Strip
By: piperholmes
A/N: I am so grateful and touched by the reviews for this story. I admit I feel a little exposed with this story and I feel like I am writing about something very intimate between a couple. Your comments and support has been invaluable, truly. Thank you so much! This chapter breaks away from the format of the previous three, but we are really beginning to move into what I am trying to tell with this particular story. I hope you all enjoy it enough to stick with me. Also, this is obviously AU so there are some S3 elements and some I completely rewrite or expand on. I was disappointed by what we weren't allowed to see on the show, which is where this story originally stemmed from. As usual, not beta'd.
Part 4: but also those desires for you that glowed plainly in the eyes
When Sybil awoke the next morning, the sun just beginning to clear the horizon, he was gone. They had both been cowards. She had fed and changed the baby, swaddled her to keep her tiny hands from scratching at her face, and hummed a quiet tune until droopy eyes finally closed. Once the baby was back to sleep, Sybil kept her close, crawling into bed and placing the baby between her and where her husband slept. When Tom emerged back into the bedroom Sybil's eyes remained firmly shut, her nose nuzzled into the fine blonde hairs atop her child's head. She felt the bed sink, felt him shift towards them, felt the heat of his body as he leaned over and placed a kiss to their daughter's cheek, but pretended to sleep on while he pretended not to know she was awake. Finally, exhaustion proved too powerful, her need for rest overwhelming her, and she slept.
The mewling, wiggling bundle next to her brought her blurry gaze to the bed. With a pain in her chest, Sybil reached out, feeling the cool bed sheets. He'd been gone a while.
As Sybil leaned forward, lowering her nightdress enough to reveal a swollen breast, offering it to her daughter, she thought for a moment, believing this all to be so new, so unfamiliar, so easy to blame the changes that come from having a new baby.
But this wasn't new Sybil realized. She'd awoken alone before. The days following their exile from Ireland. They'd been here before.
Four Months Earlier
It was the way she held her youngest son, so tightly, so desperately.
The tears in her eyes as her children clung to her nightdress, reflecting the dancing orange light. How her hand reached blindly to her husband as the heat consumed them all.
And he was sorry.
Tom Branson woke suddenly, his body sweating, shaking.
Out of habit he looked to the other occupant of the bed, and out of necessity he reached for her. His fingers grazed her back, then he allowed his hand to linger, slowing his racing heart to match the even up and down of her breaths.
It was dark, but he knew sleep wouldn't be returning.
He pulled his weary body up, dressed in a pair of trousers and grabbed a coat and silently slipped from the room.
He needed a walk.
When she awoke he was already dressed for the day.
"You going down?" she asked him with her raspy voice.
She'd startled him.
He recovered quickly. "I suppose. It's what's done isn't it? I'm to go down to breakfast every morning," he said simply, though she heard the accusation.
But she wouldn't apologize. She was still too hurt, too raw, too scared. Her heart ached at the harsh lines of his face, the worry, but she wasn't willing to heal his hurt just yet.
When she gave no reply, he nodded, then moved over to her, placing a gentle kiss into her hair and left without a word.
She knew she was right. She just wished she felt better about it.
He wasn't ready to face Lord Grantham. He was too tired. He wasn't ready to face his loss of Ireland, nor his gilded cage.
"We'll make plans."
What plans? It irked him to believe that Lord Grantham had any say in his life, but he supposed he did now—now that his family was relying on him at the moment.
It ate at him, sat heavy in his belly.
He wasn't ready to accept it.
"If you'll excuse me," he said, standing from the breakfast table, feeling nauseated. Again he headed for the door, craving fresh air and space.
He needed time alone, to grieve.
He had missed luncheon.
She pretended not to notice, so too did her family.
It wasn't until he walked in during afternoon tea that she was willing to admit to the small lump of worry that had found residence in her chest.
He was reserved as he sipped from his cup, withdrawn, and it hurt to see her family content to accept that. No one spoke to him.
Her own internal conflict beat at her. She longed to reach out, take his hand as they so often did but the baby rolled and instead she stroked her belly.
He soon stood to leave and she felt a moment of panic.
"Where are you going?"
The quiet question surprised her as much as it surprised him.
"No where," he said kindly, giving her weak smile.
Then he was gone.
Everyone avoided looking at her.
"Was no one kind to him?" she found herself asking, little strength in her voice.
She received no response as glances passed between family members.
With gained confidence she pressed, "When he was here alone, without me, you were kind to him right? You treated him like family."
Mary set her cup down. "As kind as we could be my darling."
Sybil closed her eyes. How naive she had been.
Another strained dinner, another reserved bedtime, another night on separate sides of the bed, another dream, only this time it was his home burning, his wife crying, his child clinging.
Tom's head pounded, sleep providing no relief. Another day would soon be dawning and he was no closer to knowing what to do, how to move forward.
Rising from the bed, he felt his frustration build. He couldn't stay here, not in this room. The solace of darkness called to him and he dressed quietly, grabbing his coat he headed out.
He was gone when she woke.
No one had seen him at breakfast.
He did not reappear for luncheon.
She kept a calm demeanor, ignoring their pitying glances, when afternoon tea didn't draw him out.
When the dressing gong rang, and still no sign of him, her stomach knotted.
Then he was there, slipping in as they all milled about waiting for dinner. He had not dressed for dinner, the mud on his shoes telling her he'd just returned.
Her immediate relief gave way to anger. "Where were you?" she hissed quietly.
"Around," came his noncommittal answer.
Carson's appearance and subsequent announcement for dinner stalled any further inquiry.
"I'm taking a tour of the estate tomorrow Tom," Matthew spoke, cutting into a piece of potato. "Would you like to join me?"
Sybil glanced to her husband who was staring blankly at his plate. The hope she had felt at Matthew's offer began to fade as her husband gave no response.
"Tom." She called to him.
Her voice seemed to pull him from his daze and he blinked at her. He realized they were waiting on him for something.
"I'm sorry, what?" he asked.
Matthew tried again. "I said I'm taking a tour of the estate tomorrow and was curious if you would be interested in joining me."
Tom's confusion cleared and he gave a small, "Oh," then answered listlessly, "I appreciate it, but I don't think so."
To her horror she felt tears in her eyes, and a lump form in her throat. Her breathing became labored as she worked calm her emotions. She gripped her knife and fork, willing the storm of emotions to calm.
"Sybil," her mother's voice called, "what is it?"
Sybil could only press her lips together, and shake her head, refusing to give into her sadness, his sadness.
"Sybil?" his soft voice pressed; her husband concerned, tender.
She cleared her throat, ignoring her watery eyes, resenting the gazes that accused her, claiming their silent victories. "Perhaps you should go Tom. Go with Matthew tomorrow," she suggested, her blue eyes locking with his.
His own eyes grew wide, and she could see a glimpse of him before the fire went cold. "I'll go," he quietly agreed, a nod of his head.
She wished she felt happy.
He said the tour had gone well. He and Matthew had discussed a lot about the estate. But she could tell, she could tell the passionless voice he used. The words were dead in his mouth.
But she was tired. Too tired. Too swollen. Too uncomfortable. Too scared.
Her baby would be born any day now and she felt a familiar helplessness.
Tom lay awake. He slept in the bed of a princess and couldn't get comfortable. He longed for their lumpy bed in Dublin. He'd had a tiring day, having traveled all around the estate with his brother-in-law. He'd gone because she wanted him to. He knew why, but he also knew it wasn't something he could give. But until the baby was born, until he saw a bit of the panic leaver her eyes, he'd do it, he'd pretend.
He loved her desperately. They would figure this out. They would find a way to make this work.
It just all had to wait until the baby was born.
He was gone by the time she opened her eyes; a cheerless game of hide and seek. And in that moment of confusion, when sleep world overlapped consciousness, when shadows are monsters, and the movement at the corner of the eye can cause the heart to race, when one is awake enough to recognize the world but asleep enough to paint unfathomable images over reality, she panicked. She thought him gone, truly gone. She sat up suddenly, lumbered to her feet, calling out for him.
This time she had no control over the tears, this time she was raw and vulnerable, soft and warm from sleep.
She realized too late that Anna had entered, concern evident.
"M'lady, what's wrong, what's happened?" Anna pressed, seeming uncertain whether to offer physical comfort, her hands hovering.
"Tom?" Sybil forced out, finding it hard to catch her breath as the baby took up so much room within her. "Have you seen Tom? Do you know where he is?"
"Mr. Branson is downstairs at breakfast m'lady," Anna supplied. "I'll go fetch him."
Her relief was so great she was unable to process the rest of Anna's words, until she found herself alone again in her bedroom clutching tightly to the post of her bed.
She heard him long before she saw him, he was running, she could tell by the pounding. She could hear him calling for her, her name so lyrical from his lips.
Their door burst open, his panic a ripple of her own.
"My darling," he breathed, his hands touching her, feeling her face, her shoulders, pressing against the firm bump between them. "What is it? What's wrong? Is it time? Are you in pain?"
He peppered her with questions, rapidly firing his fears, his worst case scenario.
She suddenly felt foolish.
"I'm alright," she whispered, her voice cracking. She gripped his arms. "I'm sorry it…it was just a nightmare…"
Tom's eyes nearly rolled back into his head from relief. "Come here," he breathed, pulling her into his arms. She had to stand sideways now, for him to hold her, but neither minded as they clutched to each other. "When Anna came…when she said you were crying and…I didn't know…" he faltered, his mind still racing.
Sybil breathed him in, reveling in the closeness. She'd never been the weak one, the delicate female, but for this moment she needed him to hold her up.
"I'm sorry," she tried, her words getting caught, as fresh tears formed.
He quieted her, and just held her.
That day they had stayed close to one another, felt close to one another.
"I've arranged for Sir Philip Tapsell to come to Downton," Robert announced at dinner that night. "To help with Sybil and the baby."
"Papa?" Sybil asked.
"He's one of the top doctors in the field," Robert explained, trying carefully to avoid indelicate words.
"But I thought Dr. Clarkson would be the one—" Sybil started, only to be interrupted by her father.
"Dr. Clarkson is a perfectly fine physician, but it won't hurt to have the best."
Sybil frowned, her eyes glancing to her husband. She could see his jaw working, clenching. But his expression to her was clear. It was her call.
"Thank you Papa, but I'd prefer Dr. Clarkson."
"My dear be reasonable. Dr. Clarkson has made some mistakes in the past and we can never be too careful. Sir Philip is renowned and prestigious. We can't ignore that. I really think it best," Robert declared, seeming to find the discussion at an end.
Sybil felt her frustration rise, her patience thin. She didn't want a fight. She wanted to be respected, her opinions, wants, and needs listened to and valued. She wilted under the realization that even now, even as a wife and soon to be mother, as a nurse, and a woman who had lived independent of her family for over a year, she still was never to be more than a child.
"I think Sybil knows what's best," Tom suddenly interjected forcefully. "And I trust her, so if she says she wants Dr. Clarkson, she'll have Dr. Clarkson."
"See here," Robert blustered. "I'm only trying to do what's best for my daughter and my grandchild and since I'm the one paying I think I have some say."
Sybil's eyes closed, knowing the humiliation her father had brought.
"But you're not," Tom ground out, causing Sybil's eyes to snap open.
"I beg your pardon?" Robert demanded.
"You're not the one paying for it. I've already spoke to Dr. Clarkson, and made the necessary arrangements," Tom explained, his face blank.
"What kind of arrangements?" Robert pressed, disbelieving.
"Robert," Cora warned.
"That's between Dr. Clarkson and myself, because it's our family and our child," Tom answered. "And the only person who has any say is Sybil."
"Well I already arranged for him to come," Robert insisted.
"Then you can unarranged it," Tom replied sternly, earning a shocked expression from Carson and a raised eyebrow from his grandmother-in-law. He ignored both, as he so often did. Ignored them long enough to pretend it didn't bother him in front of them, long enough to convince them it didn't hurt. Only Sybil knew how it ate at him.
She gave him a small smile, constrained by their surroundings and her upbringing. But she knew he understood, she knew he accepted that their life together was always going to be private and never truly involving the people at this table.
Nothing more was said on the matter.
That night as they got ready for bed Sybil reached for him. She was so large, so cumbersome, and tired. She just needed him. She wordlessly peeled his nightshirt off, baring his beautiful chest. He said nothing as he watched her throw off her own nightdress. She pushed him back into the pillows and followed him down, snuggling her naked body into his. Her large belly pressed against him, their baby moving and kicking. He pulled the blanket up around them and wrapped her in his arms. She felt safe, thankful again to feel his body around hers.
There was still so much to say.
But she wasn't ready.
So instead she offered him a gentle, thankful kiss, slow as it was fleeting, before resting her head against him.
"Tom?" she whispered into the darkness.
"Hmmm?" he answered, and she knew she wasn't the only one effected, knew that this night again in each others arms meant as much to him. She heard the hitch in his breath, felt the catch in his rising and falling chest.
"Have you really spoken to Dr. Clarkson?"
Tom was silent, and she delighted in the feel of his lips against her hair as he kissed again, as he had so many nights before…before they left Ireland.
"Tom?"
"Well, not exactly. I'll talk with him tomorrow."
And she laughed. They laughed.
He slept well, no dreams.
The next morning when she awoke, he was still beside her, draped around her.
As Sybil gazed down at her feeding child, the memories washing over her, she knew they had allowed too much to go unresolved for too long.
Thanks for reading!
More soon!