I've been a fan of Sybil and Branson since the first season but, being Australian, I've been forced to follow along in season two with snatches of YouTube footage. Thus, I'm sorry if any of my story is non-cannon. I'm not sure how much of Branson's past has been revealed beyond what I've seen, and I've briefly embellished tog give context. Please let me know if there are any glaring problems and I'll fix them.

Obviously it goes without saying that I don't own these characters. I'm just a fan writing fiction on a website called fanfiction.

This chapter takes place in season two, episode seven, between the kiss scene and the hotel scene.

The air was still. Clinging to the remaining heat of the day, it lifted the scent of spilt oil and recently manicured lawn to Branson's nostrils as he paced. By now he had worked out a clear line in the gravel outside the garage. The car was already parked down the lane, his small bundle of belongings stowed in the backseat. He had turned the lights in his garage out, not risking the chance of being seen from the house, and now stood waiting in the dark. Waiting for Sybil. His Sybil? He bit his lip against the wide smile that spread at the thought of her. The look in her eyes when had visited the night before. He stopped pacing and looked through the window to where they had stood.

She looked up at him.

'…and it's time to move forward.'

He swallowed and asked the question he had been repeating since bearing his heart so many months earlier. 'Do you mean you've made your decision?'

'Yes. My answer is…'

She paused and he steeled himself. So, this was it. The moment it ended. The moment she realized that he was no more than a flattering boy who could never offer enough. He had always known that he was far below her but, stubbornly, he had allowed himself to fancy she could look past that. Past wealth and status and obligation. Past her family's expectations. To him. He looked into her eyes, waiting.

'…That I'm ready to travel. And you have my ticket.' Her face broke into a smile, her eyes never leaving his. He struggled to breathe. Was he dreaming? Was she…was she saying yes? 'To get away from this house, away from this life…'

He had barely heard her last sentence. His ears were ringing with her smiling affirmation. Youhavemyticket. He cut her off, hoping she would forgive his rudeness. He had to check.

'Me?'

She hardened her face into teasing seriousness. 'No. Uncle Tom Cosby.' She laughed and he joined her in relief.

'I'm sorry. But I've waited so long for these words. I can't believe I'm hearing them. You won't mind burning your bridges?'

'Mind? Fetch me the matches!'

A twig snapped, the sound pulling him from his memory. He swung around and starred into the night. But there was only the scurrying sound of a small animal cavorting in the night. He could see the lights of the Abbey burning in the distance. They would be sitting in the drawing room now, preparing for dinner, murmuring sympathetic remarks about Sybil's health. While she stole away into the night. He smiled. Starring at the lights he suddenly became concerned that they were too bright. Would the family or servants be able to see her as she left the house? They were relying on the distraction of dinner and the cover of darkness to cover them, but Mary was already on the alert, and who knew many of the servants were suspicious? And with the end of the war there were more eyes in the house now. Maybe she couldn't get away. Or maybe she got caught on the way out and was now in the library being interrogated.

Ormaybeshewasn'tcoming.

The voice of Doubt piped up, his constant companion; no matter how confident he appeared on the outside.

He resumed pacing, worrying. He had waited five years. Nearly a quarter of his life. He'd lost count of the number of times he had packed his bags, ready to resign and leave for home. But then the memory of her smile would creep up; the look in her eyes as she talked with him, debated, questioned and challenged him in ways he never expected. In her eyes he always found that spark of hope: that one day she would see the truth. That he loved her. And, perhaps, that she loved him. He had told her she loved him long before he truly believed it himself. In fact, he still found it hard to believe that such a woman could love him. Not because she was an aristocrat. Not because she was English. But because she was Sybil; all goodness, kindness, earnestness and curiosity, open to the world and its possibilities. They both saw the problems in the world, but where he had always seen anger and pain she saw opportunity for change, the power within herself and others to change the world for the better. She was hope.

His life leading to Downton was one of hardship. The poverty and oppression in his home town had embittered him. The violence and hunger had hardened him. He had watched his mother struggle to raise the family, and his father descend into drunkenness, and resolved to fight back. Sybil, he had first believed, had been born with everything and every opportunity. Of course, he now saw that she was as trapped as he, just in a more gilded cage. He had watched her grow stronger over those five years. As her skills and independence developed, so did her spirit and, in turn, his love for her. He watched her stretching her aching limbs after a long day at the hospital and her face, rather than grimacing in pain, broke into a smile. She adored her new life, and he hoped that he had been a part in helping her realize her potential.

He had always been a passionate man, a man of action. Waiting had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. Being so close to her yet unable to reach out and hold her. He always had to keep his hands busy – polishing the bonnet of his livelihood for the umpteenth time – to keep him from grasping her hand. He was terrified of her rejection. Even on that night…

'Fetch me the matches!'

He exhaled roughly and dove his head towards hers, desperate to close the space between them. At the last moment he remembered himself and glanced pleadingly into her eyes.

'Yes, you can kiss me,' she whispered quickly. Her gaze moved from his from his parted lips back to his eyes. 'But that is all until everything is settled.'

He could have laughed. Of course, in his garage every night, alone in the dark, he had feverishly imagined the two of them in every way his limited experience and knowledge could conjure. But, now, the dream was settling into reality. She was here, declaring herself his and so close. So close. All he need was to prove to himself that he wasn't dreaming.

'For now, God knows' – he reached out, finally, and brushed his bare fingers against her skin. He gently cupped the join of her neck and chin, bringing her face closer – 'it's enough that I can kiss you.'

She breathed a laugh in response and they bridged the gap. He pressed his mouth to hers and groaned when he felt her respond. Her full lips were even softer than in his imagination and they parted gently around his, her hot breath entering his mouth. While his right hand held her face, his left hand traced up her hip and around to settle on her lower back. When he felt her arms tugging down on his shoulders he pulled her in, pressing their bodies together finally. She felt tiny in his arms, her body bowing against his. She gasped and clenched tighter, running her hand up the back of his neck and into his hair. He groaned again and ran his tongue along the part of her mouth, tasting her bottom lip. This seemed to wake her up. She pulled back and rested her forehead on his chest, struggling to control her breath.

He grunted in frustration and exhaled sharply, before resting his chin on her head. 'I'm sorry. I got carried away. Forgive me.'

She shook her head against his chest and sighed. 'There's nothing to forgive. I enjoyed it.' She laughed nervously. 'I enjoyed it too much, in fact. I was in danger of ignoring my own warning.'

He smiled and pressed a chaste kiss on top of her head, breathing in her scent and the softness of her hair.

'Tomorrow,' she whispered.

An owl call pulled him, again, back to reality. He glanced at his watch. She was late. Something was wrong. Oh, God. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying desperately to alleviate the clenching pit that was his stomach. He wasn't sure that he believed in God, despite the permeating Irish-Catholic guilt that bubbled up whenever he thought about it, but his mind called out to Him now. Please, deliver her to me safely.

As the minutes passed he began to reason the resolve to go to the Abbey and find her, to rescue her if necessary from her restricting family.

Then, he spotted a glimpse of white at the corner, and he saw her. Her face and suitcase stood out against the black as she walked cautiously down the road, almost blind in the darkness. He grinned, his heart bursting, and walked quickly towards her. She started at the sound of his feet racing over the gravel, but, as he neared, she recognized him and matched his grin. He reached her and took her suitcase, placing it on the ground so he could hold both her hands in his. She stepped closer to him, and he couldn't contain his smile.

'You came,' he breathed.

'Of course I came.' She reached up and brushed his hair out of his eyes, running her bare fingers down his face. Her eyes bore into his, shining with excitement. 'I love you, Tom.'

Thanks for reading – I hope you liked it! I'll be updating as soon as inspiration, uni work and reviews reach the crucible necessary to motivate me. Remember – every time you review an author smiles! To all other uni students – good luck with exams and have a lovely summer holiday!