Before we get to this long and important chapter for Sybil and Tom, a word on how I am writing their story. In this fic, theirs is obviously a very whirlwind romance, even though in canon it actually took years. I don't think this is out of character though because I also think it's canon that both of them feel things very passionately. For example, Sybil was not the only debutante who danced with young men who died later during WWI, but the loss affects her deeply and moves her to action in a way it didn't do for others (including her sisters). In this case, Tom's feelings have been bottled up since he lost his father, and meeting Sybil basically opens the floodgates. Why she, in particular, understands him and in turn affects him in this way has to do, of course, with, well, just read on . . .

Sybil

"But why didn't you wake him up?"

Sybil laughed at Gwen's exasperation. For the last hour, she had been recounting in great detail her time with Tom up to and including how he must have carried her to bed and his lovely note. After waking up, having slept until the very late morning, she'd gone for a short walk to buy some provisions for the evening. Upon returning to the flat, she called Gwen to fill her in and get her advice on how to make this evening equally memorable.

"He just looked so lovely and peaceful. And the night had been so wonderful. It was like—we didn't need to kiss."

"Oh, so you were happy Mary called, were you?"

"Well, of course not."

"And you do actually want to kiss him now?"

Sybil took her mobile from her ear and held it in front of her mouth, screaming into it, "OBVIOUSLY."

Gwen laughed, apparently happy to have finally gotten a rise out of her over-the-moon friend.

"Well, I'm glad it's gone so well. I do believe you owe me massive thanks for having suggested you take this holiday in the first place."

"I do," Sybil replied somewhat sheepishly. God save Gwen for having insisted on the trip and the house-swap with Matthew.

"When exactly is he getting back?"

"I don't know. In my text, I told him to surprise me."

"So it could be any second?" Gwen asked with a bit of alarm.

"I suppose."

"Well, get off the bloody phone!"

Sybil laughed again, then thought for a moment. There was something else she wanted to ask Gwen. Something that had been lingering in the back of her mind since she'd found him asleep on the floor, something that had crept up on her after her talk with Mary had allowed her mind to slow down and take stock of the flood of emotion that was overtaking her.

"Gwen, do you think it's weird," Sybil finally asked, quietly.

"Do I think what's weird?"

"This. How quickly it's all happened. I mean, I do think I'm falling in love with him and it's barely been a day. How can that be possible? It's weird, right?"

Gwen let out a quiet laugh. More like a sigh, as if sensing what her friend was scared of, a friend who, for all her rebellions, sometimes still needed to be reminded of how brave she was.

"Oh, Syb. Of course, it's weird. That doesn't mean it isn't real."

Sybil let out a long breath. One she didn't realize she had been holding.

"Thanks, Gwen. What would I do without you?"

"You would never kiss men that should be kissed."

Sybil laughed out loud again.

"Well," Gwen added, "I am satisfied that I've effectively talked you up for tonight. I will let you to your waiting for Mr. Perfect."

"Thanks, again. Truly."

"It's what I'm here for, love."

Sybil hung up the phone and then turned it off with a smile, remembering her promise to him. Gwen's words had reassured her, but she still couldn't help but wonder how it all came to happen so fast. She'd been immediately attracted to men before. This was more than that. She'd made fast friends before, too.

Her mind drifted to Tom Bellasis. What is it about Toms! She thought with a smile.

He was a young soldier she'd worked with in her first week on the job who had an uncanny ability to make her laugh. Ten minutes into her session with him, he had her in stitches over a story from his time during basic training. A few short months after that first meeting, his sister sent her a letter notifying her of his death in an automobile accident. Despite having only talked with him several times, she had felt the loss deeply.

This was more than that, too.

Tom. This Tom was well read and smart and funny and engaging and, yes, easy on the eyes. But in Sybil's mind even the sum of those things didn't fully explain this sudden outpouring of feelings in her. Sybil began to suppose it was how he spoke to her. How he engaged her. How he related to her. And how she, in turn, understood him. It wasn't just that he knew and talked about important things. It was that the things he talked about were important to her and moving and . . . familiar. It was as if they were continuing a conversation that had been going on for years, like he was a long lost friend she was now seeing in a new light. A long lost friend she very, very much wanted to kiss.

She continued to contemplate her feelings for a few more minutes. Then, with a new found resolution, she pulled herself up from the bed, where she'd laid down to talk to Gwen, to get herself ready.

Once bathed, she stood over her suitcase and remembered, to her utter dismay, that she hadn't packed a single dress. Sybil sat on the bed with a sigh, hearing Mary's voice in her head.

It's your own fault for not packing for every possible occasion.

She couldn't help but laugh as she thought of all the times Mary showed up at her flat with practically a trunk full of clothes and matching accessories for a single night out in London. It had gotten so ridiculous, Sybil eventually bought an extra wardrobe so Mary and Edith could keep some extra clothes in her flat. After a time, Sybil couldn't help but notice, Mary's clothes were taking up most of the space.

Sybil eventually settled on a tight-fitting black top with white polka-dots and black trousers. She dried and straightened her hair. She did this only rarely, but she liked how grown-up and polished it made her look.

Finally, feeling ready, she took her "improved" guidebook to the sofa and started reading. She laughed at his notes and edits on practically every other page and at his barely legible handwriting.

About halfway through the book, she decided to open one of the bottles of wine she'd bought earlier in the day. As Sybil was sitting back down, glass in hand, the knock on the door startled her so much, she spilled the wine all over the front of her shirt and on the carpet.

So much for greeting him all sleek and sophisticated.

Sybil ran to the kitchen for a towel, wet it and ran back into the living room to throw on the puddle on the floor. Tom started to knock again just as she got to the door. She threw it open, practically screamed "come in" and left him there, his smile turning into bewilderment, at she ran to the back to change quickly before the stain set on the carpet. She threw off her blouse and put on the first T-shirt she came across in her suitcase, which now looked like it had exploded, leaving a mess of clothes all over the room.

Sybil ran back out into the living room and the stain in time to see him finally step into the apartment.

"Is everything all right?"

"I've ruined Matthew's carpet, I'm afraid. And my blouse." She crouched down and started blotting the stain. "Bloody hell."

"Don't fret." Sybil turned to find him now very close, crouched on the carpet beside her and smiling sweetly at her. "This carpet is littered with evidence of my inability to keep liquid in a glass—particularly of the alcoholic varieties." She returned his smile and laughed when he added, "You can blame it on me if you want."

"Well, I'm going to because it really was your fault. Your knock startled me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm glad you're here."

They looked at each other for a long moment, both still crouching on the floor. He turned his head, and Sybil thought he might be going in for a kiss—At last!—but instead he furrowed his brow a bit and asked, "Have you done something different with your hair?"

His gaze made Sybil momentarily self-conscious, and she awkwardly stood back up.

"I straightened it. Not something I do often. Just special occasions. You don't like it?" She scrunched her face, suddenly embarrassed by her feeble attempts to make herself look nice for him.

He, now also standing, took a step away from her as if he was embarrassed about being the person Sybil was making an effort for. Looking at his feet, he said quietly, "Sybil, there isn't anything about you I don't like."

She smiled—and blushed. He looked up again and as their eyes met, she still sensed a bit of lingering awkwardness. If there had been a moment for a passionate lip-locked greeting, it had passed.

"Well, now the bottle's open might as well finish it. Would you like some?" She asked motioning to the kitchen.

"Sure," he said.

They walked over to the kitchen, and she went the cabinet for a glass.

"So what were you doing when I startled you—other than trying to drink wine?"

She stopped and turned to him with a wry and not entirely un-flirtatious smile, "I was reading your masterpiece."

A funny look came over his face. "Oh, you mean the guidebook."

"Yes, and you have improved it considerably. I might have to add it to my list of favorites," she said, turning back to the cabinet.

"I don't suppose you'll read it as many times as you've read Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," he responded with a laugh.

"No. Although Portrait isn't my record."

"Isn't it your favorite book?"

"It's my favorite book of Joyce's, but not my favorite overall."

"And what might that be?"

"The Radical Chauffer. It's written by a Dubliner as well. I guess I have a thing for you Irish boys."

When she said that, she had been pouring his wine, her back turned to him. She was about to say something else, but as she turned around to hand him the glass, she saw that his expression had turned ashen.

"Tom?" It was as if all the blood had drained from his face. He stared blankly at her and remained silent. "Are you all right? . . . Tom?"

He remained in a daze, as if looking at empty space, but upon hearing his name again, he blinked several times and looked at her, this time directly, as if he were seeing her for the first time.

"Did Matthew put you up to this?"

"What?" What?

"The book—what you just said—everything you've said since you've been here."

Sybil was confused and starting to worry. His tone had completely changed, shifting from confusion to something that felt a bit like anger.

"Tom, I'm not sure what you're talking about."

But he'd stopped paying attention to her and started pacing and rubbing his neck with his hand. It felt to Sybil as if he had lost something and was trying to retrace his steps to figure out where it was.

"Tom, you're starting to worry me. What's wrong?"

He stopped suddenly, looked at her for a long moment. He then said, "I have to go," and practically ran out the door, closing it behind him.

Sybil felt faint. She was still holding the glass of wine she'd intended to give him. Slowly, without being fully aware of what she was doing, she turned back to the kitchen counter, set the glass down, put both hands on the counter and took a moment to steady herself.

What just happened?

Carefully, as if putting a puzzle together, she went over in her mind every thing that had occurred in the ten minutes since she'd opened the wine bottle: She'd poured herself a drink, she'd walked over to the sofa, he'd knocked, she'd spilled her wine, she'd run to the kitchen, she'd let him in, she'd gone to change, he'd complimented her, they'd walked to the kitchen, she'd poured him a glass of wine, she'd turned to him and . . . Nothing. She kept replaying the events over and over in her mind, her words too, but she couldn't discern what had made him leave so suddenly and in such agitation.

Matthew. That was all she could come up with. Tom thought Matthew had put her up to something. But what could he be talking about? And why would he leave so upset? For twenty minutes, she exhausted herself trying to decipher it, trying to decipher him, until she was forced to admit Matthew was her only recourse.

She found Matthew's number, then walked over to her hangbag, took out her mobile, turned it back on—No bloody interruptions today, she thought sardonically—and dialed.

"Hello."

"Hi, Matthew, it's Sybil Crawley," she said, unsure of whether he could hear in her voice how upset she was.

"Sybil, hi. Um. How are you? Is everything OK with the flat?"

"Oh, yes, fine." She remembered her spill and suddenly felt like crying. "Actually, I've just spilt some wine on your carpet. I'll have it cleaned up before I leave—I'm really sorry."

"Oh, it's no problem. It's hardly in pristine condition. My friend Tom spills practically every time he's over."

Tom.

"Um, about him." Sybil's heart was in her throat. The sad cynic that hadn't wanted to take the trip in the first place—that had been satisfied with settling for the likes of Larry Grey—suddenly rose up in her, telling Sybil that she didn't really want to ask Matthew anything at all.

Forget this and proceed with the solitary trip you'd originally wanted.

"Sybil?"

But the sad cynic couldn't win, not after the night Sybil had had. Even if it came to nothing, she had to know. Why did he just leave?

"Sybil is there something wrong?"

After a long sigh, that might have also released a small tear, she asked, "Matthew, is there something wrong with Tom? I mean, is he troubled about something?"

Matthew let out a mirthless laugh. "Tom's troubles? Honestly, Sybil—and, I say this as his best friend—when it comes to Tom's troubles, I wouldn't know where to begin."

Matthew's response surprised her, and her concern about herself, about them, became concern for him. "How do you mean?"

"It's hard to explain, especially to someone he's just met. Did, um, did something happen between you? Mary said he was over last night."

"He was. The thing is, we, well . . . we kind of hit it off. Nothing happened, really. We just spent the evening walking around the city and talking. It was quite nice, but something happened today that put him off, and I just wondered if there was anything I should know, anything I could help with. I understand if you don't want to say. I wouldn't want you to betray any confidences."

"No, it's all right." Matthew paused and took a deep breath, as if weighing what he would say. "Well, he's still grieving his father, for one. It was five years ago, but it was incredibly hard on him. Then there's his writer's block. Th—"

"Writer's block?" This served to confuse Sybil further.

"They're kind of related actually. His father had a massive heart attack the week before it was released, he died five days after."

"The week what was released?"

"The Radical Chauffer."

Sybil almost lost her grasp on the phone. She looked down to her other hand, which was still holding the piece of paper she had written Matthew's number on. It was shaking. "What, um. What are you talking about?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Tom's book. He wrote it just after we finished at Cambridge—start to finish in like two months, it was insane. It was published about a year later, but there was no publicity done because of Mr. Branson's death. Tom was depressed for about a year after that and hasn't really wanted to write anything since."

"So, um, just so I'm sure. Tom is Tom Branson? Tom Branson author of The Radical Chauffer?"

"Well, uh, yeah. I suppose I'm not surprised he didn't mention to you he'd written a book. He hates talking about it—you've heard of it?" Matthew's confusion was apparent in his voice. But now everything was clear to Sybil. Everything. And she felt lightheaded again, not with confusion or concern, but with disbelief and relief and love. A love about which she was now deeply and soundly certain.

"Oh. Thank you, Matthew."

"Was that it, then?" The sudden turn in her mood clearly puzzled him. If he could hear her crying, he didn't say.

"Yes, I understand now. Thank you. And I'll have the carpet cleaned I promise."

"There's really no need."

"OK. Well, thank you, again, really."

"All right. Bye."

Sybil threw her head back and laughed, her heart so full of love for him, for her life, her friends, her family, for the stranger that had opened his home to her, for everything under the sun because it was in this world that she had found him and in it she would rescue him like he had rescued her.

XXX

About an hour later she was at his door, propelled here by pure adrenaline. That was what had pushed her off the sofa first to ready herself (again), then to the kitchen table where she sat down to write exactly what she would say to him and finally to his flat, thanks to the guidebook in which he helpfully, if unwittingly, had drawn her a map to his heart's precise location.

Taking one last breath to collect herself, she knocked.

It didn't take him long to get to the door, and Sybil felt her heart leap to her throat as she heard him open it. He looked a bit disheveled. A passerby might have thought he'd just woken from a nap, except that his eyes, which were clearly reddened from crying, gave the true state of things away. The sight of him was almost enough to break her heart—and it offered her a window into the heartbreak he had already lived.

"Listen, Syb—"

"Tom, I know—"

They both smiled, though his did not reach his eyes.

"I'd like to go first, if that's OK," she said quietly.

He nodded, not really looking at her.

"I've written it all down actually," she said and reached into her handbag for a sheet of paper. "And I'd like for you not to interrupt."

She could see in his eyes, he had no inkling as to what she would say. She proceeded.

"Dearest Tom," she paused here and looked up to him again. He sighed as if bracing himself for what was coming.

"I've spent most of today wondering how it was that I came to be in love with you in basically a day's time. It scared me a bit because it's not something that happens everyday and certainly not to someone like me. What I didn't realize until this afternoon was that I was wrong—"

"About falling in love with me," he interjected, a look of sad resignation on his face.

"Don't interrupt!"

He rolled his eyes and gestured for her to continue.

"What I didn't realize until this afternoon was that I was wrong, not"—and with this, she looked at him pointedly—"about falling in love with you, but about how long it's been. Because you see, it turns out, that I started falling in love when I read your book the first time, and I've fallen a little deeper each time I've read it. And yesterday, before I knew who you were and what you'd written, it didn't feel like I was falling in love for the first time. It felt like I was already there. It felt like I was returning home, because that's what you are to me. That's what you have always been."

Here she took a deep breath, but couldn't bring herself to look at him, not yet.

"So whatever you may think Matthew has done to bring me here, put it out of your mind because this is only about you and me. And I know how it's all going to end now. I'm just helping you catch up. Yours, Sybil."

At this, she folded the piece of paper, put it back in her handbag and finally set her eyes on him. He'd barely moved, though she could see now fresh tears pooling in his eyes.

"Can I say something now?"

"Yes, or you can ki—"

Whether it was the best kiss in the history of kisses is, of course, arguable. But Sybil would always think that it was.

Before she'd finished inviting him to do just that, Tom brought his lips to hers and wrapped his arms around her with a force that lifted her off her feet and made her feel a bit like she was floating. Later, if you'd told her that they'd stayed there, at his doorway, for hours, she'd have believed it. When he finally did pull her into the flat, he pulled her all the way to his bedroom, breaking the kiss only to breathe and laugh and wipe tears, hers and his, and to facilitate the removal of clothing. Because while they had waited what felt like an eternity to kiss, though really it was just a day, there would be no, absolutely no waiting for everything that came after.

They'd just tumbled onto his bed, down to just their undies, when he lifted himself off of her suddenly. Thinking of earlier this afternoon, she sat up too, trying to keep the panic at bay.

"What is it?"

The look in his face was not confusion or anger, as it had been before, but annoyance.

"Well, I hate to say this, but I don't have any protection here."

"Oh . . . why?"

"Well, it's kind of been a while."

"How long?"

"A few years."

"How come?"

He shrugged and laughed ruefully, "Waiting for you to come along, I suppose."

Sybil smiled, "Well, that's OK. I have some in my bag."

At this, he threw his head back and laughed, with what Sybil could only describe as intense relief.

She, laughing too, wrapped her arms around his neck again and pulled him down on top of her. She was ready to lose herself in his kiss again, but he stopped her. His face hovering ever so close to hers, he said the words his Irish chauffer liked to say to his beloved British lady, words that Tom had written and that Sybil had read and loved over and over and over again.

"Oh, my darling, I do love you so much."

Sybil felt like her heart would burst. She was home.

No this is not the end! Still have Tom's frame of mind to explore, and why exactly he ran away at first. And Matthew and Mary. And, if you've been paying attention, the Downton ball at New Year's. But it is the last update for at least a couple of days, so I hope you enjoyed!