Hey wonderful reader!
So, this is the chapter where you shall all finally find out what happened between Thomas and Jimmy. For those who have been waiting... yay!
Now, in response to macyrose's review (and all those who may have been thinking the same thing) this is not – I repeat – IS NOT A JIMMY/THOMAS FANFIC! This story is about Sybbie Branson, and Thomas Barrow, and how they help one another through difficult times in their lives. I know the last few chapters have had more Jimmy/Thomas, and less Sybbie/Thomas – I'm sorry to those who this has annoyed. I understand your concern, but don't worry: ALL IS NOT LOST ;D
So, this chapter has a very sweet interaction between Sybbie and Thomas – I hope you all go 'Aww!' So yeah, here it is, and I hope you all enjoy it.
BTW: Just a little random fandom (hey, it rhymed!) information – I've finally decided on a piece of music that, were Incredibly Close a film, would totally feature in the theatrical trailer. It would be Hold On by Tony Anderson – look it up! Brilliant song, amazing composer!
Sparki: I own nothing!
"Thomas?"
Sybil's voice was quiet; Thomas had to lean closer, just to catch her words. "Yes?" he replied.
"I think Jameson is lovely," the little girl sighed, before glancing up at her weary companion. "Don't you?" Thomas thought for a moment. "I suppose," he murmured. "I don't know him all too well." Sybil smiled.
"Well, his is," she announced decisively. Thomas hid a smile of his own.
Side by side, they walked down the long and empty road. Beneath their feet, the dirt was dusty. It stirred every now and again, cajoled into fine clouds by the evening's gentle breeze. Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the wind as it blew across his upturned face.
Sybil's hand was warm in his own. She refused to let him go; even as they had meandered in and between the stalls, even as she had stood, a shy smile painting her face as she made doe eyes at Jameson. All the while, the little girl had held his hand, as though there was nothing she treasured more than his fingers, as they knotted themselves around her own. Thomas smiled once more, gazing at the dimming sky. He didn't mind, holding Sybil's hand.
"Do you think someone is lovely?" she asked suddenly. Confused, Thomas studied the girl, as dawdled along by his side. "What do you mean?" he inquired. Sybil looked thoughtful.
"Well," she began, swinging his hand as she spoke, "Papa must have thought my mother was lovely." She gazed up at Thomas, a question in her dark eyes. "Was she? Was my mother lovely?" Thomas looked away, his pale eyes shadowed, with memories he did not wish to share. At least, not with Sybil's daughter. Not yet.
He knew that the girl was waiting for an answer, but it took him a few moments to find his voice. "Yes, she was," he finally uttered.
Sybil looked at him strangely then, as though she believed there was something he had yet to tell her. But she asked no more.
As a gutsy gust blew by, the child sidled closer, shivering slightly. Her fingers tightened around his. Another gust, and Sybil yawned. It was slowly getting darker; Thomas could barely see the sun. It remained as nothing more than a lingering streak of light, peeking over the distant mountains.
"Thomas," Sybil sighed, "I'm tired." As the slurred words tumbled from her lips, the girl slowed her wandering footsteps, before falling to a halt. Standing in the dust, she brought her free hand to her face. She rubbed at her eyes, yawning once more. Thomas marvelled at how quickly she had rolled downhill. One moment, the girl was skipping along like a foal in the spring. The next, she was asleep where she stood. He gave a sigh.
"We're not far away now," he promised Sybil. "We'll be home soon." But Sybil shook her weary head. Thomas sighed once more.
"Would you... would you like me... to carry you?"
Sybil nodded. Her eyes drooping, she held out her arms.
Awkward and unsure, Thomas knelt down upon the path. He let the little girl wrap her little arms around his neck. Unlike her earlier entanglement, this embrace was tender, ridden with affection, and trust. Thomas cleared his throat.
"Are you alright, Miss Sybil?" he asked, and when he felt the girl nod, he gently lifted her from the ground.
He felt as though her were carrying nothing more than an especially large blanket. Sybil's small form was all but weightless; were it not for the little head resting against his shoulder, Thomas might have forgotten that he carried anyone at all. He heard Sybil give another, lasting yawn.
Thomas felt a little odd, carrying the girl in such a way. He was Downton's under butler – not a governess. But he was not about to make the poor child walk; already, her eyelids had fallen shut. Soon, she would be asleep.
"Thomas...," It was a whisper against his ear, nothing more. But Thomas smiled. "Yes, Miss Sybil?"
The girl sighed. "Who do you think is lovely?"
"You are, Miss Sybil," he answered honestly. He felt his cheeks flush, and he lowered his head in embarrassment. Despite her fatigue, Sybil giggled.
"Not me, silly," she whispered, the smile in her voice unconcealed. "Someone else, like my mother."
Thomas stiffened, only slightly.
"Do you think someone is lovely?"
For a time, all was quiet. The only sound was the fall of Thomas' feet upon the ground.
Do I?
"Yes," he finally admitted. "Yes, I do." He could almost see Sybil's grin. It made him smile as well.
"Is she beautiful?"
Thomas' smile faded.
Thankfully, Sybil had given into the pull of sleep. Her warm breath, untroubled and steady, tickled his neck, but Thomas didn't care. He held her tighter, her little body cradled against his chest. Even in sleep, her arms remained wrapped around his neck.
"You are lovely, Sybil Branson," he whispered. Slowly, he walked on.
"Room for two?"
I looked up, somewhat startled from my thoughts. Through the cloud of smoke that rose from the tip of my cigarette, I could see Jimmy leaning in the open doorway, his handsome face adorned with a winning smile. I returned the sentiment with a small grin of my own.
"Why not?" I murmured, before taking a mouthful of the soothing fumes. I heard footsteps – bright and spritely. Within seconds, Jimmy was beside me. I pretended not to notice his arm brushing against mine. Instead, I turned my gaze to the night's sky, speckled with stars. A gentle trail of shadow rose through the air. The burning butt glowed in the darkness. I brought it to my lips once more.
"Happy Birthday," Jimmy sighed. I glanced at him, all at once impressed, and pleasantly surprised. "Thank you," I smiled, before adding, "I expect you bought me something wonderful, then?" I smirked, but Jimmy shifted slightly on his feet. He looked suddenly uncomfortable; his cheeks were flushed, and he refused to meet my gaze. I frowned.
"You didn't actually buy me anything, did you?" I ventured, hoping like hell that he would say no. I was relieved to see Jimmy shaking his head. "Good," I mumbled over my cigarette. "Otherwise, I'd have had to buy you something in return." It was Jimmy's turn to frown.
"My birthday isn't until November," he reminded me. I shrugged nonchalantly, but Jimmy's unease remained. I sighed. "What's the matter with you, then?" I asked, the glowing butt bouncing between my lips. Jimmy was visibly nerve-stricken.
"I do have a gift for you," he murmured after a moment. He spoke the words as one who was admitting to a folly, or confessing a sin. He sounded almost apologetic, as though he were ashamed of doing do. I frowned again.
"So...?" I urged him gently. "What's the matter with you, Jimmy?" He shifted once more.
"I'm just...," he struggled, "not sure how I should... should give it to you." I rolled my eyes, a smile of exasperation stealing over my lips. "For Christ's sake, Jimmy," I sighed, pulling the cigarette from my mouth. I let it fall to the ground, and unceremoniously, covered it with my foot. "Would it be easier if I closed my eye?" To my surprise, he nodded.
And so, with the beginnings of uncertainty creeping into my mind, my eyes fluttered closed.
I felt strange; I could hear Jimmy's stammered breaths, and I could smell the quiet, unassuming scent that seemed to follow the lad wherever he went. I could almost feel him – he was so very close. But I couldn't see him.
"Thomas?" Jimmy's voice was soft, and seemed to echo my own apprehension.
"Yes?" I whispered.
"Don't... don't open your eyes." I felt a shiver, cold and strangely inviting, run through my body. "Alright?"
I nodded. "Alright."
Jimmy pressed himself against my beating heart. He held me gently, as though he were afraid that I might shatter if gripped too tightly. He lay his fingers softly upon my cheek, bringing my face to his. With his other hand, he traced a slow circle upon my thigh. I could feel my skin burning beneath his touch.
I knew that I should pull away; I knew that I should put an end to this madness. But instead, I found myself cupping the back of Jimmy's head in my injured hand. My fingers knotted themselves into his fair locks. His golden waves were soft, and felt cool in the night's frozen air.
But it was his lips that held me there. I couldn't have pulled myself away; even if I'd wanted to.
I'd tasted them once before; but only for a brief, passing moment. They were gone before I could really feel them. They were gone, before I could commit their sweetness to memory. I didn't want to leave them.
But I knew that I couldn't stay.
And so, with a heavy heart, I pushed a hand against his chest. I felt his mouth, warm and wanting, fall away from mine. I pressed my forehead against his, not yet ready for us to part.
"Jimmy," I stammered, searching for my stolen breath, "I...I...,"
"What is the meaning of this?"
A flash of light, a shocking moment of pain, and I found myself on the ground. With a trembling hand, I reached for my face. Blood, warm and running, stained my pale fingers. Hesitant with confusion, I pulled myself up. Sitting upon the cold stone, I gazed up into the astonished and appalled eyes of Mrs. Hughes.
"M-Mrs. Hughes," I stammered, my voice struggling to escape. I managed to hold it steady. "We were... that is, J-Jimmy was...," I tried to think, to form a coherent sentence, but the blood pouring down my throat, and the pain that throbbed within my temples numbed my mind.
Why am I bleeding?
Searching for help, I turned to Jimmy.
And I froze.
He was staring at me, as though I were the most disgusting creature he had ever laid eyes open. His right hand, he held clenched into a fist. In the moon's glow I could see red splashed upon the taunt skin. My mind scrambled frantically through the darkness, searching for anything that made sense. But all that remained was confusion, and a fear, cold and grey. It was a fear that, try as I might, I could not dispel. I looked pleadingly at Jimmy.
"J-Jimmy?" I whispered, but the lad scrambled away from me, eyes wide and frightened.
"H-He kissed me!" he cried, his voice broken. "Mrs. Hughes, again! H-He kissed me... again!" The housekeeper looked back and forth between the two of us. Inside, I felt my heart, which only moments ago had beaten with such happiness, beginning to crack. But still, I refused to believe the blatant truth. Slowly, I shook my head.
"Jimmy," I croaked, "please, I...," I shook my head once more, as my voice began to break. Speechless, I gazed up at him, trying to convey with my eyes the words my tongue could no longer twist. But Jimmy looked away.
He looked away.
"Please... don't...," I hung my head. It was so cold, alone in the darkness. I felt so cold.
"James." Mrs. Hughes' strangled words seemed distant and hollow. "Get yourself inside." I could feel his eyes upon my lowered head. He was trying to reach me. But I refused.
"Now, James!" I heard his scurry away.
"Thomas." My name. "Thomas, look at me." I shook my head, mute.
"Thomas!" Finally, I looked up. Mrs. Hughes was gazing at me, but all her previous disgust and horror had faded into something that I almost didn't recognise. As she looked down at me, it was disappointment that I saw, splayed painfully across her shadowed face. Chastened, I turned away once more.
"Mrs. Hughes...," I tried, "I... I didn't... that is, it was-," But Mrs. Hughes stopped me.
"Thomas." Her voice was soft. "I saw everything." At that, my head shot up. Seeing my confused expression, she nodded.
"I know," she sighed. "I saw."
All was quiet downstairs, as Thomas stepped silently into the servants' hall. The others had yet to return, and he assumed that Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and those who had remained, might have taken the very rare opportunity to bid the day goodnight, early.
Sybil was curled against his shivering body, her face hidden within his neck. Thomas smiled, and nudged the heavy door shut with his foot.
"Good evening, Mr. Barrow." Thomas jumped, and spun around, momentarily forgetting the sleeping child he held in his arms. Mrs. Hughes sat alone, her hands folded around a steaming cup of tea. Thomas felt his chest tighten.
"Mrs. Hughes," he stammered, suddenly wishing that Sybil was invisible. The housekeeper studied the bundle in the under butler's arms, and raised a brow. "Where is Miss Michaels?" she inquired passively. Thomas cleared his throat.
"Uh, she was taken ill," he explained, stepping forward. He moved quietly, unwilling to wake his slumbering charge. As he reached for the nearest chair, he felt Sybil tighten her grip around his neck. Thomas froze, but above the girl's head, he caught Mrs. Hughes' weary smile. With a sigh, he lowered himself down. Sybil stirred, but she didn't wake. Thomas sighed again; this time, in relief. He could still feel Mrs. Hughes' kind gaze resting upon him. Hesitantly, he glanced up, and offered the housekeeper a sheepish smile.
"It won't happen again, Mrs. Hughes," he promised. But Mrs. Hughes simply chuckled.
"It's alright, Mr. Barrow," she assured Thomas, before raising the cup to her lips. She took a slow, luxurious sip of the milky liquid. As the cup clinked against its saucer, she gazed at Sybil's sleeping form with sad eyes.
"The poor thing," she murmured, barely loud enough for Thomas to snatch. "How lonesome she must be without her father." Thomas sighed, and gazed down at the little girl. Strands of dark hair had escaped from her bow; they now fell, rogue and unkempt across her fair face. Thomas smiled once more.
"I feel sorry for her," he admitted suddenly. Mrs. Hughes studied him.
"How so?" Thomas glanced up.
"Well," he began softly, "she'll all alone, isn't she? No other children – apart from Master Crawley, of course." Thomas laughed, as he shared a silent joke with the sleeping Sybil. "And I'm not entirely sure that counts as decent company. Not for Miss Branson, anyway." Mrs. Hughes looked amused, but she remained silent. It was then, that Thomas realized who he was talking to. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat.
"You won't... tell Mr. Carson?" he ventured, imploring the woman with pale eyes. "Will you?" To his surprise, Mrs. Hughes shook her head.
"I shan't breathe a word."
Ta-da! Now you all know. Ooh, and in the next chapter, I can promise that we will check in with poor old Tom, who is currently cooped up in London : ( I hope you all enjoyed it!
