A/N: Wow – two chapters in less than a month – I'm really on a roll here. :p While I was stuck on an upcoming chapter, I needed to break away, shake off the funk, and start something else. The idea for this one came out of a brief flashback paragraph in The Tenant's Boy, Part III. In that chapter, I mistakenly noted Sybil's announcement as coming in November – whoops - it should have been December, so that was corrected here. This one's nothin' but fluff and an intro for the next two chapters.

Thanks again for the reviews and those who continue to read despite the long lapses between chapters (the next couple should come in quick succession – relatively speaking).

Totally unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine...

ST. STEPHEN'S GREEN

Dublin, December 21, 1919

Tom awoke to the sounds of his fellow Dubliners beginning their day on the street below. Squinting against the lamplight in their bedroom, his mind lumbered in that no-man's land between sleep and consciousness. Reaching instinctively for his wife, his hands skimmed unfettered across the cold sheets. He heard the gentle rattle of pots and pans and sighed, hating mornings like this when only one of them had to go to work. He snatched the covers over his head as footsteps thumped gently across their bedroom floor; the bedframe squeaked when Sybil sank down beside him.

"Good morning," came the husky murmur behind his ear.

He snuggled towards her warmth. "Hmm. G'mornin'."

"What time is your interview?" Sybil peeled down the sheet and pressed soft kisses against his brow.

"Ten," he murmured as his blue eyes fluttered open. "Don't worry, love. I won't fall back to sleep. Joe worked too hard to set it up." It had taken longer than he hoped, but Tom's oldest brother had finally scheduled a meeting with the Dáil Éireann's new Director of Propaganda.

"I pressed your suit - it's in the kitchen. And wear the plaid tie."

He smirked. "I've plenty of practice dressing myself."

"I know, darling, but since my wardrobe is limited to these drab uniforms, I need to have fun with your clothes. Old habits and all that."

"Well, you certainly have your fun getting me out of them," he quipped and reached for her. "Come 'ere. I'm cold."

Swatting at his wandering hands, Sybil bent to slip on her shoes and then squealed when he tugged her back on the bed. "Tom, stop!" she squeaked as he tickled her into submission.

Panting from laughter, he pinned her beneath him and nipped his way down her neck. "You don't have to be at work for a while yet."

As his nimble fingers worked to unbutton her uniform, she groaned in frustration. On any other day, they could have spent those few extra minutes tumbling around in bed. "I need to go in early today... Tom..."

His name slurred into a moan as his mouth coupled with hers. His hand snaked its way into her uniform, cupping a breast and squeezing gently. Sybil moaned again, this time followed by a hiss. His head snapped up. "What?" When she didn't answer, he pushed away from her, anxious. "You did that last night, too. Sybil, what is it?"

Forcing a smile, she righted herself on the bed and once again leaned over to search for her shoes. She hesitated a moment before answering, "You know how it is. Sometimes things hurt at certain times of the month."

"I didn't think. I'm sorry, love."

Shoes secured, she shook her head with an assuring smile and turned to smack a playful kiss on his cheek. "No, it's alright. Just one of the joys of being a woman." She strode toward the bureau, brushing the tangles from her hair.

Tom dangled his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. "What time does your shift end today?"

"Five, unless there's an emergency." Sybil smiled indulgently as he shuffled around the small room, naked as the day he was born. Marriage had certainly changed her expectations about domesticity. She couldn't imagine her parents being so bold, but then again, she didn't want to.

"Where..."

"...on the floor, darling."

Tom reached down for the discarded pajama bottoms and slipped them on before stepping behind her. He cast a brash grin at her reflection and then pinched her rear. "If I recall, that's where you threw them."

Tucking the last of her hair beneath the edge of the nurse's cap, she followed him through the parlor and into the kitchen to finish setting his breakfast. Hearing him stumble into the adjacent small bathroom, she rolled her eyes. "I do wish you'd learn to shut the door when you go in there," she called. Her only response was a slam. She laughed, marveling at how they continued negotiating the triangle of propriety between his upbringing, hers, and married life. But Sybil drew a hard line with the bathroom door.

Tom soon trundled into the kitchen rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Leaning against the counter, she held out a Christmas card, biting back a smile. "It's to both of us."

He expected something more elegant befitting the House of Grantham, so he couldn't help but laugh. On the front of the card, a comically sketched couple sat in an open roadster with a Christmas tree poking from the back seat. May you be in good running to enjoy the happiness this festive season brings, and in the New Year ne'er a breakdown. He flipped it open to read the inside. Dearest Sybil and Tom: A couple's first Christmas together is a joyous occasion. We hope you are both well and consider a visit home soon. Love, Mama, Mary and Edith. Neither he nor Sybil mentioned the absent signatory.

"If you want to go, there's still time to change your mind," Tom said. He dreaded the inevitable return to Downton.

Pouring his coffee, she shook her head. "We haven't saved anything specifically for travel and I'm not sure I'm ready to go back to all that yet, even for a few days. I'd much rather be here with you and have a quiet Christmas... just the two of us."

Tom sipped his coffee, grateful for the hot bitterness that would get him through the morning. "So would I. Besides, I think the Servant's Ball would be a little awkward, don't you?"

"I suspect so, particularly since you're the only son-in-law at the moment. I believe Miss O'Brien would be your partner for the first dance."

He winced. "That in itself is enough to keep me here."

"I feel rather sorry for Granny's partner this year, whoever that is. She always preferred you above anyone else." She laughed when his eyes lit smugly.

"It's just a matter of rhythm, milady," he teased, setting his cup on the counter. Pulling her into his arms, he twirled her around their tiny kitchen until he bumped them into the icebox. Sybil's palm drifted to his face, soft against the morning stubble on his cheek. He turned to press his lips against it with a slow smile. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Her thoughts had wandered and she twitched her head. "Like what?"

"Like you want to cry." Despite his smile, she heard concern leech into his voice.

"Because I'm so happy here... with you." She pulled him into a kiss, gentle and unhurried, whispering an I love you before pulling away. Tom smiled slowly against her mouth. Admittedly, he was the more romantic of the two, but when her stoicism cracked, it melted his heart.

"It has been a wonderful six months."

"We're practically an old married couple now, aren't we?"

His hands drifted down and squeezed her backside. "Who are you calling old?"

Sybil exhaled a contented sigh as he wrapped his arms around her and rained kisses across her shoulder. Her fingers skimmed the nape of his neck and teased a few errant strands of hair. She made a mental note he needed a trim. As his wife, those little things had become her responsibility, but she didn't mind. Her eyes drifted open to note the time on the clock behind him. "I have to go," she groaned, and then giggled when he nipped her lips again.

"Let's go out for dinner tonight. We haven't been anywhere in a while." Tom's fingers drifted up to brush her cheek. "You've been rather tired from work lately. You deserve a bit of a rest."

She slipped out of his arms with a nod and rummaged around the kitchen for her bag. "Shall we meet at St. Stephen's?"

He winked. "At our spot on the bridge."

"Good luck with your interview." Bag in hand, Sybil fussed one more time with her nurses' cap at the mirror by the door and, as always, turned for one last kiss.

Sybil sat in a cane-bottomed chair in Dr. Sweeney's office, little more than a glorified closet on the fourth floor of the Royal City of Dublin Hospital. Her hands clutched in her lap, she waited impatiently. She glanced at the small clock on the doctor's desk and wondered if Matron Cahill was tapping an annoyed foot already.

"Well, Nurse Branson," the doctor prodded cheerily as he stepped into the room. "Based on your symptoms and our examination, I believe your suspicions are correct. You're about two months gone now from what I can tell." He flipped a paper on his chart, mumbled a few calculations aloud, and then added, "I suspect you conceived sometime in mid-October. Would you agree?"

Sybil wasn't sure if he inquired for medical concurrence or for cheek, but blushed anyway. "We were married in June."

Sitting on the edge of his desk, the doctor chuckled. "Most young couples find themselves in this situation early on...before the novelty wears off, eh?"

That was definitely cheek, but she didn't mind. Dr. Sweeney was a young, progressive physician. Like her, he acquired most of his medical skills during the war, but after seeing so many lives lost or shattered, he opted for obstetrics when he returned to Dublin. Sybil politicked constantly to be moved to his floor, but Matron Cahill kept her nailed down in the general ward.

"I thought I might have been pregnant back in the summer. I missed my cycle, but it came a week later and a bit heavier than usual." At the time, it seemed unnecessary to worry Tom about it.

The doctor hummed. "It's quite possible you were; it's not an uncommon thing to happen. But you've had no irregularities since then?"

"No," she replied, and then hesitated. "I suppose I should have asked this before I was hired on here, but what is the hospital's policy with..." Her mouth had difficulty forming the words, so instead she just pointed her eyes to her stomach.

"Well, we've had a few pregnant nurses before," he mused, and then thoughtfully amended, "but all the ones I recall were unmarried, so their situation was quite different from yours. They were let go, of course."

Sybil sighed, remembering a few of her own wartime colleagues who fell into the same trap. "And no doubt, they or their children will meet a tragic end without a means for support. It's viciously unfair."

"I quite agree," he replied before scanning her chart once more. "But, as far as I am concerned as both your physician and as a colleague, you may work as long as you feel up to it."

"If only it were entirely up to you, Dr. Sweeney. I'll start to show in another month or so."

"I'm more than happy to speak with the director on your behalf." He smiled knowingly. "As well as go to battle against Matron Cahill. Although I doubt she'll want to lose your skills. She may bark at you, but I hear nothing but praise from her."

Sybil found that hard to believe and wondered if he was simply playing polite. "Thank you, Dr. Sweeney."

He nodded. "Ah, I almost forgot. If you would, please send my regards to Mr. Branson. The article he wrote on the recent fundraiser for the children's ward was most helpful."

"I will. It was one of his few recent pieces that he actually enjoyed writing – where he felt it might actually do some good."

"Well, the way he talked about the sick children and how full of promise they each were, I expect he will be quite a happy father-to-be when you tell him your news."

With a soft smile, Sybil remembered Tom's interaction with the little patients. Sneaking peppermint sticks from his pocket, he had told them about the Three Daughters of King O'Hara who had stolen a magical cloak. In their vanity, the oldest two wished for rich husbands and were carried away by horse-drawn carriages. But for her companion, the youngest daughter had chosen a white dog that turned into the most handsome man in the world at night (Tom had emphasized that part with a wink to his wife). Sybil struggled to mimic his solemnity as he meandered through the story, but had laughed when the children clapped upon hearing that the spell was finally broken and the couple lived happily ever after.

"Mrs. Branson?" The doctor's worried tone pulled her from the memory. "Are you alright?"

She followed his eyes to her stomach where her hand had unconsciously settled. Smiling, she stood and shook the doctor's hand. "I'm quite alright," she replied. "And, yes, I expect he will be."

O'Shea's pub buzzed with a boisterous group of laborers ending their overnight shifts. Tom sat in a secluded corner, away from the motley collection of laborers – brewers, dock men, ironmongers – all rough at the edges, but loyal Irishmen from what he could overhear. It was an odd place for a job interview with one of the Republic's leaders, but then again, most of them operated on the move.

Sitting across the table, Desmond FitzGerald scanned intently through a folder of papers with the occasional absent hum or lofted brow. Relaxed back in his chair, he seemed the quintessential bookish sort: gangly, high forehead, big ears. Tom had heard the man was quite literally a poet, a somewhat curious choice for the Dáil's Director of Propaganda.

"Well, you're writing is superb, Mr. Branson," FitzGerald finally professed. "Very descriptive. Powerful selection of words and phraseology."

Tom smiled with a grateful nod and sat straight in his chair. He knew the article had been one of his better pieces, but Mr. FitzGerald's praise was more than he expected. "I wish The Times allowed more opportunities to write about the political situation here," he said and then laughed. "My editor knows my leanings. I suppose he thinks I'm harmless writing about the Protestant Orphan Society."

"Well, your Times isn't about to rattle His Majesty's cage, now is it?"

"Which is why I wished to speak with you," Tom replied. "I've been wanting a change for some time, but haven't had success with any of the Republican papers. Once one of them starts making enough noise, the Castle shuts them down."

"Quite right, but we'll not be," FitzGerald said, his eyes pointed with determination. "The Bulletin ran thirty subscribers just a month ago and now we're well over a few hundred. But, as you know, our object isn't financial success. We may be the so-called Ministry of Propaganda, but we publicize the truth. If a young Irish lad lay murdered in the street, his blood pooling into the gutter while his mother screams at the British that did it, that's what we'll say. War is an ugly business, no need to pretty it up."

"The world needs to know what is happening here," Tom agreed. "Any country born through revolution requires legitimate foreign support to sustain itself."

"You're a student of history, then?" FitzGerald seemed pleased when Tom nodded. "We must all use our talents and yours are most excellent. But I'm reluctant to hire an unknown quantity." Dropping his forearms to the table, he sighed, pensive for a moment. "However, your brother Joe seems to think you a perfect fit for our requirements and he mentioned as much to Mr. Collins."

Tom didn't mention that his brother was hesitant to recommend him at all. You're a lover, not a fighter, Tommy. Best leave this business to those of us with the stomach for it.

"Forgive me for being blunt, Mr. Branson," FitzGerald continued, "but I would be remiss if I didn't do my homework on my applicants. I understand your wife is English: the daughter of the Earl of Grantham, who was your employer for quite some time."

Tom fought a frown. In his naiveté, he had not anticipated the backlash his own countrymen would have against their marriage. "That's right."

"I meant no offense. It's a rather remarkable story if one sits down to think about it."

"It is," Tom said with a thin smile. "But my wife and I both share a passion for righting social injustice, no matter what government rules over them."

FitzGerald couldn't help but chuckle. "I appreciate your humanist principles, but before we can put them into practice here, we must first attain our independence. You are also recently married?"

"That's right."

"Children?"

Tom smiled softly. "Not yet."

"I've two boys myself, and another child on the way."

"I offer my congratulations then."

The Director leaned back again, rocking the legs of his chair. "I mention these things only for your consideration, Mr. Branson. Our paper is quite literally an underground publication. At the moment we have four journalists if you will, and one typesetter, an extraordinary young woman who's put her life at great risk to both print and deliver The Bulletin. It's very likely that what you write won't be received kindly by the Crown or its subordinates at the Castle."

"I wouldn't expect it to," Tom replied. "But my wife and I have discussed the risks, Mr. FitzGerald, and we understand them."

"Very well, then," he said with a nod. He scrounged in his coat pocket for a pencil. "Let's talk particulars, shall we?"

Darkness had fallen across St. Stephen's Green, but neither that nor the cold December winds kept Dubliners from enjoying one of the City's great treasures. Tom stood at the peak of the stone bridge that arched over the lake and leaned back against the wall. With a contented smile, he stared across the landscape, resplendent with a smattering of hissing gas lamps. He and Sybil had fallen in love with the spot and enjoyed meeting there after work to feed the ducks. They're just like you, he once told her, paddling away behind the stoic veneer.

He thought of how much Dublin had changed since he left in 1913. On his arrival in the park earlier, he saw the pock marks from gunfire on the Fusiliers Arch, nicked there when the Easter Rising began. St. Stephen's had been fortified that day and the trenches carved around its perimeter were poor protection from the British guns bearing down from the Shelbourne Hotel. Hearing a cacophony of quacks, Tom turned and glanced down at the water. A mother duck appeared from beneath the bridge, followed by two little ducklings. Despite the cannonade during the Rising - if the story was true - the guns fell silent long enough to let the park-keeper feed the waterfowl: a bit of humanity in the midst of revolution.

Though he had missed the Rising and the early days of the Republic, he stood now in a country ready to break free, shedding its subjugating chains link by link. Just two days before, the Irish Republican Brotherhood attacked the convoy of Viscount Sir John French just outside the city. And earlier that morning, the Brotherhood wrecked the offices of the Irish Independent, retaliation against the paper's pro-British coverage of the attack. Such strikes and counterstrikes had become commonplace throughout the country. Tom had once told Sybil a future worth having required hard sacrifices. He still believed that, but as a husband he found hard sacrifices defined more personally, and he worried every day when she journeyed to and from the hospital on foot.

Tom felt a familiar hand ghost up his back and he turned with a slow smile. Sybil's cheeks were pinked from the cold damp winds; she plucked off his hat and kissed him. Hearing a disgruntled cough from a passerby, she chuckled against his lips and deepened the kiss until Tom pulled back, breathless. He gave her an impish grin. "You must have had a very good day."

"I did," she replied, her lips twitching with a coquettish smile. "And, I'll tell you about it, but first I really want to know about your interview..."

Leaning back against the stone wall, he pulled her to him. "It went very well. Excellent, in fact. Mr. FitzGerald offered me a job on the spot."

"I knew he would!" Sybil bounced on her heels and flung her arms around his neck. "When do you start?"

"First of the year. And, it's a real chance to help Ireland, Sybil. No more sewer lines and power outages for this journalist."

"I know, darling, and I'm so proud of you," she said, laying a hand on his chest. "But please don't think your other work has gone unnoticed. I saw Dr. Sweeney today and he wanted me to thank you for your recent article. He's been trying for months to bring attention to the children's ward and its lack of modern equipment. Four new donors have stepped in."

Tom smiled. "I was glad to do it. When I met with him, he seemed very passionate about his job."

"He's one of the best doctors they have; he's quite progressive when it comes to his treatments and his politics."

"You speak very highly of him. Should I be worried?" A bit of boyish insecurity seeped into his question.

"Hardly. I doubt I'm his type." She raised a brow. "In a certain way, he reminds me of Thomas Barrow."

"In personality or...preferences?"

"The latter."

"Ah."

"He's a good man, Tom, and a fine doctor. So, please don't say anything. The patients at the hospital couldn't afford to lose someone of his ability."

"Of course not. Besides, we all have our own vices," he said. "I've no right to judge another man."

She lifted her hands to tease his tie. "And what are your vices, Tom Branson?"

"You, of course. I can't get enough of you..." His mouth captured hers and he sighed at silky texture of her tongue against his. Sybil hummed against his lips and a warmth flooded through her despite the brisk winds. She pulled back with a pretty blush.

"Speaking of which, I have something to tell you..." But when she opened her mouth to finish, nothing came.

Tom laughed and tipped her chin up. "What is it?"

All day at work she had concocted memorable phrases to reveal the news. Instead, when the moment came, all she could muster was, "You're going to be a father." Tom stood uncharacteristically speechless, his expression one of shock, and she began to worry. But then she saw the moisture beading in his eyes. His cheeks trembled into an awestruck smile.

"Are you certain?"

"That's why I saw Dr. Sweeney today," she answered. "He said I'm about two months along."

Hoisting her gently in his arms, he captured her mouth; their tears added a salty flavor to the kiss. "Oh, my darling, you'll be a wonderful mother," he finally said, laughing as she swiped the moisture from his face. His mind drifted back to just a year ago. The war was over, Ireland was calling him home, and with the uncertainty of her decision, he had never felt more isolated from the world. But not now. "Seven months and we'll have our own family."

"I know it wasn't something we especially talked about or tried to prevent for that matter, but you truly don't mind?"

"Of course not! And you?"

She shook her head. "I'm a bit nervous," she admitted as he set her back down. "But in a good way. Like when I decided to marry you or on our wedding night – the start of a great adventure! I know I'll have to stop working eventually, but there's no reason I can't go back to it after..." Her brows furrowed when his face fell. "Tom?" His eyes shifted to his shoes. "Darling, what is it?"

"When I accepted the job today, I didn't know... rather, I didn't think... about a baby."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the salary is less than what I make at The Times."

At Downton, money had been just another accepted fact, just like staff and clean sheets. Sybil had only started thinking about budgets, but had easily adjusted to their frugal lifestyle. His expression frightened her.

"I haven't turned in my notice yet," he said. "I'll send Mr. FitzGerald a note tomorrow and..."

"No. You're not giving up this chance at your dream."

"You're my dream..." She rolled her eyes and he sighed. "Sybil, with the two of us working, we have enough to put a little away each month. The position at The Bulletin, at least for now, won't let us do that. And, as you said, at some point you'll no longer be able to work. I don't think we have much of a choice..."

"I won't let you." Her hands framed his cheeks, forcing their eyes to meet. "This will not set us back. That's not what people like us do. We've yet to touch any of my dowry; there's more than enough there to help us by while I'm not working..."

His eyes hardened. "I can take care of my own family. I don't need your father's money."

"It's my money," she reminded him, dropping her hands in a huff. "If you won't even allow it to be used on our child, then what the bloody good is it?" He looked away. "Tom, please," she whispered and waited for his eyes to come back to her. "Coming to Ireland with you, having the freedom to live an ordinary life as a wife and a nurse..." She smiled slowly. "...and now a mother... those have been your gifts to me. You waited a long time to follow your dream. Let this be my gift to you."

Sneaking his fingers between them, he took her hand and sighed when she brought them against her stomach. "Alright," he relented after a moment. "But we'll use it when only we absolutely have to." He laughed then. "Damn, but you're a stubborn woman."

She leaned up to smack a playful kiss on his lips. "But you love me anyway."

"More than anything." He kissed her back, his mouth curling into a cheeky grin. "We're having a baby," he said, and then his eyes seemed to twinkle. "I wonder how Lord Grantham will feel about a Fenian grandchild."

"Tom." Trembling with suppressed laughter, her rebuke didn't quite come out as planned. "I believe I've changed my mind about dinner," she said, slipping her arms around his waist. "Let's go home, Mr. Branson. We didn't get to finish what we started this morning."

Tom's eyes darted down to her stomach. "Are you sure it's alright?"

She laughed and tugged him by the hand. "It's quite alright, I assure you. Besides, we've nothing to be afraid of if the baby can survive last night... or the day before yesterday..."

"...or the day before that..." Tom finished for her as they descended the bridge, their linked hands swinging lazily between them.

A/N2: As I was trying to look up stories Tom might have told the hospital children, I came across the "Three Daughters of King O'Hara" and had immediate S/T feels (it's also closely related to Beauty and the Beast). I had to butcher it down to a few sentences for this story, but its worth a read (Google it, just don't read the Wikipedia version).

Also, the Christmas card was based on a real 1920s card I found online (I'd link it, but stupid FF and its no weblink policy...).

Next up: The obligatory 3x05 re-write, in two parts.