A/N: Part III primarily revolves around the Bransons' flight out of Dublin (even the first flashback has a tiny bit of relevance to that) and Tom's attempt to balance his revolutionary ideals and life at Downton. Again, "real-time" is April 1922.

Thanks to all who have continued to stick with this story through the last couple of chapters - I know it bounces back and forth quite a bit. And, as always, thanks so much for taking the time to read and review.

BTW, to everyturnasurprise, I had tried writing the actual bar fight itself, but since Matthew and Tom pretty much got their rear-ends handed to them, it just wasn't coming off right - I just stuck with the aftermath. Sorry :(

For dustedoffanoldie who asked for an ASAP release...

THE TENANT'S BOY, PART III

Downton, Spring 1920

Sybil received the invitation for Mary and Matthew's wedding in mid-January and reluctantly sent her regrets, subtly suggesting their economic circumstances prevented travel. Tom admired her for soldiering through the disappointment, but also realized that while she had abandoned that life, she desperately loved her family and missed them, especially now with the baby on the way. He suggested they dip into their reserves, the dowry given to her by Lord Grantham, but after thinking on it, Sybil declared that no, they needed to save what they could. But, in the weeks preceding the wedding, a mysterious envelope arrived. Dubiously, Tom agreed to accept it and, finally, Sybil's excitement overshadowed his mistrust of their secret benefactor.

So, they returned to Downton as a married couple for the first time that spring. He anticipated the condescension and curiosity, and certainly the snipes toward his clothing and opinions. He did not, however, expect Sybil's former suitor to drug him into a long night of painful inebriation, nor did he expect Matthew to bolt to his defense. The future brothers-in-law quickly bonded, and to his own horror, Tom relented and wore the 'oppressive' clothing offered by his grandmother-in-law.

There were some things, though, that he still refused to accept. Until the day of the wedding, he successfully avoided being dressed and polished by one of the staff. Pride cometh before the fall, his mother used to say, but pride put its foot down when Alfred came into their room, proffering the freshly tailored outfit.

"But I don't need a valet to dress me!" Tom glared at the tall, red-headed footman, hands on his hips.

"Mr. Carson knows that, sir, but he said your wedding suit might be a little more complicated…."

"Complicated?" Tom barked. "I wore a bleedin' chauffeur's uniform for seven years! Do you know how many pieces go with that? And I managed well enough on my own."

He glared over his shoulder at his wife and Anna, who were by this point shaking with suppressed laughter. Sybil held a hand under her belly, the baby bouncing quite uncomfortably on her bladder. "Sybil, love, say something."

Both Alfred and her husband wore matching looks of trepidation, one unable to fulfill a direct order from his supervisor, the other being asked to surrender yet another small piece of his pride. She wasn't sure which to feel sorry for.

"Alfred, it's alright," she consoled, placing a comforting hand on her husband's arm. "Mr. Branson and I live a wonderfully simple life. We're accustomed to looking out for one another and you can assure Mr. Carson he'll be presentable for the wedding."

Alfred nodded warily before taking his leave, Tom staring a hole in his back until he disappeared into the hall.

"I had better go and finish up Lady Mary," Anna said, snickering softly. "I'll be just down the hall if you need anything else."

Indignant, Tom latched the door behind her with a flourish. The room finally quiet, Sybil shook her head in amusement. "Are you quite satisfied now?"

He huffed and roughly untied his robe. "I am," he answered smugly, tossing the robe on the bed before discarding his remaining clothes. "One can't get any peace and quiet around here, let alone privacy." His face reddened, remembering the other morning when, curled around his naked wife, he awoke to Anna opening the drapes. Fortunately, they were snuggled under a mound of blankets, but still, he had been humiliated.

"Darling, he was just trying to do his job."

He snatched his day's attire from the hangars, grimacing at the offending morning coat his grandmother-in-law had fitted for him. Sybil watched as he defiantly dressed himself, including a losing battle with his cufflinks.

"Here, let me. Or you'll be late fetching Matthew."

Sighing heavily, he relented and dropped them in her outstretched hand. He finally calmed down enough to take in her appearance with a slow, indulgent smile. "You look lovely."

She certainly didn't feel beautiful, swollen and swathed in a sea of velvet designed to hide her condition. "Anna is a true magician. I'm rather pleased myself, for a pregnant woman…."

"No. For any woman," he replied softly, offering a quick kiss. "You're stunning."

"And you're the world's biggest flirt." She checked the cufflinks before helping with his collar and tie, and then finally buttoning up the gray waistcoat. He then held out his arms as she slipped the coat over his shoulders, smoothing out the seams along his hips, admiring the way it conformed to his figure. She gave his backside a playful pat before handing him his top hat and gloves. "There. All done. I dare say you'll be the most handsome man at the wedding."

He checked himself in the mirror, frowning at the unfamiliar reflection. "Well," he sighed, "maybe I'll just blend in with the other decorations."

The house and grounds burst at the seams with guests after the wedding. Lord and Lady Grantham's extravagance knew no bounds in celebrating the nuptials between their oldest daughter and the future earl. True, it had been a convenient match, but at least Matthew and Mary loved one another. Tom had recognized that since the moment he arrived as the new chauffeur seven years before and with the marriage finally in place, he could almost feel the weight being lifted from the long-questioned future of Downton Abbey.

The Irishman milled about in search of his wife, smiling amiably as he dodged this posh relative and that, along with other unquestionably rich family acquaintances. His ears perked up as he entered the library. Her resounding laughter, a bit embellished, echoed from the lawn through the open doors and above the cacophony of trivial conversations.

"We've three of our own now," he heard the woman titter on as he stepped outside. "An heir and a spare, and a little girl for good measure." Sybil offered the woman and her husband a civil, but disinterested smile. She caught Tom's eyes, relieved, and politely excused herself from the exchange.

"There you are. I thought I would never get away from them. Laura is an old friend of Mary's, but she's a dreadful snob. And that's her husband, Viscount..."

"...Lord Drumgoole," he finished flatly as the couple passed them by. The man nodded courteously in Tom's direction, his eyes lingering for a moment.

"You know him?"

"I saw him once, at The Castle, when I was working for the Times. He's not exactly a friend of Sinn Fein. In fact, he's been actively supporting the Constabulary and pushing them to bring in the military."

A tremor of panic bubbled in her throat. "I didn't say anything about us living in Dublin, or your work with the Bulletin."

"He probably already knows," Tom suggested, taking her hand. "We've been careful. Please don't worry."

She nodded, her unease subdued for the moment. Glancing up, she couldn't help but smile as the sunlight rained down on them in the warm spring air. They had made it through the day, but both looked forward to their return to Ireland on the morrow. She brushed the collar of his morning coat. "I've been waiting to have you to myself all day. You look scrumptious."

"I should, after being accosted and accessorized by your Grandmother and Mrs. Crawley. Please don't send one of those bloody photographs to my brothers."

"Still, you're quite handsome."

"Well, don't get too used to it. It's coming off tonight."

"Oh, I can guarantee that."

He caught the dark hue of her eyes and bent to kiss her, but she backed away abruptly, a hand on her stomach. "What is it? Are you alright?"

She exhaled a surprised laugh. "The baby just kicked," she said, pulling his hand to her middle. Over the past few weeks, he almost cried every time she delighted in feeling the baby move while he was left just to watch, his hand still unable to feel the fluttery miracle inside her.

Yet again today, his hand splayed across her rounded belly, he felt nothing. Frustrated, he removed his gloves, tossed them to the ground and tried again, intently concentrating, her hand pressing firmly on his, directing it toward each subtle movement. Finally, a soft thump tickled his palm and his face split into a proud grin as he felt it again. He kissed her, satisfied tears pooling in his eyes as she laughed with him.

"It's a wedding reception, not a burlesque show." The Dowager Countess paused as she strolled by, sporting a censorious scowl. Sybil couldn't tell if it was from their public affection or from the older woman clinging to her arm.

"Hi kids," Martha called brightly.

"Tom wanted to feel the baby kick, Granny."

"Just wait a few more months," Martha teased. "By the end, I was convinced your mother was an octopus."

Violet tactfully disengaged her arm from Cora's mother. She took in her granddaughter's figure, poorly disguised in lazy swaths of aqua. "My, these new fashions do nothing to obscure a lady's figure. How unfortunate in your condition…"

"Having a baby is nothing to be ashamed of," Martha declared. She reached down and proudly laid a hand on her granddaughter's stomach.

"In my day," Violet scoffed, "When things became obvious, it was time to retreat to the sanctity of one's own sitting room."

"Then in your day, Sybil would not have been able to attend her sister's wedding. Besides, don't tell me you're not hoping Mary and Matthew jump on things as quickly as these two did."

"There's no need to be so crass."

Martha's eyes scanned Tom's attire from head to toe. "That Moseley is a true wizard with the needle."

"I feel like a hypocrite," he replied, lips pursed in shame.

"But a well-dressed hypocrite." He clearly wasn't amused. "Robert says you're a voracious reader of history."

"That's right."

"Then you will recall, young man, that in the time of Shakespeare, it wasn't proper for a woman to appear on the stage. Even Juliet was portrayed by a man."

He furrowed his brows. "I don't understand."

"Mr. Branson, I've learned that life here at Downton Abbey flows according to script and custom. We all play our own part in this pretentious production and that now includes you."

"I came here at least hoping to keep my principles intact, and now look at me."

"Oh for Heaven's sake," the Dowager declared, "stop being so dramatic."

Shaking her head at her counterpart, Martha rolled her eyes. "Pride and principle often come as two sides of the same coin and the young have a difficult time differentiating the two. Take it from an old broad like me. Occasionally swallowing a little pride isn't a bad thing." She winked at him, roguishly. "Besides, I saw the way Sybil looked at you during the ceremony. I think you'll find it was all worth it."

Downton, April 1922

Sybil strode into the dining room alone, her gray nursing uniform neatly pressed and her hair wrapped neatly with a white headscarf. She shared a smile with her mother-in-law from the doorway. Cathleen could very well have taken breakfast in bed during her visit, but Sybil knew even before Lady Grantham explained the custom what the answer would be. Not only was she not about to partake in something so posh, but she also wasn't about to allow Kieran to eat unattended with Lord Grantham.

Robert observed his daughter's attire as she deposited a small plate of fruit and sausage on the table. "Surely you're not going to work today with our guests still here."

"I'm so sorry," she offered to Cathleen as she sat. "The hospital called early this morning. They've worked around my absence all week, but two of the nurses have fallen ill and they desperately need me to come in for a while. It seems they had an unfortunate increase in patients last night..." she trailed off, awkwardly. "Dr. Clarkson promised he could spare me this evening, though, for your last night here."

"You've nothing to apologize for," her mother-in-law replied, then nodded to Lord Grantham. "It's an important job and they're lucky to have her. I'm proud to tell my friends in Dublin that my daughter-in-law is a professional nurse."

Sybil snickered at her father's scowl as Kieran dropped a fork, and then proceeded to retrieve it from the floor and resume spearing his food. She gestured toward the empty chair across from her. "Where's Matthew?"

"As you can imagine, he's feeling a little worse for wear this morning," Robert grumbled. "I suppose Tom's under the weather as well?"

"I'm afraid so. I asked Alfred to take him a tray later."

"Those two tied on a good one last night," Kieran chuckled. "I doubt either of them will be down before noon."

"They better be," Robert snapped, brandishing a letter. "I received a rather terse note from Mr. Fox. It seems they left the Dog and Duck in quite a mess and he's asking when we intend to make restitution."

Sybil flushed. "Don't be too harsh with him, Papa. He's held out so much hope for returning to Ireland, and now for the first time I think he truly realizes we're not going back anytime soon."

"Well, if he's to stay here as manager of Downton, he can't wander about engaging in bar fights..."

"I'd hardly call that much of a fight," Kieran snorted, earning a glare from his mother.

"...especially not in establishments that he's ultimately responsible for," Robert finished. "He owes Mr. Fox first an apology and then a guarantee that all will be made whole...as quickly as possible."

Sybil pressed a palm against her brow and sighed. "And Matthew?"

Robert narrowed his eyes. "My other wayward son-in-law has invited an entirely different conversation with me. As the next Earl of Grantham he should be above such insanity."

"Please, Papa, just give Tom a chance to recover this morning..."

Cathleen stood, shocking Robert, who awkwardly followed suit. "No. As your father said, Tommy has responsibilities. Maybe he has grown soft here, because every Branson I've ever seen drink himself under the table the night before has never failed to wake at the crack of dawn to go earn his keep."

"Cathleen..."

She patted the younger woman's shoulder. "You're his wife, but he's my son. You'll learn that boys can never be too old for the back of their mother's hand."

"Are you going to start this thing, or not?" his mother barked, sitting in the passenger seat of the Renault.

His head throbbed. No, not just his head, but his whole body, and the clammy palm against his eyes did nothing to stop it. The previous night was a complete blur, though he faintly remembered his wife putting him to bed and then helping him to the toilet on several embarrassing occasions, not just with the vomiting but for other bodily functions as well. He thanked God she was a nurse and took a clinical approach to such things. Tom doubted the indignity could get worse until his mother strode into the room the next morning when snatched open the curtains, bathing his battered body in a vicious stream of light. Mercilessly, she dug around in the wardrobe and tossed him a fresh set of everything, including under-drawers, with the sharp instruction to dress himself or she would do it. And I won't be gentle, she warned, arms stubbornly crossed.

So, after dressing himself in front of his furious mother, he was practically pulled down the carpeted stairs, across the foyer where his father-in-law watched in amusement, and then through the hectic servant's hall in what could only have been her calculated gauntlet of humiliation. Finally out the back door, she led him toward the garage and one of the waiting motors where she now sat glowering at him through the windshield.

"Well?" she pressed.

He stood in front of the Renault, one hand on the bonnet to support himself. "Just give me a minute," he muttered, not wanting to open his mouth for fear of something coming up.

"Humph. Nothing a little corned beef and cabbage won't cure," she suggested. "I'll speak to Mrs. Patmore when we get back."

He fought the bile that boiled in his stomach and reached down to grab the starter, his hand turning it weakly in the first few failed attempts. His old partner finally chugged to life and he climbed behind the wheel, the exertion leaving him winded. "Why are you doing this?" he whined meekly, the roaring engine intensifying his headache and churning his already delicate digestive tract.

"You promised to show me the estate and some of your plans for it, and today's my last day here." She waved a finger at the brake. "Now, let's go."

He groaned as he pulled the lever. His uncoordinated legs shook so from dehydration that when he attempted to depress the clutch, the car lurched forward, nearly throwing his mother in the back seat. Wordlessly, she grabbed her hat and pointed at the road ahead.

They passed along the meandering lanes dividing the farms and fields, Tom grateful for the nip in the air that helped quell the lingering nausea and pounding headache. Through his misery, he stopped occasionally to point out improvements on the various farms, those that showed promise by the tenants and others that the estate now farmed directly. He supposed it was hard for her to recognize the changes, but after nearly two years, the plans he and Matthew forged together despite Lord Grantham's opposition finally began to blossom. It gave him hope that his efforts weren't wasted. At one particular farm, he stopped to check in on Mrs. Green and her three children.

His body protested when he unfolded from the car. "Oh Christ," he groaned, wincing at his mother's obvious disapproval.

Mrs. Green appeared in the doorway, smiling. "Good day, Mr. Branson," she greeted.

Doffing his hat, he glanced around at the crates in the yard. "All ready for the move?" he asked.

"Quite ready," she replied, as her children thundered into the yard. "I didn't realize I had so much that needed to go."

"We'll find someone to help, don't worry."

From a distance, Cathleen watched the two shared an animated conversation as three children scampered about the yard, cutting circles in the grass. Tom finally tipped his hat, crawled back behind the wheel and released the brake, waving over his shoulder.

"Was that private business or can you share it with your mother?" she inquired.

"Her husband died last year. He was a part owner of the farm, but it's a big responsibility for her with three small children. We could find someone to help her run it, but that wouldn't leave her much at the end of the year." He turned down another lane, glancing at his mother, her curious eyes framed by wisps of white hair blowing in the breeze. "Matthew and I started thinking about the town, how many new businessmen travel through. And families as well, now that everyone and their brother seems to have a car. Other than the Grantham Arms we don't really have a proper establishment, so we're opening a small hotel, very small mind you, to test the waters. Mrs. Green will be the innkeeper. She'll do the cooking and the cleaning and tending to the guests. And, her children will be closer to school."

"And the farm?"

"We'll buy her share of it, and if we can't get a reasonable rate with a new tenant, we'll farm it directly. We...well, I guess you could say the estate, bought several new tractors last year and we've been hiring local labor to work the fields. It's tough finding men not afraid to run one of the things, though."

"I suppose you have, though."

He donned a guilty grin. "You suppose right."

"You can't take the country out of the boy it seems."

"I guarantee if Da had one of those machines, he would have loved working the land a lot more. Better than hacking into rocky ground with a pick, I promise you that."

They continued on, circumnavigating the estate along the dusty lanes, stopping at the occasional field for Tom to wave at this farmer and that. As they drove by the barnyard of one particular farm, he stopped the motor and called to a tall, muscular man hunched over a dirt-covered green tractor with bright yellow spokes. As soon as he saw Tom, he smiled, waving the wrench in his hand.

"Good to see you, Mr. Branson," he called, tipping his hat to the woman in the passenger seat.

Tom introduced Mr. Drake to his mother and inquired after the toolbox at his feet. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I don't rightly know. The blasted thing keeps chokin' out on me...beg pardon, ma'am," he promptly amended over Mr. Branson's shoulder.

Tom tossed his hat into the car and shrugged out of his coat, rolling up the sleeves. "Let's have a look, then." The two men poked and pulled, banging at the occasional part with a random tool. "Looks like you're not getting enough air into the fuel mixture. See how the cylinders and pistons are covered with soot? Have you noticed a heavy exhaust?"

Drake nodded. "Matter of fact I have."

Tom reached down for a few oily towels and began cleaning the dirty metal, then instructed the farmer through re-adjusting the valves controlling the intake. Finally, the tractor chugged to life, burping out a clean exhaust and purring like a cat lazing in the sunshine. Tom smiled, attempting wipe the oil and grease from his hands before hopping back into the Renault. Apologizing to his mother for the wait, he called his departure to a very happy Mr. Drake and began their drive back to the Abbey.

Along the way, habit forced him to pull the motor to a halt at the top of a cleared rise that overlooked the entire estate. Sybil had shown him the spot on a return trip from Ripon during the war. It's so peaceful, she had said. No one could ever imagine the brutality of the world from here. From then on, whenever he drove her, even now, they always took the opportunity to pause for a few moments.

He dropped his hat in his lap and ran a hand through his hair. His headache had finally started to wane, but his body still reeled from the unfortunate events of the previous night. "So I suppose we're not going back to Ireland any time soon."

"My only regret is that I won't see my grandson as often as I want," she said, taking his hand. "But, as parents, all we ever wish for our children is for them to be safe and happy. And you're safe here." Smiling, she observed his profile as he stared down at the fields below. The last of her boys, the last of all her family to leave Murlough. She remembered the morning Dan took him to Mr. Foley, wondering if she had made the right decision. Seeing him today had finally set her mind at ease.

"Are you happy?" she asked.

"Happy at Downton?"

She shook her head. "No, just happy."

He sighed, an offered a slow, indulgent smile. "I'm happy that I wake every morning with Sybil beside me and that we have a healthy little boy."

"Then stop fretting about where you are. Ireland's not going anywhere. It's like a child itself now and it will have growing pains for quite a while, though I doubt you'll hear any of the politicians say as much. The most important thing you can do for Ireland is raise that boy of yours to be a smart, generous, and kind man. Just like his father," she said, squeezing his hand. "Never you mind what Joe and the others think, you've nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, I'm very proud of you, not because you're running some grand estate, but because you're making a difference in the lives of these people. You may not see it, but they do. And I do. In the end, Tommy, it's the people that matter."

Dublin, June 1920

Sybil's days as a nurse had temporarily ended. As her pregnancy advanced, she was no longer comfortable spending any length of time on her feet. So, she spent her days tidying their small flat or vainly attempting to finish knitting a blanket she had been working on for months. Frequent visits with her mother-in-law broke the monotony as did the occasional efforts to help the republicans. Branded illegal organizations by the British, the Dáil and Army were under constant threat of arrest or attack and often went into hiding. Sybil did what she could with her meager cooking, sending forage food through the clandestine pipeline and, at times, finding a way to offer medical help. She never asked questions, but when she was called to tend one of her 'patients,' she prayed she wouldn't arrive and find her husband beaten or shot.

By mid-June, they had just celebrated their first wedding anniversary, rather celebrated as well as they could. Much to her dismay, her body, now eight months pregnant, was no longer comfortable performing certain activities. But, despite that, she enjoyed impending motherhood and feeling the baby, their baby, squirm around inside her. Their lives were so different from just a year before, and yet at the heart of it all, they were the same two young lovers who left Downton behind.

She shuffled around their tiny kitchen in her dressing gown, preparing Tom a quick breakfast while he finished readying for work, wherever that might be today. She never asked, in deference to his safety since the Dáil and its administrative departments often operated on the move. His work for the Bulletin, published through the Dáil's Propaganda Department, was often performed in any variety of underground locations.

As she warmed his porridge, she heard a thud and loud squawk, followed by a series of profanities. Tottering quickly down the hall, she found her husband in a virtual stand-off in the small bathroom. The stray cat she had taken mercy on and fed out the back door glared up at him, growling, its orange tail twitching. Tom stared back, a towel pressed to his jaw.

"What on earth?" she asked, glancing at one then the other.

"Your bloody cat, that's what." He pulled the red-blotched towel from his face, grimaced at it, and then applied more pressure.

"What did you do to him?"

His eyes widened, staring at her, incredulous.

She decided the better part of valor was to not argue, and gently nudged the fluffy critter with her foot. "Shoo, Simon," she whispered. The cat turned his back on them, defiantly flicking his tail up in the air. She reached for the towel, but he pulled back. "I'm a nurse, remember?" She inspected his face, rolling her eyes as she soaped up a washcloth. "Here, I'll take care of it. I don't think you'll require a trip to the hospital. It's just a nick."

"A nick? I damn near slit my throat," he said, holding the razor aloft with his free hand.

She pursed her lips as she began wiping away the small trail of blood on his neck.

"Until I fix the latch on the door, there's not much I can do about him pawing his way in and staring at me while I use the toilet, but now he's trying to kill me."

"Don't be so dramatic, he's not trying to kill you." She frowned, trying to tend his wounds. "Stay still…"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he's a secret operative for the Black and Tans."

She laughed at that, her emergency care completed. "Here," she said, taking the razor from him. "Let me. You're so worked up you'll end up looking like you've been in a knife fight."

He leaned back against the sink as she re-lathered his face and gently worked the razor against his skin. Pulling her closer, he wrapped his ankles behind hers on the floor and smiled remembering the first time she shaved him (or tried to), a few weeks into their marriage. For whatever reason, she was fascinated by the novelty of his morning routine, but he refused to hand over his razor until she stubbornly reminded him of her wartime nursing responsibilities. In the end, they wound up on the bed as a mass of naked and tangled limbs, laughing hysterically and covered in lather. He walked into work that morning late, unshaven, and sporting an unusually smug grin.

"I'll likely be late tonight," he finally said.

She smiled as he slid one arm around her waist and rested the other hand against the mound of her ever-growing middle. "Why?"

The confession of attending the meetings was stuck somewhere on the tip of his tongue. He knew he would have to tell her, eventually, but the last thing he wanted to do was cause worry. He stroked her cheek. "Just some things for work."

She considered more questions, but decided against it. "Please be careful," she whispered, running the warm damp towel across his clean-shaven face. "I didn't come all the way to Ireland to end up a widow."

Bending down, he placed a soft kiss against her mouth. "I will. I promise."

Tom dashed down toward the abandoned warehouse on John Street near the brewery. Mr. FitzGerald's last minute editing required a substantial re-write of his latest article for the Bulletin. The Director took his editing seriously, laboriously combing through every word before printing the publication. After all, the Bulletin now served as the outside world's only view inside the Dáil and the Republic. Typically, Tom's work required few changes, but recently he had been awarded the opportunity to draft articles on the social responsibilities of government. FitzGerald made no promises of publication, and had a heavy hand in the editing, but it at least finally allowed Tom the chance to pontificate, if only for a few inches on the back page.

Tom understood the rationale for the Bulletin, and accepted the propaganda as a necessity for achieving freedom for Ireland. He also believed that forging ahead with a new nation but not establishing plans to address the poverty and distress of the people would leave the country ill-equipped in dealing with the modern world. His socialist views often put him at odds with members of the Dáil, IRA, and even his brothers. Much as he had in England, he found himself in the minority. His country brimmed with a nationalist impulse. Freedom first, equality among the masses fared distant second.

Out of breath, he squeaked open the basement door, nodding to two men standing guard. They quickly recognized him and allowed him passage, standing in deference to Joe Branson's youngest brother. Tom liked to think his keen writing acumen won him the position at the Bulletin, but he knew his brother had a hand in it as well. Joe's legend in the IRA had taken a life of its own. In a family characterized by chattering and opinionated siblings, Joe had always been the pensive erudite. His passion for political change turned into a consuming hatred of the British authorities after their cousin was killed in the Rising four years before. Working in a department of the Dáil, Tom heard stories of his brother's involvement in various attacks on the Ango-Irish, and wondered how much truth was buried in the legend.

"Where the hell have you been?" his brother Sean snapped, meeting him at the back of the group.

"Sorry. Mr. FitzGerald's hatchet struck again. Am I that late?" he asked, noticing the group had begun to disperse.

"No. Some bloody Anglo's been a real zealot at the Castle lately," Sean replied, a mischievous smile. "So, Mick's taking the boys for a little social visit this evening."

"Where's Joe?"

"Something's got his gut in a mess. Couldn't leave the house. Certainly not fit to drive tonight, so they asked me."

"Isn't what they're doing dangerous enough?" he teased. "Let me drive."

"No."

"Why not? I've been coming to the meetings long enough. It's not as if I don't know what's going on."

His brother shook his head, slowly. "Tommy, you don't have the stomach for this sort of thing. Best leave it to those of us who do."

In the end, his brother relented and Tom drove one of the non-descript cars loaded with men toward Queen's County, fifty miles southwest of Dublin. Sean ordered him to stand by the car, motor at the ready, when they pulled to the gates of Drumgoole Castle. He watched as Collins' men stormed into the house, ordering the family and staff out to the grounds while the torches were lit and tossed around the building. The ancient castle, the lacquered wood and elegant furnishings, billowed up into a quick inferno as Lord and Lady Drumgoole huddled on the lawn with their sobbing children and servants. To him, the castle itself was nothing and he didn't care if the earth swallowed it whole, but his heart clenched uncontrollably nonetheless. Perhaps his brother was right.

"Dammit, Branson, bring the fecking car!" His mind reeled back to the present as men dashed toward him, in sudden flight of armed members of the house staff. Tom hopped behind the wheel, slamming his foot on the accelerator to meet them on the lawn. He waited, heart pounding, as his brother and several others piled in, watching as Lady Drumgoole hoisted one of her children, a squalling little girl, into her arms. The other motors were already scratching down the gravel drive as Tom waited on one last man bolting from somewhere behind the house. In the moment it took for Connor Reilly to jump headfirst into the car, Tom caught the furious eyes of Lord Drumgoole, a flicker of recognition somehow even in the foggy night.

Sean had been right. He didn't have the stomach for it, and when finally reached the flat, well after midnight, he confessed as much to Sybil. With his soot covered hair and suit, he knew he couldn't keep the night's events a secret, nor did he want to. She was infuriated, of course, at least initially, but mainly because he had put himself at risk after she asked him not to. Finally, after they both had calmed and discussed the possibility of repercussion, she took his face in her hands.

"Your part in this war has nothing to do with violence. We both have a lot to offer to this country, but that wasn't you tonight," she said, tears barely in check. "I love Ireland as much as you and want it to be free, but not at the expense of your soul, or your life."

Later, he lay in their bed, Sybil curled up to his side, clutching him fiercely even in her sleep. His eyes fixed to the darkened ceiling above them, he couldn't suppress the sight of the children at Drumgoole, innocent witnesses in a struggle that was drawing to a close after four hundred years. He felt the baby move against his hip, his arms tightening instinctively around his wife, and he finally fell asleep sometime before dawn.

A few days later, Tom sat in his latest office, barely a closet in a small building on Harcourt Street. He hunched over a pernickety old typewriter snapping out the latest requirements for the Bulletin, another description of atrocities committed by the RIC. This time, in Cork, two paperboys, no more than fourteen, had refused to stop for the authorities and were shot dead. The IRA made near weekly raids on the RIC and the newly deployed Tans, who responded with reciprocal attacks. The war had escalated to almost biblical proportions. Less than a month before, members of the Dáil received letters through the mail: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Therefore a life for a life.

Connor Reilly crept down the narrow staircase, watching his friend pull at an uncooperative ribbon of ink. He closed the door quietly behind him. "Tom...I was just upstairs and overheard Mick and the others. Broy told them the police are planning a raid on some of the boys that's been at the meetings. They're drawing a list of names...and yours is on it."

His face paled. "What?"

"Someone on the inside must have tipped them off," he said, then hesitated. "There's another thing. Apparently, Lord Drumgoole recognized you that night...do you know him?"

He shrugged, absently, his mind floating back to a few nights ago, remembering the fleeting moment as he caught Lord Drumgoole's eyes, the flicker that passed between them. "I've met him, once. I assumed he thought I was just another poor Irish mick."

"Well, you must have made an impression on him because he remembered you specifically," Connor said. "They won't care that you were just driving the car that night...and you'll make a fine prize for them too, the son-in-law of a British earl."

His eyes scanned the tiny, paper-filled room absently. "The raid. When?"

"Tonight, tomorrow, apparently Broy couldn't say for sure, but probably soon..."

"Sybil..." Fear boiled in his chest as he bolted from his chair.

Connor grabbed his arm. "Tom, you can't go home. Collins wants everyone in the safe houses until he gives the all clear. He's not taking this lightly and he's making plans of his own."

His mind raced through the plans they made, none of which included safe houses or waiting for retributory attacks by the IRA. He had to get Sybil out of Ireland, which meant extricating himself, because she damn well wouldn't go by herself and had already told him so. But, leaving the country with a bounty on his head potentially put the others at risk, something he would have to live with. All that mattered was living with her. They had only one place to go, a prison in itself.

"I have to get a message to her...please."

She had been sitting by the front window of the flat, waiting for him, watching the late afternoon pedestrians scurrying home from work on the street below. The world outside had become a complex web of subtlety and secrecy, unspoken questions and silent answers. Tom's work at the Bulletin was a constant source of fear. The other Republican newspapers had largely been suppressed by Dublin Castle, with only the Bulletin, working underground under constant threat of attack, surviving as both the official organ of Sinn Fein and the outside world's window into Ireland's struggle for freedom. She was proud of his work there, but as the war escalated, so did the threats against the paper.

At first, the little boy appeared quite ordinary, about seven or so, carrying a book under his arm. She heard the bell ring in Mr. Murphy's bookstore downstairs below their flat, followed a few moments later by heavy footsteps on the small stairwell. She recognized the old man's irregular gait and met him at the door, his face one of urgency as he held out the book, a copy of Mills' England and Ireland. Opening the front cover, she recognized her husband's distinctive script.

The Rest is Detail.

She met him on the bridge at St. Stephen's Green, a decision made long ago. It was there, on that little stone bridge over the lake, that they strolled in celebration of his new position at the Bulletin last November. And it was there, that same afternoon when she caught him happily gazing down at the paddling ducks and told him he would be a father. An initial shock silenced him for a few moments before he broke into a jubilant smile. He hoisted her up in his arms, their voices harmonious bells of laughter and joy. That was then. But now, seven months later, he nearly collapsed into her embrace when she reached him. Clinging to her, he rested a reassuring palm against her cheek.

"We have a plan," she said, her voice calm, clear, like the still waters below.

He nodded, his own voice caught somewhere in his throat.

"Then you must go. Now." She dug in her coat pocket, quietly slipping a thick envelope into his hands. "Everything you need is there. I'll follow as quickly as I can, either tonight or tomorrow. Just as soon as I can close the flat. I promise."

"Sybil...I..."

She lay her forehead against his, a hand pressed against the front of his shirt, and kissed him once, and then again. "None of that now. I just want you safe. Please," she begged. "I'll give them a ring if I can."

He buried his face into her neck, his breath, quickened by uncertainty, brushing warmly across her skin. "I love you," he whispered.

She swallowed against the tears, and held his face in her hands. "Don't stop until you get there. Promise me."

He nodded again, his hand slipping to feel the mass of the baby between them as he pressed a final frantic kiss against her mouth.

Never let the sun set on your anger, her mother-in-law advised. That was the night before their wedding, a little pearl of wisdom from a woman who spent more than thirty years in an undersized cottage with a family of nine. And for the first year of their marriage, they lived by that rule, even if it meant forsaking sleep to work through their disagreements. But, now, on her return to Downton, an expatriate from her adopted country, she awoke regretting last night's unresolved tension.

The blur of the previous twenty-four hours reminded her of the days at Downton Hospital during the war, after some major offensive when scores of wounded arrived in desperate need of immediate care. She functioned automatically through the blood and the screams until granted a break later in the day, when the rush of energy waned and emotion crept in. She glanced over at her husband, safely tucked in beside her. On her way here, she wondered if she would ever see him again, and once finally reassured by his embrace there in the hall, she promised herself it would never happen again. Certainly, not if she could help it.

So, it was the fear that drove her to lash out and accuse him of dishonesty. Fear for him and fear for their child. We need peace and safety, she demanded. Downtown can offer us both. Weary and exiled from his troubled homeland, now beholden to her family for his freedom, he offered a perfunctory kiss good night, turned away from her, defeated, and switched off the lamp.

Sybil sighed and pushed herself up for another trip to the bathroom. When she returned, she found he had rolled over, holding the covers for her. She sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the baby sinking her further into the mattress. Accepting his help, she pushed back into his arms, comfortable and relieved lying in the crook of his shoulder. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep," he confessed, wrapping his arms around her. "Are you alright?"

"Quite. Although I wish the baby had place to sit than other than my bladder. The poor thing's running out of room."

He pressed a kiss against her shoulder and sighed. "I should have told you about the meetings. I'm sorry."

"Tom, it's not like I didn't know...something. Maybe, I just didn't want to say anything about it. I know how much you love Ireland and how much you want to be there through the changes..."

"Nothing means more than you do," he whispered quickly, his hand gliding over the peak of her stomach. "And our little one."

Her hand captured his and squeezed it. "We don't have to decide anything right now, but we'll figure it out together."

"We always do."

She felt his soft smile against her shoulder. "I just can't think of anything else at the moment other than getting your child out of me. Pregnancy has lost the last of its charms."

He pulled the billowing white cotton of her nightgown above her stomach, both of them long since comfortable with sharing the natural changes of her body. His hand brushed across the taut skin, savoring the soft movements within. Such a simple, yet complex thing, he thought. Their child already formed with arms and legs, fingers and toes, and even a heartbeat that just weeks ago they listened to with a borrowed stethoscope from the hospital. "Do you think you're ready?"

"I think so, though I'm afraid it's coming out won't be nearly as much fun as when it went in."

He broke into a laugh and bent to kiss the skin beneath his fingers, her hands sifting through his hair. The baby shifted unexpectedly beneath his lips.

"He's getting restless again."

Tom's head perked up. "You think it's a boy?"

"I don't know, but sometimes I think so," she said, recalling recent dreams of a blue-eyed son, full of mischief like him. "If it is, he's just like his father. Always wanting to wake me up in the middle of the night for one reason or another."

He returned her teasing grin. "Don't you pretend for one second you don't enjoy it either."

The baby responded to their laughter and twisted slowly beneath their interlaced fingers. "Tom..." She hesitated, watching as he placed a few last soft kisses against her stomach, lowered her gown again, and slipped back beside her. She turned in his arms, her fingers toying with the collar of his shirt. "Tom, I've been thinking about something for a while...something, I'm not sure you'll agree to, so please think about it before you say no."

His brows furrowed, wondering why she assumed he would say no to anything she asked.

"I want you to be with me when the baby's born."

"What?" Of all the bold questions he expected, that wasn't one of them.

"Please just consider it." Disconcerted by his rare silence, she reminded him, "Your father was there when you were born."

"But that's different," he breathed, still reeling from her question. "He didn't have time to fetch the midwife. I just...popped out. Are you sure that's something you want me to see?"

"We don't have too many secrets as far as that's concerned," she teased. "Besides, it's either be here with me as your child comes into the world, or wait downstairs with Papa."

He frowned at the thought of hours roasting under Lord Grantham's glare. "It's not very conventional, you know."

Laughing, she snuggled closer to him, kissing his stubbled cheek. "No, but neither are we. And if we're going to be here, for however long or short a time that may be, we'll do things our own way," she declared, pulling their joined hands atop her middle. "And it starts with this."

Downton, April 1922

For the second time in his life, Tom watched his mother board a train not knowing when he would see her again. Catching her smile through the third-class window, he lofted his hat, waving it through the steam. Cathleen blew her youngest son and his family an affectionate kiss as the wheels slowly twisted along the rails, taking them towards Liverpool. Unashamed, his eyes pooled with tears and followed hers until they were out of sight, down the tracks. He felt a set of slender fingers weave with his and squeeze his hand.

The platform grew quiet, with only a few lingering passengers milling about. Staring at the rails, empty and curving round the bend, he was drawn back to the present by a beautiful, husky laugh. He followed Sybil's gaze down to his shoes, where his laces lay unbound and flat on the ground. Bobby peered up at him with an irresistible grin, guiltily holding one of the laces in his hand. Tom kneeled, eye level with his son, his expression somewhere between a scowl and a smirk as he re-tied each shoe. The little boy watched, fascinated with each twist of his father's fingers, and eagerly stretched a pair of chubby hands towards him when he stood.

Hoisting the child into his arms, Tom couldn't help but smile. "Robert Daniel Branson, just what am I going to do with you?" Giggling, the little boy flung his small arms around his father's neck in a fierce hug.

Sybil snaked an arm around her husband's waist and leaned up, brushing her mouth, warm and soft, against his. Impatiently, Bobby wedged his way in to share his own sloppy kisses. They pulled apart, laughing and content, an unspoken promise for that evening passing between them. Taking her hand, he kissed her again, and whispered, "Let's go home."

A/N 2: If you made it this far, thanks (!) for sticking with these three chapters - I debated about whether to just end "Home" with this one as a nice round out. That and my brain is pretty sapped after the last three chapters - they wound up being almost equal in length to the first five combined, but I still have one or two other ideas floating around in my head that I'll try to do.

Again, this was just one interpretation of Tom's past and politics. Couple of notes – first, one (and there were many) of the things that irked me about 3x04 was that Sybil and Tom knew 'something might happen' and 'had a plan,' but yet she was upset about his attending meetings. (Huh?!) Sybil's no dummy; she would have known something, so I tried to take a stab at fixing that in one of the flashbacks. Second, I don't see Tom's politics as being particularly black and white – I think he's more of a humanist at heart, going back to the "I'm a socialist not a revolutionary" mantra. So, I think it's reasonable to assume he would struggle in Dublin's political climate of the time (which was more nationalist than socialist, at least in my cursory reading).

Next: Summer 1922, the Crawleys and Bransons visit the Flintshires in Scotland. It's going to be pretty plot-less, though, just shameless fluff and fun. My hope is to post it before "Journey to the Highlands" airs in the US, but I'm a slow writer (took well over a month for Chapters 6-8).

But, just for fun, here's a little teaser:

Lord Flintshire turned back round to the table, astonished at the sight of Lord Grantham and each of his family staring daggers at Lady Sybil's husband.

"Can we not take you anywhere?" the Dowager asked, her aged voice escaping in a derisive sigh.

Unperturbed and forking up the last of his peas, Tom scanned the disapproving faces surrounding him. "Well don't look at me," he said, eyes twinkling. "You've got the wrong Branson this time."

Across the table, Sybil pinked guiltily.

Lord Grantham's brows knit together in a single judgmental wrinkle. "Sybil?"