AN: So, long time no update! This is a belated birthday present of sorts to cassiemortmain, whose fics you should definitely check out if you haven't already. Damn fine smut, and I mean that as the highest praise.

Early June 1921

"That's the lot," Kieran said, and dropped the last crate on the floor with a thump and an ominous tinkle of glass. "Though how you've managed to pile up so much is a mystery to me, Tommy, when six months ago you were down to the clothes on your back."

Trust Kieran to remind him of that, Tom thought. In once sentence his brother had managed to allude to both Tom's fumbling of matters in Ireland and the fact of him being beholden—still and always—to Sybil's parents. Not even Kieran's sour puss could spoil his good mood, though. For him and Sybil, and Emma too, today marked the beginning of a new era of independence.

He allowed himself an ironic smile at his own grandiosity. A four-room flat in a respectable but shabby neighborhood, with the majority of their income (at least at first) coming from working under his brother, was hardly complete freedom. But they were in Liverpool, not at Downton, and they had their own place again. And if it was mainly furnished with castoffs from the big house? Well, it wasn't as if those things had been doing anybody any good in the attics, and pride made a damned uncomfortable bed.

He didn't say any of this to his brother, just replied "Thanks for the help." They stood awkwardly in the front room until Sybil appeared in the open door to the landing, lugging her own smaller box. She was sweaty and out of breath from climbing two flights of stairs who knew how many times and her bobbed hair was frizzy in the humidity, but her eyes twinkled with good humor. It was a happy day for her, too. She carried her load into the kitchen at the rear of the flat and a minute later Tom heard her clanking around.

"You're unpacking already?" he called.

Her voice floated down the hallway. "I was just going to put on some tea. Do you know where the kettle is?"

Tom sauntered back to lean against the doorframe. "It's in a box somewhere."

"Thanks ever so much, darling." She turned away with a sardonic rise of voice and eyebrow, humming as she searched through one carton and another until she came up with the kettle. Such a small thing, making tea in one's own home, but it felt like so long since she'd done it. She spared a fleeting thought for the first kettle that had been hers, left in Dublin along with the rest of their worldly goods. It had not been very well-designed: if you weren't careful the steam came up and scalded your fingers when pouring. She still missed it.

Mrs. Patmore had made her a gift of the one they had now. Of course technically it belonged to Papa already, and the Bransons would not have been refused anything from Downton, but it touched Sybil that the cook had made a special effort to make sure she had everything she needed. Perhaps Mrs. Patmore had seen the emotion on Sybil's face, because she'd followed up the presentation of the kettle by inquiring whether m'lady would need a refresher course in filling it.

"Well, I'll be off then," Kieran said from the other room. "See you tomorrow, Tommy?"

Tom half turned back towards him. "Bright and early."

"You won't stay for tea?" Sybil asked for politeness' sake, though she knew he wouldn't and she couldn't find it in her to be sorry. Kieran and Tom had already snapped at each other several times today, what with tempers being frayed by the heat and the heavy lifting. She had no idea how they were going to get on working together, though Kieran needed a reliable man as much as Tom needed a job.

"No, I've got to get back. Garage won't run itself." Kieran scooped his hat from the stand and took his leave without further pleasantries.

"He's certainly his mother's son, isn't he?" Sybil couldn't help remarking. Tom and his brother couldn't have been more different, she thought. Tom was so open and gregarious and full of curiosity, while Kieran kept his eyes lowered and seemed to begrudge every word that came out of his mouth. And it wasn't just with her: if anything he treated her with more friendliness than he did Tom.

The corner of Tom's mouth quirked. "He warms up a little when you get to know him."

"Does he?" Sybil regarded her husband skeptically.

The kettle whistled and Tom came into the kitchen to dig about for teacups. "With some people. Kieran and I've never been what you'd call close."

Sybil found the tea and put it on the worktop where Tom was setting out the cups. "Well, anyway, it was nice of him to lend us the lorry and help us move."

"I'm sure he'll get it out of me one way or another," Tom replied, only half joking.

"You could have let Papa hire some men on this end, like he wanted to." The hall boys and a gardener had done the job of loading at Downton, but Tom had put his foot down when it came to having help in Liverpool.

Even after hours spent maneuvering furniture made for a great house through a stairwell and doorways that were on a decidedly less grand scale, he wouldn't admit he'd been obstinate. He pressed his lips together and said, "We've imposed on your parents too much already."

"It's not imposing," Sybil reminded him gently. "They're family."

Tom fought the urge to argue the point. It was bad enough that they'd lived at Downton for half a year with him contributing nothing beyond the odd bit of advice to Matthew, not that he was even qualified to offer that. Enough for Emma to be under the care of a nurse Lord and Lady Grantham had engaged and whose wages they paid. They'd nearly come to the end of that too, thank goodness. "Which train does Nurse Cook arrive on tomorrow?" He asked, for a change of subject.

"The four o'clock. I suppose I've a lot of work to do to get this place set to rights before then."

"I'm sorry I can't be here to help you," Tom said, and winced at the thought of their very-nearly-walking daughter let loose on the chaos that currently reigned in the flat. "We'll get as much unpacking done as we can today."

"You don't think I can handle it on my own?" His wife teased. "Or are you just worried I'll put everything in the wrong spot?" Tom had been quite particular about the placement of cooking implements in their old kitchen, to Sybil's surprise and amusement.

He finished fixing their tea and handed her a steaming cup. "I'm not worried... I just want to make sure it's done right, is all," he said with a smirk.

"Hmph." Sybil sipped and set her cup down. "It's really too hot for tea right now." She went to open the small window, but it was painted shut.

"Let me try." Tom hauled at it without success. "I'll have to take a razor to it, when we can find one."

Meanwhile Sybil had gone over to the sink and half filled her cupped hand, patting water onto her face and throat. With her other hand she held her hair up off her neck. A few damp tendrils escaped to chase the rivulets of water that meandered down into the collar of her dress.

She caught Tom looking. "What is it?"

He smiled slightly. "Nothing. I was just thinking how glorious you look, even after a day of hard labor."

Sybil chuckled. "I don't feel glorious. And you and Kieran did most of the laboring." Tom crossed the room and fluttered a kiss on the back of her neck, nuzzling her hair as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Mmm." She arched into him.

And that was all it took for Tom to forget about tea and unpacking and the job he had to start tomorrow. He murmured into her ear and she shivered at the brush of his lips on her skin. "Let's go try out our new bed, hmm?"

She laughed lightly. "You mean our new mattress?" The Branson brothers hadn't had quite enough steam to put the bed together; Kieran had made a vague promise to come back and help with it at the weekend.

His tongue slipped out to touch her earlobe and his hands, resting at her waist, crept higher. Sybil tilted her head and moved her hair aside so he could kiss the side of her neck. "Look at it this way," Tom said, "It won't creak."

"Fair enough." Her voice was a bit trembly; Tom had slid one of his hands into the top of her dress, evading her brassiere with the ease of long practice and teasing her nipple with light fingers. Her breath caught when he tweaked it a little. She half turned to kiss him, her mouth soft and warm and open. He was hard already. He cupped her breast and she moaned and moved herself against him, giving a low chuckle when he responded in kind.

Tom thought about their little kitchen in Dublin, its smoking range and leaky faucet, the table you always bumped your hip on because the space wasn't quite big enough for it. They'd made love on that table one night a few months after they were married, giggling, expecting it to collapse and send them crashing to the floor any minute. They would christen this kitchen as well in due time, he was sure. But now Sybil turned away, threw a glance over her shoulder that he would've followed into hell itself, and led him by the hand into their new bedroom.

The floor was half hidden by boxes and crates, the pieces of the bed frame leant up against one wall, but the mattress was clear of obstacles. Tom was surprised to see Sybil take off her shoes and plop right down onto it. She rose up onto her knees and pulled him closer, sliding her hands up his bare forearms and caressing the insides of his elbows, reaching up to slip his braces off his shoulders and draw his face down to hers.

She frowned when he straightened up and started scanning the room. "What are you looking for?"

"The sheets."

"Never mind that," Sybil said, but Tom shook his head and bent to read the label on the carton nearest him.

"I won't start the next chapter of our lives on a bare mattress. We're not savages." He grinned to take the sting out of the words before turning to pry open a lid at random. "Are you going to help me look?"

Sybil sank down onto the mattress and pointed to a box. "That one says 'bedding.'"

Soon enough their makeshift bed was arranged to Tom's satisfaction, and the two of them stood in each other's arms at one end of it. "Does this meet your criteria then, Mr. Branson?" Sybil asked. "Or do we have to put on the coverlet and bolster as well?" She untucked his shirt so she could slide her hands up his back underneath it.

"I think this will do. Nothing wrong with a little bit of savagery."

"Indeed," Sybil murmured, and dug her nails into his skin. He growled playfully and nipped at the join of her neck and shoulder. She squirmed and laughed and moved her hand around, slipping it down the front of his trousers, caressing. A moan broke from him.

"God, I love you," Tom breathed, his lips pressed against her neck. She stroked him until he had to make her stop or he wouldn't be able to take it anymore. "Syb—" He fumbled at her dress, drawing the loose jersey up her body, and she helped him to pull it over her head. Then she went to work on his shirt buttons.

She stopped short halfway through. "Oh, bugger."

He smiled: in her voice, the vulgarity sounded oddly refined. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure where—" She held up her first finger, signaling him to wait. Now it was her turn to survey the room.

Tom realized what she must be looking for. Even though contraceptive use had become mostly routine for them, he'd still forgotten it in the heat of the moment; he supposed it was a good job someone was being responsible. "You didn't pack it away in a box, did you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sybil answered, raising an eyebrow. "It's in the overnight suitcase." Her forehead wrinkled. "Only I don't know where that is."

Tom held back a sigh and shifted his weight. "We could just—"

"Oh!" Sybil cried, and darted out into the hall. "Here it is! I thought I remembered dropping it in here," she called from the front room. "Don't go anywhere."

No danger of that. He heard the suitcase snap open and a bit of rummaging, then the door to the bathroom—that was a step up from Dublin—closed behind her. A few minutes later she was back. "Still here?"

He let his eyes roam over her. "Yep. Still randy, too."

"Well, I should hope so," she replied with a demure smile.

Soon their remaining clothes lay on the floor at the foot of the mattress, and they lay entwined on top of it. This would not be one of their marathon lovemaking sessions: Sybil could tell Tom was ready, and she was too. In truth she never needed much to bring her to this point. She had a notion, based on vague drawing-room insinuations and anecdotes from her co-workers, that this was not typical... but she and Tom never had been typical, had they? And he could still set her on fire as much as he had at the start. Even just looking at him was enough sometimes: his strong tanned forearms below his rolled sleeves, the way his eyes seemed to become both brighter and darker when he concentrated hard on something—it thrilled her.

And now they were doing a deal more than looking. They rolled from one side of the bed to the other, hands and mouths roaming familiar but well-loved territory. Sybil made Tom lie on his back while she straddled him, running her fingertips lightly from his shoulders to his stomach. His gaze wandered over her body, as lovely to his eyes as it had been the first time he saw it, and back up to her face. The slanted evening light from the window made her look almost a girl again, ethereal. He drew her down to him for a kiss; she raised her hips and with a gentle hand she guided him inside her.

For a moment they lay still. Then Sybil began to move, slowly at first, and Tom rose to meet her. Their lips met again and opened, tongues caressing as they moaned into one another's mouths. Sybil pushed herself up on her hands so that they could look each other in the eyes, though soon she got to a place where she had to close hers. His hands grasping her hips made her thrust against him harder and faster and she bit down on her lower lip, the slight pain making the pleasure even more acute somehow. She opened her eyes again and found him studying her face. "I love watching you," he whispered, almost shyly. It didn't make her self-conscious to be looked at by him in such an intimate moment: it made her feel beautiful and confident and loved. He wasn't doing it out of pride in his own abilities, but rather out of a desire to see her at her least guarded, and she wanted him to.

She kissed him again and then Tom brought her breast to his mouth, lashing at her nipple with his tongue, making little whimpers and gasps spill from her. The tension coiled inside her until she could hardly bear it: she didn't know whether she wanted it to break or go on building forever. When her release came it was explosive. She let out a long, low cry, and then another and a third, as Tom's arms moved up around her to hold her close. "Oh, Sybil," he breathed, and let go himself.

She lay collapsed on top of him for several moments while his fingertips drew lazy ellipses on her back. His lips brushed against her shoulder, her cheekbone. "I love you so much, my darling."

She lifted her head to kiss his mouth. "I love you." Their hearts were slowing back down to normal—she could feel Tom's, thumping against her chest—and she shifted to one side, her leg thrown across him. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow under his arm.

"I think this bodes well for our new start, don't you?" He asked at length.

She kissed him again, smiling, and felt his lips curve along with hers. "So if this hadn't been so nice, then Liverpool wouldn't be as good for us?"

"Well, I don't know about that. But it's never not nice, between us." He considered. "Though I don't think nice is the word I'd have chosen."

"Oh? Which word would you choose, reporter extraordinaire?" Her fingers found his ribs and dug in.

He twitched, laughing. "Stop that! Hmm, what would do it justice... amazing. Transcendent. Sublime..." He'd brought her hand to his lips, kissing the tip of a finger with each word.

"Why, Mr. Branson, you're going to make me conceited."

"Oh, I was mainly talking about my own contribution—Arrgh! Sybil!" He swatted her escaped hand away from his side. "All right, fine, love, it's you."

"It's us," she corrected. She thought again of what she'd heard about sex before she'd married: to be sure, some of the girls rather enjoyed it, but on the whole they seemed to see it as something they did for their men's sakes rather than their own. All of that nonsense about it being a duty. It's so tedious, you can't even imagine, one of her fellow nurses had said once with a roll of her eyes. Sybil had felt sorry for that woman, and she felt sorrier for her now that she knew. "We're very lucky, you know," she told her husband. "Not everyone gets to be with the person they love most."

"We made our own luck," Tom countered. "It's not as if it was easy."

"No, I suppose it wasn't." It was simple enough now for Sybil to see their history as a straight and shining path, though there'd been any number of places they might have lost their way. "But I can't imagine being with anyone else but you."

Tom gave her a kiss on the forehead. "I can't either." Reluctantly, he shifted, a prelude to sitting up. "But if we don't get to work on some of those boxes, we'll really be in the soup when Emma gets here tomorrow."

The times when Sybil wished for servants were few and far between, but this was one of them. "Can't we just lie here a bit longer?"

"If we do that, I might be tempted to try and reach transcendence again." His hand drifting down her back told Sybil that he was not entirely opposed to the idea.

Nor was she. She stretched up and took his lower lip between hers, ran her tongue along it. He moaned, deep in his throat, and his hand slipped lower. She smiled. "And that's a problem?"

He shifted again, but instead of getting up he moved on top of her. "No, my love," he murmured, and dipped his head to kiss her throat. "It's not a problem in the slightest."