Thank you so much as always for the kind reviews! (And re: Sybil's passion for nursing- it's not canon per se, but I want her to love what she does. Personally, I'd love if the rumored "Catholic storyline" in S3 is Sybil Branson, black market birth control provider in Dublin!)

This chapter is probably as far off-canon as I'll get, with a cameo from a character I made up, but I can't find any way to explain Branson's schizophrenic personality shifts in 2x03. In 2x02, he has hope that Sybil is breaking from her old life. But in 2x03, after he escapes being sent to war, he still thinks all is lost with Sybil and proceeds to try to get himself thrown in prison over the plot with the General! There is nothing in the script that explains that other than lazy writing. So, this is my version. Enjoy!

March 1918

For the first time in months, when the dawn came, the air was mild and there was no wind. Spring was coming and as Branson walked towards the servants' hall, he thought about how quickly time amassed on the side of the past, especially when one was making a conscious effort not to keep count.

They saw less of each other these days because she was working so much at the hospital and at the new makeshift convalescent home, but the time they did spend together felt more substantial. When she came to the garage, it wasn't to idly pass the time- it was to share the experiences of her day: to vent about Dr. Clarkson's poor decisions that she wasn't empowered to correct, to relay the ribald conversations from the nurses' breaks, sometimes to tear up recalling the loss of a patient. She was flourishing at work and he felt privileged to be party to it.

Concomitant with that, her view of the world, and her view of her world, was also expanding. It wasn't yet so vast as to include him. But he had hope.

"Do you think you could ever go back, to your life before the war?"

"Oh no, I could never go back to that again."

So yes, he had hope. And spring was on the doorstep.

But that afternoon, something else arrived.

He still hadn't processed the contents of the official letter in his hand when he heard a knock at the cottage door.

His mouth fell open to see his little brother- his second shock of the last hour. "Hello, Tommy."

"Liam!" he cried. "Jesus..." He blinked a few times with disbelief, before emitting the only cogent question his mind had managed to form. "What the feck?"

Liam grinned. He was tall and reedy with darker hair, but the same intense blue eyes. He had been a kid when Tom left Ireland, but now he was nearly twenty-one, in a grey flannel suit that didn't quite fit him. "Trip to Parliament for my Government class. I have to be in London by tonight, but I thought I'd stop off in York and see my big brother. You have a little time?"

"Yeah, I could make some," Tom said, stepping back and allowing him entrance. "No one's ordered the car."

Liam walked into the kitchen, scoping the place out- warily, almost as if he were looking for something. "This where you live?"

"Yep."

Liam nodded. "Nicer than where you come from." The fact that he used the present tense didn't escape Tom's notice.

"How's mam?" Tom took a seat at the small kitchen table. Liam followed his brother, taking the other seat.

"Same. Good, I guess," Liam shrugged and pulled out a cigarette. "Do you mind?" Tom nodded that he did not. Liam caught his brother staring at him incredulously. "What?"

"Nothing. Just- seeing you, I think for the first time, I feel old," he admitted with a wry laugh.

"Good to see you, Tommy." The younger Branson took a long drag. "It's been too long." Again, there was just the slightest hint of menace in his words.

"Are you hungry? There's a couple decent pubs in town."

Liam's whole face soured as he emphatically shook his head. "Nah. I'd rather stay here. I hate this country. Don't like its people, don't like its pubs."

"Yet you're here to tour its Parliament," Tom observed.

"I don't give a feck about its Parliament! I only came to see you," Liam revealed, "and figure out what the hell you're still doing here, since you've taken to saying nothing in your letters."

"Working," Tom answered tartly. He was not amused. He begrudged his brother nothing, but Tom was smart, knew he was smart, but university had not been in the cards for him. He had had to find an occupation, so he'd found one, a good one for his station. He was making money, saving money, and he had ambitions- he certainly didn't need to be told off by some cocksure student. "You might have heard of it."

"Is there a baby?" Liam blurted out.

"What?"

"Because then I could understand. I know you would never abandon your child, Tommy, nor your responsibilities to the mother, even if she was English.

"No," Tom replied, too stunned to be offended, "I've not gotten anyone pregnant, Liam."

"What is it then? I'm not taking the piss, honest- I just want to understand."

Tom sighed. "The situation's complicated-"

"Can't you uncomplicate it by leaving?"

"You're graduating soon," Tom changed the subject. "You thought about what you want to do?"

"Join the fight. No question. I wish I didn't have to wait until May."

Tom gave him a stern look. "You'll stay until May, you'll get your degree and you'll avoid conscription in the process."

"Have you heard the Bishops have decided to take up Irish conscription next month? It'd be a big victory, Tommy, if the Church stood against it."

"So I've read." That's why the British army is sending its letters as fast as possible. "It would be, indeed. Though you know I'm wary of making common cause with the Church. They've too much power in Ireland already."

"You'll admit, it's a useful ally to have though." Liam sat back and listened; it was like old times, talking and debating after school.

"Undoubtedly, but an Irish free state can't become Vatican Island, a papal proxy. A nation must be secular if it's to be truly democratic. The Church's backwards views on women and sex- with every mother in line at the poor box carrying ten babies, Ireland will never lift itself out of poverty. People can't allow themselves to be disempowered- not by the crown, by the Church, by industrial interests that don't care if a mine collapses or a factory burns down. We need a way to explain that to regular people, working people, a Common Sense for the twentieth century. Though I can't imagine anything more disempowering than an Irishman being asked to sacrifice his own bodily person to defend a country that denies his sovereign rights as a man."

"You should write it." Liam smiled, then added, "The cause would love to have you."

"Is that so?" Tom tried to hide it, but he was pleased; even as a chauffeur, his ideas had impressed a student of politics.

"'Tis. So how about it?"

"I'll think about it," Tom deflected. Liam's eyes were still trained on him. "What? Did you think I'd pack a bag and catch the train back with you?"

"Why not?"

"Because I've commitments, that's why!"

"Commitments?" Liam scoffed. "What commitments? The Lord of this house doesnt need your commitment. It's this girl. We're back to the girl." He threw his hands up. "I swear Tommy, if someone had bet me five years ago we'd be having this conversation, I'd be a poor, poor man right now." Liam saw a flash of recognition in Tom's eyes, confirmed by the fact he immediately looked away; his brother knew it was true. Pride was always his Achilles' heel. "You know, Kathleen Connelly's carried a torch for you since the day you left. Still does."

"What do I care about Kathleen Connelly?"

"She could help take your mind off that British bitch-"

"Watch your mouth!" Tom exploded, enraged.

Liam pushed on, undeterred. "- who's scrambled your brain and ruined your life. Because that's what this is," he said, gesturing to the cottage. "Truly."

"I think it's pretty rich for a self-avowed socialist- the party of workers- to be condescending about work."

"Labor is ennobling," Liam retorted. "Servitude is not."

"You've never worked a day in your life, what would you know about it!" Tom shot back. "There's a lot of good people here who work very hard and care about what they do- it's not for you to judge."

"I'm sure that's true and I'm not judging them, I'm judging you," Liam informed him. "Because I never thought you'd go stupid, not over a girl, not over an English girl, and definitely not over an English girl who's turned you down."

Before he could think not to say anything, Tom said, "She hasn't-"

"Do you hear yourself? What's happened to you? Where is she then," Liam challenged, "if she hasn't turned you down? Bring her over if she hasn't turned you down! She owes you a year or two, God knows you've been in her country long enough." Tom, for once, had no response, no facts, nothing clever to say to contradict the truth Liam was throwing in his face. Liam jumped up, almost knocking his chair over in the process. "Forget it. You're a lost cause. You know, not a week goes by without someone asking after you- 'That brother of yours- bright lad, big future, God knows this country needs him.' It's tragic, you know. The British took you out without a bullet."

The door slammed. A few minutes later, Tom rose from his chair and followed his brother out, letter in hand, to alert Mr. Carson that he had been called up to war.

Two Weeks Later

Edith shot a death stare at Mary as the argument escalated. "Is it so impossible," she demanded to know, "for you to think that I might actually have a good idea?"

Sybil had tuned out her sisters' usual sniping and continued to butter her toast.

"Hmpfh," was all Mary replied. Sybil briefly looked up. She knew, from years of this, that nothing insulted Edith more than Mary's silence. Mary knew it too. As Edith's face turned bright red with fury, her eldest sister, eyebrow arched, lifted her teacup to conceal a victorious smile.

Robert lowered his newspaper and instructed with tired sternness, worn down by years of this, "Mary, be nicer to Edith." He turned to Edith. "Learning to drive was a very good idea indeed. You showed foresight the rest of us lacked. And I suppose we'll have to rely on you to drive us all around in the near future."

"Why's that?" Sybil entered the conversation for the first time since saying good morning. The three of them stared at her like she'd grown a second head. "Why will Edith have to drive us all around?"

Robert frowned. "Weren't you- were you really not at breakfast at all last week?"

Sybil willed herself not to be offended at yet another reminder that her father couldn't even be bothered to feign interest about her work. "No Papa. Remember, I had the overnight shift last week."

"I suppose so." His tone dripped with disapproval. "Well, Carson informed us last week that Branson has been called up." Sybil's mouth went dry and she couldn't breathe; it felt like someone had yanked her corset strings so tight that her lungs couldn't expand. "I don't suppose we'll be able to place an ad in the paper for another able-bodied male," Robert continued, unaware of his youngest daughter unraveling beside him. "It is rather a shame. His political views are mad, no doubt, but that aside, Branson's probably the most well-read chauffeur in Britain."

"Excuse me." Sybil tried to steady her voice as she gingerly pushed back her chair. "I should have left for the hospital already." Robert and Edith paid no attention to Sybil's hasty exit, but the ever-observant Mary looked at the clock, took note of the time and the steam still rising from Sybil's teacup and deduced that her sister had, in fact, quite clearly abandoned her breakfast much sooner than she planned.