Strip
By: piperholmes
A/N: Thank you so much for sticking with this story. I am truly touched by the comments. Each review pushes me to keep going. One of my favorite quotes comes to mind with this story, from Abraham Lincoln, "The dogmas of the quiet past, are inadequate to the stormy present." Tom and Sybil are dealing with several complex and emotional ideas, and there is no Ireland to run away to and the horizon seems a bit less endless. I hope that this chapter communicates some of what they are dealing with, that their love and abilities are truly being tested and they must walk through the refiner's fire. Aren't you glad you clicked on this story? Lol! As usual, unbeta'd.
Part 6: Now that all of them belong to the past, it almost seems as if you had yielded to those desires—
Tom said nothing as his wife tugged him along behind her. To say he was surprised by this turn of events wouldn't be far from the truth, but he'd learned long ago that a marriage to Lady Sybil Crawley was never going to fit into anything that could be labeled as expected. He also learned, perhaps in what could be described as 'the hard way,' that Sybil was progressive and kind and loving and hardworking but still well engrained with aristocratic habits. It was the way she'd casually thrown away burnt food, how she'd burned candles into the night, the times she'd made a request that sounded more like a command. It had become a challenge for Tom to balance his own upbringing with hers; it had been a challenge for them both. But a year into marriage and they had survived, they had grown through their struggles; which meant that Tom had learned that there were times when he just kept quiet and followed.
His eyebrow rose slightly as they bypassed the nursery, momentarily believing that they were in fact headed to see the baby, he gave a small nod to a confused Edna as she passed by with an armful of sheets, until finally he found himself being pulled into their bedroom, the door shut firmly behind him.
Sybil released his hand, walking around the bed to the vanity, carefully setting down the small bouquet of flowers, her fingers lingering on the smooth purple silk of the petals. She glanced up to him, still standing silent by the door.
"Every morning I awoke to fresh flowers in my room," she started, "Some poor maid's job consisted of ensuring there were never any brown petals or dying leaves. It always had to look perfect and lovely. I've been surrounded by grand bouquets and intricate arrangements my entire life."
She turned to the window, a note of shame in her voice. "I confess I never paid much attention. They were just always there, to be admired occasionally or bickered over by Mama and Granny, but always meant very little to me."
Moving around the bed, Sybil reached for him, her arms stretching out, her hands once again seeking his.
He didn't hesitate, his fingers wrapping around hers, pulling her close. She looked up at him, her blue eyes tired, but still just as youthful as the day he met her, still just as playful and commanding.
"I didn't realize how much I would miss them until we were in Ireland," she told him. "I though how silly I was to finally care about something when it was gone. I loved our flat and Ireland is a beautiful country but there were so many rainy days, days cast in shadow by thick, dark clouds. I missed the beauty of colorful, fragrant flowers."
She leaned into him, her hands giving his a gentle squeeze as she rose up on her toes, allowing her nose to tease his before placing a sweet kiss to his cheek. "And then you walked in one day with the most precious bundle of flowers I'd ever seen, like you'd read my mind and brought me a piece of home." She now moved to wrap her arms around him fully, pressing her cheek against his chest, hugging him tightly.
"But I couldn't tell you then how much that gesture meant to me. We were still so new, so unsure. I didn't know how to talk to you about things that made me miss home. I didn't want you to think I was comparing my two worlds and finding the one we made together lacking. But now, after all we've been through, and having a child, it seems silly that I couldn't tell you. I had to bring you up here to tell you because I couldn't tell you in front of them."
Tom breathed her in, her scent, her warmth, her touch. He couldn't help his fingers sliding into her hair, or the way his lips fell to her head. His connection to her was deeper than any he had ever experienced, and it left him confused and elated. Feelings this strong were difficult to navigate and could overwhelm, but it all felt so comfortable.
"Sybil, I'm sorry," he confessed, refusing to be like them, to hide from the power and chaos of it. "I shouldn't have pressured you last night."
His wife pulled back, her cheeks flushed. "Oh, Tom, you didn't pressure me. I…well, I'm not sure what to say. I love being your wife in every way."
The Irishman offered her a smile, her meaning clear, as one impossibly soft finger came up to trace the curve of his cheek before gently indicating for him to lower, allowing her lips to meet his.
Her hand slid lower, her palm resting against his heart as she deepened the kiss. Tom lost himself in the sensations; her lips soft yet demanding, her tongue darting out to meet his, teasing but purposeful.
He jerked back slightly, a hiss of surprise escaping against the pink of her lips when he felt her fingers work their way down his taunt stomach and lower still to gently cup him through his trousers.
Tom's forehead dropped to hers, his eyes closed in pleasure when her soft hand began slowly rubbing up and down.
"Sybil," he moaned, trying to simultaneously warn her to stop and beg her to continue.
"Shh," she calmed him, rubbing her nose against his.
His breath quickened as she increased the pressure against him, her grip tightening.
He stood still; afraid to open his eyes, to lose this moment with her.
She peppered his face with light, playful kisses as her fingers worked to undo the buttons on his trousers. "This is you and me," she whispered.
He couldn't help his fingers clenching her hair as she slipped her hand into his pants. Her lips now lingered close to his ear, pulling the lobe between her teeth, biting down before gently sucking the pain away.
A heady groan escaped as she freed him, semi-hard and eager. Her hand began working him, stroking, petting, entreating.
Through the haze of pleasure, the sound of a door shutting loudly, reached him. It had mostly likely been the maid. He'd forgotten they weren't alone, surprised by that since it felt they were never alone. That's all he needed; the maid telling Mrs. Hughes what she heard coming from the Bransons' room. And knowing Mr. Carson he'd demand to know what is going on and the scandalized butler would go to Lord Grantham and complain about Lady Sybil and her disgracefully common husband. Everyone would know their business because that's what they did. They lived in a fishbowl, with eyes always peering in, judging, and sneering. They were probably down there right now, talking about them, about their noticeable absence from the table, talking about how poor Sybil was stuck with her choice of husband, as they dined on the finest cuisine which cost more than most families could budget for food in an entire year.
"Tom?" her soft voice pulled him back, reaching through his darkness as she so often did.
He blinked at her, her confused almost hurt face staring up at him, her hand frozen, unmoving, as he'd grown limp. "Where did you go?"
With a sigh Tom's hand fell from her hair, to take her hands into his, drawing them to his lips and placing a kiss against both palms before dropping them so he could awkwardly tuck himself back into his pants and buttoning his trousers.
His cheeks and skin on the back of his neck burned pink, his embarrassment at his failure to respond to her gripping him, choking him, making it impossible to endure her pitying, loving gaze.
He battled to know what to say, his eyes glued to the floor as his hand ran through his blond hair, loosening the carefully combed coif, making him look younger, wilder.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, not sure if there was anything else he could say. "I don't know…I'm just tired…"
"Because you don't sleep," she said, her voice quiet.
He glanced up at her, surprised by her observation.
"You think I didn't notice?" she accused, her blue eyes flashing. "You think I don't see how you toss and turn? How you're up early?"
He shrugged. "I guess I was hoping you weren't disturbed. You don't sleep much either."
She sighed. "Neither of us sleep well these days." It should have been a moment where they both rolled their eyes at each other as they blamed the baby for sleepless nights. It should have been swapping war stories of being up late, walking the floor, arms growing tired and weak from the constant bouncing and swaying. It was true, they did have those stories to tell, but they were beginning to admit that it ran deeper.
"Take off your shoes and coat," she commanded.
His eyebrows lowered in confusion. "Sybil—"
"Do it," she shot back, not the least bit sorry for her imperious manner. "I'll be back."
Sybil dashed from the room and Tom did as he was told, working to unlace his shoes and hang his coat. She found him standing by the window in his stocking feet when she returned. She sat on the bed, her legs stretched out.
"Help me with my shoes?" she requested, her tone sweet.
Obediently he knelt, his long fingers slowly releasing the laces from the intricate knots. When he was done he carefully pulled each shoe off, setting them by the bed.
Sybil rolled over, drawing her feet under her skirt, as she snuggled into the pillow, heedless of the neat folding and tucking the maid had done earlier. She reached one hand out to him, letting her hand hang in the air expectantly.
Tom took it, but resisted the accompanying tug.
"Tom," Sybil chastised, elongating the syllables of his name, much as a petulant child might.
Still feeling embarrassed, vulnerable, Tom wasn't willing to play along. "Sybil, I don't know what you want from me."
With an exasperated sigh she sat up. "You're tired. I'm tired. So we're taking a nap."
Tom scoffed. "I can't just take a nap in the middle of the day. You're father—"
"My father can jolly well wait today," Sybil interrupted sharply. Her eyes held a resolve Tom hadn't seen since she'd told him that he must allow the baby to be born at Downton. But then her lips relaxed, her lashes lowered a bit, it was the Sybil who loved only him. "Besides, I've taken care of everything."
Still he hesitated. "The baby?"
"Please Tom. Please trust me," her voice had grown soft, uncertain. Her arm again extended to him. It seemed such a small thing; to take her hand and curl up next to her in the bed, but simple wasn't them any more. Their days of newly wedded bliss were far behind them, and he felt the weight of this moment.
He slid his hand into hers.
He pretended not to see the relief on her face, unwilling to recognize the anxiety that had been there just seconds before. He was overwhelmed by the power he held over her, and ever mindful of the power she had over him.
She brought him to lie down next to her, then crawled nearly on top of him. The silence stretched between them but Tom's eyes were no closer to falling closed, and he could tell by Sybil's stiff body, she wasn't finding sleep any quicker than he.
Over and over he replayed the shame of not being able to perform.
"We're not giving up," Sybil declared suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Tell me," she demanded, lifting her head to stare at him directly.
"We're not giving up," he repeated, returning her intensity.
"Talk to me, please," she requested, her voice husky.
"I don't want a fight," Tom answered wearily.
She frowned, wanted to argue the point, but knew he was right. It was a fight. It was always a fight now. But somewhere between the burning of a house and the surrender of their freedom they'd lost the will to fight.
Sybil knew, now more than ever, if they were going to survive this exile, they were going to have to find the strength to conquer.
"Then just talk," she answered. "Talk me to sleep, like you use to. Talk until your voice goes quiet and your words run together. Tell me your secrets Tom Branson."
His heart broke, pain ripping through him, pulsing through his veins. He looked away from her, afraid of the words that would tumble from his lips. "I don't know if I can," he admitted.
He'd expected her anger, her hurt, her condemnation at his declaration, but her tender touch against his cheek caught him unprepared. She moved up his body, bringing her nose to rest against his, now burrowing into him.
"I understand," she whispered, her breath hot on his cheek. "I don't know what I can say to you sometimes either. But we are going to have to talk about what happened that day Tom."
His eyes closed in shame, her voice draping over him as she continued. "We can't keep ignoring it. We can't keep pretending. It's killing us, because that's not who we are."
"I'm afraid," he admitted. "I'm afraid that if we face it, you'll not want to be with me anymore. You'll realized what they say is true."
"You think me so weak Tom Branson?" her words, an echo of the past. "I don't know what's going to happen, but we can't keep going on like this. I can't keep going on like this."
Her fingers moved to stroke his cheek. "We are not cowards, you and I. I believe we'll survive, that we're strong enough. That you and I are enough. But I can't carry us on my own."
The memories from that day hammered through him, still so raw and angry and destructive. And he knew she was right. They were going to have to face it.
Thank you for reading!
More to come as Tom and Sybil really start being honest!