He hurries inside the pub, urged on by the chill in the late November air, rubbing his hands together briskly. It's dark and close inside, just the way he likes a pub to be – none of the glossy bars and lounges that dot the city for him. He wants a pub to smell a little stale and look a little shabby, like a place where you can go and put your feet up on the furniture. Not that he would do, but anyway.

Dave waves him over from a small table in the back corner, away from most of the other patrons. He nods and weaves through the small crowd waiting to be served, past the dartboard and the toilets, offering Dave a toothless grin.

"Twice in a month," Dave says, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think I saw you this much when we were up at Leeds."

Tom rolls his eyes and sits down heavily, accepting the pint that Dave slides across the table toward him. "Nice to see you, too, David."

"You look a right wreck."

He coughs a little and reaches for the glass, sipping slowly. "Thanks a lot."

"Been a long day?"

"Been a long week. Been a long couple of months, if I'm honest." He leans back in his chair and surveys his fellow patrons. No one looks like a journalist. He tries to imagine worrying about such a thing six months ago and fails.

"Tom?"

His eyes snap back to Dave, who is looking at him with something very much like genuine concern. "Hm?"

"Nothing. You just seemed like you went away there for a minute."

He shakes his head. "Just thinking." He shifts a little in his chair. "Actually – and I know you're going to take the piss over this, so just save it for later – actually I wondered if I could ask you for some advice."

Dave's eyes widen – the man has always liked a good gossip more than he really should. "Tell Uncle Davy everything, Thomas."

"I knew you wouldn't be able to be serious about anything—"

The gleeful expression melts into something more troubled. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." He takes a long drink, letting the smooth liquid slide down his throat.

"I mean it. The way you look right now, I'd believe it if you said you'd killed someone."

"I haven't killed anyone." He shakes his head. "I just need – things are complicated right now."

Dave leans back and regards him. "I read the newspapers. So it's really true about the baby, then?" He pauses a moment before nodding quickly, curtly. Dave lets out a low whistle. "Things certainly are complicated, then, aren't they?"

"The thing is," he begins, frowning, "the thing is that I don't exactly know where I stand with her right now."

"I find that hard to believe after seeing the two of you together at my flat," Dave says. "You looked disgustingly loved up."

His jaw tightens – they had seemed that way. They do seem that way – at times he wonders if they are that way. He's just getting so frustrated with the not-knowing of it all. "I need to know that if I tell you some things, you won't tell anyone. And I mean anyone, Dave."

"On my honour," he says. "You're making me more than a little nervous."

He sighs and reaches for his glass, draining the remainder. "Sybil and I aren't exactly in a relationship."

Dave raises an eyebrow, but he merely offers, "Okay."

"We had a one-night stand after a party in August." He picks at the corner of a beer mat. "I didn't know she was the PM's daughter, and I didn't see her again until the night she told me she was pregnant."

"But you're sure it's yours?"

He nods slowly. "Yes."

"And she's living in your flat now, and she's having your baby, but you're not in a relationship." He chews his lip thoughtfully.

"She doesn't want her parents to know that she fell pregnant the way she did," Tom explains.

"So you're pretending to be her boyfriend so that the prime minister won't think his daughter's a bit ... promiscuous?"

He glares a bit at that characterization of Sybil. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore," he replies, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"You looked really happy together on Bonfire Night."

"I think we are happy most of the time."

Dave narrows his eyes. "Excuse my French, Tommy, but are you fucking her?"

"Jesus, Dave," he groans. "This was a bad idea."

"It's a serious question, though. I mean, if you're not sure what's going on, but you're shagging the girl anyway, and she's pregnant..." Dave shrugs.

He hesitates. "Only once since August. Sunday night."

"Well, that's good, isn't it? She wouldn't want to shag you if she didn't like you at all. Well, probably not, anyway." Dave steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. "But it sounds to me like you want to be more than just pals who messed about and are now anticipating a blessed event."

"You're a ridiculous human being, Dave."

"Tell me I'm wrong about that, hm?"

He gives him a look. "You're not wrong, okay? I think I'm in love with her."

"And yet you sound like someone's drowned your dog." Dave shakes his head, tsk-ing disapprovingly. "So she's having your baby and you're in love with her. How is that a bad thing?"

"Because I have no idea what she thinks about any of it," he says, coughing a bit. "I don't think she hates me or anything, and sometimes I think she really likes me, but sometimes it seems like she's just – I don't know, like she's just sort of existing in my flat because she doesn't know what else to do."

"She's a lot younger, isn't she?"

He shrugs. "She's twenty-three. Not that much younger."

"So just out of uni last year?"

"I think that's right." He reaches into his pocket for a tissue, blows his nose quickly.

"Well, for Christ's sake, can you imagine what it would have been like if you'd had a kid the first year you worked for MacLeod?" He and Dave had lived together in a flat in Brixton after graduation, and they'd spent as much time that first year trying to maintain their university drinking schedule as they did launching their careers. Plenty of late nights, plenty of booze, plenty of women. And now Sybil's at the same point, and maybe she was trying to recreate something like that too, on that night in August. But instead she found herself pregnant and yoked to a man she barely knows.

He exhales heavily. "I think – the last relationship she was in didn't end well, apparently. Sounds like the guy was a real dickhead. Took advantage of her, humiliated her." He shakes his head. "It makes sense that maybe she doesn't trust me."

"Look, Tom," Dave says, setting his glass down firmly on the table. "I know you're not a dickhead. You know you're not a dickhead. She'll figure it out eventually." He shrugs. "Just don't smother her, you know? Let her figure it out on her own."

"I'm trying to do that, it's just – she's pregnant with my baby. It's getting harder and harder not to tell her how I feel."

"Well, fine, tell her, if that's what you want." Dave downs the rest of his beer. "But don't say I didn't warn you, not if she runs away in terror and fright from the entire situation."

He lets his head fall into his hands. "I don't want that."

"Then be patient." Dave snickers a little. "Can you believe those words just came out of my mouth?"

Tom smiles despite himself. "No, honestly, not really."


The sneezing and coughing he's been doing for a few days turn into a full-on illness by the weekend. In the wee hours of Saturday morning, he's coughing so hard that he's afraid he'll disrupt Sybil's sleep, so he drags his pillow and a blanket out to the living room and crashes on the couch.

When he wakes hours later, it's to the cool touch of Sybil's fingers on his forehead. His vision is a little blurry. She frowns. "You're burning up," she observes, stroking his cheek.

"Feel like shite," he confirms gruffly, pulling the blankets up under his chin. It's freezing in the room, or at least it feels that way. "You might catch it, you should go somewhere."

"And leave you all by yourself?" She quirks an eyebrow. "Not likely."

"You'll catch it."

"I got my flu jab a month ago. I'll be fine," she assures him, smoothing down his damp hair. "Do you know if you have a thermometer?"

"Don't think so." He swallows a bit experimentally and nearly groans at the pain in his throat. "Ugh."

"Okay," she says, standing. He realises she has her coat on and her handbag on her shoulder. "I'm going to pop down to the shop and pick up a few things. Do you want anything?"

He just grunts in response, pulling the blankets up and over his head, and he thinks he hears her chuckling as she heads out the door.

He's fallen asleep again by the time she returns, and she rouses him with a gentle touch. "Here, can you sit up a bit?" She helps prop him up against the pillows and hands him a couple of capsules and a glass of water. "I rang the NHS direct line thingy, but they said not to have you go in anywhere unless your fever is really high." She unwraps the thermometer she's bought and presses it to his ear. "You're at 38.5."

"That's not really high."

"No, not good, but not that bad," she replies, easing him back down. "Are you hungry?" He shakes his head. "I bought some biscuits and things. And you should really keep drinking water."

"Just want to sleep," he says, rolling on to his stomach and burying his face in his pillow. The last thing he registers before he falls asleep again is her hand rubbing soft, rhythmic circles on his back.


It's dark out when his eyes blink open again. The room is dimly lit – only one of the lamps is switched on – and a soft blue glow comes from the telly. Sybil's sitting in the armchair closest to the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, eating popcorn and watching X Factor.

"I cannot believe you can sit through this," he mutters, wrinkling his nose as he shifts. He feels truly disgusting.

She smiles. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Like crap," he says. "And this is not helping. Is that Hanson she's singing?"

Sybil snorts. "I think it is. Anyway, I warmed up some of the soup Edith brought over yesterday for dinner – do you want some?" Sybil had moped about all evening on Thursday – he hadn't realised why until Friday afternoon, when Edith had stopped by with a carrier bag full of leftovers from the family's Thanksgiving celebration. It was apparently one American tradition that Sybil's mother was not prepared to abandon.

He shakes his head. "I think I just want a bath and a big glass of water."

"I think we can make that happen."

Sitting up takes all of his energy. He scrubs at his face, covered in a day's growth of beard. He glances back at the television, now playing a series of Christmas adverts, full of pies and pine trees and wrapped gifts. He starts to wonder what he's going to get her for Christmas – what can he get that will demonstrate his feelings but not frighten her away?

"Hey, Tom?"

He looks over, eyes bleary – her face holds something like expectation. "Hm?"

She hesitates. "I think I felt the baby move."

His eyes widen. "When?"

"A little while ago."

"Really?"

She smiles quietly. "I think so."

"Like, kicking, that kind of feeling?"

"No, more like – I don't know. A weird sort of fluttery kind of feeling."

"That's..." He swallows. "That's really good, right?"

"Yeah, I think it is," she laughs, setting aside the bowl of popcorn and standing. "Come on, sicky, let's get you in the bath."

"What lovely bedside manner you have, Nurse Crawley," he groans as she grasps his hands and helps him off the couch.

"Oh, shut up," she admonishes playfully.

She draws him a hot bath and perches on the closed toilet lid as he soaks, lamenting the fact that she's not allowed a hot bath anymore and chattering away. He leans his head back against the edge of the tub, letting the hot water soothe his aching muscles. Maybe she can't say that she loves him yet, or even that she really likes him – but surely she wouldn't be here right now if she didn't care for him even a little bit, he reasons. He catches her eye, and she smiles at him, and that's as good a medicine as anything else, really.