would probably be in their best interests to try and finish it, and they both sat in silence, munching on a Christmas breakfast of cereal and biscuits. Afterward, Tom tried to call their landlord, but once again, the calls went straight to voicemail.

It was shortly after that phone call that Sybil decided to break out her candles to add some "warmth" to the flat, while Tom pulled on some extra layers, as well as his boots and coat to go down the street and see if the Chinese restaurant at the corner was open.

"I guess we're stuck feasting on more cereal," Sybil sighed, turning her head back to the kitchen, her stomach rumbling for something a bit more filling.

The sound of Tom chuckling surprised her, and drew her attention back to where he was standing, his face turned once again to the window. "What is it?" she asked, thinking it was something outside that had caused him to laugh.

He was leaning towards the window, one arm against the wall, supporting most of his weight. His shoulders were shaking as he laughed, and he finally turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. "I'm just…I'm remembering something my mother said…" he explained, between chuckles.

Sybil lifted an eyebrow at this.

He pressed his lips together, in an effort to control his amusement. "Yesterday, she was fretting that I wouldn't be able to have anything 'decent' for Christmas dinner…"

Sybil felt her face flush at his explanation, but both his laugh and his smile were rather infectious, and soon she found herself giggling as well.

Tom's laughter only grew more and more, to the point where he was actually wiping tears from his eyes. "She thought…she thought my answer to having Chinese food for Christmas was bad!"

Sybil's stomach growled at the mention of Chinese. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a hot bowl of egg drop soup…and a fresh pot of oolong tea!

Tom sighed, his laughter finally seeming to die down. "God…I think compared to cereal, she'd agree that Chinese is better." His eyes were still bright with laughter when he focused again on her, but Sybil's own smile faded, and a renewed, cold stab of guilt washed over her.

With her arms hugging her body and her eyes looking downward, she whispered, "You should be there." She was speaking more to herself than to him, but he had heard her, because she heard Tom move towards her, and when she next looked up, her eyes widened in surprise to see him standing right in front of her.

"Syb…" he reached out and gently touched her shoulder. "This isn't your fault."

She knew he was right. She hadn't purposefully summoned a winter storm to hit Chicago on Christmas Eve to keep Tom from flying back to Dublin (if she did possess such powers, she'd have used them to summon a winter storm the day of her finals). But still, a part of her couldn't help but feel somehow "responsible" for his situation.

"Hey…" he drew her attention back to him, and despite the self-loathing she was feeling, she couldn't help but smile at the crooked grin he was giving her. "So given our present circumstances, our Christmas fare may be far from 'traditional'…" he moved across the room to the Christmas tree, where Sybil noticed him picking up a small bag, complete with a bright, green bow. "…But that doesn't mean we can't be 'merry' in our celebration."

Her eyes widened as he pulled bag's hidden item out, revealing a shiny, unopened bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey.

"Where did you…?"

"Gift from my fellow 'doctoral hopefuls' in my program," he explained. "They admitted that it was a bit 'stereotypical', but hey—I like Jameson's; I not going to complain."

Sybil did laugh at that, though she also found herself trying to remember who those "fellow doctoral hopefuls" were. Tom did sometimes have them over at the flat for studying, and if memory served, there were a few female doctoral hopefuls, who were rather pretty (and who seemed to grin and giggle at anything Tom said, like those American girls in Love Actually).

"That was rather nice of them," Sybil offered, forcing a smile (and swallowing the strange surge of jealousy that had momentarily flooded her mind). "I'm surprised you didn't take it with you."

Tom chuckled at that. "Don't know if the airline would have allowed me, even if I had wanted to."

Of course, Sybil inwardly rolled her eyes at herself. He started to twist the lid off the bottle, but paused briefly to say, "why don't you go and fetch us two glasses."

Two glasses? Sybil's eyes widened as she realized that Tom as offering to share his gift with her. "Oh, Tom, you don't have to—"

"Do you not care for whiskey?" he asked, pausing in his task and meeting her eyes.

Her face began to burn. "I um…honestly…I…I've never tried."

Tom's mouth fell open at this revelation. She might as well have told him that she thought the earth was flat.

"Well…your education starts now," Tom announced, a grin spreading across his face. He looked rather excited. Sybil wondered if she should be worried.

"Tom, this is your present—it's meant for you!"

He had put the bottle down and was moving past her to fetch the glasses himself. "Aye, and I choose to share it," he simply told her. With glasses in hand, he returned to the kitchen table where the bottle waited, and removed the lid, before carefully pouring the liquid into their two glasses.

Sybil nibbled on her bottom lip and eyed the whiskey with some wariness. "Doesn't it burn?" she found herself asking, before groaning in embarrassment. God, he probably thought she had lived under a rock all her life.

Tom did chuckle, but there was nothing condescending or patronizing in his laugh. "It is warm, and there are some out there that, if you throw it back a bit too fast, will feel like your throat is on fire, but no, you'll be fine," he assured. "And if you'd prefer, we can always put your 'whiskey on the rocks', but I recommend your first taste be as it is…" He handed her one of the glasses, and then clinked his own with it.

Sybil gazed down at the liquid in her glass, a feeling of excited nervousness washing over her. "What are we drinking to?" she asked. "I mean…it is Christmas, we should drink to something, don't you think?"

He grinned at that. "Aye, I do, and…" he paused for a moment, as if thinking of a possible toast. Then with that cheeky smile of his, raised his glass and said, "To our first Chicago Christmas!"

Instead of lifting her own glass and repeating the toast, Sybil rolled her eyes. "I think you mean the worst Christmas," she muttered.

"Not possible," Tom told her, shaking his head.

She made a scoffing laugh at that. "Not possible? Tom…your flight was canceled, you're stuck spending Christmas here, and we have no heat, no electricity, nothing warm to eat—"

"But you're here," he softly interrupted.

Sybil stared back at him, all thought and manner of speech seeming to die from that simple sentence.

"But you're here…"

She blinked for a moment, then lowered her eyes, her cheeks warming almost immediately. Don't; don't read anything into it, she firmly told herself. He's being friendly, because he's your friend; Friends say sweet things to one another all the time! But he had never said anything like that to her before…

"Alright, fine, you win!" Sybil replied, her words in a rush and her eyes looking anywhere but at him. "To our first Chicago Christmas!" And without further ado, she tossed her whiskey back.

And immediately started coughing.

"Woah!" Tom was by her side instantly, his hand on her back like before, only this time he was patting it as she coughed. "Easy, easy," he murmured, trying to hold back his laugh, or so it sounded. She couldn't blame him; she'd laugh at herself too.

"I…I'm fine," she coughed, groaning at the burning feel in her throat (not to mention the burning sensation in her cheeks).

"I didn't realize you were going to shoot it," he confessed, still trying to hold back his chuckle (and still running his hand up and down her back). "I'd have gotten you a proper shot glass then."

Sybil just waved a hand at him, trying to silently assure him that she was fine (and wishing more than anything that the earth would swallow her up and end her embarrassment). "I'm fine," she croaked once more, and then thrust her glass out towards him. "Pour me another!"

Tom's eyebrows shot up at this. "Syb—"

"Come on, Branson, drink up!" she ordered, reaching for the bottle herself, determined to save some face.

Tom's chuckle did escape his throat then, and he sighed and brought his glass to his lips, before throwing his head back and drinking its contents in one go. "Jesus…" he groaned, and Sybil's face burned even more. That sounded downright orgasmic.

"Good?" she found herself asking, a bit of a naughty giggle bubbling in the back of her throat.

"God, yes," he groaned again, grinning widely (and seeming to be unaware the effect his voice was having on her, or her knickers at the moment). She had the bottle, but had yet to pour for herself. Tom held his glass out to her, and Sybil gladly refreshed both their tumblers.

"Alright, my turn to toast!" Sybil announced, holding her glass high. Tom laughed and lifted his likewise. "To…to your friends, who were nice enough to give you this bottle of whiskey so that I could try it," she finished with a giggle.

Tom laughed again, and Sybil's smile spread even further. It was a wonderful, rich, warm sound. He had such a beautiful voice…

"Alright," he chuckled, once again clinking his glass with hers. "I'll drink to that, as well as to you."

Sybil paused, her glass halfway to her lips. "Me?"

"Aye," Tom nodded. "For being brave and trying whiskey for the first time."

Sybil found herself rolling her eyes at him again. "I'm not a complete amateur when it comes to drinking, thank you very much," she muttered. And to prove her point, she threw back her head and swallowed the contents of her glass in a single gulp, this time prepared for the warm liquid.

She still coughed, though it was lesser than before, and Tom still chuckled, though the amusement on his face seemed to soften into admiration. "I know that," he finally spoke, pausing briefly to drink his own whiskey. "I'm just surprised, that's all."

Sybil frowned. "Surprised, how?"

"I've seen you shoot tequila!" he explained, and made a face which not only made Sybil laugh, but also caused her heart to flutter at how adorable he looked. "I've seen you drunk, from drinking tequila!"

Sybil's mouth flew open. "WHAT!? When?" she demanded.

"Halloween," Tom answered, mirth dancing in his eyes at the memory.

Sybil's brow was furrowed at first…and then her face turned the brightest shade of scarlet as through the fog and haze of drunken memories, she recalled the incident.

"It was a surprise, I'll not deny," Tom continued. "I mean, it's not every day a man comes home and finds his flatmate dancing around the living room with a group of ladies, all of whom are passing a tequila bottle around, while you sing at the top of your lungs—by the way, has anyone ever told you that you do a convincing Taylor Swift impersonation?"

"Oh, stop!" Sybil groaned, completely mortified. She shoved Tom's shoulder, but he just laughed, before (much to her horror) softly singing, "we are never, ever, ever, getting back together…"

"I was trying to cheer up my friend! She had just gone through a break-up," she explained (with a rather defensive tone).

Tom looked pensive for a moment. "Which friend?"

Sybil felt heat flood her face again. "Gwen…she's studying cardiology," she mumbled. "Redhead; very pretty." And who sometimes referred to Sybil's flatmate as "the Irish sex god".

"Isn't she Scottish?" Tom asked.

Now Sybil was feeling a stab of jealousy towards her own friend. Good Lord, she needed to get a hold of herself. "She is," she answered, forcing a smile. Had Tom taken notice of Gwen as well?

"So she's single now?"

Apparently, he had.

"I don't think she's interested in dating anyone at the moment," she mumbled quickly, before wincing at how pathetic she no doubt sounded. Seriously, WHAT was wrong with her?

Tom just gave a small shrug of his shoulders. "That makes sense," he murmured. "I'll try to emphasize that when I next speak with John."

Sybil frowned. "John?"

Tom nodded. "John Harding—you've met him. Fellow poly-sci doctoral student."

"Oh…" Sybil felt her face flush once again with embarrassment. So…so Tom wasn't interested in Gwen?

"Yeah, he's fancied her for a long time," he continued. "I honestly suspect that the reason he's keen to come and study here instead of the library is simply because he's hoping Gwen will pop around—don't you remember? John and I were coming in while you and Gwen were heading out? This was back in early October."

"Oh! Yes, I remember now!" And she did. "That's right, she and her boyfriend at the time had convinced me to join them on a double-date with some friend of his…" she made a face, vaguely recalling the date. It hadn't been horrible, but by no means had it been good either. It certainly hadn't been worth her time in pursuing a second date.

Tom cleared his throat and looked down at his empty glass. "Yeah, that's right," he mumbled, before pouring himself another round and shooting the liquid once again down his throat.

"Hey!" Sybil frowned. "You're supposed to offer a toast!" She snatched the bottle out of his hands and quickly refilled her glass.

Tom gave a somewhat mocking bow of his head. "My apologies, milady."

"Ugh," Sybil rolled her eyes. "Don't even start."

He chuckled, but Sybil had already noticed a change in his mood, as if something were troubling him.

"Well, seeing as how you've already had a third," she muttered, before lifting her glass. "To John and Gwen!"

Tom's eyebrows lifted at this.

"For whatever the future brings for the two of them…may they, at the very least, be happy."

Warmth enveloped Sybil, and she honestly wasn't sure if that was due to the whiskey she had just drank, or the smile Tom was giving her at her toast.

"Well said," he murmured, his eyes seeming to shine once again with admiration, causing Sybil's heart to quicken and her face to flush.

Swallowing the sudden lump that seemed to have formed in her throat, she lifted the Jameson bottle to his glass. "Another?"

Tom smiled but shook his head. "Let's eat something first."

There was cold ham and turkey and cheese in the refrigerator, plus a few jars of different kinds of jam. From the cupboard, they grabbed peanut butter and bread, and with all their different ingredients, made a giant plate of sandwiches. This, plus a few packages of crisps, and Tom's whiskey, became their impromptu Christmas dinner. It was far from traditional, and while it wasn't the hot food Sybil craved, it was filling, and for that she was grateful.

It was Tom's idea that they eat in the living room, and Sybil couldn't help but smile as he insisted they have a little "picnic" of sorts, sitting on the living room floor, just a few feet away from Sybil's Christmas tree.

"I didn't realize how hungry I was," Sybil muttered between bites.

Tom laughed and nodded his head in agreement. "How many have you had?" he asked, looking down at the remaining sandwiches between them.

Sybil blushed and looked down at her crumb-covered lap. "Um…honestly? I've lost count."

Tom threw his head back and laughed, and then laughed even louder when a rather un-ladylike burp escaped her lips. "I imagine that's not something easily tolerated at Downton Abbey," he chuckled.

Despite her embarrassment, Sybil giggled and nodded her head in agreement. "No. Granny would be sending me death glares if she were here."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, so would my Mam," Tom added, before winking at her and promising, "but your secret is safe with me."

Sybil blushed at this, and suddenly felt rather shy. "Yours too," she murmured.

Tom looked confused. "Mine too?"

She nodded her head. "Your secret," she clarified. "Us sitting on the living room floor like this, having our so-called 'Christmas dinner', rather than at the table; I imagine your mother wouldn't approve."

Tom shrugged his shoulders and gave her a crooked smile. "No, I doubt she would be. We may not have been posh, but she insisted on nothing short of 'impeccable' manners, especially at Christmas." A wistful smile seemed to cross his features and Sybil couldn't help but gaze at him in an admiring way. "Everything had to be just so…" he went on, clearly reminiscing the Christmases of his past. "The best china, the best tablecloth, everyone washed and dressed up—the boys didn't have to wear a tie, but they were expected to wear a jacket," he explained, painting a vivid picture of the Branson home at Christmas. "Everyone had to be seated at the table, while she and one of my aunts or sisters would bring the food out. But don't even think about touching anything!" he warned, shaking a finger at her.

Sybil laughed and tucked her legs up to her body, wrapping her arms (and blanket) around them as she listened. "I imagine if some poor soul tried, they'd get a thrashing!"

"They'd lose a bloody finger!" Tom corrected, which caused them both to laugh. Mrs. Branson sounded quite strict, and yet Sybil couldn't help but like the woman, even if she had never met or spoken with her.

"Mam would always be the last to the table—she would insist upon it. She'd sit down and then look at all of us gathered under a scrutinizing eye, before turning to my Da and nodding her head, which was a sign that he could say the blessing. And Da always kept it brief—he knew how hungry we all were, and having to sit there and endure seeing all this mouth-watering food being placed before us but not being able to taste it, let alone touch it…"

Despite the sandwiches she had consumed, Sybil's stomach growled again.

"But of course we still had to wait, because Mam would insist on making a big show, having the roast carved, and then we would all pass our plates like we were on a conveyer belt, and not until every plate had gone around the table and got a bit of meat, could we even think about tucking in, and EVEN THEN—"

"I'm amazed the food was still warm at this point!" Sybil groaned, but in good humor.

Tom chuckled and nodded in agreement. "Aye, I know what you mean. But Mam would keep one eye on the rest of us, while watching Da with her other, and he would be the first to take a bite of her roast, and we would all wait along with her, on baited breath as he bit into it…"

Sybil was leaning forward. "And?"

Tom grinned and started to laugh. "Do you honestly think he would dare tell her it was anything but delicious?"

Sybil's laugh joined his, and soon they both found themselves shaking with hysterics.

"But…but in all seriousness…" Tom managed to say after a while, his laughter under control. "In all seriousness…it really was delicious."

Sybil grinned back at him. "Does she always make roast beef for Christmas?"

"Aye, and only for Christmas," he wistfully sighed. He leaned back against the wall and turned his gaze towards the window. "She's famous for it, Mam and her roast beef. People have been begging her for years, to tell them how she makes it. But she refuses to tell a soul, even her own family."

"What? None of you know?"

Tom shook his head. "Nope; says the recipe will be passed on to whomever she deems 'worthy', and even then, no one will find out until the reading of her will." Sybil gaped at him and Tom chuckled. "Mam is a bit dramatic, I can't deny." He folded his arms across his chest then and fixed her with a curious look. "And you?"

"Me?"

"Aye, what about you?" He settled back and crossed one leg over the other. "Tell me about your Christmases."

Sybil's mind seemed to go blank at his question. She looked down and played with a few loose threads at the end of her blanket. "There's not much to tell…" she murmured, more to herself.

She glanced up through her lashes at Tom and could tell he wanted to argue the matter, but instead, stopped himself and asked, "Well, since I shared that Mam's roast beef is my favorite thing for Christmas, how about you tell me what yours is?" He stretched his foot out and gently gave hers a nudge. "Come on…or am I going to have to guess?" He twisted his face into a silly expression that did have Sybil giggling. "Ah, I know it; Brussel sprouts."

Sybil's face contorted into one of disgust. "Ugh, no! No, no, NO."

Tom laughed to the point where tears began to run down his cheeks. "So…so that's a 'no' then?"

Sybil groaned and nodded her head. "Granny insists we have them, even though she can't stand them either," she muttered with a roll of her eyes. "'It just isn't a proper Christmas without them!'" she mimicked.

"Oh wow," Tom's expression was a mix of amusement and horror. "Does she really sound like that?"

Sybil smirked. "My sister Mary does a better impression; she even fooled our father once, over the telephone." A bittersweet smile spread across her face then as she thought about her sisters. She truly did love her family, even though they drove her mad. But she did love them, and she did miss them, especially her sisters.

"Syb?" Tom was looking at her with concerned eyes, obviously noticing the change in her demeanor.

She cleared her throat and shook her head. "Um, to answer your question, it's…it's pudding."

There was a pause and then Tom repeated, "Pudding?"

Sybil nodded. "My favorite thing for Christmas dinner," she explained, suddenly feeling rather self-conscious. She looked down at the blanket threads she had been playing with earlier. "Christmas pudding is my favorite."

She glanced back up at him and bit her lip, not sure how to read the look he was now giving her. It was…pensive…but there was something else to it as well. A smile slowly broke out, and he asked, "Does your pudding come with gold sovereigns?"

Sybil groaned and gave his foot a harsh nudge with her own. "I know you like to tease, but we're really not that different from…from…"

"Us peasants?"

"Stop it," she groaned, shoving his foot again, only he shoved back, and it suddenly reminded Sybil of their shoving contest in her bed last night. She looked to see if Tom was thinking or recalling the same thing, but based on the way he was laughing from their brief "foot fight", it didn't seem he was. Perhaps he just wants to forget about it? After all, he had thought he had "taken advantage" of her while she was sleeping, and being the decent man that he was, was completely horrified at the prospect.

"Tell me something else…" he encouraged. That thoughtful, curious look was back on his face, but there was also a kind, warm smile that accompanied it, assuring her that she could trust him, and in truth, she did. It was hard to explain, but…she felt safe with him. Not just in the physical sense, but in the emotional sense as well.

Sybil sighed and held her whiskey glass out to him. "Top me off first."

"Oh go on, it can't be that bad?" He did, however, refill her glass as she requested.

That depends. Suddenly, a rather silly idea popped into her head. "Does your family play games at Christmas?" she asked, turning the question around to him, surprising him slightly, but he nodded his head in the affirmative. "Let's play a game, then; like 'Twenty Questions', or something along those lines. You ask a question, I'll ask a question, and so forth."

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Alright, but I'm sensing there's something more to this…"

A deep blush colored her cheeks, but she couldn't hold back the rather wicked grin that spread across her face. "If our answers are similar, we both drink. If not, then whoever asked the question has to take a drink."

Tom's eyes narrowed at this. "This sounds like a sure way to get drunk, and quickly, for that matter."

Sybil threw a hand up into the air. "Well, what else is there to do when you're snowed in on Christmas Day, without heat or electricity?"

Actually, one thing came to mind, but she kept her mouth tightly shut on that count.

Tom didn't look so certain. "I'm not against asking questions, but…I'm not so sure about the drinking element—I mean, what if you start singing Taylor Swift again?"

Sybil gasped, and then gave his leg another shove, which had Tom laughing, and not looking sorry in the slightest. "Alright, alright, how about this," he offered. "We drink, both of us, but only when our answers are similar. Deal?"

She supposed Tom thought this was the safer option, or at the very least, one that wouldn't result in the two of them passing out, drunk, on the living room floor any time soon. However, she thought he might be underestimating the reality that despite their different upbringings, they had a lot more in common than one might think.

"Deal," Sybil agreed, before giving his foot a "high five" with her own.

"What do you mean your family doesn't play charades?"

"I mean precisely that," Tom answered, amused by her indignation at his answer. The Jameson bottle was now empty and lay on the floor between them. It was just as well, because while he wouldn't say that Sybil was drunk, she certainly wasn't completely sober, either. Her speech slurred a little bit here and there, but she did seem coherent enough when he asked her a question, or she threw one back at him.

"But everyone plays charades at Christmas!"

"Well, clearly not everyone," he countered. He gave her a cheeky grin. "Or maybe just 'everyone posh'."

She gave him a hard look. "Charades is NOT just something 'posh' people do," she muttered.

"Even so…" he picked up the empty Jameson bottle and shook it. "No drink."

Sybil just rolled her eyes at him, which just widened his grin.

"But it isn't Christmas without charades!" she all but exploded, looking very exasperated (not to mention sexy).

Tom's eyebrows rose at this. "Careful there, milady, you're starting to sound like the Dowager."

"Oi!" Sybil grabbed the Jameson bottle, and lifted it as if she were going to throw it him. "That's below the belt, Branson."

"Ok, ok," Tom laughed, and then carefully pried the bottle out of her fingers before she accidently hurt herself with it. "I do beg your pardon…milady."

Sybil shoved his shoulders and Tom fell back against the wall he had been leaning against with a hard thud, but it didn't stop him from laughing. "You're very sensitive about that, aren't you?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Men," she muttered. "I don't understand the pleasure your gender seems to derive from annoying women."

"Well, I don't know about other men, but speaking for myself, I just rather like seeing you getting all—"

His cheeky comment died quickly in his throat, when suddenly she was on him, her hands grasping his wrists and pinning them to the wall, above his head. He had been completely taken by surprise, and he stared at her with wide eyes as her face hovered just inches above his. "Getting all…what?" she challenged, her voice low and sultry. At least that was how it sounded to him.

Tom swallowed, his body on red alert, his muscles tense (and a certain portion of him growing tenser by the second). She was practically straddling him! Was she aware of herself? Of what she was doing?

"Come on, Branson, answer the question…" she murmured, her warm breath perfumed by the whiskey they had been sharing. "You rather like seeing me getting all…?"

She was doing this on purpose. She was "tipsy", yes, they both were to a degree (their humor was certainly becoming a bit raunchier), but she was very much in control of her mind and her senses, and he realized now that she was simply trying to get a rise out of him. (Which was working, or rather, it was certainly having a "rising" effect on his body).

"OH!" Sybil gasped, as Tom gritted his teeth and growled, pushing her back, causing her to topple over, landing hard on her back and turning the tables on her. Now he was the one hovering over her, with her arms and wrists over her head, his own pinning them to the ground (and likewise, his body straddling hers).

"Getting all feisty," he finished, grinning wickedly down at her.

Sybil seemed to have been taken by surprise, and stared up at him, her blue eyes wide and her breath coming in short pants, which caused her breasts to rise and fall at a rapid rate. Tom felt his throat go dry, especially when his eyes fell to her parted lips…moist and full…and mere inches away…

"Feisty?" she breathed. His eyes flew back to hers. "You haven't begun to see feisty!"

"Holy f—!" His words were cut-off as the wind was knocked from him by her next move, like something out of a spy movie. Her legs came up and wrapped around his waist, and thanks to both the element of surprise and her lower body strength, she twisted them around, rolling the both of them over until now HE was on his back, and she on top of him! And her legs remained tightly wrapped around him too, which meant there was no "practically" this time, she literally was straddling him! And oh God, how he wanted to enjoy it…but instead he winced in pain as his back rolled right onto the Jameson bottle. "FECK!"

"OH!" Sybil scrambled off him, realizing what had happened, her "feisty playfulness" now replaced with concern. "Tom, did it cut you? Roll over, let me see."

"No…" he groaned, though he did roll over onto his side, allowing the bottle to roll out from under him and across the room. "No, it didn't cut me," he assured her, though he let her examine his back, knowing that her inner doctor wouldn't be satisfied until she had done a routine check-up.

Oh God, there was a fantasy his mind hadn't considered until this moment. Dr. Sybil Crawley, in her little white lab coat, her hair piled high, glasses atop her nose. "Time for your physical, Mr. Branson," she purred, while pushing him down onto the exam table.

"Tom? Did that hurt?"

Tom's eyes flew open (he hadn't even realized they had been shut!) "W-w-what?" he stammered, looking up at her, her face hovering above. The way the late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the frost-covered windows made it seem as if there was some kind of "ethereal glow" illuminating her.

"You just groaned," she explained. "I was checking your back, and you let out this real, deep groan, and I thought maybe I had—"

"No," his voice squeaked this time, and his face turned crimson, a feeling of shame washing over him for the way his mind had wandered. God, he needed help.

He rolled himself away from her and carefully sat up, wincing as he did so, but grateful for the feeling of the couch behind him. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he assured her.

Sybil bit her lip, looking very apologetic. "Sorry, I…I guess the booze got the better of me," she mumbled.

Perhaps, but Tom knew he couldn't blame the whiskey entirely for the thoughts that had been running through his mind. "Nothing wrong with having a laugh," he tried to tease, hoping that would somehow diffuse the tension.

Sybil nodded her head…and then narrowed her eyes. "I still can't believe you don't play charades—"

"Jesus, you can't let it go, can you?" he groaned, which apparently had the desired effect, because they both burst out laughing then.

"But…but in all seriousness," she started to say, after their laughter had died down. "In all seriousness…why are guys like that?"

Tom frowned in confusion. "I'm assuming you're not talking about charades anymore?"

Sybil waved her hand, as if that conversation was ancient history. "Why do guys enjoy annoying women?"

Oh, so they were back onto that topic, apparently.

"I honestly have no idea," he answered, to which she rolled her eyes at him. "I'm telling the truth! I don't know why!"

"Do you enjoy it?" she asked, fixing him with a pointed look.

"Enjoy annoying women? God, no," he shook his head. "I don't have a death wish."

"I don't mean in general," she playfully kicked his foot with her own as they had done earlier. "I mean…well, like you said earlier, you enjoy seeing me get all…" her cheeks turned the most beautiful shade of pink he had ever seen. Her eyes lowered and her lashes brushed her cheeks in a way that made him want to groan her name.

"But I've seen guys do that—tease their girlfriends to the point where they start swatting them, and I just don't understand the appeal!"

Tom tried not to react to the fact that Sybil was more or less equating their behavior to one another, to that of actual couples she knew.

"Um…well…" he wasn't exactly sure how to answer her question. Was it a question?

"Maybe I should have studied psychology…" Sybil mumbled, more to herself than to him. "I've always been fascinated and irritated by this whole notion that begins when we're children, that 'if a boy likes you, he'll shove you', or other such nonsense."

"Now that, I agree with you completely," Tom replied, sitting up a bit straighter. "Mam would have boxed my ears, or worse, sic my sisters upon me, if she caught me doing that when I was a lad."

Sybil lifted a curious eyebrow at him. "So you never shoved a girl off a swing at the playground?"

Tom made a face of disgust. "God, no; and if I ever have a daughter and this happens to her, I'd tell her to shove him right back!"

Sybil smiled then, and even giggled, and suddenly Tom's mind was awash with a different image, a very different image to hot and sexy Dr. Crawley, but one of a little girl…with dark brown hair and deep blue eyes…the very image of her gorgeous mother—

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…what was happening to him!?

"Alright, Mr. Branson, you've rather intrigued me…"

His eyes turned back to her, and he felt nervous lump form in his throat. "I…I have?" he asked, unsure if this was a good or a bad thing.

"What's the first thing you notice about a woman?"

She wasn't wasting any time. He suddenly felt like he was at a job interview (for a job he didn't realize until now, he desperately wanted).

"Her eyes," he answered.

Sybil's eyebrows lifted at that. "Really? Not her tits or her ass?"

"You're the one who's guilty of looking at anyone's arse," he teased, laughing at the kick her foot gave his.

"Alright, so her eyes are the first thing you notice, but what's your favorite part of a woman?"

"Her smile."

Sybil groaned. "Oh, please—"

"I'm telling the truth!" he defended.

"Alright, favorite sexual position."

"Jesus, Syb," Tom swore, his face on fire. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"Nope," she grinned. "And see? I'm smiling."

And she was gorgeous.

"Come on, answer the question."

Apparently that whiskey had given her some "liquid courage" to ask questions he couldn't help but wonder if they would ever consider asking when they were completely sober?

"I…I don't know if I have a favorite—"

"Oh please," Sybil muttered. "You do, EVERYONE has a favorite, and…" she eyed him as if trying to assess something. "It's 'doggy', isn't it?"

Tom frowned. "What?"

"Oh, you know…" she was blushing now, which was rather justifying. "Down on all fours?"

Heat returned to his face (had it ever really left?) "Um…yeah, I won't deny, I do like—"

"AH HA!"

"BUT I wouldn't say it's my favorite," he argued.

"Then what is?" she challenged.

Tom gazed at her for a moment, and remembered how not so long ago, she had him at her mercy (before the Jameson bottle chose to interrupt their play).

"Her on top."

Sybil blinked, and Tom bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at the blush he saw creeping up her neck and flooding her cheeks. "O-oh?" she stammered.

He nodded his head, and sat up a bit straighter. "Aye, there's…there's just something about seeing a woman rise above you…her head thrown back, her body bare and open, her mouth gasping in pleasure, as she takes hers—she's completely in control of everything; the pace, the rhythm, the depth—everything. And you're completely at her mercy…"

His eyes were holding Sybil's and he noticed she was squirming a bit from where she sat.

"S-so you're saying," she cleared her throat before continuing. "So you're saying that…that you don't mind surrendering to a woman?"

A smile slowly spread across his face at her question. "Not at all," he answered honestly. "Besides…there's a strength in surrendering."

She swallowed and looked down, and Tom had to hold back the groan that threatened to leave his throat as he watched her lashes once again brush her cheeks.

"And you?"

Her head snapped up. "W-what?"

"You?" he repeated. "Your favorite position?" It was only fair that she tell him. And he desperately wanted to know.

Sybil swallowed and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "Um…well, I agree, there's something to be said about…about being on top," she murmured, and Tom held his breath as her eyes met his. "But…if I had to choose…" she bit her lip and then made a face, as if she were having the same difficulty he had to narrowing it down to just one (which aroused him more than he thought possible). "Ok, um…God, this is going to sound so boring…"

Not possible, he thought, while leaning forward.

"But…while I admit, it's a bit harder to…well…" he knew what she was trying to say, but he adored the way she was stumbling over her words. "Him on top," she finally managed to say.

Tom's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Really?"

She groaned but nodded her head. "Yes, yes, good ol' 'missionary'," she muttered.

Tom swallowed the laugh in his throat. "Why do you sound so bothered?"

Her eyes went wide. "I…I'm not bothered! I just…" she squirmed. "Ok, well…similar to what you said, there's just something about…" her voice trailed off as she tried to say the right words to convey whatever images were flashing before her eyes. "…There's an intimacy," she explained. "When two people hold each other like that…and…and it just feels…" she blushed and Tom noticed she was wrapping her arms around herself. "That feeling of being held…cradled, even; your bodies pressed together…" she looked down and Tom let out a shaky breath. More than anything, he wanted to kiss her. It was one thing, her telling him the position she loved, but then the detailed image she provided…Sybil beneath him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs enfolding him as she had all too briefly done earlier, his arms around her, his hands cradling the back of her head, their noses brushing, their foreheads touching, their faces glistening with sweat and their lips murmuring the other's name between kisses…

"Alright, tell me about foreplay!"

Tom practically choked.

It wasn't missed by him how quickly Sybil was turning the tables, throwing the heated questions back on him. Minx.

"Foreplay?"

"Your opinion?"

His opinion on foreplay. Does this conversation count as foreplay? "I'm not against it, if that's what you're asking," he cheekily answered.

She laughed and shook her head. "Of course not; would any man turn down the opportunity for a blow job before sex?"

Sybil talking about blow jobs; God help him.

"I wasn't thinking about that, exactly."

"Oh?" she had both a curious and somewhat eager look in her eyes. Or was that his imagination? "Do you mean…going down on her?"

Was she fishing for information? "Aye," he honestly answered. "Not just that, but that included, yes."

Now Sybil looked very intrigued. "Most men think of it as a chore…"

"Most men are idiots."

"So you're saying you enjoy it?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"You enjoy going down a woman."

"I love going down on a woman."

Sybil's breath caught in her throat and Tom seemed to realize then that the both of them were leaning forward, just a foot or two apart.

You want her. And unless you're misreading everything, she wants you too! But even so, and while his mind screamed that they weren't drunk, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe this was all just a result of the whiskey. Or rather, a result of their situation? Trapped inside, the sexual tension seeming to be the thing that was keeping them warm. If they had electricity and heat, would this even be happening? Or would they be watching something on the telly, like Sybil's Doctor Who Christmas specials?

And about her revelation? The fact that she had willingly chose to stay behind for Christmas, making up an excuse to explain why she couldn't come home, when she clearly seemed to miss her family. He still didn't understand why she had done all this, and a part of him couldn't help but wonder…if they were both just acting on impulse, because they were feeling sorry for themselves?

"Sybil…"

Her eyes had fluttered closed and she whispered, "Yes?" before opening them…and seeing him ease away from her.

He sighed and looked back at her, and she squirmed beneath his gaze, though it wasn't like before. And when she looked down, there was something akin to shame or despair.

"Sybil," he began again, but she shook her head and got to her feet.

"I…excuse me," she muttered, and she rushed out of the living room, down the short hallway that led to their bathroom. She shut the door, enclosing herself in the cold darkness of the room, and Tom leaned his head back against the couch, closing his eyes and groaning.

Had he done the right thing? Had he stopped them from doing something they would later regret, realizing it had all been a case of holiday blues, and thus ruining their friendship?

Or had he just made the most stupid mistake in his entire life?

To be continued...

I know, the tension was...well, tense ;oP But I promise, it's all going to be worth it in the end (PROMISE!)