A note on the previous chapter. Initially, I had a hard time translating Matthew and Mary to a modern AU because both are such creatures of the time the show takes place, Mary particularly, but once I got going, it all came out pretty easily. Sex with a virtual stranger is pretty out of character for them both, so I hope that they way I set it up was somewhat believable.

I initially intended for this chapter to pick up where the last one left off with Matthew, but I realized that in order to keep the story linear we had to check in with Tom and Sybil first, so here's a short interlude on the non-kiss from Tom's perspective.

Tom

Tom did not remember going to sleep.

He remembered every detail of the evening, starting from when he first saw Sybil at the airport, to making an utter fool of himself when she approached him to the drive to Matthew's flat during which it took all his will power to keep his eyes on the road and not on the beautiful girl next to him, to their intimately noisy dinner during which he hung on her every word, to their stroll through his favorite spots during which he beamed inwardly as she seemed to hang on every word of his, to their run through the rain to the look on her face, mere millimeters from his, when her bloody sister got in the way of what he was sure was going to be the greatest kiss in the history of human lips.

Sybil had squeezed her eyes shut in frustration, walked over to her handbag and sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling when she saw who it was.

"It's my sister Mary. She'll just keep calling if I don't answer."

He had nodded reluctantly, then laughed out loud as Sybil greeted her sister on her way to the master bedroom for privacy.

"Mary, if you're not bloody bleeding right now . . ."

But he did not remember falling asleep.

Such was his surprise, then, when he woke up lying on his side on the very floor in front of the fireplace where he had sat down to wait for her. Even more to his surprise, there she was too, her back flush against him, her mass of hair tickling his face. They were both nestled under a comforter she must have brought out from the guest room, and she, still sound asleep, was holding his hand firmly to her, um, chest.

He breathed in her scent. There are worse ways to wake up.

He shifted slightly so he could look over her shoulder to see her face. She snored, which made him smile. He shifted again, carefully pulling his hand away and rolling onto his back. Looking up at the ceiling, he wondered if in the last five years he had felt this at peace. It was absurd. He was self-aware enough to recognize that it was absurd. He had known her for less than 24 hours, had not kissed her yet. He doubted that she even knew his last name. But having now lived one perfect night with one Sybil Crawley, it suddenly felt entirely worth having muddled his way through the 29 years and 11 and a half months that led him to it. Even if one night was all he got, it was enough to have awakened in him feelings and ideas long thought lost forever—and to have unearthed some he had never known existed in him.

His father's words suddenly rang in Tom ears, "Who knew you'd turn out such a silly romantic, Tommy"—what he had said to Tom, upon reading an early draft of his as yet untitled book. It was the first time Tom had shared it with anyone, and as in all of Colin Branson's dealings with his youngest son, the words were teasing but proud and full of love.

Oh, Da. If you only knew.

Tom looked over at Sybil again. Yes, it was absurd. But he also couldn't deny what he felt and what he saw reflected in her eyes as well. He thought about the taxi ride back to Matthew's. That would have been the time to kiss her, fool. Except there was something in the moment bigger than a kiss, a feeling coursing through them both that there would be all night to kiss (alas), all week, a lifetime. Yes, it had only been one night. But what a night! He would revel in the absurdity of it. They both would.

He thought for a moment about waking her up, kissing her senseless and spending the afternoon working their way through the Kama Sutra. But the more practical side of him, the kind that knew he couldn't lose his job, realized that she'd be leaving in a week and that if he was going to spend as much time with her as possible over the next six days, he had to at least make a cursory appearance at the office this morning in order to ask for the rest of the week off.

So he very gently extricated himself from his position next to her and, careful not to wake her, lifted her and the comforter up in one smooth motion, depositing her gently on the bed in the guestroom. He went over to the dryer, where he had left last night's clothes and changed. He ran to the car to retrieve the tour book he had so gracelessly tossed into the back seat. Sitting down in the kitchen, he spent the better part of half an hour writing notes and annotations into the book, even adding stops this particular author had neglected. Finally, he crept very quietly back into the room where Sybil still lay asleep and placed the book under her hand with a note.

Dearest Sybil,

Next time WAKE ME UP!

Yours, Tom

PS. This book is not all bad, if you need something to do today while I'm at work begging for the week off. The stop I've added on page 173 should be of particular interest (OK, it's just my flat), so stop by this evening if you are so inclined.

PPS. If you can't wait until this evening, I may be able to come by sooner. Call or text: 555-9467.

PPPS. Whenever we meet again, all mobiles must be turned OFF.

In a couple of hours, he will be knee deep in copy, working like mad, after having successfully groveled to his boss for a last-minute vacation, and to his desk mate, Rob, to cover for him so he could duck out 2 p.m. ("Does she have a friend?" Had been Rob's acerbic response. Tom hadn't even mentioned Sybil, of course, but it was written all over his face.)

Around 10:30 a.m., Sybil will wake up, laugh at the note, leaf through the book and hug both to her chest, falling back onto the pillows with a happy sigh. He'll know she's done this because at 10:41 a.m., he'll receive a text:

Dearest Tom, Of course, I CAN'T WAIT until this evening! Yours, Sybil

And then he'll receive another:

PS. Thank you for the reading material, but I fear Dublin won't make sense without you.

And then another:

PPS. I'm turning my mobile off now so you can surprise me with your arrival.

And then another:

PPPS. Mary will be sorry.

And then he'll know—even before having kissed her—that he might like to marry her.