Notes: This story is dedicated to MissPixieWay, because she gave me the main prompt when I was very bored and in need of distraction. I can not thank her and btvs enough for pre-reading this, encouraging me and being the best source of motivation I could ask for.

After finishing my last Sybil and Tom story, I did not really plan to write another multi-chapter any time soon, but here we go.

The title is inspired by the poem White Birds by William Butler Yeats.

White Birds

chapter one

We'll be washed and buried one day my girl
And the time we were given will be left for the world
The flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by plague
So let the memories be good for those who stay

Winter Winds, Mumford and Sons

.

Her heels ached as she walked up the wooden stairs to their small flat. The hallway was as dark as night, no windows to let in what little light this rainy September evening still offered.

Leaving out the second to last step, which, during a damp downpour like this, always caused a squeak so loud Sybil was afraid of upsetting Mrs Gallagher, their elderly land lady who lived in the flat beneath theirs, she fished for the keys in the small bag she carried.

Mrs Gallagher was a lovely woman, hair almost white, always smiling, but with a strict tone in her voice that reminded Sybil of a governess rather than a land lady. From the day Tom and her had first looked at the small flat, Mrs Gallagher had been nothing short of hospitable, inviting them to tea and loading up their flat with ancient furniture which that dreadful late husband of mine insisted on cluttering the place with.

It did not matter that the chairs wobbled, that there were burn marks and dents in the table, that they had to replace four out of five drawers with paper boxes, or that the sofa was as uncomfortable as a church bench during a service in winter. Mrs Gallagher had been the only person not to cast glances at Sybil, not to change her mind about the availability of the flat when they heard her undeniable English accent, the only person not to ask questions.

To her, Sybil and Tom had simply been a soon-to-be-married young couple, two people with a promise for the future, to bring life back into the house that her husbands early death had left in broody loneliness.

So, they bought cloth to cover the dents and marks on the table, and put one or two cushions more than necessary on the sofa, put up their handful of photographs, picked brand-new curtains as a wedding gift from Tom's sisters, and bought a new bed from the money her father had been willing to give.

Early on, during those first days into their marriage, when everything was brand new and clumsy, when they bumped into each other in the mornings and could not seem to figure out a routine just yet, Sybil had felt uncomfortable and disappointed that they had needed her family's money to buy a proper bed that would last.

Those doubts had only lasted for a short while, though, and Tom had put every effort into taking her mind of the past and making new memories. Their memories.

The key chain cluttered loudly in the dark hallway, and it reminded Sybil of Mrs Hughes walking through the downstairs corridors of Downton, where she used to sneak around as a child. The dangling of the key chain had always announced that she was about to be discovered by the housekeeper, and the thrill it had sent through her as a child is nothing compared to the thrill she felt now, holding her own key chain in her hands.

Never had she really owned a key to something this valuable before. Yes, there had been the heart-shaped key to the music box she left behind, and the filigree key that unlocked her jewellery box. But the few keys held together by the small chain in her hand mean so much more. The key to the shed behind the house, filled to the brim with empty boxes, and unpacked things, buckets, canisters and the rusty bike that Mrs Gallagher's husband had used to get to work everyday. The key to the small drawer that held what little jewellery and gold she now owned, all pieces she never wore any more these days. Two keys to the store cupboards in the hospital. The key to the front door downstairs, although Mrs Gallagher hardly ever kept it locked. And the key now resting in the palm of her hand. The key to her flat. To their flat.

It meant so much more than the music box she had loved so much as a child, and so much more than the box that used to store jewels and pearls and gold and silver, all worth more than a year's rent.

To own a key to her home, a home that she helped to provide for - it made everything so real to Sybil, that she felt the value weigh in on her palm.

She had to push against the door with all her might to open it, and as usual, entered the flat brushing off debris of dark green paint from her coat. They stuck mercilessly now that the dark fabric was soaked with rain, and Sybil sighed in annoyance as she pushed the door shut behind her.

To her surprise, the tiny flat was dimly lit, and a rush of warmth flooded through her veins, the crackling of fire audible amongst the wind howling outside and the rain splattering against the milky windows.

"Tom?" she called into the small space of the flat, the sitting room she was standing in empty, but Tom's coat hung over the chair by the desk.

"In the kitchen."

Sybil's forehead wrinkled in confusion, and she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece to see if the wind and rain had miraculously stretched out the short distance she walked home from the hospital. But no, it was only a few minutes later than usual, and Tom should not be home for at least another hour.

"You're very early," she said into his direction, placing her bag and gloves on the small shelf by the door and beginning to unbutton her coat, "Is everything alright?"

According to his mother, Tom had never been prone to illness, and as far as Sybil remembered, there had never been a day when Mr Pratt had to stand in for him because he was ill. But, even after everything she had seen during the war and in the few months she has worked at the hospital now, it was Lavinia's lifeless face that haunted Sybil the most. How perfectly well she had looked, and how they had stood in front of her grave only a few days later.

More than everything, it had taught Sybil how short life really was, and how unexpectedly it could end.

"I'm fine," Tom answered, and as Sybil turned around to hang up her coat, she saw him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, no tie, only his shirt, the two top buttons undone, smiling at her, "There were a few things to wrap up, but Kieran offered to do it for me."

Sybil nodded, sitting on one of the wobbly chairs to take of her shoes, aching to free her freezing, wet feet.

"I don't think he's very eager to come home, if you ask me," Tom continued, laughing as he stepped back into the kitchen.

"Why is that?" Sybil asked, placing her shoes by the fireplace to dry, and beginning to untie her apron as she joined her husband in the kitchen.

"Apparently his wife's on a bit of a rampage since he got the job down in Waterford. She doesn't want to move," Tom explained, and Sybil smiled brightly as she saw him slicing bread, a steaming pot next to him.

"You made dinner," she said happily, only now noticing the dull ache in her stomach. Walking up to the short counter to peak into the pot, she could not even remember what she had eaten for lunch.

Tom turned to look at his wife standing next to him, smiling brightly at the bubbling soup.

"I thought you might be cold. It's been nasty weather all day."

"Horrible," Sybil added, standing on her toes to gently kiss Tom's cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered, before leaving him to manage to bread while she rummaged through the one cupboard they owned, looking for the set of plates they used when they ate by themselves.

"I should think he might have told her about his application sooner. I do feel sorry for her. Having to move so sudden like."

"That's true," Tom said, setting the bread on the small table, watching as Sybil set the last bowl down, "It is a big chance for him, but I don't quite understand why he did not tell her earlier, either."

"I suppose I can be glad that your mother would tear you apart should you ever talk about moving away again," Sybil chuckled, stepping into Tom's open arms.

It was still thrilling and exciting and new, being able to simple let him envelop her in his arms, to lean her cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat, to rest the palms of her hands against his stomach.

After all the years she had only fleetingly dreamed about this, imagined in in the dark and lonely hours of the night, daydreamed about it when she saw nothing but the back of his head as he drove her through the countryside, it was all finally real. She felt more confident than during the early days, back when her sisters had stopped them from eloping, back when she had first set foot on Irish soil.

Tom's hands stroke up and down her back gently, softly, and only briefly before he kissed her forehand and turned back to the soup, but his gesture was so full of love, devotion and care, like everything about him.

His passion, his enthusiasm, the way he held her hand at every available moment, the way he managed to steal a kiss wherever they were, the way he held her at night, the way he looked at her in the morning, and the way he always asked for one more kiss - Sybil knew he was still afraid that she was going to float away, slip through his fingers, or change her mind.

It was real, they were real, but nevertheless, it seemed like a dream come true, like a hazy swirl of happy memories piling up by the hour, and sometimes she found herself sharing his fear that she was going to wake up in her bed at Downton, to find herself strapped to the life she had been so eager to escape from, and to find Tom gone, to find that his patience had not been endless after all.

But these moments, these simple moments of sharing an embrace and helping him prepare dinner, were enough most days, enough to calm her and reassure her that everything was real.

"Good thing you mentioned my mother," Tom said while setting the steaming pot onto the counter, interrupting Sybil's thoughts, "She wants us to come over for dinner next week."

"Did she say when?"

"She said it doesn't matter," Tom replied, carefully placing the hot pot on the table while Sybil sat down, fidgeting with her nurses cap, "When is your late shift?"

"Tuesday and Wednesday. Maybe ask her for Friday. Do you have to work this Saturday?"

"Doesn't look like it at the moment. Then again, if Kieran's wife decides to kill him, that might change."

They laughed in unison, steam warming up the air between them, and for a while, they fell into a comfortable silence. The soup warmed Sybil from the inside out, while underneath the table, she rubbed her feet against each other, hoping to warm them up, if only a little.

Every bone in her body seemed to ache, and slowly, Sybil's eyes started to become heavy with exhaustion.

"Did you have a nice day?" she asked after a few minutes, reaching for the bread.

"Fairly. Connelly seems to think I can research a dozen articles all in one day, but he seems to finally appreciate what I actually get done a bit more. And with Kieran leaving soon, he's becoming a bit more depended on me. Hasn't found a replacement yet."

"Well, he should hurry. You said Kieran leaves by the end of the month? It wouldn't be fair for you to take over all his work, as well."

"I could handle it for a while, but we're swamped as it is. How was your day?"

"Good," Sybil answered, catching the last bits of soup with a piece of bread, "The little boy with pneumonia that got in last week is much better. And the police found his parents."

"That's great. And that one nurse, is she still making things difficult for you?"

Sybil sighed. Everyone at the hospital had been very welcoming, grateful for her experience and for an extra hand, and if they had problems with her being English, they were good at concealing them. Everyone except Nurse Hayes, who, at every possible moment, made very clear how little she thought of Sybil.

After two weeks at the hospital, Edna, another nurse and the one that Sybil got along with best, had told her that Nurse Hayes' husband had been shot by British soldiers a year before. From that day on, Sybil tried to silently accept the woman's hatred. However, after everything had settled, their strained work relationship had started to become a serious issue.

"It was alright this week. She has a bit of a cold, I suppose that has put a dampener on her temper."

"I'm sure she'll come around one day. If you two can't work together properly, and she's the cause, they'll have to do something."

"I hope that day won't come," Sybil sighed, pressing her fingers against her eyes.

"You look tired. Do you want to get ready for bed while I clean this up?"

"Oh, no. Let me clean this up, you already made dinner for us. You get ready, I'll do this."

Tom knew better than to argue with Sybil on this, so he kissed her on the cheek before leaving the kitchen, taking her discarded nursing cap with him.

"I'll put it on your dressing table," he called from the living room, and a second later Sybil heard their bedroom door creak open.

The few items that the two of them had needed were cleaned quickly, and Sybil used the time to gaze out of the square window onto the now dark street, only a handful of people passing by on their way home from work, the neighbour's children playing in the entranceway of their house, feeding a stray cat.

When she was finished, she made her way to their bedroom, kneading her fingers to dry off the last drops of water.

Tom, wearing his pyjamas already, was sitting upright in bed, a notebook on his lap and twirling a pen between his fingers. It was his own way of getting his mind clear enough to find sleep. Sybil found it enough to free herself of her uniform and corset, to let her hair down and enjoy the light feel of her nightgown around her bare skin to relax, whereas Tom needed to pin down all last thoughts and ideas before the light went off.

"Did you talk to Caitlin? She never gave me an answer about when she and Sean have time to come over for dinner," Sybil asked as she began to undo the hooks down her back, holding together her uniform.

"I haven't spoken to her all week, but the last time I did, she said probably not until October. Maera is still not rid of that cold, and Caitlin doesn't want to make things worse."

"Have they still not taken her to a doctor? It has been going on for weeks now," Sybil said as she stepped out of her uniform, hanging it up against the door of their wardrobe.

"Sean still hasn't found a job," Tom answered with a heavy sigh, putting down the notebook and swinging his legs out of bed.

His cousin Sean was a constant topic between him and Sybil. Sean's wife Caitlin had been more than welcoming to Sybil, and the two had quickly become quite close. Sean, who had been out of work since before Tom brought Sybil to Ireland back in April, had not been all that keen on the new addition to the family. However, Tom had always been like a big brother to him, and Sean did well in not speaking ill of his favourite cousin's wife.

"Maybe I should have a look at Maera," Sybil suggested, sitting down at her dressing table to peel off her stockings, "I'm not a doctor, but it could do no harm, I suppose."

Tom nodded, pushing himself of their bed to take the stockings from Sybil, putting them on the stool by the window. He cast a last glance outside, the street empty, raindrops still drumming against the window.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence, and when Tom drew the curtain shut and turned back to his wife, Sybil had just pulled the last clip out of her hair. Tom smiled as her long, dark hair cascaded down her back and over her shoulders, such a contrast to her milky skin and the ivory of her nightdress.

"Let me," he said quietly as Sybil reached for her hairbrush. Tom took it, her fingertips only barely brushing his as she sunk comfortably back into the chair.

He gently kissed the top of her head as he stepped behind her, sinking his fingers into the thick waves of her hair. Sybil sighed almost inaudibly as he began to carefully run the brush through her hair, untangling whatever the pins had tied together, feeling the silky texture smoothly on his skin.

Sybil's own fingers unconsciously started running over the ring on her finger, feeling the ridge where her own skin ended and the ring announced something new, something strong, something good.

"I'm glad you can not wear your hair down like this all the time, I have to admit," Tom whispered into her ear, and Sybil shivered as his damp breath fanned down the side of her neck.

"Why is that?" she asked huskily, suddenly feeling a lot warmer than before.

"I like being the only one to see you like this. It's... special," he ended, setting down the hair brush and kissing Sybil's cheek before handing her the pale green ribbon she had already placed on the dressing table.

Sybil smiled as she took the ribbon from his hand, and watched his back as he went back to bed, slipping under the cover. This time, his notebook remained on the bedside table.

Running her fingers through her hair, Sybil put the ribbon back down, slowly raising from the chair. Tom's eyes followed her movement, and she could see his forehead wrinkling in thought as she walk towards their bed.

"Blow out the candle, will you?" she said quietly, nodding towards the candle burning on Tom's bedside table. He did as told, and when he turned back to his wife, the flicker of the flame on her own bedside table illuminated her. Through the thin fabric of her nightdress, he could clearly see the outline of her legs, hips and waist, and she smiled at him when their eyes met.

"You forgot your ribbon," Tom said as Sybil slipped beneath the cover next to him, propping up her cushions.

"I suppose I have," she answered with a husky whisper, reaching out to rest her hand against his cheek.

"I thought you were tired," Tom murmured as Sybil scooted closer to him, pressing her body fully into his side.

"Not quite that tired," she whispered, drowning his next words by pressing her lips against his softly.

Tom groaned quietly, and Sybil felt rather than heard it as he deepened the kiss, one hand cupping her cheek, the other wrapping around her waist to pull her on top of him.

Sighing against his parted lips, Sybil buried her own hand in the soft hair at the back of Tom's head, gently running her fingers up and down his scalp, as his own hand began to roam across her back.

Parting their lips with a heavy heart, Tom began to brush his lips down Sybil's jaw, and across the sensitive skin of her neck. She sighed and squirmed in his arms, eager to be closer, to feel more, to touch more.

As he nudged the tip of his nose against the soft skin behind her ear, Sybil pushed herself closer to him, her right leg slipping past his hip. Tom groaned as she pushed herself against him eagerly, digging her fingertips into his shoulder now.

"Sybil," he murmured against her soft skin, and she responded with a soft moan as he pushed his hips up to meet her own.

Hands began to roam more freely, with much more urgency, and Sybil shivered as the bare skin of her legs came into contact with the rough material of Tom's pyjamas, his hands bunching up her nightgown over her back.

"Let me," she whispered, sitting up to pull the soft material over her head. The simple movement caused Tom to groan, and Sybil's movements faltered for a moment as she sat fully on top of him. Goose bumps covered her skin as she reached for the hem of her dress and began to slowly pull it over her head.

The warm flicker of the candle on her bedside table cast a serene glow across the room, and Tom reached out to trail his fingers over each inch of soft skin that Sybil revealed to him.

She shivered at his touch, sighing softly as she shook her head to free herself from the messy waves of hair that had been tangled with her eyelashes. Finding Tom's eyes in the dimly lit room, she saw all his love and adoration for her amplified, like a flame that had been granted air to breathe, to shine to its fullest.

Intertwining his fingers with hers, Tom sat up slowly, in one fluid motion that brought them so close together, not even a feather could have found a place between their bodies.

"I love you," he whispered against her lips, and Sybil's eyelids fluttered shut as he began to once again trail kisses across her lips and down her jaw.

Gently unlacing her fingers from his, Sybil pressed her palm against Tom's stomach, feeling him squirm beneath her touch as she began to push her hand up, taking the warm fabric of his pyjamas with her.

Tom leaned back long enough to capture Sybil's lips in one short, searing kiss, before his hands met hers and he pulled his pyjamas over his head, Sybil's hands remaining still on his bare chest. The warmth that flooded through her was nothing like the superficial heat that radiated from a fire. It fulfilled her until her breathing became ragged and she wrapped her hands around Tom's neck to pull him even closer, their lips meeting hungrily.

Tom's hands trailed up Sybil's soft stomach, and he felt her shiver as his hands cupped her breasts gently. Most of the time, he could not believe how incredibly soft she was, how flawless and smooth her skin felt, how he was the one to touch it, to hear those breathy moans as he wrapped her up in his arms and gently laid her down on her back.

"I love you," she whispered breathlessly as he carefully rested her head on his cushion, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. To hear her say it, after all these years of waiting, made Tom's heart swell with so much love for her, with so much pride and joy, that he could barely contain it, was helpless about how to channel it, how to make her understand what she meant to him.

His hands began a new journey across her collarbone and over her chest, fingertips trailing around her breast, and down her stomach as Sybil sighed softly, reaching out for him. Tom reached out his hands, lacing his fingers with her as his lips replaced his fingers on her skin, leaving feather-light kisses along her stomach and breasts, feeling her skin warming up at his touch.

"Tom," Sybil moaned as he kissed a line across her abdomen, her hips raising and her hands pulling him back up towards her.

He groaned as their lips met, her eager hands wrapping around his back, toying with the waistband of his trousers.

"Take them off," she murmured against his lips, and Tom barely found the strength to pull away from her long enough to push his trousers down, not minding where they ended up as he dropped them behind him. Sybil sat up long enough to reach out for his shoulders and pull him back down with her.

The feeling of her bare skin pressed against his had his mind reeling, and Sybil panted as she wrapped her legs around his thighs, kissing the point where his shoulder met his neck.

"Sybil," he groaned again, fumbling blindly for her hands. When he found them, Sybil grasped his fingers almost violently, pushing her hips closer, breathing heavily against his neck.

As Tom sank into her, Sybil moaned softly, squeezing his fingers. His eyes fell shut, and he rested his forehead against Sybil's shoulder, trying to calm himself.

Sybil, however, had different ideas, and pushed herself against him impatiently, circling her hips as he tried to remain calm. He remembered the night they got married, how shy and clumsy they had been, but how eager at the same time.

He began to move slowly, cherishing every sigh and moan, kissing Sybil's neck softly.

Everything became a blur as Sybil began to move with him, to whisper his name, to grasp his hands tighter, to push against him more urgently. When her moans became louder, and her right hand let go of his to grasp his back, he met her lips in one last searing kiss, pushing himself against he so tightly that he could feel her heart beating violently in her chest, her legs and arms holding on to him so tightly it almost hurt.

For a moment, everything seemed to stop but their ragged breathing, their lips mere inches apart. When Tom opened his eyes again, Sybil was smiling up at him softly, her skin glowing, cheeks tinted red.

Her hand dropped from his back to rest against his cheek, and he smiled back down at her, spent and tired, leaning down to brush his lips against hers almost chastely.

Carefully, he pushed himself of her, laying down next to her with a breathless sigh.

She turned to him almost immediately, still glowing, chest heaving with each breath, that serene smile etched onto her full lips.

Tom reached out to brush away a strand of hair sticking to her temple, and Sybil sighed, her eyes closing.

"The candle," Tom whispered, retreating his hand as Sybil groaned and turned to blow out the last source of light.

For a few seconds, everything was pitch black and lost in the dark, but then their eyes began to adjust, and the scarce light from the night sky began to flood through the thin curtains.

Tom reached out to pull the cover over Sybil's body, his fingers coming to rest at her waist as she scooted closer to him, craving his warmth.

"Good night," Sybil murmured as she rested her head on Tom's chest, her arms draped loosely over his stomach.

"Good night," he responded, kissing the top of her head one more time before pulling the cover up further, sheltering them both from the cold.

He listened to the heavy drumming of the rain and Sybil's steady breathing for a little while longer, before his eyelids became heavy, and everything morphed into darkness and quiet.