Note: A big thanks to those of you who have been reviewing - it means a great deal to know that some of you are really enjoying this. And a huge thank you to Tumblr users singing-fireflies and d-franco, who made gorgeous images inspired by this story (each graphic can be seen on my fic Tumblr, thetwistedroots). Very exciting stuff!
He's heading back to his office after a quick lunch when he hears someone calling his name from behind him. "Tom! Tom Branson!"
It's probably yet another reporter trying to get him to confirm Sybil's pregnancy. It's been two weeks since the story broke in the papers, and it seems like the press is starting to get frustrated with their silence. "I've got no comment," he shouts over his shoulder, picking up his pace a bit.
"No, no, wait, I'm not a reporter." He turns and is surprised to see a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase, hurrying to catch up with him. "I wouldn't expect you to recognize me just by the voice. I'm Matthew Crawley."
He shakes Matthew's proffered hand and looks a bit sheepish. "Sorry, it's just that—"
"I know, you don't need to explain it to me," he says wryly. "Do you have a moment?"
"Uh, I suppose that'd be okay," he replies, checking his watch. "I've got a meeting at two."
"Won't take but a minute or two."
They stop in to a pub near Westminster; he wants a pint, but he knows he needs to be clear for the all-hands later. "I wanted to show you this," Matthew says, pulling out his phone. "I managed to track down the photographers who were there the day that Sybil was hurt."
He hands over the mobile, which is playing a muted and jumpy video. Tom can make out the silhouettes of several taller men, and then the crowd disperses enough that Sybil's dark hair is clearly visible as she struggles through the crowd. He feels his heart start to pick up as the cameras begin to flash, and when he sees her stumble and fall, he has to remind himself to keep breathing.
"That's…" He hands back the phone, unable to find the words to complete the thought. He sucks in a deep breath; she'd told him the truth about what had happened, but seeing it makes it all seem so much worse.
Matthew cringes. "Maybe I should have warned you. It isn't pretty."
"No, it's not," he says. He regards Matthew coolly. Sybil's cousin – or brother-in-law, sort of, he's not really sure exactly where Matthew falls in the family hierarchy these days – has been cordial and helpful on the telephone as they've hammered out the details of the PCC complaint case, but this interaction so far is making him a bit wary. The man is engaged to Lady Mary, after all. His motives can't be all pure. "Why do you want to help us?"
"What?" Matthew asks, clearly not anticipating the question.
Tom sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm just trying to make sense of some things. Your fiancée all but crucified me in front of Sybil and the rest of the family. So why do you want to help us?"
Matthew frowns. "Mary's a bit – well, she's a complicated woman."
He snorts. "No disagreement here."
"And I know you work for the opposition, so she probably seems doubly difficult. I get that." He shakes his head. "But I know how much she loves Sybil, and I know she thought she was doing the right thing for her sister at the moment."
"By humiliating both of us?" he asks. "Matthew, I don't know you very well, but I can't help but think—"
"I consider Sybil to be my sister," Matthew says, setting his mobile down on the table. "And I understand Mary's instinct to protect her, because I feel that too." He sighs. "I suppose the difference is that I've been an outsider in this family, even though I am the heir, so I know something of what it's like to be in your shoes."
"If you're the heir to an earldom, you're a far sight from my shoes," Tom sighs. "Listen. I don't mean to discount the work you've done on Sybil's behalf with this complaint. It's just that she's dealing with enough stress right now, and I want to make sure that this isn't going to turn into some scheme to keep the two of us apart or to take away her ability to make decisions of her own. She doesn't deserve that."
"I wouldn't do that to her," Matthew says, and he sounds sincere.
"Good. Good." Tom sits forward. "So we've got video. What do we do now?"
"We submit this with the other evidence for the complaint. We've got plenty without it to win, I think, but seeing what it's like to actually experience this is a powerful thing." He nods. "I'm not the person actually on the case, but the solicitor from Harbottle & Lewis is a friend from Oxford, so I'm helping out where I'm able."
"I appreciate that," Tom replies. "We both do. I don't pretend to speak for her, but I know she's grateful."
Matthew clears his throat. "I just wish there were some way that we could convince her to speak to her parents again. Edith told me she'd spoken with her, but I—"
So that's what he wants. Tom holds up a hand. "That has to be her decision. I'm not going to try to influence it." He shakes his head and stands. "I think we're done here."
"It's an observation, Tom, it wasn't a request. There isn't payment required for this."
He nods. "Thank you for your help. We'll be in touch." He can hear Matthew protesting as he heads out of the pub, but he keeps his head down and moves forward.
It scares him a little – the way that the Crawleys seem more than happy to use him as a means of getting to Sybil, as if he can be swayed and bought and sold as easily as a possession. It isn't fair, he thinks, that they apparently believe that he can be convinced to influence Sybil's decision-making for them. She's a person. She deserves to be able to see who she wants to see and ignore anyone else. He wouldn't try to make her do something she absolutely didn't want to do. Or at least, he very strongly hopes that he wouldn't.
He flips up the collar of his coat as he strides quickly back to his office – he'll worry about the Crawleys later. For now, it's time to get back to work, and if work involves knocking them off their privileged political pedestal, all the better for it.
It's been a quiet weekend of going to the cinema and doing the weekly shop and sleeping late, and Tom has thoroughly enjoyed every second of it. Not a camera in sight, not an argument or a conflict in view. He stretches out on the couch and wiggles his fingers and toes. Paradise.
Sybil, though, is moving about the flat irritably. He knows she's not angry with him, and he can't figure out what in the world is wrong with her. He hates that he immediately chalks it up to the baby, but that's the reality of the situation – her waistline is starting to expand, and she's getting more and more uncomfortable. He is learning things he never even dreamed of … who knew that pregnant women were so itchy all the time? But she's barely sick anymore, and that alone has made everything quite a bit easier.
He's staring rather mindlessly at the telly when she appears at the arm of the sofa. "I'm going to bed," she says, hands bunched up in the sleeves of her jumper.
"Are you okay?" he asks, squinting at her a bit. "You seem uneasy."
"I'm fine," she says shortly, heading into the bedroom before he can reply and shutting the door.
His brow furrows as he turns back to the television, his mind scanning over the events of the past few days. He told her that he saw Matthew and that the PCC complaint evidence was building, but not that he'd talked about trying to get Sybil to contact the family – that was good. They'd gone to see Contagion, which had made him never want to take public transport again, but hadn't seemed to upset her greatly (she does work for UNICEF, after all, she knows about epidemics and death) – that was okay. He'd cooked her dinner on Friday – that had been excellent.
He hoists himself off the couch with a yawn and heads to the loo, washing his face and readying himself for bed. The bedside lamp is still switched on when he quietly enters the room, but Sybil is curled up on her side of the bed – her side, his brain says with glee – with her eyes shut firmly. He frowns, but pulls his T-shirt over his head and slides in beside her. He thinks about rolling nearer to her and stroking her back to try to soothe her, but he decides against it – if she's feeling poorly that's probably the last thing she would want. Instead, he just rolls to his stomach and reaches over to switch off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
He's not sure what time it is when he hears the bedroom door open and shut; he's half sleeping and half waking, and it takes him a good few moments to register that Sybil's not beside him in bed anymore. She's probably being sick, he thinks with a sigh, just when he thought that part of things might be over. He rolls on to his back and rubs at his eyes and face, trying to decide whether or not he should get up and go to her.
Before he can make any decisions, though, she appears in shadow in the doorway, palms pressed against the doorframe. "Tom?"
"Is everything all right?" He throws back the duvet and sits up, swinging his legs over so that the soles of his feet brush the floor. When he switches on the lamp, the look on her face is so uncertain and so worried that he starts to panic a little. "Sybil, what's—"
"Will you have sex with me?" she blurts.
Not what he expected. His mouth drops open. "What?"
"Oh, I just – forget it, forget it," she says, hugging her arms about her torso and starting to back into the living room.
"Wait a second," he says, holding up a hand. His heart is beating faster and faster – she wants him? Just like that, out of nowhere? "Come here?" She does so, slowly and reluctantly. "You want to have sex?"
She's clearly mortified, and her cheeks are blooming bright red. "I'm just – I'm really uncomfortable, and these stupid hormones have me all … worked up, and I can't manage to … and I can't sleep, and I'm just…" She covers her face with her hands. "God. You can't just ask someone if they'll have sex with you, can you? I'm so ridiculous."
"It's not like I'm just some bloke off the street."
"No, not like last time, anyway." She winces. "God, I didn't mean that."
He raises his eyebrows – he's starting to realise that she's never going forgive herself for their night together. "I know. But it's different now, isn't it?" She shrugs noncommittally. "But you want to?"
"Yes." She wrinkles up her nose. "I think I'm going to go crazy otherwise."
"Okay." He rubs his palms against his knees. "Well, then. Let's have sex."
She groans and sits down next to him. "This feels like a business transaction."
"Are you planning on paying me?"
"Tom." She shifts around beside him, stares down at her fingers. "What if we shouldn't? I mean, what if it complicates things? You said yourself you weren't sure if we should…" She gestures vaguely.
He shrugs. "I don't know. Things are pretty complicated as is. We sleep in the same bed anyway. Everybody else probably thinks we're already having sex. And, you know, we have done." Oh, lord – now he's probably sounding overly eager. "I just mean that if you think it will make you feel better, I don't think it will ruin anything."
She stares straight ahead. "I wasn't four months pregnant last time."
"No." He looks at her. "Are you worried I don't – that I wouldn't like you like this?"
"I don't know. Maybe." She sighs. "How's that, hm? I want to have sex because I'm pregnant and my body is all … strange, but I don't want to have sex because I look like I'm pregnant."
"It's not a bad thing." It really isn't. Beneath all of the stress of the situation, his job and her family, their uncertain relationship and the press, there's something about making Sybil pregnant that really turns him on. He can't explain it, but he feels like a man, an actual, honest-to-God man. He did that – he was able to do that. He wishes she'd been able to decide that she wanted it – that they'd been able to decide together – that they'd been in love and together and ready. But even though it wasn't like that – he'd fathered a child, and that thought made his blood buzz.
"It's not sexy. I don't really even look pregnant pregnant, I just look all bloated and swollen."
He shakes his head. "You don't." He cups her elbow with his palm and urges her up. "Come over here."
"Tom," she says, her voice reluctant.
"Ah, come now. You can't ask a man for sex and then take it back, that's really unfair." She snorts and lets him pull her astride his lap, rising up on her knees. He draws her closer and kisses her with languid lips, first soft and then harder, deeper, tongues tangling. She makes a quiet noise in the back of her throat.
His body is responding already. But he doesn't just want to be a convenient cock – he wants to know that there are more than hormones at work in this. "Do you want me?" he murmurs as they part. "Not just somebody, but me?"
She lets her eyes drop shut and wriggles even closer, so that she's pressed against his bare chest. "Yes." She initiates the kiss this time. He's panting when she pulls back. "Do you want me?"
"Yes," he whispers. "I've wanted you since that first night, I have, so much."
She watches his face as he reaches down and pulls the T-shirt she's been sleeping in over her head, revealing her body to him completely for the first time in weeks. "Don't—" she starts, but he shakes his head, tracing his fingers over her breasts, bigger than before, nipples darker than he remembers. She breathes in sharply, pressing her cheek to his and grasping his shoulders as his touch becomes more insistent. And then there's the little swell of her tummy, just enough that it makes it all seem real, that his child really does sleep beneath her skin.
She reaches over and fumbles with the lamp, and he takes the opportunity to mouth the soft skin of her neck, smiling a little as her fingers falter before finally switching off the light.
"How do you want to…?" he asks, leaning back on his elbows so that she's perched above him, hands on his chest. "I mean, I don't know if there's anything we should…"
"I don't think so," she says breathlessly. She grinds against him, and his eyes slip shut as he groans. "Oh, Tom…" She leans forward and kisses him hard, almost desperately, and he reaches up to tangle one hand in her hair. "Please," she groans against his mouth.
It's quick and fumbling and exhilarating, all at the same time. He wants to take his time, to show her that he really does want her, that he cares for her, but she's impatient and almost frantic. And then he's over her and sliding inside of her, and she's moaning, digging her heels into the mattress and arching her back to try to bring him closer and closer. As she rises, her belly is suddenly firm against his, and it makes him nervous. He starts to pull back a bit, even as she pleads with him to move faster, harder – "you won't hurt me, you won't hurt the baby" – her fingers in his hair, gripping his shoulders, sliding down his back.
Before long, he feels himself starting to unravel and rests his forehead against hers, letting his nose rub softly on her cheek, letting the sounds she makes wash over him. She keens and clutches him tightly as she comes, and he can't hold back any longer, squeezing his eyes shut and crying out, his open mouth against her cheek.
He swallows hard as he fights to keep himself from collapsing on her – he believes her when she says that sex won't hurt the baby, but he can't imagine that crushing her under the weight of his fatigued body would be a good idea. She's fairly gulping for air beneath him, the back of one hand resting on her forehead. Her eyes widen as he pulls away, rolling onto his back next to her.
The sheer physicality of the encounter exhausts him, but he's worried – he's worried that now sex with her will become yet another itch to scratch and nothing more. It can't be that – he can't let it be just that. His heart swells, and he props himself up on an elbow, looming over her, pressing his mouth to her pulse points, the curve of her breast, the rise of her throat. Their eyes meet as his lips ghost over her belly, one hand coming up to cup the underside of the small swell.
He can't decipher the look that crosses her face. She reaches down and strokes his hair softly. "Thank you," she whispers.
He presses his cheek to her abdomen. "I want you to be happy," he says, voice raspy. "I want you to feel good. I want…" He shuts his eyes tightly and burrows against her skin.
She makes a soft noise, fingers in his hair, and exhales.
