Picking up where we left off last time. Now from Sybil's point of view. Pure fluff, just so you know. :) There is a measure of playfulness to Tom here that we don't really see on the show, given his position with the family and what he's gone through, but I firmly believe it exists (we got a peek in the learning cricket scene with Matthew). I've also borrowed from Allen's antics in interviews. For the best approximation of how I picture S/T interaction in this fic, look for the video of Allen interrupting Jessica's interview for Swedish TV.
Matthew's end of the house swap is next. After this one, the next two chapters will take us back to London for Mary's grand entrance and his reaction to her.
Sybil
She looked a mess. Her blouse was wrinkled from the flight. Her hair was going every which way. Her cheeks were flushed like a schoolgirl's.
He is so handsome. And charming. And wonderfully Irish. And did she mention handsome?
Dwelling on all of this didn't help Sybil with her nerves or her appearance as she tried to "freshen up" before heading back out to the living room, where Tom, her handsome, charming, wonderfully Irish self-appointed tour guide awaited. This wasn't what she'd had in mind when she set out on her solitary voyage of self-discovery this morning from London. She'd downloaded audiobooks of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Dubliners and planned to listen to them as she walked the streets of Dublin. Terribly clichéd, yes, but that's what she wanted. In her mind, it was just her. Not her and someone else. But now this handsome, charming, Irish Irishman wanted to butt in. She started thinking again about how adorably rattled he was at the airport and how easily they conversed on the ride to the flat and how comfortable she felt with him and how terribly good-looking he was.
He is so handsome. And charming. And wonderfully Irish. And did she mention handsome?
She laughed out loud at herself. A schoolgirl in every way. She considered calling Gwen but knew immediately the words that would come out of her mouth—and the volume at which they would.
"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME ARE YOU RINGING ME FOR WHEN THERE'S A HOT IRISHMAN IN THE NEXT ROOM!?"
She laughed again and took a deep breath. What was she worried about, exactly? She'd be gone in a week. What possible harm could come to her spending one evening with him?
Well, she knew exactly what kind. But she wouldn't be afraid of heartbreak, not any more, not after Larry. Sybil thought of her Grandmother Martha just then.
Make your world bigger, my dearest.
And with that, she stepped out of the bathroom.
Tom stood up from the sofa as she rejoined him in the living room. She'd tied her hair up and changed her blouse. Not much of an effort, she thought, but Sybil was never one to fret about her appearance. He smiled at her, and she wondered how it was that they'd only met two hours ago. Already she felt like he'd been smiling at her like that always.
"Are you hungry at all?" he asked.
"Famished, I'm afraid."
"Well, no walking tour of the city could be enjoyable on a empty stomach, so I thought we might go down to the pub for a bite first."
"All right."
He helped her with her coat and grabbed a small paper bag from the coffee table before guiding her toward the door. She felt her cheeks flush—again—as his hand barely touched the small of her back.
"What's in the bag?" she asked as he closed the door behind him.
He leaned in conspiratoriously and winked. "For later."
Adventure, indeed.
The din at the pub was such that they had to lean into each other across the table a bit to hear one another. From this vantage point, Sybil got her first good look at Tom's face. His hair was on the darker side of blonde, a color that would brighten in the sun, no doubt. It wasn't closely cropped. In fact, she wondered just how long it had been since he'd gotten it cut, the way the fringe kept threatening to spill over onto his forehead. It was all she could do not to run her fingers through it.
Ireland bucket list, item 1: Run fingers through Tom's hair.
He had intensely blue eyes. Her own would wander around the pub any time she felt pinned down by his stare. His smile turning into a grin when she dared look to him again, it being obvious to both, by her blushing cheeks, who was avoiding whose gaze. However rattled Tom might have seemed at the airport when he first saw her, he was the one having fun with her now.
Ireland bucket list, item 2: Beat Tom at staring contest.
His features were youthful, but Sybil couldn't help but see a worn quality to his face. Like a trauma that had left its mark.
"How old are you?"
"I'll be 30 this month."
"A Christmas birthday, that's no fun. Everyone always giving you combined presents."
"It's on New Year's Eve, actually. But even as a kid I didn't mind. I was never one for the attention."
Ireland bucket list, item 3: Make massive deal out of Tom's birthday. Preferably in public.
Technically, that was after she'd be back home. But she already knew this would continue on past her departure date. Whatever this was. She would make sure of it.
"What was it like growing up here?"
"Loud."
"How so?"
"I'm the youngest of six—one brother, four sisters—all of them of adamant and vociferous opinions, a trait they all got from our parents."
"But not you?"
"I have opinions, but let's just say, I learned to keep quiet and observe from an early age."
"And how do you use those gifts now?"
He hesitated. "I work for travel magazine."
This perked Sybil up. "So you're a writer!"
Unfortunately, her momentary excitement seemed to have the opposite effect on him. He frowned a bit and shifted in his seat, his eyes now avoiding hers. The first time he seemed visibly uncomfortable to her since they'd met.
"Of a sort," he finally answered. "I'm an editor mostly, to be honest. Don't know whether my rambunctious relations made me better or worse at that, but there you are." After a long moment, he brought his eyes back to hers and gave her a small smile.
Sybil sensed that there was something behind what he was saying but couldn't pinpoint exactly what.
Ireland bucket list, item 4: Find out what Tom really wants to do with his life.
"And what do you do Miss Crawley?"
"I work with soldiers returning from Afghanistan in readjusting to life at home. My degree is in public health, so I'm doing research on post dramatic stress disorder and how public services meet the needs of those who suffer from it."
"Wow. That's amazing."
Sybil smiled sheepishly. "Not really, but I do like it."
"Well, it's wonderful that you do it. You seem as if you'd be very good at it." The sparkle came back into his eyes when he said that last bit, which made Sybil wonder what he meant.
"Good at which part, exactly?"
He laughed quietly, looking at his hands. "Getting troubled men to tell you how they feel." Getting serious and looking up again, he added, "But I'm glad you can."
Ireland bucket list, item 5: Stop minding that Tom makes me blush every five minutes.
They looked at each other for a long moment, both a little bit afraid, it seemed, of what would be said next.
Luckily, the server came up with their drinks at that precise moment: two shots of Bailey's and two pints of Guinness. His choice.
"Isn't this a bit on the stereotypical side?" Sybil asked. "I thought with you I was getting the genuine article."
He laughed as he pushed the shot in front of her. "I'm easing you in. Besides, these are classics for a reason."
Lifting up his shot glass, he said, "Now, drink, Miss Crawley, to the start of your Irish education."
They clinked glasses, and Sybil closed her eyes as the sweet, creamy liquid slid down her throat. He immediately went for the Guinness and lifted up his pint to clink hers. She responded in kind.
He took a longer drink than she did, which allowed her to watch him closely as he, without realizing he was doing it, licked the extra foam off his lips with his tongue.
Ireland bucket list, item 6: Kiss Tom.
Ireland bucket list, item 7: Repeat item 6 as often as time allows.
And so it went for what seemed like days, but was really only about two hours, each sharing bits of information about their lives, past and present, and Sybil's list of wishes about Tom for the trip growing longer and longer and longer. Hear Tom speak Irish. See Tom's flat. Watch Tom reading. Watch Tom sleeping. People watch with Tom.
Over the course of dinner, he moved on to Murphy's and Sybil to a much lighter lager.
"I'm a lightweight, I'm afraid," she said.
"Well, we'll definitely be doing something about that," was his reply.
By the time they stood to leave, they both felt a warm glow, not so much from the alcohol, but from the feelings even a casual observer could see growing between them.
Stepping outside and emerging from the warmth of the small pub, Sybil shivered. Despite how close they had been sitting inside, she was taken aback when he stepped up to her and rubbed his hands up and down her arms for warmth. It wasn't a romantic move, but it felt deeply intimate to Sybil. The kind of thing a considerate husband would do. Looking into his eyes, she saw that he clearly didn't think much of it. Sybil thought back to something she had heard her mother say once, "Love is important, but it's not nearly so important in a marriage that's going to last as friendship." She felt a lump rise in her throat. Whatever romantic mysteries lay ahead for them, in that small gesture, Tom showed he already thought of her as a friend.
Irish bucket list, final item: Make my friend Tom fall in love with me.
"Shall we get to know Dublin, then?" He asked enthusiastically.
"You mean we're starting now, this late?"
"Of course! We've got a lot of ground to cover—or are you not up for it?"
She narrowed her eyes at his teasing smile. "Where to, then, tour guide of my dreams?" Sybil bit her lip, realizing what she had just said, wondering if she could pull the words back into her mouth and swallow them.
He, unfazed, answered by extending his hand, silently asking to take hers.
Still momentarily embarrassed, she hesitated.
Oh, Sybil. Stop trying to be so stoic for once in your life.
She took his hand and interlaced her fingers with his.
"I hope you brought comfortable shoes" he said, gently pushing on her shoulder with his as they started walking. The motion caused her to step slightly away from him, but he tightened his grip on her hand and pulled her back to him.
Sybil lost all sense of time as Tom walked her first to the site of the former No. 7 Eccles Street, where Ulysses begins and ends; then to St. George's Church, whose pealing bells are mentioned in Ulysses and Dubliners; to Belvedere College on Denmark Street, where Joyce was a schoolboy; to the James Joyce Center itself, so she would know how to get there—as if she would remember anything about this night except the feel of her hand in his, and the soft lilt of his brogue as he shared his favorite Joyce passages and memories. They walked by the statue of Charles Stewart Parnell, veering now to Irish history, though Tom pointed out his influence on Joyce and his appearance in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Finally, they passed the Writer's Museum on their way to the Garden of Remembrance, where they stood now, at this late hour, Sybil wondering how she could keep the night from ever ending.
Tom shared stories his father had told him when he was a boy of distant, long-dead relatives who had fought for Irish freedom. Sybil watched him, utterly enraptured, a bit in awe of his ability to spin a good yarn. It was there that he took out a bottle of whiskey from the bag he'd brought with him from Matthew's flat.
"I'll have to repay Matthew for the liquor, but this is a family tradition. My Da used to always bring some when he brought us here and dump a little on the ground. He said it was so our heroes could have a bit of fun while they watch over us."
Sybil grinned, took the bottle from him and dumped a generous amount on the grass at her feet. She then brought it to her lips and took a long pull. The liquid burned down her throat, causing her to cough several times after. She handed the bottle back to him laughing at herself over the display.
"Are you laughing at me?" She asked still recovering.
His grin was too much to bear. "I am."
Just then, seemingly out of nowhere—What care I for watching storm clouds gather when there is such a man!—a rainstorm erupted. Tom quickly handed the whiskey back to Sybil, took off his coat and held it over both their heads. Awkwardly, but as quickly as they could, they ran over to the street for a taxi. One was by in a few minutes, and the two tumbled in, soaked, laughing. Sybil wondered whether this was when they would finally come together in a kiss, but strangely, neither made a move, both leaning back on the seat and staring at each other, holding hands, preferring to revel in the simple magic of the moment, of the day, of the lifetime of chances that had brought them here.
If Sybil had ever felt before what she was feeling now, she would have recognized it as falling in love.
A half-hour later, they were back in Matthew's flat, she in her warm flannel pajamas, he in borrowed sweats and a T-shirt. They were standing face-to-face by a freshly made fire, inches apart. Here, finally, was the moment.
As they moved toward one another, Sybil thought, A perfect night.
So too would the kiss have been had her mobile not decided to ring at that precise moment.
"What care I for watching storm clouds gather when there is such a man!" This line is borrowed and adapted from Emma Thompson's Sense and Sensibility. The original line, said by Marianne, is, "What care I for colds when there is such a man."