AN: Thank you for reading and reviewing! Hope this chapter gives you a little something to be happy about. :)

July 1994

Sybil can't blame him. Not for applying for the job - even though he never mentioned he was looking - and not for accepting it. It is his dream, after all.

She met him to go record shopping a week after her party and was still trying to work out what to say when he burst out with his news: As it happens, I might have something to celebrate... Apparently his interview went as well as it could have. Instant rapport with the editors and writers he met: a veritable mind-meld. They love everything he's written. They as much as told him he had the job, said to expect them to ring sometime this week. He couldn't stop smiling.

And she's happy, so happy for him when he rings her a few days later to say they've made the offer. "We have to go out and celebrate," she says brightly, "and I'll buy the drinks this time."

"Not bloody likely," he retorts, but when they meet at the pub he lets her pay. He's full of his plans for the next few weeks: he's got to give notice at the cycle shop, find a place to live in London. It's shocking how bleeding expensive rents are, he says, but he has friends he can stay with and he's sure to find someone who needs a flatmate.

Of course she won't say anything, not now. If he doesn't return her feelings it'll only cause awkwardness in these weeks before he leaves, and if he does return them... well, the last thing she wants is to hold him back. Sybil wonders if he's not a little relieved at the chance to make a clean break. Though we tried that before, and neither of us liked it much. But in a new place, with a new job and new people - new girls - it might be different.

They're supposed to be celebrating, but neither of them drink much and the lulls in their conversation become longer and more frequent as the evening goes on. Her mind is full of the half-formed declaration she won't let escape. God knows what he's thinking about: how the hell he's going to afford a flat in London on an entry level writer's salary, probably. Finally she smiles apologetically. "I'm not much fun tonight, am I? I suppose I'm tired."

"Me as well, a bit," he admits. "I'll see you home." She tries to push him off, but he insists.

They walk in silence for a few blocks. The street is dim and the buildings put their faces in shadow and this makes her brave enough to admit: "I'll miss you terribly, you know."

"London's not that far. You're always welcome. Once I get a place of my own, of course."

"Yes, I can hardly sleep on the sofa if you're sleeping on it." She realizes what she's said and her cheeks go pink; she's glad he can't see it. She speaks again quickly to cover her embarrassment. "You know, I have been meaning to visit Edith more often."

"You think she'd let me crash on her sofa for a fortnight? Can I add her to the rotation?"

That makes her laugh, and she tucks her arm into his as they walk on. She glances up at his profile. They might be a real couple, heading back to their shared flat after a night out. Going home to watch a video, or fight about whose turn it is to clean the bathroom, or to love. Her heart aches.

He turns his head and meets her gaze, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the darkness. They walk into the light from a streetlamp then, and something about the look she catches on his face - an echo of what she's feeling? - gives her the nerve, when they reach her building, to say, "Come up."

She still doesn't know exactly what she's going to say. As it turns out, she doesn't get the chance to say anything right away. She doesn't even get the chance to turn on the light: as soon as her door closes behind them he kisses her.

-o-

He was thinking about it the whole way back: what he'd say once they were standing in the street outside her building. He never anticipated she'd ask him up. He certainly didn't plan to kiss her, at least not before speaking. But in the moment it seems like the thing to do.

Not that he thinks it'll work. Even as he moves toward her he's sure she'll turn her head or push him away. It's going to be so awkward: she'll look down and say something cruel and polite like I'm terribly flattered, but... or else she'll be indignant and demand he explain why he had to ruin a perfectly good fake friendship. Instead of doing either of those things she makes a small, surprised noise in her throat. Then her arms snake around his waist, she leans into him, her mouth opens. Tom's heart pounds. Their desire is a wave that bears them to the sofa in the lounge. He weighs her down with his body, toes off his shoes to let them drop on the floor. His eyes are closed and her clean flowery scent fills his awareness. His hands tremble as they reach up to stroke her cheeks and slide through her hair. This is happening, it's happening.

"Sybil," he breathes into her ear.

"Tom," she pants. Her mouth is hungry, consuming his, her hands clutch at him. But then she squirms and pushes against him. Pushes him off her. She says his name again, but soberly: "Tom. Wait, wait." Dazed, he sits up. She stands and goes over to the window.

She's a dark gray shape outlined in the light from the street. Her shoulders are bowed. "Sybil?"

"I can't do this." She sounds stunned. Looking at her bent head is anguish. "I can't just... sleep with you. Not with you. I can't go backwards."

He sits there completely gobsmacked. Why would she... how could she think... She still doesn't know how he feels. Because you haven't told her, you git, he thinks.

He hardly knows how he crosses the room. But he's there, taking her hands, trying to draw her eyes into his. "Then let's go forward," he hears himself say. "Sybil. I love you. I want - " he can't get his thoughts in line before they spill from his mouth. He starts babbling about how she was all he thought about when he was driving across England on tour. He can't tear his eyes from her face. Her lips are slightly parted. A backing track in his mind plays a dumb litany: please please please please...

Her eyes find his and snap into focus. "I love you," she says. It's hesitant, incredulous.

His words dry up. His breath stops, his fucking heart stops.

Eventually his body catches up with what he's just heard and he can speak again. "You, ah... you do?" he asks carefully.

"I do. I love you," she says again, with more conviction. A small smile arrives on her face.

He's grinning like an idiot and his emotion is too big to keep in and it bubbles out in loud, joyous laughter. He has to wrap her in his arms, crush her against him, breathe her in. He pulls back to kiss her cheeks and notices the tears on them: she's crying, she can't be crying. He makes a sympathetic animal noise and wipes her cheeks with his thumbs, kisses them dry. "You weren't planning on telling me this?" he murmurs against her skin.

"I was. I was going to give you a speech and everything." She pulls away. "But then... you're leaving."

"I won't," he promises. "I'll ring tomorrow and tell them I won't take the job."

Her chin comes up and her eyebrows draw together. "Tom Branson, you will not. That's why I didn't say anything, because..." her hands flutter in the air. "You're going. We'll figure something out. It's not that far, like you said."

"Across the room is too far right now," he says, and she reaches up and kisses his mouth and he's known her body - knows it - but he resolves that tonight he will thoroughly reacquaint himself.

They keep the lights off; the glow from the window paints their skin silver after they've thrown off their clothes. He means to be slow and romantic but it gets away from him and they quickly become frantic, gorging on each other, mouths and hands groping everywhere they can reach. They join together and they're almost too enthusiastic to get into rhythm, him trying to touch as much of her skin to his as possible, needing his hands and mouth and thighs and chest on her, not ever wanting to leave her body. He feels the sweet pressure building; his movements and voice become uncontrolled, and the best part as the pressure releases is knowing this will all happen again.

Afterward they put bits of clothing back on and spend the night in the lounge, talking and listening to music. Sybil picks up her guitar and plays him some of the progressions she's been working on, singing what lyrics she's written, humming the melodies that don't have words yet. Tom can't keep his eyes or his hands off her and he has to request: "Say it again."

Sybil smiles. "I love you."

"And I love you." And then he kisses her. And again, and again, until he's lying on his back on the rug, Sybil riding him, his hands full of her lovely breasts. They take a shower, skins sliding together under the water until it turns cold. They dash to her bed and huddle naked and shivering under the covers. Eventually they notice that the windows are turning from black to blue, and they can hear city birds chirping outside. Sybil rubs her eyes and Tom realizes that his own are raw with fatigue. They sleep, limbs draped across each other's bodies, until the sun has long passed its apex.

-ooo-

Sybil awakens by degrees. She has to remember exactly how this feels: the shining realization that they're together, that she loves him and he loves her. She wants to wake up every day realizing it.

Tom's arm is flung across her abdomen. She studies his sleeping face for the first time in over a year. With those startling eyes shuttered and his features slackened in sleep, he looks younger, less intense. He's let his hair grow longer and it falls across his forehead. He's tanned from cycling every day: blurred lines, the ghost of a t-shirt, separate freckled throat and arms from smooth-skinned white shoulders. Sybil kisses the spot just above his collarbone where the soft, defenseless skin starts. Momentarily she's downcast at how foolish she's been, having missed so many opportunities to kiss him there, but then she has to laugh at herself for being so schmaltzy.

His hand twitches and stretches across her, his eyes open and he smiles. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just happy."

"Me too." He reaches up to draw her closer, strokes her hair, kisses the top of her head. Then he wriggles away. "I'll be right back."

When he's done in the bathroom Sybil takes her turn. She goes and fills a glass of water in the kitchen, drinks it standing at the counter, refills it and takes it back to him. He drinks and sets it on the nightstand, looks her up and down slowly. There's a reason she didn't put a robe on. He cocks his head and half-smiles, reaching out towards her. "Come here," he says.

Just like that. She joins him on the bed and he pulls her on top of him, buries his face in her breasts, letting out a satisfied sigh when his mouth finds her nipple. His hands slide over her arse, he reaches between her legs. She wants him already and she whispers as much into his ear, moving down, slipping him half into her.

He groans, but moves away and rolls her over and kisses her. "You're not getting away that easy," he tells her, with that devilish grin that makes her wet. He kisses her breasts, her stomach, pushes her legs apart. Soon she's arching and crying out under his tongue, but he doesn't stop. He sucks on her, laps her up until she can't stand it; she jolts at each brush of his mouth on her. He backs off just enough, for just long enough. Then he's making her come again, he's moaning against her, his fingers caressing her from inside. "God, I could do this all day," he mumbles. She whimpers at the vibration his voice makes, the flicking of his agile tongue. "I love you, Sybil, I love you so much."

"I love you too," she says once she can speak again. And then: "I want you." She pulls at his shoulders. He comes up to her, sinks into her, and his eyes fall shut. They kiss and move slowly, making it last. Sybil draws her foot gently up his leg. His moans vibrate against her throat. If it's possible to feel both meditative and aroused at the same time, she does. "I can't believe we've been missing out on this all this time," she murmurs, voicing a version of her earlier thought.

Tom lifts his head and opens his eyes. "I've thought about it every day."

She shifts, moves her hips a little more intensely, smiling when he lets out his breath sharply. "Oh, really. How much of every day?"

He laughs and nips at her neck. "Enough. And you haven't?"

"I didn't say that." But that doesn't jibe with her resolution to be more open. "I've thought about it. A lot," she admits. She holds his gaze, even though it's an effort while she's talking like this. She feels more naked than she did when he was merely looking at her body. "I've dreamt about it," she murmurs.

His eyes blaze up: he's interested now. "Tell me," he asks. So she does. Shyly at first, but he coaxes her with his eyes and she can see how excited it makes him, and that kindles her as well. There's no embarrassment. After a short time there's no more talking either: just him with his arms tightly around her, his lips to her ear, saying her name as he comes.

- The End? -

Appendix H: Songs of Love

Wedding Present: Don't Talk, Just Kiss

Portishead: Glory Box

Billie Holiday: Let's Call a Heart a Heart

The Cure: Just Like Heaven

Bad Brains: Darling I Need You

Magazine: I Love You You Big Dummy

Ramones: I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend

Jesus and Mary Chain: I Can't Get Enough

The The: Love is Stronger than Death

The Smiths: There is a Light that Never Goes Out

Liz Phair: Supernova

T. Rex: Hot Love